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PREFACE TO TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 
 CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 
 
 THE following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young 
 reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for 
 which purpose his words are used whenever it seemed pos- 
 sible to bring them in; and in whatever has been added to give 
 them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been 
 taken to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the 
 beautiful English tongue in which he wrote: therefore, words in- 
 troduced into our language since his time have been as far as pos- 
 sible avoided. 
 
 In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the 
 young readers will perceive, when they come to see the source from 
 which these stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with 
 little alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as 
 in the dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers 
 found themselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the nar- 
 rative form : therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been 
 made use of too frequently for young people not accustomed to 
 the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has 
 been caused by an earnest wish to give as much of 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 hints and little foretastes of 
 the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when 
 they come to the rich treasures from which these small and value- 
 less coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint 
 and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint 
 
 v 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of 
 his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of chang- 
 ing many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of 
 his true sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in 
 some few places, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping 
 from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers into the be- 
 lief that they are reading prose, yet still his language being trans- 
 planted from its own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must 
 want much of its native beauty. 
 
 It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very 
 young children. To the utmost of their ability the writers have 
 constantly kept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made 
 this a very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the his- 
 tories of men and women in terms familiar to the apprehension of 
 a very young mind. For young ladies too, it has been the intention 
 chiefly to write; because boys being generally permitted the use of 
 their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they 
 frequently have the best scenes of Shakespeare by heart, before 
 their sisters are permitted to look into this manly book; and there- 
 fore, instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of young 
 gentlemen who can read them so much better in the originals, their 
 kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to their sisters such 
 parts as are hardest for them to understand: and when they have 
 helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will 
 read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young sis- 
 ter's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these 
 stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and 
 it is hoped they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select pas- 
 sages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much 
 better relished and understood from their having some notion of 
 the general story from one of these imperfect abridgments; — 
 which if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any 
 of the young readers, it is hoped that no worse effect will result 
 than to make them wish themselves a little older, that they may 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 be allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wish will be 
 neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judicious 
 friends shall put them into their hands, they will discover in such 
 of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as many 
 more, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns 
 of fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained 
 in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful char- 
 acters, both men and women, the humour of which it was feared 
 would be lost if it were attempted to reduce the length of them. 
 
 What these Tales shall have been to the young readers, that 
 and much more it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shake- 
 speare may prove to them in older years — enrichers of the fancy, 
 strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mer- 
 cenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and 
 actions, to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for of 
 examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full. 
 
PREFACE TO TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 
 WINSTON STOKES 
 
 IN the preface by Charles Lamb, the purpose in writing a book 
 of Shakespeare's Tales is too clearly and delightfully defined 
 to bear repeating here; but as the author takes considerable 
 pains to avoid the charge of presumption for creating what he is 
 pleased to call " the faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's 
 matchless image," how much more must the present writer seek 
 pardon for including his own imperfect efforts with the models that 
 precede them ! 
 
 It is hoped that the supplementary Tales may not be read in any 
 spirit of comparison with Lamb's wonderfully blended classics; 
 for even were they written with Lamb's skill, their nature and the 
 subjects with which they deal must in themselves preclude so varied 
 and beautiful a result. Here are the earlier and lesser known of 
 Shakespeare's plays, the products of his unripe craftsmanship and 
 the historical pageants best adapted to a stage far different from 
 our own — all less widely read and talked about than the plays that 
 Lamb has treated in so masterful and fairy-like a manner. The 
 writing has presented untold difficulties ; and to portray in foreign 
 form the shifting battle-scenes of " Henry the Sixth," and guide the 
 thread of an unbroken narrative among the horrors of " Titus 
 Andronicus," must forbid an equal literary merit with Lamb's Tales, 
 even if this had been attempted. 
 
 But the purpose of this book is far removed from so presuming 
 an effort, although the writer has, with Lamb, the definite desire 
 to bring Shakespeare nearer to the affections of the young reader. 
 If these Tales awaken interest in the less widely known of Shake- 
 speare's plays, if they serve only as simple guides to render the plays 
 more clear to future readers, they will accomplish their purpose. 
 
 ix 
 
x PREFACE 
 
 Moreover, there are a few notable omissions from Lamb's Tales, 
 such as " Julius Caesar " and " The Merry Wives of Windsor," 
 which here have been fulfilled to the best of the present writer's 
 ability. 
 
 While any repetition of Lamb's Tales has been strictly avoided 
 • — as it is superfluous even to attempt what has been performed 
 inimitably — it is believed that there is need for a book containing 
 all Shakespeare's Tales, and in this volume all are gathered — 
 those by Lamb marvellously told, and the others at least with the 
 effort to preserve, so far as possible, the spirit of the plays them- 
 selves. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface to Tales from Shakespeare by Charles and Mary Lamb v 
 Preface to Tales from Shakespeare by Winston Stokes . . ix 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY CHARLES AND 
 MARY LAMB 
 
 The Tempest I 
 
 A Midsummer Night's Dream 13 
 
 The Winter's Tale 25 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing . 37 
 
 As You Like It 50 
 
 The Two Gentlemen of Verona 66 
 
 The Merchant of Venice 79 
 
 Cymbeline . 92 
 
 King Lear 106 
 
 Macbeth 121 
 
 All's Well That Ends Well 132 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew 145 
 
 The Comedy of Errors 156 
 
 Measure for Measure 170 
 
 Twelfth Night ; or What You Will .185 
 
 j TiMON of Athens 199^ 
 
 Romeo and Juliet ^-3/ 
 
 Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 230 
 
 Othello 246 
 
 Pericles, Prince of Tyre 260 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY WINSTON STOKES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor 279 
 
 Love's Labour's Lost 289 
 
 j Troilos and Cressida 302 
 
 coriolanus 311 
 
 Julius C^sar 324 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra 335 
 
 Titus Andronicus 346 
 
 The Life and Death of King John 356 
 
 j/The Tragedy of King Richard the Second 366 
 
 / The First Part of King Henry the Fourth 377 
 
 * (The Second Part of King Henry the Fourth 384 
 
 The Life of Henry the Fifth 392 
 
 The First Part of King Henry the Sixth 400 
 
 The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth 408 
 
 The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth 421 
 
 The Tragedy of Richard the Third 433 
 
 The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth . 445 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " ' On the Bat's Back Do I Fly After Summer Merrily ' ". . Cover 
 
 a i 
 
 I Will Give You Fairies to Attend Upon You ' " . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 " This Poor Deserted Baby Was Found by a Shepherd " . . .30 
 
 " Now They Were in the Forest of Arden — But Almost Dy- 
 ing With Fatigue " 56 
 
 " She Would Have Softened Any Heart but the Unfeeling 
 Shylock's" 86 
 
 " They Were Engaged in Preparing Their Dreadful Charms " . 128 
 
 " Each Dromio Complimented His Brother on His Good Looks " 168 
 
 "The Day Was Breaking When They Parted" ; 218 
 
 " He Affected to Treat Her With Unkindness " . . . . . 236 
 
 " He Beguiled Her of Many a Tear, When He Spoke of What 
 His Youth Had Suffered "..... 248 
 
 U ( 
 
 Throw Linen on Him, and Send Him by Two Men to Datchet 
 Mead!'" 284 
 
 " An Old Man — a Soothsayer — Bade Him to Beware the Ides 
 of March " 326 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 THERE was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants 
 of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, 
 and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. 
 She came to this island so young, that she had no memory of having 
 seen any other human face than her father's. 
 
 They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided 
 into several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; 
 there he kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at 
 that time much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of 
 this art he found very useful to him ; for being thrown by a strange 
 chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch 
 called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his arrival, 
 Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that 
 Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they 
 had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits 
 were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel 
 was the chief. 
 
 The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his 
 nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting 
 an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because 
 he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero 
 found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in 
 form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and taught him 
 to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to him, but the 
 bad nature which Caliban inherited from his mother Sycorax, would 
 not let him learn anything good or useful: therefore he was em- 
 
 I 
 
2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ployed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices ; 
 and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these services. 
 
 When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who 
 was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slily and pinch 
 him, and sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, 
 in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then 
 swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would 
 lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp 
 quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexa- 
 tious tricks Ariel would often torment him, whenever Caliban 
 neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do. 
 
 Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero 
 could by their means command the winds, and the waves of the 
 sea. By his orders they raised a violent storm, in the midst of 
 which, and struggling with the wild sea-waves that every moment 
 threatened to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large 
 ship, which he told her was full of living beings like themselves. 
 " O my dear father," said she, " if by your art you have raised this 
 dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See ! the vessel 
 will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls ! they will all perish. If I 
 had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than the 
 good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious souls within 
 her." 
 
 " Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; " there 
 is no harm done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship 
 shall receive any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, 
 my dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or where you came 
 from, and you know no more of me, but that I am your father, and 
 live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you came 
 to this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not then three years 
 of age." 
 
 " Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 
 
 " By what? " asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? 
 Tell me what you can remember, my child." 
 
THE TEMPEST 3 
 
 Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. 
 But had I not once four or five women who attended upon me? " 
 
 Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it that this 
 still lives in your mind? Do you remember how you came here? " 
 
 " No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing more." 
 
 " Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, " I was duke 
 of Milan, and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a 
 younger brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted every- 
 thing; and as I was fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly 
 left the management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false 
 brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, 
 buried among my books, did dedicate my whole time to the better- 
 ing of my mind. My brother Antonio being thus in possession of 
 my power, began to think himself the duke indeed. The oppor- 
 tunity I gave him of making himself popular among my subjects 
 awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my 
 dukedom : this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, 
 a powerful prince, who was my enemy." 
 
 " Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour destroy 
 us?" 
 
 " My child," answered her father, " they durst not, so dear was 
 the love that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a 
 ship, and when we were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into 
 a small boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, 
 as he thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, 
 who loved me, had privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, 
 apparel, and some books which I prize above my dukedom." 
 
 " O my father," said Miranda, " what a trouble must I have 
 been to you then ! " 
 
 " No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a little cherub that 
 did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against 
 my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert 
 island, since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, 
 Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions." 
 
4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. " Now 
 pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm? " 
 
 " Know then," said her father, " that by means of this storm, 
 my enemies, the king of Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast 
 ashore upon this island." 
 
 Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his 
 magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just 
 then presented himself before his master, to give an account of the 
 tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company, and 
 though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did 
 not choose she should hear him holding converse (as would seem 
 to her) with the empty air. 
 
 " Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, " how have you 
 performed your task? " 
 
 Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors 
 of the mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first 
 who leaped into the sea ; and his father thought he saw his dear 
 son swallowed up by the waves and lost. " But he is safe," said 
 Ariel, " in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly 
 lamenting the loss of the king, his father, whom he concludes 
 drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and his princely gar- 
 ments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher than before." 
 
 " That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. " Bring him hither: 
 my daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and 
 my brother? " 
 
 " I left them," answered Ariel, " searching for Ferdinand, whom 
 they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. 
 Of the ship's crew not one is missing; though each one thinks him- 
 self the only one saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is 
 safe in the harbour." 
 
 " Ariel," said Prospero, " thy charge is faithfully performed : 
 but there is more work yet." 
 
 "Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, 
 master, you have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I 
 
THE TEMPEST 5 
 
 have done you worthy service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, 
 served you without grudge or grumbling." 
 
 "How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a 
 torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch 
 Sycorax, who with age and envy was almost bent double? Where 
 was she born? Speak; tell me." 
 
 " Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 
 
 "O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you 
 have been, which I find you do not remember. This bad witch, 
 Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, 
 was banished from Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and be- 
 cause you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
 mands, she shut you ur' 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 un- 
 grateful; "I will obey your commands." 
 
 " Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you free." He then 
 gave orders what further he would have him do; and away went 
 Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him still 
 sitting on the grass in the same melancholy posture. 
 
 " O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, " I will 
 soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady 
 Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, fol- 
 low me." He then began singing, 
 
 " Full fathom five thy father lies : 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes: 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell." 
 
 This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from 
 the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amaze- 
 
6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ment the sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and 
 Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now 
 Miranda had never seen a man before, except her own father. 
 
 " Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what you are looking at 
 yonder." 
 
 " O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, " surely that 
 is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a 
 beautiful creature. Is it not a spirit? " 
 
 "No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has 
 senses such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. 
 He is somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a hand- 
 some person. He has lost his companions, and is wandering about 
 to find them." 
 
 Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards 
 like her father, was delighted with the appearance of this beauti- 
 ful young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this 
 desert place, and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting 
 nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, 
 and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he 
 began to address her. 
 
 She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, 
 and was going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero 
 interrupted her. He was well pleased to find they admired each 
 other, for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in 
 love at first sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved 
 to throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing for- 
 ward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling him, he 
 came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who was the lord 
 of it. " Follow me," said he, " I will tie you neck and feet to- 
 gether. You shall drink sea-water; shell-fish, withered roots, and 
 husks of acorns shall be your food." " No," said Ferdinand, " I 
 will resist such entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy," 
 and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed 
 him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to move. 
 
THE TEMPEST 7 
 
 Miranda hung upon her father, saying, " Why are you so un- 
 gentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second 
 man I ever saw, and to me he seems a true one." 
 
 " Silence," said the father: " one word more will make me chide 
 you, girl ! What ! an advocate for an impostor ! You think there 
 are no more such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I 
 tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Cali- 
 ban." This he said to prove his daughter's constancy; and she 
 replied, " My affections are most humble. I have no wish to see 
 a goodlier man." 
 
 " Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince; " you have 
 no power to disobey me." 
 
 " I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that 
 it was by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was 
 astonished to find himself so strangely compelled to follow Pros- 
 pero : looking back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, 
 as he went after Prospero into the cave, " My spirits are all bound 
 up, as if I were in a dream; but this man's threats, and the weak- 
 ness which I feel, would seem light to me if from my prison I 
 might once a day behold this fair maid." 
 
 Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he 
 soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to per- 
 form, taking care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had 
 imposed on him, and then pretending to go into his study, he se- 
 cretly watched them both. 
 
 Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs 
 of wood. Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, 
 Miranda soon after found her lover almost dying with fatigue. 
 "Alas!" said she, "do not work so hard; my father is at his 
 studies, he is safe for these three hours; pray rest yourself." 
 
 " O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare not. I must finish 
 my task before I take my rest." 
 
 " If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will carry your logs 
 the while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. 
 
8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Instead of a help Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a 
 long conversation, so that the business of log-carrying went on 
 very slowly. 
 
 Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a 
 trial of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, 
 but was standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said. 
 
 Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was 
 against her father's express command she did so. 
 
 Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's dis- 
 obedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall 
 in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love by 
 forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased 
 to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her 
 above all the ladies he ever saw. 
 
 In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded 
 all the women in the world, she replied, " I do not remember the 
 face of any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my 
 good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad, I 
 know not; but, believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in 
 the world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape but 
 yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, 
 and my father's precepts I forget." 
 
 At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to 
 say, " This goes on exactly as I could wish ; my girl will be queen 
 of Naples." 
 
 And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young 
 princes speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he 
 was heir to the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen. 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to weep at what I am glad 
 of. I will answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your 
 wife if you will marry me." 
 
 Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible be- 
 fore them. 
 
 " Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and ap- 
 
THE TEMPEST 9 
 
 prove of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely 
 used you, I will make you rich amends, by giving you my daugh- 
 ter. All your vexations were but trials of your love, and you have 
 nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has 
 worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I 
 boast she is above all praise." He then, telling them that he had 
 business which required his presence, desired they would sit down 
 and talk together till he returned; and this command Miranda 
 seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 
 
 When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly 
 appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Pros- 
 pero's brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left them 
 almost out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had 
 caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering 
 about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set before 
 them a delicious banquet, and then, just as they were going to eat, 
 he appeared visible before them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious 
 monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their 
 utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding 
 them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and 
 leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea; saying, 
 that for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them. 
 
 The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the 
 injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master he 
 was certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, 
 could not but pity them. 
 
 " Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who 
 are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human 
 being like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, 
 quickly, my dainty Ariel." 
 
 Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in 
 their train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music 
 he played in the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This 
 Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly provided Prospero 
 
io TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked brother left 
 him, as he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. 
 
 Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not 
 know Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gon- 
 zalo, calling him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and 
 the king knew that he was the injured Prospero. 
 
 Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true repent- 
 ance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and the king expressed 
 his sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his 
 brother : and Prospero forgave them ; and, upon their engaging 
 to restore his dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, " I have a 
 gift in store for you too;" and opening a door, showed him his 
 son Ferdinand flaying at chess with Miranda. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this 
 unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in 
 the storm. 
 
 " O wonder! " said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are! 
 It must surely be a brave world that has such people in it." 
 
 The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty 
 and excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. 
 "Who is this maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has 
 parted us, and brought us thus together." " No, sir," answered Fer- 
 dinand, smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mistake 
 that he had done when he first saw Miranda, " she is a mortal, but 
 by immortal Providence she is mine; I chose her when I could not 
 ask you, my father, for your consent, not thinking you were alive. 
 She is the daughter to this Prospero, who is the famous duke of 
 Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him 
 till now: of him I have received a new life: he has made himself to 
 me a second father, giving me this dear lady." 
 
 "Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how 
 oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness." 
 
 "No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our 
 troubles past, since they so happily have ended." And then Pros- 
 
THE TEMPEST n 
 
 pero embraced his brother, and again assured him of his forgive- 
 ness; and said that a wise over-ruling Providence had permitted 
 that he should be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his 
 daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their meet- 
 ing in this desert island, it had happened that the king's son had 
 loved Miranda. 
 
 These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort 
 his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he 
 wept and was unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to 
 see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young 
 couple. 
 
 Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, 
 and the sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter 
 would accompany them home the next morning. " In the mean- 
 time," says he, " partake of such refreshments as my poor cave 
 affords ; and for your evening's entertainment I will relate the his- 
 tory of my life from my first landing in this desert island." He 
 then called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the cave in 
 order; and the company were astonished at the uncouth form and 
 savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was 
 the only attendant he had to wait upon him. 
 
 Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his 
 service, to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he 
 had been a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to en- 
 joy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild 
 bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling 
 flowers. " My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite 
 when he made him free, " I shall miss you; yet you shall have your 
 freedom." "Thank you, my dear master," said Ariel; "but give 
 me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, before 
 you bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit; and then, 
 master, when I am free, how merrily I shall live! " Here Ariel 
 sung this pretty song: 
 
12 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie: 
 
 There I crouch when owls do cry 
 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 
 After summer merrily. 
 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 
 
 Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and 
 wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic 
 art. And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled 
 to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to 
 complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take pos- 
 session of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his 
 daughter and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be in- 
 stantly celebrated with great splendour on their return to Naples. 
 At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, 
 after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived. 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its 
 citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry 
 whomsoever they pleased; for upon a daughter's refusing 
 to marry the man her father had chosen to be her husband, the 
 father was empowered by this law to cause her to be put to death ; 
 but as fathers do not often desire the death of their own daughters, 
 even though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this law 
 was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young 
 ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their par- 
 ents with the terrors of it. 
 
 There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name 
 was Egeus, who actually did come before Theseus (at that time 
 the reigning duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter Her- 
 mia, whom he had commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man 
 of a noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved 
 another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded 
 justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might be put in 
 force against his daughter. 
 
 Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius 
 had formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that 
 Helena loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable rea- 
 son, which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command, 
 moved not the stern Egeus. 
 
 Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to 
 alter the laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia 
 four days to consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still 
 refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death. 
 
 When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, 
 she went to her lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, 
 
 13 
 
14 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and that she must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose 
 her life in four days. 
 
 Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; 
 but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance 
 from Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law 
 could not be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending 
 beyond the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that 
 she should steal out of her father's house that night, and go with 
 him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her. " I will meet 
 you," said Lysander, " in the wood, a few miles without the city; 
 in that delightful wood, where we have so often walked with Helena 
 in the pleasant month of May." 
 
 To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one 
 of her intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens 
 will do foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go 
 and tell this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from 
 betraying her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following 
 her faithless lover to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius 
 would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 
 
 The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet, 
 was the favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name 
 of Fairies. 
 
 Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the Fairies, with all 
 their tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels. 
 
 Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at 
 this time, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the 
 shady walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all 
 their fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves 
 for fear. 
 
 The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing 
 to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been 
 Titania's friend; and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child 
 from its nurse, and brought him up in the woods. 
 
 The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 15 
 
 Titania was walking with some of her maids of honour, she met 
 Oberon attended by his train of fairy courtiers. 
 
 " 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. 
 The queen replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, 
 skip hence; I have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," 
 said Oberon; " am not I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her 
 Oberon? Give me your little changeling boy to be my page." 
 
 "Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole 
 fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in 
 great anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the 
 morning dawns I will torment you for this injury." 
 
 Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy coun- 
 sellor. 
 
 Puck, (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was 
 a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in 
 the neighbouring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and 
 skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into 
 the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in 
 the churn, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her 
 cream into butter : nor had the village swains any better success ; 
 whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the brewing copper, the 
 ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few good neighbours were 
 met to drink some comfortable ale together, Puck would jump into 
 the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some 
 old goody was going to drink he would bob against her lips, and 
 spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after, when the 
 same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neighbours 
 a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-legged stool 
 from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then 
 the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear 
 they never wasted a merrier hour. 
 
 " Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer 
 of the night; " fetch me the flower which maids call Love in Idle- 
 ness; the juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of 
 
1 6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 those who sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the 
 first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop 
 on the eyelids of my Titania when she is asleep ; and the first thing 
 she looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, 
 even though it be a lion or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy 
 ape; and before I will take this charm from off her sight, which I 
 can do with another charm I know of, I will make her give me that 
 boy to be my page." 
 
 Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with 
 this intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower ; and 
 while Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Deme- 
 trius and Helena enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproach- 
 ing Helena for following him, and after many unkind words on 
 his part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him 
 of his former love and professions of true faith to her, he left her 
 (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him 
 as swiftly as she could. 
 
 The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great 
 compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to 
 walk by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen 
 Helena in those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. 
 However that might be, when Puck returned with the little purple 
 flower, Oberon said to his favourite, " Take a part of this 
 flower; there has been a sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love 
 with a disdainful youth; if you find him sleeping, drop some of the 
 love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near him, 
 that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised 
 lady. You will know the man by the Athenian garments which 
 he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter very dexter- 
 ously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, 
 where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a 
 bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a 
 canopy of wood-bine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania 
 always slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 17 
 
 skin of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough 
 to wrap a fairy in. 
 
 He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to 
 employ themselves while she slept. " Some of you," said her maj- 
 esty, " must kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war 
 with the bats for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; 
 and some of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly 
 hoots, come not near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they 
 began to sing this song: — 
 
 " You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
 Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
 Newts and blind-worms do no wrong, 
 Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
 Philomel, with melody, 
 Sing in your 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 the love-juice on her eyelids, saying, — 
 
 " What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
 Do it for thy true-love take." 
 
 But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her fath- 
 er's house that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for 
 refusing to marry Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she 
 found her dear Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her to his 
 aunt's house; but before they had passed half through the wood, 
 Hermia was so much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very care- 
 ful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection for him even 
 by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to rest till morn- 
 
1 8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ing on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself on the ground 
 at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here they were 
 found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and 
 perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and 
 that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must 
 be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had 
 sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they 
 were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see when 
 he awoke ; so, without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the 
 juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, 
 that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first 
 object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes; and strange to 
 relate, so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia 
 vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 
 
 Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck com- 
 mitted would have been of no consequence, for he could not love 
 that faithful lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by 
 a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after 
 another lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at mid- 
 night, was a sad chance indeed. 
 
 Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before 
 related, endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran 
 away so rudely from her; but she could not continue this unequal 
 race long, men being always better runners in a long race than 
 ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wan- 
 dering about, dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place where 
 Lysander was sleeping. " Ah! " said she, " this is Lysander lying 
 on the ground: is he dead or asleep?" Then, gently touching 
 him, she said, " Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this 
 Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning to work) 
 immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant love and admi- 
 ration; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove 
 does a raven, and that he would run through fire for her sweet 
 sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowing 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 19 
 
 Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly 
 engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard her- 
 self addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might) 
 that Lysander was making a jest of her. " Oh! " said she, " why 
 was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not 
 enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet 
 look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in 
 this disdainful manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you 
 were a lord of more true gentleness." Saying these words in great 
 anger, she ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful 
 of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 
 
 When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself 
 alone. She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was 
 become of Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him. In the 
 meantime Demetrius not being able to find Hermia and his rival 
 Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by 
 Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some questions he had 
 asked of Puck, that he had applied the love-charm to the wrong 
 person's eyes; and now having found the person first intended, he 
 touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, 
 and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena, 
 he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches to 
 her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for 
 through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia's turn 
 to run after her lover) made his appearance; and then Lysander 
 and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to Helena, they 
 being each one under the influence of the same potent charm. 
 
 The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and 
 her once dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make 
 a jest of her. 
 
 Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she knew not why 
 Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now 
 become the lovers of Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed 
 to be no jest. 
 
20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, 
 now fell to high words together. 
 
 " Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you have set Lysander 
 on to vex me with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, 
 who used almost to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him 
 call me goddess, nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would 
 not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on 
 to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorn- 
 ing your poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day friend- 
 ship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one cushion, 
 both singing one song, with our needles working the same flower, 
 both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in fashion 
 of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is not 
 friendly in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning your 
 poor friend." 
 
 "I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I 
 scorn you not; it seems you scorn me." " Ay, do," returned Hel- 
 ena, " persevere, counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me 
 when I turn my back; then wink at each other, and hold the sweet 
 jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not 
 use me thus." 
 
 While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to 
 each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together 
 in the wood for the love of Helena. 
 
 When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, 
 and once more wandered weary in the wood in search of their 
 lovers. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck 
 had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, " This is your neg- 
 ligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully? " " Believe me, king 
 of shadows," answered Puck, " it was a mistake; did not you tell 
 me I should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, 
 I am not sorry this has happened, for I think their jangling makes 
 excellent sport." " You heard," said Oberon, " that Demetrius 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 21 
 
 and Lysander are gone to seek a convenient place to fight in. I 
 command you to overhang the night with a thick fog, and lead these 
 quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be 
 able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the 
 other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while 
 they think it is their rival's tongue they hear. See you do this, till 
 they are so weary they can go no farther; and when you find they 
 are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, 
 and when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and 
 return to his old passion for Hermia ; and then the two fair ladies 
 may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they will think 
 all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck, 
 and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found." 
 
 Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, 
 who had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: " This 
 fellow," said he, " shall be my Titania's true love " ; and clapping an 
 ass's head over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had 
 grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's 
 head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious 
 of what Oberon had done to him, he went towards the bower where 
 the fairy queen slept. 
 
 " Ah! what angel is that I see? " said Titania, opening her eyes, 
 and the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: 
 " are you as wise as you are beautiful? " 
 
 " Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, " if I have wit enough 
 to find the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn." 
 
 " Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured 
 queen. " I am a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with 
 me, and I will give you fairies to attend upon you." 
 
 She then called four of her fairies : their names were, Pease-blos- 
 som, 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 apri- 
 cots, and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit 
 
22 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 with me," said she to the clown, " and let me play with your ami- 
 able hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, 
 my gentle joy! " 
 
 "Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown, not 
 much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his 
 new attendants. 
 
 " Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 
 
 " Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where is Cobweb? " 
 
 " Here, sir," said Cobweb. 
 
 " Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, " kill me the red 
 humble bee on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cob- 
 web, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the 
 action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break not; I 
 should be sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where 
 is Mustard-seed? " 
 
 " Here, sir," said Mustard-seed: " what is your will? " 
 
 " Nothing," said the clown, " good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to 
 help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch ; I must go to a barber's, 
 Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about 
 the face." 
 
 " My sweet love," said the queen, " what will you have to eat? 
 I have a venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch 
 you some new nuts." 
 
 " I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, 
 who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. " But, I pray, 
 let none of your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep." 
 
 " Sleep, then," said the queen, " and I will wind you in my arms. 
 O how I love you ! how I dote upon you ! " 
 
 When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his 
 queen, he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with hav- 
 ing lavished her favours upon an ass. 
 
 This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within 
 her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers. 
 
 When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 23 
 
 the changeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her 
 lord with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him. 
 
 Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished 
 for to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, 
 by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw 
 some of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy 
 queen immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late 
 dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange mon- 
 ster. 
 
 Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left 
 him to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders. 
 
 Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he re- 
 lated to her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quar- 
 rels; and she agreed to go with him and see the end of their ad- 
 ventures. 
 
 The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, 
 at no great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for 
 Puck, to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with 
 the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown 
 to each other; and he had carefully removed the charm from off 
 the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him. 
 
 Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near 
 her, was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. 
 Lysander presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, 
 recovered his reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, 
 and with his reason, his love for Hermia ; and they began to talk 
 over the adventures of the night, doubting if these things had really 
 happened, or if they had both been dreaming the same bewildering 
 dream. 
 
 Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet 
 sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she list- 
 ened with delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still 
 made to her, and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she 
 began to perceive were sincere. 
 
24 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became 
 once more true friends ; all the unkind words which had passed 
 were forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best 
 to be done in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as 
 Demetrius had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should en- 
 deavour to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of 
 death which had been passed against her. Demetrius was prepar- 
 ing to return to Athens for this friendly purpose, when they were 
 surprised with the sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to 
 the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 
 
 When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry 
 his daughter, he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, 
 but gave his consent that they should be wedded on the fourth day 
 from that time, being the same day on which Hermia had been 
 condemned to lose her life; and on that same day Helena joyfully 
 agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful Demetrius. 
 
 The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this 
 reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history, 
 brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so 
 much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the ap- 
 proaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy 
 kingdom. 
 
 And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their 
 pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think 
 that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adven- 
 tures were visions which they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of 
 my readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty, 
 harmless Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 LEONTES, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and 
 virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony to- 
 gether. So happy was Leontes in the love of this excellent 
 lady, that he had no wish ungratified, except that he sometimes de- 
 sired to see again, and to present to his queen, his old companion 
 and school-fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and 
 Polixenes were brought up together from their infancy, but being, 
 by the death of their fathers, called to reign over their respective 
 kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though they frequently 
 interchanged gifts, letters, and loving embassies. 
 
 At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from 
 Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit. 
 
 At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He 
 recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular at- 
 tention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old com- 
 panion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old 
 times; their school-days and their youthful pranks were remem- 
 bered, and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful 
 part in these conversations. 
 
 When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to depart, 
 Hermione, at the desire of her husband, joined her entreaties to his 
 that Polixenes would prolong his visit. 
 
 And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refus- 
 ing to stay at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's 
 gentle and persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks 
 longer. Upon this, although Leontes had so long known the in- 
 tegrity and honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well 
 as the excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with 
 an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to 
 
 25 
 
26 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Polixenes, though by her husband's particular desire, and merely 
 to please him, increased the unfortunate king's jealousy; and from 
 being a loving and a true friend, and the best and fondest of hus- 
 bands, Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. 
 Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and telling him 
 of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded him to poison 
 Polixenes. 
 
 Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy 
 of Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of 
 poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's 
 orders, and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions ; 
 and Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his 
 own kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in 
 the king's court, and became the chief friend and favourite of 
 Polixenes. 
 
 The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; 
 he went to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting 
 with her little son Mamillius, who was just beginning to tell one of 
 his best stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and 
 taking the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 
 
 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 to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, 
 and drooped and pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite 
 and his sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill him. 
 
 The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded 
 Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there 
 to inquire of the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had 
 been unfaithful to him. 
 
 When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought 
 to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort 
 from the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it, " My poor 
 little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are." 
 
 Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 27 
 
 was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the lady 
 Paulina heard her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to 
 the prison where Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, 
 a lady who attended upon Hermione, " I pray you, Emilia, tell the 
 good queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will 
 carry it to the king, its father; we do not know how he may soften 
 at the sight of his innocent child." " Most worthy madam," re- 
 plied Emilia, " I will acquaint the queen with your noble offer; she 
 was wishing to-day that she had any friend who would venture to 
 present the child to the king." " And tell her," said Paulina, 
 " that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence." " May you 
 be for ever blessed," said Emilia, " for your kindness to our 
 gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully 
 gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared 
 that no one would dare venture to present the child to its 
 father. 
 
 Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the 
 king's presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's 
 anger, endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's 
 feet, and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of 
 Hermione, and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, 
 and implored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. 
 But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated Leontes' dis- 
 pleasure, and he ordered her husband Antigonus to take her from 
 his presence. 
 
 When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its^ father's 
 feet, thinking when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, 
 and have pity on its helpless innocence. 
 
 The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was she gone than 
 the merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take 
 the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert 
 shore to perish. 
 
 Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders 
 of Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and 
 
28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 put out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could 
 find. 
 
 So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that 
 he would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he 
 had sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the 
 queen was recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the 
 loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial be- 
 fore all the lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great 
 lords, the judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled 
 together to try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing 
 as a prisoner before her subjects to receive their judgment, Cleo- 
 menes and Dion entered the assembly, and presented to the king 
 the answer of the oracle, sealed up; and Leontes commanded the 
 seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle to be read aloud, and 
 these were the words : — " Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blame- 
 less, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king 
 shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found." The 
 king would give no credit to the words of the oracle : he said it 
 was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and he desired the 
 judge to proceed in the trial of the queen; but while Leontes was 
 speaking, a man entered and told him that the prince Mamillius, 
 hearing his mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and 
 shame, had suddenly died. 
 
 Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate 
 child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; 
 and Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for 
 his unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were 
 her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. 
 Paulina soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead. 
 
 When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his 
 cruelty to her; and now that he thought his ill-usage had broken 
 Hermione's heart, he believed her innocent; and now he thought 
 the words of the oracle were true, as he knew " if that which was 
 lost was not found," which he concluded was his young daughter, 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 29 
 
 he should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillius being 
 dead; and he would give his kingdom now to recover his lost 
 daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to remorse, and passed 
 many years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief. 
 
 The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to 
 sea was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very 
 kingdom of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and 
 here he left the little baby. 
 
 Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had 
 left his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came 
 out of the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him 
 for obeying the wicked order of Leontes. 
 
 The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione 
 had made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus 
 had pinned a paper to its mantle, and the name of Perdita written 
 thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and un- 
 toward fate. 
 
 This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a 
 humane man, and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, 
 who nursed it tenderly; but poverty tempted the shepherd to con- 
 ceal the rich prize he had found: therefore he left that part of the 
 country, that no one might know where he got his riches, and with 
 part of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep, and became a 
 wealthy shepherd. He brought up Perdita as his own child, and 
 she knew not she was any other than a shepherd's daughter. 
 
 The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had 
 no better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did 
 the natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth 
 in her untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have 
 known she had not been brought up in her father's court. 
 
 Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name 
 was Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shep- 
 herd's dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the 
 beauty, modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him 
 
3 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 instantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of 
 Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman, became a con- 
 stant visitor at the old shepherd's house. Florizel's frequent ab- 
 sences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting people to watch 
 his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. 
 
 Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had 
 preserved his life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he 
 would accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed 
 father of Perdita. 
 
 Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shep- 
 herd's dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shear- 
 ing; and though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every 
 guest being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join 
 in the general festivity. 
 
 Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were 
 spread, and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. 
 Some lads and lasses were dancing on the green before the house, 
 while others of the young men were buying ribands, gloves, and such 
 toys, of a pedlar at the door. 
 
 While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita 
 sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the con- 
 versation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports and 
 silly amusements of those around them. 
 
 The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could 
 know him : he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversa- 
 tion. The simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed 
 with his son did not a little surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo, 
 " This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or 
 says but looks like something greater than herself, too noble for this 
 place." 
 
 Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen of curds and 
 cream." 
 
 " Pray, my good friend," said the king to »the old shepherd, 
 "what fair swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They 
 
"this poor dkserted baby was found by a shepherd"-/ 5 ^ 29 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 31 
 
 call him Doricles," replied the shepherd. " He says he loves my 
 daughter; and, to speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which 
 loves the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she shall bring 
 him that he little dreams of; " meaning the remainder of Perdita's 
 jewels; which, after he had bought herds of sheep with part of them, 
 he had carefully hoarded up for her marriage portion. 
 
 Polixenes & *n addressed his son. " How now, young man ! " 
 said he : " your heart seems full of something that takes off your mind 
 from feasting. When I was young, I used to load my love with 
 presents ; but you have let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass 
 no toy." 
 
 The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king, 
 his father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts 
 which Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then 
 turning to Perdita, he said to her, " O hear me, Perdita, before 
 this ancient gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he 
 shall hear what I profess." Florizel then called upon the old 
 stranger to be a witness to a solemn promise of marriage which 
 he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, " I pray you, mark our 
 contract." 
 
 " Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering him- 
 self. Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract him- 
 self to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita " shepherd's-brat, 
 sheep-hook," and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever 
 she suffered his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old 
 shepherd, her father, to a cruel death. 
 
 The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to 
 follow him with prince Florizel. 
 
 When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was 
 roused by Polixenes' reproaches, said, " Though we are all undone, 
 I was not much afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and 
 tell him plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, 
 hides not his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then 
 sorrowfully she said, " But now I am awakened from this dream, 
 
32 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 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 pro- 
 priety of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince 
 was too deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command 
 of his royal father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, 
 and at the same time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his 
 mind. 
 
 Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was 
 become a true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured 
 friend of king Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to 
 see his late royal master and his native home. He therefore pro- 
 posed to Florizel and Perdita that they should accompany him to 
 the Sicilian court, where he would engage Leontes should protect 
 them, till, through his mediation, they could obtain pardon from 
 Polixenes, and his consent to their marriage. 
 
 To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who con- 
 ducted everything relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd 
 to go along with them. 
 
 The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, 
 her baby clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her 
 mantle. 
 
 After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and 
 the old shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. 
 Leontes, who still mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, 
 received Camillo with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome 
 to prince Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his 
 princess, seemed to engross all Leontes' attention : perceiving a re- 
 semblance between her and his dead queen Hermione, his grief 
 broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely creature might his own 
 daughter have been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed her. " And 
 then, too," said he to Florizel, " I lost the society and friendship of 
 your brave father, whom I now desire more than my life once again 
 to look upon." 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 33 
 
 When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had 
 taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed 
 in infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he found the little 
 Perdita, with the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other 
 tokens of its high birth; from all which it was impossible for him 
 not to conclude that Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the 
 same. 
 
 Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were 
 present when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in 
 which he had found the child, and also the circumstance of Anti- 
 gonus' death, he having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed 
 the rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione had 
 wrapped the child; and he produced a jewel which she remembered 
 Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper 
 which Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband; it could not 
 be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daughter : but oh ! the 
 noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her husband's death, 
 and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long- 
 lost daughter being found. When Leontes heard that Perdita was 
 his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was not 
 living to behold her child, made him that he could say nothing for 
 a long time, but, " O thy mother, thy mother ! " 
 
 Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to 
 Leontes, that she had a statue newly finished by that rare Italian 
 master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the 
 queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and 
 look upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione 
 herself. Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the 
 semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the 
 mother she never saw did look like. 
 
 When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this 
 famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the 
 king's sorrow was renewed at the sight : for a long time he had 
 no power to speak or move. 
 
34 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, " it the more shows 
 your wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen? " 
 
 At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, even with such 
 majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was 
 not so aged as this statue looks." Paulina replied, " So much the 
 more the carver's excellence, who has made the statue as Hermione 
 would have looked had she been living now. But let me draw the 
 curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves." 
 
 The king then said, " Do not draw the curtain ! Would I were 
 dead! See, Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye 
 seems to have motion in it." " I must draw the curtain, my liege," 
 said Paulina. " You are so transported, you will persuade yourself 
 the statue lives." " O, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, " make me 
 think so twenty years together ! Still methinks there is an air 
 comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet cut breath ? Let no 
 man mock me, for I will kiss her." " Good my lord, forbear ! " said 
 Paulina. " The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will stain your 
 own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No, not 
 these twenty years," said Leontes. 
 
 Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in 
 silent admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, " And 
 so long could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother." 
 
 " Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, " and 
 let me draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. 
 I can make the statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off the 
 pedestal, and take you by the hand. But then you will think, which 
 I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." 
 
