Tales from Shakespeare

Published：2026-07-30 21:48:53 Source: science kits for 4 year olds under 50 dollars Author: Imaginative Play

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

by

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

PREFACE

The best musical shakers for 9 year olds under 25 dollarsfollowing Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as anintroduction to the study of Shakespeare, for which purpose his wordsare used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whateverhas been added to give them the regular form of a connected story,diligent are has been taken to select such words as might leastinterrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote:therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have beenas far as possible avoided.

In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the youngreaders will perceive, when they come to see the source from whichthese stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with littlealteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in thedialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers foundthemselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrativeform: therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been made useof too frequently for young people not accustomed to the dramatic formof writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused by anearnest wish to give as much of Shakespeare'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 in which could be given to them a few hintsand little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in theirelder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which thesesmall and valueless coins are extracted; pretending to no other meritthan as faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image.Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty ofhis language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changingmany of his excellent words into words far less expressive of his truesense, to make it read something like prose; and even in some fewplaces, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from itssimple plainness to cheat the young reader into the belief that theyare reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from itsown natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of itsnative beauty.

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very youngchildren. To the utmost of their ability the writers have constantlykept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a verydifficult task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men andwomen in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. Foryoung ladies too, it has been the intention chiefly to write; becauseboys being generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at amuch earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best scenesof Shakespeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to lookinto this manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending theseTales to the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so muchbetter in the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested inexplaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them tounderstand: and when they have helped them to get over thedifficulties, then perhaps they will read to them (carefully selectingwhat is proper for a young sister's ear) some passage which has pleasedthem in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene from whichit is taken; and it is hoped they will find that the beautifulextracts, the select passages, they may choose to give their sisters inthis way will be much better relished and understood from their havingsome notion of the general story from one of these imperfectabridgments; which if they be fortunately so done as to provedelightful to any of the young readers, it is hoped that no worseeffect will result than to make them wish themselves a little older,that they may be allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wishwill be neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave ofjudicious friends shall put them into their hands, they will discoverin such of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as manymore, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns offortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained inthis little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters,both men and women, the humour of which it was feared would be lost ifit were attempted to reduce the length of them.

What these Tales shall have been to the young readers, that and muchmore it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare mayprove to them in older years enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners ofvirtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lessonof all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach courtesy,benignity, generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching thesevirtues, his pages are full.

CONTENTS

THE TEMPEST
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
THE WINTER'S TALE
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
AS YOU LIKE IT
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
CYMBELINE
KING LEAR
MACBETH
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
TIMON OF ATHENS
ROMEO AND JULIET
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
OTHELLO
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

THE TEMPEST

There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of whichwere an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, avery beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that shehad 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 intoseveral apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there hekept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that timemuch affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this art hefound very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance uponthis island, which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, whodied there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of hisart, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in thebodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wickedcommands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will ofProspero. 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 uglymonster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the sonof his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, astrange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape: he tookhim home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would havebeen very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited fromhis mother Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or useful:therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the mostlaborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to theseservices.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisibleto all eyes but Prospero's) would come slily and pinch him, andsometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likenessof 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. Witha variety of suchlike 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 bytheir means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his ordersthey raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling withthe wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up, heshowed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full ofliving beings like themselves. 'O my dear father,' said she, 'if byyour art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their saddistress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! theywill all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath theearth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all theprecious souls within her.'

'Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,' said Prospero; 'there is no harmdone. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receiveany hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. Youare ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no moreof me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave Can youremember a time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot foryou 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 whatyou can remember, my child.'

Miranda said: 'It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But hadI not once four or five women who attended upon me?'

Prospero answered: 'You had, and more. How is it that this still livesin your mind? Do you remember how you came here?'

'No, sir,' said Miranda, 'I remember nothing more.'

'Twelve years ago, Miranda,' continued Prospero, 'I was duke of Milan,and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a younger brother,whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything: and as I was fondof retirement and deep study, I commonly left the management of mystate affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed heproved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, diddedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antoniobeing thus in possession of my power, began to think himself the dukeindeed. The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among mysubjects awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me ofmy dukedom: this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, apowerful 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 lovethat my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when wewere some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, withouteither tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, as he thought, toperish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, hadprivately placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and somebooks which I prize above my dukedom.'

'O my father,' said Miranda, 'what a trouble must I have been to youthen!'

'No, my love,' said Prospero, 'you were a little cherub that didpreserve me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against mymisfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and wellhave 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 thisisland.'

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magicwand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just thenpresented himself before his master, to give an account of the tempest,and how he had disposed of the ship's company, and though the spiritswere always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she shouldhear him holding converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air.

'Well, my brave spirit,' said Prospero to Ariel, 'how have youperformed your task?'

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors of themariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who leapedinto the sea; and his father thought he saw his dear son swallowed upby the waves and lost. 'But he is safe,' said Ariel, 'in a corner ofthe isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of theking, his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head isinjured, and his princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves,look fresher than before.'

'That's my delicate Ariel,' said Prospero. 'Bring him hither: mydaughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my brother?'

'I left them,' answered Ariel, 'searching for Ferdinand, whom they havelittle hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship'screw not one is missing; though each one thinks himself the only onesaved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the harbour.'

'Ariel,' said Prospero, 'thy charge is faithfully performed: but thereis more work yet.'

'Is there more work?' said Ariel. 'Let me remind you, master, you havepromised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthyservice, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudgeor grumbling.'

'How now!' said Prospero. 'You do not recollect what a torment I freedyou from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age andenvy 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 herwitchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished fromAlgiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirittoo 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; 'Iwill obey your commands.'

'Do so,' said Prospero, 'and I will set you free.' He then gave orderswhat further he would have him do; and away went Ariel, first to wherehe had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in thesame melancholy posture.

'O my young gentleman,' said Ariel, when he saw him, 'I will soon moveyou. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sightof 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 thestupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the soundof Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who weresitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen aman 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 aspirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautifulcreature. Is it not a spirit?'

'No, girl,' answered her father; 'it eats, and sleeps, and has sensessuch as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is somewhataltered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He has losthis companions, and is wandering about to find them.'

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards like herfather, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful youngprince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place,and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing butwonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda wasthe goddess of the place, and as such he began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and wasgoing to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted her.He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainlyperceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight: but totry Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some difficulties intheir way: therefore advancing forward, he addressed the prince with astern air, telling him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it fromhim who was the lord of it. 'Follow me,' said he, 'I will tie you neckand feet together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-lush, witheredroots, 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 tothe spot where he stood, so that he had no power to move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying: 'Why are you so ungentle? Havepity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, andto me he seems a true one.'

'Silence,' said the father: 'one word more will make me chide you,girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no moresuch fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolishgirl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban.' This he said toprove his daughter's constancy; and she replied: 'My affections aremost humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man.'

'Come on, young man,' said Prospero to the prince; 'you have no powerto disobey me.'

'I have not indeed,' answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was bymagic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished tokind himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero: looking back onMiranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after Prosperointo 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 lightto me if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid.'

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soonbrought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, takingcare 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 afterfound her lover almost dying with fatigue. 'Alas!' said she, 'do notwork so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these threehours; pray rest yourself.'

'O my dear lady,' said Ferdinand, 'I dare not. I must finish my taskbefore I take my rest.'

'If you will sit down,' said Miranda, 'I will carry your logs thewhile.' But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of ahelp Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation, sothat the business of log-carrying went on very slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of hislove, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was standingby them invisible, to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against herfather's express command she did so.

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter'sdisobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fallin love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love byforgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a longspeech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above all theladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all thewomen in the world, she replied: 'I do not remember the face of anywoman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and mydear 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 myimagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, Ifear 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: 'Thisgoes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples.'

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princesspeak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to thecrown 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 willanswer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if you willmarry me.'

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

'Fear nothing, my child,' said he; 'I have overheard, and approve ofall you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, Iwill make you rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All yourvexations were but trials of your love, and you have nobly stood thetest. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily purchased,take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is above allpraise.' He then, telling them that he had business which required hispresence, desired they would sit down and talk together till hereturned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed todisobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quicklyappeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero'sbrother and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost outof their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused them tosee and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished for wantof 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 theshape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feastvanished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoketo them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from hisdukedom, 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 theinjustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master he wascertain 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 aspirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being likethemselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my daintyAriel.'

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in theirtrain, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played inthe air to draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was thesame who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books andprovisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perishin an open boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not knowProspero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, callinghim the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the king knewthat 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 sincereremorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his brother: and Prosperoforgave them and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom, he saidto the king of Naples: 'I have a gift in store for you too'; andopening a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess withMiranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at thisunexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in thestorm.

'O wonder!' said Miranda, 'what noble creatures these are! It mustsurely be a brave world that has such people in it.'

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty andexcellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. 'Who isthis maid?' said he; 'she seems the goddess that has parted us, andbrought us thus together.' 'No, sir,' answered Ferdinand, smiling tofind his father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done whenhe first saw Miranda, 'she is a mortal but by immortal Providence sheis mine; I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for yourconsent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to thisProspero, who is the famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have heardso 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 itsound, that I must ask my child forgiveness.'

'No more of that,' said Prospero: 'let us not remember our troublespast, since they so happily have ended.' And then Prospero embraced hisbrother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wiseoverruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven from hispoor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown ofNaples, for that by their meeting in this desert island, it hadhappened 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 unableto speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyfulreconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, and thesailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would accompanythem home the next morning. 'In the meantime,' says he, 'partake ofsuch refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your evening'sentertainment I will relate the history of my life from my firstlanding in this desert island.' He then called for Caliban to preparesome food, and set the cave in order; and the company were astonishedat 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 beena faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his freeliberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, undergreen trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. 'Myquaint Ariel,' said Prospero to the little sprite when he made himfree, 'I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom.' 'Thank you,my dear master,' said Ariel; 'but give me leave to attend your shiphome with prosperous gales, before you bid farewell to the assistanceof your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrilyI shall live!' Here Ariel sung this pretty song:

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

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and wand, forhe was resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And havingthus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and theking of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happiness, but torevisit his native land, to take possession of his dukedom, and towitness the happy nuptials of his daughter and Prince Ferdinand, whichthe king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour ontheir return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of thespirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its citizens thepower of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased;for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosento be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her tobe put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of theirown daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little refractory,this law was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the youngladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their parentswith 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 ofAthens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded tomarry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family, refused toobey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander.Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel lawmight be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius hadformerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helenaloved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason, whichHermia gave for not obeying her father's command, moved not the sternEgeus.

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

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went toher lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that shemust either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in fourdays.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; butrecollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance fromAthens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could notbe put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond theboundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that she should stealout of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt'shouse, where he would marry her. 'I will meet you,' said Lysander, 'inthe wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood where wehave so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May.'

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of herintended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will dofoolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell thisto Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying herfriend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following her faithless loverto the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither inpursuit of Hermia.

The wood in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet was thefavourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of Fairies.

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

Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at thistime, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the shadywalks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all theirfairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to giveOberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend;and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, andbrought him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania waswalking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended byhis train of fairy courtiers.

'I'll met by moonlight, proud Titania,' said the fairy king. The queenreplied: 'What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I haveforesworn his company.' 'Tarry, rash fairy,' said Oberon; 'am not I thylord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little changelingboy to be my page.'

Set your heart at rest,' answered the queen; 'your whole fairy kingdombuys 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 youfor 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 andknavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in the neighbouringvillages; sometimes getting into the dairies and skimming the milk,sometimes plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn, andwhile he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, in vain thedairymaid would labour to change her cream into butter: nor had thevillage swains any better success; whenever Puck chose to play hisfreaks in the brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When afew 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 herlips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after,when the same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell herneighbours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-leggedstool from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then theold gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear theynever wasted a merrier hour.

'Come hither, Puck,' said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of thenight; 'fetch me the flower which maids call Lore in Idleness; thejuice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those whosleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the first thing theysee. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of myTitania when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when sheopens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a lion ora bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape; and before I will take thischarm 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 thisintended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and whileOberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helenaenter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for followinghim, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle expostulationsfrom Helena, reminding him of his former love and professions of truefaith 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 greatcompassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walkby moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena inthose happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that mightbe, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon said tohis favourite: 'Take a part of this flower; there has been a sweetAthenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you findhim sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive todo it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees when he awakesmay be this despised lady. You will know the man by the Atheniangarments which he wears.' Puck promised to manage this matter verydexterously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to herbower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was abank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under acanopy of wood-bine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania alwaysslept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of asnake, 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 employthemselves while she slept. 'Some of you,' said her majesty, 'must killcankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats fortheir leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of youkeep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not nearme: 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 dropped some of thelove-juice on her eyelids, saying:

'What thou seest when thou wake
Do it for thy true-love take.'

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's housethat night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marryDemetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysanderwaiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before theyhad passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, thatLysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had proved heraffection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuadedher to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himselfon the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Herethey were found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, andperceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and thata pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must be theAthenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent him toseek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they were alonetogether, 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 littlepurple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came thatway, and, instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld whenhe opened his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was thelove-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away, and Lysander fell inlove with Helena.

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

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely fromher; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men beingalways better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lostsight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about, dejected andforlorn, 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-charmbeginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of extravagantlove and admiration; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beautyas a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire for hersweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowingLysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnlyengaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard herselfaddressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might) thatLysander was making a jest of her. 'Oh!' said she, 'why was I born tobe 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 fromDemetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner tocourt me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more truegentleness.' Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; andLysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was stillasleep.

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 meantime Demetrius, notbeing able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with hisfruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learntby some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied thelove-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now having found the personfirst intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius withthe love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he sawbeing Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began to addresslove-speeches to her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed byHermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia'sturn to run after her lover) made his appearance; and then Lysander andDemetrius, both speaking together, made love to Helena, they being eachone under the influence of the same potent charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her oncedear 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 andDemetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers ofHelena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fellto high words together.

'Unkind Hermia,' said Helena, 'it is you have set Lysander on to vex mewith mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost tospurn 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 hehates, 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 ourschool-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on onecushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the sameflower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together infashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is notfriendly in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning yourpoor friend.'

I am amazed at your passionate words,' said Hermia: I scorn you not; itseems you scorn me.' 'Ay, do,' returned Hermia, 'persevere, counterfeitserious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back; then wink ateach other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, ormanners, 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 thelove of Helena.

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and oncemore wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck hadbeen listening to their quarrels, said to him: 'This is yournegligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?' 'Believe me, king ofshadows,' answered Puck, 'it was a mistake; did not you tell me Ishould know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorrythis has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport.''You heard,' said Oberon, 'that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seeka convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the nightwith a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in thedark, that they shall not be able to kind each other. Counterfeit eachof their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them tofollow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear. Seeyou do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and whenyou find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower intoLysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love forHelena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two fairladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they willthink 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 hadlost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: 'This fellow,' saidhe, 'shall be my Titania's true love'; and clapping an ass's head overthe clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon hisown shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, itawakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done tohim, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

'Ah! what angel is that I see?' said Titania, opening her eyes, and thejuice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: 'are you aswise as you are beautiful?'

'Why, mistress,' said the foolish clown, 'if I have wit enough to findthe 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 ama spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give youfairies 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 stealfor him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me,' said she tothe clown, 'and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, mybeautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!'

'Where is Pease-blossom?' said the ass-headed clown, not much regardingthe 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 beeon the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me thehoney-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, andtake care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have youoverflown 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 aventurous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some newnuts.'

'I had rather have a handful of dried pease,' said the clown, who withhis ass's head had got an ass's appetite. 'But, I pray, let none ofyour 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 Ilove you! how I dote upon you!'

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, headvanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished herfavours upon an ass.

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within herarms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded thechangeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord withher new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished forto be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, byhis merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania and threw some of thejuice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queenimmediately 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 tofinish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related toher the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and sheagreed to go with him and see the end of their adventures.

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at nogreat distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, tomake amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmostdiligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other:and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysanderwith 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. Lysanderpresently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered hisreason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and with his reason,his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of thenight, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they hadboth been dreaming the same bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep havingquieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delightto the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her, andwhich, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive weresincere.

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became oncemore true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were forgiven,and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done in theirpresent situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had given uphis pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail upon herfather to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passedagainst her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for thisfriendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus,Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runawaydaughter.

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consentthat they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being thesame day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and onthat same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and nowfaithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of thisreconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history,brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so muchpleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approachingnuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom.

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and theirpranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to thinkthat they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventureswere visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of myreaders will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a prettyharmless Midsummer Night's Dream.

THE WINTER'S TALE

Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuousHermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy wasLeontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wishungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and topresent to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together fromtheir infancy, but being, by the death of their fathers, called toreign over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many years,though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and lovingembassies.

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

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. Herecommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particularattention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and oldcompanion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over oldtimes; their schooldays and their youthful pranks were remembered, andrecounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in theseconversations.

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

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to stayat the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle andpersuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Uponthis, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourableprinciples of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellentdisposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernablejealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by herhusband's particular desire, and merely to please him, increased theunfortunate king's jealousy; and from being a loving and a true friend,and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savageand inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of hiscourt, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commandedhim to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy ofLeontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of poisoningPolixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders, and agreedto escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes, withthe assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia,where Camillo lived from that time in the king's court, and became thechief friend and favourite of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he wentto the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with herlittle son Mamillius, who was just beginning to tell one of his beststories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking thechild away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillius, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly;and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him tobe put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pinedaway by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it wasthought his grief would kill him.

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes andDion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of theoracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful tohim. When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought tobed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from thesight 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 thewife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the lady Paulina heard herroyal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison whereHermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended uponHermione: 'I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty daretrust 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 withyour noble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had any friend whowould venture to present the child to the king.' 'And tell her,' saidPaulina, 'that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence.' 'May yoube for ever blessed,' said Emilia, 'for your kindness to our graciousqueen!' Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby tothe care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one would dare ventureto present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king'spresence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet, andPaulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and shereproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him to havemercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spiritedremonstrances only aggravated Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered herhusband 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 havepity on its helpless innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was she gone than themerciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take thechild, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore toperish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders ofLeontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and putout to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he couldfind.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that hewould not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sentto consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen wasrecovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of herprecious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all thelords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, thejudges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled together to tryHermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before hersubjects to receive their judgement Cleomenes and Dion entered theassembly, and presented to the king the answer of the oracle, sealedup; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of theoracle to be read aloud, and these were the words: 'Hermione isinnocent, Polixenes blameless,—Camillo a true subject, Leontes ajealous tyrant, and the king shall live without an heir if that whichis lost be not found.' The king would give no credit to the words ofthe 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; butwhile Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that the princeMamillius, hearing his mother was to be tried for her life, struck withgrief 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; andLeontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for hisunhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were herattendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulinasoon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his crueltyto her; and now that he thought his ill-usage had broken Hermione'sheart, he believed her innocent; and now he thought the words of theoracle were true, as he knew 'if that which was lost was not found,'which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without anheir, the young prince Mamillius being dead; and he would give hiskingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself upto remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentantgrief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea wasdriven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of thegood king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the littlebaby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had lefthis daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out ofthe woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeyingthe wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had madeit very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned apaper to its mantle, and the name of Perdita written thereon, and wordsobscurely 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 ittenderly; but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize hehad found: therefore he left that part of the country, that no onemight know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewelshe bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought upPerdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than ashepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had nobetter education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did thenatural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in heruntutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she hadnot been brought up in her father's court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name wasFlorizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd'sdwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty,modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly tofall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in thedisguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the oldshepherd's house. Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmedPolixenes; and setting people to watch his son, he discovered his lovefor the shepherd's fair daughter.

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who hadpreserved his life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he wouldaccompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father ofPerdita.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd'sdwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; andthough they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest beingmade welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the generalfestivity.

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were spread,and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads andlasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of theyoung men were buying ribands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar atthe door.

While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita satquietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with theconversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports andsilly amusements of those around them.

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could knowhim: he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. Thesimple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son didnot a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo: 'This is theprettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but lookslike something greater than herself, too noble for this place.'

Pamillo replied: 'Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream.'

'Pray, my good friend,' said the king to the old shepherd, 'what fairswain is that talking with your daughter?' 'They call him Doricles,'replied the shepherd. 'He says he loves my daughter; and, to speaktruth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. Ifyoung Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreamsof'; meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he hadbought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded upfor her marriage portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. 'How now, young man!' said he: 'yourheart 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 havelet the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy.'

The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king hisfather, replied: 'Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts whichPerdita expects from me are locked up in my heart.' Then turning toPerdita, he said to her: 'O hear me, Perdita, before this ancientgentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what Iprofess.' Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness toa solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying toPolixenes: '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 tothis low-born maiden, calling Perdita 'shepherd's brat, sheep-hook,'and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she sufferedhis son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd herfather, to a cruel death.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to followhim with prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused byPolixenes' reproaches, said: 'Though we are all undone, I was not muchafraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainlythat the selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, hides not his facefrom our cottage, but looks on both alike.' Then sorrowfully she said:'But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no further.Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes and weep.'

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety ofPerdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was toodeeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royalfather, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the sametime to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was become atrue penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured friend of kingPolixenes, he could not help wishing once more to see his late royalmaster and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel andPerdita that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, where hewould engage Leontes should protect them, till, through his mediation,they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to theirmarriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conductedeverything relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to goalong with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her babyclothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle.

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the oldshepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who stillmourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo withgreat kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel. ButPerdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to engrossall Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her and hisdead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such alovely creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not socruelly destroyed her. 'And then, too,' said he to Florizel, 'I lostthe society and friendship of your grave father, whom I now desire morethan my life once again to look upon.'

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

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were presentwhen the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he hadfound the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus' death, hehaving seen the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in whichPaulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and he produced ajewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, andhe gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of herhusband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' owndaughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow forher husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in theking's heir, his long-lost daughter being found. When Leontes heardthat Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt thatHermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he could saynothing for a long time, but 'O thy mother, thy mother!'

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying toLeontes, that she had a statue newly finished by that rare Italianmaster, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of thequeen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and lookupon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself.Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance ofhis Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she neversaw 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 wasrenewed 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 shows yourwonder. 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 asthis statue looks.' Paulina replied: 'So much the more the carver'sexcellence, who has made the statue as Hermione would have looked hadshe been living now. But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presentlyyou 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 motionin it.' 'I must draw the curtain, my liege,' said Paulina. 'You are sotransported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives.' 'O, sweetPaulina,' said Leontes, 'make me think so twenty years together! Stillmethinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could everyet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her.' 'Good mylord, forbear!' said Paulina. 'The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; youwill 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 silentadmiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now: 'And so longcould I stay here, looking upon my dear mother.'

'Either forbear this transport,' said Paulina to Leontes, 'and let medraw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can makethe statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and takeyou 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 tohear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move.'

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had preparedfor the purpose, to strike up; and, to the amazement of all thebeholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw itsarms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying forblessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed herhusband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermioneherself, 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; andwith the good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since, never choosingLeontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was found;for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes had done toherself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter.

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, thelong-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his ownhappiness.

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on allsides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for lovingtheir lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good oldshepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulinarejoice that they had lived to see so good an end of all their faithfulservices.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange andunlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillohad long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should find thefugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he happened to justarrive at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend Leontesthe unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they once moreloved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish friendship.And there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his son'smarriage with Perdita. She was no 'sheep-hook' now, but the heiress ofthe crown of Sicily.

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermionerewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and herPerdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were Heroand Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, ofLeonato, 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 thelight-hearted Beatrice.

At the time the history of these ladies commences some young men ofhigh rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on theirreturn from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguishedthemselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among thesewere Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who wasa lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick, andhe was a lord of Padua.

These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable governorintroduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old friends andacquaintance.

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversationwith Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out ofany discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying: 'I wonder that youwill still be talking, signior Benedick: nobody marks you.' Benedickwas just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleasedat this free salutation; he thought it did not become a well-bred ladyto be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was lastat Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jestsupon. And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest ofas those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it waswith Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in formertimes but a perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and theyalways parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore whenBeatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling himnobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to haveobserved before that she was present, said: 'What, my dear ladyDisdain, are you yet living?' And now war broke out afresh betweenthem, 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 theprince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she called trim 'theprince's jester.' This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedickthan all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him that he was acoward, 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 witsso much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comessometimes a little too near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectlyhated Beatrice when she called him 'the prince's jester.'

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and whileClaudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had madein her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her finefigure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highlyamused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick andBeatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato: 'This is apleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for Benedick.'Leonato replied to this suggestion: 'O, my lord, my lord, if they werebut a week married, they would talk themselves mad.' But though Leonatothought they would make a discordant pair, the prince did not give upthe idea of matching these two keen wits together.

When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found thatthe marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not theonly one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in suchterms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in hisheart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio: 'Do you affectHero?' To this question Claudio replied: 'O my lord, when I was last atMessina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had noleisure for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts ofwar have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their room comethronging soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how fair youngHero 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 ofClaudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, and theprince found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero herselfto listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rareendowments, and highly accomplished, and Claudio, assisted by his kindprince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for thecelebration of his marriage with Hero.

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to hisfair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as indeedmost young men are impatient when they are waiting for theaccomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: theprince, therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as akind of merry pastime that they should invent some artful scheme tomake Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudioentered with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, andLeonato promised them his assistance, and even Hero said she would doany modest office to help her cousin to a good husband.

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

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations first: andwatching upon an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated readingin an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station amongthe trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose buthear all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said: 'Comehither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day that your nieceBeatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never think that ladywould have loved any man.' 'No, nor I neither, my lord.' answeredLeonato. 'It is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick,whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike.' Claudioconfirmed all this with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice was soin love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of grief, if hecould not be brought to love her; which Leonato and Claudio seemed toagree was impossible, he having always been such a railer against allfair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion forBeatrice, and he said: 'It were good that Benedick were told of this.''To what end?' said Claudio; 'he would but make sport of it, andtorment the poor lady worse.' 'And if he should,' said the prince, 'itwere a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady,and exceeding wise in everything but in loving Benedick.' Then theprince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leaveBenedick 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 itpossible? Sits the wind in that corner?' And when they were gone, hebegan 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 topity the lady. Love me! Why it must be requited! I did never think tomarry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think Ishould live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. Sheis so. And wise in everything but loving me. Why, that is no greatargument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is afair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her.' Beatrice now approachedhim, and said with her usual tartness: 'Against my will I am sent tobid you come in to dinner.' Benedick, who never felt himself disposedto speak so politely to her before, replied: 'Fair Beatrice, I thankyou for your pains': and when Beatrice, after two or three more rudespeeches, left him, Benedick thought he observed a concealed meaning ofkindness under the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud: 'If Ido not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am aJew. I will go get her picture.'

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him, itwas now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for thispurpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who attendedupon her, and she said to Margaret: 'Good Margaret, run to the parlour;there you will kind my cousin Beatrice talking with the prince andClaudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking in theorchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into thatpleasant arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, likeungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter.' This arbour, into whichHero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasantarbour 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, andour talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be yourpart to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you must behow Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look whereBeatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear ourconference.' They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to somethingwhich Ursula had said: 'No, truly, Ursula. She is too disdainful; herspirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock.' 'But are you sure,' saidUrsula, 'that Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?' Hero replied: 'Sosays the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to acquainther with it; but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to letBeatrice know of it.' 'Certainly,' replied Ursula, 'it were not goodshe 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, orrarely featured, but she would dispraise him.' 'Sure, sure, suchcarping is not commendable,' said Ursula. 'No,' replied Hero, 'but whodare 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 withouttrue judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick.''He hath an excellent good name,' said Hero: 'indeed, he is the firstman in Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio.' And now, Hero givingher attendant a hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursulasaid: 'And when are you to be married, madam?' Hero then told her, thatshe was to be married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would goin with her, and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult withher on what she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had beenlistening with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they wentaway, exclaimed: 'What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?Farewell, contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, loveon! I will requite you, taming my wild heart to your loving hand.'

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies convertedinto new and loving friends, and to behold their first meeting afterbeing cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of thegood-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero mustnow 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 toMessina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving ofvillanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent Claudio'smarriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of making Claudioand the prince unhappy; for he knew the prince had set his heart uponthis marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself; and to effect thiswicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whomhe encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This Borachio paid hiscourt to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John, knowing this,prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him from herlady's chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also todress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into thebelief that it was Hero; for that was the end he meant to compass bythis wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that Herowas an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her chamberwindow at midnight. Now this was the evening before the wedding, and heoffered to take them that night, where they should themselves hear Herodiscoursing with a man from her window; and they consented to go alongwith him, and Claudio said: 'If I see anything to-night why I shouldnot marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wedher, there will I shame her.' The prince also said: 'And as I assistedyou to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her.'

When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they sawBorachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking outof Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio: and Margaretbeing dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the princeand Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself.

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as hethought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at onceconverted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the church, ashe had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed to this,thinking no punishment could be too severe for the naughty lady, whotalked with a man from her window the very night before she was goingto be married to the noble Claudio.

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, andClaudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the priest, orfriar, as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the marriageceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, proclaimed theguilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words heuttered, said meekly: 'Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?'

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince: 'My lord, why speaknot 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 herchamber window.'

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said: 'This looks not likea nuptial.'

'True, O God!' replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this haplesslady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The princeand Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero wouldrecover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrownLeonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from herswoon, saying: 'How does the lady?' 'Dead, I think,' replied Beatricein great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuousprinciples, she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken againsther. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of his child'sshame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she laylike 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 humannature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when sheheard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to startinto her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away thoseblushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error that theprince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowingfather: 'Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation;trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if this sweet lady lienot guiltless here under some biting error.'