 " What you can make her do," said the astonished king, " I am 
 content to look upon. What you can make her speak, I am content 
 to hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move." 
 
 Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she 
 had prepared for the purpose, to strike up ; and, to the amazement 
 of all the beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 35 
 
 threw its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to 
 speak, praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the 
 newly-found Perdita. 
 
 No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed 
 her husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed 
 Hermione herself, the real, the living queen. 
 
 Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione, 
 thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress' life; 
 and with the good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since, never 
 choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita 
 was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which 
 Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his 
 infant daughter. 
 
 His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the 
 long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own 
 happiness. 
 
 Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard 
 on all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel 
 for loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the 
 good old shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo 
 and Paulina rejoice that they had lived to see so good an end of all 
 their faithful services. 
 
 And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange 
 and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the 
 palace. 
 
 When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that 
 Camillo had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should 
 find the fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he hap- 
 pened to just arrive at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life. 
 
 Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend 
 Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they 
 once more loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish 
 friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes would now op- 
 
36 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 pose his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook " 
 now, but the heiress of the crown of Sicily. 
 
 Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Her- 
 mione rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her 
 Leontes and her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens. 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 
 
 THERE lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose 
 names were Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, 
 and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato, the governor of 
 Messina. 
 
 Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin 
 Hero, who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly 
 sallies. Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of 
 mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 
 
 At the time the history of these ladies commences some young 
 men of high rank in the army, as they were passing through Mes- 
 sina on their return from a war that was just ended, in which they 
 had distinguished themselves by their great bravery, came to visit 
 Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon; 
 and his friend Claudio, who was a lord of Florence ; and with them 
 came the wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. 
 
 These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable 
 governor introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old 
 friends and acquaintance. 
 
 Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively con- 
 versation with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not 
 to be left out of any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, 
 " I wonder that you will still be talking, signior Benedick : nobody 
 marks you." Benedick was just such another rattle-brain as Bea- 
 trice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation; he thought it 
 did not become a well-bred lady to be so flippant with her tongue; 
 and he remembered, when he was last at Messina, that Beatrice 
 used to select him to make her merry jests upon. And as there is 
 no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as those who are apt 
 to take the same liberty themselves, so it was with Benedick and 
 
 37 
 
38 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former times but a per- 
 fect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they always 
 parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when 
 Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling 
 him nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to 
 have observed before that she was present, said, " What, my dear 
 lady Disdain, are you yet living? " And now war broke out afresh 
 between them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which 
 Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved his valour in 
 the late war, said that she would eat all he had killed there : and ob- 
 serving the prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she 
 called him " the prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into 
 the mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before. The hint 
 she gave him that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all 
 he had killed, he did not regard, knowing himself to be a brave 
 man; but there is nothing that great wits so much dread as the 
 imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a 
 little too near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectly hated 
 Beatrice, when she called him " the prince's jester." 
 
 The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and 
 while Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which 
 time had made in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite 
 graces of her fine figure (for she was an admirable young lady), 
 the prince was highly amused with listening to the humorous 
 dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice; and he said in a whisper 
 to Leonato, " This is a pleasant-spirited young lady. She were 
 an excellent wife for Benedick." Leonato replied to this sugges- 
 tion, " O, my lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they 
 would talk themselves mad." But though Leonato thought they 
 would make a discordant pair, the prince did not give up the idea 
 of matching these two keen wits together. 
 
 When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he 
 found that the marriage he had devised between Benedick and 
 Beatrice was not the only one projected in that good company, 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 39 
 
 for Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, as made the prince guess 
 at what was passing in his heart; and he liked it well, and he said 
 to Claudio, "Do you affect Hero?" To this question Claudio 
 replied, " O my lord, when I was last at Messina, I looked upon 
 her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had no leisure for loving; 
 but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left 
 their places vacant in my mind, and in their room come throng- 
 ing soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how fair young 
 Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the wars." 
 Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the 
 prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to 
 accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this pro- 
 posal, and the prince found no great difficulty in persuading the 
 gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who 
 was a lord of rare endowments, and highly accomplished, and 
 Claudio, assisted by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato 
 to fix an early day for the celebration of his marriage with Hero. 
 
 Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be mar- 
 ried to his fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being 
 tedious, as indeed most young men are impatient when they are 
 waiting for the accomplishment of any event they have set their 
 hearts upon: the prince, therefore, to make the time seem short to 
 him, proposed as a kind of merry pastime that they should invent 
 some artful scheme to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with 
 each other. Claudio entered with great satisfaction into this whim 
 of the prince, and Leonato promised them his assistance, and even 
 Hero said she would do any modest office to help her cousin to a 
 good husband. 
 
 The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should 
 make Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that 
 Hero should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with 
 her. 
 
 The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations first: 
 and watching upon an opportunity when Benedick was quietly 
 
4 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 seated reading in an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their 
 station among the trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick 
 could not choose but hear all they said; and after some careless 
 talk the prince said, " Come hither, Leonato. What was it you 
 told me the other day — that your niece Beatrice was in love with 
 signior Benedick? I did never think that lady would have loved 
 any man." " No, nor I neither, my lord," answered Leonato. 
 " It is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, whom 
 she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike." Claudio 
 confirmed all this with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice 
 was so in love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of 
 grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and 
 Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been 
 such a railer against all fair ladies, and in particular against 
 Beatrice. 
 
 The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compas- 
 sion for Beatrice, and he said, " It were good that Benedick were 
 told of this." "To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but 
 make sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse." " And if 
 he should," said the prince, "it were a good deed to hang him; 
 for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in every- 
 thing but in loving Benedick." Then the prince motioned to his 
 companions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick to medi- 
 tate upon what he had overheard. 
 
 Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this con- 
 versation; and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved 
 him, " Is it possible? Sits the wind in that corner? " And when 
 they were gone, he began to reason in this manner with himself: 
 " This can be no trick! they were very serious, and they have the 
 truth from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. Love me ! Why 
 it must be requited I I did never think to marry. But when I 
 said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I should live to be 
 married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so. 
 And wise in everything but loving me. Why, that is no great 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 41 
 
 argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, 
 she is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice 
 now approached him, and said with her usual tartness, " Against 
 my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who 
 never felt himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, re- 
 plied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" and when 
 Beatrice, after two or three more rude speeches, left him, Bene- 
 dick thought he observed a concealed meaning of kindness under 
 the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud, " If I do not take 
 pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew. I 
 will go get her picture." 
 
 The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for 
 him, it was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and 
 for this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentle- 
 women who attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, " Good 
 Margaret, run to the parlour; there you will find my cousin 
 Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio. Whisper in her 
 ear, that I and Ursula are walking in the orchard, and that our 
 discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant arbour, 
 where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions, 
 forbid the sun to enter." This arbour, into which Hero desired 
 Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasant arbour 
 where Benedick had so lately been an attentive listener. 
 
 " I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret. 
 
 Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, 
 " Now, Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down 
 this alley, and our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name 
 him, let it be your part to praise him more than ever man did merit. 
 My talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now 
 begin; for look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the 
 ground, to hear our conference." They then began; Hero saying, 
 as if in answer to something which Ursula had said, " No, truly, 
 Ursula. She is too disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds 
 of the rock." " But are you sure," said Ursula, " that Benedick 
 
42 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 loves Beatrice so entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, 
 and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to acquaint her with 
 it; but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to let Bea- 
 trice know of it." " Certainly," replied Ursula, " it were not good 
 she knew his love, lest she made sport of it." " Why, to say truth," 
 said Hero, " I never yet saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, 
 young, or rarely featured, but she would dispraise him." " Sure, 
 sure, such carping is not commendable," said Ursula. " No," re- 
 plied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? If I should speak, she 
 would mock me into air." " O ! you wrong your cousin," said 
 Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment, as to re- 
 fuse so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." " He hath an ex- 
 cellent good name," said Hero: " indeed, he is the first man in Italy, 
 always excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her 
 attendant a hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula 
 said, "And when are you to be married, madam?" Hero then 
 told her, that she was to be married to Claudia the next day, and 
 desired she would go in with her, and look at some new attire, as 
 she wished to consult with her on what she would wear on the mor- 
 row. Beatrice, who had been listening with breathless eagerness 
 to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed, " What fire is in 
 mine ears? Can this be true? Farewell, contempt and scorn, and 
 maiden pride, adieu ! Benedick, love on ! I will requite you, tam- 
 ing my wild heart to your loving hand." 
 
 It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies con- 
 verted into new and loving friends, and to behold their first meeting 
 after being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the 
 good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero 
 must now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been 
 her wedding-day, brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her 
 good father Leonato. 
 
 The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along 
 with him to Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) 
 was a melancholy, discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 43 
 
 in the contriving of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and 
 he hated Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, and determined 
 to prevent Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious 
 pleasure of making Claudio and the prince unhappy; for he knew 
 the prince had set his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as 
 Claudio himself; and to effect this wicked purpose, he employed 
 one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom he encouraged with 
 the offer of a great reward. This Borachio paid his court to Mar- 
 garet, Hero's attendant; and Don John, knowing this, prevailed 
 upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him from her lady's 
 chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress 
 herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the be- 
 lief that it was Hero ; for that was the end he meant to compass by 
 this wicked plot. 
 
 Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that 
 Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from 
 her chamber window at midnight. Now this was the evening be- 
 fore the wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where 
 they should themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her 
 window; and they consented to go along with him, and Claudio 
 said, " If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her, to- 
 morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wed her, there will 
 I shame her." The prince also said, " And as I assisted you to 
 obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her." 
 
 When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, 
 they saw Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Marga- 
 ret looking out of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Bo- 
 rachio : and Margaret being dressed in the same clothes they had 
 seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the lady 
 Hero herself. 
 
 Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made 
 (as he thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero 
 was at once converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in 
 the church, as he had said he would, the next day; and the prince 
 
44 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 agreed to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for the 
 naughty lady, who talked with a man from her window that very 
 night before she was going to be married to the noble Claudio. 
 
 The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, 
 and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the 
 priest, or friar, as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the 
 marriage ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, pro- 
 claimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange 
 words he uttered, said meekly, " Is my lord well, that he does 
 speak so wide? " 
 
 Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, " My lord, 
 why speak not you? " " What should I speak? " said the prince; 
 " I stand dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend 
 to an unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my 
 brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at 
 midnight talk with a man at her chamber window." 
 
 Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, " This looks 
 not like a nuptial." 
 
 "True, O God! " replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this 
 hapless lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. 
 The prince and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if 
 Hero would recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they 
 had thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them. 
 
 Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from 
 her swoon, saying, " How does the lady? " " Dead, I think," re- 
 plied Beatrice in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing 
 her virtuous principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard 
 spoken against her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the 
 story of his child's shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting 
 over her, as she lay like one dead before him, wishing she might 
 never more open her eyes. 
 
 But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on 
 human nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's counte- 
 nance when she heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blush- 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 45 
 
 ing shames to start into her face, and then he saw an angel-like 
 whiteness bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that 
 did belie the error that the prince did speak against her maiden 
 truth, and he said to the sorrowing father, " Call me a fool; trust 
 not my reading, nor my observation; trust not my age, my reverence, 
 nor my calling, if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some 
 biting error." 
 
 When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had 
 fallen, the friar said to her, " Lady, what man is he you are accused 
 of? " Hero replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of 
 none : " then turning to Leonato, she said, " O my father, if you can 
 prove that any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, 
 or that I yesternight changed words with any creature, refuse me, 
 hate me, torture me to death." 
 
 " There is," said the friar, " some strange misunderstanding in 
 the prince and Claudio; " and then he counselled Leonato, that he 
 should report that Hero was dead; and he said that the death-like 
 swoon in which they had left Hero would make this easy of belief; 
 and he also advised him that he should put on mourning, and erect 
 a monument for her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. 
 "What shall become of this?" said Leonato; "What will this 
 do? " The friar replied, "This report of her death shall change 
 slander into pity: that is some good; but that is not all the good I 
 hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died upon hearing his 
 words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagination. 
 Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish 
 that he had not so accused her; yea, though he thought his accusation 
 true." 
 
 Benedick now said, " Leonato, let the friar advise you ; and though 
 you know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour 
 I will not reveal this secret to them." 
 
 Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, " I am 
 so grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar 
 then led Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and 
 
46 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Beatrice and Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting 
 from which their friends, who contrived the merry plot against 
 them, expected so much diversion; those friends who were now over- 
 whelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of mer- 
 riment seemed for ever banished. 
 
 Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, " Lady Beatrice, 
 have you wept all this while? " " Yea, and I will weep a while 
 longer," said Beatrice. " Surely," said Benedick, " I do believe 
 your fair cousin is wronged." " Ah ! " said Beatrice, " how much 
 might that man deserve of me who would right her ! " Benedick 
 then said, " Is there any way to show such friendship ? I do love 
 nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?" " It 
 were as possible," said Beatrice, " for me to say I loved nothing in 
 the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I 
 confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin." 
 " By my sword," said Benedick, " you love me, and I protest I love 
 you. Come, bid me do anything for you." " Kill Claudio," said 
 Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick; for he 
 loved his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. 
 " Is not Claudio a villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dishon- 
 oured my cousin ? " said Beatrice : " O that I were a man ! " " Hear 
 me, Beatrice ! " said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in 
 Claudio's defence; and she continued to urge on Benedick to re- 
 venge her cousin's wrongs: and she said, " Talk with a man out of 
 the window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she 
 is slandered; she is undone. O that I were a man for Claudio's 
 sake ! or that I had any friend, who would be a man for my sake ! 
 but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be 
 a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving." 
 " Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: " by this hand I love you." 
 " Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it," said 
 Beatrice. " Think you on your soul that Claudio has wronged 
 Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as 
 I have a thought or a soul." " Enough," said Benedick: " I am 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 47 
 
 engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave 
 you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account! As 
 you hear from me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin." 
 
 While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and 
 working his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to en- 
 gage in the cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend 
 Claudio, Leonato was challenging the prince and Claudio to an- 
 swer with their swords the injury they had done his child, who, he 
 affirmed, had died for grief. But they respected his age and his 
 sorrow, and they said, " Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old 
 man." And now came Benedick, and he also challenged Claudio 
 to answer with his sword the injury he had done to Hero; and 
 Claudio and the prince said to each other, " Beatrice has set him on 
 to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this chal- 
 lenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment 
 brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the 
 uncertain fortune of a duel. 
 
 While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge 
 of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the 
 prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his com- 
 panions of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do. 
 
 Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hear- 
 ing, that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had 
 talked with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady 
 Hero herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and 
 the prince of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had re- 
 mained it must have been removed by the flight of Don John, who, 
 finding his villanies were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the 
 just anger of his brother. 
 
 The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had 
 falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel 
 words; and the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over 
 him, in the rare semblance that he loved it first; and the prince ask- 
 ing him if what he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he 
 
48 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 answered, that he felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was 
 speaking. 
 
 And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man 
 Leonato for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that 
 whatever penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in be- 
 lieving the false accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear 
 sake he would endure it. 
 
 The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morn- 
 ing a cousin of Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in per- 
 son very like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he 
 made to Leonato, said, he would marry this unknown lady, even 
 though she were an Ethiop : but his heart was very sorrowful, and' 
 he passed that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb 
 which Leonato had erected for Hero. 
 
 When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the 
 church, where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were al- 
 ready assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato pre- 
 sented to Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that 
 Claudio might not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady 
 in the mask, " Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your 
 husband, if you will marry me." " And when I lived I was your 
 other wife," said this unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she 
 proved to be no niece (as was pretended) , but Leonato's very daugh- 
 ter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure that this proved a 
 most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that 
 he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the prince, who was 
 equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, " Is not this Hero, Hero 
 that was dead? " Leonato replied, " She died, my lord, but while 
 her slander lived." The friar promised them an explanation of this 
 seeming miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and was proceeding 
 to marry them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who desired 
 to be married at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some 
 demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her love 
 for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 49 
 
 took place; and they found they had both been tricked into a belief 
 of love, which had never existed, and had become lovers in truth by 
 the power of a false jest: but the affection, which a merry inven- 
 tion had cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken 
 by a serious explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he 
 was resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the world could 
 say against it; and he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Bea- 
 trice, that he took her but for pity, and because he heard she was 
 dying of love for him; and Beatrice protested, that she yielded but 
 upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life, for she heard he 
 was in a consumption. So these two mad wits were reconciled, and 
 made a match of it, after Claudio and Hero were married; and to 
 complete the history, Don John, the contriver of the villainy, was 
 taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina; and a brave pun- 
 ishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man, to see the joy and 
 feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place in the 
 palace in Messina. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 
 
 DURING the time that France was divided into provinces 
 (or dukedoms as they were called) there reigned in one 
 of these provinces an usurper, who had deposed and ban- 
 ished his elder brother, the lawful duke. 
 
 The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with 
 a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden ; and here the good 
 duke lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a 
 voluntary exile for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched 
 the false usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease 
 they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splen- 
 dour of a courtier's life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood 
 of England, and to this forest many noble youths daily resorted 
 from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they did who 
 lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under the 
 fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of 
 the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled fools, 
 who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved 
 them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with venison 
 for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel 
 the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and 
 say, " These chilling winds which blow upon my body are true coun- 
 sellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition; 
 and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as 
 that of unkindness and ingratitude. I can find that howsoever men 
 speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from 
 it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the 
 head of the venomous and despised toad." In this manner did the 
 patient duke draw a useful moral from everything that he saw; and 
 by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote from 
 
 <0 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 51 
 
 public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the running 
 brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom 
 the usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still re- 
 tained in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A 
 strict friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagree- 
 ment between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striv- 
 ing by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for 
 the injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; 
 and whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own 
 dependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's 
 whole care was to comfort and console her. 
 
 One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to 
 Rosalind, saying, " I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be 
 merry," a messenger entered from the duke, to tell them that if they 
 wished to see a wrestling match, which was just going to begin, 
 they must come instantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, 
 thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it. 
 
 In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country 
 clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and be- 
 fore fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, 
 Celia and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove 
 a very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had been 
 long practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in 
 contests of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very yOung 
 man, who, from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the 
 beholders all thought would certainly be killed. 
 
 When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, " How now, 
 daughter and niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You 
 will take little delight in it, there is such odds in the men : in pity to 
 this young man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. 
 Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 
 
 The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and 
 first Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from 
 
52 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with 
 such feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, 
 that instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his 
 purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his 
 courage in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia 
 and Rosalind in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still 
 more concern for him; he concluded his refusal with saying, " I am 
 sorry to deny such fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your 
 fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be 
 conquered there is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am 
 killed, there is one dead that is willing to die ; I shall do my friends 
 no wrong, for I have none to lament me ; the world no injury, for 
 in it I have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world which 
 may be better supplied when I have made it empty." 
 
 And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young 
 stranger might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The 
 friendless state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, 
 made Rosalind think that he was like herself, unfortunate; and she 
 pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger 
 while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that mo- 
 ment to have fallen in love with him. 
 
 The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble 
 ladies gave him courage and strength, so that he performed won- 
 ders; and in the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was 
 so much hurt, that for a while he was unable to speak or move. 
 
 The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill 
 shown by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and 
 parentage, meaning to take him under his protection. 
 
 The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the 
 youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 
 
 Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some 
 years; but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear 
 friend of the banished duke: therefore, when Frederick heard 
 Orlando was the son of his banished brother's friend, all his liking 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 53 
 
 for this brave young man was changed into displeasure, and he left 
 the place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name of any 
 of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the valour of the 
 youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished Orlando had been 
 the son of any other man. 
 
 Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the 
 son of her father's old friend; and she said to Celia, " My father 
 loved Sir Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man 
 was his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties before he 
 should have ventured." 
 
 The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the 
 sudden displeasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and en- 
 couraging words to him; and Rosalind, when they were going 
 away, turned back to speak some more civil things to the brave 
 young son of her father's old friend; and taking a chain from off 
 her neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear this for me. I am out of 
 suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable present." 
 
 When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Or- 
 lando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with 
 the handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, " Is it pos- 
 sible you should fall in love so suddenly? " Rosalind replied, " The 
 duke, my father, loved his father dearly." " But," said Celia, 
 " does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? for 
 then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father; yet I do 
 not hate Orlando." 
 
 Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' 
 son, which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke 
 had among the nobility, and having been for some time displeased 
 with his niece, because the people praised her for her virtues, and 
 pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out 
 against her; and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, 
 Frederick entered the room, and with looks full of anger ordered 
 Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, and follow her father into 
 banishment; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had 
 
54 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. " I did not then," 
 said Celia, " entreat you to let her stay, for I was too young at that 
 time to value her; but now that I know her worth, and that we so 
 long have slept together, rose at the same instant, learned, played, 
 and eat together, I cannot live out of her company." Fred- 
 erick replied, " She is too subtle for you; her smoothness, her very 
 silence, and her patience speak to the people, and they pity her. 
 You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more bright and 
 virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in her fa- 
 vour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable." 
 
 When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let 
 Rosalind remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany 
 her; and leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with 
 her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest 
 of Arden. 
 
 Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for 
 two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she 
 therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dress- 
 ing themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a 
 still greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man ; 
 and so it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind 
 was the tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, 
 and Celia should be habited like a country lass, and that they should 
 say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be 
 called Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of Aliena. 
 
 In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their 
 expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the 
 forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the 
 duke's dominions. 
 
 The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) 
 with her manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The 
 faithful friendship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so 
 many weary miles, made the new brother, in recompense for this 
 true love, exert a cheerful, spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 55 
 
 the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, 
 Aliena. 
 
 When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer 
 found the convenient inns and good accommodations they had met 
 with on the road; and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, 
 who had so merrily cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and 
 happy remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so 
 weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and 
 cry like a woman; and Aliena declared she could go no farther; and 
 then again Ganymede tried to recollect that it was a man's duty to 
 comfort and console a woman, as the weaker vessel; and to seem 
 courageous to his new sister, he said, " Come, have a good heart, 
 my sister Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, in the forest 
 of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced courage would no 
 longer support them; for though they were in the forest of Arden, 
 they knew not where to find the duke: and here the travel of these 
 weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might 
 have lost themselves, and perished for want of food; but providen- 
 tially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue 
 and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass that way, 
 and Ganymede once more tried to speak with a manly boldness, say- 
 ing, " Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure us 
 entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves ; for 
 this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and 
 faints for want of food." 
 
 The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and 
 that his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore 
 they would find but poor entertainment; but that if they would go 
 with him, they should be welcome to what there was. They fol- 
 lowed the man, the near prospect of relief giving them fresh 
 strength ; and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took 
 the man who conducted them to the shepherd's house to wait on 
 them ; and being by this means so fortunately provided with a neat 
 cottage, and well supplied with provisions they agreed to stay here 
 
56 JTALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. 
 
 When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they 
 began to like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves 
 the shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes 
 Ganymede remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind 
 who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was the son 
 of old Sir Rowland, her father's friend; and though Ganymede 
 thought that Orlando was many miles distant, even so many weary 
 miles as they had travelled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was 
 also in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this strange event 
 came to pass. 
 
 Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when 
 he died, left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his 
 eldest brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his 
 brother a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity 
 of their ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother ; and dis- 
 regarding the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother 
 to school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But 
 in his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much 
 resembled his excellent father, that without any advantages of educa- 
 tion he seemed like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care ; 
 and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified manners of his 
 untutored brother, that at last he wished to destroy him ; and to ef- 
 fect this he set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous 
 wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so many men. 
 Now, it was this cruel brother's neglect of him which made Orlando 
 say he wished to die, being so friendless. 
 
 When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother 
 proved victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he 
 swore he would burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was 
 overheard making this vow by one that had been an old and faith- 
 ful servant to their father, and that loved Orlando because he re- 
 sembled Sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet him when 
 he returned from the duke's palace, and when he saw Orlando, the 
 
NOW THEY WERE IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN — BUT ALMOST DYING 
 
 with fatigue" — Page 55 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 57 
 
 peril his dear young master was in made him break out into these 
 passionate exclamations : " O my gentle master, my sweet master, 
 O vou memory of old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are 
 you gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond to 
 overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly 
 home before you." Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked 
 him what was the matter. And then the old man told him how 
 his wicked brother, envying the love all people bore him, and now 
 hearing the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke's palace, 
 intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his chamber that night; 
 and in conclusion, advised him to escape the danger he was in by 
 instant flight; and knowing Orlando had no money, Adam (for that 
 was the good old man's name) had brought out with him his own 
 little hoard, and he said, " I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty 
 hire I saved under your father, and laid by to be provision for me 
 when my old limbs should become unfit for service; take that, and 
 he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my age ! Here is the 
 gold ; all this I give to you : let me be your servant ; though I look 
 old I will do the service of a younger man in all your business and 
 necessities." u O good old man!" said Orlando, "how well ap- 
 pears in you the constant service of the old world! You are not 
 for the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and 
 before your youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some means 
 for both our maintenance." 
 
 Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; 
 and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to 
 pursue, till they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found 
 themselves in the same distress for want of food that Ganymede and 
 Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking some human habita- 
 tion, till they were almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at 
 last said, " O my dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no 
 farther ! " He then laid himself down, thinking to make that place 
 his grave, and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him 
 in this weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and carried 
 
58 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and he said to him, 
 " Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile, and do not 
 talk of dying! " 
 
 Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened 
 to arrive at that part of the forest where the duke was ; and he and 
 his friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being 
 seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of 
 some large trees. 
 
 Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, in- 
 tending to take their meat by force, and said, " Forbear and eat no 
 more; I must have your food! " The duke asked him, if distress 
 had made him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of good man- 
 ners? On this Orlando said, he was dying with hunger; and then 
 the duke told him he was welcome to sit down and eat with them. 
 Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword, and blushed 
 with shame at the rude manner in which he had demanded their food. 
 "Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought that all things 
 had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance of 
 stern command ; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under 
 the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours 
 of time; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have 
 been where bells have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at 
 any good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a 
 tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches 
 now move you to do me human courtesy ! " The duke replied, 
 " True it is that we are men (as you say) who have seen better days, 
 and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have 
 lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to 
 church, have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped 
 the drops which sacred pity has engendered; therefore sit you down, 
 and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your 
 wants." " There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, " who 
 has limped after me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at 
 once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 59 
 
 must not touch a bit." " Go, find him out, and bring him hither," 
 said the duke; " we will forbear to eat till you return." Then 
 Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and 
 presently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, 
 "Set down your venerable burthen; you are both welcome:" and 
 they fed the old man, and cheered his heart, and he revived, and 
 recovered his health and strength again. 
 
 The duke inquired who Orlando was ; and when he found that he 
 was the son of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him 
 under his protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the 
 duke in the forest. 
 
 Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede 
 "and Aliena came there, and (as has been before related) bought the 
 shepherd's cottage. 
 
 Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name 
 of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, 
 all addressed to Rosalind ; and while they were wondering how this 
 could be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which 
 Rosalind had given him about his neck. 
 
 Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair princess Rosa- 
 lind, who, by her noble condescension and favour, had so won his 
 heart that he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the 
 trees, and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much 
 pleased with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he en- 
 tered into conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness 
 in Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the 
 dignified deportment of that noble lady ; for Ganymede assumed the 
 forward manners often seen in youths when they are between boys 
 and men, and with such archness and humour talked to Orlando of 
 a certain lover, " who," said he, " haunts our forest, and spoils our 
 young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks; and he hangs 
 odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 
 Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him some good 
 counsel that would soon cure him of his love." 
 
60 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, 
 and asked Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. 
 The remedy Ganymede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was 
 that Orlando should come every day to the cottage where he and 
 his sister Aliena dwelt: " And then," said Ganymede, " I will feign 
 myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the same 
 manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and then I will imitate 
 the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till I make 
 you ashamed of your love; and this is the way I propose to cure 
 you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to 
 come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and feign a playful court- 
 ship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and Aliena, and 
 Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and every day 
 talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments which 
 young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does 
 not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing 
 Orlando of his love for Rosalind. 
 
 Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not 
 dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosalind) , yet the oppor- 
 tunity it gave him of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, 
 pleased his fancy almost as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed 
 the secret jest in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed 
 to the right person. 
 
 In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young 
 people; and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede 
 happy, let him have his own way, and was diverted at the mock- 
 courtship, and did not care to remind Ganymede that the lady Rosa- 
 lind had not yet made herself known to the duke her father, whose 
 place of resort in the forest they had learnt from Orlando. Gany- 
 mede met the duke one day, and had some talk with him, and the 
 duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede answered that 
 he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the duke smile, 
 for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 61 
 
 Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was content 
 to put off all further explanation for a few days longer. 
 
 One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw 
 a man lying asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had 
 twisted itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, 
 glided away among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then 
 he discovered a lioness lie crouching, with her head on the ground, 
 with a cat-like watch, waiting until the sleeping man awaked 
 (for it is said that lions will prey on nothing that is dead or sleep- 
 ing). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to free the 
 man from the danger of the snake and lioness; but when Orlando 
 looked in the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper who was 
 exposed to this double peril, was his own brother Oliver, who had so 
 cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire; and 
 he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness; 
 but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon over- 
 came his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword, 
 and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his 
 brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furious 
 lioness ; but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn 
 one of his arms with her sharp claws. 
 
 While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and 
 perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, 
 was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own 
 life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his 
 unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's 
 pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see 
 him so penitent, and readily forgave him: they embraced each other; 
 and from that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly 
 affection, though he had come to the forest bent on his destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found 
 himself too weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore desired his 
 
62 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 brother to go and tell Ganymede, " whom," said Orlando, " I in 
 sport do call my Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him. 
 
 Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how 
 Orlando had saved his life : and when he had finished the story of 
 Orlando's bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to 
 them that he was Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him ; 
 and then he told them of their reconciliation. 
 
 The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made 
 such a lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she in- 
 stantly fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she 
 pitied the distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly 
 fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the 
 hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede, 
 who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was 
 wounded by the lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pre- 
 tended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary char- 
 acter of Rosalind, and Ganymede said to Oliver, " Tell your brother 
 Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by 
 the paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much 
 wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, " Well, if 
 you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." 
 " So I do," replied Ganymede, truly, " but I should have been a 
 woman by right." 
 
 Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he re- 
 turned back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for be- 
 sides the account of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando 
 was wounded, Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the 
 fair shepherdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to 
 his suit, even in this their first interview; and he talked to his 
 brother, as of a thing almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, 
 saying, that he so well loved her, that he would live here as a shep- 
 herd, and settle his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 
 
 " You have my consent," said Orlando. " Let your wedding 
 be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 63 
 
 persuade your shepherdess to agree to this : she is now alone ; for 
 look, here comes her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Gany- 
 mede, whom Orlando had perceived approaching, came to inquire 
 after the health of his wounded friend. 
 
 When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden 
 love which had taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said 
 he had advised his brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be 
 married on the morrow, and then he added how much he could 
 wish to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. 
 
 Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement said that if 
 Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he 
 should have his wish ; for on the morrow he would engage to make 
 Rosalind appear in her own person, and also that Rosalind should 
 be willing to marry Orlando. 
 
 This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the 
 lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would 
 bring to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an 
 uncle who was a famous magician. 
 
 The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what 
 he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. " By 
 my life I do," said Ganymede; " therefore put on your best clothes, 
 and bid the duke and your friends to your wedding; for if you 
 desire to be married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 
 
 The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, 
 they came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came 
 Orlando. 
 
 They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and 
 as yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wonder- 
 ing and conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was 
 making a jest of Orlando. 
 
 The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be 
 brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the 
 shepherd-boy could really do what he had promised; and while 
 Orlando was answering that he knew not what to think, Ganymede 
 
64 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 entered, and asked the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether 
 he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. " That I would," 
 said the duke, " if I had kingdoms to give with her." Ganymede 
 then said to Orlando, " And you say you will marry her if I bring 
 her here." " That I would," said Orlando, " if I were king of 
 many kingdoms." 
 
 Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede 
 throwing off his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's 
 apparel, quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and 
 Aliena changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with 
 as little trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 
 
 While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought 
 the shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and 
 Orlando said, he also had observed the resemblance. 
 
 They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosa- 
 lind and Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pre- 
 tending that it was by the power of magic that she came here, Rosa- 
 lind threw herself on her knees before her father, and begged his 
 blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that she should 
 so suddenly appear, that it might well have passed for magic; but 
 Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told him the 
 story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in the forest as a 
 shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. 
 
 The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the mar- 
 riage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married 
 at the same time. And though their wedding could not be cele- 
 brated in this wild forest with any of the parade or splendour usual 
 on such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: 
 and while they were eating their venison under the cool shade of 
 the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be wanting to complete the 
 felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, an unexpected mes- 
 senger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his dukedom 
 was restored to him. 
 
 The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 65 
 
 hearing that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of 
 Arden to join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his 
 brother should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself 
 at the head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, 
 intending to seize his brother, and put him with all his faithful 
 followers to the sword; but, by a wonderful interposition of Provi- 
 dence, this bad brother was converted from his evil intention; for 
 just as he entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an 
 old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much talk, and who 
 in the end completely turned his heart from his wicked design. 
 Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and resolved, relinquish- 
 ing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of his days in a 
 religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived penitence was 
 to send a messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer to 
 restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with 
 it the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful followers of 
 his adversity. 
 
 This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came op- 
 portunely to heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of 
 the princesses. Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune 
 which had happened to the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her 
 joy very sincerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the 
 dukedom, but by this restoration which her father had made, Rosa- 
 lind was now the heir: so completely was the love of these two 
 cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or of envy. 
 
 The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true 
 friends who had stayed with him in his banishment; and these 
 worthy followers, though they had patiently shared his adverse for- 
 tune, were very well pleased to 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 were Valentine and Proteus, between whom 
 a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted. 
 They pursued their studies together, and their hours of leisure were 
 always passed in each other's company, except when Proteus visited 
 a lady he was in love with; and these visits to his mistress, and this 
 passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which 
 these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being himself a 
 lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend for ever 
 talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at Proteus, and in 
 pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and declare that no 
 such idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as 
 he said) the free and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and 
 fears of the lover Proteus. 
 
 One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must 
 for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, 
 unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail 
 upon Valentine not to leave him: but Valentine said, "Cease to 
 persuade me, my loving Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear 
 out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever 
 homely wits. If your affection were not chained to the sweet 
 glances of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany 
 me, to see the wonders of the world abroad; but since you are a 
 lover, love on still, and may your love be prosperous! " 
 
 They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. 
 " Sweet Valentine, adieu! " said Proteus; " think on me, when you 
 see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me 
 partaker of your happiness." 
 
 Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and 
 
 66 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 67 
 
 when his friend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to 
 Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. 
 
 Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of 
 a noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity 
 too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his 
 passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his 
 suit. 
 
 And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not re- 
 ceive it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and 
 ordered her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see 
 what was written in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again ; 
 and when Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" 
 Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than 
 to know the time of day, without answering her question, again 
 offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus 
 take the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted, tore 
 the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid 
 once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped 
 to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant 
 not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger, " Go, get you 
 gone, and let the papers lie; you would be fingering them to 
 anger me." 
 
 Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn 
 fragments. She first made out these words, " Love-wounded 
 Proteus;" and lamenting over these and such like loving words, 
 which she made out though they were all torn asunder, or, she 
 said wounded (the expression " Love-wounded Proteus " giving 
 her that idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she 
 would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their wounds 
 were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece, to make 
 amends. 
 
 In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like child- 
 ishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed 
 at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as 
 
68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she 
 had ever done before. 
 
 Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable an- 
 swer to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, " Sweet 
 love, sweet lines, sweet life! " In the midst of his raptures he was 
 interrupted by his father. " How now! " said the old gentleman; 
 " what letter are you reading there? " 
 
 " My lord," replied Proteus, " it is a letter from my friend Valen- 
 tine, at Milan." 
 
 " Lend me the letter," said his father: " let me see what news." 
 
 " There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly alarmed, 
 " but that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who 
 daily graces him with favours ; and how he wishes me with him, the 
 partner of his fortune." 
 
 " And how stand you affected to his wish? " asked the father. 
 
 " As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on 
 his friendly wish," said Proteus. 
 
 Now it had happened that Proteus' father had just been talking 
 with a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered 
 his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most 
 men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; " some," 
 said he, " to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to dis- 
 cover islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; 
 and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of 
 Milan's court. Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will 
 be a great disadvantage to him in his riper age not to have travelled 
 in his youth." 
 
 Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good, 
 and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine " wished him with him, 
 the partner of his fortune," he at once determined to send his son 
 to Milan; and without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden 
 resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to 
 command his son, not reason with him, he said, " My will is the 
 same as Valentine's wish;" and seeing his son look astonished, he 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 69 
 
 added, " Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall 
 spend some time in the duke of Milan's court; for what I will I 
 will, and there is an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make 
 no excuses; for I am peremptory." 
 
 Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, 
 who never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself 
 for telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had 
 brought upon him the sad necessity of leaving her. 
 
 Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long 
 a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each 
 other a mournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. 
 Proteus and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to 
 keep for ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, taking a sor- 
 rowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of 
 his friend Valentine. 
 
 Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, 
 in high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had hap- 
 pened to him, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine 
 had given up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and 
 was become as passionate a lover as Proteus. 
 
 She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the 
 lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; 
 but they concealed their love from the duke, because although he 
 showed much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to 
 his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier 
 whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had 
 none of the fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine. 
 
 These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit 
 to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning every- 
 thing Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the 
 room, and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' 
 arrival. Valentine said, " If I had wished a thing, it would have 
 been to have seen him here ! " And then he highly praised Proteus 
 to the duke, saying, " My lord, though I have been a truant of my 
 
7 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 time, yet hath my friend made use and fair advantage of his days, 
 and is complete in person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke. 
 " Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need 
 not bid him do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of 
 Proteus, and Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, " Sweet 
 lady, entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship." 
 
 When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone 
 together, Valentine said, " Now tell me how all does from whence 
 you came? 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 love discourse." 
 
 " Ay, Proteus," returned Valentine, " but that life is altered 
 now. I have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge 
 of my contempt of love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled 
 eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so 
 humbled me, that I confess there is no woe like his correction, nor 
 no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like no discourse 
 except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
 upon the very name of love." 
 
 This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the 
 disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. 
 But " friend " Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all- 
 powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even while 
 they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was 
 working in the heart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time 
 been a pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one 
 short interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless 
 lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished 
 away like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter 
 him from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and al- 
 though, as it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally 
 good become unjust, he had many scruples before he determined to 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 71 
 
 forsake Julia, and become the rival of Valentine; yet he at length 
 overcame his sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without 
 remorse, to his new unhappy passion. 
 
 Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his 
 love, and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her 
 father, and told him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain 
 his consent, he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace 
 that night, and go with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus 
 a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get 
 out of one of the windows of the palace after it was dark. 
 
 Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, 
 it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus re- 
 solved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him. 
 
 This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the 
 duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal 
 what he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke 
 had shown him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell 
 that which else no worldly good should draw from him. He then 
 told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of 
 ropes, and the manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them 
 under a long cloak. 
 
 The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he 
 preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal 
 an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to 
 let Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but 
 by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For 
 this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the even- 
 ing, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he per- 
 ceived somewhat was wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded 
 was the rope-ladder. 
 
 The duke upon this stopped him, saying, " Whither away so fast, 
 Valentine? " — " May it please your grace," said Valentine, " there 
 is a messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I 
 am going to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's 
 
72 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 had no better success 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 well and happy at your grace's court." 
 
 " Nay then," said the duke, " no matter; stay with me a while. 
 I wish your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." 
 He then told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his 
 secret from him, saying that Valentine knew he wished to match 
 his daughter with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient 
 to his commands, " neither regarding," said he, " that she is my 
 child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. And I may say to 
 thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love from her. I had thought 
 my age should have been cherished by her childlike duty. I now 
 am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to whosoever will take 
 her in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and my 
 possessions she esteems not." 
 
 Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, 
 " And what would your grace have me to do in all this? " 
 
 " Why," said the duke, " the lady I would wish to marry is nice 
 and coy, and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, 
 the fashion of courtship is much changed since I was young: now 
 I would willingly have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am 
 to woo." 
 
 Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then 
 practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love, 
 such as presents, frequent visits, and the like. 
 
 The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which 
 he sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no 
 man might have access to her by day. 
 
 " Why then," said Valentine, " you must visit her by night." 
 
 " But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the 
 drift of his discourse, " her doors are fast locked." 
 
 Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke should get 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 73 
 
 into the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, 
 saying he would procure him one fitting for that purpose ; and in 
 conclusion advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such 
 a cloak as that which he now wore. " Lend me your cloak," said 
 the duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to have a 
 pretence to get off the cloak; so upon saying these words, he caught 
 hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not 
 only the ladder of ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he in- 
 stantly opened and read; and this letter contained a full account of 
 their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine 
 for his ingratitude in thus returning the favour he had shown him, 
 by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the 
 court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forced to depart 
 that night, without even seeing Silvia. 
 
 While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at 
 Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus; and her regard for 
 him at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved 
 to leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself 
 from danger on the road, she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself 
 in men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at 
 Milan soon after Valentine was banished from that city through the 
 treachery of Proteus. 
 
 Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at 
 an inn ; and her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered 
 into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, 
 thinking by that means to learn some news of Proteus. 
 
 The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentle- 
 man (as he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded 
 was of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good- 
 natured man, he was sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to 
 amuse his young guest, he offered to take him to hear some fine 
 music, with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going to 
 serenade his mistress. 
 
 The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not 
 
74 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 well know what Proteus would think of the imprudent step she had 
 taken; for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride 
 and dignity of character, and she feared she should lower herself in 
 his esteem : and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful 
 countenance. 
 
 She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear 
 the music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the 
 way. 
 
 But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, 
 a very different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; 
 for there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant 
 Proteus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing dis- 
 course of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia 
 from a window talk with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking 
 his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; 
 and then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music 
 and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished 
 Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
 Proteus. 
 
 Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet 
 did she still love the truant Proteus ; and hearing that he had lately 
 parted with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, 
 the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and 
 Proteus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and 
 presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she 
 gave him as a parting gift at Verona. 
 
 When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to 
 find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or 
 the page Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation with 
 Silvia about Proteus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She put- 
 ting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew 
 Julia, as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke; 
 telling how fondly Julia loved her master Proteus, and how his un- 
 kind neglect would grieve her : and then she with a pretty equivoca- 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 75 
 
 tion went on: " Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the 
 colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine: " and indeed Julia 
 looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved 
 to pity this lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she 
 loved; and when Julia offered the ring which Proteus had sent, re- 
 fused it, saying, " The more shame for him that he sends me that 
 ring; I will not take it; for I have often heard him say his Julia 
 gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor 
 lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia's sake." These com- 
 fortable words coming from her kind rival's tongue cheered the 
 drooping heart of the disguised lady. 
 
 But to return to the banished Valentine ; who scarce knew which 
 way to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father 
 a disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely 
 forest, not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear 
 treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded 
 his money. 
 
 Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that 
 he was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes 
 he had on being all his riches. 
 
 The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being 
 struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him if he would 
 live with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put them- 
 selves under his command; but that if he refused to accept their 
 offer they would kill him. 
 
 Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he would 
 consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did 
 no outrage on women or poor passengers. 
 
 Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we 
 read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in 
 this situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to 
 pass. 
 
 Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted 
 upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of fol- 
 
76 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 lowing Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her 
 lover had taken refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, 
 for he still lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name 
 of their captain, but taking no part in their depredations, and using 
 the authority which they had imposed upon him in no other way 
 than to compel them to show compassion to the travellers they 
 robbed. 
 
 Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in 
 company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, 
 whom she took along with her for protection on the road. She 
 had to pass through the forest where Valentine and the banditti 
 dwelt; and one of these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also 
 have taken Eglamour, but he escaped. 
 
 The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, 
 bid her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to 
 a cave where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for 
 their captain had an honourable mind, and always showed humanity 
 to women. Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to 
 be carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. 
 " O Valentine," she cried, " this I endure for thee ! " 
 
 But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, 
 he was stopped by Proteus, who, still attended by Julia in the dis- 
 guise of a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her 
 steps to this forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of 
 the robber; but scarce had she time to thank him for the service 
 he had done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his love 
 suit; and while he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, 
 and his page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great 
 anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service which Proteus had 
 just done to Silvia should win her to show him some favour, they 
 were all strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valen- 
 tine, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came 
 to console and relieve her. 
 
 Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 77 
 
 caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence 
 and remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries 
 he had done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and 
 generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored 
 him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of 
 heroism he said, " I freely do forgive you ; and all the interest I 
 have in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside 
 her master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus 
 would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, 
 and they were all employed in recovering her : else would Silvia have 
 been offended at being thus made over to Proteus, though she could 
 scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this over- 
 strained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered 
 from the fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot, my master ordered me 
 to deliver this ring to Silvia." Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw 
 that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return for that which he 
 received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to 
 Silvia. " How is this? " said he, " this is Julia's ring: how came 
 you by it, boy? " Julia answered, " Julia herself did give it me, and 
 Julia herself hath brought it hither." 
 
 Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that 
 the page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself; and the 
 proof she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in 
 him, that his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again 
 his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady 
 Silvia to Valentine, who had so well deserved her. 
 
 Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their 
 reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies when they were 
 surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came 
 there in pursuit of Silvia. 
 
 Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying, 
 " Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited 
 manner, "Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is 
 yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but 
 
78 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 possession of her with a torch ! I dare you but to breathe upon my 
 love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew 
 back, and said he cared not for her, arid that none but a fool would 
 fight for a girl who loved him not. 
 
 The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great 
 anger, " The more base and degenerate in you to take such means 
 for her as you have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." 
 Then turning to Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Val- 
 entine, and think you worthy of an empress' love. You shall have 
 Silvia, for you have well deserved her." Valentine then with great 
 humility kissed the duke's hand, and accepted the noble present 
 which he had made him of his daughter with becoming thankfulness : 
 taking occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured 
 duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated in the 
 forest, assuring him, that when reformed and restored to society, 
 there would be found among them many good, and fit for great em- 
 ployment; for the most of them had been banished, like Valentine, 
 for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they had been 
 guilty of. To this the ready duke consented: and now nothing 
 remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way 
 of penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital 
 of the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke ; and 
 the shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged suf- 
 ficient punishment: which being done, the lovers, all four, returned 
 back to Milan, and their nuptials were solemnised 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 an immense fortune by lending money at great 
 interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being a hard- 
 hearted man, exacted the payment of the money he lent with such 
 severity that he was much disliked by all good men, and particularly 
 by Antonio, a young merchant of Venice ; and Shylock as much hated 
 Antonio, because he used to lend money to people in distress, and 
 would never take any interest for the money he lent; therefore 
 there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the generous 
 merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto 
 (or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard 
 dealings, which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he 
 secretly meditated revenge. 
 
 Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and 
 had the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was 
 one in whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any 
 that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fel- 
 low-citizens; but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart 
 was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, 
 had nearly exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a 
 manner for his slender means, as young men of high rank with small 
 fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, 
 Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
 and one purse between them. 
 
 One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished 
 to repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he 
 dearly loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole 
 heiress to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to 
 visit at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had 
 
 79 
 
8o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to 
 say he would be no unwelcome suitor; but not having money to 
 furnish himself with an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
 heiress, he besought Antonio to add to the many favours he had 
 shown him, by lending him three thousand ducats. 
 
 Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but 
 expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchan- 
 dise, he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and 
 borrow the money upon the credit of those ships. 
 
 Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio 
 asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest 
 he should require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his 
 ships at sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself, " If I can 
 once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear 
 him; he hates our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and 
 among the merchants he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, 
 which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him ! " An- 
 tonio finding he was musing within himself and did not answer, and 
 being impatient for the money, said, " Shylock, do you hear? will you 
 lend the money?" To this question the Jew replied, " Signior 
 Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you have railed at 
 me about my monies and my usuries, and I have borne it with a 
 patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; and then 
 you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my 
 Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I was 
 a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my help ; and you come 
 to me, and say, Shylock, lend me monies. Has a dog money? Is 
 it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend 
 low and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another 
 time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you 
 monies." Antonio replied, " I am as like to call you so again, to 
 spit on you again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this 
 money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as 
 to an enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face exact the 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 81 
 
 penalty." — " Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I 
 would be friends with you, and have your love. I will forget the 
 shames you have put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take 
 no interest for my money." This seemingly kind offer greatly sur- 
 prised Antonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and 
 that all he did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would lend 
 him the three thousand ducats, and take no interest for his money; 
 only Antonio should go with him to a lawyer, and there sign in 
 merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the money by a certain 
 day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part 
 of his body that Shylock pleased. 
 
 "Content," said Antonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say 
 there is much kindness in the Jew." 
 
 Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; 
 but still Antonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the 
 day of payment came, his ships would return laden with many times 
 the value of the money. 
 
 Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O, father Abraham, 
 what suspicious people these Christians are ! Their own hard deal- 
 ings teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell 
 me this, Bassanio : if he should break his day, what should I gain by 
 the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from 
 a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of 
 mutton or beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship : if 
 he will take it, so; if not, adieu." 
 
 At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all 
 the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should 
 run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed 
 the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 
 
 The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, 
 at a place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces 
 of her person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, 
 of whom we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus. 
 
 Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend An- 
 
82 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 tonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid 
 train, and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano. 
 
 Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time con- 
 sented to accept of him for a husband. 
 
 Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his 
 high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she, 
 who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not 
 to regard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, 
 that she would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten 
 thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the 
 accomplished Portia prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an 
 unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she 
 could learn, and that she would commit her gentle spirit to be di- 
 rected and governed by him in all things ; and she said, " Myself 
 and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted. But yester- 
 day, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair mansion, queen of myself, 
 and mistress over these servants; and now this house, these servants, 
 and myself, are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring; " pre- 
 senting a ring to Bassanio. 
 
 Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the 
 gracious manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a 
 man of his humble fortune, that he could not express his joy and 
 reverence to the dear lady who so honoured him, by anything but 
 broken words of love and thankfulness; and taking the ring, he 
 vowed never to part with it. 
 
 Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance 
 upon their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to 
 become the obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bas- 
 sanio and the generous lady joy, desired permission to be married 
 at the same time. 
 
 " With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, " if you can get a 
 wife." 
 
 Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting 
 gentlewoman Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 83 
 
 her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. 
 Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia 
 willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then our wedding- 
 feast shall be much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano." 
 
 The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment 
 by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio 
 containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, 
 Portia feared it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, 
 he looked so pale; and inquiring what was the news which had so 
 distressed him, he said, " O sweet Portia, here are a few of the un- 
 pleasantest words that ever blotted paper ; gentle lady, when I first 
 imparted my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had ran 
 in my veins ; but I should have told you that I had less than nothing, 
 being in debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here re- 
 lated, of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's 
 procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by which Antonio 
 had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if it was not repaid by a 
 certain day: and then Bassanio read Antonio's letter; the words of 
 which were, " Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the 
 Jew is forfeited, and since in -paying it is impossible I should live, 
 I could wish to see you at my death; notwithstanding , use your pleas- 
 ure; if your love for me do not persuade you to come, let not my 
 letter." " O, my dear love," said Portia, " despatch all business, 
 and begone; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times 
 over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault; 
 and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly love you." Portia 
 then said she would be married to Bassanio before he set out, to 
 give him a legal right to her money; and that same day they were 
 married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio 
 and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste 
 for Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in prison. 
 
 The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept 
 of the money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having 
 a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shock- 
 
84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ing cause before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dread- 
 ful suspense the event of the trial. 
 
 When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to 
 him, and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he 
 returned; yet she feared it would go hard with Antonio, and when 
 she was left alone, she began to think and consider within herself, 
 if she could by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her 
 dear Bassanio's friend; and notwithstanding when she wished to 
 honour her Bassanio, she had said to him with such a meek and 
 wife-like grace, that she would submit in all things to be governed 
 by his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth into action by the 
 peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her 
 own powers, and by the sole guidance of her own true and perfect 
 judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice, and speak in 
 Antonio's defence. 
 
 Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this 
 gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case 
 to him, desired his opinion, and that with his advice he should also 
 send her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger re- 
 turned, he brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, 
 and also everything necessary for her equipment. 
 
 Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, 
 and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along 
 with her as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at 
 Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to 
 be heard before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, 
 when Portia entered this high court of justice, and presented a let- 
 ter from Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the 
 duke, saying, he would have come himself to plead for Antonio, 
 but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested that the 
 learned young doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be per- 
 mitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted, much won- 
 dering at the youthful appearance of the stranger, who was prettily 
 disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig. 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 85 
 
 And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, 
 and she saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew 
 her not in her disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an 
 agony of distress and fear for his friend. 
 
 The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave 
 this tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she 
 had undertaken to perform: and first of all she addressed herself to 
 Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
 have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the 
 noble quality of mercy, as would have softened any heart but the 
 unfeeling Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from 
 heaven upon the place beneath ; and how mercy was a double bless- 
 ing, it blessed him that gave, and him that received it; and how it 
 became monarchs better than their crowns, being an attribute of God 
 himself; and that earthly power came nearest to God's, in propor- 
 tion as mercy tempered justice; and she bid Shylock remember that 
 as we all pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach us to show 
 mercy. Shylock only answered her by desiring to have the penalty 
 forfeited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the money? " asked 
 Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of the three 
 thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire; which Shy- 
 lock refusing, and still insisting upon having a pound of Antonio's 
 flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young 1 counsellor would en- 
 deavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia 
 gravely answered, that laws once established must never be altered. 
 Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it 
 seemed to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said, " A 
 Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise young judge, how I do honour 
 you ! How much elder are you than your looks! " 
 
 Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when 
 she had read it, she said, " This bond is forfeited, and by this the 
 Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off near- 
 est Antonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful: 
 take the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would 
 
86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the cruel Shylock show; and he said, " By my soul I swear, there is 
 no power in the tongue of man to alter me." — " Why then, An- 
 tonio," said Portia, " you must prepare your bosom for the knife: " 
 and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great eagerness 
 to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have you 
 anything to say?" Antonio with a calm resignation replied, that 
 he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his mind for death. 
 Then he said to Bassanio, " Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare 
 you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune for 
 you. Commend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I 
 have loved you ! " Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, " An- 
 tonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself; 
 but life itself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed with me 
 above your life : I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil 
 here, to deliver you." 
 
 Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all 
 offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so 
 true a friend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help 
 answering, " Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were 
 present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who 
 loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech 
 like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing 
 in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have a wife, whom I 
 protest I love; I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat 
 some power there to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." 
 " It is well you wish this behind her back, else you would have but 
 an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 
 
 Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pro- 
 nounce the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the 
 court, and every heart was full of grief for Antonio. 
 
 Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she 
 said to the Jew, " Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he 
 bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio 
 should bleed to death, said, " It is not so named in the bond." 
 
SHE WOULD HAVE SOFTENED ANY HEART BUT THE UNFEELING 
 
 SHYLOCK's" — Page 85 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 87 
 
 Portia replied, " It is not so named in the bond, but what of that? 
 It were good you did so much for charity." To this all the answer 
 Shylock would make was, " I cannot find it; it is not in the bond." 
 " Then," said Portia, " a pound of Antonio's flesh is thine. The 
 law allows it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this flesh 
 off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it." Again 
 Shylock exclaimed, " O wise and upright judge ! A Daniel is come 
 to judgment ! " And then he sharpened his long knife again, and 
 looking eargerly on Antonio, he said, " Come, prepare! " 
 
 " Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there is something else. 
 This bond here gives you no drop of blood ; the words expressly are, 
 ' a pound of flesh.' If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you 
 shed one drop of Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the 
 law to be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly 
 impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shed- 
 ding some of Antonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that 
 it was flesh and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the 
 life of Antonio; and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the 
 young counsellor, who had so happily thought of this expedient, 
 plaudits resounded from every part of the senate-house; and Gra- 
 tiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock had used, " O wise and 
 upright judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judgment ! " 
 
 Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with a 
 disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, re- 
 joiced beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried 
 out, "Here is the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, 
 " Softly; there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the pen- 
 alty: therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you 
 shed no blood: nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; 
 be it more or less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn by the 
 weight of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to 
 die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." " Give me my 
 money, and let me go," said Shylock. " I have it ready," said 
 Bassanio: " here it is." 
 
88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped 
 him, saying, " Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By 
 the laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having 
 conspired against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at 
 the mercy of the duke ; therefore, down on your knees, and ask him 
 to pardon you." 
 
 The duke then said to Shylock, " That you may see the difference 
 of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; 
 half your wealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the 
 state." 
 
 The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share 
 of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over 
 at his death to his daughter and her husband; for Antonio knew that 
 the Jew had an only daughter who had lately married against his 
 consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, 
 which had so offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her. 
 
 The Jew agreed to this : and being thus disappointed in his re- 
 venge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, " I am ill. Let me go 
 home; send the deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches 
 to my daughter." — " Get thee gone, then," said the duke, " and 
 sign it ; and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state 
 will forgive you the fine of the other half of your riches." 
 
 The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then 
 highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, 
 and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to 
 Belmont before her husband, replied, " I humbly thank your grace, 
 but I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not 
 leisure to stay and dine with him; and turning to Antonio, he added, 
 " Reward this gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted 
 to him." 
 
 The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said 
 to Portia, " Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have 
 by your wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I 
 beg you will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 89 
 
 " And we shall stand indebted to you over and above," said An- 
 tonio, " in love and service evermore." 
 
 Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon 
 Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, " Give 
 me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake; " and then Bas- 
 sanio taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given 
 him upon his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to 
 get from him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, 
 that made her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw 
 the ring, " and for your love I will take this ring from you." Bas- 
 sanio was sadly distressed that the counsellor should ask him for the 
 only thing he could not part with, and he replied in great con- 
 fusion, that he could not give him that ring, because it was his 
 wife's gift, and he had vowed never to part with it; but that he 
 would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find it out by 
 proclamation. On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left the 
 court, saying, " You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be an- 
 swered." 
 
 " Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, " let him have the ring; let my 
 love and the great service he has done for me be valued against 
 your wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrate- 
 ful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then 
 the clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged 
 his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity 
 by his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing among these 
 ladies to think, when they got home, how they would tax their hus- 
 bands with giving away their rings, and swear that they had given 
 them as a present to some woman. 
 
 Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind 
 which never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed 
 a good action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the 
 moon never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleas- 
 ant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from 
 her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she 
 
9 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 said to Nerissa, " That light we see is burning in my hall; how far 
 that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a 
 naughty world; " and hearing the sound of music from her house, 
 she said, " Methinks that music sounds much sweeter than by day." 
 
 And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing 
 themselves in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their 
 husbands, who soon followed them with Antonio; and Bassanio 
 presenting his dear friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and 
 welcomings of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived 
 Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. " A 
 quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is the matter?" Gra- 
 tiano replied, " Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave 
 me, with the words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife; Love 
 me, and leave me not." 
 
 " What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify? " said 
 Nerissa. " You swore to me when I gave it to you, that you would 
 keep it till the hour of death ; and now you say you gave it to the 
 lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a woman. " j — " By this 
 hand," replied Gratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a 
 little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself; he was clerk to the 
 young counsellor that by his wise pleading saved Antonio's life: 
 this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could not for my life 
 deny him." Portia said, " You were to blame, Gratiano, to part 
 with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and I 
 am sure he would not part with it for all the world." Gratiano, 
 in excuse for his fault, now said, " My lord Bassanio gave his ring 
 away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some 
 pains in writing, he begged my ring." 
 
 Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bas- 
 sanio for giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught 
 her what to believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. 
 Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and 
 he said with great earnestness, " No, by my honour, no woman 
 had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 91 
 
 and begged the ring, which when I denied him, he went displeased 
 away. What could I do, sweet Portia ? I was so beset with shame 
 for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after 
 him. Pardon me, good lady; had you been there, I think you would 
 have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor." 
 
 "Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these 
 quarrels." 
 
 Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at thaf, for that he was welcome 
 notwithstanding; and then Antonio said, " I once did lend my body 
 for Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave 
 the ring, I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my 
 soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with 
 you." — " Then you shall be his surety," said Portia ; " give him this 
 ring, and bid him keep it better than the other." 
 
 When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to 
 find it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him how 
 she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bas- 
 sanio found, to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was 
 by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life 
 was saved. 
 
 And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which 
 by some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an ac- 
 count of Antonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely ar- 
 rived in the harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich 
 merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune 
 which ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical ad- 
 venture of the rings, and the husbands that did not know their own 
 wives : Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that 
 
 while he lived, he'd fear no other thing 
 
 So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 
 
CYMBELINE 
 
 DURING the time of Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome, 
 there reigned in England (which was then called Britain) 
 a king whose name was Cymbeline. 
 
 Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons 
 and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these 
 children, was brought up in her father's court; but by a strange 
 chance the two sons of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, 
 when the eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest quite 
 an infant; and Cymbeline could never discover what was become 
 of them, or by whom they were conveyed away. 
 
 Cymbeline was twice married : his second wife was a wicked, plot- 
 ting woman, and a cruel step-mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's 
 daughter by his first wife. 
 
 The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a 
 son of her own by a former husband (she also having been twice 
 married) : for by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbe- 
 line to place the crown of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; 
 for she knew that, if the king's sons were not found, the princess 
 Imogen must be the king's heir. But this design was prevented by 
 Imogen herself, who married without the consent or even knowledge 
 of her father or the queen. 
 
 Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was 
 the best scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. 
 His father died fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after 
 his birth his mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband. 
 
 Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Post- 
 humus (Cymbeline having given him that name, because he was 
 born after his father's death), and educated him in his own court. 
 
 92 
 
CYMBELINE 93 
 
 Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, 
 and were playfellows from their infancy ; they loved each other ten- 
 derly when they were children, and their affection continuing to in- 
 crease with their years, when they grew up they privately married. 
 
 The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies 
 constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she 
 immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Post- 
 humus. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard 
 that his daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to 
 marry a subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and 
 banished him from his native country for ever. 
 
 The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she 
 suffered at losing her husband, offered to procure them a private 
 meeting before Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which 
 place he had chosen for his residence in his banishment: this seem- 
 ing kindness she showed, the better to succeed in her future designs 
 in regard to her son Cloten; for she meant to persuade Imogen, 
 when her husband was gone, that her marriage was not lawful, 
 being contracted without the consent of the king. 
 
 Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each 
 other. Imogen gave her husband a' diamond ring, which had been 
 her mother's, and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; 
 and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged 
 she would preserve with great care, as a token of his love; they then 
 bid each other farewell, with many vows of everlasting love and 
 fidelity. 
 
 Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's 
 court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for 
 his banishment. 
 
 Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men 
 of different nations, who were talking freely of ladies : each one 
 praising the ladies of his own country, and his own mistress. Post- 
 humus, who had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that 
 
94 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise and constant 
 lady in the world. 
 
 One of those gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended 
 that a lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, 
 his country-women, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the 
 constancy of his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much 
 altercation, Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that 
 he (Iachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love 
 of the married Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo 
 did not succeed in this wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum 
 of money; but if he could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon 
 her to give him the bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly de- 
 sired she would keep as a token of his love, then the wager was to 
 terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachimo the ring, which was 
 Imogen's love present when she parted with her husband. Such 
 firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he thought 
 he ran*no hazard in this trial of her honour. 
 
 Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance, and a 
 courteous welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but 
 when he began to make professions of love to her, she repulsed him 
 with disdain, and he soon found that he could have no hope of suc- 
 ceeding in his dishonourable design. 
 
 The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have 
 recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this 
 purpose he bribed some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them 
 conveyed into her bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he 
 remained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen 
 asleep ; and then getting out of the trunk, he examined the chamber 
 with great attention, and wrote down everything he saw there, and 
 particularly noticed a mole which he observed upon Imogen's neck, 
 and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, which Post- 
 humus had given to her, he retired into the chest again; and the 
 next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and boasted to 
 Posthumus that Imogen had given him the bracelet, and likewise 
 
CYMBELINE 95 
 
 permitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and in this manner 
 lachimo told his false tale: " Her bedchamber," said he, " was hung 
 with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra 
 when she met her Antony } a piece of work most bravely wrought." 
 
 " This is true," said Posthumus ; " but this you might have heard 
 spoken of without seeing." 
 
 " Then the chimney," said lachimo, " is south of the chamber, 
 and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing; never saw I figures livelier 
 expressed." 
 
 " This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthu- 
 mus; " for it is much talked of." 
 
 lachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber; and 
 added, " I had almost forgot her andirons; they were two winking 
 Cupids made of silver, each on one foot standing." He then took 
 out the bracelet, and said, " Know you this jewe^ sir? She gave 
 me this. She took it from her arm. I see her yet; her pretty 
 action did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave it me, 
 and said, she prized it once." He last of all described the mole he 
 had observed upon her neck. 
 
 Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an 
 agony of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations 
 against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to lachimo, 
 which he had agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet 
 from Imogen. 
 
 Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman 
 of Britain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been 
 a faithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he 
 had of his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen 
 to Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at 
 the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her 
 to go with Pisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without 
 seeing her, though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return 
 to Britain, he would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he 
 begged she would meet him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who 
 
96 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 loved her husband above all things, and desired more than her life 
 to see him, hastened her departure with Pisanio, and the same night 
 she received the letter she set out. 
 
 When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though 
 faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, 
 disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had received. 
 
 Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, 
 found herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted 
 beyond measure. 
 
 Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient 
 fortitude for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his 
 injustice : in the meantime, as she refused in her distress to return 
 to her father's court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes 
 for more security in travelling; to which advice she agreed, and 
 thought in that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her 
 husband, whom, though he had used her so barbarously, she could 
 not forget to love. 
 
 When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left 
 her to her uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but 
 before he departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the 
 queen had given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. 
 
 The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen 
 and Posthumus, gave him this phial, which she supposed contained 
 poison, she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, 
 to try its effects (as she said) upon animals; but the physician, know- 
 ing her malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, 
 but gave her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing 
 a person to sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. 
 This mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to 
 Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the road to take 
 it; and so, with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy de- 
 liverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her. 
 
 Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of 
 her two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bel- 
 
CYMBELINE 97 
 
 larius, who stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, 
 and having been falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished 
 from the court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbe- 
 line, and brought them up in a forest, where he lived concealed in 
 a cave. He stole them through revenge, but he soon loved them 
 as tenderly as if they had been his own children, educated them 
 carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their princely spirits lead- 
 ing them to bold and daring actions; and as they subsisted by hunt- 
 ing, they were active and hardy, and were always pressing their 
 supposed father to let them seek their fortune in the wars. 
 
 At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to 
 arrive. She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her 
 road lay to Milford-Haven (from which she meant to embark for 
 Rome) ; and being unable to find any place where she could purchase 
 food, she was with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not 
 merely putting on a man's apparel that will enable a young lady, 
 tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely 
 forests like a man. Seeing this cave, she entered, hoping to find 
 some one within of whom she could procure food. She found the 
 cave empty, but looking about she discovered some cold meat, and 
 her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait for an invita- 
 tion, but sat down and began to eat. " Ah," said she, talking to 
 herself, " I see a man's life is a tedious one; how tired am I! for 
 two nights together I have made the ground my bed: my resolu- 
 tion helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me 
 Milford-Haven from the mountain top, how near it seemed ! " 
 Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across 
 her, and she said, " My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one ! " 
 
 The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their 
 reputed father, Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bel- 
 larius had given them the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they 
 knew no better, but supposed that Bellarius was their father; but 
 the real names of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus. 
 
 Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them, 
 
98 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 saying, " Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it 
 was a fairy." 
 
 " What is the matter, sir? " said the young men. " By Jupiter," 
 said Bellarius again, " there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an 
 earthly paragon." So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's ap- 
 parel. 
 
 She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and 
 addressed them in these words: " Good masters, do not harm me; 
 before I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought 
 what I have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, 
 though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for 
 my meat, which I would have left on the board when I had made 
 my meal, and parted with prayers for the provider." They re- 
 fused her money with great earnestness. " I see you are angry with 
 me," said the timid Imogen; " but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, 
 know that I should have died if I had not made it." 
 
 " Whither are you bound? " asked Bellarius, " and what is your 
 name? " 
 
 " Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. " I have a kinsman, 
 who is bound for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom 
 being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this 
 offence." 
 
 " Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, " do not think us churls, 
 nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You 
 are well encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better 
 cheer before you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid 
 him welcome." 
 
 The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their 
 cave with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, 
 as they said, him) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where 
 (they having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen de- 
 lighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing 
 their supper; for though it is not the custom now for young women of 
 high birth to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled 
 
CYMBELINE 99 
 
 in this useful art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele 
 cut their roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had 
 been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. " And then," said Poly- 
 dore to his brother, " how angel-like he sings! " 
 
 They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so 
 sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if 
 grief and patience had together taken possession of him. 
 
 For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near rela- 
 tionship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called 
 her, Fidele) became the doting-piece of her brothers, and she 
 scarcely less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her 
 dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild 
 forest youths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she 
 was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way 
 to Milford-Haven. 
 
 When the venison they had taken was all eaten and they were 
 going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them be- 
 cause she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel 
 usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering }n the forest, was the 
 cause of her illness. 
 
 They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt, praising all 
 the way the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele. 
 
 Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial 
 Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a 
 sound and deathlike sleep. 
 
 When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Poly- 
 dore went first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off 
 his heavy shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so 
 did true gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters; 
 but he soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, 
 and concluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented over her with 
 dear and brotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy 
 been parted. 
 
 Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and there 
 
ioo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the 
 custom. 
 
 Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and 
 there laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her de- 
 parted spirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Poly- 
 dore said, " While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily 
 strew thy grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy 
 face; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, 
 which is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all these will I strew over 
 thee. Yea, and the furred moss in winter, when there are no 
 flowers to cover thy sweet corse." 
 
 When they had finished her funeral obsequies they departed very 
 sorrowful. 
 
 Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepy 
 drug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight covering 
 of leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and 
 imagining she had been dreaming, she said, " I thought I was a 
 cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how came I here covered 
 with flowers? " Not being able to find her way back to the cave, 
 and seeing nothing of her new companions, she concluded it was 
 certainly all a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her weary 
 pilgrimage, hoping at last she should find her way to Milford- 
 Haven, and thence get a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for 
 all her thoughts were still with her husband Posthumus, whom she 
 intended to seek in the disguise of a page. 
 
 But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen 
 knew nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Ro- 
 man emperor Augustus Csesar and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; 
 and a Roman army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced 
 into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this 
 army came Posthumus. 
 
 Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, 
 he did not mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, 
 
CYMBELINE 101 
 
 but intended to join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of 
 his king who had banished him. 
 
 He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death of her he 
 had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio having 
 written him a letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that 
 Imogen was dead), sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he re- 
 turned to Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be put 
 to death by Cymbeline for returning home from banishment. 
 
 Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands 
 of the Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommend- 
 ing her, she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general. 
 
 Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when 
 they entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal joined the king's 
 army. The young men were eager to engage in acts of valour, 
 though they little thought they were going to fight for their own 
 royal father : and old Bellarius went with them to the battle. He had 
 long since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline in car- 
 rying away his sons; and having been a warrior in his youth, he 
 gladly joined the army to fight for the king he had so injured. 
 
 And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and 
 the Britons would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, 
 but for the extraordinary valour of Posthumus and Bellarius and 
 the two sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his 
 life, and so entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Britons 
 gained the victory. 
 
 When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the 
 death he sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers 
 of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which was to be his pun- 
 ishment if he returned from banishment. 
 
 Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and 
 brought before Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who 
 was an officer in the Roman army; and when these prisoners were 
 before the king, Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence 
 
102 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 of death; and at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Poly- 
 dore and Cadwal were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive 
 the rewards due to the great services they had by their valour done 
 for the king. Pisanio, being one of the king's attendants, was like- 
 wise present. 
 
 Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but 
 with very different hopes and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with 
 her new master, the Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and 
 the false friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbe- 
 line, with Bellarius, who had stolen them away. 
 
 The Roman general was the first who spoke ; the rest stood silent 
 before the king, though there was many a beating heart among 
 them. 
 
 Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the 
 disguise of a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: 
 and she knew Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she 
 perceived to be her own, but she did not know him as yet to have 
 been the author of all her troubles: and she stood before her own 
 father a prisoner of war. 
 
 Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the 
 garb of a boy. "It is my mistress," thought he; "since she is 
 living, let the time run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew her 
 too, and softly said to Cadwal, " Is not this boy revived from 
 death? " — " One sand," replied Cadwal, " does not more resemble 
 another than that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele." — " The 
 same dead thing alive," said Polydore. " Peace, peace," said Bel- 
 larius; " if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken to us." — 
 " But we saw him dead," again whispered Polydore. " Be silent," 
 replied Bellarius. 
 
 Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his 
 own death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had 
 saved his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to 
 pardon him. 
 
 Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his 
 
CYMBELINE 103 
 
 protection as his page, was the first (as has been before said) who 
 spoke to the king. He was a man of high courage and noble dig- 
 nity, and this was his speech to the king: — 
 
 " I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them 
 all to death : I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer 
 death. But there is one thing for which I would entreat." Then 
 bringing Imogen before the king, he said, " This boy is a Briton 
 born. Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never master had 
 a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, so 
 nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though he hath served 
 a Roman. Save him, if you spare no one beside." 
 
 Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew 
 her not in that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature 
 spake in his heart, for he said, " I have surely seen him, his face 
 appears familiar to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, 
 boy; but I give you your life, and ask of me what boon you will, 
 and I will grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the 
 noblest prisoner I have." 
 
 " I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. 
 
 What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise 
 to give any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on 
 whom that favour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were 
 attentive to hear what thing the page would ask for; and Lucius 
 her master said to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know 
 that is what you will ask for." — " No, no, alas! " said Imogen, " I 
 have other work in hand, good master ; your life I cannot ask for." 
 
 This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman 
 general. 
 
 Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon 
 than this: that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had 
 the ring he wore on his finger. 
 
 Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with 
 the torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring 
 on his finger. 
 
io 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villany, tell- 
 ing, as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with 
 Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his 
 credulity. 
 
 What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of 
 his lady cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and con- 
 fessed to Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined 
 Pisanio to execute upon the princess ; exclaiming wildly, " O Imogen, 
 my queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! " 
 
 Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress with- 
 out discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who 
 was thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to 
 the good graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated. 
 
 Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at find- 
 ing his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her 
 former place in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her hus- 
 band Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his 
 son-in-law. 
 
 Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his 
 confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal to the king, tell- 
 ing him they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. 
 
 Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius ; for who could think of pun- 
 ishments at a season of such universal happiness? To find his 
 daughter living, and his lost sons in the persons of his young de- 
 liverers, that he had seen so bravely fight in his defence, was un- 
 looked-for joy indeed! 
 
 Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late 
 master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father 
 readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the 
 same Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the 
 Britons, which was kept inviolate many years. 
 
 How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her 
 projects to pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened 
 and died, having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a 
 
CYMBELINE 105 
 
 quarrel which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt 
 this happy conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is 
 sufficient that all were made happy who were deserving; and even 
 the treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of his villany having missed 
 its final aim, was dismissed without punishment. 
 
KING LEAR 
 
 LEAR, king of Britain, had three daughters; Goneril, wife 
 to the duke of Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Corn- 
 wall ; and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love the king 
 of France and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and were at 
 this time making stay for that purpose in the court of Lear. 
 
 The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of govern- 
 ment, he being more than fourscore years old, determined to take 
 no further part in state affairs, but to leave the management to 
 younger strengths, that he might have time to prepare of death, 
 which must at no long period ensue. With this intent he called his 
 three daughters to him, to know from their own lips which of them 
 loved him best, that he might part his kingdom among them in such 
 proportions as their affection for him should seem to deserve. 
 
 Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than 
 words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of 
 her own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such pro- 
 fessing stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, 
 only a few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that 
 case. The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assur- 
 ance of her love, and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in 
 a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one 
 third of his ample kingdom. 
 
 Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she 
 had to say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as 
 her sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, but rather de- 
 clared that what her sister had spoken came short of the love which 
 she professed to bear for his highness; insomuch that she found all 
 other joys dead, in comparison with the pleasure which she took in 
 the love of her dear king and father. 
 
 1 06 
 
KING LEAR 
 
 107 
 
 Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he thought; 
 and could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan 
 had made, than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her 
 husband, equal in size to that which he had already given away to 
 Goneril. 
 
 Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called 
 his joy, he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she 
 would glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters 
 had uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much 
 stronger than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and fa- 
 voured by him above either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with 
 the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from 
 their lips, and seeing that all their coaxing speeches were only in- 
 tended to wheedle the old king out of his dominions, that they and 
 their husbands might reign in his lifetime, made no other reply but 
 this, — that she loved his majesty according to her duty, neither more 
 nor less. 
 
 The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his 
 favourite child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her 
 speech, lest it should mar her fortunes. 
 
 Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had 
 given her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties back 
 as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. 
 But that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as 
 her sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. 
 Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love 
 for anything but their father? If she should ever wed, she was 
 sure the lord to whom she gave her hand would want half her love, 
 half of her care and duty; she should never marry like her sisters, 
 to love her father all. 
 
 Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even almost as 
 extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly 
 told him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving 
 terms, and without these qualifications, which did indeed sound a 
 
108 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 little ungracious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sis- 
 ters, which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she 
 thought the handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. 
 This put her affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and 
 showed that she loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, 
 the less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and 
 sincerity than her sisters'. 
 
 This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the 
 old monarch — who in his best of times always showed much of 
 spleen and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age 
 had so clouded over his reason, that he could not discern truth 
 from flattery, nor a gay painted speech from words that came from 
 the heart — that in a fury of resentment he retracted the third part 
 of his kingdom which yet remained, and which he had reserved for 
 Cordelia, and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between 
 her two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of Albany and Corn- 
 wall; whom he now called to him, and in presence of all his 
 courtiers bestowing a coronet between them, invested them jointly 
 with all the power, revenue, and execution of government, only re- 
 taining to himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he re- 
 signed; with this reservation, that himself, with a hundred knights 
 for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly course in each 
 of his daughters' palaces in turn. 
 
 So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by 
 reason, and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonish- 
 ment and sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose 
 between this incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, 
 who was beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the 
 passionate Lear on pain of death commanded him to desist; but 
 the good Kent was not so to be repelled. He had been ever loyal 
 to Lear, whom he had honoured as a king, loved as a father, fol- 
 lowed as a master; and he had never esteemed his life further than 
 as a pawn to wage against his royal master's enemies, nor feared to 
 lose it when Lear's safety was the motive; nor now that Lear was 
 
KING LEAR 109 
 
 most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget 
 his old principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear good; 
 and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He had been 
 a most faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and he besought 
 him now, that he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many 
 weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best con- 
 sideration recall this hideous rashness : for he would answer with 
 his life, his judgment that Lear's youngest daughter did not love 
 him least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no 
 token of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was 
 bound to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, 
 whose life was already at his service ? That should not hinder duty 
 from speaking. 
 
 The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up 
 the king's wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his 
 physician, and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true serv- 
 ant, and allotted him but five days to make his preparations for 
 departure; but if on the sixth his hated person was found within 
 the realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent 
 bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he chose to show him- 
 self in such fashion, it was but banishment to stay there ; and before 
 he went, he recommended Cordelia to the protection of the gods, 
 the maid who had so rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken; and 
 only wished that her sisters' large speeches might be answered with 
 deeds of love ; and then he went, as he said, to shape his old course 
 to a new country. 
 
 The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in 
 to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and 
 to know whether they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, 
 now that she was under her father's displeasure, and had no for- 
 tune but her own person to recommend her: and the duke of Bur- 
 gundy declined the match, and would not take her to wife upon 
 such conditions; but the king of France, understanding what the 
 nature of the fault had been which had lost her the love of her 
 
no TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not being 
 able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this young 
 maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry above 
 a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters and of her 
 father, though he had been unkind, and she should go with him, 
 and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer pos- 
 sessions than her sisters : and he called the duke of Burgundy in 
 contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had 
 in a moment run all away like water. 
 
 Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and 
 besought them to love their father well, and make good their pro- 
 fessions : and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for 
 they knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who 
 had taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. 
 And Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the cun- 
 ning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better hands than 
 she was about to leave him in. 
 
 Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of 
 her sisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even 
 before the expiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend 
 by agreement with his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began 
 to find out the difference between promises and performances. 
 This wretch having got from her father all that he had to be- 
 stow, even to the giving away of the crown from off his head, be- 
 gan to grudge even those small remnants of royalty which the old 
 man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with the idea of 
 being still a king. She could not bear to see him and his hundred 
 knights. Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning 
 countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her, she 
 would feign sickness, or anything to get rid of the sight of him ; 
 for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and 
 his attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she herself slack- 
 ened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and 
 (it is to be feared) not without her private instructions, her very 
 
KING LEAR in 
 
 servants affected to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse 
 to obey his orders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to 
 hear them. Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the be- 
 haviour of his daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as 
 he could, as people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant 
 consequences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought 
 upon them. 
 
 True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill, than 
 falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by good, 
 usage. This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of 
 Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if 
 he were found in Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, 
 as long as there was a chance of his being useful to the king his 
 master. See to what mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is 
 forced to submit sometimes ; yet it counts nothing base or unworthy, 
 so as it can but do service where it owes an obligation ! In the 
 disguise of a serving man, all his greatness and pomp laid aside, 
 this good earl proffered his services to the king, who, not knowing 
 him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain plain- 
 ness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which the earl put on (so 
 different from that smooth oily flattery which he had so much rea- 
 son to be sick of, having found the effects not answerable in his 
 daughter) , a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into 
 his service by the name of Caius, as he called himself, never suspect- 
 ing him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl of 
 Kent. 
 
 This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to 
 his royal master: for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in 
 a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and 
 language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his 
 mistress, Caius, not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon 
 his majesty, made no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, 
 and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which friendly 
 service Lear became more and more attached to him. 
 
ii2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as 
 far as so insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor 
 fool, or jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, 
 as it was the custom of kings and great personages at that time to 
 keep a fool (as he was called) to make them sport after serious 
 business : this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given away his 
 crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up his good humour, 
 though he could not refrain sometimes from jeering at his master 
 for his imprudence in uncrowning himself, and giving all away to 
 his daughters; at which time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these 
 daughters 
 
 For sudden joy did weep 
 And he for sorrow sung, 
 
 That such a king should play bo-peep 
 And go the fools among. 
 
 And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had 
 plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the 
 presence of Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which 
 cut to the quick: such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, 
 who feeds the young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and 
 then has its head bit off for its pains; and saying, that an ass may 
 know when the cart draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daugh- 
 ters, that ought to go behind, now ranked before their father) ; 
 and that Lear was no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for 
 which free speeches he was once or twice threatened to be whipped. 
 
 The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to 
 perceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to suffer 
 from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his 
 staying in her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon 
 keeping up an establishment of a hundred knights; that this estab- 
 lishment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill her 
 court with riot and feasting; and she prayed him that he would 
 lessen their number, and keep none but old men about him, such as 
 himself, and fitting his age. 
 
KING LEAR 113 
 
 Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his 
 daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she 
 who had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, 
 and grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she, persisting 
 in her undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that 
 he called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; 
 and so indeed she did, for the hundred knights were all men of 
 choice behaviour and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars 
 of duty, and not given to rioting or feasting, as she said. And he 
 bid his horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other daughter, 
 Regan, he and his hundred knights; and he spoke of ingratitude, 
 and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and showed more hideous 
 in a child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter 
 Goneril so as was terrible to hear; praying that she might never 
 have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return that scorn 
 and contempt upon her which she had shown to him : that she might 
 feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless 
 child. And Goneril's husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to 
 excuse himself for any share which Lear might suppose he had in 
 the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage ordered 
 his horses to be saddled, and set out with his followers for the abode 
 of Regan, his other daughter. And Lear thought to himself how 
 small the. fault of Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in 
 comparison with her sister's, and he wept; and then he was ashamed 
 that such a creature as Goneril should have so much power over his 
 manhood as to make him weep. 
 
 Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp 
 and state at their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius 
 with letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his re- 
 ception, while he and his train followed after. But it seems that 
 Goneril had been beforehand with him, sending letters also to 
 Regan, accusing her father of waywardness and ill humours, and 
 advising her not to receive so great a train as he was bringing with 
 him. This messenger arrived at the same time with Caius, and 
 
1 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Caius and he met: and who should it be but Caius's old enemy the 
 steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels for his 
 saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow's look, and 
 suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged 
 him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest 
 passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and carrier of 
 wicked messages deserved; which coming to the ears of Regan and 
 her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he 
 was a messenger from the king her father, and in that character de- 
 manded the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw 
 when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in 
 that disgraceful situation. 
 
 This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to ex- 
 pect ; but a worse followed, when, upon inquiry for his daughter and 
 her husband, he was told they were weary with travelling all night, 
 and could not see him ; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a posi- 
 tive and angry manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom 
 should he see in their company but the hated Goneril, who had 
 come to tell her own story, and set her sister against the king her 
 father ! 
 
 This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan 
 take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed 
 to look upon his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go 
 home again with Goneril, and live with her peaceably, dismissing 
 half of his attendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old 
 and wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that 
 had more discretion than himself. And Lear showed how pre- 
 posterous that would sound, if he were to go down on his knees, 
 and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he argued 
 against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his resolution never 
 to return with her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his 
 hundred knights; for he said that she had not forgot the half of 
 the kingdom which he had endowed her with, and that her eyes 
 were not fierce like Goneril's, but mild and kind. And he said 
 
KING LEAR 115 
 
 that rather than return to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he 
 would go over to France, and beg a wretched pension of the king 
 there, who had married his youngest daughter without a portion. 
 
 But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than 
 he had experienced from her sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo 
 her sister in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty 
 knights too many to wait upon him : that five-and-twenty were 
 enough. Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril and 
 said that he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five- 
 and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much as Regan's. But 
 Goneril excused herself, and said, what need of so many as five-and- 
 twenty? or even ten? or five? when he might be waited upon by 
 her servants, or her sister's servants? So these two wicked daugh- 
 ters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their old 
 father, who had been so good to them, by little and little would 
 have abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough for him 
 that once commanded a kingdom), which was left him to show 
 that he had once been a king ! Not that a splendid train is essential 
 to happiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from 
 commanding millions to be without one attendant; and it was the 
 ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than what he would 
 suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to the heart; 
 insomuch, that with this double ill-usage, and vexation for having 
 so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, 
 and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against those 
 unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a 
 terror to the earth ! 
 
 While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could 
 never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and 
 lightning with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolu- 
 tion not to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose 
 rather to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay 
 under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters : and they, say- 
 ing that the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are 
 
n6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 their just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition and shut 
 their doors upon him. 
 
 The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the 
 old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than 
 his daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce 
 a bush; and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm 
 in a dark night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and 
 the thunder; and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, 
 or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no 
 token might remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The 
 old king was now left with no other companion than the poor fool, 
 who still abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to outjest 
 misfortune, saying it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly 
 the king had better go in and ask his daughter's blessing : — 
 
 But he that has a little tiny wit, 
 
 With heigh ho, the wind and the rain ! 
 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
 Though the rain it raineth every day: 
 
 and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. 
 
 Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was found 
 by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed 
 to Caius, who ever followed close at his side, though the king did 
 not know him to be the earl; and he said, " Alas ! sir, are you here? 
 creatures that love night, love not such nights as these. This dread- 
 ful storm has driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's 
 nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear." And Lear rebuked 
 him and said, these lesser evils were not felt, where a greater malady 
 was fixed. When the mind is at ease, the body has leisure to be 
 delicate, but the tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from 
 his senses, but of that which beat at his heart. And he spoke of 
 filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if the mouth should tear 
 the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands and food 
 and everything to children. 
 
KING LEAR 117 
 
 But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the king 
 would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a 
 little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool 
 first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen 
 a spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing 
 more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted 
 hovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, 
 one of those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, 
 the better to extort charity from the compassionate country people, 
 who go about the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor 
 Turlygood, saying, "Who gives anything to poor Tom?" sticking 
 pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into their arms to make them 
 bleed ; and with such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and partly 
 with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the ignorant country-folks 
 into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a one; and the 
 king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a blanket 
 about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded but 
 that the fellow was some father who had given all away to his 
 daughters, and brought himself to that pass: for nothing he thought 
 could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind 
 daughters. 
 
 And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, 
 the good Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect 
 mind, but that his daughters' ill usage had really made him go 
 mad. And now the loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent showed 
 itself in more essential services than he had hitherto found oppor- 
 tunity to perform. For with the assistance of some of the king's 
 attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal 
 master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, where his own 
 friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and himself em- 
 barking for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did 
 there in such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her 
 royal father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of 
 her sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears be- 
 
n8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 sought the king her husband that he would give her leave to em- 
 bark for England, with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel 
 daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father 
 to his throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal 
 army landed at Dover. 
 
 Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which 
 the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his 
 lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about 
 the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and 
 singing aloud to himself, with a crown upon his head which he had 
 made of straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had 
 picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, 
 Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was pre- 
 vailed upon to put off the meeting, till by sleep and the operation 
 of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater 
 composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cor- 
 delia promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old 
 king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter. 
 
 A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father and 
 daughter; to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old 
 king at beholding again his once darling child, and the shame at 
 receiving such filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for 
 so small a fault in his displeasure; both these passions struggling 
 with the remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain 
 sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or 
 who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke to him : and then 
 he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were mis- 
 taken in thinking this lady to be his daughter Cordelia ! And then 
 to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his child; and she, 
 good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and tell- 
 ing him that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty, 
 for she was his child, his true and very child Cordelia ! and she 
 kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, 
 and said that they might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their 
 
KING LEAR 119 
 
 old kind father with his white beard out into the cold air, when her 
 enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it), 
 should have stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmed 
 himself. And she told her father how she had come from France 
 with purpose to bring him assistance ; and he said that she must for- 
 get and forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what 
 he did; but that to be sure she had great cause not to love him, 
 but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, 
 no more than they had. 
 
 So we will leave this old king in the protection of his dutiful and 
 loving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she and her 
 physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring 
 senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently 
 shaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel 
 daughters. 
 
 These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their 
 old father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their 
 own husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appear- 
 ance of duty and affection, and in an open way showed they had 
 fixed their loves upon another. It happened that the object of 
 their guilty loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of 
 the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had succeeded in 
 disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his earldom, 
 and by his wicked practices was now earl himself; a wicked man, 
 and a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures as Goneril 
 and Regan. It falling out about this time that the duke of Corn- 
 wall, Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately declared her in- 
 tention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jealousy 
 of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this wicked earl had at 
 sundry times professed love, Goneril found means to make away 
 with her sister by poison; but being detected in her practices, and 
 imprisoned by her husband, the duke of Albany, for this deed, and 
 for her guilty passion for the earl which had come to his ears, she, 
 in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her 
 
120 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked 
 daughters. 
 
 While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the 
 justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were sud- 
 denly taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of 
 the same power in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous 
 daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve 
 a more fortunate conclusion : but it is an awful truth, that innocence 
 and piety are not always successful in this world. The forces 
 which Goneril and Regan had sent out under the command of the 
 bad earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cordelia, by the prac- 
 tices of this wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand be- 
 tween him and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus, Heaven 
 took this innocent lady to itself in her young years, after showing 
 her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. Lear did not 
 long survive this kind child. 
 
 Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still attended 
 his old master's steps from the first of his daughters' ill usage to 
 this sad period of his decay, tried to make him understand that it 
 was he who had followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear's 
 care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend how that could 
 be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person : so Kent 
 thought it needless to trouble him with explanations at such a time ; 
 and Lear soon after expiring, this faithful servant to the king, be- 
 tween age and grief for his old master's vexations, soon followed 
 him to the grave. 
 
 How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of Glou- 
 cester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single 
 combat with his brother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril's hus- 
 band, the duke of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cor- 
 delia, and had never encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings 
 against her father, ascended the throne of Britain after the death of 
 Lear, is needless here to narrate : Lear and his Three Daughters 
 being dead, whose adventures alone concern our story. 
 
MACBETH 
 
 WHEN Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, there 
 lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This 
 Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great 
 esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars; an example 
 of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel army assisted by 
 the troops of Norway in terrible numbers. 
 
 The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning vic- 
 torious from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, 
 where they were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures 
 like women, except that they had beards, and their withered skins 
 and wild attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. Mac- 
 beth first addressed them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each 
 one her choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of silence ; and 
 the first of them saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. 
 The general was not a little startled to find himself known by such 
 creatures ; but how much more, when the second of them followed 
 up that salute by giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which 
 honour he had no pretensions; and again the third bid him "All 
 hail! king that shalt be hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting 
 might well amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons lived 
 he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning to 
 Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be 
 lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but much happier! 
 and prophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons 
 after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air, 
 and vanished: by which the generals knew them to be the weird 
 sisters, or witches. 
 
 While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adven- 
 ture, there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were em- 
 
 121 
 
122 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 powered by him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of 
 Cawdor : an event so miraculously corresponding with the predic- 
 tion of the witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in 
 amazement, unable to make reply to the messengers; and in that 
 point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind that the prediction 
 of the third witch might in like manner have its accomplishment, 
 and that he should one day reign king in Scotland. 
 
 Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you not hope that your chil- 
 dren shall be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so 
 wonderfully come to pass? " " That hope," answered the general, 
 "might enkindle you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes these 
 ministers of darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into 
 deeds of greatest consequence." 
 
 But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into 
 the mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the warnings of the 
 good Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to 
 compass the throne of Scotland. 
 
 Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange pre- 
 diction of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She 
 was a bad, ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself 
 could arrive at greatness, she cared not much by what means. She 
 spurred on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunc- 
 tion at the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the 
 murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment 
 of the flattering prophecy. 
 
 It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal con- 
 descension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon gracious 
 terms, came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm 
 and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants, the 
 more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars. 
 
 The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about 
 it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the 
 martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and but- 
 tresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage; 
 
MACBETH 123 
 
 for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to 
 be delicate. The king entered well-pleased with the place, and not 
 less so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady 
 Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with 
 smiles; and could look like the innocent flower, while she was in- 
 deed the serpent under it. 
 
 The king being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in 
 his state-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) 
 slept beside him. He had been unusually pleased with his recep- 
 tion, and had made presents before he retired to his principal offi- 
 cers; and among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, 
 greeting her by the name of his most kind hostess. 
 
 Now was the middle of night, when over half the world nature 
 seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none 
 but the wolf and the murderer is abroad. This was the time when 
 lady Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She would 
 not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she 
 feared her husband's nature, that it was too full of the milk of 
 human kindness, to do a contrived murder. She knew him to be 
 ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for 
 that height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies in- 
 ordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, 
 but she doubted his resolution; and she feared that the natural 
 tenderness of his disposition (more humane than her own) would 
 come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her own hands 
 armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having taken 
 care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that they slept 
 intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan in a 
 sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed 
 him earnestly, there was something in hi-s face, as he slept, which 
 resembled her own father; and she had not the courage to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had 
 begun to stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons 
 
i2 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 against the deed. In the first place, he was not only a subject, but 
 a near kinsman to the king; and he had been his host and enter- 
 tainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to 
 shut the door against his murderers, not bear the knife himself. 
 Then he considered how just and merciful a king this Duncan had 
 been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how loving to his nobility, 
 and in particular to him; that such kings are the peculiar care of 
 Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. 
 Besides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high in the 
 opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours be stained 
 by the reputation of so foul a murder! 
 
 In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband 
 inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. 
 But she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, 
 began to pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her 
 own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he 
 should not shrink from what he had undertaken ; how easy the deed 
 was; how soon it would be over; and how the action of one short 
 night would give to all their nights and days to come sovereign 
 sway and royalty! Then she threw contempt on his change of 
 purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice; and de- 
 clared that she had given suck, and knew how tender it was to 
 love the babe that milked her; but she would, while it was smiling 
 in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its brains 
 out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform that 
 murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt 
 of the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour 
 of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once 
 more summoned up courage to the bloody business. 
 
 So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to 
 the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw 
 another dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the 
 blade and at the point of it drops of blood; but when he tried to 
 grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding 
 
MACBETH i2S 
 
 from his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in 
 hand. 
 
 Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom he 
 despatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done the 
 murder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in 
 his sleep, and the other cried, " Murder," which woke them both; 
 but they said a short prayer; one of them said, " God bless us! " 
 and the other answered "Amen;" and addressed themselves to 
 sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to say, 
 "Amen," when the fellow said, "God bless us! " but, though he 
 had most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and he 
 could not pronounce it. 
 
 Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, " Sleep no more: 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." 
 Still it cried, " Sleep no more," to all the house. " Glamis hath 
 murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Mac- 
 beth shall sleep no more." 
 
 With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to his lis- 
 tening wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and 
 that the deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted 
 a state, that she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent 
 him to wash his hands of the blood which stained them, while she 
 took his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with 
 blood, to make it seem their guilt. 
 
 Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which 
 could not be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made 
 great show of grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dag- 
 ger being produced against them and their faces smeared with 
 blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon 
 Macbeth, whose inducements to such a deed were so much more 
 forcible than such poor silly grooms could be supposed to have; 
 and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for 
 refuge in the English court; and the youngest, Donalbain, made his 
 escape to Ireland. 
 
126 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus 
 vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and 
 thus the prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished. 
 
 Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget 
 the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be 
 king, yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be 
 kings after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled 
 their hands with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the 
 posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that 
 they determined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make 
 void the predictions of the weird sisters, which in their own case 
 had been so remarkably brought to pass. 
 
 For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they in- 
 vited all the chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of 
 particular respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The 
 way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night was beset 
 by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in 
 the scuffle Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended a race 
 of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with 
 James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England, under whom 
 the two crowns of England and Scotland were united. 
 
 At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree 
 affable and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and atten- 
 tion which conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed 
 freely with his thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honour- 
 able in the country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend 
 Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather have to chide 
 for neglect, than to lament for any mischance. Just at these words 
 the ghost of Banquo, whom he had caused to be murdered, entered 
 the room and placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about 
 to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could 
 have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible sight his 
 cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmanned with 
 his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who 
 
MACBETH 127 
 
 saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an 
 empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached him, 
 whispering that it was but the same fancy which made him see the 
 dagger in the air, when he was about to kill Duncan. But Mac- 
 beth continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could 
 say, while he addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant, 
 that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in 
 great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth 
 as a disorder he was often troubled with. 
 
 To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and 
 he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of 
 Banquo troubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom 
 now they looked upon as father to a line of kings who should keep 
 their posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts 
 they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek 
 out the weird sisters, and know from them the worst. 
 
 He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew 
 by foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dread- 
 ful charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to 
 them futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and 
 serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a 
 lizard, and the wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the 
 tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy 
 of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect 
 must be digged in the dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of 
 a Jew, with slips of the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the 
 finger of a dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, 
 or cauldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled with a 
 baboon's blood: to these they poured in the blood of a sow that had 
 eaten her young, and they threw into the flame the grease that had 
 sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the 
 infernal spirits to answer their questions. 
 
 It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts 
 resolved by them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing 
 
i 2 8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 daunted by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, 
 "Where are they? let me see them." And they called the spirits, 
 which were three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed 
 head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the 
 thane of Fife; for which caution Macbeth thanked him; for Mac- 
 beth had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the thane of Fife. 
 
 And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, 
 and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but 
 laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born should 
 have power to hurt him ; and he advised him to be bloody, bold, 
 and resolute. " Then live, Macduff! " cried the king; " what need 
 I fear of thee? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou 
 shalt not live ; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, and sleep in 
 spite of thunder." 
 
 That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child 
 crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, 
 and comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should 
 never be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill 
 should come against him. " Sweet bodements! good! " cried Mac- 
 beth; " who can unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound 
 roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man's life, and not be 
 cut off by a violent death. But my heart throbs to know one thing. 
 Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever 
 reign in this kingdom? " Here the cauldron sank into the ground, 
 and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings, 
 passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed 
 the figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody smiled upon Mac- 
 beth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth knew that these were 
 the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him in Scotland; 
 and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with dancing, mak- 
 ing a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from 
 this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. 
 
 The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches' cave, 
 was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the 
 
THEY WERE ENGAGED IN PREPARING THEIR DREADFUL CHARMS " 
 
 —Page 127 
 
MACBETH 129 
 
 army which was forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest 
 son of the late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Mal- 
 colm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, 
 set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom 
 the thane had left behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter 
 to all who claimed the least relationship to Macduff. 
 
 These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief 
 nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and 
 Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army, which 
 they had raised in England; and the rest secretly wished success to 
 their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active 
 part. His recruits went on slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant; 
 nobody loved or honoured him ; but all suspected him, and he began 
 to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who slept 
 soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel 
 nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any 
 longer. 
 
 While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole 
 partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek 
 a momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them 
 both nightly, died, it is supposed, by her own hands, unable to bear 
 the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left 
 alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he 
 could confide his wicked purposes. 
 
 He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near 
 approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his 
 ancient courage, and he determined to die (as he expressed it) 
 " with armour on his back." Besides this, the hollow promises of 
 the witches had filled him with a false confidence, and he remem- 
 bered the sayings of the spirits, that none of woman born was to 
 hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till Birnam wood 
 should come to Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So 
 he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable strength was 
 such as defied a siege : here he sullenly waited the approach of 
 
i 3 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale 
 and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had 
 seen; for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, 
 he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to 
 move ! " Liar and slave ! " cried Macbeth; " if thou speakest false, 
 thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If 
 thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me : " for Mac- 
 beth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal 
 speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear till Birnam wood should 
 come to Dunsinane; and now a wood did move ! " However," said 
 he, " if this which he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There 
 is no flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the 
 sun, and wish my life at an end." With these desperate speeches 
 he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the 
 castle. 
 
 The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea 
 of a wood moving is easily solved. When the besieging army 
 marched through the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful gen- 
 eral, instructed his soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear 
 it before him, by way of concealing the true numbers of his host. 
 This marching of the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the 
 appearance which had frightened the messenger. Thus were the 
 words of the spirit brought to pass, in a sense different from that 
 in which Macbeth had understood them, and one great hold of his 
 confidence was gone. 
 
 And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, 
 though feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, 
 but in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Mal- 
 colm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, 
 cutting to pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where 
 Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the cau- 
 tion of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid Macduff, above 
 all men, he would have turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking 
 him through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce con- 
 
MACBETH 131 
 
 test ensued; Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for the 
 murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged 
 enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined 
 the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, 
 murderer, hell-hound, and villain. 
 
 Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none 
 of woman born should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said 
 to Macduff, " Thou losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou 
 mayest impress the air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I 
 bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born." 
 
 " Despair thy charm," said Macduff, " and let that lying spirit 
 whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of 
 woman, never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was 
 untimely taken from his mother." 
 
 " Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the trembling 
 Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give way; " and let 
 never man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and 
 juggling spirits, who deceive us in words which have double senses, 
 and while they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes 
 with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee." 
 
 " Then live! " said the scornful Macduff; " we will have a show 
 of thee, as men 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 not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, 
 and to be baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam 
 wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me, who wast 
 never born of woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic 
 words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a severe struggle, 
 in the end overcame him, and cutting off his head, made a present of 
 it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm ; who took upon him the 
 government which, by the machinations of the usurper, he had so 
 long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the 
 Meek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people. 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 
 
 BERTRAM, count of Rousillon, had newly come to his title 
 and estate, by the death of his father. The king of France 
 loved the father of Bertram, and when he heard of his death, 
 he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal court in Paris, 
 intending, for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young 
 Bertram with his especial favour and protection. 
 
 Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when 
 Lafeu, an old lord of the French court, came to conduct him to the 
 king. The king of France was an absolute monarch, and the invi- 
 tation to court was in the form of a royal mandate, or positive 
 command, which no subject, of what high dignity soever, might dis- 
 obey; therefore though the countess, in parting with this dear son, 
 seemed a second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had so 
 lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep him a single day, but 
 gave instant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch 
 him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss of her late lord, and 
 her son's sudden absence; and he said, in a courtier's flattering 
 manner, that the king was so kind a prince, she would find in his 
 majesty a husband, and that he would be a father to her son; mean- 
 ing only, that the good king would befriend the fortunes of Bert- 
 ram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had fallen into a sad 
 malady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. 
 The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the 
 king's ill health, and said, she wished the father of Helena (a young 
 gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her) were living, 
 for that she doubted not he could have cured his majesty of his 
 disease. And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, 
 saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard 
 de Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter to her care 
 
 132 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 133 
 
 when he was dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena 
 under her protection; then the countess praised the virtuous dispo- 
 sition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these 
 virtues from her worthy father. While she was speaking Helena 
 wept in sad and mournful silence, which made the countess gently 
 reprove her for too much grieving for her father's death. 
 
 Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted 
 with this dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended 
 him to the care of Lafeu, saying, " Good my lord, advise him, for 
 he is an unseasoned courtier." 
 
 Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words 
 of mere civility, wishing her happiness ; and he concluded his short 
 farewell to her with saying, " Be comfortable to my mother, your 
 mistress, and make much of her." 
 
 Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and 
 mournful silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. 
 Helena loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, 
 the object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very 
 form and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting 
 no image to her mind but Bertram's. 
 
 Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered 
 that he was the count of Rousillon, descended from the most ancient 
 family in France. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note 
 at all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to 
 the high-born Bertram as to her master and to her dear lord, and 
 dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so living to 
 die his vassal. So great the distance seemed to her between his 
 height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, that she would say, " It 
 were all one that I should love a bright particular star, and think 
 to wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 
 
 Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and her heart with 
 sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty com- 
 fort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look 
 upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, 
 
i 3 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that 
 heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the 
 features of that loved face. 
 
 Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than 
 some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep 
 study and long experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign 
 and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest, there was one set 
 down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu 
 said the king at that time languished: and when Helena heard of 
 the king's complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so 
 hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself 
 to Paris, and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena 
 was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the 
 king as well as his physicians was of opinion that his disease was 
 incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, 
 if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena 
 had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, 
 seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was 
 the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith 
 that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in 
 heaven to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to 
 the high dignity of being count Rousillon's wife. 
 
 Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed 
 by her steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, 
 and that he understood from some words she uttered, she was in love 
 with Bertram, and thought of following him to Paris. The countess 
 dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena 
 she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena 
 brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the 
 countess; those days probably when her love for Bertram's father 
 first began; and she said to herself, " Even so it was with me when 
 I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth ; 
 for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's children, these 
 faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults." While 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 135 
 
 the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own 
 youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, " Helena, you know 
 I am a mother to you." Helena replied, " You are my honourable 
 mistress." "You are my daughter," said the countess again: "I 
 say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my 
 words?" With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing 
 the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, " Pardon me, 
 madam, you are not my mother; the count Rousillon cannot be my 
 brother, nor I your daughter." " Yet, Helena," said the countess, 
 "you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what 
 you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so disturb you. 
 Helena, do you love my son? " " Good madam, pardon me," said 
 the affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question. 
 " Do you love my son? " " Do not you love him, madam? " said 
 Helena. The countess replied, " Give me not this evasive answer, 
 Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your 
 love has to the full appeared." Helena on her knees now owned 
 her love, and with shame and terror implored the pardon of her 
 noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense she had of 
 the inequality between their fortunes, she protested Bertram did 
 not know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring love to 
 a poor Indian, who adores the sun that looks upon his worshipper, 
 but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she 
 had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design 
 she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the 
 king's illness. " This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," 
 said the countess, "was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly an- 
 swered, " My lord your son made me to think of this; else Paris, 
 and the medicine, and the king, had from the conversation of my 
 thoughts been absent then." The countess heard the whole of this 
 confession without saying a word either of approval or of blame, 
 but she strictly questioned Helena as to the probability of the medi- 
 cine being useful to the king. She found that it was the most 
 prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and that he had 
 
136 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 given it to his daughter on his deathbed; and remembering the 
 solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in regard to this 
 young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed 
 to depend on the execution of a project (which though conceived 
 by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the countess 
 knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to 
 bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of 
 the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave 
 she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously fur- 
 nished her with ample means and suitable attendants ; and Helena 
 set out for Paris with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest 
 wishes for her success. 
 
 Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the 
 old lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had 
 still many difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily pre- 
 vailed on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. 
 But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose 
 fame the king was well acquainted), and she offered the precious 
 medicine as the darling treasure which contained the essence of 
 all her father's long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged 
 to forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health 
 in the space of two days. The king at length consented to try it, 
 and in two days' time Helena was to lose her life if the king did 
 not recover; but if she succeeded, he promised to give her the choice 
 of any man throughout all France (the princes only excepted) whom 
 she could like for a husband; the choice of a husband being the fee 
 Helena demanded if she cured the king of his disease. 
 
 Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the 
 efficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, 
 the king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the 
 young noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the prom- 
 ised reward of a husband upon his fair physician; and he desired 
 Helena to look around on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, 
 and choose her husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 137 
 
 for among these young lords she saw the count Rousillon, and turn- 
 ing to Bertram, she said, " This is the man. I dare not say, my 
 lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever whilst I live 
 into your guiding power." " Why, then," said the king, " young 
 Bertram, take her; she is your wife." Bertram did not hesitate 
 to declare his dislike to this present of the king's of the self-offered 
 Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred at his 
 father's charge, and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty. 
 Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and 
 she said to the king, " That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let 
 the rest go." But the king would not suffer his royal command to 
 be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage 
 was one of the many privileges of the kings of France; and that 
 same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy 
 marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, 
 who, though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her 
 life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her hus- 
 band's love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to 
 bestow. 
 
 Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram 
 to apply to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and 
 when she brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bert- 
 ram told her that he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it 
 had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the 
 course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved 
 when she found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her 
 to go home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind com- 
 mand, she replied, " Sir, I can nothing say to this, but that I am 
 your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance 
 seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have failed 
 to equal my great fortunes." But this humble speech of Helena's 
 did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, 
 and he parted from her without even the common civility of a kind 
 farewell. 
 
138 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accom- 
 plished the purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of 
 the king, and she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the count 
 Rousillon; but she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother- 
 in-law, and as soon as she entered the house she received a letter 
 from Bertram which almost broke her heart. 
 
 The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she 
 had been her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she 
 spoke kind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram 
 in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious 
 reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, 
 " Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone." She then read these 
 words out of Bertram's letter: When you can get the ring from my 
 finger, which never shall come off, then call me husband, hut in such 
 a Then I write a Never. ."This is a dreadful sentence!" said 
 Helena. The countess begged her to have patience, and said, now 
 Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and that she deserved 
 a lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and 
 hourly call her mistress. But in vain by respectful condescension 
 and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows 
 of her daughter-in-law. 
 
 Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter and cried out in 
 an agony of grief, Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. 
 The countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? 
 " Yes, madam," was all poor Helena could answer. 
 
 The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be 
 delivered to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with 
 the reason of her sudden absence : in this letter she informed her 
 that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his 
 native country and his home, that to atone for her offence, she had 
 undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and 
 concluded with requesting the countess to inform her son that the 
 wife he so hated had left his house for ever. 
 
 Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 139 
 
 an officer in the duke of Florence's army, and aftera^stfccessful war, 
 in which he distinguished himself by many bra^e actions, Bertram 
 received letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings 
 that Helena would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to 
 return home, when Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, ar- 
 rived at the city of Florence. 
 
 Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on 
 their way to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this 
 city, she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to 
 receive into her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit 
 the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. 
 To this good lady, therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave her 
 a courteous welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious 
 in that famous city, and told her that if she would like to see the 
 duke's army, she would take her where she might have a full view 
 of it. " And you will see a countryman of yours," said the widow; 
 " his name is Count Rousillon, who has done worthy service in the 
 duke's wars." Helena wanted no second invitation, when she 
 found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompanied 
 her hostess; and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look 
 once more upon her dear husband's face. " Is he not a handsome 
 man? " said the widow. " I like him well," replied Helena, with 
 great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative widow's dis- 
 course was all of Bertram : she told Helena the story of Bertram's 
 marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and 
 entered into the duke's army to avoid living with her. To this 
 account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when 
 it was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the 
 widow began another tale, every word of which sank deep into the 
 mind of Helena ; for the story she now told was of Bertram's love 
 for her daughter. 
 
 Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by 
 the king, it seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had 
 been stationed with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with 
 
140 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who 
 was Helena's hostess ; and every night, with music of all sorts, and 
 songs composed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under 
 her window, and solicit her love; and all his suit to her was, that 
 she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were 
 retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant 
 this improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, know- 
 ing him to be a married man; for Diana had been brought up under 
 the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in re- 
 duced circumstances, was well born, and descended from the noble 
 family of the Capulets. 
 
 All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the 
 virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were 
 entirely owing to the excellent education and good advice she had 
 given her; and she further said, that Bertram had been particularly 
 importunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired 
 that night, because he was going to leave Florence early the next 
 morning. 
 
 Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the 
 widow's daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena 
 conceived a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her 
 former one) to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow 
 that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested 
 that her kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from 
 Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram 
 for Diana; telling them, her chief motive for desiring to have this 
 secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring from him, which 
 he had said, if ever she was in possession of he would acknowledge 
 her as his wife. 
 
 The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair, 
 partly moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won 
 over to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena made 
 them, giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future favour. 
 In the course of that day Helena caused information to be sent to 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 141 
 
 Bertram that she was dead; hoping that when he thought himself 
 free to make a second choice by the news of her death, he would 
 offer marriage to her in her feigned character of Diana. And if 
 she could obtain the ring and this promise too, she doubted not she 
 should make some future good come of it. 
 
 In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into 
 Diana's chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The 
 flattering compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena 
 were precious sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for 
 Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he made her 
 a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her for ever; 
 which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he 
 should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose con- 
 versation had so delighted him. 
 
 Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else per- 
 haps he would not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her 
 every day, he had entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are 
 accustomed to see constantly, losing the effect which is caused by 
 the first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and of her under- 
 standing it was impossible he should judge, because she felt such 
 reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she was always silent 
 in his presence: but now that her future fate, and the happy end- 
 ing of all her love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a 
 favourable impression on the mind of Bertram from this night's in- 
 terview, she exerted all her wit to please him ; and the simple graces 
 of her lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of her man- 
 ners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. 
 Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, 
 and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which it was of 
 such importance to her to possess, she gave him another ring, which 
 was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was light in 
 the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out on 
 his journey towards his mother's house. 
 
 Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to 
 
142 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Paris, their further assistance being necessary to the full accomplish- 
 ment of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they 
 found the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rousillon, 
 and Helena followed the king with all the speed she could make. 
 
 The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who 
 had been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that 
 the moment he saw the countess of Rousillon, he began to talk of 
 Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of 
 her son; but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely 
 lamented the death of Helena, he said, " My good lady, I have 
 forgiven and forgotten all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who 
 was present, and could not bear that the memory of his favourite 
 Helena should be so lightly passed over, said, " This I must say, 
 the young lord did great offence to his majesty, his mother, and his 
 lady; but to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has 
 lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose words took all 
 ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve 
 her." The king said, " Praising what is lost makes the remem- 
 brance dear. Well — call him hither;" meaning Bertram, who 
 now presented himself before the king : and, on his expressing deep 
 sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his 
 dead father's and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned him and 
 restored him once more to his favour. But the gracious counte- 
 nance of the king was soon changed towards him, for he perceived 
 that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had given 
 to Helena : and he well remembered that Helena had called all the 
 saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring, un- 
 less she sent it to the king himself upon some great disaster befall- 
 ing her; and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he came 
 by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him 
 out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day 
 of their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his 
 wife, feared he had destroyed her: and he ordered his guards to 
 seize Bertram, saying, " I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 143 
 
 the life of Helena was foully snatched." At this moment Diana 
 and her mother entered, and presented a petition to the king, 
 wherein they begged his majesty to exert his royal power to compel 
 Bertram to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise of 
 marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied he had made 
 any such promise; and then Diana produced the ring (which Helena 
 had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; and 
 she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in 
 exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing 
 this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account 
 of the ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were 
 confirmed: and he said, if they did not confess how they came by 
 this ring of Helena's, they should be both put to death. Diana 
 requested her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweller of 
 whom she bought the ring, which being granted, the widow went 
 out, and presently returned leading in Helena herself. 
 
 The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's 
 danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having 
 destroyed his wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, 
 whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt 
 a delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce be- 
 lieving for joy that it was Helena, said, " Is this indeed the wife 
 of Bertram that I see? " Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowl- 
 edged wife, replied, " No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of 
 a wife you see, the name and not the thing." Bertram cried out, 
 " Both, both! O pardon! "— " O my lord," said Helena, " when I 
 personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind; and look, 
 here is your letter! " reading to him in a joyful tone those words 
 which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, When from my finger 
 you can get this ring, — "This is done; it was to me you gave the 
 ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?" Bertram 
 replied, " If you can make it plain that you were the lady I talked 
 with that night, I will love you dearly ever, ever dearly." This 
 was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena 
 
144 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, 
 for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so truly 
 valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her also 
 a noble husband: Helena's history giving him a hint, that it was a 
 suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they per- 
 form notable services. 
 
 Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed 
 sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved 
 wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, 
 and herself the countess of Rousillon. 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 
 
 KATHARINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Bap- 
 tista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such 
 an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such a loud- 
 tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than 
 Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, 
 that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to 
 marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for defer- 
 ring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her 
 gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, 
 that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have 
 free leave to address young Bianca. 
 
 It happened, however, that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came 
 to Padua, purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged 
 by these reports of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich 
 and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and 
 taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was 
 so fit to set about this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit 
 was as high as Katharine's, and he was a witty and most happy- 
 tempered humourist, and withal so wise, and of such a true judg- 
 ment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious 
 deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself could have 
 laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper 
 was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumed when he 
 became the husband of Katharine being but in sport, or more 
 properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only 
 means to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the 
 furious Katharine. 
 
 A courting then Petruchio went to Katharine the Shrew; and first 
 of all he applied to Baptista her father, for leave to woo his gentle 
 
 145 
 
146 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 daughter Katharine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that hav- 
 ing heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come 
 from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished her 
 married, was forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this char- 
 acter, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was 
 composed, for her music-master rushed into the room to complain 
 that the gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his head with her 
 lute, for presuming to find fault with her performance ; which, when 
 Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her more 
 than ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and hurrying 
 the old gentleman for a positive answer, he said, " My business is 
 in haste, signior Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You 
 knew my father : he is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and 
 goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you 
 will give with her." Baptista thought his manner was somewhat 
 blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Katharine married, he an- 
 swered that he would give her twenty thousand crowns for her 
 dowry, and half his estate at his death: so this odd match was 
 quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daugh- 
 ter of her lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to 
 his suit. 
 
 In the mean time Petruchio was settling with himself the mode 
 of courtship he would pursue; and he said, " I will woo her with 
 some spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will 
 tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I 
 will say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If 
 she will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her lan- 
 guage; and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she 
 bid me stay with her a week." Now the stately Katharine entered, 
 and Petruchio first addressed her with " Good morrow, Kate, for 
 that is your name, I hear." Katharine, not liking this plain salu- 
 tation, said disdainfully, " They call me Katharine who do speak to 
 me." "You lie," replied the lover; "for you are called plain 
 Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew: but, Kate, 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 147 
 
 you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, 
 hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo 
 you for my wife." 
 
 A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry 
 terms showing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, 
 while he still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, 
 hearing her father coming, he said (intending to make as quick a 
 wooing as possible), " Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, 
 for your father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry 
 is agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you." 
 
 And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had 
 received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the 
 next Sunday. This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see 
 him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to 
 wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired 
 her father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she 
 should seem reluctant before him, but that when they were alone 
 he had found her very fond and loving; and he said to her, " Give 
 me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you fine apparel 
 against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the 
 wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich 
 clothes, that my Katharine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we 
 will be married on Sunday." 
 