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, thefriar said to her: 'Lady, what man is he you are accused of?' Heroreplied: 'They know that do accuse me; I know of none': then turning toLeonato, she said: 'O my father, if you can prove that any man has everconversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed wordswith any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.'

'There is,' said the friar, 'some strange misunderstanding in theprince and Claudio'; and then he counselled Leonato, that he shouldreport that Hero was dead; and he said that the death-like swoon inwhich they had left Hero would make this easy of belief; and he alsoadvised him that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument forher, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. 'What shall become ofthis?' said Leonato; 'What will this do?' The friar replied: 'Thisreport 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 shedied upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creepinto his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest inhis heart, and wish that he had not so accused her; yea, though hethought his accusation true.'

Benedick now said: 'Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though youknow how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I willnot reveal this secret to them.'

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully: 'I am sogrieved, that the smallest twine may lead me.' The kind friar then ledLeonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice andBenedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which theirfriends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so muchdiversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, andfrom whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said: 'Lady Beatrice, have youwept all this while?' 'Yea, and I will weep a while longer,' saidBeatrice. 'Surely,' said Benedick, 'I do believe your fair cousin iswronged.' 'Ah!' said Beatrice, 'how much might that man deserve of mewho would right her!' Benedick then said: 'Is there any way to showsuch friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is notthat strange?' 'It were as possible,' said Beatrice, 'for me to say Iloved nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yetI lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for mycousin.' 'By my sword,' said Benedick, 'you love me, and I protest Ilove you. Come, bid me do anything for you.' 'Kill Claudio,' saidBeatrice. 'Ha! not for the wide world,' said Benedick; for he loved hisfriend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. 'Is notClaudio a villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured mycousin?' 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 Iwere a man for Claudio's sake! or that I had any friend, who would be aman for my sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments.I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman withgrieving.' 'Tarry, good Beatrice,' said Benedick; 'by this hand I loveyou.' 'Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it,' saidBeatrice. 'Think you on your soul that Claudio has wronged Hero?' askedBenedick. 'Yea,' answered Beatrice; 'as sure as I have a thought, or asoul.' 'Enough,' said Benedick; 'I am engaged; I will challenge him. Iwill kiss your hand, and so leave you. By tints hand, Claudio shallrender 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 workinghis gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in thecause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato waschallenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords theinjury 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 notquarrel with us, good old man.' And now came Benedick, and he alsochallenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done toHero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other: 'Beatrice has sethim on to do this.' Claudio nevertheless must have accepted thischallenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the momentbrought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than theuncertain fortune of a duel.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge ofBenedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before theprince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companionsof 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 talkedwith 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 theinnocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained it must have beenremoved by the flight of Don John, who, funding his villanies weredetected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had falselyaccused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; andthe memory of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the raresemblance that he loved it first; and the prince asking him if what heheard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered, that he feltas if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonatofor the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whateverpenance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the falseaccusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he wouldendure it.

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning acousin of Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in person verylike Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he made to Leonato,said, he would marry this unknown lady, even though she were an Ethiop:but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears,and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero.

When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were alreadyassembled, to celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato presented toClaudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might notdiscover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask: 'Give meyour hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you will marryme.' '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 thatthis proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead,so that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the prince, whowas equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed: 'Is not this Hero, Herothat was dead?' Leonato replied: 'She died, my lord, but while herslander lived.' The friar promised them an explanation of this seemingmiracle, after the ceremony was ended; and was proceeding to marrythem, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married atthe same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this match,and Benedick challenging her with her love for him, which he hadlearned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took place; and they foundthey had both been tricked into a belief of love, which had neverexisted, and had become lovers in truth by the power of a false jest:but the affection, which a merry invention had cheated them into, wasgrown too powerful to be shaken by a serious explanation; and sinceBenedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to think nothing to thepurpose that the world could say against it; and he merrily kept up thejest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her but for pity, and becausehe heard she was dying of love for him; and Beatrice protested, thatshe yielded but upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life, forshe heard he was in a consumption. So these two mad wits werereconciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio and Hero weremarried; and to complete the history, Don John, the contriver of thevillainy, was taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina; and abrave punishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man, to see thejoy and feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took placein the palace in Messina.

AS YOU LIKE IT

During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms asthey 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 fewfaithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke livedwith his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exilefor his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the false usurper;and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweetto them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Herethey lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest manynoble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the timecarelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer theylay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking theplayful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poordappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest,that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselveswith venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made theduke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure itpatiently, and say: 'These chilling winds which blow upon my body aretrue counsellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly to me mycondition; and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like sokeen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that howsoever menspeak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted fromit; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the headof the venomous and despised toad.' In this manner did the patient dukedraw a useful moral from everything that he saw; and by the help ofthis moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts,he could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons instones, and good in everything.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom theusurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained inhis court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strictfriendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreementbetween their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving byevery kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for theinjustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; andwhenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her owndependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia'swhole 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 messengerentered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see awrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must comeinstantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it wouldamuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practiced now by countryclowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and beforefair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celiaand Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a verytragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had been longpracticed in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contestsof this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who,from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders allthought would certainly be killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said: 'How now, daughter andniece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take littledelight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this youngman, 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 firstCelia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from theattempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with suchfeeling consideration for, the danger he was about to undergo, thatinstead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose,all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage inthis lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalindin such graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concernfor him; he concluded his refusal with saying: 'I am sorry to deny suchfair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentlewishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered there is oneshamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one dead thatis willing to die; I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none tolament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; for I onlyfill up a place in the world which may be better supplied when I havemade it empty.'

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young strangermight not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless statewhich he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind thinkthat he was like herself, unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, andso deep an interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, thatshe might almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him.

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladiesgave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in theend completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that fora while he was unable to speak or move.

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shown bythis 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 youngestson of Sir Roland 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 ofthe banished duke; therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the sonof his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave youngman was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very illhumour. 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 wentout, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son ofher father's old friend; and she said to Celia: 'My father loved SirRowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son, I wouldhave added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured.'

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the suddendispleasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words tohim; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak somemore 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 thisfor me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a morevaluable 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 handsomeyoung wrestler, and she said to Rosalind: 'Is it possible you shouldfall in love so suddenly?' Rosalind replied: 'The duke, my father,loved his father dearly.' 'But,' said Celia, 'does it therefore followthat you should love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him, formy father hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando.'

Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' son, whichreminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among thenobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for hergood father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; andwhile Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered theroom, and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leavethe palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, whoin vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stayupon her account. 'I did not then,' said Celia, 'entreat you to let herstay, for I was too young at that time to value her; but now that Iknow her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at thesame instant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live out ofher company.' Frederick replied: 'She is too subtle for you; hersmoothness, her very silence, and her patience speak to the people, andthey pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem morebright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips inher favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable.'

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalindremain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and leavingher father's palace that night, she went along with her friend to seekRosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for twoyoung ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; shetherefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressingthemselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a stillgreater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man: and soit was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was thetallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celiashould be habited like a country lass, and that they should say theywere brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be calledGanymede, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray theirexpenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for theforest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke'sdominions.

The Lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) with hermanly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithfulfriendship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so many wearymiles, made the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert acheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, the rustic andstout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found theconvenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the road;and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrilycheered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy remarks all theway, now owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in hisheart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Alienadeclared she could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried torecollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, asthe 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 ofour travel, in the forest of Arden.' But feigned manliness and forcedcourage would no longer support them; for though they were in theforest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and here thetravel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, forthey might have lost themselves, and perished for want of food; butprovidentially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying withfatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass thatway, and Ganymede once more tried to speak with a manly boldness,saying: 'Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure usentertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves; forthis young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, andfaints for want of food.'

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that hismaster's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would findbut poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they shouldbe welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near prospectof relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house and sheep ofthe shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to the shepherd'shouse to wait on them; and being by this means so fortunately providedwith a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they agreed tostay here till they could learn in what part of the forest the dukedwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began tolike their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves the shepherdand shepherdess they feigned to be: yet sometimes Ganymede rememberedhe had once been the same lady Rosalind who had so dearly loved thebrave Orlando, because he was the son of old Sir Rowland, her father'sfriend; and though Ganymede thought that Orlando was many milesdistant, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it soonappeared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in thismanner 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 eldestbrother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother agood education, and provide for him as became the dignity of theirancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding thecommands of his dying father, he never put his bother to school, butkept him a home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature andin the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled hisexcellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemedlike a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver soenvied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother,that at last he wished to destroy him, and to effect this he set onpeople to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as hasbeen before related, had killed so many men. Now, it was this cruelbrother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die, beingso friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother provedvictorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he wouldburn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vowby one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father, andthat loved Orlando because he resembled Sir Rowland. This old man wentout to meet him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when hesaw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him break outinto these passionate exclamations: 'O my gentle master, my sweetmaster, O you memory of old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why areyou gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond toovercome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly homebefore you.' Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what wasthe 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 hadgained by his victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy him, bysetting fire to his chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised himto escape the danger he was in by instant flight; and knowing Orlandohad no money, Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had broughtout with him his own little hoard, and he said: 'I have five hundredcrowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by to beprovision for me when my old limbs should become unfit for service;take that, and He that cloth the ravens feed be comfort to my age! Hereis the gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant; though Ilook old I will do the service of a younger man in all your businessand necessities.' 'O good old man!' said Orlando, 'how well appears inyou the constant service of the old world! You are not for the fashionof these times. We will go along together, and before your youthfulwages are spent, I shall light upon some means for both ourmaintenance.'

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; andOrlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, tillthey came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves inthe same distress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been.They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almostspent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said: 'O my dear master, Idie 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 masterfarewell. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servantup in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasanttrees; and he said to him: 'Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbshere awhile, and do not talk of dying!'

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened toarrive at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and hisfriends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke beingseated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert ofsome large trees.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending totake their meat by force, and said: 'Forbear and eat no more; I musthave 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, hewas dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to sitdown and eat with them. Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up hissword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he haddemanded their food. 'Pardon me, I pray you,' said he: 'I thought thatall things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenanceof stern command; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, underthe shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours oftime; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have beenwhere bells have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at any goodman's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and knowwhat it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to dome human courtesy!' The duke replied: 'True it is that we are men (asyou say) who have seen better days, and though we have now ourhabitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and cities, andhave with holy bell been knolled to church, have sat at good men'sfeasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drops which sacred pity hasengendered; therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as muchas will minister to your wants.' 'There is an old poor man,' answeredOrlando, 'who has limped after me many a weary step in pure love,oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he besatisfied, I must not touch a bit.' 'Go, find him out, and bring himhither,' said the duke; 'we will forbear to eat till you return.' ThenOrlando went like a doe to kind its fawn and give it food; andpresently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said: 'Setdown your venerable burthen; you are both welcome'; and they fed theold man, and cheered his heart, and he revived, and recovered hishealth and strength again.

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when he found that he was theson of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under hisprotection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in theforest.

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede and Alienacame there, and (as has been before 'elated) bought the shepherd'scottage.

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name ofRosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, alladdressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could be,they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had givenhim about his neck.

Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair princess Rosalind,who, by her noble condescension and favour, had so won his heart thathe passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, andwriting sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased withthe graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered intoconversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganymede tohis beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportmentof that noble lady; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners often seenin youths when they are between boys and men, and with much archnessand humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, 'who,' said he,'haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalindupon their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies onbrambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover,I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of hislove.'

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, andasked Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedyGanymede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando shouldcome every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt:'And then,' said Ganymede, 'I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and youshall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I wasRosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsicalladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and thisis the way I propose to cure you.' Orlando had no great faith in theremedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganymede's cottage, andfeign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede andAliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, andevery day talked over all the fine words and flattering complimentswhich young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. Itdoes not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress in curingOrlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreamingthat Ganymede was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave himof saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancyalmost as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest inknowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede happy, let himhave his own way, and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did notcare to remind Ganymede that the Lady Rosalind had not yet made herselfknown to the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest theyhad learnt from Orlando. Ganymede met the duke one day, and had sometalk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymedeanswered that he came of as good parentage as he did, which made theduke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came ofroyal lineage. Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede wascontent to put off all further explanation for a few days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lyingasleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself abouthis neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among thebushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness liecrouching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waitinguntil the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey onnothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent byProvidence to free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness;but when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that thesleeper who was exposed to this double peril, was his own brotherOliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy himby fire; and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungrylioness; but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soonovercame his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword,and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved hisbrother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furiouslioness; but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn oneof his arms with her sharp claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, andperceiving 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 ownlife, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of hisunworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's pardon forthe injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent,and readily forgave him: they embraced each other; and from that hourOliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he hadcome to the forest bent on his destruction.

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself tooweak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore he desired his brother togo and tell Ganymede, 'whom,' said Orlando, 'I in sport do call myRosalind,' the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how Orlandohad saved his life: and when he had finished the story of Orlando'sbravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he wasOrlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; and then he told themof their reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such alively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fellin love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the distresshe told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love withher. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena andOliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede, who hearing of the dangerOrlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted;and when he recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoonin the imaginary character of Rosalind, and Ganymede said to Oliver:'Tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon.' ButOliver 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, ifyou did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.''So I do,' replied Ganymede, truly, 'but I should have been a woman byright.'

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returnedback to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides theaccount of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdessAliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even inthis their first interview: and he talked to his brother, as of a thingalmost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so wellloved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his estateand 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 yourshepherdess to this: she is now alone, for look, here comes herbrother.' Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom Orlando hadperceived approaching, came to inquire after the health of his woundedfriend.

When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden love which hadtaken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised hisbrother 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 dayto his Rosalind.

Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlandoreally loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have hiswish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in herown person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the ladyRosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring topass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle whowas a famous magician.

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he heard,asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. 'By my life I do,' saidGanymede; 'therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke andyour friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married to-morrowto Rosalind, she shall be here.'

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

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as yetonly one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering andconjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest ofOrlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be broughtin this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boycould really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answeringthat he knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked the duke,if he brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriagewith Orlando. 'That I would,' said the duke, 'if I had kingdoms to givewith her.' Ganymede then said to Orlando: 'And you say you will marryher if I bring her here.' 'That I would,' said Orlando, 'if I were kingof many kingdoms.'

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede throwing offhis male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's apparel,quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and Aliena changingher country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little troubletransformed into the lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought theshepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, healso had observed the resemblance.

They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind andCelia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that itwas by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herselfon her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed sowonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that itmight well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer triflewith her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of herdwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing asher sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; andOrlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time.And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forestwith any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions, yet ahappier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating theirvenison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothingshould be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and thetrue lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke thejoyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearingthat every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden tojoin the lawful duke in his exile, much envying' that his brothershould be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the headof a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intending to seizehis brother, and put him with all his faithful followers to the sword;but, by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother wasconverted from his evil intention; for just as he entered the skirts ofthe wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, withwhom he had much talk, and who in the end completely turned his heartfrom his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true penitent, andresolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder ofhis days in a religious house. The first act of his newly-conceivedpenitence 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 faithfulfollowers of his adversity.

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely toheighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses.Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which had happenedto the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her joy very sincerely,though she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by thisrestoration which her father had made, Rosalind was now the heir: socompletely was the love of these two cousins unmixed with anything ofjealousy or of envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who hadstayed with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, thoughthey had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleasedto return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names wereValentine and Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendshiphad long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and theirhours of leisure were always passed in each other's company, exceptwhen Proteus visited a lady he was in love with; and these visits tohis mistress, and this passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were theonly topics on which these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, notbeing himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing hisfriend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh atProteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, anddeclare that no such idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatlypreferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the anxioushopes and fears of the lover Proteus.

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must for atime be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, unwillingto part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentinenot to leave him: but Valentine said: 'Cease to persuade me, my lovingProteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness athome. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your affection werenot chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia, I wouldentreat 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 beprosperous!'

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. 'SweetValentine, adieu!' said Proteus; 'think on me, when you see some rareobject worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of yourhappiness.'

Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when hisfriend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, whichhe gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of anoble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity tooeasily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of hispassion, 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 Proteus, and ordered her toleave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in theletter, that she soon called in her maid again; and when Lucettareturned, she said: 'What o'clock is it?' Lucetta, who knew hermistress 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 toknow what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it onthe floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta wasretiring, she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; butJulia, 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 themto anger me.'

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the tornfragments. She first made out these words: 'Love-wounded Proteus'; andlamenting over these and such like loving words, which she made outthough they were all torn asunder, or, she said wounded (the expression'Love-wounded Proteus' giving her that idea), she talked to these kindwords, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, tilltheir wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece,to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty ladylike childishness,till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her owningratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she calledthem, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever donebefore.

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer tohis letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed: 'Sweet love,sweet lines, sweet life!' In the midst of his raptures he wasinterrupted by his father. 'How now!' said the old gentleman; 'whatletter are you reading there?'

'My lord,' replied Proteus, 'it is a letter from my friend Valentine,at Milan.'

'Lend me the letter,' said his father: 'let me see what news.'

'There are no news, my lord,' said Proteus, greatly alarmed, 'but thathe writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graceshim with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of hisfortune.'

'And how stand you affected to his wish?' asked the father.

'As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on hisfriendly wish,' said Proteus.

Now it had happened that Proteus' father had just been talking with afriend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered hislordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most menwere sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; 'some,' said he, 'tothe wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands faraway, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is hiscompanion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court. Your sonis fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage tohim in his riper age not to have travelled in his youth.'

Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good, andupon Proteus telling him that Valentine 'wished him with him, thepartner of his fortune,' he at once determined to send his son toMilan; and without giving Proteus any reason for this suddenresolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman tocommand his son, not reason with him, he said: 'My will is the same asValentine's wish'; and seeing his son look astonished, he added: 'Looknot amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in theduke of Milan's court; for what I will I will, and there is an end.To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am peremptory.'

Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, whonever suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself fortelling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had broughtupon him the sad necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long a time,she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other amournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. Proteus andJulia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever inremembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteusset out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, inhigh favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened tohim, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine had given upthe freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become aspassionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the ladySilvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but theyconcealed their love from the duke, because although he showed muchkindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace, yet hedesigned to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name wasThurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine senseand excellent qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit toSilvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning everythingThurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room, andtold Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' arrival.Valentine said: 'If I had wished a thing, it would have been to haveseen him here!' And then he highly praised Proteus to the duke, saying:'My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my friendmade use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person andin mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman.'

'Welcome him then according to his worth,' said the duke. 'Silvia, Ispeak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him doso.' They were here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, andValentine introduced him to Silvia, saying: 'Sweet lady, entertain himto be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.'

When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alonetogether, Valentine said: 'Now tell me how all does from whence youcame? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?' Proteus replied:'My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a lovediscourse.'

'Ay, Proteus,' returned Valentine, 'but that life is altered now. Ihave done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt oflove, love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus,Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess there isno woe like his correction, nor so 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 thedisposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. But'friend' Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all-powerfuldeity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they weretalking of the change he had made in Valentine), was working in theheart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time been a pattern of truelove and perfect friendship, was now, in one short interview withSilvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover; for at the firstsight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, nordid his long friendship for Valentine deter him from endeavouring tosupplant him in her affections; and although, as it will always be,when people of dispositions naturally good become unjust, he had manyscruples before he determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival ofValentine; yet he at length overcame his sense of duty, and yieldedhimself 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, andtold him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, hehad prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night, andgo with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, byhelp of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of thewindows of the palace after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, itis hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus resolvedto 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 wasgoing to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him,and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that which else noworldly good should draw from him. He then told all he had heard fromValentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in whichValentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that hepreferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would concealan unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to letValentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by someartifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purposethe duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soonsaw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrappedwithin 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 amessenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am goingto deliver them.' Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no bettersuccess in the event than the untruth Proteus told his father.

'Be they of much import?' said the duke.

'No more, my lord,' said Valentine, 'than to tell my father I am welland happy at your grace's court.'

'Nay then,' said the duke, 'no matter; stay with me a while. I wishyour counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly.' He then toldValentine 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, 'neitherregarding,' said he, 'that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I wereher father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my lovefrom her. I had thought my age should have been cherished by herchildlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out towhosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for meand my possessions she esteems not.'

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer: 'And whatwould your grace have me do in all this?'

'Why,' said the duke, 'the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion ofcourtship is much changed since I was young; now I would willingly haveyou to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo.'

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship thenpracticed 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 hesent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no manmight 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 driftof his discourse, 'her doors are fast locked.'

Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke should go into thelady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying he wouldprocure him one tatting for that purpose; and in conclusion advised himto conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that which he nowwore. 'Lend me your cloak,' said the duke, who had feigned this longstory on purpose to have a presence to get off the cloak; so uponsaying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwingit back, he discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but also a letterof Silvia's, which he instantly opened and read; and this lettercontained a full account of their intended elopement. The duke, afterupbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the favourhe had shown him, by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banishedhim from the court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forcedto depart that night, without even seeing Silvia.

While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona wasregretting the absence of Proteus; and her regard for him at last sofar overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona,and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on theroad, she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, andthey set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan soon afterValentine was banished from that city through the treachery of Proteus.

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn;and her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered intoconversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking bythat means to learn some news of Proteus.

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as hetook 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 sorryto see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest, he offeredto take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a gentlemanthat evening was going to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not wellknow what Proteus would think of the imprudent step she had taken; forshe knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity ofcharacter, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem: andthis 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 themusic; for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a verydifferent effect was produced to what the kind host intended; forthere, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstantProteus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressingdiscourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silviafrom a window talk with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking his owntrue lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; and thenSilvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and hisfine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine,and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend Proteus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did shestill love the truant Proteus; and hearing that he had lately partedwith a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, thefriendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and Proteusknew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents toher rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him asa parting gift at Verona.

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to findthat Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or thepage Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation with Silviaabout Proteus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She putting in (asone may say) a good word for herself, said she knew Julia; as well shemight, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke; telling how fondlyJulia loved her master Proteus, and how his unkind neglect would grieveher: and then she with a pretty equivocation went on: 'Julia is aboutmy height, and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes and hair thesame as mine': and indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in herboy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who was sosadly forsaken by the man she loved; and when Julia offered the ringwhich Proteus had sent, refused it, saying: 'The more shame for himthat he sends me that ring; I will not take it; for I have often heardhim say his Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, forpitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia'ssake.' These comfortable words coming from her kind rival's tonguecheered the drooping heart of the disguised lady.

But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way tobend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father adisgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest,not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's deartreasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded hismoney.

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he wasgoing into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he had onbeing all his riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struckwith his noble air and manly behaviour, told him if he would live withthem, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves underhis command; but that if he refused to accept their offer, they wouldkill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he wouldconsent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did nooutrage on women or poor passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read inballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in thissituation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted uponher no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of followingValentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had takenrefuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived inthe forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, buttaking no part in their depredations, and using the authority whichthey had imposed upon him in no other way than to compel them to showcompassion to the travellers they robbed.

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace incompany with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom shetook along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass throughthe forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of theserobbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but heescaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror he was in, bid hernot be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave wherehis captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their captainhad an honourable mind, and always showed humanity to women. Silviafound little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as aprisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. 'O Valentine,' shecried, 'this I endure for thee!'

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he wasstopped by Proteus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of apage, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps tothis forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of the robber; butscarce 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 hewas rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (theforlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind,fearing lest the great service which Proteus had just done to Silviashould win her to show him some favour, they were all strangelysurprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who, having heardhis robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve her.

Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being caughtby his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence andremorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he haddone to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and generous,even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored him to hisformer place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism hesaid: '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 apage, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus would not be ablewith this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and they were allemployed in recovering her: else would Silvia have been offended atbeing thus made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think thatValentine would long persevere in this overstrained and too generousact of friendship. When Julia recovered from the fainting kit, shesaid: 'I had forgot, my master ordered me to deliver this ring toSilvia.' Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one hegave to Julia, in return for that which he received from her, and whichhe 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: 'Juliaherself did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it hither.'

Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that thepage Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself; and the proofshe had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, thathis love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his owndear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Silvia toValentine, who had so well deserved her.

Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in theirreconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies when they weresurprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who camethere in pursuit of Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying: 'Silviais mine.' Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited manner:'Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is yours, youshall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but possession of herwith a torch! I dare you but to breathe upon my love.' Hearing thisthreat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back, and said he carednot for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a girl who lovedhim 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 youhave done, and leave her on such slight conditions.' Then turning toValentine, he said: 'I do applaud your spirit Valentine, and think youworthy of an empress's love. You shall have Silvia, for you have welldeserved her.' Valentine then with great humility kissed the duke'shand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him of hisdaughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this joyfulminute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves withwhom he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when reformedand restored to society, there would be found among them many good, andfit for great employment; for the most of them had been banished, likeValentine, for state offences, rather than for any black crimes theyhad been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented: and now nothingremained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way ofpenance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital ofthe whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke; and theshame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficientpunishment: which being done, the lovers, all four, returned back toMilan, and their nuptials were solemnized in the presence of the duke,with high triumphs and feasting.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed animmense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christianmerchants. Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment ofthe money he lent with such severity that he was much disliked by allgood men, and particularly by Antonio, a young merchant of Venice; andShylock as much hated Antonio, because he used to lend money to peoplein distress, and would never take any interest for the money he lent;therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and thegenerous merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto(or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and harddealings, which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while hesecretly meditated revenge.

Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and hadthe most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was one inwhom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drewbreath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens; butthe friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, anoble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly exhaustedhis little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his slendermeans, as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too apt to do.Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed asif they had but one heart and one purse between them.

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished to repairhis fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved,whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to alarge estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit at herhouse, when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes from hereyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would be nounwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with anappearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besoughtAntonio to add to the many favours he had shown him, by lending himthree thousand ducats.

Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; butexpecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise, hesaid he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow themoney upon the credit of those ships.

Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio asked theJew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he shouldrequire, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships atsea. On this, Shylock thought within himself: 'If I can once catch himon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him; he hates ourJewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and among merchants he railsat me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed bemy tribe if I forgive him!' Antonio finding he was musing withinhimself and did not answer, and being impatient for the money, said:'Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the money?' To this question theJew replied: 'Signior Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often youhave railed at me about my monies and my usuries, and I have borne itwith a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; andthen you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon myJewish 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, andsay, Shylock, lend me monies. Has a dog money? Is it possible a curshould 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, andfor these courtesies I am to lend you monies.' Antonio replied: 'I amas 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, butrather lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you may withbetter face exact the penalty.' 'Why, look you,' said Shylock, 'how youstorm! I would be friends with you, and have your love. I will forgetthe shames you have put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take nointerest for my money.' This seemingly kind offer greatly surprisedAntonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all hedid was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would lend him the threethousand ducats, and take no interest for his money; only Antonioshould 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 apound of flesh, to be cut off from any part of his body that Shylockpleased.

'Content,' said Antonio: 'I will sign to this bond, and say there ismuch kindness in the Jew.'

Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; but stillAntonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the day ofpayment came, his ships would return laden with many times the value ofthe money.

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed: 'O, father Abraham, whatsuspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teachthem to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by theexaction 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 orbeef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will takeit, so; if not, adieu.'

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all theJew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should runthe hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed thebond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at aplace called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of herperson and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom weread, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Antonio, atthe hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train, andattended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short timeconsented to accept of him for a husband.

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his highbirth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she, who lovedhim for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to regardwealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she wouldwish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times morerich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portiaprettily dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl,unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, andthat she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed byhim in all things; and she said: 'Myself and what is mine, to you andyours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of thisfair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants; andnow this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I givethem with this ring'; presenting a ring to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the graciousmanner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of hishumble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to thedear lady who so honoured him, by anything but broken words of love andthankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed never to part with it.

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upontheir lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become theobedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and thegenerous 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 waitinggentlewoman Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if herlady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissareplied: 'Madam, it is so, if you approve of it.' Portia willinglyconsenting, Bassanio pleasantly said: 'Then our wedding-feast shall bemuch honoured by your marriage, Gratiano.'

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by theentrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio containingfearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared itwas to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so pale;and inquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he said:'O sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that everblotted paper; gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you, Ifreely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should havetold you that I had less than nothing, being in debt.' Bassanio thentold Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the money ofAntonio, and of Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of thebond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if itwas not repaid by a certain day: and then Bassanio read Antonio'sletter: the words of which were: 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships are alllost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it isimpossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death;notwithstanding use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuadeyou to come, let not my letter.' 'O, my dear love,' said Portia,'despatch all business, and begone; you shall have gold to pay themoney twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair bymy Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearlylove you.' Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before heset out, to give him a legal right to her money; and that same day theywere married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and Bassanioand Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste forVenice, where Bassanio found Antonio in prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of themoney which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound ofAntonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause beforethe duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the eventof the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him, andbade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned; yet shefeared it would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, shebegan to think and consider within herself, if she could by any meansbe instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's friend; andnotwithstanding when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said tohim with such a meek and wifelike grace, that she would submit in allthings to be governed by his superior wisdom, yet being now calledforth into action by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, shedid nothing doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her owntrue and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice,and speak in Antonio's defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to thisgentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case tohim, desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also sendher the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, hebrought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and alsoeverything necessary for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, andputting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with heras her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice onthe very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard beforethe duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portiaentered this high court of justice, and presented a letter fromBellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying,he would have come himself to plead for Antonio, but that he wasprevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctorBalthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in hisstead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful appearanceof the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robesand her large wig.

And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and sheknew the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not inher disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distressand fear for his friend.