 On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they 
 waited long before Petruchio came, and Katharine wept for vexa- 
 tion to think that Petruchio had only been making jest of her. 
 At last, however, he appeared; but he brought none of the bridal 
 finery he had promised Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like 
 a bridegroom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he meant to 
 make a sport of the serious business he came about; and his servant 
 and the very horses on which they rode were in like manner in mean 
 and fantastic fashion habited. 
 
 Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said 
 Katharine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and 
 
148 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went, 
 he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked 
 Petruchio if Katharine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she 
 should, that, all amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he 
 stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a 
 cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again. And all the 
 while they were being married he stamped and swore so, that the 
 high-spirited Katharine trembled and shook with fear. After the 
 ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church, he called for 
 wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop 
 which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, giv- 
 ing no other reason for this strange act, than that the sexton's 
 beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was 
 drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage; but Pe- 
 truchio did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot 
 he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 
 
 Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, but when 
 they returned from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katharine, 
 declared his intention of carrying his wife home instantly: and no 
 remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged 
 Katharine, could make him change his purpose. He claimed a hus- 
 band's right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he hur- 
 ried Katharine off: he seeming so daring and resolute that no one 
 dared attempt to stop him. 
 
 Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and 
 lank, which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his 
 servant no better mounted; they journeyed on through rough and 
 miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine's stumbled, he 
 would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce 
 crawl under his burthen, as if he had been the most passionate man 
 alive. 
 
 At length, after a weary journey, during which Katharine had 
 heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and 
 the horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 149 
 
 kindly to her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest 
 nor food that night. The tables were spread, and supper soon 
 served; but Petruchio, pretending to find fault with every dish, threw 
 the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it 
 away; and all this he did, as he said, in love for his Katharine, that 
 she might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And when 
 Katharine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, he found the same 
 fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the 
 room, so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if she 
 chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the loud 
 voice of her husband, storming at the servants for the ill-making of 
 his wife's bridal-bed. 
 
 The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking 
 kind words to Katharine, but when she attempted to eat, finding 
 fault with everything that was set before her, throwing the break- 
 fast on the floor as he had done the supper; and Katharine, the 
 haughty Katharine, was fain to beg the servants would bring her 
 secretly a morsel of food; but they being instructed by Petruchio, 
 replied, they dared not give her anything unknown to their master. 
 "Ah," said she, " did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that 
 come to my father's door have food given them. But I, who never 
 knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want of 
 food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with 
 brawling fed; and that which vexes me more than all, he does 
 it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, 
 it were present death to me." Here the soliloquy was interrupted 
 by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should be quite 
 starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to 
 her, "How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how dili- 
 gent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this 
 kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then you love 
 not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no purpose." He 
 then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, 
 which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, though 
 
150 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 angered to the heart, " I pray you let it stand." But this was 
 not all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, " The 
 poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you 
 touch the meat." On this Katharine brought out a reluctant " I 
 thank you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, 
 saying, " Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! 
 And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's house, and 
 revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps and golden 
 rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of finery; " 
 and to make her believe he really intended to give her these gay 
 things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who brought some 
 new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the 
 servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he 
 said, "What, have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a 
 cap, saying, "Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which 
 Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a 
 porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, 
 desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make it bigger. Kath- 
 arine said, "I will have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as 
 these." — " When you are gentle," replied Petruchio, " you shall 
 have one too, and not till then." The meat Katharine had eaten 
 had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, " Why, sir, I 
 trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I am no child, 
 no babe; your betters have endured to hear me say my mind; and 
 if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." Petruchio would not 
 hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better 
 way of managing his wife than keeping up a jangling argument 
 with her; therefore his answer was, "Why, you say true; it is 
 a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." — " Love me, or love 
 me not," said Katharine, " I like the cap, and I will have this cap 
 or none." — " You say you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, 
 still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward 
 and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, 
 whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 151 
 
 as much fault with that. " O mercy, Heaven! " said he, "what 
 stuff is here ! What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a demi- 
 cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart." The tailor said, 
 " You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times; " and 
 Katharine said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was 
 enough for Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be 
 paid for their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly 
 strange treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and 
 furious gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the 
 room; and then, turning to Katharine, he said, "Well, come, my 
 Kate, we will go to your father's even in these mean garments we 
 now wear." And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should 
 reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven 
 o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the 
 day, when he spoke this; therefore Katharine ventured to say, 
 though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his 
 manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be supper- 
 time before we get there." But Petruchio meant that she should 
 be so completely subdued, that she should assent to everything he 
 said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he 
 were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said 
 it should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set forward; 
 " For," he said, " whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. 
 I will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say 
 it is." Another day Katharine was forced to practise her newly- 
 found obedience, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such 
 a perfect subjection, that she dared not remember there was such 
 a word as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to her 
 father's house; and even while they were upon their journey thither, 
 she was in danger of being turned back again, only because she 
 happened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone 
 brightly at noonday. " Now, by my mother's son," said he, " and 
 that is myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, before 
 I journey to your father's house." He then made as if he were 
 
152 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 going back again; but Katharine, no longer Katharine the Shrew, but 
 the obedient wife, said, " Let us go forward, I pray, now we have 
 come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, 
 and if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall 
 be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said 
 again, " I say, it is the moon." — " I know it is the moon," replied 
 Katharine. " You lie, it is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. 
 " Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katharine ; " but sun it is not, 
 when you say it is not. What you will have it named, even so it 
 is, and so it ever shall be for Katharine." Now then he suffered her 
 to proceed on her journey; but further to try if this yielding humour 
 would last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road as if 
 he had been a young woman, saying to him, " Good morrow, gentle 
 mistress ; " and asked Katharine if she had ever beheld a fairer 
 gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, 
 and comparing his eyes to two bright stars ; and again he addressed 
 him, saying, " Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you ! " 
 and said to his wife, " Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's 
 sake." The now completely vanquished Katharine quickly adopted 
 her husband's opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old 
 gentleman, saying to him, " Young budding virgin, you are fair, 
 and fresh, and sweet: whither are you going, and where is your 
 dwelling? Happy are the parents of so fair a child." — "Why, 
 how now, Kate," said Petruchio; " I hope you are not mad. This 
 is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a maiden, 
 as you say he is." On this Katharine said, " Pardon me, old 
 gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I look 
 on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I 
 hope you will pardon me for my sad mistake." — " Do, good old 
 grandsire," said Petruchio, " and tell us which way you are travel- 
 ling. We shall be glad of your good company, if you are going 
 our way." The old gentleman replied, " Fair sir, and you, my 
 merry mistress, your strange encounter has much amazed me. My 
 name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 153 
 
 at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the 
 father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married to 
 Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very 
 happy, by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make : 
 and they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to 
 Baptista's house, where there was a large company assembled to 
 celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having 
 willingly consented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got 
 Katharine off his hands. 
 
 When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding 
 feast, and there was present also another newly married pair. 
 
 Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new mar- 
 ried man, could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the 
 shrewish disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bride- 
 grooms seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies 
 they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. 
 Petruchio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired 
 after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself joined in the 
 laugh against him : for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would 
 prove more obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said, 
 " Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the 
 veriest shrew of all." " Well," said Petruchio, " I say no, and 
 therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us each one send 
 for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at first 
 when she is sent for, shall win a wager which we will propose." 
 To this the other two husbands willingly consented, for they were 
 quite confident that their gentle wives would prove more obedient 
 than the headstrong Katharine; and they proposed a wager of 
 twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much 
 as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his 
 wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred 
 crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would 
 come to him. But the servant returned, and said, " Sir, my mistress 
 sends you word she is busy and cannot come." — " How," said 
 
154 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Petruchio, " does she say she is busy and cannot come? Is that 
 an answer for a wife? " Then they laughed at him, and said, it 
 would be well if Katharine did not send him a worse answer. And 
 now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife; and he said to his 
 servant, " Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." "Oh ho! 
 entreat her! " said Petruchio. " Nay, then, she needs must come." 
 — " I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, " your wife will not be en- 
 treated." But presently this civil husband looked a little blank, 
 when the servant returned without his mistress ; and he said to him, 
 " How now! Where is my wife? " — " Sir," said the servant, " my 
 mistress says, you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore 
 she will not come. She bids you come to her." — " Worse and 
 worse!" said Petruchio; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
 " Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I command her to come 
 to me." The company had scarcely time to think she would not 
 obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, " Now, 
 by my holidame, here comes Katharine ! " and she entered, saying 
 meekly to Petruchio, " What is your will, sir, that you send for 
 me?" — "Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he. 
 Katharine replied, " They sit conferring by the parlour fire." — 
 " Go, fetch them hither! " said Petruchio. Away went Katharine 
 without reply to perform her husband's command. " Here is a 
 wonder," said Lucentio, " if you talk of a wonder." — " And so it 
 is," said Hortensio; " I marvel what it bodes." — " Marry, peace it 
 bodes," said Petruchio, " and love, and quiet life, and right su- 
 premacy; 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 she were another daughter, for she is changed as if she had 
 never been." — " Nay," said Petruchio, " I will win the wager better 
 yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue and obedience." 
 Katharine now entering with the two ladies, he continued, " See 
 where she comes, and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 155 
 
 womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours does not be- 
 come i you ; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot." Katha- 
 rine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. " Lord! " said 
 Hortensio's wife, " may I never have a cause to sigh till I am 
 brought to such a silly pass! " And Bianca, she too said, " Fie, 
 what foolish duty call you this? " On this Bianca's husband said 
 to her, " I wish your duty were as foolish too ! The wisdom of 
 your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner- 
 time." — " The more fool you," said Bianca, " for laying on my 
 duty." — " Katharine," said Petruchio, " I charge you tell these head- 
 strong women what duty they owe their lords and husbands." And 
 to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke as 
 eloquently in praise of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had 
 practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Petruchio's will. 
 And Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not as hereto- 
 fore, as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most obedient 
 and duteous wife in Padua. 
 
7 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 
 
 "A HE states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there 
 was a cruel law made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any 
 merchant of Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he 
 was to be put to death, unless he could pay a thousand marks for 
 the ransom of his life. 
 
 iEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets 
 of Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy 
 fine, or to receive sentence of death. 
 
 iEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he 
 pronounced the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate 
 the history of his life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to 
 come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan 
 merchant to enter. 
 
 iEgeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made 
 him weary of his life, but that a heavier task could not have been 
 imposed upon him than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. 
 He then began his own history, in the following words : 
 
 " I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a 
 merchant. I married a lady, with whom I lived very happily, but 
 being obliged to go to Epidamnum, I was detained there by my 
 business six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to stay 
 some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, 
 was brought to bed of two sons, and what was very strange, they 
 were both so exactly alike, that it was impossible to distinguish the 
 one from the other. At the same time that my wife was brought to 
 bed of these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where my wife 
 lodged was brought to bed of two sons, and these twins were as 
 much like each other as my two sons were. The parents of these 
 
 156 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 157 
 
 children being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys, and brought 
 them up to attend upon my sons. 
 
 " My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little 
 proud of two such boys : and she daily wishing to return home, I 
 unwillingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for 
 we had not sailed above a league from Epidamnum before a dreadful 
 storm arose, which continued with such violence, that the sailors 
 seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save 
 their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment 
 expected would be destroyed by the fury of the storm. 
 
 " The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints 
 of the pretty babes, who, not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, 
 because they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, 
 though I did not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were 
 bent to contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to 
 the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against 
 storms; at the other end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, 
 and at the same time I directed my wife how to fasten the other 
 children in like manner to another mast. She thus having the care 
 of the two eldest children, and I of the two younger, we bound our- 
 selves separately to these masts with the children; and but for this 
 contrivance we had all been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock, 
 and was dashed in pieces; and we, clinging to these slender masts, 
 were supported above the water, where I, having the care of two 
 children, was unable to assist my wife, who with the other children 
 was soon separated from me; but while they were yet in my sight, 
 they were taken up by a boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I sup- 
 posed), and seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle with 
 the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and the youngest slave. 
 At length we, in our turn, were taken up by a ship, and the sailors, 
 knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in 
 safety at Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have never known 
 what became of my wife and eldest child. 
 
 " My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen 
 
158 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 years of age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, 
 and often importuned me that he might take his attendant, the 
 young slave, who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them : 
 at length I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously desired 
 to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger 
 one to find them, I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven 
 years since my son left me; five years have I passed in travelling 
 through the world in search of him : I have been in farthest Greece, 
 and through the bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards, I landed 
 here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave any place unsought that 
 harbours men; but this day must end the story of my life, and happy 
 should I think myself in my death, if I were assured my wife and 
 sons were living." 
 
 Here the hapless iEgeon ended the account of his misfortunes; 
 and the duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought 
 upon himself this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it 
 were not against the laws, which his oath and dignity did not per- 
 mit him to alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of doom- 
 ing him to instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he 
 would give him that day to try if he could beg or borrow the money 
 to pay the fine. 
 
 This day of grace did seem no great favour to iEgeon, for not 
 knowing any man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance 
 that any stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay 
 the fine; and helpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the 
 presence of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 
 
 iEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very 
 time he was in danger of losing his life through the careful search 
 he was making after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son 
 also were both in the city of Ephesus. 
 
 iEgeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were 
 both named alike, being both called Antipholus, and the two twin 
 slaves were also both named Dromio. iEgeon's youngest son, 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 159 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus 
 to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that 
 very same day that iEgeon did; and he being also a merchant of 
 Syracuse, he would have been in the same danger that his father 
 was, but by good fortune he met a friend who told him the peril 
 an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass for a 
 merchant of Epidamnum ; this Antipholus agreed to do, and he was 
 sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in this danger, but he 
 little thought this old merchant was his own father. 
 
 The eldest son of iEgeon (who must be called Antipholus of 
 Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother Antipholus of Syra- 
 cuse) had lived at Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, 
 was well able to have paid the money for the ransom of his father's 
 life; but Antipholus knew nothing of his father, being so young when 
 he was taken out of the sea with his mother by the fishermen that 
 he only remembered he had been so preserved, but he had no recol- 
 lection of either his father or his mother; the fishermen who took up 
 this Antipholus and his mother and the young slave Dromio, having 
 carried the two children away from her (to the great grief of that 
 unhappy lady) , intending to sell them. 
 
 Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a 
 famous warrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he 
 carried the boys to Ephesus when he went to visit the duke his 
 nephew. 
 
 The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholus, when 
 he grew up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distin- 
 guished himself by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved 
 the life of his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying 
 him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus; with whom he was living 
 (his slave Dromio still attending him) at the time his father came 
 there. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who ad- 
 vised him to say he came from Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio 
 
160 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 some money to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in 
 the mean time he said he would walk about and view the city, and 
 observe the manners of the people. 
 
 Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholus was dull and 
 melancholy he used to divert himself with the odd humours and 
 merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed 
 in Dromio were greater than is usual between masters and their 
 servants. 
 
 When Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood 
 awhile thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother 
 and his brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear 
 the least tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, " I am like a 
 drop of water in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, 
 loses itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and 
 a brother, do lose myself." 
 
 While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had 
 hitherto been so useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Anti- 
 pholus, wondering that he came back so soon, asked him where he 
 had left the money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the twin- 
 brother that lived with Antipholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. 
 The two Dromios and the two Antipholuses were still as much alike 
 as iEgeon had said they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder 
 Antipholus thought it was his own slave returned, and asked him 
 why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, " My mistress sent me 
 to bid you come to dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls from 
 the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home." 
 " These jests are out of season," said Antipholus: " where did you 
 leave the money? " Dromio still answering, that his mistress 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 with me in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humour 
 now: where is the money? we being strangers here, how dare you 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 161 
 
 trust so great a charge from your own custody? " Dromio hearing 
 his master, as he thought him, talk of their being strangers, sup- 
 posing Antipholus was jesting, replied merrily, " I pray you, sir, 
 jest as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch you home, 
 to dine with my mistress and her sister." Now Antipholus lost all 
 patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress that 
 his master had refused to come to dinner, and said that he had no 
 wife. 
 
 Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, was very angry when 
 she heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of 
 a jealous temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved 
 another lady better than herself; and she began to fret, and say 
 unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her 
 sister Luciana, who lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her 
 out of her groundless suspicions. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with 
 the money in safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going 
 again to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, 
 and not doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began to 
 reproach him for looking strange upon her (as well he might, never 
 having seen this angry lady before) ; and then she told him how 
 well he loved her before they were married, and that now he loved 
 some other lady instead of her. " How comes it now, my hus- 
 band," said she, " O how comes it that I have lost your love? " — 
 "Plead you to me, fair dame?" said the astonished Antipholus. 
 It was in vain he told her he was not her husband, and that he had 
 been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going home with 
 her, and Antipholus at last, being unable to get away, went with 
 her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and her sister, 
 the one calling him husband, and the other brother, he, all amazed, 
 thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he 
 was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less 
 surprised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also 
 claimed him for her husband. 
 
162 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, 
 his brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his 
 slave Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because 
 their mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and 
 when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholus and 
 Dromio, the maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholus was 
 at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and 
 though they almost knocked the door down, they could not gain 
 admittance, and at last Antipholus went away very angry, and 
 strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife. 
 
 When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so 
 perplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and 
 at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, 
 that he left the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get 
 away; for though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, 
 yet the jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was 
 Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen: there- 
 fore both master and man were glad to get away from their new 
 wives as fast as they could. 
 
 The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house, he was 
 met by a goldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for 
 Antipholus of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his 
 name; and when Antipholus would have refused the chain, saying it 
 did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own 
 orders; and went away, leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, 
 who ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not 
 choosing to stay in a place any longer, where he met with such 
 strange adventures that he surely thought himself bewitched. 
 
 The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholus, 
 was arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and 
 Antipholus, the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought 
 he had given the chain, happened to come to the place where the 
 officer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholus, 
 asked him to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered to him, 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 163 
 
 the price amounting to nearly the same sum as that for which he had 
 been arrested. Antipholus denying the having received the chain, 
 and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he had but a few 
 minutes before given it to him, they disputed this matter a long time, 
 both thinking they were right: for Antipholus knew the goldsmith 
 never gave him the chain, and so like were the two brothers, the 
 goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the chain into his hands, 
 till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prison for the debt 
 he owned, and at the same time the goldsmith made the officer ar- 
 rest Antipholus for the price of the chain; so that at the conclusion 
 of their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were both taken away 
 to prison together. 
 
 As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, 
 his brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him 
 to go to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which 
 he was arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send 
 him back to the strange house where he dined, and from which he 
 had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, 
 though he came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail : for 
 he saw Antipholus was in no humour to be jested with. Therefore 
 he went away, grumbling within himself, that he must return to 
 Adriana's house, " Where," said he, " Dowsabel claims me for a 
 husband: but I must go, for servants must obey their masters' com- 
 mands." 
 
 Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he 
 met Antipholus of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surpris- 
 ing adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in 
 Ephesus, there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted 
 him as an old acquaintance : some offered him money which they 
 said was owing to him, some invited him to come and see them, and 
 some gave him thanks for kindnesses they said he had done them, 
 all mistaking him for his brother. A tailor showed him some silks 
 he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking measure of him 
 for some clothes. 
 
1 64 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers 
 and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his 
 bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer 
 who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold 
 which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of 
 Dromio's of the arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had 
 brought from Adriana, perfectly confounded Antipholus, and he 
 said, " This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander 
 here in illusions; " and quite terrified at his own confused thoughts, 
 he cried out, " Some blessed power deliver us from this strange 
 place!" 
 
 And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, 
 and she too called him Antipholus, and told him he had dined with 
 her that day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had 
 promised to give her. Antipholus now lost all patience, and calling 
 her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, 
 or dined with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. 
 The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had 
 promised her a chain, which Antipholus still denying, she further 
 said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not 
 give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. 
 On this Antipholus became quite frantic, and again calling her 
 sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her ring, 
 ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words and his 
 wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that he 
 had dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in conse- 
 quence of his promising to make her a present of a gold chain. 
 But this lady had fallen into the same mistake the others had done, 
 for she had taken him for his brother : the married Antipholus had 
 done all the things she taxed this Antipholus with. 
 
 When the married Antipholus was denied entrance into his own 
 house (those within supposing him to be already there), he had 
 gone away very angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous 
 freaks, to which she was very subject, and remembering that she had 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 165 
 
 often falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged 
 on her for shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and 
 dine with this lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his 
 wife having so highly offended him, Antipholus promised to give 
 her a gold chain, which he had intended as a present for his wife; 
 it was the same chain which the goldsmith by mistake had given to 
 his brother. The lady liked so well the thoughts of having a fine 
 gold chain, that she gave the married Antipholus a ring; which 
 when, as she supposed (taking his brother for him), he denied, 
 and said he did not know her, and left her in such a wild passion, 
 she began to think he was certainly out of his senses; and presently 
 she resolved to go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. 
 And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended by the 
 jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the money to pay the 
 debt), for the purse of money, which Adriana had sent by Dromio, 
 and he had delivered to the other Antipholus. 
 
 Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's 
 madness must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out 
 of his own house ; and remembering how he had protested all dinner- 
 time that he was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus 
 till that day, she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid 
 the jailor the money, and having discharged him, she ordered her 
 servants to bind her husband with ropes, and had him conveyed 
 into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of 
 his madness : Antipholus all the while hotly exclaiming against this 
 false accusation, which the exact likeness he bore to his brother had 
 brought upon him. But his rage only the more confirmed them in 
 the belief that he was mad; and Dromio persisting in the same story, 
 they bound him also, and took him away along with his master. 
 
 Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a 
 servant came to tell her that Antipholus and Dromio must have 
 broken loose from their keepers, for that they were both walking at 
 liberty in the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch 
 him home, taking some people with her to secure her husband again; 
 
1 66 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and her sister went along with her. When they came to the gates 
 of a convent in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholus and 
 Dromio, as they thought, being again deceived by the likeness of 
 the twin-brothers. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this 
 likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had 
 given him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching 
 him for denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Anti- 
 pholus was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain 
 in the morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the gold- 
 smith again. 
 
 And now Adriana came up to him and claimed him as her lunatic 
 husband, who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she 
 brought with her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholus and 
 Dromio; but they ran into the convent, and Antipholus begged the 
 abbess to give him shelter in her house. 
 
 And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire into the 
 cause of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and 
 wise to judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give 
 up the man who had sought protection in her house ; so she strictly 
 questioned the wife about the story she told of her husband's mad- 
 ness, and she said, " What is the cause of this sudden distemper of 
 your husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death 
 of some dear friend that has disturbed his mind? " Adriana re- 
 plied, that no such things as these had been the cause. " Perhaps," 
 said the abbess, " he has fixed his affections on some other lady than 
 you his wife; and that has driven him to this state." Adriana said 
 she had long thought the love of some other lady was the cause of 
 his frequent absences from home. Now it was not his love for an- 
 other, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's temper, that often 
 obliged Antipholus to leave his home; and (the abbess suspecting 
 this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, 
 she said, " You should have reprehended him for this." — " Why, 
 so I did," replied Adriana. " Ay," said the abbess, " but perhaps 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 167 
 
 not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had 
 said enough to Antipholus on this subject, replied, " It was the con- 
 stant subject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep 
 for speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking 
 of it. When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing else ; and in 
 company I gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how 
 vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better than me." 
 
 The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jeal- 
 ous Adriana, now said, " And therefore comes it that your husband 
 is mad. The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more 
 deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hin- 
 dered by your railing; no wonder that his head is light: and his meat 
 was sauced with your upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, 
 and that has thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were 
 disturbed by your brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment of 
 society and recreation, what could ensue but dull melancholy and 
 comfortless despair? The consequence is then, that your jealous 
 fits have made your husband mad." 
 
 Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always repre- 
 hended her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, " Why do you 
 hear these rebukes without answering them? " But the abbess had 
 made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only answer, 
 " She has betrayed me to my own reproof." 
 
 Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on 
 having her husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer 
 no person to enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy 
 man to the care of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle 
 means for his recovery, and she retired into her house again, and 
 ordered her gates to be shut against them. 
 
 During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors 
 had happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, 
 old iEgeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sun- 
 set; and at sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the 
 money. 
 
1 68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he ar- 
 rived just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending 
 in person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present 
 to pardon him. 
 
 Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the 
 duke for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver 
 up her lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her 
 real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came be- 
 fore the duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had con- 
 fined him on a false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner 
 he had broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. 
 Adriana was strangely surprised to see her husband, when she 
 thought he had been within the convent. 
 
 iEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left 
 him to go in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure 
 that this dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his 
 ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholus in words of fatherly 
 affection, with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to 
 the utter astonishment of iEgeon, his son denied all knowledge of 
 him, as well he might for this Antipholus had never seen his father 
 since they were separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the 
 poor old iEgeon was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowl- 
 edge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he 
 had suffered had so strangely altered him that his son did not know 
 him, or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his 
 misery; in the midst of this perplexity, the lady abbess and the other 
 Antipholus and Dromio came out, and the wondering Adriana saw 
 two husbands and two Dromios standing before her. 
 
 And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, 
 were clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses 
 and the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured 
 aright of these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story 
 iEgeon had told him in the morning; and he said, these men must 
 be the two sons of ^Egeon and their twin slaves. 
 
"each dromio complimented his brother on his good looks" 
 
 —Page 169 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 169 
 
 But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of 
 iEgeon; and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and 
 under sentence of death, before the setting sun went down was 
 brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made 
 herself known to be the long-lost wife of iEgeon, 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 con- 
 duct, she was at length made lady abbess of this convent, and in 
 discharging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had 
 unknowingly protected her own son. 
 
 Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these 
 long separated parents and their children made them for a while for- 
 get that iEgeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they 
 were become a little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus offered the duke 
 the ransom money for his father's life; but the duke freely par- 
 doned iEgeon, and would not take the money. And the duke went 
 with the abbess and her newly-found husband and children into the 
 convent, to hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the blessed 
 ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two Dromios' humble 
 joy must not be forgotten; they had their congratulations and greet- 
 ings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on 
 his good looks, being well pleased to see his own person (as in a 
 glass) show so handsome in his brother. 
 
 Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother- 
 in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jeal- 
 ous of her husband. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his 
 brother's wife; and the good old iEgeon, with his wife and sons, 
 lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these per- 
 plexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, 
 but that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical 
 blunders would happen, and the one Antipholus, and the one 
 Dromio, be mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant 
 and diverting Comedy of Errors. 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 
 
 IN the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild 
 and gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the 
 laws with impunity ; and there was in particular one law, the ex- 
 istence of which was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it 
 in force during his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man 
 to the punishment of death, who should live with a woman that was 
 not his wife; and this law, through the lenity of the duke, being 
 utterly disregarded, the holy institution of marriage became neg- 
 lected, and complaints were every day made to the duke by the 
 parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters had been 
 seduced from their protection, and were living as the companions 
 of single men. 
 
 The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among 
 his subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from 
 the indulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite 
 to check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved 
 him) consider him as a tyrant; therefore he determined to absent 
 himself a while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full 
 exercise of his power, that the law against these dishonourable 
 lovers might be put in effect, without giving offence by an unusual 
 severity in his own person. 
 
 Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for 
 his strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to 
 undertake this important charge; and when the duke imparted his 
 design to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, " If any 
 man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, 
 it is lord Angelo." And now the duke departed from Vienna under 
 pretence of making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act 
 as the lord deputy in his absence; but the duke's absence was only 
 
 170 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 171 
 
 a feigned one, for he privately returned to Vienna, habited like a 
 friar, with the intent to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly- 
 seeming Angelo. 
 
 It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with 
 his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had 
 seduced a young lady from her parents; and for this offence, by 
 command of the new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and com- 
 mitted to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had been so 
 long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great 
 interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the good 
 old lord Escalus himself interceded for him. " Alas," said he, 
 " this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for 
 whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's transgression." 
 But Angelo replied, " We must not make a scare-crow of the 
 law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it 
 harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must 
 die." 
 
 Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and 
 Claudio said to him, " I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. 
 Go to my sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent 
 of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore 
 her that she make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go her- 
 self to Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse 
 with prosperous art, and well she can persuade; besides, there is 
 a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow, such as moves men." 
 
 Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered 
 upon her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent, after pass- 
 ing through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she 
 was inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when 
 they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious 
 house, said, " Peace be in this place! " — " Who is it that speaks? " 
 said Isabel. "It is a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle 
 Isabel, go to him, and learn his business; you may, I may not. 
 When you have taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in 
 
172 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the presence of the prioress; then if you speak you must not show 
 your face, or if you show your face, you must not speak." — " And 
 have you nuns no further privileges? " said Isabel. " Are not these 
 large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly," said Isabel: "I 
 speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint 
 upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare." Again they 
 heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, " He calls again. I 
 pray you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in 
 answer to his salutation, said, " Peace and Prosperity! Who is it 
 that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, 
 " Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roses on your cheeks pro- 
 claim you are no less ! can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a 
 novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother 
 Claudio?" — "Why her unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let me 
 ask! for I am that Isabel, and his sister." — " Fair and gentle lady," 
 he replied, " your brother kindly greets you by me; he is in prison." 
 ■ — "Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then told her, 
 Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. " Ah," said 
 she, " I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel were not 
 related, but they called each other cousin in remembrance of their 
 school days' friendship ; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved 
 Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for him into 
 this transgression. " She it is," replied Lucio. " Why then, let 
 my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio 
 would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced 
 him to die for his offence; " Unless," said he, " you have the grace 
 by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business be- 
 tween you and your poor brother." — " Alas! " said Isabel, " what 
 poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no 
 power to move Angelo." — " Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, 
 " and make us lose the good we might often win, by fearing to 
 attempt it. Go to lord Angelo ! When maidens sue, and kneel, 
 and weep, men give like gods." — " I will see what I can do," said 
 Isabel: " I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the affair, and 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 173 
 
 then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother : soon at 
 night I will send him word of my success." 
 
 Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees 
 before Angelo, saying, " I am a woful suitor to your honour, if it 
 will please your honour to hear me." — " Well, what is your suit? " 
 said Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving 
 terms for her brother's life. But Angelo said, " Maiden, there is 
 no remedy; your brother is sentenced, and he must die." — " O just, 
 but severe law," said Isabel : " I had a brother then — Heaven keep 
 your honour ! " and she was about to depart. But Lucio, who had 
 accompanied her, said, " Give it not over so; return to him again, 
 entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. You 
 are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with a more 
 tame tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on her knees implored 
 for mercy. "He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is too late." — 
 " Too late! " said Isabel: " Why, no: I that do speak a word may 
 call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to 
 great ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
 the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with 
 one half so good a grace as mercy does." — " Pray you begone," said 
 Angelo. But still Isabel entreated; and she said, " If my brother 
 had been as you, and you as he, you might have slipped like him, 
 but he, like you, would not have been so stern. I would to heaven 
 I had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then be thus? 
 No, I would tell you what it were to be a judge, and what a 
 prisoner." — " Be content, fair maid! " said Angelo: " it is the law, 
 not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, 
 or my son, it should be thus with him. He must die to-morrow." 
 — "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh, that is sudden: spare him, 
 spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens 
 we kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect 
 than we minister to our gross selves? Good, good my lord, be- 
 think you, none have died for my brother's offence, though many 
 have committed it. So you would be the first that gives this sen- 
 
174 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 tence, and he the first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my 
 lord; knock there, and ask your heart what it does know that is 
 like my brother's fault; if it confess a natural guiltiness such as his 
 is, let it not sound a thought against my brother's life! " Her last 
 words more moved Angelo than all she had before said, for the 
 beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he 
 began to form thoughts of dishonourable love, such as Claudio's 
 crime had been ; and the conflict in his mind made him to turn away 
 from Isabel; but she called him back, saying, "Gentle my lord, 
 turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my lord, turn back! " 
 — " How, bribe me ! " said Angelo, astonished that she should think 
 of offering him a bribe. " Ay," said Isabel, " with such gifts that 
 Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden treasures, or 
 those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy 
 values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven be- 
 fore sunrise, — prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids 
 whose minds are dedicated to nothing temporal." — " Well, come 
 to me to-morrow," said Angelo. And for this short respite of 
 her brother's life, and for this permission that she might be heard 
 again, she left him with the joyful hope that she should at last pre- 
 vail over his stern nature: and as she went away she said, " Heaven 
 keep your honour safe! Heaven save your honour!" Which 
 when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, " Amen, I would be 
 saved from thee and from thy virtues: " and then, affraighted at his 
 own evil thoughts, he said, " What is this? What is this? Do I 
 love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her 
 eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, 
 to catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an 
 immodest woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman sub- 
 dues me quite. Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled and 
 wondered at them." 
 
 In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night 
 than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison 
 Claudio was visited by the good duke, who, in his friar's habit, 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 175 
 
 taught the young man the way to heaven, preaching to him the 
 words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of 
 irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of 
 innocence and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a 
 crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts 
 prevailed; and he who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, 
 resolved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as she might not 
 be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear brother's 
 life. 
 
 When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be 
 admitted alone to his presence : and being there, he said to her, if 
 she would yield to him her virgin honour and transgress even as 
 Juliet had done with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life; 
 " For," said he, " I love you, Isabel." — " My brother," said Isabel, 
 " did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it." — 
 " But," said Angelo, " Claudio shall not die, if you will consent to 
 visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father's house 
 at night to come to Claudio." Isabel, in amazement at his words, 
 that he should tempt her to the same fault for which he passed 
 sentence upon her brother, said, " I would do as much for my poor 
 brother as for myself; that is, were I under sentence of death, the 
 impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my 
 death as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would 
 yield myself up to this shame." And then she told him, she hoped 
 he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said, " Believe 
 me, on my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel, angered 
 to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such dis- 
 honourable purposes, said, " Ha! little honour to be much believed; 
 and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look 
 for it ! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the 
 world aloud what man thou art ! " — " Who will believe you, 
 Isabel?" said Angelo; "my unsoiled name, the austereness of my 
 life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusa- 
 tion. Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die 
 
176 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my false will over- 
 weigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow." 
 
 "To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would 
 believe me?" said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison 
 where her brother was confined. When she arrived there, her 
 brother was in pious conversation with the duke, who in his friar's 
 habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to 
 a proper sense of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a 
 true remorse confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio, 
 in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations. 
 
 As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said, 
 " Peace be here, grace, and good company! " — " Who is there? " 
 said the disguised duke; " come in; the wish deserves a welcome." — 
 " My business is a word or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then 
 the duke left them together, and desired the provost, who had the 
 charge of the prisoners, to place him where he might overhear their 
 conversation. 
 
 " Now, sister, what is the comfort? " said Claudio. Isabel told 
 him he must prepare for death on the morrow. " Is there no 
 remedy?" said Claudio. — "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there 
 is; but such a one, as if you consented to it would strip your honour 
 from you, and leave you naked." — " Let me know the point," said 
 Claudio. " O, I do fear you, Claudio! " replied his sister; " and 
 I quake, lest you should wish to live, and more respect the trifling 
 term of six or seven winters added to your life, than your perpetual 
 honour! Do you dare to die? The sense of death is most in 
 apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels a pang 
 as great as when a giant dies." " Why do you give me this 
 shame? " said Claudio. " Think you I can fetch a resolution from 
 flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a 
 bride, and hug it in my arms." — " There spoke my brother," said 
 Isabel; " there my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you 
 must die; yet would you think it, Claudio! this outward sainted 
 deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 177 
 
 life. O, were it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliver- 
 ance as frankly as a pin! " — "Thanks, dear Isabel," said Claudio. 
 " Be ready to die to-morrow," said Isabel. " Death is a fearful 
 thing," said Claudio. " And shamed life a hateful," replied his 
 sister. But the thoughts of death now overcame the constancy of 
 Claudio's temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at their deaths 
 do know, assailing him, he cried out, " Sweet sister, let me live ! 
 The sin you do to save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the 
 deed so far, that it becomes a virtue." — " O faithless coward! O 
 dishonest wretch! " said Isabel; "would you preserve your life by 
 your sister's shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you 
 had in you such a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to 
 render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded them up all, 
 before your sister should stoop to such dishonour." " Nay, hear 
 me, Isabel!" said Claudio. But what he would have said in 
 defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of his 
 virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the duke; who 
 said, " Claudio, I have overheard what has passed between you 
 and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; 
 what he said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She hav- 
 ing the truth of honour in her, has given him that gracious denial 
 which he is most glad to receive. There is no hope that he will 
 pardon you ; therefore pass your hours in prayer, and make ready 
 for death." Then Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, 
 " Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out of love with life, 
 that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio retired, overwhelmed 
 with shame and sorrow for his fault. 
 
 The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuous 
 resolution, saying, " The hand that made you fair, has made you 
 good." — " O," said Isabel, " how much is the good duke deceived 
 in Angelo ! if ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will dis- 
 cover his government." Isabel knew not that she was even now 
 making the discovery she threatened. The duke replied, " That 
 shall not be much amiss; yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will 
 
178 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 repel your accusation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my advis- 
 ings. I believe that you may most righteously do a poor wronged 
 lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, 
 do no stain to your own most gracious person, and much please the 
 absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have notice of 
 this business." Isabel said, she had a spirit to do anything he 
 desired, provided it was nothing wrong. " Virtue is bold, and 
 never fearful," said the duke: and then he asked her, if she had 
 ever heard of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier 
 who was drowned at sea. " I have heard of the lady," said 
 Isabel, " and good words went with her name." — " This lady," 
 said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; but her marriage dowry 
 was on board the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark 
 how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman ! for, beside the 
 loss of a most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards 
 her was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune 
 she lost the affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who 
 pretending to discover some dishonour in this honourable lady 
 (though the true cause was the loss of her dowry) left her in her 
 tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort. His unjust 
 unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, has, 
 like an impediment in the current, made it more unruly, and Mari- 
 ana loves her cruel husband with the full continuance of her first 
 affection." The duke then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was, 
 that Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to 
 come to him as he desired at midnight; that by this means she would 
 obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana should go in her 
 stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark 
 for Isabel. " Nor, gentle daughter," said the feigned friar, " fear 
 you to do this thing; Angelo is her husband, and to bring them 
 thus together is no sin." Isabel being pleased with this project, 
 departed to do as he directed her; and he went to apprise Mariana 
 of their intention. He had before this time visited this unhappy 
 lady in his assumed character, giving her religious instruction and 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 179 
 
 friendly consolation, at which times he had learned her sad story 
 from her own lips ; and now she, looking upon him as a holy man, 
 readily consented to be directed by him in this undertaking. 
 
 When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the 
 house of Mariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, 
 he said, " Well met, and in good time; what is the news from this 
 good deputy? " Isabel related the manner in which she had set- 
 tled the affair. " Angelo," said she, " has a garden surrounded 
 with a brick wall, on the western side of which is a vineyard, and 
 to that vineyard is a gate." And then she showed to the duke and 
 Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her; and she said, " This 
 bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a little door which 
 leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have made my 
 promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have got 
 from him his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have 
 taken a due and wary note of the place; and with whispering and 
 most guilty diligence he showed me the way twice over." — " Are 
 there no other tokens agreed upon between you, that Mariana must 
 observe?" said the duke. "No, none," said Isabel, "only to go 
 when it is dark. I have told him my time can be but short; for I 
 have made him think a servant comes along with me, and that this 
 servant is persuaded I come about my brother." The duke com- 
 mended her discreet management, and she, turning to Mariana, said, 
 " Little have you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him, but 
 soft and low, Remember now my brother! " 
 
 Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by 
 Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device 
 preserved both her brother's life and her own honour. But that 
 her brother's life was safe the duke was not well satisfied, and 
 therefore at midnight he again repaired to the prison, and it was 
 well for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that night 
 been beheaded; for soon after the duke entered the prison, an order 
 came from the cruel deputy, commanding that Claudio should be 
 beheaded, and his head sent to him by five o'clock in the morning. 
 
I bo 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 But the duke persuaded the provost to put off the execution of 
 Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a man 
 who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the 
 provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost suspected 
 not to be anything more or greater than he seemed, showed the 
 provost a letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his 
 seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have 
 some secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented 
 to spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it 
 to Angelo. 
 
 Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo a letter, saying, 
 that certain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he 
 should be in Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to 
 meet him at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority; 
 and the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any of his 
 subjects craved redress for injustice, they should exhibit their peti- 
 tions in the street on his first entrance into the city. 
 
 Early in the moring Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who 
 there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell 
 her that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if 
 Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo has 
 released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and sent to 
 the deputy." The much-grieved sister cried out, " O unhappy 
 Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo! " 
 The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become 
 a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's 
 return, and told her in what manner she should proceed in pre- 
 ferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her not fear if 
 the cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel 
 sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her 
 counsel in what manner she also should act. 
 
 Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal 
 robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects, assembled to 
 greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 181 
 
 Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the proper form. And 
 there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and 
 said, "Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, 
 who, for the seducing a young maid, was condemned to lose his 
 head. I made my suit to lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. 
 It were needless to tell your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how 
 he repelled me, and how I replied; for this was of much length. 
 The vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. 
 Angelo would not but by my yielding to his dishonourable love re- 
 lease my brother; and after much debate within myself, my sisterly 
 remorse overcame my virtue, and I did yield to him. But the next 
 morning betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for 
 my poor brother's head ! " The duke affected to disbelieve her 
 story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who had 
 suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. 
 And now another suitor approached, which was Mariana; and 
 Mariana said, " Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, 
 and truth from breath, as there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, 
 I am this man's wife, and, my good lord, the words of Isabel are 
 false; for the night she says she was with Angelo, I passed that 
 night with him in the garden-house. As this is true, let me in 
 safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here a marble monument." 
 Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to friar 
 Lodowick, that being the name the duke had assumed in his dis- 
 guise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in 
 what they said, the duke intending that the innocence of Isabel 
 should be plainly proved in that public manner before the whole city 
 of Vienna ; but Angelo little thought that it was from such a cause 
 that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped from their con- 
 tradictory evidence to be able to clear himself from the accusa- 
 tion of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look of offended inno- 
 cence, " I did but smile till now; but, good my lord, my patience 
 here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are but 
 the instruments of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me 
 
1 82 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 have way, my lord, to find this practice out." — " Ay, with all my 
 heart," said the duke, " and punish them to the height of your 
 pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your 
 pains to discover this abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, 
 and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem best in any 
 chastisement. I for a while will leave you, but stir not you, lord 
 Angelo, till you have well determined upon this slander." The 
 duke then went away, leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed 
 judge and umpire in his own cause. But the duke was absent only 
 while he threw off his royal robes and put on his friar's habit; and 
 in that disguise again he presented himself before Angelo and 
 Escalus : and the good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had been 
 falsely accused, said to the supposed friar, " Come, sir, did you set 
 these women on to slander lord Angelo?" He replied, "Where 
 is the duke? It is he 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 
 for leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, 
 and spoke so freely of many corrupt practices he had observed, 
 while, as he said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus 
 threatened him with the torture for speaking words against the 
 state, and for censuring the conduct of the duke, and ordered him 
 to be taken away to prison. Then, to the amazement of all pres- 
 ent, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw 
 off his disguise, and they saw it was the duke himself. 
 
 The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, " Come hither, 
 Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, but with my habit I have 
 not changed my heart. I am still devoted to your service." " O 
 give me pardon," said Isabel, " that I, your vassal, have employed 
 and troubled your unknown sovereignty." He answered that he 
 had most need of forgiveness from her, for not having prevented 
 the death of her brother — for not yet would he tell her that 
 Claudio was living; meaning first to make further trial of her good- 
 ness. Angelo now knew the duke had been a secret witness of his 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 183 
 
 bad deeds, and he said, " O my dread lord, I should be guiltier 
 than my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when I perceive 
 your grace, like power divine, has looked upon my actions. Then, 
 good prince, no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be my 
 own confession. Immediate sentence and death is all the grace I 
 beg." The duke replied, " Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We 
 do condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped to death ; 
 and with like haste away with him; and for his possessions, 
 Mariana, we do instate and widow you withal, to buy you a better 
 husband." — " O my dear lord," said Mariana, " I crave no other, 
 nor no better man: " and then on her knees, even as Isabel had 
 begged the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful hus- 
 band beg the life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my liege, O 
 good my lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part ! Lend me your knees, 
 and all my life to come I will lend you all my life, to do you serv- 
 ice ! " The duke said, "Against all sense you importune her. 
 Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost 
 would break his paved bed, and take her hence in horror." Still 
 Mariana said, " Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold up 
 your hand, say nothing ! I will speak all. They say, best men are 
 moulded out of faults, and for the most part become much the better 
 for being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you 
 not lend a knee?" The duke then said, "He dies for Claudio." 
 But much pleased was the good duke, when his own Isabel, from 
 whom he expected all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down 
 before him, and said, V Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, 
 on this man condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a 
 due sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it 
 is so, let him not die ! My brother had but justice, in that he did 
 the thing for which he died." 
 
 The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner 
 for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, 
 where he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented 
 brother living; and he said to Isabel, " Give me your hand, Isabel; 
 
1 84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and 
 he shall be my brother too." By this time lord Angelo perceived 
 he was safe ; and the duke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, 
 said, "Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife; her worth has 
 obtained your pardon : joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ! 
 I have confessed her, and know her virtue." Angelo remembered, 
 when 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 him- 
 self again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble 
 conduct had won her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the 
 veil, was free to marry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the 
 disguise of a humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, 
 made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and 
 when she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the vir- 
 tuous Isabel worked such a complete reformation among the young 
 ladies of that city, that from that time none ever fell into the trans- 
 gression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. 
 And the mercy-loving duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, 
 the happiest of husbands and of princes. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 
 
 EBASTIAN and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady 
 of Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great 
 wonder) from their birth they so much resembled each other, 
 that, but for the difference in their dress, they could not be known 
 apart. They were both born in one hour, and in one hour they 
 were both in danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on 
 the coast of Illyria, as they were making a sea-voyage together. 
 The ship, on board of which they were, split on a rock in a violent 
 storm, and a very small number of the ship's company escaped with 
 their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors 
 that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with them they 
 brought Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of re- 
 joicing at her own deliverance, began to lament her brother's loss; 
 but the captain comforted her with the assurance that he had seen 
 her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a strong mast, 
 on which, as long as he could see anything of him for the distance, 
 he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was much con- 
 soled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how 
 she was to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from 
 home; and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. 
 " Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, " for I was born not 
 three hours' travel from this place." — " Who governs here? " said 
 Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a 
 duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard 
 her father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. " And 
 he is so now," said the captain; " or was so very lately, for, but 
 a month ago, I went from here, and then it was the general talk (as 
 you know what great ones do, the people will prattle of) that Orsino 
 sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a 
 
 :8 S 
 
1 86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 count who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection 
 of her brother, who shortly after died also; and for the love of this 
 dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight and company of 
 men." Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction for her 
 brother's loss, wished she could live with this lady, who so tenderly 
 mourned a brother's death. She asked the captain if he could in- 
 troduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this lady. 
 But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because 
 the Lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since her 
 brother's death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed 
 another project in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve 
 the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady 
 to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and un- 
 protected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, 
 alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 
 
 She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he 
 showed a friendly concern for her welfare, entrusted him with her 
 design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him 
 money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, 
 ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same 
 fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was 
 dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother 
 that some strange errors happened by means of their being mis- 
 taken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was 
 also saved. 
 
 Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this 
 pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got 
 her presented to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The 
 duke was wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deport- 
 ment of this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, 
 that being the office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled 
 the duties of her new station, and showed such a ready observance 
 and faithful attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most 
 favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 187 
 
 of his love for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and 
 unsuccessful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his long services, 
 and despising his person, refused to admit him to her presence; and 
 for the love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble 
 Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field and all manly exercises in 
 which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening 
 to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate 
 love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and learned 
 lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long 
 conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his 
 grave courtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble master, 
 the great duke Orsino. 
 
 It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants 
 of handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sor- 
 row, for all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she pres- 
 ently perceived she suffered for the love of him ; and much it moved 
 her wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless 
 lord and master, whom she thought no one could behold without the 
 deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that 
 it was a pity he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy 
 qualities; and she said, " If a lady were to love you, my lord, as 
 yon love Olivia (and perhaps there may be one who does), if you 
 could not love her in return, would you not tell her that you could 
 not love, and must she not be content with this answer? " But 
 Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it was 
 possible for any woman to love as he did. He said, no woman's 
 heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was 
 unfair to compare the love of any lady for him, to his love for 
 Olivia. Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's 
 opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for 
 she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had; 
 and she said, " Ah, but I know, my lord." — " What do you know, 
 Cesario? " said Orsino. " Too well I know," replied Viola, " what 
 love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. 
 
1 88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 My father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a 
 woman, should love your lordship." — " And what is her history? " 
 said Orsino. " A blank, my lord," replied Viola: " she never told 
 her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her 
 damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow 
 melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief." 
 The duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question 
 Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the 
 story, to speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief 
 she suffered for Orsino. 
 
 While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke 
 had sent to Olivia, and he said, " So please you, my lord, I might 
 not be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you 
 this answer: Until seven years hence, the element itself shall not 
 behold her face; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering 
 her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead 
 brother." On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, " O she that has 
 a heart of this line frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, 
 how will she love, when the rich golden shaft has touched her 
 heart! " And then he said to Viola, " You know, Cesario, I have 
 told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to 
 Olivia's house. Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and tell 
 her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have audience." — 
 " And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then? " said Viola. " O 
 then;" replied Orsino, "unfold to her the passion of my love. 
 Make a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well be- 
 come you to act my woes, for she will attend more to you than to 
 one of graver aspect." 
 
 Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this 
 courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she 
 wished to marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed 
 it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door 
 who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. " I told him," 
 said the servant, " that you were sick: he said he knew you were, 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 189 
 
 and therefore he came to speak with you. I told him that you 
 were asleep : he seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and 
 said, that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be said 
 to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will 
 speak with you, whether you will or no." Olivia, curious to see 
 who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be 
 admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would 
 once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he came 
 from the duke, by his importunity. Viola, entering, put on the 
 most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier 
 language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, " Most 
 radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you 
 are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my 
 speech upon another; for besides that it is excellently well penned, 
 I have taken great pains to learn it." — " Whence come you, sir? " 
 said Olivia. " I can say little more than I have studied," replied 
 Viola; " and that question is out of my part." — " Are you a come- 
 dian? " said Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and yet I am not 
 that which I play; " meaning that she, being a woman, feigned her- 
 self to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady 
 of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more 
 curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to deliver her master's 
 message, said, " Good madam, let me see your face." With this 
 bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty 
 beauty, whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first 
 sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario. 
 When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, " Have you any 
 commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face? " 
 And then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long 
 years, she drew aside her veil, saying, " But I will draw the cur- 
 tain and show the picture. Is it not well done? " Viola replied, 
 " It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by 
 Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady 
 living, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the 
 
i 9 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 world no copy." — " O, sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so cruel. 
 The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item, two 
 lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; one 
 neck; one chin; and so forth. Were you sent here to praise me? " 
 Viola replied, " I see what you are: you are too proud, but you are 
 fair. My lord and master loves you. O such a love could but 
 be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty: 
 for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans 
 that thunder love, and sighs of fire." — " Your lord," said Olivia, 
 "knows well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not he 
 is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh 
 and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, 
 and valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his answer 
 long ago." — " If I did love you as my master does," said Viola, 
 " I would make me a, willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your 
 name, I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in 
 the dead of the night; your name should sound among the hills, 
 and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out 
 Olivia. O you should not rest between the elements of earth and 
 air, but you should pity me." — " You might do much," said Olivia: 
 "what is your parentage?" Viola replied, "Above my fortunes, 
 yet my state is well. I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly 
 dismissed Viola, saying, " Go to your master, and tell him, I can- 
 not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you come 
 again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola departed, bidding the 
 lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone 
 Olivia repeated the words, Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
 I am a gentleman. And she said aloud, " I will be sworn he is; 
 his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is 
 a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke ; and 
 perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed 
 herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay 
 upon their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble 
 lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 191 
 
 those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which 
 is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to 
 court the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with 
 a diamond ring, under the pretence that he had left it with her 
 as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making 
 Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him some intimation 
 of her design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that 
 Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia's 
 looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently 
 guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love with her. " Alas," 
 said she, " the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I 
 see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs 
 for me as I do for Orsino." 
 
 Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the 
 ill success of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, 
 that the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke per- 
 sisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to 
 persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him he should 
 go to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the 
 tedious interval, he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; 
 and he said, " My good Cesario, when I heard that song last night, 
 methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it 
 is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in the 
 sun, and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant 
 this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the 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. 
 
192 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 
 On my black coffin let there be strewn ; 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there! 
 
 Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in 
 such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she 
 bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. 
 Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, " My 
 life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked 
 upon some face that it loves: has it not, boy?" — "A little, with 
 your leave," replied Viola. " And what kind of woman, and of 
 what age is she? " said Orsino. " Of your age and of your com- 
 plexion, my lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile to hear 
 this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and 
 of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and 
 not a woman like him. 
 
 When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty 
 in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies 
 delight to converse with handsome young messengers ; and the instant 
 Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's 
 page was shown into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and 
 when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in 
 her lord's behalf, this lady said, " I desired you never to speak 
 of him again; but if you would undertake another suit, I had rather 
 hear you solicit, than music from the spheres." This was pretty 
 plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, 
 and openly confessed her love; and when she saw displeasure with 
 perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, " O what a deal of 
 scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip ! Cesario, 
 by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by truth, I 
 love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor 
 reason to conceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed; Viola 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 193 
 
 hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to 
 plead Orsino's love; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond 
 solicitation was, a declaration of a resolution Never to love any 
 woman. 
 
 No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon 
 her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had 
 learned how that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, chal- 
 lenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, 
 though she carried a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, 
 and feared to look on her own sword? 
 
 When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with 
 his sword drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a 
 woman; but she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame 
 of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made 
 up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her 
 dearest friend, said to her opponent, " If this young gentleman 
 has done offence, I will take the fault on me; and if you offend him, 
 I will for his sake defy you." Before Viola had time to thank 
 him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of this kind inter- 
 ference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was 
 of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up in that instant, 
 apprehended the stranger in the duke's name, to answer for an 
 offence he had committed some years before : and he said to Viola, 
 "This comes with seeking you:" and then he asked her for a 
 purse, saying, " Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, 
 and it grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you, than 
 for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort." 
 His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew 
 him not, nor had ever received a purse from him ; but for the 
 kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small sum of 
 money, being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the 
 stranger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and 
 unkindness. He said, " This youth, whom you see here, I snatched 
 from the j-aws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, 
 
i 9 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and have fallen into this danger." But the officers cared little for 
 hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hurried 
 him off saying, "What is that to us?" And as he was carried 
 away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the 
 supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was 
 within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though 
 the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explana- 
 tion, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from 
 her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes 
 that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. 
 And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, 
 was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, 
 almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which 
 he had fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a 
 friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whither- 
 soever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit 
 Orsino's court, Antonio, rather than part from him came to Illyria, 
 though he knew, if his person should be known there, his life would 
 be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded 
 the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for which he was 
 now made a prisoner. 
 
 Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours be- 
 fore Antonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, 
 desiring him to use it freely if he saw anything he wished to pur- 
 chase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to 
 view the town; but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, 
 Antonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed 
 the same, and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio 
 drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had 
 saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
 denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. 
 
 Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to 
 fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long 
 gone, when her adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 195 
 
 brother Sebastian, who happened to arrive at this place, and he 
 said, " Now, sir, have I met with you again? There's for you; " 
 and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned the 
 blow with interest, and drew his sword. 
 
 A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the 
 house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to 
 come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he 
 had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the 
 courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he 
 went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find 
 Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible of her atten- 
 tions; for though their features were exactly the same, there was 
 none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she 
 had complained of when she told her love to Cesario. 
 
 Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished 
 on him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered 
 how it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia 
 was not in her right senses ; but perceiving that she was mistress of 
 a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern 
 her family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him 
 she appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved 
 of the courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, 
 and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had 
 a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian 
 assented to this proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was 
 over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his 
 friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with. In the 
 meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia : and at the moment he ar- 
 rived before Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their 
 prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her 
 master; and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to 
 be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued this 
 youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the 
 kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint 
 
196 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 with saying, that for three months, both day and night, this un- 
 grateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia com- 
 ing forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to 
 Antonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess: now 
 Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are mad- 
 ness. Three months has this youth attended on me: " and then he 
 ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess 
 soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude 
 as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak 
 were words of kindness to Cesario: and when he found his page 
 had obtained this high place in Olivia's favour, he threatened him 
 with all the terrors of his just revenge; and as he was going to 
 depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, " Come, boy, with 
 me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though it seemed in 
 his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet 
 her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would 
 most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia 
 would not so lose her husband, and she cried, " Where goes my 
 Cesario? " Viola replied, " After him I love more than my life." 
 Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming 
 that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared 
 that not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia 
 to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married 
 to Olivia ; the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino be- 
 lieve that his page had robbed him of the treasure he prized above 
 his life. But thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding fare- 
 well to his faithless mistress, and the young dissembler, her husband, 
 as he called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, 
 when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for another 
 Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new 
 Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia; and when their 
 wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, 
 the same voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to 
 question each other; for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 197 
 
 brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the 
 sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit of a young 
 man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, 
 and his sister, under that disguise. 
 
 When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness 
 between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed 
 at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling 
 in love with a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her ex- 
 change, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the 
 sister. 
 
 The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of 
 Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish 
 away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, 
 young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola 
 with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he 
 had always thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look 
 very beautiful in a woman's attire; and then he remembered how 
 often she had said she loved him, which at the time seemed only 
 the dutiful expressions of a faithful page; but now he guessed that 
 something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings, which 
 were like riddles to him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner 
 remembered all these things than he resolved to make Viola his 
 wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her Cesario 
 and boy), " Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that you 
 should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service 
 you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breed- 
 ing, and since you have called me master so long, you shall now be 
 your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess." 
 
 Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she 
 had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her 
 house, and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married 
 her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the 
 remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin 
 brother and sister were both wedded on the same day : the storm 
 
198 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and shipwreck, which had separated them, being the means of bring- 
 ing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of 
 Orsino, the duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich 
 and noble countess, the lady Olivia. 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 
 
 TIMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely 
 fortune, affected a humour of liberality which knew no 
 limits. His almost infinite wealth could not flow in so 
 fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts and degrees of people. 
 Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not 
 disdain to rank themselves among his dependants and followers. 
 His table was resorted to by all the luxurious feasters, and his house 
 was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His large wealth 
 combined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all hearts to 
 his love; men of all minds and dispositions tendered their services to 
 lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in 
 a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough and un- 
 bending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an 
 indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the 
 gracious manners and munificent soul of lord Timon, but would 
 come (against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, 
 and return most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod 
 or a salutation from Timon. 
 
 If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory 
 introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it 
 to lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present 
 purse from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If 
 a painter had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord 
 Timon, and pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; noth- 
 ing more was wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. 
 If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which 
 for their costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a 
 ready mart always open, where they might get off their wares or 
 their jewellery at any price, and the good-natured lord would thank 
 
 199 
 
200 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 them into the bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy 
 in letting him have the refusal of such precious commodities. So 
 that by this means his house was thronged with superfluous pur- 
 chases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp ; and 
 his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of these 
 idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, 
 needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, 
 raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to 
 him with adulation as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by 
 which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the 
 free air but through his permission and bounty. 
 
 Some of these daily dependants were young men of birth, who 
 (their means not answering to their extravagance) had been put in 
 prison by creditors, and redeemed thence by lord Timon; these 
 young prodigals thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by 
 common sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all such spend- 
 thrifts and loose livers, who, not being able to follow him in his 
 wealth, found it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious spend- 
 ing of what was their own. One of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, 
 for whose debts, unjustly contracted, Timon but lately had paid 
 down the sum of five talents. 
 
 But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were 
 more conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. 
 It was fortunate for these men if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a 
 horse, or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing 
 so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning 
 with the compliments of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, 
 and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, 
 or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's 
 bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs 
 or horses, certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended 
 donors knew well enough, and that their false presents were but the 
 putting out of so much money at large and speedy interest. In this 
 way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a present of four milk- 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 201 
 
 white horses, trapped in silver, which this cunning lord had observed 
 Timon upon some occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, 
 had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift a 
 brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness Timon had been 
 heard to admire ; these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted with- 
 out suspicion of the dishonest views of the presenters ; and the givers 
 of course were rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or some 
 jewel of twenty times the value of their false and mercenary do- 
 nation. 
 
 Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct 
 way, and with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous 
 Timon was too blind to see, would affect to admire and praise 
 something that Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or 
 some late purchase, which was sure to draw from this yielding and 
 soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing commended, for no service in 
 the world done for it but the easy expense of a little cheap and 
 obvious flattery. In this way Timon but the other day had given 
 to one of these mean lords the bay courser which he himself rode 
 upon, because his lordship had been pleased to say that it was a 
 handsome beast and went well ; and Timon knew that no man ever 
 justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For lord Timon 
 weighed his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was he of 
 bestowing, that he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed 
 friends, and never have been weary. 
 
 Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers; 
 he could do noble and praiseworthy actions; and when a servant of 
 his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope 
 to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so 
 far above him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three 
 Athenian talents, to make his fortune equal with the dowry which 
 the father of the young maid demanded of him who should be her 
 husband. But for the most part, knaves and parasites had the 
 command of his fortune, false friends whom he did not know to 
 be such, but, because they flocked around his person, he thought 
 
202 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 they must needs love him; and because they smiled and flattered him, 
 he thought surely that his conduct was approved by all the wise and 
 good. And when he was feasting in the midst of all these flat- 
 terers and mock friends, when they were eating him up, and drain- 
 ing his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk to his 
 health and prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of a 
 friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made proud with 
 the sight) it seemed a precious comfort to have so many like brothers 
 commanding one another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune 
 which paid all the costs), and with joy they would run over at the 
 spectacle of such, as it appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal 
 meeting. 
 
 But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured 
 out his bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his 
 steward; while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless 
 of expense that he would neither inquire how he could maintain it, 
 nor cease his wild flow of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, 
 must needs melt away before a prodigality which knew no limits. 
 But who should tell him so? his flatterers? they had an interest 
 in shutting his eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try 
 to represent to him his condition, laying his accounts before him, 
 begging of him, praying of him, with an importunity that on any 
 other occasion would have been unmannerly in a servant, beseech- 
 ing him with tears to look into the state of his affairs. Timon 
 would still put him off, and turn the discourse to something else; 
 for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turned to poverty, 
 nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing so incredulous 
 to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. Often 
 had this good steward, this honest creature, when all the rooms of 
 Timon's great house have been choked up with riotous feeders at 
 his master's cost, when the floors have wept with drunken spilling 
 of wine, and every apartment has blazed with lights and resounded 
 with music and feasting, often had he retired by himself to some 
 solitary spot, and wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 203 
 
 casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when 
 the means were gone which brought him praises from all sorts of 
 people, how quickly the breath would be gone of which the praise 
 was made; praises won in feasting would be lost in fasting, and at 
 one cloud of winter-showers these flies would disappear. 
 
 But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no 
 longer to the representations of this faithful steward. Money must 
 be had; and when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that 
 purpose, Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured 
 at several times before to make him listen to, that most of his land 
 was already sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed at present 
 was not enough to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with 
 wonder at this presentation, Timon hastily replied, " My lands 
 extend from Athens to Lacedaemon." " O my good lord," said 
 Flavius, "the world is but a world, and has bounds; were it all 
 yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone ! " 
 
 Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had yet come 
 from him, that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not 
 been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he 
 bade the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort 
 in the assurance that his master could never lack means, while he 
 had so many noble friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded him- 
 self that he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every 
 man's fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity, 
 as freely as his own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident of 
 the trial, he severally despatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords 
 Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts 
 in past times without measure or moderation; and to Ventidius, 
 whom he had lately released out of prison by paying his debts, and 
 who, by the death of his father, was now come into the possession 
 of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requite Timon's courtesy : 
 to request of Ventidius the return of those five talents which he had 
 paid for him, and of each of those noble lords the loan of fifty 
 talents; nothing doubting that their gratitude would supply his 
 
204 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five hundred times fifty 
 talents. 
 
 Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been 
 dreaming overnight of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's 
 servant was announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this 
 was surely a making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him 
 such a present: but when he understood the truth of the matter, 
 and that Timon wanted money, the quality of his faint and watery 
 friendship showed itself, for with many protestations he vowed to 
 the servant that he had long foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, 
 and many a time had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and had 
 come again to supper to try to persuade him to spend less, but he 
 would take no counsel nor warning by his coming : and true it was 
 that he had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's feasts, 
 as he had in greater things tasted his bounty ; but that he ever came 
 with that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon, was a 
 base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up with meanly offer- 
 ing the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell him that 
 he had not found Lucullus at home. 
 
 As little success had the messenger who was sent to lord Lucius. 
 This lying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost 
 to bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind 
 changed, and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at 
 first could hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected 
 great regret that he should not have it in his power to serve lord 
 Timon, for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had 
 made a great purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished 
 him of the means at present, the more beast he, he recalled himself, 
 to put it out of his power to serve so good a friend ; and he counted 
 it one of his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him to 
 pleasure such an honourable gentleman. 
 
 Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with 
 him? just of this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of 
 everybody Timon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 205 
 
 credit with his purse; Timon's money had gone to pay the wages 
 of his servants, to pay the hire of the labourers who had sweat to 
 build the fine houses which Lucius's pride had made necessary to 
 him : yet, oh ! the monster which man makes himself when he proves 
 ungrateful! this Lucius now denied to Timon a sum, which, in re- 
 spect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was less than charitable 
 men afford to beggars. 
 
 Sempronius, and every one of these mercenary lords to whom 
 Timon applied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or 
 direct denial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, 
 refused to assist him with the loan of those five talents which Timon 
 had not lent but generously given him in his distress. 
 
 Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he had been 
 courted and resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which 
 had been loudest in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, 
 and open handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as 
 folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it had shown itself folly 
 in nothing so truly as in the selection of such unworthy creatures 
 as themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion 
 forsaken, and become a shunned and hated place, a place for men to 
 pass by, not a place, as formerly, where every passenger must stop 
 and taste of his wine and good cheer; now, instead of being thronged 
 with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and 
 clamorous creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in 
 their demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages ; iron-hearted 
 men that would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon's house 
 was now his jail, which he could not pass, nor go in nor out for 
 them; one demanding his due of fifty talents, another bringing in 
 a bill of five thousand crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by 
 drops, and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge, 
 drop by drop. 
 
 In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of his 
 affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and 
 incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more lord 
 
206 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, 
 lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord 
 Lucius and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. 
 Who more sorry now than these fawning wretches, when they 
 found (as they thought) that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, 
 and had been only put on to make trial of their loves, to think that 
 they should not have seen through the artifice at the time, and have 
 had the cheap credit of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to 
 find the fountain of that noble bounty, which they had thought dried 
 up, still fresh and running? They came dissembling, protesting, 
 expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that when his lordship sent 
 to them, they should have been so unfortunate as to want the 
 present means to oblige so honourable a friend. But Timon begged 
 them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had altogether for- 
 gotten it. And these base fawning lords, though they had denied 
 him money in his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at 
 this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For the swallow follows 
 not summer more willingly than men of these dispositions follow the 
 good fortunes of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than 
 these shrink from the first appearance of a reverse; such summer 
 birds are men. But now with music and state the banquet of 
 smoking dishes was served up ; and when the guests had a little done 
 admiring whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish 
 so costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene which they saw 
 was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes ; at a signal given, the 
 dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead of those 
 varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected, that Timon's 
 epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented, now ap- 
 peared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable 
 to Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm water, 
 fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were in- 
 deed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as the water 
 with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, 
 "Uncover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover their 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 207 
 
 surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they might have enough, 
 and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out, 
 lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid con- 
 fusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were, 
 " smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy, 
 affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends, time- 
 flies." They, crowding out to avoid him, left the house more will- 
 ingly than they had entered it; some losing their gowns and caps, 
 and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the 
 presence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of his mock 
 banquet. 
 
 This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he 
 took farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, 
 he betook himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated 
 city and upon all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city 
 might sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all 
 plagues which infest humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, 
 might fasten upon its inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound 
 all Athenians, both young and old, high arid low; so wishing, he 
 went to the woods, where he said he should find the unkindest beast 
 much kinder than mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he 
 might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived 
 solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drink- 
 ing water, flying from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to 
 herd with the wild beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man. 
 
 What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the de- 
 light of mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater ! 
 Where were his flatterers now? Where were his attendants and 
 retinue? Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his 
 chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those stiff trees that 
 had outlived the eagle, turn young and airy pages to him, to skip 
 on his errands when he bade them? Would the cool brook, when 
 it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm broths and 
 caudles when sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or would the crea- 
 
208 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 tures that lived in those wild woods come and lick his hand and 
 flatter him? 
 
 Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his poor suste- 
 nance, his spade struck against something heavy, which proved to 
 be gold, a great heap which some miser had probably buried in a 
 time of alarm, thinking to have come again, and taken it from its 
 prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived, without making 
 any man privy to the concealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor 
 harm, in the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it had never 
 come from thence, till the accidental striking of Timon's spade 
 against it once more brought it to light. 
 
 Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had retained his 
 old mind, was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers 
 again; but Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight of 
 gold was poisonous to his eyes ; and he would have restored it to the 
 earth, but that, thinking of the infinite calamities which by means 
 of gold happen to mankind, how the lucre of it causes robberies, 
 oppression, injustice, briberies, violence, and murder, among men, 
 he had a pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he bear 
 to his species) that out of this heap, which in digging he had dis- 
 covered, might arise some mischief to plague mankind. And some 
 soldiers passing through the woods near to his cave at that instant, 
 which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athenian captain 
 Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken against the senators of 
 Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless and un- 
 grateful people, giving disgust to their generals and best friends), 
 was marching at the head of the same triumphant army which he 
 had formerly headed in their defence, to war against them; Timon, 
 who liked their business well, bestowed upon their captain the gold 
 to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than that 
 he should with his conquering army lay Athens level with the ground, 
 and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing the old men 
 for their white beards, for (he said) they were usurers, nor the 
 young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those (he said) 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 209 
 
 would live, if they grew up, to be traitors ; but to steel his eyes and 
 ears against any sights or sounds that might awaken compassion; and 
 not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from 
 making one universal massacre of the city, but to confound them 
 all in his conquest; and when he had conquered, he prayed that the 
 gods would confound him also, the conqueror: so thoroughly did 
 Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind. 
 
 While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal 
 than human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance 
 of a man standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. 
 It was Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection 
 to his master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and 
 to offer his services ; and the first sight of his master, the once noble 
 Timon, in that abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the 
 manner of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and 
 a monument of decay, so affected this good servant, that he stood 
 speechless, wrapped up in horror, and confounded. And when he 
 found utterance at last to his words, they were so choked with tears, 
 that Timon had much ado to know him again, or to make out who 
 it was that had come (so contrary to the experience he had had of 
 mankind) to offer him service in extremity. And being in the form 
 and shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for 
 false; but the good servant by so many tokens confirmed the truth of 
 his fidelity, and made it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty 
 to his once dear master had brought him there, that Timon was 
 forced to confess that the world contained one honest man; yet, 
 being in the shape and form of a man, he could not look upon his 
 man's face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from 
 his man's lips without loathing; and this singly honest man was 
 forced to depart, because he was a man, and because, with a heart 
 more gentle and compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man's 
 detested form and outward feature. 
 
 But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt 
 the savage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come 
 
210 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 when the ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice 
 which they had done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an 
 incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of their city, and with 
 his hot siege threatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now 
 the memory of lord Timon's former prowess and military conduct 
 came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had been their 
 general in past times, and a valiant and expert soldier, who alone 
 of all the Athenians was deemed able to cope with a besieging army 
 such as then threatened them, or to drive back the furious ap- 
 proaches of Alcibiades. 
 
 A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait 
 upon Timon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when 
 he was in extremity, they had shown but small regard; as if they 
 presumed upon his gratitude whom they had disobliged, and had 
 derived a claim to his courtesy from their own most discourteous 
 and unpiteous treatment. 
 
 Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return 
 and save that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven 
 him; now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for 
 past injuries, and public honours, and the public love; their persons, 
 lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come back 
 and save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was 
 no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, 
 their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed 
 his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and 
 slew her old men and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he 
 told them; and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp which 
 he did not prize above the reverendest throat in Athens. 
 
 This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointed 
 senators; only at parting he bade them commend him to his country- 
 men, and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, 
 and to prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there 
 was yet a way left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so 
 much affection left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 211 
 
 do them a kindness before his death. These words a little re- 
 vived the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their city was 
 returning. Then Timon told them that he had a tree, which grew 
 near his cave, which he should shortly have occasion to cut down, 
 and he invited all his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree 
 soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste of 
 his tree before he cut it down; meaning, that they might come and 
 hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that way. 
 
 And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which 
 Timon showed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his 
 countrymen had : for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing 
 by the sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods 
 which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, 
 with an inscription upon it, purporting that it was the grave of 
 Timon the man-hater, who " While he lived, did hate all living 
 men, and dying wished a plague might consume all caitiffs left! " 
 
 Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste 
 of life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his 
 conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his 
 epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a 
 hater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in 
 the very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of 
 burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as 
 in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and 
 deceitful mankind. 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 
 
 I 
 
 ~^HE two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets 
 and the Montagues. There had been an old quarrel be- 
 tween these families, which was grown to such a height, 
 and so deadly was the enmity between them, that it extended to the 
 remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers of both sides, in- 
 somuch that a servant of the house of Montague could not meet a 
 servant of the house of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a 
 Montague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed 
 ensued; and frequent were the brawls from such accidental meet- 
 ings, which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's streets. 
 
 Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies 
 and many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of 
 Verona were present, and all comers were made welcome if they 
 were not of the house of Montague. At this feast of Capulets, 
 Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old lord Montague, was 
 present; and though it was dangerous for a Montague to be seen 
 in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the 
 young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that 
 he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare her with some 
 choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him think 
 his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words; 
 nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. 
 For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost 
 his sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosa- 
 line, who disdained him, and never requited his love, with the least 
 show of courtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his 
 friend of this love by showing him diversity of ladies and company. 
 To this feast of Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their 
 friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, 
 
 212 
 
 \ 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 213 
 
 and told them that ladies who had their toes unplagued with corns 
 would dance with them. And the old man was light hearted and 
 merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was young, and 
 could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear. And they 
 fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding 
 beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teach 
 the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by night like a 
 rich jewel worn by a black-amoor; beauty too rich for use, too dear 
 for earth ! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said) , so richly 
 did her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her com- 
 panions. While he uttered these praises, he was overheard "By 
 Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be 
 Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, 
 could not endure that a Montague should come under cover of 
 a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at their solemnities. And 
 he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would have struck young 
 Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer 
 him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect to his guests, 
 and because Romeo had borne himself like a gentleman, and all 
 tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous and well-governed 
 youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained him- 
 self, but swore that this vile Montague should at another time dearly 
 pay for his intrusion. 
 
 The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the 
 lady stood; and under favour of his masking habit, which might 
 seem to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest man- 
 ner to take her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he pro- 
 faned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it 
 for atonement. " Good pilgrim," answered the lady, " your de- 
 votion shows by far too mannerly and too courtly : saints have hands, 
 which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not." — " Have not saints lips, 
 and pilgrims too? " said Romeo. " Ay," said the lady, " lips which 
 they must use in prayer." — " O then, my dear saint," said Romeo, 
 " hear my prayer, and grant it, lest I despair." In such like al- 
 
2i 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 lusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady was 
 called away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring who her mother 
 was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much 
 struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord 
 Capulet, the great enemy of the Montagues; and that he had un- 
 knowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it 
 could not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, when 
 she found that the gentleman that she had been talking with was 
 Romeo and a Montague, for she had been suddenly smit with the 
 same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo, which he had 
 conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, 
 that she must love her enemy, and that her affections should settle 
 there, where family considerations should induce her chiefly to hate. 
 It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they 
 soon missed him, for, unable to stay away from the house where 
 he had left his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was 
 at the back of Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, rumina- 
 ting on his new love, when Juliet appeared above at a window, 
 through which her exceeding beauty seemed to break like the light 
 of the sun in the east; and the moon, which shone in the orchard 
 with a faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief 
 at the superior lustre of this new sun. And she, leaning her cheek 
 upon her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove upon that 
 hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this while thinking 
 herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Ah me!" 
 Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard by 
 her, " O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over 
 my head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall 
 back to gaze upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full 
 of the new passion which that night's adventure had given birth to, 
 called upon her lover by name (whom she supposed absent) : " O 
 Romeo, Romeo!" said she, "wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny 
 thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, 
 be but my sworn love, and I no longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 215 
 
 having this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he was de- 
 sirous of hearing more; and the lady continued her passionate dis- 
 course with herself (as she thought), still chiding Romeo for being 
 Romeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other name, 
 or that he would put away that hated name, and for that 
 name which was no part of himself, he should take all herself. At 
 this loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the 
 dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him personally, and 
 not merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or by whatever other 
 name she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that name was 
 displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man's voice in the gar- 
 den, did not at first know who it was, that by favour of the night 
 and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret; 
 but when he spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a hun- 
 dred words of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, 
 that she immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she expos- 
 tulated with him on the danger to which he had exposed himself by 
 climbing the orchard walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find 
 him there, it would be death to him, being a Montague. " Alack," 
 said Romeo, " there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty of their 
 swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof 
 against their enmity. Better my life should be ended by their hate, 
 than that hated life should be prolonged, to live without your love." 
 — " How came you into this place," said Juliet, " and by whose 
 direction?" — "Love directed me," answered Romeo: "I am no 
 pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that vast shore which 
 is washed with the farthest sea, I should venture for such mer- 
 chandise." A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen by 
 Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery 
 which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love to 
 Romeo. She would fain have recalled her words, but that was im- 
 possible : fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her 
 lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and 
 be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand 
 
216 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 off, and affect a coyness or indifference, where they most love, that 
 their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily won; for 
 the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the object. But 
 there was no room in her case for denials, or puttings off, or any 
 of the customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeo 
 had heard from her own tongue, when she did not- dream that he 
 was near her, a confession of her love. So with an honest frank- 
 ness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she confirmed the 
 truth of what he had before heard, and addressing him by the name 
 of fair Montague (love can sweeten a sour name) she begged him 
 not to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but 
 that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault) upon the acci- 
 dent of the night which had so strangely discovered her thoughts. 
 And she added, that though her behaviour to him might not be 
 sufficiently prudent, measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she 
 would prove more true than many whose prudence was dissembling, 
 and their modesty artificial cunning. 
 
 Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing 
 was farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dis- 
 honour to such an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging 
 him not to swear; for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy 
 of that night's contract: it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. 
 But he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him 
 that night, she said that she already had given him hers before he 
 requested it; meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she 
 would retract what she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving 
 it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea, and her love as 
 deep. From this loving conference she was called away by her 
 nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, 
 for it was near to daybreak; but hastily returning, she said three or 
 four words more to Romeo, the purport of which was, that if his 
 love was indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, she would 
 send a messenger to him to-morrow, to appoint a time for their 
 marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and fol- 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 217 
 
 low him as her lord through the world. While they were settling 
 this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went 
 in and returned, and went and returned again, for she seemed as 
 jealous of Romeo going from her, as a young girl of her bird, which 
 she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it back with a 
 silken thread; and Romeo was as loath to part as she; for the 
 sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at night. 
 But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for 
 that night. 
 