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave thistender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she hadundertaken to perform: and first of all she addressed herself toShylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to havethe forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noblequality of merry, as would have softened any heart but the unfeelingShylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven uponthe place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed himthat gave, and him that received it, and how it became monarchs betterthan their crowns, being an attribute of God Himself; and that earthlypower came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice;and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that sameprayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her bydesiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. 'Is he not able topay the money?' asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the paymentof the three thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire;which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon having a pound ofAntonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young counsellor wouldendeavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portiagravely answered, that laws once established must never be altered.Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it seemedto him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said: 'A Daniel iscome to judgment! O wise young judge, how I do honour you! How muchelder are you than your looks!'

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when shehad read it, she said: 'This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew maylawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio'sheart.' Then she said to Shylock: 'Be merciful: take the money, and bidme tear the bond.' But no mercy would the cruel Shylock show; and hesaid: 'By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of men toalter me.' 'Why then, Antonio,' said Portia, 'you must prepare yourbosom for the knife': and while Shylock was sharpening a long knifewith great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said toAntonio: 'Have you anything to say?' Antonio with a calm resignationreplied, that he had but little to say, for that he had prepared hismind for death. Then he said to Bassanio: 'Give me your hand, Bassanio!Fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune foryou. Commend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I have lovedyou!' Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied: 'Antonio, I ammarried to a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself; but lifeitself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed with me above yourlife; I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, todeliver you.'

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at alloffended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so true afriend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help answering:'Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hearyou make this offer.' And then Gratiano, who loved to copy what hislord 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 sideof Portia: 'I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were inheaven, if she could but entreat some power there to change the crueltemper 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 pronouncethe sentence.' And now all was awful expectation in the court, andevery heart was full of grief for Antonio.

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she saidto the Jew: 'Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed todeath.' Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed todeath, said: 'It is not so named in the bond.' Portia replied: 'It isnot so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did somuch for charity.' To this all the answer Shylock would make was: 'Icannot find it; it is not in the bond.' 'Then,' said Portia, 'a poundof Antonio's flesh is shine. The law allows it, and the court awardsit. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows itand the court awards it.' Again Shylock exclaimed: 'O wise and uprightjudge! A Daniel is come to judgment!' And then he sharpened his longknife again, and looking eagerly on Antonio, he said: 'Come, prepare!'

'Tarry a little, Jew,' said Portia; 'there is something else. This bondhere gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are 'a pound offlesh.' If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop ofChristian blood, your lands and goods are by the law to be confiscatedto the state of Venice.' Now as it was utterly impossible for Shylockto cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood,this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood thatwas named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio; and all admiring thewonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who had so happily thoughtof this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of thesenate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock hadused: 'O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come tojudgment!'

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with adisappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, rejoicedbeyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out: 'Here isthe 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 offmore nor less than just a pound; be it more or less by one poorscruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, youare condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth isforfeited to the senate.' 'Give me my money, and let me go,' saidShylock. '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 ofVenice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspiredagainst the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at themercy of the duke; therefore, down on your knees, and ask him to pardonyou.'

The duke then said to Shylock: 'That you may see the difference of ourChristian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half yourwealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the state.'

The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share ofShylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at hisdeath to his daughter and her husband; for Antonio knew that the Jewhad an only daughter who had lately married against his consent to ayoung Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, which had sooffended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.

The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disappointed in his revenge, anddespoiled of his riches, he said: 'I am ill. Let me go home; send thedeed 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 repentyour cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you the fine ofthe other half of your riches.'

The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then highlypraised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and invitedhim home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before herhusband, replied: 'I humbly thank your grace, but I must awaydirectly.' The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay anddine with him; and turning to Antonio, he added: 'Reward thisgentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him.'

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said toPortia: 'Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have by yourwisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg youwill accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew.' 'And weshall stand indebted to you over and above,' said Antonio, 'in love andservice evermore.'

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but uponBassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said: 'Giveme your gloves; I will wear them for your sake'; and then Bassaniotaking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him uponhis finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him tomake a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her askhim for his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, 'and for yourlove I will take this ring from you.' Bassanio was sadly distressedthat the counsellor should ask him for the only thing he could not partwith, and he replied in great confusion, that he could not give himthat ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed never topart with it; but that he would give him the most valuable ring inVenice, and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected to beaffronted, and left the court, saying: 'You teach me, sir, how a beggarshould be answered.'

'Dear Bassanio,' said Antonio, 'let him have the ring; let my love andthe great service he has done for me be valued against your wife'sdispleasure,' Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, andsent 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 gothome, 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 neverfails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action;her cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the moon never seemedto shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon was hid behind acloud, then a light which she saw from her house at Belmont as wellpleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa: 'That light we seeis burning in my hall; how far that little candle throws its beams, soshines a good deed in a naughty world'; and hearing the sound of musicfrom her house, she said: 'Methinks that music sounds much sweeter thanby day.'

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselvesin their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, whosoon followed them with Antonio; and Bassanio presenting his dearfriend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of thatlady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husbandquarrelling in a corner of the room. 'A quarrel already?' said Portia.'What is the matter?' Gratiano replied: 'Lady, it is about a paltrygilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on acutler'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 thehour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. Iknow you gave it to a woman.' 'By this hand,' replied Gratiano, 'I gaveit to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, no higher thanyourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wisepleading saved Antonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee,and I could not for my life deny him.' Portia said: 'You were to blame,Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanioa 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 hisring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that tooksome pains in writing, he begged my ring.'

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio forgiving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what tobelieve, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was veryunhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with greatearnestness: 'No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, whichwhen I denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweetPortia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that Iwas forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had youbeen there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give theworthy doctor.'

'Ah!' said Antonio, 'I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels.'

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcomenotwithstanding; and then Antonio said: 'I once did lend my body forBassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring, Ishould have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon theforfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you.' 'Then youshall be his surety,' said Portia; 'give him this ring, and bid himkeep it better than the other.'

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to findit was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him how she was theyoung counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to hisunspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage andwisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by somechance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account ofAntonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in theharbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's storywere all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; andthere was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, andthe husbands that did not know their own wives Gratiano merrilyswearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that

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

CYMBELINE

During the time of Augustus Caesar, emperor of Rome, there reigned inEngland (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline.

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and adaughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, wasbrought up in her father's court; but by a strange chance the two sonsof Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest was butthree years of age, and the youngest quite an infant; and Cymbelinecould never discover what was become of them, or by whom they wereconveyed away.

Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was a wicked, plottingwoman, and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by hisfirst wife.

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son ofher own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): forby this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crownof Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if theking's sons were not found, the princess Imogen must be the king'sheir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who marriedwithout the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the bestscholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father diedfighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his motherdied 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 hisfather's death), and educated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and wereplayfellows from their infancy; they loved each other tenderly whenthey were children, and their affection continuing to increase withtheir years, when they grew up they privately married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spiesconstantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and sheimmediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that hisdaughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry asubject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished himfrom his native country for ever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered atlosing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting beforePosthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen forhis residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she showed, thebetter to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son Cloten;for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone, that hermarriage was not lawful, being contracted without the consent of theking.

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 abracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preservewith great care, as a token of his love; they then bid each otherfarewell, with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court, andPosthumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men ofdifferent nations, who were talking freely of ladies: each one praisingthe ladies of his own country, and his own mistress. Posthumus, who hadever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fairImogen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant lady in the world.

One of those gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended that alady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, hiscountry-women, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy ofhis 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 marriedImogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in thiswicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if he couldwin Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him the braceletwhich Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as a token ofhis love, then the wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving toIachimo the ring, which was Imogen's love present when she parted withher 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 courteouswelcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began tomake professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and hesoon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in hisdishonourable design.

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to astratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed someof Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bedchamber,concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen wasretired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting out of thetrunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and wrote downeverything he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which heobserved upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the braceletfrom her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired into thechest again; and the next day he set off for Rome with greatexpedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him thebracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber:and in this manner Iachimo told his false tale: 'Her bedchamber,' saidhe, 'was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proudCleopatra when she met her Anthony, a piece of work most bravelywrought.'

'This is true,' said Posthumus; 'but this you might have heard spokenof without seeing.'

'Then the chimney,' said Iachimo, 'is south of the chamber, and thechimney-piece is Diana bathing; never saw I figures livelier expressed.'

'This is a thing you might have likewise heard,' said Posthumus, 'forit is much talked of.'

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber; and added: 'Ihad almost forgot her andirons; they were two winking Cupids made ofsilver, each on one foot standing.' He then took out the bracelet, andsaid: 'Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She took it from herarm. I see her yet; her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yetenriched it too. She gave it me, and said, she prized it once.' He lastof all described the mole he had observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agonyof doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations againstImogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he hadagreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman ofBritain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been afaithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he hadof his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen toMilford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the sametime he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen desiring her to go withPisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without seeing her,though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, hewould come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged she would meethim. She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband above allthings, and desired more than her life to see him, hastened herdeparture with Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter sheset out.

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though faithfulto Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosedto Imogen the cruel order he had received.

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, foundherself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyondmeasure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient fortitudefor the time when Posthumus should see and repent his injustice: in themeantime, as she refused in her distress to return to her father'scourt, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes for moresecurity in travelling; to which device she agreed, and thought in thatdisguise she would go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom, thoughhe had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love.

When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left her to heruncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but before hedeparted he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen hadgiven him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen andPosthumus, gave him this phial, which she supposed contained poison,she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try itseffects (as she said) upon animals; but the physician, knowing hermalicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gaveher a drug which would do no other mischief than causing a person tosleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture,which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiringher, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so, withblessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from herundeserved troubles, he left her.

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her twobrothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius, whostole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, and having beenfalsely accused to the king of treason, and banished from the court, inrevenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought them up ina forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them throughrevenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been his ownchildren, educated them carefully, and they grew up fine youths, theirprincely spirits leading them to bold and daring actions; and as theysubsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, and were alwayspressing their supposed father to let them seek their fortune in thewars.

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 toMilford-Haven (from which she meant to embark for Rome); and beingunable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was withweariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not merely putting on aman's apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought up, tobear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeingthis cave, she entered, hoping to find someone within of whom she couldprocure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about shediscovered some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing, that shecould 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; howtired am I! for two nights together I have made the ground my bed: myresolution helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed meMilford-Haven from the mountain top, how near it seemed!' Then thethoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across her, and shesaid: 'My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one!'

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputedfather, Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bellarius had giventhem the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, butsupposed that Bellarius was their father; but the real names of theseprinces 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 itwas a fairy.'

'What is the matter, sir?' said the young men. 'By Jupiter,' saidBellarius again, 'there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an earthlyparagon.' So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, andaddressed them in these words: 'Good masters, do not harm me; before Ientered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I haveeaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had foundgold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I wouldhave left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted with prayersfor the provider.' They refused her money with great earnestness. 'Isee you are angry with me,' said the timid Imogen; 'but, sirs, if youkill me for my fault, know that I should have died if I had not madeit.'

'Whither are you bound?' asked Bellarius, 'and what is your name?'

'Fidele is my name,' answered Imogen. 'I have a kinsman, who is boundfor Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almostspent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence.'

'Prithee, fair youth,' said old Bellarius, 'do not think us churls, normeasure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are wellencountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before youdepart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.'

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cavewith many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as theysaid, him) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they havingkilled venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them with herneat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper; for thoughit is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understandcookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art; and, asher brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots incharacters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick, andFidele were her dieter. 'And then,' said Polydore to his brother, 'howangel-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 andpatience had together taken possession of him.

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their nearrelationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys calledher, Fidele) became the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcelyless loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her dearPosthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild forestyouths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she was enoughrested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way toMilford-Haven.

When the venison they had taken was all eaten and they were going outto hunt for more. Fidele could not accompany them because she wasunwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as thefatigue of wandering in the forest, was the cause of her illness.

They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt, praising all theway the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele.

Imogen was no sooner left alone then she recollected the cordialPisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into asound and deathlike sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Polydore wentfirst into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavyshoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so did truegentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters; but hesoon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, andconcluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented over her with dear andbrotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy been parted.

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and therecelebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then thecustom.

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and therelaying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her departedspirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Polydore said:'While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thygrave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; theblue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, which isnot sweeter than was thy breath; all these will I strew over thee. Yea,and the furred moss in winter, when there are no flowers to cover thysweet corset.'

When they had finished her funeral obsequies they departed verysorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepydrug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight coveringof leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, andimagining she had been dreaming, she said: 'I thought I was acave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how came I here covered withflowers?' Not being able to find her way back to the cave, and seeingnothing of her new companions, she concluded it was certainly all adream; and once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping atlast she should find her way to Milford-Haven, and thence get a passagein some ship bound for Italy; for all her thoughts were still with herhusband Posthumus, whom she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knewnothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman emperorAugustus Caesar and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; and a Roman armyhad landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forestover which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, he did notmean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but intended tojoin the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who hadbanished him.

He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death of her he had sofondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio having written him aletter to say he had obeyed his command, and that Imogen was dead), satheavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiringeither to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cymbeline forreturning home from banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands of theRoman army; and her presence and deportment recommending her, she wasmade a page to Lucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they enteredthis forest, Polydore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young menwere eager to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought theywere going to fight for their own royal father: and old Bellarius wentwith them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury hehad done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been awarrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the kinghe had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and theBritons would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but forthe extraordinary valour of Posthumus and Bellarius and the two sons ofCymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and so entirelyturned the fortune of the day, that the Britons gained the victory.

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the death hesought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers of Cymbeline,willing to suffer the death which was to be his punishment if hereturned from banishment.

Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and broughtbefore Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was an officerin the Roman army; and when these prisoners were before the king,Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of death; and at thisstrange juncture of time, Bellarius with Polydore and Cadwal were alsobrought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the greatservices they had by their valour done for the king. Pisanio, being oneof the king's attendants, was likewise present.

Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but with verydifferent hopes and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with her new masterthe Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friendIachimo; 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 beforethe king, though there was many a beating heart among them.

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the disguise of apeasant; but he did not know her in her male attire; and she knewIachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be herown, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of all hertroubles: 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 aboy. 'It is my mistress,' thought he; 'since she is living, let thetime run on to good or bad.' Bellarius knew her too, and softly said toCadwal: 'Is not this boy revived from death?' 'One sand,' repliedCadwal, 'does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad islike the dead Fidele.' 'The same dead thing alive,' said Polydore.'Peace, peace,' said Bellarius; 'if it were he, I am sure he would havespoken to us.' 'But we saw him dead,' again whispered Polydore. 'Besilent,' replied Bellarius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his owndeath; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had savedhis life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his protection ashis page, was the first (as has been before said) who spoke to theking. He was a man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was hisspeech to the king:

'I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all todeath: I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer death. Butthere is one thing for which I would entreat.' Then bringing Imogenbefore the king, he said: 'This boy is a Briton born. Let him beransomed. 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 noBriton wrong, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare noone beside.'

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not inthat disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in hisheart, for he said: 'I have surely seen him, his face appears familiarto me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy; but I give youyour 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 giveany one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom thatfavour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hearwhat 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 askfor.' 'No, no, alas!' said Imogen, 'I have other work in hand, goodmaster; 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 thanthis: that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring hewore on his finger.

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with thetorture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on hisfinger.

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villainy, telling, ashas 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 ladycannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and confessed toCymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to executeupon the princess; exclaiming wildly: 'O Imogen, my queen, my life, mywife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!'

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress withoutdiscovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thusrelieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the goodgraces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at finding hislost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her former placein his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband Posthumus hislife, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law.

Bellarius chose this, time of joy and reconciliation to make hisconfession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal to the king, telling himthey were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments ata season of such universal happiness? To find his daughter living, andhis lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seenso 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 readilygranted at her request; and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peacewas concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which was keptinviolate many years.

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her projectsto pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened and died,having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrelwhich he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happyconclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that allwere made happy who were deserving; and even the treacherous Iachimo,in consideration of his villainy having missed its final aim, wasdismissed without punishment.

KING LEAR

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Goneril, wife to the dukeof Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a youngmaid, for whose love the king of France and duke of Burgundy were jointsuitors, and were at this time making stay for that purpose in thecourt of Lear.

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

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than wordscould give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her owneyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professingstuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only afew fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case. Theking, 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 fatherlyfondness bestowed upon her and her husband one-third of his amplekingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she had tosay. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister, wasnot a whit behind in her profession, but rather declared that what hersister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to bearfor his highness; insomuch that she found all other joys dead, incomparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dearking and father.

Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he thought; andcould do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan had made,than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal insize to that which he had already given away to Goneril.

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his joy,he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she would glad hisears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had uttered, orrather that her expressions would be so much stronger than theirs, asshe had always been his darling, and favoured by him above either ofthem. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whosehearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all theircoaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out of hisdominions, that they and their husbands might reign in his lifetime,made no other reply but this, that she loved his majesty according toher duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favouritechild, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lestit should mar her fortunes.

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he hadgiven her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties backas was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. Butthat she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as hersisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why hadher sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for anythingbut their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whomshe 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 asextravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly toldhim so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms, andwithout these qualifications, which did indeed sound a littleungracious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she thought thehandsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put heraffection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that sheloved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the lessostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and sinceritythan her sisters'.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the oldmonarch who in his best of times always showed much of spleen andrashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so cloudedover his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor agay painted speech from words that came from the heart—that in a furyof resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom, which yetremained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away fromher, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their husbands, thedukes of Albany and Cornwall; whom he now called to him, and inpresence of all his courtiers bestowing a coronet between them,invested them jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution ofgovernment, only retaining to himself the name of king; all the rest ofroyalty he resigned; with this reservation, that himself, with ahundred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthlycourse in each of his daughters' palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by reason,and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonishment andsorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose between thisincensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was beginningto speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear on pain ofdeath commanded him to desist; but the good Kent was not so to berepelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured as aking, loved as a father, followed as a master; and he had neveresteemed his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royalmaster's enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was themotive; nor now that Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithfulservant of the king forget his old principles, but manfully opposedLear, to do Lear good; and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. Hehad been a most faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and hebesought him now, that he would see with his eyes (as he had done inmany weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his bestconsideration recall this hideous rashness: for he would answer withhis life, his judgment that Lear's youngest daughter did not love himleast, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token ofhollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was bound toplainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, whose life wasalready at his service? That should not hinder duty from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up the king'swrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his physician, andloves his mortal disease, he banished this true servant, and allottedhim but five days to make his preparations for departure; but if on thesixth his hated person was found within the realm of Britain, thatmoment was to be his death. And Kent bade farewell to the king, andsaid, that since he chose to show himself in such fashion, it was butbanishment to stay there; and before he went, he recommended Cordeliato the protection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly thought, andso discreetly spoken; and only wished that her sisters' large speechesmight be answered with deeds of love; and then he went, as he said, toshape his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear thedetermination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know whetherthey would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she wasunder her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own personto recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the match, andwould not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the king ofFrance, understanding what the nature of the fault had been which hadlost her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness ofspeech, and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like hersisters, took this young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtueswere a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of hersisters and of her father, though he had been unkind, and she should gowith him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairerpossessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of Burgundy incontempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had in amoment run all away like water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and besoughtthem to love their father well, and make good their professions: andthey sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they knew theirduty; but to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as theytauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And Cordelia with a heavyheart departed, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, and she wishedher father in better hands than she was about to leave him in.

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of hersisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even before theexpiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend by agreementwith his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out thedifference between promises and performances. This wretch having gotfrom her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away ofthe crown from off his head, began to grudge even those small remnantsof royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to please hisfancy with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to seehim and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, she put ona frowning countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her,she would feign sickness, or anything to get rid of the sight of him;for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, andhis attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she herself slackenedin her expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and (it isto be feared) not without her private instructions, her very servantsaffected to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse to obey hisorders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them. Learcould not but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of hisdaughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, aspeople commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant consequenceswhich their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill, thanfalsehood 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 inBritain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as there wasa chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what meanshifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; yet itcounts nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where itowes an obligation! In the disguise of a serving man, all his greatnessand pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with acertain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which the earlput on (so different from that smooth oily flattery which he had somuch reason to be sick of, having found the effects not answerable inhis daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent intohis service by the name of Caius, as he called himself, neversuspecting him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty earlof Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to hisroyal master: for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in adisrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language,as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius,not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon his majesty, made nomore ado but presently tripped up his heels, and laid the unmannerlyslave in the kennel; for which friendly service Lear became more andmore attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as far as soinsignificant a personage could show his love, the poor fool, orjester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it wasthe 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 poorfool clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by his wittysayings would keep up his good humour, though he could not refrainsometimes from jeering at his master for his imprudence in uncrowninghimself, and giving all away to his daughters; at which time, as herhymingly 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 ofGoneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to thequick: such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds theyoung of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its headbit off for its pains; and saying, that an ass may know when the cartdraws the horse (meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to gobehind, now ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longerLear, but the shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once ortwice threatened to be whipped.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun toperceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to sufferfrom his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his stayingin her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping upan establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment wasuseless and expensive, and only served to kill her court with riot andfeasting; and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, andkeep 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 hisdaughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she who hadreceived a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudgehim the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in her undutifuldemand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he called her adetested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed shedid, for the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour andsobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not givento rioting or feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses to beprepared, for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and hishundred knights; and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was amarble-hearted devil, and showed more hideous in a child than thesea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so as wasterrible to hear; praying that she might never have a child, or if shehad, that it might live to return that scorn and contempt upon herwhich she had shown to him that she might feel how sharper than aserpent's tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Goneril'shusband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any sharewhich Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear would not hearhim out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set outwith his followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. And Learthought 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 hewas ashamed that such a creature as Goneril should have so much powerover his manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and stateat their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius with letters tohis daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception, while heand his train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had beenbeforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her fatherof waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to receive sogreat a train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived atthe same time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should it bebut Caius's old enemy the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up bythe heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking thefellow's look, and suspecting what he came for, began to revile him,and challenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fitof honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker andcarrier of wicked messages deserved; which coming to the ears of Reganand her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though hewas a messenger from the king her father, and in that characterdemanded the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw whenhe entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in thatdisgraceful situation.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect; but aworse followed, when, upon inquiry for his daughter and her husband, hewas told they were weary with travelling all night, and could not seehim; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry mannerto see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in theircompany but the hated Goneril, who had come to tell her own story, andset her sister against the king her father!

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan take herby the hand; and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed to look uponhis old white beard. And Regan advised him to go home again withGoneril, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of hisattendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanteddiscretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that had morediscretion than himself. And Lear showed how preposterous that wouldsound, if he were to go down on his knees, and beg of his own daughterfor food and raiment, and he argued against such an unnaturaldependence, declaring his resolution never to return with her, but tostay where he was with Regan, he and his hundred knights; for he saidthat she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which he had endowedher with, and that her eyes were not fierce like Goneril's, but mildand kind. And he said that rather than return to Goneril, with half histrain cut off, he would go over to France, and beg a wretched pensionof the king there, who had married his youngest daughter without aportion.

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than he hadexperienced from her sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo her sisterin unequal behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights toomany to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough. Then Lear,nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril and said that he would go backwith her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and so her love wastwice as much as Regan's. But Goneril excused herself, and said, whatneed of so many as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or five? when he mightbe waited upon by her servants, or her sister's servants? So these twowicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty totheir old father, who had been so good to them, by little and littlewould have abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough forhim that once commanded a kingdom), which was left him to show that hehad once been a king! Not that a splendid train is essential tohappiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, fromcommanding millions to be without one attendant; and it was theingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than what he wouldsuffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to the heart;insomuch, that with this double ill-usage, a vexation for having sofoolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, andwhile he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against thoseunnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a terror tothe earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could neverexecute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning withrain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not toadmit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather toencounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the sameroof with these ungrateful daughters: and they, saying that theinjuries which wilful men procure to themselves are their justpunishment, suffered him to go in that condition and shut their doorsupon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old mansallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than hisdaughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush;and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a darknight, 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 wavesof the sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might remain ofany such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left with noother companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him, with hismerry conceits striving to outjest misfortune, saying it was but anaughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go in and askhis 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 hisever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius,who ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know himto be the earl; and he said: 'Alas! sir, are you here? creatures thatlove night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm hasdriven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's nature cannot endurethe affliction or the fear.' And Lear rebuked him and said, theselesser evils were not felt, where a greater malady was taxed. When themind is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate, but the temper inhis mind did take all feeling else from his senses, but of that whichbeat at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it wasall one as if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it;for parents were hands and food and everything to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the kingwould not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter alittle wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool firstentering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen aspirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more thana poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel forshelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of thosepoor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better toextort charity from the compassionate country people, who go about thecountry, calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying: 'Whogives anything to poor Tom?' sticking pins and nails and sprigs ofrosemary into their arms to make them bleed; and with such horribleactions, partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they moveor terrify the ignorant countryfolks into giving them alms. This poorfellow 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 hadgiven all away to his daughters, and brought himself to that pass: fornothing he thought could bring a man to such wretchedness but thehaving unkind daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the goodCaius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but thathis daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad. And now theloyalty of this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essentialservices than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For withthe assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, hehad the person of his royal master removed at daybreak to the castle ofDover, where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chieflylay; and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court ofCordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitifulcondition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours theinhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child with manytears besought the king her husband that he would give her leave toembark for England, with a sufficient power to subdue these crueldaughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father tohis throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal armylanded at Dover.

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the goodearl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, wasfound by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields nearDover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to himselfwith a crown upon his head which he had made of straw, and nettles, andother wild weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. By theadvice of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeingher father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till by sleepand the operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be restoredto greater composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whomCordelia promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the oldking, Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter.

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father anddaughter; to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old king atbeholding again his once darling child, and the shame at receiving suchfilial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault inhis displeasure; both these passions struggling with the remains of hismalady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made him that hescarce remembered where he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed himand spoke to him; and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh athim, if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughterCordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of hischild; and she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing ofhim, and telling him that it did not become him to kneel, but it washer duty, for she was his child, his true and very child Cordelia! andshe kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness,and said that they might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their oldkind father with his white beard out into the cold air, when herenemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it),should have stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmedhimself. And she told her father how she had come from France withpurpose to bring him assistance; and he said that she must forget andforgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what he did, butthat to be sure she had great cause not to love him, but her sistershad none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more than theyhad.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of his dutiful andloving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she and herphysicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarringsenses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violentlyshaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their oldfather, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their ownhusbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of dutyand affection, and in an open way showed they had fixed their lovesupon another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was thesame. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of Gloucester, whoby his treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar,the lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices was nowearl himself; a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of suchwicked creatures as Goneril and Regan. It falling out about this timethat the duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan immediatelydeclared her intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, whichrousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan thiswicked earl had at sundry times professed love, Goneril found means tomake away with her sister by poison; but being detected in herpractices, and imprisoned by her husband, the duke of Albany, for thisdeed, and for her guilty passion for the earl which had come to hisears, she, in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an endto her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook thesewicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the justicedisplayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly takenoff from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same powerin the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the ladyCordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunateconclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are notalways successful in this world. The forces which Goneril and Regan hadsent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester werevictorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who didnot like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended herlife in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in heryoung years, after showing her to the world an illustrious example offilial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.

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

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of Gloucester, whosetreasons were discovered, and himself slain in single combat with hisbrother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril's husband, the duke ofAlbany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had neverencouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father,ascended the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, is needlesshere to narrate; Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whoseadventures alone concern our story.

MACBETH

When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, there lived a greatthane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to theking, and in great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in thewars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebelarmy assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers.

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning victoriousfrom this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where theywere stopped by the strange appearance of three figures like women,except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attiremade them look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressedthem, when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy fingerupon her skinny lips, in token of silence; and the first of themsaluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The general was nota little startled to find himself known by such creatures; but how muchmore, when the second of them followed up that salute by giving him thetitle of thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pretensions; andagain the third bid him 'All hail! king that shalt be hereafter!' Sucha prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew that while theking's sons lived he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Thenturning to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, tobe lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but much happier! andprophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons after himshould 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, therearrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by him toconfer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor: an event somiraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witchesastonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, unable to makereply to the messengers; and in that point of time swelling hopes arosein his mind that the prediction of the third witch might in like mannerhave its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign king inScotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said: 'Do you not hope that your children shallbe kings, when what the witches promised to me has so wonderfully cometo pass?' 'That hope,' answered the general, 'might enkindle you to aimat the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell ustruths in little things, to betray us into deeds of greatestconsequence.'

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into themind of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the warnings of the goodBanquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass thethrone of Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction ofthe weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad,ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive atgreatness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred on thereluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts ofblood, and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a stepabsolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy.

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royalcondescension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upongracious 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 wassweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the martlet, orswallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of thebuilding, wherever it found a place of advantage; for where those birdsmost breed and haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The kingentered well-pleased with the place, and not less so with theattentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who hadthe art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles; and could looklike the innocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under it.

The king being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in hisstate-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) slept besidehim. He had been unusually pleased with his reception, and had madepresents before he retired to his principal officers; and among therest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the nameof his most kind hostess.

Now was the middle of night, when over half the world nature seemsdead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none but the wolfand the murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady Macbeth wakedto plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken a deed soabhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband's nature, that itwas 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 yetprepared for that height of crime which commonly in the end accompaniesinordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, but shedoubted his resolution; and she feared that the natural tenderness ofhis disposition (more humane than her own) would come between, anddefeat the purpose. So with her own hands armed with a dagger, sheapproached the king's bed; having taken care to ply the grooms of hischamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless oftheir charge. There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues ofhis journey, and as she viewed him earnestly, there was something inhis face, as he slept, which resembled her own father; and she had notthe courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had begun tostagger. He considered that there were strong reasons against the deed.In the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman tothe king; and he had been his host and entertainer that day, whoseduty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to shut the door against hismurderers, not bear the knife himself. Then he considered how just andmerciful a king this Duncan had been, how clear of offence to hissubjects, how loving to his nobility, and in particular to him; thatsuch kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their subjects doublybound to revenge their deaths. Besides, by the favours of the king,Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how wouldthose honours be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder!

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband incliningto the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But she beinga woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in athis 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 hadundertaken, how easy the deed was; how soon it would be over; and howthe action of one short night would give to all their nights and daysto come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw contempt on hischange of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice; anddeclared that she had given suck, and knew how tender it was to lovethe babe 'that milked her; but she would, while it was smiling in herface, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its brains out, ifshe had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform that murder. Thenshe added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon thedrunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her tongue she sochastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once more summoned upcourage to the bloody business.

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to theroom where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another daggerin the air, with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at thepoint of it drops of blood; but when he tried to grasp at it, it wasnothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot andoppressed brain and the business he had in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom hedespatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done themurder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in hissleep, and the other cried: 'Murder,' which woke them both, but theysaid a short prayer; one of them said: 'God bless us!' and the otheranswered 'Amen'; and addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, whostood listening to them, tried to say 'Amen,' when the fellow said 'Godbless us!' but, though he had most need of a blessing, the word stuckin his throat, and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried: 'Sleep no more: Macbethcloth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life.' Still itcried: '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 wassomehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that shereproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash hishands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, withpurpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seemtheir guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could notbe concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief,and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced againstthem and their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong, yetthe entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such adeed were so much more forcible than such poor silly grooms could besupposed 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 thethrone, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the predictionof the weird sisters was literally accomplished.

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget theprophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king, yetnot his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings afterhim. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands withblood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquoupon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined to put todeath both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions of theweird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably broughtto pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited allthe chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of particularrespect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by whichBanquo was to pass to the palace at night was beset by murderersappointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleanceescaped. From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwardsfilled the Scottish throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland andthe First of England, under whom the two crowns of England and Scotlandwere united.

At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affableand royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention whichconciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with histhanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the countrywas under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present, whomyet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to lamentfor any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he hadcaused to be murdered, entered the room and placed himself on the chairwhich Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, andone that could have faced the devil without trembling, at this horriblesight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmannedwith his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, whosaw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an emptychair, took it for a fit of distraction; and she reproached him,whispering that it was but the same fancy which made him see the daggerin the air, when he was about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued tosee the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could say, while headdressed it with distracted words, yet so significant, that his queen,fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in great hastedismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorderhe was often troubled with.

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he hadtheir sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquotroubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they lookedupon as father to a line of kings who should keep their posterity outof the throne. With these miserable thoughts they found no peace, andMacbeth determined once more to seek out the weird sisters, and knowfrom them the worst.

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew byforesight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadfulcharms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to themfuturity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, theeye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and thewing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, themaw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root ofthe 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 treethat roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child: all thesewere set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which, as fast asit grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these they pouredin the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into theflame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By thesecharms they bound the infernal spirits to answer their questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts resolvedby them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by thedreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered: 'Where are they? letme see them.' And they called the spirits, which were three. And thefirst arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth byname, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which cautionMacbeth 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 hecalled Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scornthe 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 makeassurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I may tellpale-hearted Fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder.'

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a childcrowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, andcomforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should never bevanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill should comeagainst him. 'Sweet bodements! good!' cried Macbeth; 'who can unfix theforest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live theusual period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death. Butmy heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell somuch, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?' Here thecauldron sank into the ground, and a noise of music was heard, andeight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who borea glass which showed the figures of many more, and Banquo all bloodysmiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth knew thatthese were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him inScotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and withdancing, making a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. Andfrom 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 thatMacduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the army which wasforming against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king,with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right heir, uponthe throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff,and put his wife and children, whom the thane had left behind, to thesword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed the leastrelationship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobilityfrom him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, whowere now approaching with a powerful army, which they had raised inEngland; and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though forfear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went onslowly. Everybody hated the tyrant; nobody loved or honoured him; butall suspected him, and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whomhe had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treasonhad done its worst: steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreignlevies, could hurt him any longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the solepartner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek amomentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them bothnightly, died, it is supposed, by her own hands, unable to bear theremorse 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 couldconfide his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished for death, but the near approachof Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage,and he determined to die (as he expressed it) 'with armour on hisback.' Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled himwith a false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits,that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to bevanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thoughtcould never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnablestrength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited theapproach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him,pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he hadseen; for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, helooked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to move!'Liar and slave!' cried Macbeth: 'if thou speakest false, thou shalthang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale betrue, I care not if thou cost as much by me': for Macbeth now began tofaint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of thespirits. 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 avouchesbe true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence, nor stayinghere. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end.' Withthese desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who hadnow come up to the castle.

The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea of a woodmoving is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through thewood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed hissoldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear it before him, by wayof concealing the true numbers of his host. This marching of thesoldiers with boughs had at a distance the appearance which hadfrightened the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit brought topass, in a sense different from that in which Macbeth had understoodthem, and one great hold of his confidence was gone.

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, thoughfeebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but inreality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm andMacduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting topieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff wasfighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit whohad counselled him to avoid Macduff, above all men, he would haveturned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving himmany foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth,whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, wouldstill 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 bornshould hurt him; and smiling confidently he said to Macduff: 'Thoulosest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the air withthy sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, which must notyield to one of woman born.'

'Despair thy charm,' said Macduff, 'and let that lying spirit whom thouhast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of woman, never asthe ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken fromhis 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 infuture believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits,who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while they keeptheir promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a different meaning.I will not fight with thee.'

'Then live!' said the scornful Macduff; 'we will have a show of thee,as men show monsters, and a painted board, on which shall be written:'Here men may see the tyrant!''

'Never,' said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; 'I will notlive to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be baitedwith the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,and thou opposed to me, who west never born of woman, yet will I trythe last.' With these frantic words he threw himself upon Macduff, who,after a severe struggle, in the end overcame him, and cutting off hishead, made a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm; whotook upon him the government which, by the machinations of the usurper,he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan theMeek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

Bertram, count of Rousillon, had newly come to his title and estate, bythe death of his father. The king of France loved the father ofBertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to comeimmediately to his royal court in Paris, intending, for the friendshiphe bore the late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial favourand protection.

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when Lafeu,an old lord of the French court, came to conduct him to the king. Theking of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court wasin the form of a royal mandate, or positive command, which no subject,of what high dignity soever, might disobey; therefore though thecountess, in parting with this dear son, seemed a second time to buryher husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not tokeep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his departure.Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for theloss of her late lord, and her son's sudden absence; and he said, in acourtier's flattering manner, that the king was so kind a prince, shewould find in his majesty a husband, and that he would be a father toher son; meaning only, that the good king would befriend the fortunesof Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had fallen into a sadmalady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. Thelady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the king's illhealth, and said, she wished the father of Helena (a young gentlewomanwho was present in attendance upon her) were living, for that shedoubted not he could have cured his majesty of his disease. And shetold Lafeu something of the history of Helena, saying she was the onlydaughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon, and that he hadrecommended his daughter to her care when he was dying, so that sincehis death she had taken Helena under her protection; then the countesspraised the virtuous disposition and excellent qualities of Helena,saying she inherited these virtues from her worthy father. While shewas speaking, Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, which made thecountess gently reprove her for too much grieving for her father'sdeath.

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted with thisdear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the careof Lafeu, saying: 'Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasonedcourtier.'

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of merecivility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short farewell toher with saying: 'Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and makemuch of her.'

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad mournfulsilence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena lovedher father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the object ofwhich she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form andfeatures of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image to hermind but Bertram's.

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he wasthe count of Rousillon, descended from the most ancient family inFrance. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. Hisancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-bornBertram as to her master and to her dear lord, and dared not form anywish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. So greatthe distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her lowlyfortunes, that she would day: 'It were all one that I should love abright particular star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so far aboveme.'

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 herto 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 todraw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable ofretaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face.

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than someprescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep study andlong experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign and almostinfallible remedies. Among the rest, there was one set down as anapproved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king atthat time languished: and when Helena heard of the king's complaint,she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed anambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake thecure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choiceprescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicianswas of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would givecredit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to perform acure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might bepermitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skillwarranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for shefelt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all theluckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should advance herfortune, even to the high dignity of being count Rousillon's wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by hersteward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that heunderstood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,and thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed thesteward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speakwith her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance ofdays long past into the mind of the countess; those days probably whenher 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 belongsto the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we arenature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not theyare faults.' While the countess was thus meditating on the lovingerrors 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 honourablemistress.' 'You are my daughter,' said the countess again: 'I say I amyour mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words?' With looks ofalarm and confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love,Helena still replied: 'Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; thecount Rousillon cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter.' 'Yet,Helena,' said the countess, 'you might be my daughter-in-law; and I amafraid that is what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter sodisturb you. Helena, do you love my son?' 'Good madam, pardon me,' saidthe affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question. 'Doyou love my son?' 'Do not you love him, madam?' said Helena. Thecountess replied: 'Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come,disclose the state of your affections, for your love has to the fullappeared.' Helena on her knees now owned her love, and with shame andterror implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with wordsexpressive of the sense she had of the inequality between theirfortunes, she protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparingher humble unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun thatlooks upon his worshipper, but knows of him no more. The countess askedHelena if she had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned thedesign she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of theking's illness. 'This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris,' saidthe countess, 'was it? Speak truly.' Helena honestly answered: 'My lordyour son made me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, andthe king, had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then.'The countess heard the whole of this confession without saying a wordeither of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena asto the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She foundthat it was the most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed,and that he had given it to his daughter on his deathbed; andremembering the solemn promise she had made at that awful hour inregard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the kinghimself, seemed to depend on the execution of a project (which thoughconceived by the fond, suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, thecountess knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence tobring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation ofthe future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave shegave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her withample means and suitable attendants; and Helena set out for Paris withthe blessings of the countess, and her kindest wishes for her success.

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the oldlord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still manydifficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on totry the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she toldhim she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose fame the king waswell acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the darlingtreasure which contained the essence of all her father's longexperience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if itfailed to restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of twodays. The king at length consented to try it, and in two days' timeHelena was to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if shesucceeded, he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout allFrance (the princes only excepted) whom she could like for a husband;the choice of a husband being the fee Helena demanded if she cured theking of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of theefficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, theking was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the youngnoblemen of his court together, in order to confer the promised rewardof a husband upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena to lookround on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose herhusband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among these younglords she saw the count Rousillon, and turning to Bertram, she said:'This is the man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give meand 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 theking's of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician'sdaughter, bred at his father's charge, and now living a dependent onhis mother's bounty. Helena heard him speak these words of rejectionand of scorn, and she said to the king: 'That you are well, my lord, Iam glad. Let the rest go.' But the king would not suffer his royalcommand to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their nobles inmarriage was one of the many privileges of the kings of France; andthat same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasymarriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, who,though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her life toobtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her husband's love notbeing a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married than she was desired by Bertram to applyto the king for him for leave of absence from court; and when shebrought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told herthat he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had muchunsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course heshould pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found itwas his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to hismother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied: 'Sir, I cannothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, andshall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein myhomely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes.' But this humblespeech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity hisgentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common civility ofa kind farewell.

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished thepurport of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, and shehad wedded her heart's dear lord, the count Rousillon; but she returnedback a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon as sheentered the house she received a letter from Bertram which almost brokeher heart.

The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she hadbeen her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she spokekind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in sendinghis wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious receptionfailed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said: 'Madam my lord isgone, for ever gone.' She then read these words out of Bertram'sletter: When you can get the ring from my finger, which never shallcome of, then call me husband, but in such a Then I write a Never.'This is a dreadful sentence!' said Helena. The countess begged her tohave patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she should be her child,and that she deserved a lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertrammight tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain byrespectful condescension and kind flattery this matchless mother triedto soothe the sorrows of her daughter in-law.

Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried out in anagony of grief: Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. Thecountess asked her if she found those words in the letter? 'Yes,madam,' was all poor Helena could answer.

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be deliveredto the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason ofher sudden absence: in this letter she informed her that she was somuch grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and hishome, that to atone for her offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage tothe shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting thecountess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his housefor ever.

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became anofficer in the duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war, inwhich he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram receivedletters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helenawould no more disturb him; and he was preparing to return home, whenHelena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city ofFlorence.

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on theirway to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city, sheheard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into herhouse the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine of thatsaint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this good lady,therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous welcome, andinvited her to see whatever was curious in that famous city, and toldher that if she would like to see the duke's army, she would take herwhere she might have a full view of it. 'And you will see a countrymanof yours,' said the widow; 'his name is count Rousillon, who has doneworthy service in the duke's wars.' Helena wanted no second invitation,when she found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompaniedher hostess; and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look oncemore upon her dear husband's face. 'Is he not a handsome man?' said thewidow. 'I like him well,' replied Helena, with great truth. All the waythey walked, the talkative widow's discourse was all of Bertram: shetold Helena the story of Bertram's marriage, and how he had desertedthe poor lady his wife, and entered into the duke's army to avoidliving with her. To this account of her own misfortunes Helenapatiently listened, and when it was ended, the history of Bertram wasnot yet done, for then the widow began another tale, every word ofwhich sank deep into the mind of Helena; for the story she now told wasof Bertram's love for her daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, itseems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationedwith the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fairyoung gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena's hostess;and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed in praiseof Diana's beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit herlove; and all his suit to her was, that she would permit him to visither by stealth after the family were retired to rest; but Diana wouldby no means be persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give anyencouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married man; for Dianahad been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, thoughshe was now in reduced circumstances, was well born, and descended fromthe noble family of the Capulets.

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuousprinciples of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely owingto the excellent education and good advice she had given her; and shefurther said, that Bertram had been particularly importunate with Dianato admit him to the visit he so much desired that night, because he wasgoing to leave Florence early the next morning.

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow'sdaughter, yet from the story the ardent mind of Helena conceived aproject (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one) torecover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow that she wasHelena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kindhostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to takeplace, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; tellingthem, her chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting withher husband, was to get a ring from him, which he had said, if ever shewas 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 wonover 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 thecourse of that day Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram thatshe was dead; hoping that when he thought himself free to make a secondchoice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her in herfeigned character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and thispromise too, she doubted not she should make some future good come ofit.

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana'schamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flatteringcompliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena were precioussounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertramwas so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to beher husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped would beprophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wifethe despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps hewould not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, hehad entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are accustomed to seeconstantly, losing the effect which is caused by the first sight eitherof beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it was impossiblehe should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her lovefor him, that she was always silent in his presence: but now that herfuture fate, and the happy ending of all her love-projects, seemed todepend on her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of Bertramfrom this night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please him; andthe simple graces of her lively conversation and the endearingsweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she shouldbe his wife. Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token ofhis regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, whichit 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 lightin the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out onhis journey towards his mother's house.

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris,their further assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment ofthe plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they found the kingwas gone upon a visit to the countess of Rousillon, and Helena followedthe king with all the speed she could make.

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who hadbeen the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that themoment he saw the countess of Rousillon, he began to talk of Helena,calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son; butseeing; the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented thedeath of Helena, he said: 'My good lady, I have forgiven and forgottenall.' But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, and could notbear that the memory of his favourite Helena should be so lightlypassed over, said: 'This I must say, the young lord did great offenceto his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself he did thegreatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonishedall eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose deep perfection madeall hearts wish to serve her.' The king said: 'Praising what is lostmakes the remembrance dear. Well call him hither'; meaning Bertram, whonow presented himself before the king: and, on his expressing deepsorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his deadfather's and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned him and restored himonce more to his favour. But the gracious countenance of the king wassoon changed towards him, for he perceived that Bertram wore the veryring upon his finger which he had given to Helena: and he wellremembered that Helena had called all the saints in heaven to witnessshe would never part with that ring, unless she sent it to the kinghimself upon some great disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on theking's questioning him how he came by the ring, told an improbablestory of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, and denied everhaving seen Helena since the day of their marriage. The king, knowingBertram's dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed her: and heordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying: 'I am wrapt in dismalthinking, for I fear the life of Helena was foully snatched.' At thismoment Diana and her mother entered, and presented a petition to theking, wherein they begged his majesty to exert his royal power tocompel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise ofmarriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied he had made anysuch promise; and then Diana produced the ring (which Helena had putinto her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; and she said thatshe had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in exchange for that, atthe time he vowed to marry her. On hearing this, the king ordered theguards to seize her also; and her account of the ring differing fromBertram's, the king's suspicions were confirmed: and he said, if theydid not confess how they came by this ring of Helena's, they should beboth put to death. Diana requested her mother might be permitted tofetch 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, andhad even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wifemight possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved witheven a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she washardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy that itwas Helena, said: 'Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?'Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied: 'No, mygood lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and not thething.' Bertram cried out: 'Both, both! O pardon!' 'O my lord,' saidHelena, 'when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind;and look, here is your letter!' reading to him in a joyful tone thosewords which she had once repeated so sorrowfully: When from my fingeryou 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 canmake it plain that you were the lady I talked with that night, I willlove you dearly ever, ever dearly.' This was no difficult task, for thewidow and Diana came with Helena to prove this fact; and the king wasso well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she hadrendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had donehim, that he promised her also a noble husband: Helena's history givinghim a hint, that it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fairladies when they perform notable services.

Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeedsanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the belovedwife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress,and herself the countess of Rousillon.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

Katharine, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a richgentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit andfiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua byno other name than Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeedimpossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture tomarry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferringhis consent to many excellent offers that were made to her gentlesister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, thatwhen the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have freeleave 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 thesereports of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome,resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into ameek and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about thisherculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as Katharine's,and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and withal sowise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign apassionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm thathimself could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for hisnatural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumedwhen he became the husband of Katharine being but in sport, or moreproperly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the onlymeans to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the furiousKatharine.

A courting then Petruchio went to Katharine the Shrew; and first of allhe applied to Baptista her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughterKatharine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that having heard ofher bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come from Verona tosolicit her love. Her father, though he wished her married, was forcedto confess Katharine would ill answer this character, it being soonapparent of what manner of gentleness she was composed, for hermusic-master rushed into the room to complain that the gentleKatharine, his pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for presumingto find fault with her performance; which, when Petruchio heard, hesaid: 'It is a brave wench; I love her more than ever, and long to havesome chat with her'; and hurrying the old gentleman for a positiveanswer, he said: 'My business is in haste, signior Baptista, I cannotcome every day to woo. You knew my father: he is dead, and has left meheir to all his lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter'slove, what dowry you will give with her.' Baptista thought his mannerwas somewhat blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Katharinemarried, he answered that he would give her twenty thousand crowns forher dowry, and half his estate at his death: so this odd match wasquickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daughterof her lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to hissuit.

In the meantime Petruchio was settling with himself the mode ofcourtship he should pursue; and he said: 'I will woo her with somespirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her shesings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns. I will say shelooks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak aword, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she bids meleave her. I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her aweek.' Now the stately Katharine entered, and Petruchio first addressedher with 'Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear.' Katharine,not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully: 'They call meKatharine who do speak to me.' 'You lie,' replied the lover; 'for youare 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 youfor my wife.'

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry termsshowing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he stillpraised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing herfather coming, he said (intending to make as quick a wooing aspossible): 'Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, for yourfather has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreedon, and whether you will or no, I will marry you.'

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had receivedhim kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday.This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged onSunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such amad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not toregard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctantbefore him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fondand loving; and he said to her: 'Give me your hand, Kate; I will go toVenice to buy you fine apparel against our wedding day. Provide thefeast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bringrings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katharine may be fine; andkiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday.'

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waitedlong before Petruchio came, and Katharine wept for vexation to thinkthat Petruchio had only been making a jest of her. At last, however, heappeared; but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promisedKatharine, nor was he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in strangedisordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the seriousbusiness he came about; and his servant and the very horses on whichthey rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited.

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said Katharinewas to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was invain to argue with him, to the church they went, he still behaving inthe same mad way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if Katharineshould 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, thismad-brained bridegroom gave him such a cuff, that down fell the priestand his book again. And all the while they were being married hestamped and swore so, that the high-spirited Katharine trembled andshook with fear. After the ceremony was over, while they were yet inthe 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 thesexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange act, than thatthe sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop ashe was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage; butPetruchio did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed in theplot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife.

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, but when theyreturned from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katharine, declared hisintention of carrying his wife home instantly: and no remonstrance ofhis father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katharine, could makehim change his purpose. He claimed a husband's right to dispose of hiswife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katharine off: he seeming sodaring and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him.

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank, whichhe had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant nobetter mounted; they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and everwhen this horse of Katharine's stumbled, he would storm and swear atthe poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as ifhe had been the most passionate man alive.

At length, after a weary journey, during which Katharine had heardnothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and thehorses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to herhome, 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 thefloor, and ordered the servants to remove it away; and all this he did,as he said, in love for his Katharine, that she might not eat meat thatwas not well dressed. And when Katharine, weary and supperless, retiredto rest, he found the same fault with the bed, throwing the pillows andbedclothes about the room, so that she was forced to sit down in achair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakenedby the loud voice of her husband, storming at the servants for theill-making of his wife's bridal-bed.

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking kindwords to Katharine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault witheverything that was set before her throwing the breakfast on the flooras he had done the supper; and Katharine, the haughty Katherine, wasfain to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of food; butthey being instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared not give heranything unknown to their master. 'Ah,' said she, 'did he marry me tofamish me? Beggars that come to my father's door have food given them.But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starvedfor want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, andwith brawling fed; and that which vexes me more than all, he does itunder the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, itwere present death to me.' Here the soliloquy was interrupted by theentrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should be quite starved, hadbrought her a small portion of meat, and he said to her: 'How fares mysweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I am, I have dressed yourmeat 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 tono purpose.' He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extremehunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, thoughangered to the heart: 'I pray you let it stand.' But this was not allPetruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied: 'The poorestservice is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you touch themeat.' On this Katharine brought out a reluctant 'I thank you, sir.'And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, saying: 'Much good mayit do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! And now, my honey love, wewill return to your father's house, and revel it as bravely as thebest, with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs andscares and fans and double change of finery'; and to make her believehe really intended to give her these gay things, he called in a tailorand 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 hadhalf satisfied her hunger, he said: 'What, have you dined?' Thehaberdasher presented a cap, saying: 'Here is the cap your worshipbespoke'; on which Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap wasmoulded in a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle orwalnut shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make itbigger. Katharine said: 'I will have this; all gentlewomen wear suchcaps as these.' 'When you are gentle,' replied Petruchio, 'you shallhave one too, and not till then.' The meat Katharine had eaten had alittle revived her fallen spirits, and she said: 'Why, sir, I trust Imay have leave to speak, and speak I will: I am no child, no babe; yourbetters have endured to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you hadbetter stop your ears.' Petruchio would not hear these angry words, forhe had happily discovered a better way of managing his wife thankeeping 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 likingit.' 'Love me, or love me not,' said Katharine, 'I like the cap, and Iwill have this cap or none.' 'You say you wish to see the gown,' saidPetruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then cameforward and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio,whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found asmuch fault with that. 'O mercy, Heaven!' said he, 'what stuff is here!What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a demi-cannon, carved upand down like an apple tart.' The tailor said: 'You bid me make itaccording to the fashion of the times'; and Katharine said, she neversaw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio, andprivately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, andexcuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowedupon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the tailorand the haberdasher out of the room; and then, turning to Katharine, hesaid: 'Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's even in thesemean garments we now wear.' And then he ordered his horses, affirmingthey should reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was butseven o'clock. Now it was not early morning but the very middle of theday, when he spoke this, therefore Katharine ventured to say, thoughmodestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner: 'I dareassure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be supper-time before weget there.' But Petruchio meant that she should be so completelysubdued, that she should assent to everything he said, before hecarried her to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord even ofthe sun, and could command the hours, he said it should be what time hepleased to have it, before he set forward; 'For,' he said, 'whatever Isay or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when Igo, it shall be what o'clock I say it is.' Another day Katherine wasforced to practice her newly found obedience, and not till he hadbrought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection, that she darednot remember there was such a word as contradiction, would Petruchioallow her to go to her father's house; and even while they were upontheir journey thither, she was in danger of being turned back again,only because she happened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed themoon 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 weregoing back again; but Katherine, no longer Katherine the Shrew, but theobedient wife, said: 'Let us go forward, I pray, now we have come sofar, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, and if youplease to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vowed it shall be so forme.' This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again: 'I say, itis the moon.' 'I know it is the moon,' replied Katherine. 'You lie, itis 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 youwill have it named, even so it is, and so it ever shall be forKatherine.' Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey; butfurther to try if this yielding humour would last, he addressed an oldgentleman they met on the road as if he had been a young woman, sayingto him: 'Good morrow, gentle mistress'; and asked Katherine if she hadever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the oldman's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two bright stars; and again headdressed him, saying: 'Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you!'and said to his wife: 'Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.'The now completely vanquished Katharine quickly adopted her husband'sopinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, sayingto him: 'Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet:whither are you going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are theparents of so fair a child.' 'Why, how now, Kate,' said Petruchio; 'Ihope you are not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded andwithered, and not a maiden, as you say he is.' On this Katharine said:'Pardon me, old gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, thateverything I look on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverendfather: I hope you will pardon me for my sad mistake.' 'Do, good oldgrand-sire,' said Petruchio, 'and tell us which way you are travelling.We shall be glad of your good company, if you are going our way.' Theold gentleman replied: 'Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, yourstrange encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and I amgoing to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua.' Then Petruchio knewthe old gentleman to e the father of Lucentio, a young gentleman whowas to be married to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he madeVincentio very happy, by telling him the rich marriage his son wasabout to make: and they all journeyed on pleasantly together till theycame to Baptista's house, where there was a large company assembled tocelebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willinglyconsented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katharine off hishands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, andthere 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 shrewishdisposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highpleased with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, laughingat Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took littlenotice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, andthen he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh against him: forwhen Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient thantheirs, the father of Katharine said: 'Now, in good sadness, sonPetruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all.' 'Well,' saidPetruchio, 'I say no, and therefore for assurance that I speak thetruth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is mostobedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a wager whichwe will propose.' To this the other two husbands willingly consented,for they were quite confident that their gentle wives would prove moreobedient than the headstrong Katharine; and they proposed a wager oftwenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much as thatupon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his wife.Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, andLucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to him. Butthe servant returned, and said: 'Sir, my mistress sends you word she isbusy and cannot come.' 'How,' said Petruchio, 'does she say she is busyand cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?' Then they laughed athim, and said, it would be well if Katharine did not send him a worseanswer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife; and hesaid to his servant: 'Go, and entreat my wife to come to me.' 'Oh ho!entreat her!' said Petruchio. 'Nay, then, she needs must come.' 'I amafraid, sir,' said Hortensio, 'your wife will not be entreated.' Butpresently this civil husband looked a little blank, when the servantreturned without his mistress; and he said to him: 'How now! Where ismy wife?' 'Sir,' said the servant, 'my mistress says, you have somegoodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not come. She bids you cometo her.' 'Worse and worse!' said Petruchio; and then he sent hisservant, saying: 'Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I commandher to come to me.' The company had scarcely time to think she wouldnot obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed: 'Now, bymy holidame, here comes Katharine!' and she entered, saying meekly toPetruchio: 'What is your will, sir, that you send for me?' 'Where isyour sister and Hortensio's wife?' said he. Katharine replied: 'Theysit conferring by the parlour fire.' 'Go, fetch them hither!' saidPetruchio. Away went Katharine without reply to perform her husband'scommand. 'Here is a wonder,' said Lucentio, 'if you talk of a wonder.''And so it is,' said Hortensio; 'I marvel what it bodes.' 'Marry, peaceit bodes,' said Petruchio, 'and love, and quiet life, and rightsupremacy; and, to be short, everything that is sweet and happy.'Katharine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter,said: 'Now, fair befall thee, son Petruchio! you have won the wager,and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, as if shewere another daughter, for she is changed as if she had never been,''Nay,' said Petruchio, 'I will win the wager better yet, and show moresigns of her new-built virtue and obedience.' Katharine now enteringwith the two ladies, he continued: 'See where she comes, and bringsyour froward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katharine,that cap of yours does not become you; off with that bauble, and throwit under foot.' Katharine instantly took off her cap, and threw itdown. 'Lord!' said Hortensio's wife, 'may I never have a cause to sightill 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 saidto her: 'I wish your duty were as foolish too! The wisdom of your duty,fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time.' 'The morefool you,' said Bianca, 'for laying on my duty.' 'Katharine,' saidPetruchio, 'I charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owetheir lords and husbands.' And to the wonder of all present, thereformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wifelikeduty of obedience, as she had practiced it implicitly in a readysubmission to Petruchio's will. And Katharine once more became famousin Padua, not as heretofore, as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharinethe most obedient and duteous wife in Padua.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there was a cruellaw made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse wasseen in the city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless he couldpay a thousand marks for the ransom of his life.

Aegeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets ofEphesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, orto receive sentence of death.

Aegeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he pronouncedthe sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history ofhis life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to come to thecity of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan merchant to enter.

Aegeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made him wearyof his life, but that a heavier task could not have been imposed uponhim than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then beganhis own history, in the following words:

'I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of amerchant. I married a lady, with whom I lived very happily, but beingobliged to go to Epidamnum, I was detained there by my business sixmonths, 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 oftwo sons, and what was very strange, they were both so exactly alike,that it was impossible to distinguish the one from the other. At thesame time that my wife was brought to bed of these twin boys, a poorwoman 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. Theparents of these children being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys,and brought them up to attend upon my sons.

'My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud oftwo such boys: and she daily wishing to return home, I unwillinglyagreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for we had not sailedabove a league from Epidamnum before a dreadful storm arose, whichcontinued with such violence, that the sailors seeing no chance ofsaving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives, leavingus alone in the ship, which we every moment expected would be destroyedby the fury of the storm.

'The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints of thepretty babes, who, not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, becausethey saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though Idid not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent tocontrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the end of asmall spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms; at theother end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same timeI directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like manner toanother mast. She thus having the care of the two eldest children, andI of the two younger, we bound ourselves separately to these masts withthe children; and but for this contrivance we had all been lost, forthe ship split on a mighty rock, and was dashed in pieces; and we,clinging to these slender masts, were supported above the water, whereI, having the care of two children, was unable to assist my wife, whowith the other children was soon separated from me; but while they wereyet in my sight, they were taken up by a boat of fishermen, fromCorinth (as I supposed), and seeing them in safety, I had no care butto struggle with the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and theyoungest slave. At length we, in our turn, were taken up by a ship, andthe sailors, knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, andlanded us in safety at Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have neverknown what became of my wife and eldest child.

'My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years ofage, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, andoften 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 Iunwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously desired to heartidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one tofind them, I hazarded the loss of them also. It is now seven yearssince my son left me; five years have I passed in travelling throughthe world in search of him: I have been in farthest Greece, and throughthe bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards, I landed here in Ephesus,being unwilling to leave any place unsought that harbours men; but thisday must end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself inmy death, if I were assured my wife and sons were living.'

Here the hapless Aegeon ended the account of his misfortunes; and theduke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himselfthis great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it were notagainst the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him toalter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him toinstant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he would givehim that day to try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine.

This day of grace did seem no great favour to Aegeon, for not knowingany man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance that anystranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay the fine; andhelpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the presence ofthe duke in the custody of a jailor.

Aegeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time hewas in danger of losing his life through the careful search he wasmaking after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also wereboth in the city of Ephesus.

Aegeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, wereboth named alike, being both called Antipholus, and the two twin slaveswere also both named Dromio. Aegeon's youngest son, Antipholus ofSyracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened toarrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same day that Aegeondid; and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have been inthe same danger that his father was, but by good fortune he met afriend who told him the peril an old merchant of Syracuse was in, andadvised him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnum; this Antipholus agreedto do, and he was sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in thisdanger, but he little thought this old merchant was his own father.

The eldest son of Aegeon (who must be called Antipholus of Ephesus, todistinguish him from his brother Antipholus of Syracuse) had lived atEphesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have paidthe money for the ransom of his father's life; but Antipholus knewnothing of his father, being so young when he was taken out of the seawith his mother by the fishermen that he only remembered he had been sopreserved, but he had no recollection of either his father or hismother; the fishermen who took up this Antipholus and his mother andthe young slave Dromio, having carried the two children away from her(to the great grief of that unhappy lady), intending to sell them.

Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a famouswarrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boysto Ephesus when he went to visit the duke his nephew.

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholus, when he grewup, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himselfby his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his patronthe duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a richlady of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave Dromio stillattending him) at the time his father came there.

Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised himto say he came from Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio some money tocarry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the mean time hesaid he would walk about and view the city, and observe the manners ofthe people.

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholus was dull andmelancholy he used to divert himself with the odd humours and merryjests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromiowere greater than is usual between masters and their servants.

When Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood awhilethinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and hisbrother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear the leasttidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself: 'I am like a drop of waterin the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, loses itself inthe wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do losemyself.'

While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had hithertobeen so useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Antipholus, wonderingthat he came back so soon, asked him where he had left the money. Nowit was not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that lived withAntipholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the twoAntipholuses were still as much alike as Aegeon had said they were intheir infancy; therefore no wonder Antipholus thought it was his ownslave 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, andthe pig falls from the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you donot come home.' 'These jests are out of season,' said Antipholus:'where did you leave the money?' Dromio still answering, that hismistress had sent him to fetch Antipholus to dinner: 'What mistress?'said Antipholus. 'Why, your worship's wife, sir,' replied Dromio.Antipholus having no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and said:'Because I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you presume to jest withme in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humour now: where is themoney? we being strangers here, how dare you trust so great a chargefrom your own custody?' Dromio hearing his master, as he thought him,talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholus was jesting,replied merrily: 'I pray you, sir, jest as you sit at dinner. I had nocharge but to fetch you home, to dine with my mistress and her sister.'Now Antipholus lost all patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, andtold his mistress that his master had refused to come to dinner, andsaid that he had no wife.

Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, was very angry when sheheard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealoustemper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another ladybetter than herself; and she began to fret, and say unkind words ofjealousy and reproach of her husband; and her sister Luciana, who livedwith her, tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundlesssuspicions.

Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with the moneyin safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again to chidehim for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not doubtingbut it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach him for lookingstrange upon her (as well he might, never having seen this angry ladybefore); and then she told him how well he loved her before they weremarried, and that now he loved some other lady instead of her. 'Howcomes it now, my husband,' said she, 'O how comes it that I have lostyour love?' 'Plead you to me, fair dame?' said the astonishedAntipholus. It was in vain he told her he was not her husband, and thathe had been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going homewith her, and Antipholus as last, being unable to get away, went withher to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and her sister, theone calling him husband, and the other brother, he, all amazed,thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he wassleeping now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less surprised, forthe cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also claimed him for herhusband.

While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, hisbrother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slaveDromio; but the servants would not open the door, because theirmistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and when theyrepeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholus and Dromio, the maidslaughed at them, and said that Antipholus was at dinner with theirmistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost knockedthe door down, they could not gain admittance, and at last Antipholuswent away very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gentlemanwas dining with his wife.

When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was soperplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and athearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that heleft the house, as soon as he could find any presence to get away; forthough he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet thejealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at allbetter satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore bothmaster and man were glad to get away from their new wives as fast asthey could.

The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by agoldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholus ofEphesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and whenAntipholus would have refused the chain, saying it did not belong tohim, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own orders; and went away,leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, who ordered his manDromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in aplace any longer, where he met with such strange adventures that hesurely thought himself bewitched.

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholus, wasarrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholus,the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had given thechain, happened to come to the place where the officer was arrestingthe goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholus, asked him to pay for thegold chain he had just delivered to him, the price amounting to nearlythe same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antipholus denyingthe having received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting to declarethat he had but a few minutes before given it to him, they disputedthis matter a long time, both thinking they were right: for Antipholusknew the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and so like were the twobrothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the chain intohis hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prisonfor the debt he owed, and at the same time the goldsmith made theofficer arrest Antipholus for the price of the chain; so that at theconclusion of their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were bothtaken away to prison together.

As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, hisbrother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go toAdriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which he wasarrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send him back to thestrange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been insuch haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell hismaster the ship was ready to sail: for he saw Antipholus was in nohumour to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling withinhimself, that he must return to Adriana's house, 'Where,' said he,'Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, for servants mustobey their masters' commands.'

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he metAntipholus of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprisingadventures 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 oldacquaintance: some offered him money which they said was owing to him,some invited him to come and see them, and some gave thanks forkindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for hisbrother. A tailor showed him some silks he had bought for him, andinsisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes.

Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers andwitches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from hisbewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer whowas carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold whichAdriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's of thearrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana,perfectly confounded Antipholus, and he said: 'This fellow Dromio iscertainly distracted, and we wander here in illusions'; and quiteterrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried out: 'Some blessedpower deliver us from this strange place!'

And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and shetoo called him Antipholus, and told him he had dined with her that day,and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised to giveher. Antipholus now lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, hedenied that he had ever promised her a chain, or dined with her, or hadever seen her face before that moment. The lady persisted in affirminghe had dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which Antipholusstill denying, she further said, that she had given him a valuablering, and if he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted uponhaving her own ring again. On this Antipholus became quite frantic, andagain calling her sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of heror her ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words andhis wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that hehad dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in consequenceof his promising to make her a present of a gold chain. But this ladyhad fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she had takenhim for his brother: the married Antipholus had done all the things shetaxed this Antipholus with.

When the married Antipholus was denied entrance into his own house(those within supposing him to be already there), he had gone away veryangry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to whichshe was very subject, and remembering that she had often falselyaccused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged on her forshutting him out of his own house, determined to go and dine with thislady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his wife having sohighly offended him, Antipholus promised to give her a gold chain,which he had intended as a present for his wife; it was the same chainwhich the goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady likedso well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that she gave themarried Antipholus a ring; which when, as she supposed (taking hisbrother for him), he denied, and said he did not know her, and left herin such a wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out of hissenses; and presently she resolved to go and tell Adriana that herhusband 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 moneyto pay the debt), for the purse of money, which Adriana had sent byDromio, and he had delivered to the other Antipholus.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madnessmust be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out of his ownhouse; and remembering how he had protested all dinner-time that he wasnot her husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day, she hadno doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailor the money, andhaving discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her husbandwith ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for adoctor to come and cure him of his madness: Antipholus all the whilehotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which the exactlikeness he bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his rage onlythe more confirmed them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromiopersisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him awayalong with his master.

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant cameto tell her that Antipholus and Dromio must have broken loose fromtheir keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in the nextstreet. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home, taking somepeople with her to secure her husband again; and her sister went alongwith her. When they came to the gates of a convent in theirneighbourhood, there they saw Antipholus and Dromio, as they thoughtbeing again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.

Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities thislikeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had givenhim was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him fordenying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholus wasprotesting 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 weregoing to lay violent hands on Antipholus and Dromio; but they ran intothe convent, and Antipholus begged the abbess to give him shelter inher house.

And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire into the cause ofthis disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judgeof what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man who hadsought protection in her house; so she strictly questioned the wifeabout the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said: 'Whatis the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he losthis wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that hasdisturbed his mind?' Adriana replied, that no such things as these hadbeen the cause. 'Perhaps,' said the abbess, 'he has fixed hisaffections on some other lady than you his wife; and that has drivenhim to this state.' Adriana said she had long thought the love of someother lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it wasnot his love for another, but the teasing jealousy of his wife'stemper, that often obliged Antipholus to leave his home; and (theabbess suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learnthe truth, she said: 'You should have reprehended him for this.' 'Why,so I did,' replied Adriana. 'Ay,' said the abbess, 'but perhaps notenough.' Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had saidenough to Antipholus on this subject, replied: 'It was the constantsubject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep forspeaking 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 Igave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and badit was in him to love any lady better than me.'

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jealousAdriana, now said: 'And therefore comes it that your husband is mad.The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than amad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing; nowonder that his head is light: and his meat was sauced with yourupbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown himinto this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls;being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recreation, what couldensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The consequence isthen, that your jealous kits have made your husband mad.'

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehendedher husband mildly; and she said to her sister: 'Why do you hear theserebukes without answering them?' But the abbess had made her so plainlyperceive her fault, that she could only answer: 'She has betrayed me tomy own reproof.'

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on havingher husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer no personto enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to thecare of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle means forhis recovery, and she retired into her house again, and ordered hergates to be shut against them.

During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors hadhappened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, oldAegeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sunset; andat 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 arrivedjust as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending inperson, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present topardon him.

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the dukefor justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up herlunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husbandand his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the duke todemand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a falsecharge of lunacy; and telling in what manner he had broken his bands,and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangelysurprised to see her husband, when she thought he had been within theconvent.

Aegeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him togo in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure that hisdear son would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom. Hetherefore spoke to Antipholus in words of fatherly affection, withjoyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utterastonishment of Aegeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well hemight, for this Antipholus had never seen his father since they wereseparated in the storm in his infancy; but while the poor old Aegeonwas in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinkingsurely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had sostrangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that hewas ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the midst ofthis perplexity, the lady abess and the other Antipholus and Dromiocame out and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two romiosstanding before her.

And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, wereclearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses and the twoDromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of theseseeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Aegeon had told him inthe morning; and he said, these men must be the two sons of Aegeon andtheir twin slaves.

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Aegeon; andthe tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence ofdeath, before the setting sun went down was brought to a happyconclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known to be thelong-lost wife of Aegeon, and the fond mother of the two Antipholuses.

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

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these longseparated parents and their children made them for a while forget thatAegeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they were become alittle calm, Antipholus of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom moneyfor his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned Aegeon, and wouldnot take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her newlyfound husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy familydiscourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes.And the two Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they had theircongratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantlycomplimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to seehis own person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his brother.

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law,that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of herhusband.

Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of hisbrother's wife; and the good old Aegeon, with his wife and sons, livedat Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities soentirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but thatsometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders wouldhappen, and the one Antipholus, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for theother, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild andgentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws withimpunity; and there was in particular one law, the existence of whichwas almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during hiswhole 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 holyinstitution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every daymade to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, thattheir daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were livingas the companions of single men.

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among hissubjects, but he thought that a sudden change in himself from theindulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite tocheck this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him)consider him as a tyrant; therefore he determined to absent himself awhile from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of hispower, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put ineffect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in kits ownperson.

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for hisstrict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person toundertake this important change; and when the duke imparted his designto lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said: 'If any man inVienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is lordAngelo.' And now the duke departed from Vienna under presence of makinga journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy in hisabsence; but the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for heprivately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent towatch unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo.

It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his newdignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a younglady from her parents; and for this offence, by command of the new lorddeputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue ofthe old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudioto be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon of youngClaudio, and the good old lord Escalus himself interceded for him.'Alas,' said he, 'this gentleman whom I would save had an honourablefather, for whose sake I pray you pardon the young man'stransgression.' But Angelo replied: 'We must not make a scare-crow ofthe law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, findingit harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he mustdie.'

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and Claudiosaid to him: 'I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to mysister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of SaintClare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore her that shemake friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. Ihave great hopes in that; for she can discourse with prosperous art,and well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect inyouthful sorrow, such as moves men.'

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered hernoviciate in the convent, and it was her intent, after passing throughher probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was inquiring of anun concerning the rules of the convent, when they heard the voice ofLucio, who, as he entered that religious house, said: 'Peace be in thisplace!' '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; youmay, I may not. When you have taken the veil, you must not speak withmen but in the presence of the prioress; then if you speak you must notshow your face, or if you show your face, you must not speak.' 'Andhave you nuns no further privileges?' said Isabel. 'Are not these largeenough?' replied the nun. 'Yes, truly,' said Isabel: 'I speak not asdesiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon thesisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.' Again they heard the voiceof 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, approachingher with reverence, said: 'Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roseson your cheeks proclaim you are no less! can you bring me to the sightof Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappybrother Claudio?' 'Why her unhappy brother?' said Isabel, 'let me ask!for I am that Isabel, and his sister.' 'Fair and gentle lady,' hereplied, 'your brother kindly greets you by me; he is in prison.' 'Woeis me! for what?' said Isabel. Lucio then told her, Claudio wasimprisoned for seducing a young maiden. 'Ah,' said she, 'I fear it ismy cousin Juliet.' Juliet and Isabel were not related, but they calledeach other cousin in remembrance of their school days' friendship; andas Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been ledby her affection for him into this transgression. 'She it is,' repliedLucio. 'Why then, let my brother marry Juliet,' said Isabel. Lucioreplied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lorddeputy had sentenced him to die for his offence; 'Unless,' said he,'you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that ismy 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 nopower to move Angelo.' 'Our doubts are traitors,' said Lucio, 'and makeus lose the good we might often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go tolord Angelo! When maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give likegods.' 'I will see what I can do,' said Isabel: 'I will but stay togive the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will go to Angelo.Command me to my brother: soon at night I will send him word of mysuccess.'

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees beforeAngelo, saying: 'I am a woeful suitor to your honour, if it will pleaseyour honour to hear me.' 'Well, what is your suit?' said Angelo. Shethen made her petition in the most moving terms for her brother's life.But Angelo said: 'Maiden, there is no remedy; your brother issentenced, and he must die.' 'O just, but severe law,' said Isabel: 'Ihad a brother then— Heaven keep your honour!' and she was about todepart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said: 'Give it not over so;return to him again, entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon hisgown. You are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with amore tame tongue desire it.' Then again Isabel on her knees imploredfor mercy. 'He is sentenced,' said Angelo: 'it is too late.' 'Toolater' said Isabel: 'Why, no: I that do speak a word may call it backagain. 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 asmercy does.' 'Pray you begone,' said Angelo. But still Isabelentreated, and she said: 'If my brother had been as you, and you as he,you might have slipped like him, but he, like you, would not have beenso 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 ajudge, and what a prisoner.' 'Be content, fair maid!' said Angelo: 'itis the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, mybrother, 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; heis not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl inseason; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than we minister to ourgross selves? Good, good, my lord, bethink you, none have died for mybrother's offence, though many have committed it. So you would be thefirst that gives this sentence, and he the first that suffers it. Go toyour own bosom, my lord; knock there, and ask your heart what it doesknow that is like my brother's fault; if it confess a naturalguiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a thought against mybrother's life!' Her last words more moved Angelo than all she hadbefore said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion inhis heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable love, such asClaudio's crime had been; and the conflict in his mind made him to turnaway 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 offeringhim a bribe. 'Ay,' said Isabel, 'with such gifts that Heaven itselfshall share with you; not with golden treasures, or those glitteringstones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy values them, butwith true prayers that shall be up to Heaven before sunrise,—prayersfrom preserved souls, from fasting maids whose minds are dedicated tonothing temporal.' 'Well, come to me to-morrow,' said Angelo. And forthis short respite of her brother's life, and for this permission thatshe might be heard again, she left him with the joyful hope that sheshould at last prevail over his stern nature: and as she went away shesaid: 'Heaven keep your honour safe! Heaven save your honour!' Whichwhen Angelo heard, he said within his heart: 'Amen, I would be savedfrom thee and from thy virtues': and then, affrighted at his own evilthoughts, he said: 'What is this? What is this? Do I love her, that Idesire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes? What is it Idream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a saint, with saintsdoes bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman once stir my temper,but this virtuous woman subdues me quite. Even till now, when men werefond, I smiled and wondered at them.'

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night thanthe prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison Claudiowas visited by the good duke, who, in his friar's habit, taught theyoung man the way to heaven, preaching to him the words of penitenceand peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute guilt: nowwishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, andnow suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional.But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed; and he who had so latelystarted at the offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden with sohigh a bribe, as she might not be able to resist, even with theprecious gift of her dear brother's life.

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admittedalone to his presence: and being there, he said to her, if she wouldyield to him her virgin honour and transgress even as Juliet had donewith Claudio, he would give her her brother's life; 'For,' said he, 'Ilove you, Isabel.' 'My brother,' said Isabel, 'did so love Juliet, andyet you tell me he shall die for it.' 'But,' said Angelo, 'Claudioshall 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 samefault for which he passed sentence upon her brother, said: 'I would doas much for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I undersentence 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 Iwould yield myself up to this shame.' And then she told him, she hopedhe only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said: 'Believe me,on my honour, my words express my purpose.' Isabel, angered to theheart to hear him use the word Honour to express such dishonourablepurposes, said: 'Ha! little honour to be much believed; and mostpernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for it! Sign mea present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world aloud whatman thou art!' 'Who will believe you, Isabel?' said Angelo; 'myunsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched againstyours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yieldingto my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, myfalse 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 brotherwas confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in piousconversation with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visitedJuliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of theirfault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse confessed thatshe was more to blame than Claudio, in that she willingly consented tohis dishonourable solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said: 'Peacebe here, grace, and good company!' 'Who is there?' said the disguisedduke; 'come in; the wish deserves a welcome.' 'My business as a word ortwo with Claudio,' said Isabel. Then the duke left them together, anddesired the provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to place himwhere he might overhear their conversation.

'Now, sister, what is the comfort?' said Claudio. Isabel told him hemust prepare for death on the morrow. 'Is there no remedy?' saidClaudio. 'Yes, brother,' replied Isabel, 'there is, but such a one, asif you consented to it would strip your honour from you, and leave younaked.' 'Let me know the point,' said Claudio. 'O, I do fear you,Claudio!' replied his sister; 'and I quake, lest you should wish tolive, and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters addedto your life, then your perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The senseof death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we treadupon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies.' 'Why do you give methis shame?' said Claudio. 'Think you I can fetch a resolution fromflowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as abride, 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 Iwould yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your life. O, were itbut my life, I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as apin!' 'Thanks, dear Isabel,' said Claudio. 'Be ready to die to-morrow,'said Isabel. 'Death is a fearful thing,' said Claudio. 'And shamed lifea hateful,' replied his sister. But the thoughts of death now overcamethe constancy of Claudio's temper, and terrors, such as the guilty onlyat 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 dispenseswith the deed so far, that it becomes a virtue.' 'O faithless coward! Odishonest wretch!' said Isabel; 'would you preserve your life by yoursister's shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you had in yousuch a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to render up on twentyblocks, you would have yielded them up all, before your sister shouldstoop to such dishonour.' 'Nay, hear me, Isabel!' said Claudio. Butwhat he would have said in defence of his weakness, in desiring to liveby the dishonour of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by theentrance of the duke; who said: 'Claudio, I have overheard what haspassed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose tocorrupt 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 graciousdenial which he is most glad to receive. There is no hope that he willpardon you; therefore pass your hours in prayer, and make ready fordeath.' Then Claudio repented of his weakness, and said: 'Let me ask mysister's pardon! I am so out of love with life, that I will sue to berid of it.' And Claudio retired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow forhis fault.

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuousresolution, saying: 'The hand that made you fair, has made you good.''O,' said Isabel, 'how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! ifever he return, and I can speak to him, I will discover hisgovernment.' Isabel knew not that she was even now making the discoveryshe threatened. The duke replied: 'That shall not be much amiss; yet asthe matter now stands, Angelo will repel your accusation; thereforelend an attentive ear to my advisings. I believe that you may mostrighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem yourbrother from the angry law, do no stain to your own most graciousperson, and much please the absent duke, if peradventure he shall everreturn to have notice of this business. Isabel said, she had a spiritto do anything he desired, provided it was nothing wrong. 'Virtue isbold, and never fearful,' said the duke: and then he asked her, if shehad ever heard of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldierwho was drowned at sea. 'I have heard of the lady,' said Isabel, 'andgood words went with her name.' 'This lady,' said the duke, 'is thewife of Angelo; but her marriage dowry was on board the vessel in whichher brother perished, and mark how heavily this befell to the poorgentlewoman! for, beside the loss of a most noble and renowned brother,who in his love towards her was ever most kind and natural, in thewreck of her fortune she lost the affections of her husband, thewell-seeming Angelo; who pretending to discover some dishonour in thishonourable lady (though the true cause was the loss of her dowry) lefther in tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort. His unjustunkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, has, likean impediment in the current, made it more unruly, and Mariana lovesher cruel husband with the full continuance of her first affection.'The duke then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabelshould go to lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come to him as hedesired at midnight; that by this means she would obtain the promisedpardon; and that Mariana should go in her stead to the appointment, andpass herself upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. 'Nor, gentledaughter,' said the feigned friar, 'fear you to do this thing; Angelois her husband, and to bring them thus together is no sin.' Isabelbeing pleased with this project, departed to do as he directed her; andhe went to apprise Mariana of their intention. He had before this timevisited this unhappy lady in his assumed character, giving herreligious instruction and friendly consolation, at which times he hadlearned her sad story from her own lips; and now she, looking upon himas a holy man, readily consented to be directed by him in thisundertaking.

When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the house ofMariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, he said: 'Wellmet, and in good time; what is the news from this good deputy?' Isabelrelated the manner in which she had settled the affair. 'Angelo,' saidshe, 'has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side ofwhich is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate.' And then sheshowed to the duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her; andshe said: 'This bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a littledoor which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have made mypromise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have got fromhim his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken a due andwary note of the place; and with whispering and most guilty diligencehe showed me the way twice over.' 'Are there no other tokens agreedupon between you, that Mariana must observe?' said the duke. 'No,none,' said Isabel, 'only to go when it is dark. I have told him mytime can be but short; for I have made him think a servant comes alongwith me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about my brother.'The duke commended her discreet management, and she, turning toMariana, said: 'Little have you to say to Angelo, when you depart fromhim, but soft and low: Remember now my brother!'

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by Isabel, whorejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device preserved bothher brother's life and her own honour. But that her brother's life wassafe the duke was not well satisfied, and therefore at midnight heagain repaired to the prison, and it was well for Claudio that he didso, else would Claudio have that night been beheaded; for soon afterthe duke entered the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy,commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him byfive o'clock in the morning. But the duke persuaded the provost to putoff the execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him thehead of a man who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail uponthe provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provostsuspected not to be anything more or greater than he seemed, showed theprovost a letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with hisseal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must havesome secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented tospare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it toAngelo.

Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo a letter, saying, thatcertain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he should bein Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at theentrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority; and the dukealso commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any of his subjects cravedredress for injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in thestreet on his first entrance into the city.

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who thereawaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell her thatClaudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had sentthe pardon for her brother, he said: 'Angelo has released Claudio fromthis world. His head is off, and sent to the deputy.' The much-grievedsister cried out: 'O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world,most wicked Angelo!' The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and whenshe was become a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospectof the duke's return, and told her in what manner she should proceed inpreferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her not fear ifthe cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabelsufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her counselin 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 hisarrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, whodelivered up his authority in the proper form. And there came Isabel,in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said: 'Justice, mostroyal duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, who, for the seducing ayoung maid, was condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to lordAngelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tell your grace howI prayed and kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied; for thiswas of much length. The vile conclusion I now begin with grief andshame to utter. Angelo would not but by my yielding to hisdishonourable love release my brother; and after much debate withinmyself, my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and I did yield to him.But the next morning betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent awarrant for my poor brother's head!' The duke affected to disbelieveher story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who hadsuffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. Andnow 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 sayswas with Angelo, I passed that night with him in the garden-house. Asthis is true, let me in safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here amarble monument.' Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she hadsaid to friar Lodowick, that being the name the duke had assumed in hisdisguise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in whatthey said, the duke intending that the innocence of Isabel should beplainly proved in that public manner before the whole city of Vienna;but Angelo little thought that it was from such a cause that they thusdiffered in their story, and he hoped from their contradictory evidenceto be able to clear himself from the accusation of Isabel, and he said,assuming the look of offended innocence: 'I did but smile till now;but, good my lord, my patience here is touched, and I perceive thesepoor distracted women are but the instruments of some greater one, whosets them on. Let me have way, my lord, to find this practice out.''Ay, with all my heart,' said the duke, 'and punish them to the heightof your pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend himyour pains to discover this abuse; the friar is sent for that set themon, and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem best in anychastisement. I for a while will leave you, but stir not you, lordAngelo, till you have well determined upon this slander.' The duke thenwent away, leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and umpirein his own cause. But the duke was absent only while he threw off hisroyal robes and put on his friar's habit; and in that disguise again hepresented himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the good old Escalus,who thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to the supposedfriar: 'Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander lord Angelo?'He replied: 'Where is the duke? It is he who 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 forleaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, andspoke so freely of many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as hesaid, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened himwith the torture for speaking words against the state, and forcensuring the conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be taken away toprison. Then, to the amazement of all present, and to the utterconfusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his disguise, andthey 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 myheart. I am still devoted to your service.' 'O give me pardon,' saidIsabel, 'that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknownsovereignty.' He answered that he had most need of forgiveness fromher, for not having prevented the death of her brother for not yetwould he tell her that Claudio was living; meaning first to make afurther trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew the duke had been asecret witness of his bad deeds, and he said: 'O my dread lord, Ishould be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible,when I perceive your grace, like power divine, has looked upon myactions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong my shame, but let mytrial be my own confession. Immediate sentence and death is all thegrace I beg.' The duke replied: 'Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We docondemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped to death; and withlike haste away with him; and for his possessions, Mariana, we doinstate and widow you withal, to buy a better husband.' 'O my dearlord,' said Mariana, 'I crave no other, nor no better man': and then onher knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of Claudio, did this kindwife 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 meyour knees, and all my life to come I will lend you all my life, to doyou service!' The duke said: 'Against all sense you importune her.Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost wouldbreak his paved bed, and take her hence in horror.' Still Mariana said:'Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold up your hand, saynothing! I will speak all. They say, best men are moulded out offaults, and for the most part become much the better for being a littlebad. So may my husband. Oh Isabel, will you not lend a knee?' The dukethen said: 'He dies for Claudio,' But much pleased was the good duke,when his own Isabel, from whom he expected all gracious and honourableacts, kneeled down before him, and said: 'Most bounteous sir, look, ifit please you, on this man condemned, as if my brother lived. I partlythink a due sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look on me. Sinceit is so, let him not die! My brother had but justice, in that he didthe thing for which he died.'

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner forher enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, where helay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented botherliving; and he said to Isabel: 'Give me your hand, Isabel; for yourlovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and he shall be mybrother too.' By this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and theduke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, said: 'Well, Angelo,look that you love your wife; her worth has obtained your pardon: joyto you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo! I have confessed her, and know hervirtue.' Angelo remembered, when dressed in a little brief authority,how hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy.

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself againto the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had wonher prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free tomarry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of ahumble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, made her withgrateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and when she becameduchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel workedsuch a complete reformation among the young ladies of that city thatfrom that time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, therepentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke longreigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and ofprinces.

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady ofMessaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) fromtheir birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for thedifference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They wereboth born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger ofperishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as theywere making a sea-voyage together. The ship, on board of which theywere, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number ofthe 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 herbrother's loss; but the captain comforted her with the assurance thathe had seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to astrong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything of him for thedistance, he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was muchconsoled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how shewas to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home; andshe asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. 'Ay, very well,madam,' replied the captain, 'for I was born not three hours' travelfrom this place.' 'Who governs here?' said Viola. The captain told her,Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well asdignity. Viola said, she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and thathe was unmarried then. 'And he is so now,' said the captain; 'or was sovery lately, for, but a month ago, I went from here, and then it wasthe general talk (as you know what great ones do, the people willprattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuousmaid, the daughter of a count who died twelve months ago, leavingOlivia to the protection of her brother, who shortly after died also;and for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured thesight and company of men.' Viola, who was herself in such a sadaffliction for her brother's loss, wished she could live with thislady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's death. She asked the captainif he could introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly servethis lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish,because the lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since herbrother's death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed anotherproject in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve the dukeOrsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on maleattire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state ofViola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreignland, must plead her excuse.

She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he showeda friendly concern for her welfare, entrusted him with her design, andhe readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directedhim to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to bemade of the same colour and in the same fashion her brother Sebastianused to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked soexactly like her brother that some strange errors happened by means oftheir 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 prettylady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presentedto Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfullypleased with the address and graceful deportment of this handsomeyouth, and made Cesario one of his pages that being the office Violawished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties of her newstation, and showed such a ready observance and faithful attachment toher lord, that she soon became his most favoured attendant. To CesarioOrsino confided the whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. ToCesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had made to one who,rejecting his long services, and despising his person, refused to admithim to her presence; and for the love of this lady who had so unkindlytreated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the held and allmanly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours inignoble sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentleairs, and passionate love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wiseand learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all daylong conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his gravecourtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the greatduke Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants ofhandsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for allthat Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived shesuffered for the love of him; and much it moved her wonder, that Oliviacould be so regardless of this her peerless lord and master, whom shethought no one could behold without the deepest admiration, and sheventured gently to hint to Orsino, that it was a pity he should affecta lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and she said: 'If alady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps theremay be one who does), if you could not love her in return, would younot tell her that you could not love, and must she not be content withthis answer?' But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for hedenied 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 itwas unfair to compare the love of any lady for him, to his love forOlivia. Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke'sopinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for shethought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had; and shesaid: 'Ah, but I know, my lord.' 'What do you know, Cesario?' saidOrsino. 'Too well I know,' replied Viola, 'what love women may owe tomen. They are as true of heart as we are. My father had a daughterloved a man, as I perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship.''And what is her history?' said Orsino. 'A blank, my lord,' repliedViola: 'she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm inthe bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with agreen and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument,smiling at Grief.' The duke inquired if this lady died of her love, butto this question Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably she hadfeigned the story, to speak words expressive of the secret love andsilent grief she suffered for Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent toOlivia, and he said: 'So please you, my lord, I might not be admittedto the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: Untilseven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; butlike a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with hertears 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 paythis debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the richgolden shaft has touched her heart!' And then he said to Viola: 'Youknow, 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 herdoors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you haveaudience.' '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 along discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well become you to actmy woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of graver aspect.'

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake thiscourtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wishedto marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed it withfidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door whoinsisted upon being admitted to her presence. 'I told him,' said theservant, 'that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and thereforehe came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemedto have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he mustspeak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortifiedagainst all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no.'Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desiredhe might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said shewould once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he camefrom the duke, by his importunity. Viola, entering, put on the mostmanly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier language ofgreat men's pages, she said to the veiled lady: 'Most radiant,exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the ladyof the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech uponanother; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have takengreat pains to learn it.' 'Whence come you, sir?' said Olivia. 'I cansay little more than I have studied,' replied Viola; 'and that questionis out of my part.' 'Are you a comedian?' said Olivia. 'No,' repliedViola; 'and yet I am not that which I play'; meaning that she, being awoman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if shewere the lady of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, havingmore curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to deliver hermaster's message, said: 'Good madam, let me see your face.' With thisbold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty beauty,whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sightconceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said: 'Have you any commissionfrom your lord and master to negotiate with my face?' And then,forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, shedrew aside her veil, saying: 'But I will draw the curtain and show thepicture. Is it not well done?' Viola replied: 'It is beauty trulymixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunninghand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will leadthese graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.' 'O, sir,'replied Olivia, 'I will not be so cruel. The world may have aninventory of my beauty. As, item, two Lips, indifferent red; item, twogrey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin; and so forth. Wereyou sent here to praise me?' Viola replied: 'I see what you are: youare too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O such alove could but be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen ofbeauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groansthat thunder love, and sighs of fire.' 'Your lord,' said Olivia, 'knowswell my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I knowhim to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. Allvoices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant; yet I cannot lovehim, he might have taken his answer long ago.' 'If I did love you as mymaster does,' said Viola, 'I would make me a willow cabin at yourgates, and call upon your name, I would write complaining sonnets onOlivia, and sing them in the dead of the night; your name should soundamong 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 andair, but you should pity me.' 'You might do much,' said Olivia: 'whatis your parentage?' Viola replied: 'Above my fortunes, yet my state iswell. I am a gentleman.' Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola,saying: 'Go to your master, and tell him, I cannot love him. Let himsend no more, unless perchance you come again to tell me how he takesit.' And Viola departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of FairCruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, Above myfortunes, 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, andspirit, plainly show he is a gentleman.' And then she wished Cesariowas the duke; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on heraffections, she blamed herself for her sudden love: but the gentleblame which people lay upon their own faults has no deep root; andpresently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality betweenher fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenlyreserve which is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that sheresolved to court the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant afterhim with a diamond ring, under the presence that he had left it withher as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Cesarioa present of the ring, she should give him some intimation of herdesign; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsinohad sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia's looks andmanner were expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed hermaster's mistress had fallen in love with her. 'Alas,' said she, 'thepoor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for ithas caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs for me as I do forOrsino.'

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the illsuccess of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that theduke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hopingthat the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to showsome pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again the nextday. In the meantime, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded asong which he loved to be sung; and he said: 'My good Cesario, when Iheard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much.Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitterswhen they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their threadwith bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells ofthe 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 strewn:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad true lover never kind my grave, to weep there!

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song which in such truesimplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she boretestimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Hersad 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 facethat it loves: has it not, boy?' 'A little, with your leave,' repliedViola. '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 madethe duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much olderthan himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meantOrsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty ingaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delightto converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant Violaarrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was showninto Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola told Oliviathat she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf, this ladysaid: 'I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you wouldundertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than music fromthe spheres.' This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explainedherself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love; and when shesaw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said: 'Owhat a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of hislip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and bytruth, I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither witnor reason to conceal my passion.' But in vain the lady wooed; Violahastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to pleadOrsino's love; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitationwas, a declaration of a resolution Never to love any woman.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon hervalour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned howthat lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight aduel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlikeoutside, 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 sworddrawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but shewas relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such adiscovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, andas if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, saidto her opponent: 'If this young gentleman has done offence, I will takethe 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 inquirethe reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemywhere his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justicecoming up in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke's name,to answer for an offence he had committed some years before: and hesaid to Viola: 'This comes with seeking you': and then he asked her fora purse, saying: 'Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and itgrieves me much more for what I cannot do for you, than for whatbefalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort.' His words didindeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor had everreceived a purse from him; but for the kindness he had just shown her,she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly the whole shepossessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things, charging her withingratitude and unkindness. He said: 'This youth, whom you see here, Isnatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came toIllyria, and have fallen into this danger.' But the officers caredlittle for hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and theyhurried him off, saying: 'What is that to us?' And as he was carriedaway, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching thesupposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was withinhearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though the strangerwas taken away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, sheconjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from her beingmistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes that it washer brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And so indeed itwas. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a sea-captain. He hadtaken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost exhausted with fatigue,he was floating on the mast to which he had fastened himself in thestorm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian, that heresolved to accompany him whithersoever he went; and when the youthexpressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's court, Antonio, rather thanpart from him, came to Illyria, though he knew, if his person should beknown there, his life would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he hadonce dangerously wounded the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offencefor which he was now made a prisoner.

Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours beforeAntonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him touse it freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him hewould wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town; butSebastian not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured outto look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in face soexactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought)in defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as hesupposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder heaccused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight,slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone, when heradversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian,who happened to arrive at this place, and he said: 'Now, sir, have Imet with you again? There's for you'; and struck him a blow. Sebastianwas 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 intoher house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady asat the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into thehouse, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him)become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features wereexactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seenin his face, which she had complained of when she told her love toCesario.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished onhim. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it hadcome to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in herright senses; but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine house, andthat she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her familydiscreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared inthe full possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship;and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing he mightchange his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, theyshould be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; andwhen the marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short timeintending to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that hehad met with. In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia: and at themoment he arrived before Olivia's house, the officers of justicebrought their prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was withOrsino, her master; and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imaginedto be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued thisyouth from the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all thekindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint withsaying, that for three months, both day and night, this ungratefulyouth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia coming forth from herhouse, the duke could no longer attend to Antonio's story; and he said:'Here comes the countess: now Heaven walks on earth! but for thee,fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this youth attended onme': and then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino'sheavenly countess soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much ofingratitude as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Oliviaspeak were words of kindness to Cesario: and when he found his page hadobtained this high place in Olivia's favour, he threatened him with allthe terrors of his just revenge; and as he was going to depart, hecalled Viola to follow him, saying: 'Come, boy, with me. My thoughtsare ripe for mischief.' Though it seemed in his jealous rage he wasgoing to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made her no longer acoward, and she said she would most joyfully suffer death to give hermaster ease. But Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried:'Where goes my Cesario?' Viola replied: 'After him I love more than mylife.' Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaimingthat Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declaredthat not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia tothis young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia;the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that hispage had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. Butthinking that it was past recall, he was bidding farewell to hisfaithless mistress, and the young dissemisler, her husband, as hecalled Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as itseemed to them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, andaddressed Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the realhusband of Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeingtwo persons with the same face the same voice, and the same habit, thebrother and sister began to question each other; for Viola could scarcebe persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how toaccount for the sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit ofa young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeedViola, and his sister, under that disguise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness betweenthis twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the ladyOlivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with awoman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange, when she found shehad 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, andall his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, youngCesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with greatattention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thoughtCesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in awoman's attire; and then he remembered how often she had said she lovedhim, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of afaithful page; but now he guessed that something more was meant, formany of her pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him, came nowinto his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than heresolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could nothelp calling her Cesario and boy): 'Boy, you have said to me a thousandtimes that you should never love a woman like to me, and for thefaithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft andtender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you shallnow be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess.'

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had soungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, andoffered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her toSebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remainingpart of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sisterwere both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which hadseparated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high andmighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of Illyria, andSebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the lady Olivia.

TIMON OF ATHENS

Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune,affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almostinfinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out fasterupon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of hisbounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among hisdependents and followers. His table was resorted to by all theluxurious feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers atAthens. His large wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature tosubdue all hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositionstendered their services to lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer,whose face reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, tothe rough and unbending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men'spersons, and an indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand outagainst the gracious manners and munificent soul of lord Timon, butwould come (against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments,and return most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod ora salutation from Timon.

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatoryintroduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it tolord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse fromthe patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a painter had apicture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord Timon, andpretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more waswanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jewellerhad a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for theircostliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a ready martalways open, where they might get off their wares or their jewellery atany 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 therefusal of such precious commodities. So that by this means his housewas thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell uneasyand ostentatious pomp; and his person was still more inconvenientlybeset with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets, painters,sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and expectants, whocontinually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries inwhispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation as to a God,making sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his horse, andseeming as though they drank the free air but through his permissionand bounty.

Some of these daily dependents were young men of birth, who (theirmeans not answering to their extravagance) had been put in prison bycreditors, and redeemed thence by lord Timon; these young prodigalsthenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy hewere necessarily endeared to all such spendthrifts and loose livers,who, not being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier tocopy him in prodigality and copious spending of what was their own. Oneof these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts, unjustlycontracted, Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were moreconspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It wasfortunate for these men if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, orany piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing so praised,whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning with thecompliments of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, and apologies forthe unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or whatever itmight be, did not fail to produce from Timon's bounty, who would not beoutdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents offar richer worth, as these pretended donors knew well enough, and thattheir false presents were but the putting out of so much money at largeand speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon apresent of four milk-white horses, trapped in silver, which thiscunning lord had observed Timon upon some occasion to commend; andanother lord, Lucullus, had bestowed upon him in the same pretended wayof free gift a brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness Timon hadbeen heard to admire; these presents the easy-hearted lord acceptedwithout suspicion of the dishonest views of the presenters; and thegivers of course were rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or somejewel of twenty times the value of their false and mercenary donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, andwith gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was tooblind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that Timonpossessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase, whichwas sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of thething commended, for no service in the world done for it but the easyexpense of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way Timon butthe other day had given to one of these mean lords the bay courserwhich he himself rode upon, because his lordship had been pleased tosay that it was a handsome beast and went well; and Timon knew that noman ever justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For lord Timonweighed his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was he ofbestowing, 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; hecould do noble and praiseworthy actions; and when a servant of his onceloved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope to obtain herby reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so far above him, lordTimon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to makehis fortune equal with the dowry which the father of the young maiddemanded of him who should be her husband. But for the most part,knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune, false friends whomhe did not know to be such, but, because they flocked around hisperson, he thought they must needs love him; and because they smiledand flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was approved byall the wise and good. And when he was feasting in the midst of allthese flatterers and mock friends, when they were eating him up, anddraining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk tohis health and prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of afriend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made proud with thesight) it seemed a precious comfort to have so many like brotherscommanding one another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune whichpaid all the costs), and with joy they would run over at the spectacleof such, as it appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal meeting.

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured outhis bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his steward;while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expensethat he would neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor cease hiswild flow of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must needs meltaway before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should tell himso? his flatterers? they had no interest in shutting his eyes. In vaindid his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him his condition,laying his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of him, with animportunity that on any other occasion would have been unmannerly in aservant, beseeching him with tears to look into the state of hisaffairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse tosomething else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turnedto poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothingso incredulous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to areverse. Often had this good steward, this honest creature, when allthe rooms of Timon's great house have been choked up with riotousfeeders at his master's cost, when the floors have wept with drunkenspilling of wine, and every apartment has blazed with lights andresounded with music and feasting, often had he retired by himself tosome solitary spot, and wept faster than the wine ran from the wastefulcasks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when themeans were gone which brought him praises from all sorts of people, howquickly the breath would be gone of which the praise was made; praiseswon in feasting would be lost in feasting, and at one cloud ofwinter-showers these flies would disappear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer tothe representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had; andwhen he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several timesbefore to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold orforfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough to paythe one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this presentation,Timon hastily replied: 'My lands extend from Athens to Lacedaemon.' 'Omy 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 villanous bounty had yet come from him,that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowedto feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he made thekind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in the assurancethat his master could never lack means, while he had so many noblefriends; and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had nothingto do but to send and borrow, to use every man's fortune (that had evertasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely as his own. Then with acheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally despatchedmessengers to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus and Sempronius, men uponwhom he had lavished his gifts in past times without measure ormoderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of prisonby paying his debts, and who, by the death of his father, was now comeinto the possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requiteTimon's courtesy: to request of Ventidius the return of those fivetalents which he had paid for him, and of each of those noble lords theloan of fifty talents; nothing doubting that their gratitude wouldsupply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five hundred timesfifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreamingovernight of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's servant wasannounced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely amaking 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 wantedmoney, the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed itself,for with many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had longforeseen the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he cometo dinner to tell him of it, and had come again to supper to try topersuade him to spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning byhis coming: and true it was that he had been a constant attender (as hesaid) 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 reproofto Timon, was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up withmeanly offering the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tellhim that he had not found Lucullus at home.

As little success had the messenger who was sent to lord Lucius. Thislying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost tobursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind changed,and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first couldhardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected great regretthat he should not have it in his power to serve lord Timon, forunfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a great purchasethe day before, which had quite disfurnished him of the means atpresent, the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of hispower to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of his greatestafflictions that his ability should fail him to pleasure such anhonourable gentleman.

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with him? justof this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of everybodyTimon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with hispurse; Timon's money had gone to pay the wages of his servants, to paythe hire of the labourers who had sweat to build the fine houses whichLucius's pride had made necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster whichman makes himself when he proves ungrateful! this Lucius now denied toTimon a sum, which, in respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, wasless than charitable men afford to beggars.

Sempronius, and every one of these mercenary lords to whom Timonapplied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or directdenial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused toassist him with the loan of those five talents which Timon had not lentbut generously given him in his distress.

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he had been courted andresorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which had been loudestin his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and open handed,were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly, that liberalityas profuseness, though it had shown itself folly in nothing so truly asin the selection of such unworthy creatures as themselves for itsobjects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken, and become ashunned and hated place, a place for men to pass by, not a place, asformerly, where every passenger must stop and taste of his wine andgood cheer; now, instead of being thronged with feasting and tumultuousguests, 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 norputting off, that Timon's house was now his jail, which he could notpass, nor go in nor out for them; one demanding his due of fiftytalents, another bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns, which ifhe would tell out his blood by drops, and pay them so, he had notenough 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 incrediblelustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more lord Timonproclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, lords,ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord Lucius andLucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who more sorry nowthan these fawning wretches, when they found (as they thought) thatLord Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had been only to make trialof their loves, to think that they should not have seen through theartifice at the time, and have had the cheap credit of obliging hislordship? yet who more glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty,which they had thought dried up, still fresh and running? They camedissembling, protesting, expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that whenhis lordship sent to them, they should have been so unfortunate as towant the present means to oblige so honourable a friend. But Timonbegged them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had altogetherforgotten it. And these base fawning lords, though they had denied himmoney in his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at this newblaze of his returning prosperity. For the swallow follows not summermore willingly than men of these dispositions follow the good fortunesof the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these shrink fromthe first appearance of a reverse; such summer birds are men. But nowwith music and state the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; andwhen the guests had a little done admiring whence the bankrupt Timoncould find means to furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whetherthe scene which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes;at a signal given, the dishes were uncovered, and Timon's driftappeared: instead of those varieties and far-fetched dainties whichthey expected, that Timon's epicurean table in past times had soliberally presented, now appeared under the covers of these dishes apreparation more suitable to Timon's poverty, nothing but a littlesmoke and lukewarm water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends,whose professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm andslippery as the water with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests,bidding them, 'Uncover, dogs, and lap'; and before they could recovertheir surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they might haveenough, and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddlingout, lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendidconfusion, 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 morewillingly than they had entered it; some losing their gowns and caps,and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of thepresence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he tookfarewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, he betookhimself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon allmankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and thehouses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infesthumanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon itsinhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all Athenians, bothyoung and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to the woods, where hesaid he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than mankind. Hestripped himself naked, that he might retain no fashion of a man, anddug 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 hiskind, and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harmlessand friendly than man.

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the delight ofmankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater! Where were hisflatterers now? Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleakair, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt onwarm? Would those stiff trees that had outlived the eagle, turn youngand airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Wouldthe cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him hiswarm broths and caudles when sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or wouldthe creatures that lived in those wild woods come and lick his hand andflatter him?

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his poor sustenance, hisspade struck against something heavy, which proved to be gold, a greatheap which some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm, thinkingto have come again, and taken it from its prison, but died before theopportunity had arrived, without making any man privy to theconcealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels ofthe earth, its mother, as if it had never come from thence, till theaccidental striking of Timon's spade against it once more brought it tolight.

Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had retained his old mind,was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers again; butTimon was sick of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonousto his eyes; and he would have restored it to the earth, but that,thinking of the infinite calamities which by means of gold happen tomankind, how the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice,briberies, violence, and murder, among men, he had a pleasure inimagining (such a rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out ofthis heap, which in digging he had discovered, might arise somemischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing through the woodsnear to his cave at that instant, which proved to be a part of thetroops of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust takenagainst the senators of Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to be athankless and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their generals andbest friends), was marching at the head of the same triumphant armywhich he had formerly headed in their defence, to war against them;Timon, who liked their business well, bestowed upon their captain thegold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from him, thanthat he should with his conquering army lay Athens level with theground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing the oldmen for their white beards, for (he said) they were usurers, nor theyoung children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those (he said)would live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but to steel his eyes andears against any sights or sounds that might awaken compassion; and notto let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from makingone universal massacre of the city, but to confound them all in hisconquest; and when he had conquered, he prayed that the gods wouldconfound 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 thanhuman, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance of a manstanding in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It wasFlavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to hismaster had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and to offerhis 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 ofa beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and a monument ofdecay, so affected this good servant, that he stood speechless, wrappedup in horror, and confounded. And when he found utterance at last tohis words, they were so choked with tears, that Timon had much ado toknow him again, or to make out who it was that had come (so contrary tothe experience he had had of mankind) to offer him service inextremity. And being in the form and shape of a man, he suspected himfor a traitor, and his tears for false; but the good servant by so manytokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear thatnothing but love and zealous duty to his once dear master had broughthim there, that Timon was forced to confess that the world containedone honest man; yet, being in the shape and form of a man, he could notlook upon his man's face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered fromhis man's lips without loathing; and this singly honest man was forcedto depart, because he was a man, and because, with a heart more gentleand compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man's detested form andoutward feature.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt thesavage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come when theungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which they haddone to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an incensed wild boar,was raging at the walls of their city, and with his hot siegethreatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of lordTimon's former prowess and military conduct came fresh into theirforgetful minds, for Timon had been their general in past times, and avaliant and expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was deemedable to cope with a besieging army such as then threatened them, or todrive back the furious approaches of Alcibiades.

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait uponTimon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when he was inextremity they had shown but small regard; as if they presumed upon hisgratitude whom they had disobliged, and had derived a claim to hiscourtesy from their own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment.

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return andsave that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven him;now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for pastinjuries, and public honours, and the public love; their persons,lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come backand save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longerlord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, their defence inwar, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen,Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and herinfants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them; and that there was not aknife in the unruly camp which he did not prize above the reverendestthroat in Athens.

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointedsenators; only at parting he bade them commend him to his countrymen,and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and toprevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there was yet away left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so much affectionleft for his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindnessbefore his death. These words a little revived the senators, who hopedthat his kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told themthat he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should shortlyhave occasion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in Athens,high or low, of what degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, tocome and take a taste of his tree before he cut it down; meaning, thatthey might come and hang themselves on it, and escape affliction thatway.

And this was the last courtesy of all his noble bounties, which Timonshowed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his countrymenhad: 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 helived, did hate all living men, and dying wished a plague might consumeall caitiffs left!'

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste oflife and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to hisconclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of hisepitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, ahater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in the verychoice 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 contemptof the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitfulmankind.

ROMEO AND JULIET

The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and theMontagues. There had been an old quarrel between these families, whichwas grown to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity between them,that it extended to the remotest kindred, to the followers andretainers of both sides, insomuch that a servant of the house ofMontague could not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor aCapulet encounter with a Montague by chance, but fierce words andsometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent were the brawls from suchaccidental meetings, which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona'sstreets.

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies andmany noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona werepresent, and all comers were made welcome if they were not of the houseof Montague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, sonto the old lord Montague, was present; and though it was dangerous fora Montague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend ofRomeo, persuaded the young lord to go to this assembly in the disguiseof a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare herwith some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him thinkhis swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words;nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. ForRomeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his sleepfor love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, whodisdained him, and never requited his love, with the least show ofcourtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of thislove by showing him diversity of ladies and company. To this feast ofCapulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio wentmasked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that ladies who hadtheir toes unplagued with corns would dance with them. And the old manwas light hearted and merry, and said that he had worn a mask when hewas 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 theexceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teachthe torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by night like a richjewel worn by a blackamoor; beauty too rich for use, too dear forearth! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly didher beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her companions. Whilehe uttered these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of lordCapulet, who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, beingof a fiery and passionate temper, could not endure that a Montagueshould come under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) attheir solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would havestruck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would notsuffer him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect to hisguests, and because Romeo had borne himself like a gentleman, and alltongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous and well-governedyouth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrainedhimself, but swore that this vile Montague should at another timedearly 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 inpart the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by thehand, calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by touching it, he wasa blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement. 'Good pilgrim,'answered the lady, 'your devotion shows by far too mannerly and toocourtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not.''Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?' said Romeo. 'Ay,' said thelady, 'lips which they must use in prayer.' 'O then, my dear saint,'said Romeo, 'hear my prayer, and grant it, lest I despair.' In suchlike allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady wascalled away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring who her mother was,discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much struckwith, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet, thegreat enemy of the Montagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged hisheart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade him fromloving. As little rest had Juliet, when she found that the gentlemanthat she had been talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she hadbeen suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion forRomeo, which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of loveit seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that herafflictions should settle there, where family considerations shouldinduce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they soonmissed him, for, unable to stay away from the house where he had lefthis heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back ofJuliet's house. Here he had not been long, ruminating on his new love,when Juliet appeared above at a window, through which her exceedingbeauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east; and themoon, which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeoas if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new sun.And she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, he passionately wishedhimself a glove upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She allthis while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed:'Ah me!' Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheardby her: 'O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being overmy head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back togaze upon.' She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the newpassion which that night's adventure had given birth to, called uponher lover by name (whom she supposed absent): 'O Romeo, Romeo!' saidshe, '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 longerwill be a Capulet.'

Romeo, having this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he wasdesirous of hearing more; and the lady continued her passionatediscourse with herself (as she thought), still chiding Romeo for beingRomeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other name, or that he wouldput away that hated name, and for that name which was no part ofhimself, he should take all herself. At this loving word Romeo could nolonger refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her words had beenaddressed to him personally, and not merely in fancy, he bade her callhim Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no longerRomeo, if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear aman's voice in the garden, did not at first know who it was, that byfavour of the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discoveryof her secret; but when he spoke again, though her ears had not yetdrunk a hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is alover's hearing, that she immediately knew him to be young Romeo, andshe expostulated with him on the danger to which he had exposed himselfby climbing the orchard walls, for if any of her kinsmen should findhim there, it would be death to him, being a Montague. 'Alack,' saidRomeo, 'there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty of theirswords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof againsttheir enmity. Better my life should be ended by their hate, than thathated life should be prolonged, to live without your love.' 'How cameyou into this place,' said Juliet, 'and by whose direction?' 'Lovedirected me,' answered Romeo: 'I am no pilot, yet wert thou as farapart from me, as that vast shore which is washed with the farthestsea, I should venture for such merchandise.' A crimson blush came overJuliet's face, yet unseen by Romeo by reason of the night, when shereflected upon the discovery which she had made, yet not meaning tomake 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 havekept her lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, tofrown and be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first;to stand off, and affect a coyness or indifference, where they mostlove, that their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easilywon; for the difficulty of attainment increases the value of theobject. But there was no room in her case for denials, or puttings off,or any of the customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeohad heard from her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was nearher, a confession of her love. So with an honest frankness, which thenovelty of her situation excused, she confirmed the truth of what hehad before heard, and addressing him by the name of fair Montague (lovecan sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to impute her easyyielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the faultof it (if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night which had sostrangely discovered her thoughts. And she added, that though herbehaviour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by thecustom of her sex, yet that she would prove more true than many whoseprudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial cunning.

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing wasfarther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonour to suchan honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear; foralthough 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 withher to exchange a vow of love with him that night, she said that shealready had given him hers before he requested it; meaning, when heoverheard her confession; but she would retract what she then bestowed,for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty was as infinite asthe sea, and her love as deep. From this loving conference she wascalled away by her nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time forher to be in bed, for it was near to daybreak; but hastily returning,she said three or four words more to Romeo, the purport of which was,that if his love was indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, shewould send a messenger to him to-morrow, to appoint a time for theirmarriage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and followhim as her lord through the world. While they were settling this point,Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went in andreturned, and went and returned again, for she seemed as jealous ofRomeo going from her, as a young girl of her bird, which she will lethop a little from her hand, and pluck it back with a silken thread; andRomeo was as loath to part as she; for the sweetest music to lovers isthe 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 ofthoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow him tosleep, 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 hehad not been abed that night, but that some distemper of youthfulaffection had kept him waking. He was right in imputing the cause ofRomeo'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 whenRomeo revealed his new passion for Juliet, and requested the assistanceof the friar to marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyesand hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo'saffections, for he had been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, andhis many complaints of her disdain: and he said, that young men's lovelay not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying,that he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who couldnot love him again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him,the friar assented in some measure to his reasons; and thinking that amatrimonial alliance between young Juliet and Romeo might happily bethe means of making up the long breach between the Capulets and theMontagues; which no one more lamented than this good friar, who was afriend to both the families and had often interposed his mediation tomake up the quarrel without effect; partly moved by policy, and partlyby his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing, the oldman consented to join their hands in marriage.

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from amessenger which she had despatched according to promise, did not failto be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands werejoined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the heavens to smileupon that act, and in the union of this young Montague and youngCapulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she stayedimpatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to comeand meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before; andthe time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night before somegreat festival seems to an impatient child, that has got new finerywhich 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 theCapulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the sameangry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at old lord Capulet'sfeast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating withRomeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood inhim as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some sharpness; and inspite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel wasbeginning, when Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybaltturned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellationof 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 Montague had never thoroughly entered into the familyquarrel, 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 allayresentment, than a watchword to excite fury. So he tried to reason withTybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the name of good Capulet, as if he,though a Montague, had some secret pleasure in uttering that name: butTybalt, who hated all Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason,but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secretmotive for desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his presentforbearance as a sort of calm dishonourable submission, with manydisdainful words provoked Tybalt to the prosecution of his firstquarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell,receiving his death's wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainlyendeavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kepthis temper no longer, but returned the scornful appellation of villainwhich Tybalt had given him; and they fought till Tybalt was slain byRomeo. 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, andamong them the old lords Capulet and Montague, with their wives; andsoon after arrived the prince himself, who being related to Mercutio,whom Tybalt had slain, and having had the peace of his government oftendisturbed by these brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came determined toput the law in strictest force against those who should be found to beoffenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was commandedby the prince to relate the origin of it, which he did, keeping as nearthe truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusingthe part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extremegrief for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in herrevenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his murderer,and to pay no attention to Benvolio's representation, who, beingRomeo's friend and a Montague, spoke partially. Thus she pleadedagainst her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was herson-in-law and Juliet's husband. On the other hand was to be seen LadyMontague pleading for her child's life, and arguing with some justicethat Romeo had done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life ofTybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by his having slainMercutio. The prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of thesewomen, 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, andnow by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced! When the tidingsreached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who had slainher 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 witha flowering face, and other like contradictory names, which denoted thestruggles in her mind between her love and her resentment: but in theend love got the mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief thatRomeo had slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her husbandlived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and theywere altogether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That word was moreterrible to her than the death of many Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar Lawrence's cell, wherehe was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which seemedto him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared there was noworld 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 ofphilosophy to his griefs: but this frantic young man would hear ofnone, but like a madman he tore his hair, and threw himself all alongupon the ground, as he said, to take the measure of his grave. Fromthis unseemly state he was roused by a message from his dear lady,which a little revived him; and then the friar took the advantage toexpostulate with him on the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He hadslain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady, wholived but in his life? The noble form of man, he said, was but a shapeof wax, when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm. The lawhad been lenient to him, that instead of death, which he had incurred,had pronounced by the prince's mouth only banishment. He had slainTybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there was a sort of happinessin that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) had become his dearwife; therein he was most happy. All these blessings, as the friar madethem 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) diedmiserable. Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled him thathe should go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, andthence proceed straightways to Mantua, at which place he shouldsojourn, till the friar found fit occasion to publish his marriage,which might be a joyful means of reconciling their families; and thenhe did not doubt but the prince would be moved to pardon him, and hewould return with twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief.Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar, and took hisleave to go and seek his lady, proposing to stay with her that night,and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to which place thegood friar promised to send him letters from time to time, acquaintinghim with the state of affairs at home.

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret admission toher chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard her confession oflove the night before. That had been a night of unmixed joy andrapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the delight which theselovers took in each other's society, were sadly allayed with theprospect of parting, and the fatal adventures of the past day. Theunwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard themorning song of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it wasthe nightingale, which sings by night, but it was too truly the larkwhich sang, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; andthe streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it wastime for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wifewith a heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour inthe day; and when he had descended from her chamber-window, as he stoodbelow her on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in whichshe 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 hastilyto depart, for it was death for him to be found within the walls ofVerona after daybreak.

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-crossedlovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the old lord Capuletproposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, notdreaming that she was married already, was count Paris, a gallant,young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet, ifshe had never seen Romeo.

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer. Shepleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of Tybalt,which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face ofjoy, and how indecorous it would show for the family of the Capulets tobe celebrating a nuptial feast, when his funeral solemnities werehardly over: she pleaded every reason against the match, but the trueone, namely, that she was married already. But lord Capulet was deaf toall her excuses, and in a peremptory manner ordered her to get ready,for by the following Thursday she should be married to Paris: andhaving found her a husband, rich, young, and noble, such as theproudest maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he could not bear thatout of an affected coyness, as he construed her denial, she shouldoppose obstacles to her own good fortune.

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always hercounsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution toundertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go intothe grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband living;he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and give her consent tomarry Paris, according to her father's desire, and on the next night,which was the night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of aphial which he then gave her, the effect of which would be that fortwo-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold andlifeless; and when the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning, hewould find her to appearance dead; that then she would be borne, as themanner in that country was, uncovered on a bier, to be buried in thefamily vault; that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent tothis terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid(such was its certain operation) she would be sure to awake, as from adream; and before she should awake, he would let her husband know theirdrift, and he should come in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua.Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength toundertake 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 modestlydissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to thelord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man; andJuliet, who had displeased him exceedingly, by her refusal of thecount, was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. Allthings in the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials.No cost was spared to prepare such festival rejoicings as Verona hadnever before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had manymisgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed tohim for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he wasalways known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before the timethat Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place, avault of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, layfestering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her distracted:again she thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits hauntingthe places where their bodies were bestowed. But then her love forRomeo, and her aversion for Paris returned, and she desperatelyswallowed the draught and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with music to awaken hisbride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the drearyspectacle of a lifeless corset What death to his hopes! What confusionthen reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris lamenting his bride,whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from himeven before their hands were joined. But still more piteous it was tohear the mournings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having butthis one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel deathhad snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents wereon the point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promisingand advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for thefestival were turned from their properties to do the office of a blackfuneral. The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridalhymns were changed for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments tomelancholy bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in thebride's path, now served but to strew her corset Now, instead of apriest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was borneto church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, butto swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the dismalstory of his Juliet's death to Romeo, at Mantua, before the messengercould arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprise him thatthese were mock funerals only, and but the shadow and representation ofdeath, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but for a short while,expecting when Romeo would come to release her from that drearymansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful andlight-hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was dead (a strangedream, that gave a dead man leave to think), and that his lady came andfound him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in his lips, that herevived, 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 hadpresaged. But when the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, andthat it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive byany kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined thatnight to visit Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And as mischiefis swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he called to minda poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had lately passed, and fromthe beggarly appearance of the man, who seemed famished, and thewretched show in his show of empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, andother tokens of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhapshaving some misgivings that his own disastrous life might haply meetwith a conclusion so desperate), 'If a man were to need poison, whichby the law of Mantua it is death to sell, here lives a poor wretch whowould sell it him.' These words of his now came into his mind, and hesought out the apothecary, who after some pretended scruples, Romeooffering him gold, which his poverty could not resist, sold him apoison, which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength oftwenty men, would quickly despatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his dearlady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to swallowthe poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight,and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was situated theancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a spade, andwrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open the monument, when hewas interrupted by a voice, which by the name of vile Montague, badehim 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 havebeen his bride. He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead, butknowing him to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to allthe Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to do some villanousshame to the dead bodies; therefore in an angry tone he bade himdesist; and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die if hewere 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 anothersin upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. But the count in scornrefused his warning, and laid hands on him as a felon, which Romeoresisting, they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of alight, 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 tookthe dead youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune had made acompanion, 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 leanabhorred monster kept her there for his delight; for she lay yet freshand blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed thatbenumbing potion; and near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whomRomeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for Juliet'ssake called him cousin, and said that he was about to do him a favourby putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last leave of hislady's lips, kissing them; and here he shook the burden of his crossstars from his weary body, swallowing that poison which the apothecaryhad sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not like thatdissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which wasnow nearly expiring, and she about to awake to complain that Romeo hadnot kept his time, or that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that sheshould awake; and he, having learned that his letters which he had sentto Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had neverreached Romeo, came himself, provided with the pickaxe and lantern, todeliver the lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find alight already burning in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords andblood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument.

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatalaccidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeingthe friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and theoccasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo, but the friar,hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and ofunnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict hadthwarted their intents; and being frightened by the noise of peoplecoming, he fled: but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love'shand, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, and shewould have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed hisstill warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them, thenhearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed adagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo'sside.

The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging tocount Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo,had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went upand down the streets of Verona confusedly exclaiming, A Paris! a Romeo!a Juliet! as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the uproarbrought lord Montague and lord Capulet out of their beds, with theprince, to inquire into the causes of the disturbance. The friar hadbeen apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the churchyard,trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A greatmultitude being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar wasdemanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these strange anddisastrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old lords Montague and Capulet, hefaithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the parthe took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union to endthe long quarrels between their families: how Romeo, there dead, washusband 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 asecond marriage, swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised), andall thought her dead; how meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and takeher thence when the force of the potion should cease, and by whatunfortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never reachedRomeo: further than this the friar could not follow the story, nor knewmore than that coming himself, to deliver Juliet from that place ofdeath, he found the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of thetransactions was supplied by the narration of the page who had seenParis and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo fromVerona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be deliveredto his father in the event of his death, which made good the friar'swords, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgivenessof his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poorapothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, to die, and liewith Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear the friarfrom any hand he could be supposed to have in these complicatedslaughters, further than as the unintended consequences of his own wellmeant, yet too artificial and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capulet,rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed themwhat a scourge Heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had foundmeans even through the love of their children to punish their unnaturalhate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to bury theirlong strife in their children's graves; and lord Capulet requested lordMontague to give him his hand, calling him by the name of brother, asif in acknowledgment of the union of their families, by the marriage ofthe young Capulet and Montague; and saying that lord Montague's hand(in token of reconcilement) was all he demanded for his daughter'sjointure: but lord Montague said he would give him more, for he wouldraise her a statue of pure gold, that while Verona kept its name, nofigure should be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as thatof the true and faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet in return said thathe 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, thatnothing but the fearful overthrow of their children (poor sacrifices totheir quarrels and dissensions) could remove the rooted hates andjealousies of the noble families.

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the sudden death ofKing Hamlet, in less than two months after his death married hisbrother Claudius, which was noted by all people at the time for astrange act of indiscretion, or unfeelingness, or worse: for thisClaudius did no ways resemble her late husband in the qualities of hisperson or his mind, but was as contemptible in outward appearance, ashe was base and unworthy in disposition; and suspicions did not fail toarise in the minds of some, that he had privately made away with hisbrother, the late king, with the view of marrying his widow, andascending the throne of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, theson of the buried king, and lawful successor to the throne.

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make suchimpression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated thememory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice senseof honour, and a most exquisite practicer of propriety himself, didsorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude:insomuch that, between grief for his father's death and shame for hismother's marriage, this young prince was overclouded with a deepmelancholy, and lost all his mirth and all his good looks; all hiscustomary pleasure in books forsook him, his princely exercises andsports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable; he grew wearyof the world, which seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all thewholesome flowers were choked up, and nothing but weeds could thrive.Not that the prospect of exclusion from the throne, his lawfulinheritance, weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to a youngand high-minded prince was a bitter wound and a sore indignity; butwhat so galled him, and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, thathis mother had shown herself so forgetful to his father's memory; andsuch 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, andwould hang upon him as if her affection grew to him: and now within twomonths, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two months, she hadmarried again, married his uncle, her dear husband's brother, in itselfa highly improper and unlawful marriage, from the nearness ofrelationship, but made much more so by the indecent haste with which itwas concluded, and the unkingly character of the man whom she hadchosen to be the partner of her throne and bed. This it was, which morethan the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits and brought a cloudover the mind of this honourable young prince.

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do tocontrive to divert him; he still appeared in court in a suit of deepblack, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of dresshe had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother upon theday she was married, nor could he be brought to join in any of thefestivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) disgraceful day.

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of hisfather's death. It was given out by Claudius that a serpent had stunghim; but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself wasthe 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 ofhis mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by herconsent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubtswhich 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 thesoldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at midnight, fortwo or three nights successively. The figure came constantly clad inthe same suit of armour, from head to foot, which the dead king wasknown to have worn: and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom friend Horatiowas one) agreed in their testimony as to the time and manner of itsappearance: that it came just as the clock struck twelve; that itlooked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of anger; that its beardwas grisly, and the colour a sable silvered, as they had seen it in hislifetime: that it made no answer when they spoke to it; yet once theythought it lifted up its head, and addressed itself to motion, as if itwere about to speak; but in that moment the morning cock crew, and itshrunk in haste away, and vanished out of their sight.

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was tooconsistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that itwas his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take hiswatch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance ofseeing it; for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance didnot come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, andthough it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. And hewaited with impatience for the coming of night.

When night came he took his stand with Horatio, and Marcellus, one ofthe guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was accustomed towalk: and it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and nipping,Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell into some talk about thecoldness of the night, which was suddenly broken off by Horatioannouncing that the ghost was coming.

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a suddensurprise and fear. He at first called upon the angels and heavenlyministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were a good spiritor bad; whether it came for good or evil: but he gradually assumed morecourage; and his father (as it seemed to him) looked upon him sopiteously, and as it were desiring to have conversation with him, anddid 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 reasonwhy he had left his grave, where they had seen him quietly bestowed, tocome again and visit the earth and the moonlight: and besought him thathe would let them know if there was anything which they could do togive peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that heshould go with him to some more removed place, where they might bealone; and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded the young princefrom 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 somedreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape which mightdeprive the prince of his reason. But their counsels and entreatiescould not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared too little about lifeto fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he said, what could thespirit do to that, being a thing immortal as itself? And he felt ashardy as a lion, and bursting from them, who did all they could to holdhim, he followed whithersoever the spirit led him.

And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and toldhim that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruellymurdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done by his ownbrother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already but too muchsuspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That as hewas sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the afternoon, histreasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice ofpoisonous henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy to thelife of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all the veinsof the body, baking up the blood, and spreading a crustlike leprosy allover the skin: thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he was cut off atonce from his crown, his queen, and his life: and he adjured Hamlet, ifhe 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 offfrom virtue, as to prove false to the wedded love of her first husband,and to marry his murderer, but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever heproceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to actany violence against the person of his mother, but to leave her toheaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet promisedto observe the ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost vanished.

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, thatall he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books orobservation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live inhis brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, and enjoinedhim to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversation whichhad passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined both tohim and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen thatnight.

The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses ofHamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind,and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would continueto have this effect, which might subject him to observation, and sethis uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he was meditatinganything against him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his father'sdeath than he professed, took up a strange resolution, from that timeto counterfeit as if he were really and truly mad; thinking that hewould be less an object of suspicion when his uncle should believe himincapable of any serious project, and that his real perturbation ofmind would be best covered and pass concealed under a disguise ofpretended lunacy.

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strangeness inhis apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellentlyconterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both deceived, andnot thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause toproduce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of theghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they thought theyhad found out the object.

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been related, hehad dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius,the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent herletters and rings, and made many tenders of his affection to her, andimportuned her with love in honourable fashion: and she had givenbelief to his vows and importunities. But the melancholy which he fellinto latterly had made him neglect her, and from the time he conceivedthe project of counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her withunkindness, and a sort of rudeness: but she good lady, rather thanreproach him with being false to her, persuaded herself that it wasnothing but the disease in his mind, and no settled unkindness, whichhad made him less observant of her than formerly; and she compared thefaculties of his once noble mind and excellent understanding, impairedas they were with the deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweetbells which in themselves are capable of most exquisite music, but whenjangled out of tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh andunpleasing sound.

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the revenging ofhis father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playfulstate of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion aslove now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughtsof his Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments, when hethought that his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreasonablyharsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts of passion, and inextravagant terms, such as agreed with his supposed madness, but mixedwith some gentle touches of affection, which could not but show to thishonoured lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of hisheart. He bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that thesun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that heloved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Opheliadutifully showed to her father, and the old man thought himself boundto communicate it to the king and queen, who from that time supposedthat the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And the queen wishedthat the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy cause of hiswildness, for so she hoped that her virtues might happily restore himto his accustomed way again, to both their honours.

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be socured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted hisimagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave himno rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him asin, and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass thedeath of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, wasno easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet'smother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon hispurpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the verycircumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him withsome remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere actof putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and terribleto a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His verymelancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in,produced an irresoluteness and wavering of purpose which kept him fromproceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having somescruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was indeedhis father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard haspower to take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed hisfather's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and hismelancholy, 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 uponthan a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion.

While he was in this irresolute mind there came to the court certainplayers, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and particularlyto hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing the death ofold Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba his queen. Hamletwelcomed his old friends, the players, and remembering how that speechhad formerly given him pleasure, requested the player to repeat it;which he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel murder ofthe feeble old king, with the destruction of his people and city byfire, and the mad grief of the old queen, running barefoot up and downthe 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 allthat stood by, who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was itrepresented, but even the player himself delivered it with a brokenvoice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that playercould so work himself up to passion by a mere fictitious speech, toweep for one that he had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead somany hundred years, how dull was he, who having a read motive and cuefor passion, a real king and a dear father murdered, was yet so littlemoved, that his revenge all this while had seemed to have slept in dulland 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 sceneand resemblance of circumstances so affected, that on the spot heconfessed the crime which he had committed. And he determined thatthese players should play something like the murder of his fatherbefore his uncle, and he would watch narrowly what effect it might haveupon him, and from his looks he would be able to gather with morecertainty if he were the murderer or not. To this effect he ordered aplay to be prepared, to the representation of which he invited the kingand queen.

The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a duke. Theduke's name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed how oneLucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned him in his garden forhis estate, and how the murderer in a short time after got the love ofGonzago's wife.

At the representation of this play, the king, who did not know the trapwhich was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the wholecourt: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. Theplay began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, in whichthe lady made many protestations of love, and of never marrying asecond husband, if she should outlive Gonzago; wishing she might beaccursed if she ever took a second husband, and adding that no womandid so, but those wicked women who kill their first husbands. Hamletobserved the king his uncle change colour at this expression, and thatit was as bad as wormwood both to him and to the queen. But whenLucianus, according to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping inthe garden, the strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked actupon the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned in his garden, sostruck upon the conscience of this usurper, that he was unable to sitout the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for lights to hischamber, and affecting or partly feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptlyleft the theatre. The king being departed, the play was given over. NowHamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost weretrue, and no illusion; and in a fit of gaiety, like that which comesover a man who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple resolved, heswore to Horatio, that he would take the ghost's word for a thousandpounds. But before he could make up his resolution as to what measuresof revenge he should take, now he was certainly informed that his unclewas his father's murderer, he was sent for by the queen his mother, toa private conference in her closet.

It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that shemight signify to her son how much his late behaviour had displeasedthem both, and the king, wishing to know all that passed at thatconference, and thinking that the too partial report of a mother mightlet slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might much import theking to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered toplant himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he mightunseen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly adapted tothe disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maximsand policies of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge of mattersin an indirect and cunning way.

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the roundestway with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that he had givengreat offence to his father, meaning the king, his uncle, whom, becausehe had married her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorelyindignant that she should give so dear and honoured a name as fatherseemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no better than the murdererof his true father, with some sharpness replied: 'Mother, you have muchoffended my father.' The queen said that was but an idle answer. 'Asgood as the question deserved,' said Hamlet. The queen asked him if hehad forgotten who it was he was speaking to? 'Alas!' replied Hamlet, 'Iwish I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;and you are my mother: I wish you were not what you are.' 'Nay, then,'said the queen, 'if you show me so little respect, I will set those toyou 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 hadtried if his words could not bring her to some sense of her wickedlife; and, taking her by the wrist, he held her fast, and made her sitdown. She, affrighted at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in hislunacy he should do her a mischief, cried out; and a voice was heardfrom behind the hangings: 'Help, help, the queen!' which Hamlethearing, and verily thinking that it was the king himself thereconcealed, he drew his sword and stabbed at the place where the voicecame from, as he would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till thevoice ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But when he draggedfor the body, it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officiouscounsellor, that had planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. 'Ohme!' exclaimed the queen, 'what a rash and bloody deed have you done!''A bloody deed, mother,' replied Hamlet, 'but not so bad as yours, whokilled a king, and married his brother.' Hamlet had gone too far toleave off here. He was now in the humour to speak plainly to hismother, and he pursued it. And though the faults of parents are to betenderly treated by their children, yet in the case of great crimes theson 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 herwicked ways, and not done for the purpose of upbraiding. And now thisvirtuous prince did in moving terms represent to the queen theheinousness of her offence, in being so forgetful of the dead king, hisfather, as in so short a space of time to marry with his brother andreputed murderer: such an act as, after the vows which she had sworn toher first husband was enough to make all vows of women suspected, andail virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding contracts to be less thangamesters' oaths, and religion to be a mockery and a mere form ofwords. He said she had done such a deed, that the heavens blushed atit, and the earth was sick of her because of it. And he showed her twopictures, the one of the late king, her first husband, and the other ofthe present king, her second husband, and he bade her mark thedifference; what a grace was on the brow of his father, how like a godhe looked! the curls of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, the eye ofMars, and a posture like to Mercury newly alighted on someheaven-kissing hill! this man, he said, had been her husband. And thenhe showed her whom she had got in his stead: how like a blight or amildew he looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome brother. And thequeen was sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon hersoul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked her how shecould continue to live with this man, and be a wife to him, who hadmurdered her first husband, and got the crown by as false means as athief—and just as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was inhis lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered the room, andHamlet, in great terror, asked what it would have; and the ghost saidthat it came to remind him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamletseemed to have forgot; and the ghost bade him speak to his mother, forthe 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 whereit stood, or by any description, make his mother perceive it; who wasterribly frightened all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemedto 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 manneras to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences, whichhad brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade herfeel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And hebegged of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what waspast, and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be nomore as a wife to him: and when she should show herself a mother tohim, by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a blessing of heras a son. And she promising to observe his directions, the conferenceended.

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in hisunfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it wasPolonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, hedrew 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 presence for sendingHamlet 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 presence of providing for Hamlet's safety,that he might not be called to account for Polonius' death, caused himto be conveyed on board a ship bound for England, under the care of twocourtiers, by whom he despatched letters to the English court, which inthat time was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring forspecial reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to death assoon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery,in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and skilfully erasinghis own name, he in the stead of it put in the names of those twocourtiers, who had the charge of him, to be put to death: then sealingup the letters, he put them into their place again. Soon after the shipwas attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight commenced; in the course ofwhich Hamlet, desirous to show his valour, with sword in hand singlyboarded 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 bestof their way to England, charged with those letters the sense of whichHamlet had altered to their own deserved destruction.

The pirates, who had the prince in their power, showed themselvesgentle enemies; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the hopethat the prince might do them a good turn at court in recompense forany favour they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore at the nearestport in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquaintinghim with the strange chance which had brought him back to his owncountry, and saying that on the next day he should present himselfbefore his majesty. When he got home, a sad spectacle offered itselfthe first thing to his eyes.

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once dearmistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever since herpoor father's death. That he should die a violent death, and by thehands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this tender young maid,that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and would go aboutgiving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and saying that theywere 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 ofwhat happened to her. There was a willow which grew slanting over abrook, and reflected its leaves on the stream. To this brook she cameone day when she was unwatched, with garlands she had been making,mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds together, andclambering up to hang her garland upon the boughs of the willow, abough broke, and precipitated this fair young maid, garland, and allthat she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes bore her upfor a while, during which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like oneinsensible to her own distress, or as if she were a creature natural tothat element: but long it was not before her garments, heavy with thewet, pulled her in from her melodious singing to a muddy and miserabledeath. It was the funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laerteswas celebrating, the king and queen and whole court being present, whenHamlet arrived. He knew not what all this show imported, but stood onone side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowersstrewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, which thequeen herself threw in; and as she threw them she said: 'Sweets to thesweet! I thought to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not to havestrewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife.' And heheard her brother wish that violets might spring from her grave: and hesaw him leap into the grave all frantic with grief, and bid theattendants pile mountains of earth upon him, that he might be buriedwith her. And Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to him, and hecould not bear that a brother should show so much transport of grief,for he thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousandbrothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped into the grave whereLaertes was, all as frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertesknowing him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father's andhis sister's death, grappled him by the throat as an enemy, till theattendants parted them: and Hamlet, after the funeral, excused hishasty 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 ingrief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And for the time these twonoble youths seemed reconciled.

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his fatherand Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction forHamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and reconciliation, tochallenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which Hamletaccepting, a day was appointed to try the match. At this match all thecourt was present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, prepared apoisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers were laid by thecourtiers, as both Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at this swordplay; and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one, not at all suspectingthe treachery of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes' weapon,who, instead of a foil or blunted sword, which the laws of fencingrequire, made use of one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertesdid 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 atHamlet with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamletincensed, but not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffleexchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and with athrust of Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes home, who was thus justlycaught in his own treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked outthat she was poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk out of a bowl whichthe king had prepared for Hamlet, in case, that being warm in fencing,he should call for drink: into this the treacherous king had infused adeadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He hadforgotten to warn the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, andimmediately died, exclaiming with her last breath that she waspoisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to beshut, while he sought it out. Laertes told him to seek no farther forhe was the traitor, and feeling his life go away with the wound whichHamlet had given him, he made confession of the treachery he had used,and now he had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of theenvenomed point, and said that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, forno medicine could cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died,with his last words accusing the king of being the contriver of themischief. When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being yet some venomleft upon the sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle, andthrust the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the promise which hehad made to his father's spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished,and his foul murder revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feelinghis breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio,who had been spectator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breathrequested him that he would live to tell his story to the world (forHoratio had made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany theprince in death), and Horatio promised that he would make a truereport, as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And, thussatisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet cracked; and Horatio and thebystanders with many tears commended the spirit of this sweet prince tothe guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentleprince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and princelikequalities; and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most royaland complete king to Denmark.

OTHELLO

Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daughter, the gentleDesdemona. She was sought to by divers suitors, both on account of hermany virtuous qualities, and for her rich expectations. But among thesuitors of her own clime and complexion, she saw none whom she couldaffect: for this noble lady, who regarded the mind more than thefeatures of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than imitated,had chosen for the object of her affections, a Moor, a black, whom herfather loved, and often invited to his house.

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuitablenessof the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that Othello wasblack, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might recommend him to theaffections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, and a brave one; andby his conduct in bloody wars against the Turks, had risen to the rankof general in the Venetian service, and was esteemed and trusted by thestate.

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 runthrough from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, andencounters, which he had passed through; the perils he had been exposedto by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he had entereda breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had beentaken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to slavery; how hedemeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped: all these accounts,added to the narration of the strange things he had seen in foreigncountries, the vast wilderness and romantic caverns, the quarries, therocks and mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; of the savagenations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people inAfrica whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders: these travellers'stories would so enchain the attention of Desdemona, that if she werecalled off at any time by household affairs, she would despatch withall haste that business, and return, and with a greedy ear devourOthello's discourse. And once he took advantage of a pliant hour, anddrew from her a prayer, that he would tell her the whole story of hislife at large, of which she had heard so much, but only by parts: towhich he consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when he spoke ofsome distressful stroke which his youth had suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs: sheswore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful,wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet shewished 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 teachhim how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint,delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied withcertain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not butunderstand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this goldenopportunity gained the consent of the generous lady Desdemona privatelyto marry him.

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such that it could behoped Brabantio would accept him for a con-in-law. He had left hisdaughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetianladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank orexpectations; but in this he was deceived; Desdemona loved the Moor,though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiantparts and qualities; so was her heart subdued to an implicit devotionto the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, whichto all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountableobjection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clearcomplexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors.

Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long be kepta secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in asolemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor Othello, who byspells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of thefair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of her father, andagainst the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice hadimmediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that theTurks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was bendingits course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that strongpost from the Venetians, who then held it; in this emergency the stateturned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate to conductthe defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that Othello, now summonedbefore the senate, stood in their presence at once as a candidate for agreat state employment, and as a culprit, charged with offences whichby the laws of Venice were made capital.

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio, commanded a mostpatient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed fatherconducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producinglikelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was calledupon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the courseof his love; which he did with such an artless eloquence, recountingthe whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, anddelivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of truth),that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help confessing that atale so told would have won his daughter too: and the spells andconjurations which Othello had used in his courtship, plainly appearedto have been no more than the honest arts of men in love; and the onlywitchcraft which he had used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to wina lady's ear.

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the ladyDesdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to herfather for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a yethigher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother hadshown in preferring him (Brabantio) above her father.

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to himwith many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, bestowedupon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her (hetold him), he would with all his heart have kept from him; adding, thathe was glad at soul that he had no other child, for this behaviour ofDesdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on themfor her desertion.

This difficulty being got over. Othello, to whom custom had renderedthe hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest are toother men, readily undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus: andDesdemona, preferring the honour of her lord (though with danger)before the indulgence of those idle delights in which new-marriedpeople usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going.

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than newsarrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, andthus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of anattack. 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 ofOthello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young soldier,a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favouritequalities with women; he was handsome and eloquent, and exactly such aperson as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced in years (asOthello in some measure was), who had married a young and beautifulwife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as he was noble, and asincapable of suspecting as of doing a base action. He had employed thisCassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort ofgo-between in his suit: for Othello, fearing that himself had not thosesoft parts of conversation which please ladies, and finding thesequalities in his friend, would often depute Cassio to go (as he phrasedit) a courting for him: such innocent simplicity being rather an honourthan a blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So that no wonder,if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as beseems a virtuouswife) the gentle Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had themarriage of this couple made any difference in their behaviour toMichael Cassio. He frequented their house, and his free and rattlingtalk was no unpleasing variety to Othello, who was himself of a moreserious temper: for such tempers are observed often to delight in theircontraries, as a relief from the oppressive excess of their own: andDesdemona and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the days whenhe went a courting for his friend.

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieutenant, a place oftrust, and nearest to the general's person. This promotion gave greatoffence to Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better claimthan Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fellow fit only forthe company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the art of war orhow to set an army in array for battle, than a girl. Iago hated Cassio,and he hated Othello, as well for favouring Cassio, as for an unjustsuspicion, which he had lightly taken up against Othello that the Moorwas too fond of Iago's wife Emilia. From these imaginary provocations,the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme of revenge, whichshould involve both Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin.

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he knew thatof all the torments which afflict the mind of man (and far beyondbodily torture), the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, andhad the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making Othello jealous ofCassio, he thought it would be an exquisite plot of revenge, and mightend in the death of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not.

The arrival of the general and his lady, in Cyprus, meeting with thenews of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday inthe island. Everybody gave themselves up to feasting and making merry.Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went round to the health of theblack Othello, and his lady the fair Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge fromOthello to keep the soldier from excess in drinking, that no brawlmight arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with thenew-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans ofmischief: under colour of loyalty and love to the general, he enticedCassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in anofficer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not longhold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how to put on, butkept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied him with drinkand encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of thelady Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she wasa most exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which he put into hismouth stole away his brains; and upon some provocation given him by afellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthyofficer, who interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in thescuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who had set onfoot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing thecastle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slightdrunken quarrel had arisen): the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello,who, dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questionedCassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of thewine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply; andIago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it were,forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave anaccount of the whole matter (leaving out his own share in it, whichCassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner, as while heseemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it appear greaterthan it was. The result was, that Othello, who was a strict observer ofdiscipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's place of lieutenantfrom him.

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; he had nowundermined his hated rival, and thrust him out of his place: but afurther use was hereafter to be made of the adventure of thisdisastrous night.

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented to hisseeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as totransform himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask thegeneral for his place again? he would tell him he was a drunkard. Hedespised himself. Iago, affecting to make light of it, said, that he,or any man living, might be drunk upon occasion; it remained now tomake the best of a bad bargain; the general's wife was now the general,and could do anything with Othello; that he were best to apply to thelady Desdemona to mediate for him with her lord; that she was of afrank, obliging disposition, and would readily undertake a good officeof this sort, and set Cassio right again in the general's favour; andthen this crack in their love would be made stronger than ever. A goodadvice of Iago, if it had not been given for wicked purposes, whichwill after appear.

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the ladyDesdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and shepromised Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord, andrather die than give up his cause. This she immediately set about in soearnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally offendedwith Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, and that itwas too soon to pardon such an offender, she would not be beat back,but insisted that it should be the next night, or the morning after, orthe next morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how penitent andhumbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharpa check. And when Othello still hung back: 'What! my lord,' said she,'that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio,that came a courting for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken indispraise of you, has taken your part! I count this but a little thingto ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask aweighty matter.' Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and onlyrequesting that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised toreceive Michael Cassio again in favour.

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room whereDesdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her intercession,was departing at the opposite door: and Iago, who was full of art, saidin a low voice, as if to himself: 'I like not that.' Othello took nogreat notice of what he said; indeed, the conference which immediatelytook place with his lady put it out of his head; but he remembered itafterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for meresatisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello whether Michael Cassio,when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this thegeneral answering in the affirmative, and adding, that he had gonebetween them very often during the courtship, Iago knitted his brow, asif he had got fresh light on some terrible matter, and cried: 'Indeed!'This brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago had let fall uponentering the room, and seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began tothink there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be ajust man, and full of love and honesty, and what in a false knave wouldbe tricks, in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind,big with something too great for utterance: and Othello prayed Iago tospeak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words. 'And what,'said Iago, 'if some thoughts very vile should have intruded into mybreast, as where is the palace into which foul things do not enter?'Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if any trouble shouldarise to Othello out of his imperfect observations; that it would notbe for Othello's peace to know his thoughts; that people's good nameswere not to be taken away for slight suspicions; and when Othello'scuriosity was raised almost to distraction with these hints andscattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care for Othello's peace ofmind, besought him to beware of jealousy: with such art did thisvillain raise suspicions in the unguarded Othello, by the very cautionwhich he pretended to give him against suspicion. 'I know,' saidOthello, 'that my wife is fair, loves company and feasting, is free ofspeech, sings, plays, and dances well: but where virtue is, thesequalities are virtuous. I must have proof before I think herdishonest.' Then Iago, as if glad that Othello was slow to believe illof his lady, frankly declared that he had no proof, but begged Othelloto observe her behaviour well, when Cassio was by; not to be jealousnor too secure neither, for that he (Iago) knew the dispositions of theItalian ladies, his countrywomen, better than Othello could do; andthat in Venice the wives let heaven see many pranks they dared not showtheir husbands. Then he artfully insinuated that Desdemona deceived herfather in marrying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that thepoor old man thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was muchmoved with this argument, which brought the matter home to him, for ifshe had deceived her father, why might she not deceive her husband?

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assuming anindifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at Iago'swords, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as ifunwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he called hisfriend: he then came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello howDesdemona had refused many suitable matches of her own clime andcomplexion, and had married him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her,and proved her to have a headstrong will; and when her better judgmentreturned, how probable it was she should fall upon comparing Othellowith the fine forms and clear white complexions of the young Italiansher countrymen. He concluded with advising Othello to put off hisreconcilement with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile to notewith what earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his behalf; forthat much would be seen in that. So mischievously did this artfulvillain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of this innocentlady into her destruction, and make a net for her out of her owngoodness to entrap her: first setting Cassio on to entreat hermediation, and then out of that very mediation contriving stratagemsfor her ruin.

The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello to account his wifeinnocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello promised to bepatient; but from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted contentof mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor all the sleepingpotions in the world, could ever again restore to him that sweet rest,which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation sickened upon him.He no longer took delight in arms. His heart, that used to be roused atthe sight of troops, and banners, and battle-array, and would stir andleap at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse,seemed to have lost all that pride and ambition which are a soldier'svirtue; and his military ardour and all his old joys forsook him.Sometimes he thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her notso; sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he thought him not so;then he would wish that he had never known of it; he was not the worsefor her loving Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn to pieces withthese distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's throat, anddemanded proof of Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death forhis having belied her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honestyshould be taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seena handkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othelloanswered, that he had given her such a one, and that it was his firstgift. 'That same handkerchief,' said Iago, 'did I see Michael Cassiothis day wipe his face with.' 'If it be as you say,' said Othello, 'Iwill not rest till a wide revenge swallow them up: and first, for atoken of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put to deathwithin three days; and for that fair devil (meaning his lady), I willwithdraw and devise some swift means of death for her.'

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ.A handkerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive enoughto the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them both.without once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never givensuch a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have wronged herlord with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presents to anotherman; both Cassio and Desdemona were innocent of any offence againstOthello: but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivanceof villainy, had made his wife (a good, but a weak woman) steal thishandkerchief from Desdemona, under presence of getting the work copied,but in reality to drop it in Cassio's way, where he might find it, andgive a handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's present.

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a headache(as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend him herhandkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. 'Not this,' saidOthello, 'but that handkerchief I gave you.' Desdemona had it not abouther (for indeed it was stolen, as we have related). 'How?' saidOthello, 'this is a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian womangave to my mother; the woman was a witch and could read people'sthoughts: she told my mother, while she kept it, it would make heramiable, and my father would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave itaway, my father's fancy would turn, and he would loathe her as much ashe had loved her. She dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I evermarried, to give it to my wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it adarling as precious as your eye.' 'It is possible?' said the frightedlady. 'Tis true,' continued Othello 'it is a magical handkerchief; asibyl that had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit ofprophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that furnished the silk werehallowed, and it was dyed in a mummy of maidens' hearts conserved.'Desdemona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was readyto die with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and withit, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello started,and looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and still hedemanded the handkerchief, which when she could not produce, she triedto divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and cheerfully toldhim she saw all his talk about the handkerchief was only to put her offfrom her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she went on to praise (as Iagohad foretold), till Othello in perfect distraction burst out of theroom, and then Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to suspect that herlord was jealous.

What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then sheaccused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be surethat some untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles had puddledhis spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And shesaid: 'Men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance fromthem when they are married, which they show us on the bridal day.' Andshe beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness.

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly ofbeing unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom:and Othello wept, and Desdemona said: 'Alas! the heavy day! why do youweep?' And Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of evilswith fortitude—poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelityhad broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that looked so fair,and smelled so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she hadnever been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was sostupefied with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that aweight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant tomake her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that whenpeople teach their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks,and Othello might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but achild when she was chidden. And this was all the complaint which thisgentle lady made.

Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow her,soon fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, whenOthello entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he hadmeditated of putting his lady to death. But when he saw her asleep, hethought he would not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers,more white than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die; else (ashe said) she would live to betray more men, as she had done him. Thenhe kissed her for the last time (as he said), and that kiss was sosweet, that he must needs kiss her again: and he wept, but he said theywere cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon Othello,and she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew hewas always fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death,and to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And thisinnocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion, and toknow her fault, and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief which(he said) she had given him; and as the guiltless lady was proceedingto clear herself he suddenly would hear no more, but covering her up inthe bed-clothes, stifled her till she died.

In this instant of time was brought into the house Cassio, wounded andbleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on to assassinate; butthe fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom hewounded, but not mortally), and being himself killed by Iago to preventdiscovery, in his pockets were found certain letters, which made theguilt of Iago, and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; andCassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he hadoffended him, that he had employed Iago to murder him.

This discovery was as thunderstroke to Othello, who now plainly sawthat he was no better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor innocentlady) had been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of whichdiscovery making life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, andthrowing himself upon the body of his dear injured lady, expired.

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in thebystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he waswrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature nevergave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. He hadloved not wisely, but too well; and his manly eyes (when he learned hismistake), though not used to weep on every small occasion, droppedtears as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead allhis former merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing nowremained for his successor but to put the utmost censure of the law inforce against Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to sendword to the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renownedgeneral.

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

Pericles, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his dominions,to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor ofGreece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, inrevenge for a discovery which the prince had made of a shocking deedwhich the emperor had done in secret; as commonly it proves dangerousto pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the government ofhis people in the hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus,Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrathof Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased.

The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tarsus, andhearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering under asevere famine, he took with him store of provisions for its relief. Onhis arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost distress; and, hecoming like a messenger from heaven with his unhoped-for succour,Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks.Pericles had not been here many days, before letters came from hisfaithful minister, warning him that it was not safe for him to stay atTarsus, for Antiochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissariesdespatched for that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of theseletters Pericles put out to sea again, amidst the blessings and prayersof a whole people who had been fed by his bounty.

He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by a dreadful storm,and every man on board perished except Pericles, who was cast by thesea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not wandered longbefore he met with some poor fishermen, who invited him to their homes,giving him clothes and provisions. The fishermen told Pericles the nameof their country was Pentapolis, and that their king was Simonides,commonly called the good Simonides, because of his peaceable reign andgood government. From them he also learned that king Simonides had afair young daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, whena grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knightsbeing come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love ofThaisa, this fair princess. While the prince was listening to thisaccount, and secretly lamenting the loss of his good armour, whichdisabled him from making one among these valiant knights, anotherfisherman brought in a complete suit of armour that he had taken out ofthe sea with his fishing-net, which proved to be the very armour he hadlost. When Pericles beheld his own armour, he said: 'Thanks, Fortune;after all my crosses you give me somewhat to repair myself. This armourwas bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have soloved it that whithersoever I went, I still have kept it by me, and therough sea that parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given itback again, for which I thank it for, since I have my father's giftagain, I think my shipwreck no misfortune.'

The next day Pericles clad in his brave father's armour, repaired tothe royal court of Simonides, where he performed wonders at thetournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and valiantprinces who contended with him in arms for the honour of Thaisa's love.When brave warriors contended at court tournaments for the love ofking's daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest, it wasusual for the great lady for whose sake these deeds of valour wereundertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisadid not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed all theprinces and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished himby her especial favour and regard, crowning him with the wrath ofvictory, as king of that day's happiness; and Pericles became a mostpassionate lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment hebeheld her.

The good Simonides so well approved of the valour and noble qualitiesof Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and welllearned in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of thisroyal stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that he wasa private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Simonides disdain to acceptof the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived hisdaughter's affections were firmly fixed upon him.

Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he receivedintelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead, and that his subjectsof Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, andtalked of placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. This news came fromHelicanus himself, who, being a loyal subject to his royal master,would not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to letPericles know their intentions, that he might return home and resumehis lawful right. It was matter of great surprise and joy to Simonides,to kind that his son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renownedprince of Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was not the privategentleman he supposed him to be, seeing that he must now part both withhis admired son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared totrust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with child; andPericles himself wished her to remain with her father till after herconfinement, but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with herhusband, that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyrebefore she was brought to bed.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long beforethey reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrifiedThaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurseLychorida came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell theprince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little babewas born. She held the babe towards its father, saying: 'Here is athing too young for such a place. This is the child of your deadqueen.' No tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when heheard his wife was dead. As soon as he could speak, he said: 'O yougods, why do you make us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch thosegifts away?' 'Patience, good sir,' said Lychorida, 'here is all that isleft alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your child'ssake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of thisprecious charge.' Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, and hesaid to the little babe: 'Now may your life be mild, for a moreblusterous birth had never babe! May your condition be mild and gentle,for you have had the rudest welcome that ever prince's child did meetwith! May that which follows be happy, for you have had as chiding anativity as fire, air, water, earth, and heaven could make to heraldyou from the womb! Even at the first, your loss,' meaning in the deathof her mother, 'is more than all the joys, which you shall find uponthis earth to which you are come a new visitor, shall be able torecompense.'

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having asuperstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the stormwould never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queenshould be thrown overboard; and they said: 'What courage, sir? God saveyou!' 'Courage enough,' said the sorrowing prince: 'I do not fear thestorm; it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this poorinfant, this fresh new seafarer, I wish the storm was over.' 'Sir,'said the sailors, 'your queen must overboard. The sea works high, thewind is loud, and the storm will not abate till the ship be cleared ofthe dead.' Though Pericles knew how weak and unfounded thissuperstition was, yet he patiently submitted, saying: 'As you thinkmeet. Then she must overboard, most wretched queen!' And now thisunhappy prince went to take a last view of his dear wife, and as helooked on his Thaisa, he said: 'A terrible childbed hast thou had, mydear; no light, no fire; the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly,nor have I time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast theescarcely coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones thehumming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells. OLychorida, bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and myjewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe uponthe pillow, and go about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say apriestly farewell to my Thaisa.'

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped in a satinshroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed overher, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, tellingwho she was, and praying if haply any one should kind the chest whichcontained the body of his wife, they would give her burial: and thenwith his own hands he cast the chest into the sea. When the storm wasover, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tarsus. 'For,' saidPericles, 'the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre. At Tarsus Iwill leave it at careful nursing.'

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was thrown into the sea, andwhile it was yet early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman ofEphesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side,his servants brought to him a chest, which they said the sea-waves hadthrown on the land. 'I never saw,' said one of them, 'so huge a billowas cast it on our shore.' Cerimon ordered the chest to be conveyed tohis own house and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body ofa young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casketof jewels made him conclude it was some great person who was thusstrangely entombed: searching farther, he discovered a paper, fromwhich he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had beena queen, and wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring at thestrangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband who had lostthis sweet lady, he said: 'If you are living, Pericles, you have aheart that even cracks with woe.' Then observing attentively Thaisa'sface, he saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and he said:'They were too hasty that threw you into the sea': for he did notbelieve her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and propercordials to be brought, and soft music to be played, which might helpto calm her amazed spirits if she should revive; and he said to thosewho crowded round her, wondering at what they saw: 'I pray you,gentlemen, give her air; this queen will live; she has not beenentranced above five hours; and see, she begins to blow into lifeagain; she is alive; behold, her eyelids move; this fair creature willlive to make us weep to hear her fate.' Thaisa had never died, butafter the birth of her little baby had fallen into a deep swoon, whichmade all that saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by the care ofthis kind gentleman she once more revived to light and life; andopening her eyes, she said: 'Where am I? Where is my lord? What worldis this?' By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what hadbefallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to bear thesight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, and the jewels;and she looked on the paper, and said: 'It is my lord's writing. That Iwas shipped at sea, I well remember, but whether there delivered of mybabe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say; but since my wedded lord Inever shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery, and never morehave joy.' 'Madam,' said Cerimon, 'if you purpose as you speak, thetemple of Diana is not far distant from hence; there you may abide as avestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attendyou.' This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and when shewas perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana,where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed herdays in sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and in the mostdevout exercises of those times.

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, because shewas born at sea) to Tarsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, thegovernor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the good hehad done to them at the time of their famine, they would be kind to hislittle motherless daughter. When Cleon saw prince Pericles, and heardof the great loss which had befallen him, he said: 'O your sweet queen,that it had pleased Heaven you could have brought her hither to haveblessed my eyes with the sight of her!' Pericles replied: 'We must obeythe powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which myThaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here,I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant of yourcare, beseeching you to give her princely training.' And then turningto Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said: 'Good madam, make me blessed inyour care in bringing up my child': and she answered: 'I have a childmyself who shall not be more dear to my respect than yours, my lord';and Cleon made the like promise, saying: 'Your noble services, princePericles, in feeding my whole people with your corn (for which in theirprayers they daily remember you) must in your child be thought on. If Ishould neglect your child, my whole people that were by you relievedwould force me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the godsrevenge it on me and mine to the end of generation.' Pericles beingthus assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her tothe protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left thenurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina knew not herloss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her royal master. 'O, notears, Lychorida,' said Pericles: 'no tears; look to your littlemistress, on whose grace you may depend hereafter.'

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more settled in thequiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he thoughtdead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom this haplessmother had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner suitable toher high birth. He gave her the most careful education, so that by thetime Marina attained the age of fourteen years, the most deeply-learnedmen were not more studied in the learning of those times than wasMarina. She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddesslike, and withher needle she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's ownshapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcelymore like to each other than they were to Marina's silken flowers. Butwhen she had gained from education all these graces, which made her thegeneral wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her mortal enemyfrom jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, from the slowness ofher mind, was not able to attain to that perfection wherein Marinaexcelled: and finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, whilsther daughter, who was of the same age, and had been educated with thesame care as Marina, though not with the same success, was incomparison disregarded, she formed a project to remove Marina out ofthe way, vainly imagining that her untoward daughter would be morerespected when Marina was no more seen. To encompass this she employeda man to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked design, whenLychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was discoursingwith the man she had commanded to commit this murder, when the youngMarina was weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leonine, the man sheemployed to do this bad deed, though he was a very wicked man, couldhardly be persuaded to undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts tolove her. He said: 'She is a goodly creature!' 'The tatter then thegods should have her,' replied her merciless enemy: 'here she comesweeping for the death of her nurse Lychorida: are you resolved to obeyme?' Leonine, fearing to disobey her, replied: 'I am resolved.' And so,in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina doomed to anuntimely death. She now approached, with a basket of flowers in herhand, which she said she would daily strew over the grave of goodLychorida. The purple violet and the marigold should as a carpet hangupon her grave, while summer days did last. 'Alas, for me!' she said,'poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother died. This worldto me is like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends.' 'How now,Marina,' said the dissembling Dionysia, 'do you weep alone? How does itchance my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for Lychorida, youhave a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite changed with this unprofitablewoe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will spoil them; and walkwith Leonine: the air is fine, and will enliven you. Come, Leonine,take her by the arm, and walk with her.' 'No, madam,' said Marina, 'Ipray you let me not deprive you of your servant': for Leonine was oneof Dionysia's attendants. 'Come, come,' said this artful woman, whowished for a presence to leave her alone with Leonine, 'I love theprince, your father, and I love you. We every day expect your fatherhere; and when he comes, and finds you so changed by grief from theparagon of beauty we reported you, he will think we have taken no careof you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again. Be careful ofthat excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young.'Marina, being thus importuned, said: 'Well, I will go, but yet I haveno desire to it.' As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine:'Remember what I have said!'—shocking words, for their meaning wasthat he should remember to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said: 'Is the windwesterly that blows?' 'South-west,' replied Leonine. 'When I was bornthe wind was north,' said she: and then the storm and tempest, and allher father's sorrows, and her mother's death, came full into her mind;and she said: 'My father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, butcried, Courage, good seamen, to the sailors, galling his princely handswith the ropes, and, clasping to the masts, he endured a sea thatalmost split the deck.' 'When was this?' said Leonine. 'When I wasborn,' replied Marina: 'never were wind and waves more violent'; andthen she described the storm, the action of the sailors, theboatswain's whistle, and the loud call of the master, 'which,' saidshe, 'trebled the confusion of the ship.' Lychorida had so oftenrecounted to Marina the story of her hapless birth that these thingsseemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine interruptedher with desiring her to say her prayers. 'What mean you?' said Marina,who began to fear, she knew not why. 'If you require a little space forprayer, I grant it,' said Leonine; 'but be not tedious, the gods arequick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste.' 'Will you killme?' said Marina: 'alas! why?' 'To satisfy my lady,' replied Leonine.'Why would she have me killed?' said Marina: 'now, as I can remember, Inever hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word, nor did any illturn to any living creature. Believe me now, I never killed a mouse,nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against my will, but I wept forit. How have I offended?' The murderer replied: 'My commission is notto reason on the deed, but to do it.' And he was just going to killher, when certain pirates happened to land at that very moment, whoseeing Marina, bore her off as a prize to their ship.

The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Mitylene, andsold her for a slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marinasoon became known throughout the whole city of Mitylene for her beautyand her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold became rich by themoney she earned for him. She taught music, dancing, and fineneedleworks, and the money she got by her scholars she gave to hermaster and mistress; and the fame of her learning and her greatindustry came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who wasgovernor of Mitylene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house whereMarina dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the citypraised so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyondmeasure, for though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he didnot expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, ashe perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he hoped she wouldpersevere in her industrious and virtuous course, and that if ever sheheard from him again it should be for her good. Lysimachus thoughtMarina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellentqualities, as well as for beauty and all outward graces, that he wishedto marry her, and notwithstanding her humble situation, he hoped tofind that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked her parentageshe would sit still and weep.

Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing the anger of Dionysia, told herhe had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out that she was dead,and made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately monument;and shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his royal ministerHelicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tarsus, on purpose to see hisdaughter, intending to take her home with him: and he never havingbeheld her since he left her an infant in the care of Cleon and hiswife, how did this good prince rejoice at the thought of seeing thisdear child of his buried queen! but when they told him Marina was dead,and showed the monument they had erected for her, great was the miserythis most wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sightof that country where his last hope and only memory of his dear Thaisawas entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from Tarsus. From theday he entered the ship a dull and heavy melancholy seized him. Henever spoke, and seemed totally insensible to everything around him.

Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by Mitylene,where Marina dwelt; the governor of which place, Lysimachus, observingthis royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing who was onboard, went in a barge to the side of the ship, to satisfy hiscuriosity. Helicanus received him very courteously and told him thatthe ship came from Tyre, and that they were conducting thitherPericles, their prince; 'A man, sir,' said Helicanus, 'who has notspoken to any one these three months, nor taken any sustenance, butjust to prolong his grief; it would be tedious to repeat the wholeground of his distemper, but the main springs from the loss of abeloved daughter and a wife.' Lysimachus begged to see this afflictedprince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodlyperson, and he said to him: 'Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you,hail, royal sir!' But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him; Pericles made noanswer, nor did he appear to perceive any stranger approached. And thenLysimachus bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, that haply withher sweet tongue she might win some answer from the silent prince: andwith the consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and when she enteredthe ship in which her own father sat motionless with grief, theywelcomed her on board as if they had known she was their princess; andthey cried: 'She is a gallant lady.' Lysimachus was well pleased tohear their commendations, and he said: 'She is such a one, that were Iwell assured she came of noble birth, I would wish no better choice,and think me rarely blessed in a wife.' And then he addressed her incourtly terms, as if the lowly-seeming maid had been the high-born ladyhe wished to kind her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina, tellingher a great prince on board that ship had fallen into a sad andmournful silence; and, as if Marina had the power of conferring healthand felicity, he begged she would undertake to cure the royal strangerof his melancholy. 'Sir,' said Marina, 'I will use my utmost skill inhis recovery, provided none but I and my maid be suffered to come nearhim.'

She, who at Mitylene had so carefully concealed her birth, ashamed totell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to speakto Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him fromwhat a high estate herself had fallen. As if she had known it was herroyal father she stood before, all the words she spoke were of her ownsorrows; but her reason for so doing was, that she knew nothing morewins the attention of the unfortunate than the recital of some sadcalamity to match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused thedrooping prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixedand motionless; and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother,presented to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. Thelong-silent prince was once more heard to speak. 'My dearest wife,'said the awakened Pericles, 'was like this maid, and such a one mightmy daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her stature to an inch,as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as jewel-like. Wheredo you live, young maid? Report your parentage. I think you said youhad been tossed from wrong to injury, and that you thought your griefswould equal mine, if both were opened.' 'Some such thing I said,'replied Marina, 'and said no more than what my thoughts did warrant meas likely.' 'Tell me your story,' answered Pericles; 'if I find youhave known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have borne yoursorrows like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do looklike Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling extremity out ofact. How lost you your name, my most kind virgin? Recount your story Ibeseech you. Come, sit by me.' How was Pericles surprised when she saidher name was Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, but had beeninvented by himself for his own child to signify seaborn: 'O, I ammocked,' said he, 'and you are sent hither by some incensed god to makethe world laugh at me.' 'Patience, good sir,' said Marina, 'or I mustcease here.' 'Nay,' said Pericles, 'I will be patient; you little knowhow you do startle me, to call yourself Marina.' 'The name,' shereplied, 'was given me by one that had some power, my father, and aking.' 'How, a king's daughter!' said Pericles, 'and called Marina! Butare you flesh and blood? Are you no fairy? Speak on; where were youborn? and wherefore called Marina?' She replied: 'I was called Marina,because I was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a king; shedied the minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has often toldme weeping. The king, my father, left me at Tarsus, till the cruel wifeof Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me,and brought me here to Mitylene. But, good sir, why do you weep? It maybe, you think me an impostor. But, indeed, sir, I am the daughter toking Pericles, if good king Pericles be living.' Then Pericles,terrified as he seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if thiscould be real, loudly called for his attendants, who rejoiced at thesound of their beloved king's voice; and he said to Helicanus: 'OHelicanus, strike me, give me a gash, put me to present pain, lest thisgreat sea of joys rushing upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality.O, come hither, thou that west born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and foundat sea again. O Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy gods!This is Marina. Now blessings on thee, my child! Give me freshgarments, mine own Helicanus! She is not dead at Tarsus as she shouldhave been by the savage Dionysia. She shall tell you all, when youshall kneel to her and call her your very princess. Who is this?'(observing Lysimachus for the first time). 'Sir,' said Helicanus, 'itis the governor of Mitylene, who, hearing of your melancholy, came tosee you.' 'I embrace you, sir,' said Pericles. 'Give me my robes! I amwild with beholding—O heaven bless my girl! But hark, what music isthat?'—for now, either sent by some kind god, or by his own delightedfancy deceived, he seemed to hear soft music. 'My lord, I hear none,'replied Helicanus. 'None?' said Pericles; 'why it is the music of thespheres.' As there was no music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded thatthe sudden joy had unsettled the prince's understanding; and he said:'It is not good to cross him: let him have his way': and then they toldhim they heard the music; and he now complaining of a drowsy slumbercoming over him, Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a couch, andplacing a pillow under his head, he, quite overpowered with excess ofjoy, sank into a sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by thecouch of her sleeping parent.

While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him resolve to goto Ephesus. His dream was, that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians,appeared to him, and commanded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, andthere before her altar to declare the story of his life andmisfortunes; and by her silver bow she swore, that if he performed herinjunction, he should meet with some rate felicity. When he awoke,being miraculously refreshed, he told his dream, and that hisresolution was to obey the bidding of the goddess.

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, and refresh himselfwith such entertainment as he should find at Mitylene, which courteousoffer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the space of aday or two. During which time we may well suppose what feastings, whatrejoicings, what costly shows and entertainments the governor made inMitylene, to greet the royal father of his dear Marina, whom in herobscure fortunes he had so respected. Nor did Pericles frown uponLysimachus's suit, when he understood how he had honoured his child inthe days of her low estate, and that Marina showed herself not averseto his proposals; only he made it a condition, before he gave hisconsent, that they should visit with him the shrine of the EphesianDiana: to whose temple they shortly after all three undertook a voyage;and, the goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous winds,after a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus.

There was standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles withhis train entered the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged)who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; and Thaisa, nowa priestess of the temple, was standing before the altar; and thoughthe many years he had passed in sorrow for her loss had much alteredPericles, Thaisa thought she knew her husband's features, and when heapproached the altar and began to speak, she remembered his voice, andlistened to his words with wonder and a joyful amazement. And thesewere the words that Pericles spoke before the altar: 'Hail, Diana! toperform thy just commands, I here confess myself the prince of Tyre,who, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa:she died at sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child calledMarina. She at Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at fourteen yearsthought to kill her, but her better stars brought her to Mitylene, bywhose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes brought this maid on board,where by her most clear remembrance she made herself known to be mydaughter.'

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words had raised inher, cried out: 'You are, you are, O royal Pericles'—and fainted.'What means this woman?' said Pericles: 'she dies! gentlemen, help.''Sir,' said Cerimon, 'if you have told Diana's altar true, this is yourwife.' 'Reverend gentleman, no,' said Pericles: 'I threw her overboardwith these very arms.' Cerimon then recounted how, early onetempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore; how,opening the coffin, he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how,happily, he recovered her, and placed her here in Diana's temple. Andnow, Thaisa being restored from her swoon said: 'O my lord, are you notPericles? Like him you speak, like him you are. Did you not name atempest, a birth, and death?' He astonished said: 'The voice of deadThaisa!' 'That Thaisa am I,' she replied, 'supposed dead and drowned.''O true Diana!' exclaimed Pericles, in a passion of devoutastonishment. 'And now,' said Thaisa, 'I know you better. Such a ringas I see on your finger did the king my father give you, when we withtears parted from him at Pentapolis.' 'Enough, you gods!' criedPericles, 'your present kindness makes my past miseries sport. O come,Thaisa, be buried a second time within these arms.

And Marina said: 'My heart leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom.'Then did Pericles show his daughter to her mother, saying: 'Look whokneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, and called Marina,because she was yielded there.' 'Blessed and my own!' said Thaisa: andwhile she hung in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt beforethe altar, saying: 'Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. For this, Iwill offer oblations nightly to thee.' And then and there did Pericles,with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daughter, thevirtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage.

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famousexample of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance ofHeaven, to teach patience and constancy to men), under the sameguidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over chance andchange. In Helicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, offaith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded to a shone, choserather to recall the rightful owner to his possession, than to becomegreat by another's wrong. In the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa tolife, we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge, inbestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the gods.It only remains to be told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon,met with an end proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants ofTarsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a bodyto revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire to thepalace of Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole household: thegods seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, though butintentional, and never carried into act, should be punished in a waybefitting its enormity.

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