 The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who was 
 too full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow 
 him to sleep, 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 conjec- 
 tured rightly that he had not been abed that night, but that some 
 distemper of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was 
 right in imputing the cause of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he 
 made a wrong guess at the object, for he thought that his love for 
 Rosaline had kept him waking. But when Romeo revealed his new 
 passion for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to marry 
 them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort 
 of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had 
 been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many com- 
 plaints of her disdain : and he said, that young men's love lay not 
 truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying, that 
 he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who could 
 not love him again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by 
 him, the friar assented in some measure to his reasons; and think- 
 ing that a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet and Romeo 
 might happily be the means of making up the long breach between 
 the Capulets and the Montagues; which no one more lamented than 
 this good friar, who was a friend to both the families and had 
 often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel without effect; 
 partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, 
 
2i8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their 
 hands in marriage. 
 
 Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent 
 from a messenger which she had despatched according to promise, 
 did not fail to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their 
 hands were joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the 
 heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of this young Mon- 
 tague and young Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions 
 of their families. 
 
 The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she stayed 
 impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to 
 come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night 
 before; and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night 
 before some great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got 
 new finery which it may not put on till the morning. 
 
 That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends, Benvolio and 
 Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a 
 party of the Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. 
 This was the same angry Tybalt who would have fought with 
 Romeo at old lord Capulet's feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused 
 him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, 
 who had as much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied 
 to this accusation with some sharpness ; and in spite of all Benvolio 
 could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel was beginning, when 
 Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt turned from 
 Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellation of 
 villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all 
 men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by 
 her; besides, this young Montague had never thoroughly entered 
 into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the 
 name of a Capulet, which was his dear lady's name, was now 
 rather a charm to allay resentment, than a watchword to excite fury. 
 So he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the 
 name of good Capulet, as if he, though a Montague, had some 
 
THE DAY WAS BREAKING WHEN THEY PARTED" — Page 217 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 219 
 
 secret pleasure in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all 
 Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason, but drew his 
 weapon; and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secret motive for 
 desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance 
 as a sort of catm dishonourable submission, with many disdainful 
 words provoke^ Tybalt to the. prosecution of his first quarrel with 
 him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving 
 his death's wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeav- 
 ouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept 
 his temper no longer, but returned the scornful appellation of 
 villain which Tybalt had given him; and they fought till Tybalt 
 was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst 
 of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought a crowd of 
 citizens to the spot, and among them the old lords Capulet and 
 Montague, with their wives ; and soon after arrived the prince him- 
 self, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and 
 having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these 
 brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came determined to put the 
 law in strictest force against those who should be found to be 
 offenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was com- 
 manded by the prince to relate the origin of it; which he did, keep- 
 ing as near the truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening 
 and excusing the part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, 
 whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her 
 keep no bounds in her revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict 
 justice upon his murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio's 
 representation, who, being Romeo's friend and a Montague, spoke 
 partially. Thus she pleaded against her new son-in-law, but she 
 knew not yet that he was her son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On 
 the other hand was to be seen Lady Montague pleading for her 
 child's life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had done 
 nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, which 
 was already forfeited to the law by his having slain Mercutio. The 
 prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these women, 
 
220 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and 
 by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona. 
 
 Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a 
 bride, and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced ! When 
 the tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against 
 Romeo, who had slain her dear cousin : she called him a beautiful 
 tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's 
 nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flowering face, and other like 
 contradictory names, which denoted the struggles in her mind be- 
 tween her love and her resentment: but in the end love got the 
 mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain 
 her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her husband lived whom 
 Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they were 
 altogether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That word was more 
 terrible to her than the death of many Tybalts. 
 
 Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar Lawrence's cell, 
 where he was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which 
 seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared 
 there was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight 
 of Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond 
 was purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have applied 
 the consolation of philosophy to his griefs : but this frantic, young 
 man would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his hair, and 
 threw himself all along upon the ground, as he said, to take the 
 measure of his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused 
 by a message from his dear lady, which a little revived him; and 
 then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on the 
 unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain Tybalt, but 
 would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady, who lived but in 
 his life? The noble form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, 
 when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm. The law 
 had been lenient to him, that instead of death, which he had in- 
 curred, had pronounced by the prince's mouth only banishment. 
 He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him : there was 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 221 
 
 a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) 
 had become his dear wife; therein he was most happy. All these 
 blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from 
 him like a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him 
 beware, for such as despaired (he said) died miserable. Then 
 when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled him that he should 
 go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed 
 straightways to Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, till the 
 friar found fit occasion to publish his marriage, which might be a 
 joyful means of reconciling their families; and then he did not 
 doubt but the prince would be moved to pardon him, and he would 
 return with twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief. 
 Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar, and took 
 his leave to go and seek his lady, proposing to stay with her that 
 night, and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to 
 which place the good friar promised to send him letters from time 
 to time, acquainting him with the state of affairs at home. 
 
 That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret ad- 
 mission to her chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard 
 her confession of love the night before. That had beer| a night of 
 unmixed joy and rapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the 
 delight which these lovers took in each other's society, were sadly 
 allayed with the prospect of parting, and the fatal adventures of 
 the past day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, 
 and when. Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she would have 
 persuaded herself that it was the nightingale, which sings by night; 
 but it was too truly the lark which sang, and a discordant and 
 unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks of day in the east 
 too certainly pointed out that it was time for these lovers to part. 
 Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with a heavy heart, prom- 
 ising to write to her from Mantua every hour in the day; and when 
 he had descended from her chamber-window, as he stood below her 
 on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in which she 
 was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. 
 
222 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner : but now he was forced 
 hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the 
 walls of Verona after daybreak. 
 
 This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star- 
 crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the 
 old lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had 
 chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married already, was 
 count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy 
 suitor to the young Juliet, if she had never seen Romeo. 
 
 The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer. 
 She pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of 
 Tybalt, which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with 
 any face of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the family 
 of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial feast, when his funeral 
 solemnities were hardly over: she pleaded every reason against the 
 match, but the true one, namely, that she was married already. But 
 lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory man- 
 ner ordered her to get ready, for by the following Thursday she 
 should be married to Paris : and having found her a husband, rich, 
 young, and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might joy- 
 fully accept, he could not bear that out of an affected coyness, as 
 he construed her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own good 
 fortune. 
 
 In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always her 
 counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to 
 undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would 
 go into the grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear hus- 
 band living; he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and 
 give her consent to marry Paris, according to her father's desire, and 
 on the next night, which was the night before the marriage, to drink 
 off the contents of a phial which he then gave her, the effect of 
 which would be that for two-and-forty hours after drinking it she 
 should appear cold and lifeless; and when the bridegroom came to 
 fetch her in the morning, he would find her to appearance dead; 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 223 
 
 that then she would be borne, as the manner in that country was, 
 uncovered on a bier, to be buried in the family vault; that if she 
 could put off womanish fear, and consent to this terrible trial, in 
 forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid (such was its certain 
 operation) she would be sure to awake, as from a dream; and be- 
 fore she should awake, he would let her husband know their drift, 
 and he should come in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua. 
 Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength 
 to undertake this horrible adventure; and she took the phial of the 
 friar, promising to observe his directions. 
 
 Going from the monastery, she met the young count Paris, and 
 modestly dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joy- 
 ful news to the lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth 
 into the old man; and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly, 
 by her refusal of the count, was his darling again, now she promised 
 to be obedient. All things in the house were in a bustle against the 
 approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival 
 rejoicings as Verona had never before witnessed. 
 
 On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had 
 many misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be 
 imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; 
 but then he was always known for a holy man : then lest she should 
 awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the 
 terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where 
 Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough 
 to drive her distracted: again she thought of all the stories she had 
 heard of spirits haunting the places where their bodies were be- 
 stowed. But then her love for Romeo, and her aversion for 
 Paris returned, and she desperately swallowed the draught, and be- 
 came insensible. 
 
 When young Paris came early in the morning with music to 
 awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented 
 the dreary spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes ! 
 What confusion then reigned through the whole house ! Poor 
 
224 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Paris lamenting his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled 
 him of, had divorced from him even before their hands were joined. 
 But still more piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old lord 
 and lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor loving child 
 to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had snatched her from their 
 sight, just as these careful parents were on the point of seeing her 
 advanced (as they thought) by a promising and advantageous match. 
 Now all things that were ordained for the festival were turned from 
 their properties to do the office of a black funeral. The wedding 
 cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed 
 for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and 
 the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride's path, now 
 served but to strew her corse. Now, instead of a priest to marry 
 her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was borne to church 
 indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell 
 the dreary numbers of the dead. 
 
 Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought 
 the dismal story of his Juliet's death to Romeo, at Mantua, before 
 the messenger could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to 
 apprise him that these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow 
 and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb 
 but for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release 
 her from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had been un- 
 usually joyful and light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night 
 that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to 
 think), and that his lady came and found him dead, and breathed 
 such life with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an emperor! 
 And now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely it 
 was to confirm some good news which his dreams had presaged. 
 But when the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, and that it 
 was his lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by 
 any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined 
 that night to visit Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And 
 as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 225 
 
 called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had 
 lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of the man, who 
 seemed famished, and the wretched show in his show of empty 
 boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme 
 wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps having some mis- 
 givings that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a con- 
 clusion so desperate), " If a man were to need poison, which by the 
 law of Mantua it is death to sell, here lives a, poor wretch who 
 would sell it him." These words of his now came into his mind, 
 and he sought out the apothecary, who after some pretended 
 scruples, Romeo offering him gold, which his poverty could not re- 
 sist, sold him a poison, which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he 
 had the strength of twenty men, would quickly despatch him. 
 
 With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his 
 dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to 
 swallow the poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona 
 at midnight, and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was 
 situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, 
 and a spade, and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open 
 the monument, when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the 
 name of vile Montague, bade him desist from his unlawful busi- 
 ness. It was the young count Paris, who had come to the tomb 
 of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to strew flowers and 
 to weep over the grave of her that should have been his bride. He 
 knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him 
 to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the 
 Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to do some villanous 
 shame to the dead bodies; therefore in an angry tone he bade him 
 desist; and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die 
 if he were found within the walls of the city, he would have 
 apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him, and warned 
 him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried there, not to provoke his 
 anger, or draw down another sin upon his head, by forcing him 
 to kill him. But the count in scorn refused his warning, and laid 
 
226 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they fought, and 
 Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see who 
 it was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his 
 way from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took the dead 
 youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune had made a companion, 
 and said that he would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in 
 Juliet's grave, which he now opened : and there lay his lady, as one 
 whom death had no power upon to change a feature or complexion, 
 in her matchless beauty; or as if Death were amorous, and the lean 
 abhorred monster kept her there for his delight; for she lay yet 
 fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed 
 that benumbing potion; and near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, 
 whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for 
 Juliet's sake called him cousin, and said that he was about to do him 
 a favour by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last 
 leave of his lady's lips, kissing them ; and here he shook the burden 
 of his cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that poison 
 which the apothecary had sold him, whose operation was fatal and 
 real, not like that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the 
 effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake to 
 complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he had come too 
 soon. 
 
 For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised 
 that she should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which 
 he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, 
 had never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pickaxe 
 and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement; but he was 
 surprised to find a light already burning in the Capulets' monument, 
 and to see swords and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying 
 breathless by the monument. 
 
 Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal 
 accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing 
 the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and 
 the occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo, but the friar, 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 227 
 
 hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and of 
 unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had 
 thwarted their intents; and being frightened by the noise of people 
 coming, he fled: but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true 
 love's hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, 
 and she would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and 
 she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon 
 them ; then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly un- 
 sheathed a dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her 
 true Romeo's side. 
 
 The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page be- 
 longing to count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his 
 master and Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread among 
 the citizens, who went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly 
 exclaiming, A Paris ! a Romeo ! a Juliet ! as the rumour had im- 
 perfectly reached them, till the uproar brought lord Montague and 
 lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to inquire into the 
 causes of the disturbance. The friar had been apprehended by 
 some of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, 
 and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great multitude being 
 assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar was demanded by the 
 prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous 
 accidents. 
 
 And there, in the presence of the old lords Montague and Capu- 
 let, he faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the 
 part he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union 
 to end the long quarrels between their families : how Romeo, there 
 dead, was husband to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's 
 faithful wife; how before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge 
 their marriage, another match was projected for Juliet, who, to 
 avoid the crime of a second marriage, swallowed the sleeping 
 draught (as he advised), and all thought her dead; how meantime 
 he wrote to Romeo, to come and take her thence when the force 
 of the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate miscarriage 
 
228 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 of the messenger the letters never reached Romeo : further than this 
 the friar could not follow the story, nor knew more than that coming 
 himself, to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found the 
 count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions 
 was supplied by the narration of the page who had seen Paris and 
 Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo from 
 Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be delivered 
 to his father in the event of his death, which made good the friar's 
 words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgive- 
 ness of his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the 
 poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, to die, 
 and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to 
 clear the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have in 
 these complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended con- 
 sequences of his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle 
 contrivances. 
 
 And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capu- 
 let, rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed 
 them what a scourge Heaven had laid upon such offences, that it 
 had found means even through the love of their children to punish 
 their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, 
 agreed to bury their long strife in their children's graves; and lord 
 Capulet requested lord Montague to give him his hand, calling 
 him by the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union 
 of their families, by the marriage of the young Capulet and Mon- 
 tague; and saying that lord Montague's hand (in token of recon- 
 cilement) was all he demanded for his daughter's jointure: but lord 
 Montague said he would give him more, for he would raise her 
 a statue of pure gold, that while Verona kept its name, no figure 
 should be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as that 
 of the true and faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet in return said 
 that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did these poor old 
 lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other in mutual 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET 229 
 
 courtesies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity in past 
 times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their children (poor 
 sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions) could remove the rooted 
 hates and jealousies of the noble families. 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 
 
 GERTRUDE, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the 
 sudden death of King Hamlet, in less than two months 
 after his death married his brother Claudius, which was 
 noted by all people at the time for a strange act of indiscretion, or 
 unfeelingness, or worse : for this Claudius did no ways resemble her 
 late husband in the qualities of his person or his mind, but was as 
 contemptible in outward appearance, as he was base and unworthy 
 in disposition; and suspicions did not fail to arise in the minds of 
 some, that he had privately made away with his brother, the late 
 king, with the view of marrying his widow, and ascending the throne 
 of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried 
 king, and lawful successor to the throne. 
 
 But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make 
 such impression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated 
 the memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a 
 nice sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety 
 himself, did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his 
 mother Gertrude : insomuch that, between grief for his father's 
 death and shame for his mother's marriage, this young prince was 
 overclouded with a deep melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all 
 his good looks ; all his customary pleasure in books forsook him, his 
 princely exercises and sports, proper to his youth, were no longer 
 acceptable; he grew weary of the world, which seemed to him an 
 unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers were choked up, 
 and nothing but weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of 
 exclusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, weighed so much 
 upon his spirits, though that to a young and high-minded prince 
 was a bitter wound and a sore indignity; but what so galled him, 
 and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that his mother had 
 
 230 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 231 
 
 shown herself so forgetful to his father's memory: and such a 
 father! who had been to her so loving and so gentle a husband! 
 and then she always appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him, 
 and would hang upon him as if her affection grew to him: and now 
 within two months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than 
 two months, she had married again, married his uncle, her dear 
 husband's brother, in itself a highly improper and unlawful mar- 
 riage, from the nearness of relationship, but made much more so 
 by the indecent haste with which it was concluded, and the unkingly 
 character of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner of her 
 throne and bed. This it was, which more than the loss of ten 
 kingdoms, dashed the spirits and brought a cloud over the mind of 
 this honourable young prince. 
 
 In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do 
 to contrive to divert him ; he still appeared in court in a suit of deep 
 black, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of 
 dress he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother 
 upon the day she was married, nor could he be brought to join in 
 any of the festivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) 
 disgraceful day. 
 
 What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner 
 of his father's death. It was given out by Claudius that a serpent 
 had stung him; but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that 
 Claudius himself was the serpent; in plain English, that he had 
 murdered him for his crown, and that the serpent who stung his 
 father did now sit on the throne. 
 
 How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to 
 think of his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and 
 whether by her consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, 
 were the doubts which continually harassed and distracted him. 
 
 A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that an appari- 
 tion, exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by 
 the soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at mid- 
 night, for two or three nights successively. The figure came con- 
 
232 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 stantly clad in the same suit of armour, from head to foot, which 
 the dead king was known to have worn: and they who saw it (Ham- 
 let's bosom friend Horatio was one) agreed in their testimony as 
 to the time and manner of its appearance: that it came just as the 
 clock struck twelve ; that it looked pale, with a face more of sorrow 
 than of anger; that its beard was grisly, and the colour a sable sil- 
 vered,^ they had seen it in his lifetime: that it made no answer 
 when they spoke to it; yet once they thought it lifted up its head, 
 and addressed itself to motion, as if it were about to speak; but in 
 that moment the morning cock crew, and it shrunk in haste away, 
 and vanished out of their sight. 
 
 The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was 
 too consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that 
 it was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take 
 his watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance 
 of seeing it; for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance 
 did not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to im- 
 part, and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to 
 him. And he waited with impatience for the coming of night. 
 
 When night came he took his stand with Horatio, and Marcellus, 
 one of the guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was 
 accustomed to walk: and it being a cold night, and the air unusually 
 raw and nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell 
 into some talk about the coldness of the night, which was suddenly 
 broken off by Horatio announcing that the ghost was coming. 
 
 At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sud- 
 den surprise and fear. He at first called upon the angels and 
 heavenly ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were 
 a good spirit or bad; whether it came for good or evil: but he 
 gradually assumed more courage; and his father (as it seemed to 
 him) looked upon him so piteously, and as it were desiring to have 
 conversation with him, and did in all respects appear so like him- 
 self as he was when he lived, that Hamlet could not help address- 
 ing him : he called him by his name, Hamlet, King, Father ! and 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 233 
 
 conjured him that he would tell the reason why he had left his 
 grave, where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to come again and 
 visit the earth and the moonlight: and besought him that he would 
 let them know if there was anything which they could do to give 
 peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that he 
 should go with him to some more removed place, where they might 
 be alone; and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded the 
 young prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be some 
 evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neighbouring sea, or to the 
 top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape 
 which might deprive the prince of his reason. But their counsels 
 and entreaties could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared 
 too little about life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he 
 said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as 
 itself? And he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting from them, 
 who did all they could to hold him, he followed whithersoever the 
 spirit led him. 
 
 And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and 
 told him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been 
 cruelly murdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done 
 by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already 
 but too much suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and 
 crown. That as he was sleeping in his garden, his custom always 
 in the afternoon, his treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, 
 and poured the juice of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has 
 such an antipathy to the life of man, that swift as quicksilver it 
 courses through all the veins of the body, baking up the blood, and 
 spreading a crustlike leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping, by a 
 brother's hand he was cut off at once from his crown, his queen, 
 and his life: and he adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father 
 love, that he would revenge his foul murder. And the ghost 
 lamented to his son, that his mother should so fall off from virtue, 
 as to prove false to the wedded love of her first husband, and to 
 marry his murderer; but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he pro- 
 
234 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to act 
 any violence against the person of his mother, but to leave her to 
 heaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet 
 promised to observe the ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost, 
 vanished. 
 
 And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, 
 that all he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books 
 or observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing 
 live in his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, 
 and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the 
 conversation which had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; 
 and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as 
 to what they had seen that night. 
 
 The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses 
 of Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged 
 his mind, and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that 
 it would continue to have this effect, which might subject him to ob- 
 servation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he 
 was meditating anything against him, or that Hamlet really knew 
 more of his father's death than he professed, took up a strange reso- 
 lution, from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and truly 
 mad; thinking that he would be less an object of suspicion when his 
 uncle should believe him incapable of any serious project, and that 
 his real perturbation of mind would be best covered and pass con- 
 cealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. 
 
 From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strange- 
 ness in his apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently 
 counterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both de- 
 ceived, and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient 
 cause to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appear- 
 ance of the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they 
 thought they had found out the object. 
 
 Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been re- 
 lated, he had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 235 
 
 of Polonius, the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had 
 sent her letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affection 
 to her, and importuned her with love in honourable fashion : and 
 she had given belief to his vows and importunities. But the mel- 
 ancholy which he fell into latterly had made him neglect her, and 
 from the time he conceived the project of counterfeiting madness, 
 he affected to treat her with unldndness, and a sort of rudeness : but 
 she, good lady, rather than reproach him with being false to her, 
 persuaded herself that it was nothing but the disease in his mind, 
 and no settled unkindness, which had made him less observant of 
 her than formerly; and she compared the faculties of his once noble 
 mind and excellent understanding, impaired as they were with the 
 deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet bells which in them- 
 selves are capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled out of 
 tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and unpleasing sound. 
 Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the re- 
 venging of his father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with 
 the playful state of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a 
 passion as love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but 
 that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come between, and in one 
 of these moments, when he thought that his treatment of this gentle 
 lady had been unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full 
 of wild starts of passion, and in extravagent terms, such as 
 agreed with his supposed madness, but mixed with some gentle 
 touches of affection, which could not but show to this honoured 
 lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. 
 He bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that the sun 
 did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he 
 loved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia 
 dutifully showed to her father, and the old man thought himself 
 bound to communicate it to the king and queen, who from that 
 time supposed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. 
 And the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia might be 
 the happy cause of his wildness, for so she hoped that her virtues 
 
236 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 might happily restore him to his accustomed way again, to both their 
 honours. 
 
 But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could 
 be so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still 
 haunted his imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his 
 murder gave him no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of 
 delay seemed to him a sin, and a violation of his father's commands. 
 Yet how to compass the death of the king, surrounded as he con- 
 stantly was with his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had been, 
 the presence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was generally 
 with the king, was a restraint upon his purpose, which he could not 
 break through. Besides, the very circumstance that the usurper was 
 his mother's husband filled him with some remorse, and still blunted 
 the edge of his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow-creature 
 to death was in itself odious and terrible to a disposition naturally 
 so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy, and the dejection 
 of spirits he had so long been in, produced an irresoluteness and 
 wavering of purpose, which kept him from proceeding to extremities. 
 Moreover, he could not help having some scruples upon his mind, 
 whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or 
 whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has power to 
 take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's 
 shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, 
 to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as murder. And 
 he determined that he would have more certain grounds to go upon 
 than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion. 
 
 While he was in this irresolute mind there came to the court cer- 
 tain players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and 
 particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing 
 the death of old Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba 
 his queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the players, and re- 
 membering how that speech had formerly given him pleasure, 
 requested the player to repeat it; which he did in so lively a man- 
 ner, setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble old king, with the 
 
HE AFFECTED TO TREAT HER WITH UNKINDNESS"-/ 5 ^ 235 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 237 
 
 destruction of his people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the 
 old queen, running barefoot up and down the palace, with a poor 
 clout upon that head where a crown had been, and with nothing but 
 a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, where she had worn 
 a royal robe; that not only it drew tears from all that stood by, 
 who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was it represented, 
 but even the player himself delivered it with a broken voice and 
 real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could 
 so work himself up to passion by a mere fictitious speech, to weep 
 for one that he had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead so 
 many hundred years, how dull was he, who having a real motive and 
 cue for passion, a real king and a dear father murdered, was yet 
 so little moved, that his revenge all this while had seemed to have 
 slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness ! and while he meditated on 
 actors and acting, and the powerful effects which a good play, rep- 
 resented to the life, has upon the spectator, he remembered the in- 
 stance of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage, was by 
 the mere force of the scene and resemblance of circumstances so 
 affected, that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had com- 
 mitted. And he determined that these players should play some- 
 thing like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would 
 watch narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his 
 looks he would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the 
 murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, 
 to the representation of which he invited the king and queen. 
 
 The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a 
 duke. The duke's name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The 
 play showed how one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned 
 him in his garden for his estate, and how the murderer in a short 
 time after got the love of Gonzago's wife. 
 
 At the representation of this play, the king, who did not know 
 the trap which was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the 
 whole court: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. 
 The play began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, 
 
238 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 in which the lady made many protestations of love, and of never 
 marrying a second husband, if she should outlive Gonzago ; wishing 
 she might be accursed if she ever took a second husband, and add- 
 ing that no woman did so, but those wicked women who kill their 
 first husbands. Hamlet observed the king his uncle change colour 
 at this expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood both to him 
 and to the queen. But when Lucianus, according to the story, came 
 to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the strong resemblance 
 which it bore to his own wicked act upon the late king, his brother, 
 whom he had poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the conscience 
 of this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest of the play, 
 but on a sudden calling for lights to his chamber, and affecting or 
 partly feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The 
 king being departed, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had 
 seen enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost were true, 
 and no illusion; and in a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over a 
 man who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple resolved, he 
 swore to Horatio, that he would take the ghost's word for a thou- 
 sand pounds. But before he could make up his resolution as to 
 what measures of revenge he should take, now he was certainly in- 
 formed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was sent for by 
 the queen his mother, to a private conference in her closet. 
 
 It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that 
 she might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had dis- 
 pleased them both, and the king, wishing to know all that passed 
 at that conference, and thinking that the too partial report of a 
 mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might 
 much import the king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, 
 was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's 
 closet, where he might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice 
 was particularly adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a 
 man grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted 
 to get at the knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way. 
 
 Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 239 
 
 roundest way with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that 
 he had given great offence to his father, meaning the king, his 
 uncle, whom, because he had married her, she called Hamlet's 
 father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that she should give so dear and 
 honoured a name as father seemed to him, to a wretch who was 
 indeed no better than the murderer of his true father, with some 
 sharpness replied, " Mother, you have much offended my father." 
 The queen said that was but an idle answer. " As good as the 
 question deserved," said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he had 
 forgotten who it was he was speaking to? " Alas! " replied Ham- 
 let, " I wish I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's 
 brother's wife; and you are my mother: I wish you were not what 
 you are." " Nay, then," said the queen, " if you show me so little 
 respect, I will set those to you that can speak," and was going to 
 send the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her 
 go, now he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could not 
 bring her to some sense of her wicked life; and, taking her by the 
 wrist, he held her fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted 
 at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do 
 her mischief, cried out; and a voice was heard from behind the 
 hangings, " Help, help, the queen ! " which Hamlet hearing, and 
 verily thinking that it was the king himself there concealed, he 
 drew his sword and stabbed at the place where the voice came from, 
 as he would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice ceasing, 
 he concluded the person to be dead. But when he dragged forth the 
 body, it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, 
 that had planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. " Oh me ! " 
 exclaimed the queen, " what a rash and bloody deed have you 
 done ! " "A bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, " but not 
 so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married his brother." Ham- 
 let had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in the humour 
 to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though the 
 faults of parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet 
 in the case of great crimes the son may have leave to speak even 
 
2 4 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to his own mother with some harshness, so as that harshness is 
 meant for her good, and to turn her from her wicked ways, and 
 not done for the purpose of upbraiding. And now this virtuous 
 prince did in moving terms represent to the queen the heinousness 
 of her offence, in being so forgetful of the dead king, his father, 
 as in so short a space of time to marry with his brother and re- 
 puted murderer : such an act as, after the vows which she had 
 sworn to her first husband, was enough to make all vows of women 
 suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding con- 
 tracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a mock- 
 ery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a 
 deed, that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of 
 her because of it. And he showed her two pictures, the one of the 
 late king, her first husband, and the other of the present king, her 
 second husband, and he bade her mark the difference; what a grace 
 was on the brow of his father, how like a god he looked! the curls 
 of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture 
 like to Mercury newly alighted on some heaven-kissing hill ! this 
 man, he said, had been her husband. And then he showed her 
 whom she had got in his stead: how like a blight or a mildew he 
 looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome brother. And the 
 queen was sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon 
 her soul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked 
 her how she could continue to live with this man, and be a wife to 
 him, who had murdered her first husband, and got the crown by as 
 
 false means as a thief and just as he spoke, the ghost of his 
 
 father, such as he was in his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen 
 it, entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it 
 would have; and the ghost said that it came to remind him of the 
 revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed to have forgot; and 
 the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and terror she 
 was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen by none 
 but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where it stood, or by 
 any description, make his mother perceive it; who was terribly 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 241 
 
 frightened all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her, 
 with nothing; and she imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But 
 Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner as 
 to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences, which had 
 brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel 
 his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he 
 begged of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was 
 past, and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be 
 no more as a wife to him: and when she should show herself a 
 mother to him, by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a 
 blessing of her as a son. And she promising to observe his direc- 
 tions, the conference ended. 
 
 And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his 
 unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it 
 was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly 
 loved, he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a 
 little quieter, he wept for what he had done. 
 
 The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretence for 
 sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have 
 put him to death, fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded the peo- 
 ple, who loved Hamlet, and the queen, who, with all her faults, 
 doted upon the prince, her son. So this subtle king, under pretence 
 of providing for Hamlet's safety, that he might not be called to 
 account for Polonius' death, caused him to be conveyed on board a 
 ship bound for England, under the care of two courtiers, by whom 
 he despatched letters to the English court, which in that time was 
 in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring for special 
 reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to death as soon 
 as he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treach- 
 ery, in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and skilfully erasing 
 his own name, he in the stead of it put in the names of those two 
 courtiers, who had the charge of him, to be put to death : then seal- 
 ing up the letters, he put them into their place again. Soon after 
 the ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight commenced; in the 
 
242 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 course of which Hamlet, desirous to show his valour, with sword in 
 hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel; while his own ship, in a 
 cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the two 
 courtiers made the best of their way to England, charged with those 
 letters the sense of which Hamlet had altered to their own deserved 
 destruction. 
 
 The pirates, who had the prince in their power, showed themselves 
 gentle enemies ; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the 
 hope that the prince might do them a good turn at court in recom- 
 pense for any favour they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore 
 at the nearest port in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to 
 the king, acquainting him with the strange chance which had brought 
 him back to his own country, and saying that on the next day he 
 should present himself before his majesty. When he got home, a 
 sad spectacle offered itself the first thing to his eyes. 
 
 This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once 
 dear mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever 
 since her poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, 
 and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this 
 tender young maid, that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, 
 and would go about giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, 
 and saying that they were for her father's burial, singing songs about 
 love and about death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, 
 as if she had no memory of what happened to her. There was a 
 willow which grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves on 
 the stream. To this brook she came one day when she was un- 
 watched, with garlands she had been making, mixed up of daisies 
 and nettles, flowers and weeds together, and clambering up to hang 
 her garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough broke, and pre- 
 cipitated this fair young maid, garland, and all that she had gath- 
 ered, into the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while, during 
 which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her own 
 distress, or as if she were a creature natural to that element: but 
 long it was not before her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled her 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 243 
 
 in from her melodious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It 
 was the funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes was cel- 
 ebrating, the king and queen and whole court being present, when 
 Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this show imported, but 
 stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw 
 the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden 
 burials, which the queen herself threw in ; and as she threw them she 
 said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought to have decked thy bride- 
 bed, sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst 
 have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother wish 
 that violets might spring from her grave : and he saw him leap into 
 the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile moun- 
 tains of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And 
 Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to him, and he could 
 not bear that a brother should show so much transport of grief, for 
 he thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousand broth- 
 ers. Then discovering himself, he leaped into the grave where 
 Laertes was, all as frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes know- 
 ing him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father's and 
 his sister's death, grappled him by the throat as an enemy, till the 
 attendants parted them : and Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his 
 hasty act in throwing himself into the grave as if to brave Laertes; 
 but he said he could not bear that any one should seem to outgo him 
 in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And for the time these 
 two noble youths seemed reconciled. 
 
 But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his 
 father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived de- 
 struction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and 
 reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at 
 fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try the 
 match. At this match all the court was present, and Laertes, by 
 direction of the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this 
 match great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as TDOth Hamlet and 
 Laertes were known to excel at this sword play; and Hamlet taking 
 
244 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 up the foils chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, 
 or being careful to examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil 
 or blunted sword, which the laws of fencing require, made use of 
 one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with 
 Hamlet, and suffered him to gain some advantages, which the dis- 
 sembling king magnified and extolled beyond measure, drinking to 
 Hamlet's success, and wagering rich bets upon the issue : but after a 
 few pauses, Laertes growing warm made a deadly thrust at Hamlet 
 with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet in- 
 censed, but not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle 
 exchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and 
 with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes home, who was 
 thus justly caught in his own treachery. In this instant the queen 
 shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk 
 out of a bowl which the king had prepared for Hamlet, in case, that 
 being warm in fencing, he should call for drink : into this the treach- 
 erous king had infused a deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet, if 
 Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn the queen of the bowl, 
 which she drank of, and immediately died, exclaiming with her last 
 breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, 
 ordered the doors to be shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told 
 him to seek no farther, for he was the traitor; and feeling his life 
 go away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he made 
 confession of the treachery he had used, and how he had fallen a 
 victim to it : and he told Hamlet of the envenomed point, and said 
 that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine could 
 cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died, with 
 his last words accusing the king of being the contriver of 
 the mischief. When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there 
 being yet some venom left upon the sword, he suddenly 
 turned upon his false uncle, and thrust the point of it to his 
 heart, fulfilling the promise which he had made to his father's 
 spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, and his foul murder 
 revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 245 
 
 and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, who had been 
 spectator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath requested 
 him that he would live to tell his story to the world ( for Horatio had 
 made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany the prince 
 in death), and Horatio promised that he would make a true report, 
 as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, 
 the noble heart of Hamlet cracked; and Horatio and the bystanders 
 with many tears commended the spirit of this sweet prince to the 
 guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle 
 prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and princelike qual- 
 ities ; and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most royal 
 and complete king to Denmark. 
 
OTHELLO 
 
 BRABANTIO, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daugh- 
 ter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought to by divers 
 suitors, both on account of her many virtuous qualities, and 
 for her rich expectations. But among the suitors of her own clime 
 and complexion, she saw none whom she could affect: for this noble 
 lady, who regarded the mind more than the features of men, with a 
 singularity rather to be admired than imitated, had chosen for the 
 object of her affections, a Moor, a black, whom her father loved, 
 and often invited to his house. 
 
 Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuit- 
 ableness of the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
 Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might 
 recommend him to the affections of the greatest lady. He was a 
 soldier, and a brave one; and by his conduct in bloody wars against 
 the Turks, had risen to the rank of general in the Venetian service, 
 and was esteemed and trusted by the state. 
 
 He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the manner of 
 ladies) loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures, which he 
 would run through from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, 
 and encounters, which he had passed through; the perils he had been 
 exposed to by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he 
 had entered a breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and 
 how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to 
 slavery; how he demeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped : 
 all these accounts, added to the narration of the strange things he 
 had seen in foreign countries, the vast wilderness and romantic cav- 
 erns, the quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the 
 clouds; of the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and 
 a race of people in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoul- 
 
 246 
 
OTHELLO 247 
 
 ders : these travellers' stories would so enchain the attention of Des- 
 demona, that if she were called off at any time by household affairs, 
 she would despatch with all haste that business, and return, and with 
 a greedy ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he took advan- 
 tage of a pliant hour, and drew from her a prayer, that he would 
 tell her the whole story of his life at large, of which she had heard 
 so much, but only by parts : to which he consented, and beguiled her 
 of many a tear, when he spoke of some distressful stroke which his 
 youth had suffered. 
 
 His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs : 
 she swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful, 
 wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she 
 wished that heaven had made her such a man; and then she thanked 
 him, and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only 
 to teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon 
 this hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accom- 
 panied with certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello 
 could not but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in 
 this golden opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady 
 Desdemona privately to marry him. 
 
 Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such that it could 
 be hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had 
 left his daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of 
 noble Venetian ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of 
 senatorial rank or expectations; but in this he was deceived; Desde- 
 mona loved the Moor, though he was black, and devoted her heart 
 and fortunes to his valiant parts and qualities; so was her heart sub- 
 dued to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected for a hus- 
 band, that his very colour, which to all but this discerning lady would 
 have proved an insurmountable objection, was by her esteemed above 
 all the white skins and clear complexions of the young Venetian no- 
 bility, her suitors. 
 
 Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long 
 be kept a secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who 
 
248 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 appeared in a solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor 
 Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced 
 the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the con- 
 sent of her father, and against the obligations of hospitality. 
 
 At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had 
 immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that 
 the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was 
 bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that 
 strong post from the Venetians, who then held it ; in this emergency 
 the state turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed ade- 
 quate to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that 
 Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood in their presence at 
 once as a candidate for a great state employment, and as a culprit, 
 charged with offences which by the laws of Venice were made capital. 
 
 The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio, commanded 
 a most patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed 
 father conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, produc- 
 ing likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was 
 called upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the 
 course of his love ; which he did with such an artless eloquence, re- 
 counting the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, 
 and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of 
 truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help con- 
 fessing that a tale so told would have won his daughter too: and 
 the spells and conjurations which Othello had used in his courtship, 
 plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men 
 in love; and the only witchcraft which he had used, the faculty of 
 telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear. 
 
 This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the 
 lady Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a 
 duty to her father for life and education, challenged leave of him 
 to profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much 
 as her mother had shown in preferring him (Brabantio) above her 
 father. 
 
HE BEGUILED HER. OF MANY A TEAR, WHEN HE SPOKE OF WHAT HIS 
 YOUTH HAD SUFFERED" — Page 247 
 
OTHELLO 249 
 
 The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to 
 him with many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, 
 bestowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to with- 
 hold her (he told him) , he would with all his heart have kept from 
 him; adding, that he was glad at soul that he had no other child, 
 for this behaviour of Desdemona would have taught him to be a 
 tyrant, and hang clogs on them for her desertion. 
 
 This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom custom had ren- 
 dered the hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest 
 are to other men, readily undertook the management of the wars 
 in Cyprus : and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord 
 (though with danger) before the indulgence of those idle delights 
 in which new-married people usually waste their time, cheerfully con- 
 sented to his going. 
 
 No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news 
 arrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, 
 and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of 
 an attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, was now be- 
 ginning; and the enemies, which malice stirred up against his inno- 
 cent lady, proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or in- 
 fidels. 
 
 Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence 
 of Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young 
 soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favour- 
 ite qualities with women; he was handsome and eloquent, and ex- 
 actly such a person as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced 
 in years (as Othello in some measure was), who had married a 
 young and beautiful wife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as 
 he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting as of doing a base action. 
 He had employed this Cassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and 
 Cassio had been a sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello, fear- 
 ing that himself had $ot those soft parts of conversation which please 
 ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would often depute 
 Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting for him: such innocent 
 
250 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 simplicity being rather an honour than a blemish to the character of 
 the valiant Moor. So that no wonder, if next to Othello himself 
 (but at far distance, as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desde- 
 mona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this cou- 
 ple made any difference in their behaviour to Michael Cassio. He 
 frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleas- 
 ing variety to Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper: 
 for such tempers are observed often to delight in their contraries, 
 as a relief from the oppressive excess of their own : and Desdemona 
 and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the days when he 
 went a courting for his friend. 
 
 Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieutenant, a place 
 of trust, and nearest to the general's person. This promotion gave 
 great offence to Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better 
 claim than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fellow fit 
 only for the company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the 
 art of war or how to set an army in array for battle, than a girl. 
 Iago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for favouring 
 Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly taken up 
 against Othello, that the Moor was too fond of Iago's wife Emilia. 
 From these imaginary provocations, the plotting mind of Iago con- 
 ceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, 
 the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin. 
 
 Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he 
 knew that of all the torments which afflict the mind of man (and 
 far beyond bodily torture), the pains of jealousy were the most in- 
 tolerable, and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making 
 Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an exquisite plot of 
 revenge, and might end in the death of Cassio or Othello, or both; 
 he cared not. 
 
 The arrival of the general and his lady, in Cyprus, meeting with 
 the news of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of hol- 
 iday in the island. Everybody gave themselves up to feasting 
 and making merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went 
 
OTHELLO 251 
 
 round to the health of the black Othello, and his lady the fair Des- 
 demona. 
 
 Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge 
 from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no 
 brawl might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the 
 new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of 
 mischief: under colour of loyalty and love to the general, he en- 
 ticed Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault 
 in an officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could 
 not long hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how 
 to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied 
 him with drink and encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran 
 over in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he again and again 
 toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last 
 the enemy which he put into his mouth stole away his brains ; and 
 upon some provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago had set 
 on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer, who inter- 
 fered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
 now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot the mis- 
 chief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing the castle-bell 
 to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slight drunken 
 quarrel had arisen) : the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, 
 dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned 
 Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of 
 the wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply ; 
 and Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it 
 were, forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave 
 an account of the whole matter (leaving out his own share in it, 
 which Cassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner, as 
 while he seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it 
 appear greater than it was. The result was, that Othello, who was 
 a strict observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's 
 place of lieutenant from him. 
 
 Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; he had now un- 
 
252 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 dermined his hated rival, and thrust him out of his place : but a fur- 
 ther u§£ was hereafter to be made of the adventure of this disastrous 
 nid*£ 
 
 V Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented 
 to his seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as 
 to transform himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could 
 he ask the general for his place again? he would tell him he was a 
 drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting to make light of 
 it, said, that he, or any man living, might be drunk upon occasion ; 
 it remained now to make the best of a bad bargain; the general's 
 wife was now the general, and could do anything with Othello; that 
 he were best to apply to the lady Desdemona to mediate for him 
 with her lord; that she was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would 
 readily undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio right again 
 in the general's favour; and then this crack in their love would be 
 made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if it had not been 
 given for wicked purposes, which will after appear. 
 
 Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the lady 
 Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and 
 she promised Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord, 
 and rather die than give up his cause. This she immediately 
 set about in so earnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was 
 mortally offended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he 
 pleaded delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, 
 she would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be the next 
 night, or the morning after, or the next morning to that at farthest. 
 Then she showed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and 
 that his offence did not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello 
 still hung back, " What! my lord," said she, " that I should have so 
 much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came a courting 
 for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of you, 
 has taken your part! I count this but a little thing to ask of you. 
 When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter." 
 Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting 
 
OTHELLO 253 
 
 that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to receive 
 Michael Cassio again in favour. 
 
 It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room 
 where Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her 
 intercession, was departing at the opposite door : and Iago, who was 
 full of art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, " I like not that." 
 Othello took no great notice of what he said; indeed, the conference 
 which immediately took place with his lady put it out of his head; 
 but he remembered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, 
 Iago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello 
 whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was courting his lady, knew 
 of his love. To this the general answering in the affirmative, and 
 adding, that he had gone between them very often during the court- 
 ship, Iago knitted his brow, as if 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 upon entering the room, and 
 seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think there was 
 some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be a just man, and 
 full of love and honesty, and what in a false knave would be tricks, 
 in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind, big 
 with something too great for utterance : and Othello prayed Iago 
 to speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words c 
 " And what," said Iago, " if some thoughts very vile should have 
 intruded into my breast, as where is the palace into which foul things 
 do not enter? " Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if 
 any trouble should arise to Othello. out of his imperfect observa 
 tions; that it would not be for Othello's peace to know his thoughts; 
 that people's good names were not to be taken away for slight sus- 
 picions; and when Othello's curiosity was raised almost to distrac- 
 tion with these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care 
 for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to beware of jealousy: 
 with such art did this villain raise suspicions in the unguarded 
 Othello, by the very caution which he pretended to give him against 
 suspicion. " I know," said Othello, " that my wife is fair, loves 
 
254 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances 
 well : but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have 
 proof before I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that 
 Othello was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he 
 had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, 
 when Cassio was by; not to be jealous nor too secure neither, for 
 that he (Iago) knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his coun- 
 trywomen, better than Othello could do; and that in Venice the 
 wives let heaven see many pranks they dared not show their hus- 
 bands. Then he artfully insinuated that Desdemona deceived her 
 father in marrying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that the 
 poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was 
 much moved with this argument, which brought the matter home to 
 him, for if she had deceived her father, why might she not deceive 
 her husband? I 
 
 Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assum- 
 ing an indifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at 
 lago's words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apol- 
 ogies, as if unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he 
 called his fnend: he then came strongly to the point, and reminded 
 Othello how Desdemona had refused many suitable matches of her 
 own clime and complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which 
 showed unnatural in her, and proved her to have a headstrong will; 
 and when her better judgment returned, how probable it was she 
 should fall upon comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear 
 white complexions of the young Italians her countrymen. He con- 
 cluded with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement with Cassio 
 a little longer, and in the meanwhile to note with what earnestness 
 Desdemona should intercede in his behalf; for that much would be 
 seen in that. So mischievously did this artful villain lay his plots 
 to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into her destruction, 
 and make a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap her : first 
 setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out of that very 
 mediation contriving stratagems for her ruin. 
 
OTHELLO 255 
 
 The conference ended with lago's begging Othello to account his 
 wife innocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello prom- 
 ised to be patient ; but from that moment the deceived Othello never 
 tasted content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor 
 all the sleeping potions in the world, could ever again restore to him 
 that sweet rest, which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation 
 sickened upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. His heart, 
 that used to be roused at the sight of troops, and banners, and battle- 
 array, and would stir and leap at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, 
 or a neighing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and am- 
 bition which are a soldier's virtue; and his military ardour and all 
 his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he thought his wife honest, 
 and at times he thought her not so; sometimes he thought Iago just, 
 and at times he thought him not so; then he would wish that he had 
 never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving Cassio, so 
 long as he knew it not : torn to pieces with these distracting thoughts, 
 he once laid hold on lago's throat, and demanded proof of Desde- 
 mona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied 
 her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be^ taken 
 for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a handker- 
 chief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othello an- 
 swered, that he had given her such a one, and that it was his first 
 gift. " That same handkerchief," said Iago, " did I see Michael 
 Cassio this day wipe his face with." " If it be as you say," said 
 Othello, " I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow them up: and 
 first, for a token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put 
 to death within three days; and for that fair devil (meaning his 
 lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift means of death for 
 her." 
 
 Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ. 
 A handkerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive 
 enough to the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them 
 both, without once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona 
 had never given such a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady 
 
256 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 have wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving his 
 presents to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona were inno- 
 cent of any offence against Othello: but the wicked Iago, whose 
 spirits never slept in contrivance of villany, had made his wife (a 
 good, but a weak woman) steal this handkerchief from Desdemona, 
 under pretence of getting the work copied, but in reality to drop it 
 in Cassio's way, where he might find it, and give a handle to Iago's 
 suggestion that it was Desdemona's present. 
 
 Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a 
 headache (as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend 
 him her handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. " Not 
 this," said Othello, " but that handkerchief I gave you." Desde- 
 mona had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen, as we have re- 
 lated). "How?" said Othello, "this is a fault indeed. That 
 handkerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my mother; the woman 
 was a witch and could read people's thoughts : she told my mother, 
 while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father would 
 love her ; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my father's fancy would 
 turn, and he would loathe her as much as he had loved her. She 
 dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to 
 my wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darling as precious 
 as your eye." " Is it possible? " said the frighted lady. " 'Tis 
 true," continued Othello; " it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that 
 had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury 
 worked it; the silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, and 
 it was dyed in a mummy of maidens' hearts conserved." Desde- 
 mona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready 
 to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and 
 with it, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello 
 started, and looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and 
 still he demanded the handkerchief, which when she could not pro- 
 duce, she tried to divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and 
 cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the handkerchief was 
 only to put her off from her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she 
 
OTHELLO 257 
 
 went on to praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect dis- 
 traction burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though un- 
 willingly, began to suspect that her lord was jealous. 
 
 What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and 
 then she accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought 
 to be sure that some untoward news from Venice, or some state 
 troubles had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet 
 as formerly. And she said, " Men are not gods, and we must not 
 look for that observance from them when they are married, which 
 they show us on the bridal day." And she beshrewed herself for 
 so unkindly judging of his unkindness. 
 
 Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more 
 plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did 
 not name whom : and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, " Alas ! 
 the heavy day! why do you weep?" And Othello told her, he 
 could have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude — poverty, and 
 disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had broken his heart: and 
 he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, 
 that the sense ached at it; and wished she had never been born. 
 And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied with 
 wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like 
 sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make 
 her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when 
 people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, 
 and Othello might have chid her so; for in good faith she was 
 but a child when she was chidden. And this was all the com- 
 plaint which this gentle lady made. 
 
 Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow 
 her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when 
 Othello entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he 
 had meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he saw her 
 asleep, he thought he would not shed her blood, nor scar that 
 white skin of hers, more white than alabaster. But he was re- 
 solved she should die; else (as he said) she would live to betray 
 
258 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 more men, as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the last 
 time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, that he must needs 
 kiss her again : and he wept, but he said they were cruel tears. 
 
 Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon 
 Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, 
 and she knew he was always fatal when he looked so : and he bade 
 her prepare for death, and to say her prayers, for he would not 
 kill her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, 
 begged for compassion, and to know her fault, and then he named 
 Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said) she had given him; 
 and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear herself he suddenly 
 would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-clothes, stifled 
 her till she died. 
 
 In this instant of time was brought into the house Cassio, 
 wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on 
 to assassinate; but the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill 
 Cassio (whom he wounded, but not mortally), and being himself 
 killed by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were found sev- 
 eral letters, which made the guilt of Iago, and the innocence of 
 Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now came to beg pardon 
 of Othello, and to ask wherein he had offended him, that he had 
 employed Iago to murder him. 
 
 This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, who now 
 plainly saw that he was no better than a murderer, and that his 
 wife (poor innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him; the ex- 
 treme anguish of which discovery making life insupportable, he fell 
 upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body of his dear 
 injured lady, expired. 
 
 These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement 
 in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till 
 he was wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble 
 nature never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a dot- 
 ing husband. He had loved not wisely, but too well; and his 
 manly eyes (when he learned his mistake), though not used to 
 
OTHELLO 259 
 
 weep on every small occasion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian 
 trees their gum. And when he was dead all his former merits and 
 his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained for his 
 successor but to put the utmost censure of the law in force against 
 Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to send word to 
 the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned 
 general. 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 
 
 PERICLES, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his 
 dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, 
 the wicked emperor of Greece, threatened to bring upon his 
 subjects and city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the 
 prince had made of a shocking deed which the emperor had done 
 in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into the hidden 
 crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his people in 
 the hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus, Pericles set 
 sail from Tyre, thinking .o absent himself till the wrath of An- 
 tiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased. 
 
 The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tar- 
 sus, and hearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering 
 under a severe famine, he took with him store of provisions for 
 its relief. On his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost 
 distress; and, he coming like a 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 his faithful minister, warning him that it 
 was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus, for Antiochus knew of his 
 abode, and by secret emissaries despatched for that purpose sought 
 his life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea again, 
 amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole people who had been 
 fed by his bounty. 
 
 He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by a dread- 
 ful storm, and every man on board perished except Pericles, who 
 was cast by the sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he 
 had not wandered long before he met with some poor fishermen, 
 who invited him to their homes, giving him clothes and provisions. 
 The fishermen told Pericles the name of their country was Pentap- 
 
 260 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 261 
 
 olis, and that their king was Simonides, commonly called the good 
 Simonides, because of his peaceable reign and good government. 
 From them he also learned that king Simonides had a fair young 
 daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, when a 
 grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knights 
 being come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of 
 Thaisa, this fair princess. While the prince was listening to this 
 account, and secretly lamenting the loss of his good armour, which 
 disabled him from making one among these valiant knights, an- 
 other fisherman brought in a complete suit of armour that he had 
 taken out of the sea with his fishing-net, which proved to be the 
 very armour he had lost. When Pericles beheld his own armour, 
 he said, " Thanks, Fortune; after all my crosses you give me some- 
 what to repair myself. This armour T s bequeathed to me by 
 my dead father, for whose dear sake I ha\e so loved it, that whither- 
 soever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the rough sea that 
 parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given it back 
 again, for which I thank it, for, since I have my father's gift again, 
 I think my shipwreck no misfortune." 
 
 The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's armour, re- 
 paired to the royal court of Simonides, where he performed won- 
 ders at the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights 
 and valiant princes who contended with him in arms for the honour 
 of Thaisa's love. When brave warriors contended at court tourna- 
 ments for the love of king's daughters, if one proved sole victor 
 over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady for whose sake 
 these deeds of valour were undertaken, to bestow all her respect 
 upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did not depart from this custom, 
 for she presently dismissed all the princes and knights whom Per- 
 icles had vanquished, and distinguished him by her especial favour 
 and regard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, as king of 
 that day's happiness ; and Pericles became a most passionate lover 
 of this beauteous princess from the first moment he beheld her. 
 
 The good Simonides so well approved of the valour and noble 
 
262 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentle- 
 man, and well learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew 
 not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of An- 
 tiochus gave out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet 
 did not Simonides disdain to accept of the valiant unknown for a 
 son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's affections were firmly 
 fixed upon him. 
 
 Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he 
 received intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that 
 his subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to 
 revolt, and talked of placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. 
 This news came from Helicanus himself, who, being a loyal sub- 
 ject to his royal master, would not accept of the high dignity 
 offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that he 
 might return home and resume his lawful right. It was matter 
 of great surprise and joy to Simonides, to find that his son-in-law 
 (the obscure knight) was the renowned prince of Tyre; yet again 
 he regretted that he was not the private gentleman he supposed 
 him to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired 
 son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to 
 the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles 
 himself wished her to remain with her father till after her con- 
 finement, but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her 
 husband, that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre 
 before she was brought to bed. 
 
 The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long 
 before they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which 
 so terrified Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of 
 time her nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in 
 her arms, to tell the prince the sad tidings that his wife died the 
 moment her little babe was born. She held the babe towards its 
 father, saying, " Here is a thing too young for such a place. This 
 is the child of your dead queen." No tongue can tell the dread- 
 ful sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was dead. As 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 263 
 
 soon as he could speak, he said, " O you gods, why do you make 
 us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those gifts away? " 
 " Patience, good sir," said Lychorida, " here is all that is left 
 alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your child's 
 sake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this 
 precious charge." Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, 
 and he said to the little babe, " Now may your life be mild, for 
 a more blusterous birth had never babe ! May your condition be 
 mild and gentle, for you have had the rudest welcome that ever 
 prince's child did meet with ! May that which follows be happy, 
 for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, air, water, earth, and 
 heaven could make to herald you from the womb ! Even at the 
 first, your loss," meaning in the death of her mother, " is more 
 than all the joys, which you shall find upon this earth to which 
 you are come a new visitor, shall be able to recompense." 
 
 The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors hav- 
 ing a superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the 
 storm would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his 
 queen should be thrown overboard; and they said, " What courage, 
 sir? God save you!" "Courage enough," said the sorrowing 
 prince: " I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its worst; yet 
 for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new seafarer, I wish the 
 storm was over." " Sir," said the sailors, " your queen must over- 
 board. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the storm will 
 not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though Pericles 
 knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he patiently 
 submitted, saying, " As you think meet. Then she must over- 
 board, most wretched queen ! " And now this unhappy prince went 
 to take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, 
 he said, "A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, 
 no fire; the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly, nor have I 
 time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely 
 coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the 
 humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple 
 
264 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 shells. O Lychorida, bid Nester bring me spices, ink, and paper, 
 my casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin 
 coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, 
 Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my Thaisa." 
 
 They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped in a 
 satin shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he 
 strewed over her, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a writ- 
 ten paper, telling who she was, and praying if haply any one should 
 find the chest which contained the body of his wife, they would 
 give her burial : and then with his own hands he cast the chest into 
 the sea. When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the sailors to 
 make for Tarsus. " For," said Pericles, " the babe cannot hold 
 out till we come to Tyre. At Tarsus I will leave it at careful 
 nursing." 
 
 After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was thrown into the 
 sea, and while it was yet early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy 
 gentleman of Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing 
 by the sea-side, his servants brought to him a chest, which they said 
 the sea-waves had thrown on the land. " I never saw," said one 
 of them, " so huge a billow as cast it on our shore." Cerimon 
 ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own house, and when it 
 was opened he beheld with wonder the body of a young and lovely 
 lady; and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casket of jewels made 
 him conclude it was some great person who was thus strangely 
 entombed: searching farther, he discovered a paper, from which 
 he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been 
 a queen, and wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring 
 at the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband 
 who had lost this sweet lady, he said, " If you are living, Pericles, 
 you have a heart that even cracks with woe." Then observing 
 attentively Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh and unlike death her 
 looks were, and he said, " They were too hasty that threw you 
 into the sea : " for he did not believe her to be dead. He ordered 
 a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought, and soft music 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 265 
 
 to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits if she 
 should revive; and he said to those who crowded round her, won- 
 dering at what they saw, " I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; 
 this queen will live; she has not been entranced above five hours; 
 and see, she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; behold, 
 her eyelids move ; this fair creature will live to make us weep to hear 
 her fate." Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of her little 
 baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her 
 conclude her to be dead; and now by the care of this kind gentle- 
 man she once more revived to light and life; and opening her eyes, 
 she said, "Where am I? Where is my lord? What world is 
 this? " By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what had 
 befallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to 
 bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, 
 and the jewels; and she looked on the paper, and said, " It is my 
 lord's writing. That I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but 
 whether there delivered of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot 
 rightly say; but since my wedded lord I never shall see again, I 
 will put on a vestal livery, and never more have joy." " Madam," 
 said Cerimon, " if you purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana 
 is not far distant from hence; there you may abide as a vestal. 
 Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend you." 
 This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa ; and when she 
 was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of 
 Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and 
 passed her days in sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and 
 in the most devout exercises of those times. 
 
 Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, 
 because she was born at sea) to Tarsus, intending to leave her with 
 Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, 
 for the good he had done to them at the time of their famine, they 
 would be kind to his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw 
 prince Pericles, and heard of the great loss which had befallen 
 him, he said, " O your sweet queen, that it had pleased Heaven 
 
266 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 you could have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with 
 the sight of her! " Pericles, replied, "We must obey the powers 
 above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which my 
 Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina 
 here, I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant 
 of your care, beseeching you to give her princely training." And 
 then turning to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, " Good madam, 
 make me blessed in your care in bringing up my child: " and she 
 answered, " I have a child myself who shall not be more dear to 
 my respect than yours, my lord; " and Cleon made the like promise, 
 saying, " Your noble services, prince Pericles, in feeding my whole 
 people with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily re- 
 member you) must in your child be thought on. If I should 
 neglect your child, my whole people that were by you relieved would 
 force me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge 
 it on me and mine to the end of generation." Pericles, being thus 
 assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her to 
 the protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he 
 left the nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina 
 knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her 
 royal master. " O, no tears, Lychorida," said Pericles: " no tears; 
 look to your little mistress, on whose grace you may depend here- 
 after." 
 
 Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more settled in 
 the quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he 
 thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, 
 whom this hapless mother had never seen, was brought up by 
 Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth. He gave her the 
 most careful education, so that by the time Marina attained the 
 age of fourteen years, the most deeply-learned men were not more 
 studied in the learning of those times than was Marina. She sang 
 like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with her needle 
 she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's own shapes, 
 in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 267 
 
 like to each other than they were to Manna's silken flowers. But 
 when she had gained from education all these graces, which made 
 her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her 
 mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, 
 from the slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to that per- 
 fection wherein Marina excelled: and finding that all praise was 
 bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter, who was of the same 
 age, and had been educated with the same care as Marina, though 
 not with the same success, was in comparison disregarded, she 
 formed a project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagin- 
 ing that her untoward daughter would be more respected when 
 Marina was no more seen. To encompass this she employed a 
 man to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked design, 
 when Lychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was 
 discoursing with the man she had commanded to commit this 
 murder, when the young Marina was weeping over the dead 
 Lychorida. Leonine, the man she employed to do this bad deed, 
 though he was a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to 
 undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her. He said, 
 "She is a goodly creature!" "The fitter then the gods should 
 have her," replied her merciless enemy: "here she comes weeping 
 for the death of her nurse Lychorida : are you resolved to obey 
 me? " Leonine, fearing to disobey her, replied, " I am resolved." 
 And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina 
 doomed to an untimely death. She now approached, with a basket 
 of flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily strew over 
 the grave of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the mari- 
 gold should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days 
 did last. " Alas, for me ! " she said, " poor unhappy maid, born 
 in a tempest, when my mother died. This world to me is like a 
 lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends." " How now, 
 Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, "do you weep alone? 
 How does it chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sor- 
 row for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite 
 
268 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 changed with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, 
 the sea-air will spoil them ; and walk with Leonine : the air is fine, 
 and will enliven you. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, and 
 walk with her." " No, madam," said Marina, " I pray you let 
 me not deprive you of your servant:" for Leonine was one of 
 Dionysia's attendants. " Come, come," said this artful woman, 
 who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine, 
 " I love the prince, your father, and I love you. We every day 
 expect your father here; and when he comes, and finds you so 
 changed by grief from the paragon of beauty we reported you, he 
 will think we have taken no care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, 
 and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that excellent com- 
 plexion, which stole the hearts of old and young." Marina, being 
 thus importuned, said, " Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire 
 to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine, " Remem- 
 ber what I have said! " — shocking words, for their meaning was 
 that he should remember to kill Marina. 
 
 Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, " Is 
 the wind westerly that blows?" "Southwest," replied Leonine. 
 "When I was born the wind was north," said she: and then the 
 storm and tempest, and all her father's sorrows, and her mother's 
 death, came full into her mind; and she said, " My father, as 
 Lychorida told me, did never fear, but cried, Courage, good sea- 
 men, to the sailors, galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, 
 clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that almost split the deck." 
 "When was this?" said Leonine. "When I was born," replied 
 Marina: "never were wind and waves more violent;" and then 
 she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain's 
 whistle, and the loud call of the master, " which," said she, 
 " trebled the confusion of the ship." Lychorida had so often re- 
 counted to Marina the story of her hapless birth that these things 
 seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine inter- 
 rupted her with desiring her to say her prayers. " What mean 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 269 
 
 you? " said Marina, who began to fear, she knew not why. " If 
 you require a little space for prayer, I grant it," said Leonine; 
 " but be not tedious, the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn 
 to do my work in haste." "Will you kill me?" said Marina: 
 "alas! why?" "To satisfy my lady," replied Leonine. "Why 
 would she have me killed? " said Marina: " now, as I can remem- 
 ber, I never hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word, nor 
 did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe me now, I never 
 killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against 
 my will, but I wept for it. How have I offended?" The mur- 
 derer replied, " My commission is not to reason on the deed, but 
 to do it." And he was just going to kill her, when certain pirates 
 happened to land at that very moment, who seeing Marina, bore 
 her off as a prize to their ship. 
 
 The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Mity- 
 lene, and sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble con- 
 dition, Marina soon became known throughout the whole city of 
 Mitylene for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to whom 
 she was sold became rich by the money she earned for him. She 
 taught music, dancing, and fine needleworks, and the money she 
 got by her scholars she gave to her master and mistress; and the 
 fame of her learning and her great industry came to the knowl- 
 edge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was governor of 
 Mitylene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina 
 dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the city praised 
 so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond meas- 
 ure, for though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he 
 did not expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so 
 good, as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he 
 hoped she would persevere in her industrious and virtuous course, 
 and that if ever she heard from him again it should be for her 
 good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine 
 breeding, and excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all out- 
 
270 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwithstanding her 
 humble situation, he hoped to find that her birth was noble ; but ever 
 when they asked her parentage she would sit still and weep. 
 
 Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing the anger of Dionysia, 
 told her he had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out 
 that she was dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and 
 erected a stately monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied 
 by his loyal minister Helicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to 
 Tarsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending to take her home 
 with him : and he never having beheld her since he left her an 
 infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince 
 rejoice at the thought of seeing this dear child of his buried queen! 
 but when they told him Marina was dead, and showed the monu- 
 ment they had erected for her, great was the misery this most 
 wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of 
 that country where his last hope and only memory of his dear 
 Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from 
 Tarsus. From the day he entered the ship a dull and heavy mel- 
 ancholy seized him. He never spoke, and seemed totally insensible 
 to everything around him. 
 
 Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by 
 Mitylene, where Marina dwelt; the governor of which place, 
 Lysimachus, observing this royal vessel from the shore, and desir- 
 ous of knowing who was on board, went in a barge to the side of 
 the ship, to satisfy his curiosity. Helicanus received him very 
 courteously and told him that the ship came from Tyre, and that 
 they were conducting thither Pericles, their prince; "A man, sir," 
 said Helicanus, " who has not spoken to any one these three months, 
 nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his grief; it would be 
 tedious to repeat the whole ground of his distemper, but the main 
 springs from the loss of a beloved daughter and a wife." Lysima- 
 chus begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld Pericles, 
 he saw he had been once a goodly person, and he said to him, 
 " Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail, royal sir ! " But 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 271 
 
 in vain Lysimachus spoke to him ; Pericles made no answer, nor did 
 he appear to perceive any stranger approached. And then Lysi- 
 machus bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, that haply 
 with her sweet tongue she might win some answer from the silent 
 prince : and with the consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and 
 when she entered the ship in which her own father sat motionless 
 with grief, they welcomed her on board as if they had known she 
 was their princess; and they cried, " She is a gallant lady." Lysim- 
 achus was well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said, 
 " She is such a one, that were I well assured she came of noble 
 birth, I would wish no better choice, and think me rarely blessed 
 in a wife." And then he addressed her in courtly. terms, as if the 
 lowly-seeming maid had been the high-born lady he wished to find 
 her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina, telling her a great 
 prince on board that ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence; 
 and, as if Marina had the power of conferring health and felicity, 
 he begged she would undertake to cure the royal stranger of his 
 melancholy. " Sir," said Marina, " I will use my utmost skill in 
 his recovery, provided none but I and my maid be suffered to come 
 near him." 
 
 She, who at Mitylene had so carefully concealed her birth, 
 ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first 
 began to speak to Pericles of the wayward changes in her own 
 fate, telling him from what a high estate herself had fallen. As 
 if she had known it was her royal father she stood before, all the 
 words she spoke were of her own sorrows; but her reason for so 
 doing was, that she knew nothing more wins the attention of the 
 unfortunate than the recital of some sad calamity to match their 
 own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the drooping prince; 
 he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixed and motionless; 
 and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother, presented 
 to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. The long- 
 silent prince was once more heard to speak. " My dearest wife," 
 said the awakened Pericles, " was like this maid, and such a one 
 
272 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 might my daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her 
 stature to an inch, as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes 
 as jewel-like. Where do you live, young maid? Report your 
 parentage. I think you said you had been tossed from wrong to 
 injury, and that you thought your griefs would equal mine, if both 
 were opened." " Some such thing I said," replied Marina, " and 
 said no more than what my thoughts did warrant me as likely." 
 "Tell me your story," answered Pericles; "if I find you have 
 known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have borne your 
 sorrows like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do 
 look like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling extremity 
 out of act. How lost you your name, my most kind virgin? 
 Recount your story I beseech you. Come, sit by me." How was 
 Pericles surprised when she said her name was Marina, for he 
 knew it was no usual name, but had been invented by himself for 
 his own child to signify seaborn: " O, I am mocked," said he, 
 " and you are sent hither by some incensed god to make the world 
 laugh at me." " Patience, good sir," said Marina, " or I must 
 cease here." "Nay," said Pericles, "I will be patient; you little 
 know how you do startle me, to call yourself Marina." " The 
 name," she replied, " was given me by one that had some power, 
 my father, and a king." "How, a king's daughter! " said Peri- 
 cles, "and called Marina! But are you flesh and blood? Are 
 you no fairy? Speak on; where were you born? and wherefore 
 called Marina?" She replied, "I was called Marina, because I 
 was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a king; she 
 died the minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has often 
 told me weeping. The king, my father, left me at Tarsus, till 
 the cruel wife of Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of pirates 
 came and rescued me, and brought me here to Mitylene. But, 
 good sir, why do you weep ? It may be, you think me an impostor. 
 But, indeed, sir, I am the daughter to king Pericles, if good king 
 Pericles be living." Then Pericles, terrified as he seemed at his 
 own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, loudly called 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 273 
 
 for his attendants, who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king's 
 voice; and he said to Helicanus, " O Helicanus, strike me, give me 
 a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing 
 upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality. O, come hither, 
 thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found at sea 
 again. O Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy gods ! 
 This is Marina. Now blessings on thee, my child ! Give me fresh 
 garments, mine own Helicanus ! She is not dead at Tarsus as she 
 should have been by the savage Dionysia. She shall tell you all, 
 when you shall kneel to her and call her your very princess. Who 
 is this?" (observing Lysimachus for the first time.) "Sir," said 
 Helicanus, " it is the governor of Mitylene, who, hearing of your 
 melancholy, came to see you." " I embrace you, sir," said Peri- 
 cles. " Give me my robes ! I am well with beholding — O 
 heaven bless my girl! But hark, what music is that? " — for now, 
 either sent by some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy de- 
 ceived, he seemed to hear soft music. " My lord, I hear none," 
 replied Helicanus. " None? " said Pericles; " why it is the music 
 of the spheres." As there was no music to be heard, Lysimachus 
 concluded that the sudden joy had unsettled the prince's under- 
 standing; and he said, " It is not good to cross him: let him have 
 his way: " and then they told him they heard the music; and he 
 now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysim- 
 achus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow 
 under his head, he, quite overpowered with excess of joy, sank into 
 a sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the couch of her 
 sleeping parent. 
 
 While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him re- 
 solve to go to Ephesus. His dream was, that Diana, the goddess 
 of the Ephesians, appeared to him, and commanded him to go to 
 her temple at Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the 
 story of his life and misfortunes; and by her silver bow she 
 swore, that if he performed her injunction, he should meet with 
 some rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, 
 
274 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 he told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bidding 
 of the goddess. 
 
 Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, and refresh 
 himself with such entertainment as he should find at Mitylene, 
 which courteous offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him 
 for the space of a day or two. During which time we may well 
 suppose what f eastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows and 
 entertainments the governor made in Mitylene, to greet the royal 
 father of his dear Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had so 
 respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus's suit, when 
 he understood how he had honoured his child in the days of her 
 low estate, and that Marina showed herself not averse to his pro- 
 posals; only he made it a condition, before he gave his consent, that 
 they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian Diana : to 
 whose temple they shortly after all three undertook a voyage; and, 
 the goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous winds, after 
 a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus. 
 
 There was standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles 
 with his train entered the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown 
 very aged) who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; 
 and Thaisa, now a priestess of the temple, was standing before the 
 altar; and though the many years he had passed in sorrow for her 
 loss had much altered Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her hus- 
 band's features, and when he approached the altar and began to 
 speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to his words with 
 wonder and a joyful amazement. And these were the words that 
 Pericles spoke before the altar: "Hail, Diana! to perform thy 
 just commands, I here confess myself the prince of Tyre, who, 
 frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa : 
 she died at sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child called 
 Marina. She at Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at four- 
 teen years thought to kill her, but her better stars brought her to 
 Mitylene, by whose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes brought 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 275 
 
 this maid on board, where by her most clear remembrance she made 
 herself known to be my daughter." 
 
 Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words had raised 
 in her, cried out, " You are, you are, O royal Pericles " — and 
 fainted. "What means this woman?" said Pericles: "she dies! 
 gentlemen, help." — " Sir," said Cerimon, " if you have told Diana's 
 altar true, this is your wife." " Reverend gentleman, no," said 
 Pericles: "I threw her overboard with these very arms." Ceri- 
 mon then recounted how, early one tempestuous 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. And now, Thaisa 
 being restored from her swoon said, " O my lord, are you not 
 Pericles? Like him you speak, like him you are. Did you not 
 name a tempest, a birth, and death? " He astonished said, "The 
 voice of dead Thaisa ! " " That Thaisa am I," she replied, " sup- 
 posed dead and drowned." " O true Diana! " exclaimed Pericles, 
 in a passion of devout astonishment. " And now," said Thaisa, 
 " I know you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did the 
 king my father give you, when we with tears parted from him at 
 Pentapolis." "Enough, you gods!" cried Pericles, "your pres- 
 ent 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, say- 
 ing, " Look who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, 
 and called Marina, because she was yielded there." " Blessed and 
 my own! " said Thaisa: and while she hung in rapturous joy over 
 her child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, " Pure Diana, bless 
 thee for thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations nightly to 
 thee." And then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, 
 solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well- 
 deserving Lysimachus in marriage. 
 
276 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famous 
 example of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance of 
 Heaven, to teach patience and constancy to men), under the same 
 guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over chance 
 and change. In Helicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of 
 truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded 
 to a throne, chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his pos- 
 session, than to become great by another's wrong. In the worthy 
 Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are instructed how good- 
 ness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits upon mankind, 
 approaches to the nature of the gods. It only remains to be told, 
 that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end propor- 
 tionable to her deserts; the inhabitants of Tarsus, when her cruel 
 attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge the 
 daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, 
 burnt both him and her, and their whole household : the gods seem- 
 ing well pleased, that so foul a murder, though but intentional, and 
 never carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting its 
 enormity. 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 BY 
 
 WINSTON STOKES 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 
 
 IN Windsor there dwelt the fat knight, Sir John Falstaff, of such 
 girth and portliness that two wenches with joined hands could 
 hardly have encircled him — a lord of thieves, a mountain of 
 rascality, who lodged at the Garter Inn, drinking huge bowls of sack 
 and ale, sending his cut-purse servants on dishonest errands. This 
 knight, in seeking how to obtain the gold of other and worthier 
 persons than himself, hit on the plan of making love to Mistress 
 Ford and Mistress Page, the wives of two wealthy gentlemen of 
 Windsor, who, ruling their husband's coffers, should become to him, 
 so he said, his East and West Indies; while he, trading to both, 
 should line his pockets with their gold. And Falstaff had the 
 temerity to send his page, Robin, with love letters to each of the 
 two ladies, wherein he expressed himself most ardently, signing him- 
 self, thine own true knight, for thee to fight, John Falstaff. 
 
 Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, who were close friends, were 
 used to sup and dine together with their husbands and followers at 
 the house of one or the other as chance might find them; to visit 
 and make merry at all hours, and to share in common many jests 
 and secrets. No sooner, therefore, did Mistress Page receive Sir 
 John's epistle, than in wonder, and torn between anger and merri- 
 ment, she hastened toward the house of Mistress Ford. 
 
 " Have I," said she, " escaped love letters in the holiday time of 
 my beauty to be a subject for them now? Why the man hath not 
 been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I'll 
 exhibit a bill in parliament for the putting down of men ! " 
 
 While speaking in this manner, she came on Mistress Ford hasten- 
 ing in the opposite direction, who cried out on seeing her and thrust 
 into her hand a letter, bidding her to read at once and perceive how 
 she might be knighted. It was, said she, a marvellous insult, mar- 
 
 279 
 
280 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 vellously writ: she would think the worse of fat men all her life in 
 consequence, and Mistress Page read: 
 
 " Ask me no reason why I love you, for though love use reason 
 for his physician he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not 
 young, no more am I; go to then, there's sympathy ; you are merry, 
 so am I; ha, ha! then there's more sympathy; you love sack and so 
 do I; would you desire better sympathy? let it suffice thee, Mistress 
 Ford, that I love thee. 
 
 Thine own true knight 
 
 By day or night 
 Or any kind of light. 
 
 With all his might 
 For thee to fight, 
 
 John Falstaff." 
 
 " Letter for letter ! " exclaimed Mistress Page. " For your com- 
 fort, here's the twin brother of your letter. I warrant he has a 
 thousand of them writ with blank space for different names ! " And 
 she cried out on the unweighed behaviour that this Flemish drunk- 
 ard, as she called Falstaff, had picked, with the devil's name, out of 
 their conversation; for otherwise, said she, never would he have 
 dared insult them in such manner. 
 
 These ladies, although light-hearted, were as virtuous as Sir John 
 imagined them to be false, and his message justly incensed them : 
 not only on account of its ill-chosen love-making, but because with 
 natural vanity they liked but ill to receive such sallies from one who 
 was old and fat, a drunkard, given to dishonest practices, thieving 
 and other forms of wickedness. They determined, therefore, to 
 chastise Sir John most roundly for his insolence, conceiving a 
 vengeance by which they could not only punish him, but gratify 
 their mirth in so doing. 
 
 In pursuance of their plan, they dispatched to him one Mistress 
 Quickly for their messenger, a feather-brained woman who de- 
 lighted in such importance, who told Sir John that Mistress Ford 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 281 
 
 sent him a thousand thanks and bade him visit her the next day 
 between ten and eleven, when her husband would be from home. 
 Never, said Mistress Quickly, was a lady brought to such a state 
 of mind before. How Sir John had accomplished it was wonderful 
 and past belief. Surely he must have charms, said she, for there 
 had been knights, lords and fine gentlemen in coaches, letter after 
 letter, gift after gift, with silk and gold, all perfumed sweetly, 
 smelling of musk — the fairest, indeed, to win the heart of any 
 woman, — and yet they could never so much as win an eye-wink 
 from Mistress Ford. And Mistress Page, who was as virtuous a 
 civil, modest wife as lived in Windsor, and would never miss Sir 
 John in morning or evening prayer, did likewise dote upon him, 
 and gave him to know that her husband seldom was from home, — 
 but she hoped there would soon come a time. 
 
 Falstaff, in his conceit, believed that he had actually encompassed 
 these two wives, — that in spite of husbands, wealth and families 
 they intended to bestow themselves upon him. He bade Mistress 
 Quickly commend him to them both (although on no account should 
 either learn of his dealings with the other) and he prepared to meet 
 Mistress Ford at the appointed hour. 
 
 Now Falstaff was beset with other dangers than were intended 
 for him by the wives whose virtues he had thus attempted; for being, 
 as he said, out at heels, forced of necessity to shift and thieve, he 
 had discharged his three servants without paying them a single penny 
 of their wages, bidding them, if they would thrive, to go and steal 
 as he himself was forced to do — and in revenge these had borne 
 his plans to Master Ford and Master Page. 
 
 Master Page was of an easy nature and trusted in his wife. He 
 said that he would turn her loose to Falstaff, warranting that worthy 
 would receive only sharp words; but Ford was of jealous temper 
 and believed Page to be a fool who stood on his wife's frailty. For 
 his own part, he said, he would be loath to turn them together. A 
 man could be too confident. He liked it none the better that the 
 news had come from Falstaff's cast-off servants; and to Falstaff, 
 
282 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 therefore, the jealous husband came in a disguise under the assumed 
 name of Master Brook, with a trumped-up tale to the effect that 
 he had long loved Mistress Ford from afar, bestowed much on her, 
 followed her with a doting observance and engrossed opportunities 
 to meet her. Not only had he brought presents to her, said Ford, 
 but had given largely to many to know what gifts would please her 
 best — all of which was to no purpose, for as she would have none 
 of him, his love was like a fair house built on another man's ground, 
 lost in mistaking the place of its erection. 
 
 " To what purpose," said Falstaff, " have you unfolded this to 
 me?" 
 
 " When I have told you that I have told you all," replied Ford. 
 " The heart of my purpose is this : that you, Sir John, who are so 
 skillful in the art of wooing, so famous for your warlike, courtlike, 
 and learned demeanour, may win her love." 
 
 With detection in his hand, the disguised husband asserted that 
 he could drive this lady from the ward of her purity, her reputa- 
 tion and her marriage vow, which at the time were too strongly 
 embattled against him. 
 
 When the supposed Master Brook told Falstaff that he should 
 want no money for his pains, the knight, thoroughly deceived, cried 
 out: " And you, Master Brook, shall want no Mistress Ford! I 
 shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as 
 you came to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me. I 
 say I shall be with her between ten and eleven, for at that time the 
 jealous, rascally knave, her husband, will be forth." 
 
 " Were it not well," said Ford, dissembling his anger, " that you 
 knew this gentleman when you saw him to avoid him in the future? " 
 
 " Let him be hanged for a salt-butter rogue ! " cried Falstaff. " I 
 will stare him out of his wits. I will awe him with my cudgel," and 
 the rascal heaped a torrent of abuse upon this jealous husband, say- 
 ing that the cowardly ruffian's wife should become the key to her 
 husband's coffers, where he, Falstaff, should find his harvest-home. 
 
 When Ford heard Falstaff speak in this fashion, not only brag- 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 283 
 
 ging of his purpose, but calling him numberless villainous names, he 
 was beside himself with passion, and determined to enter his house 
 with armed servants and cudgel-bearers at the time when the false 
 knight would be present; for now aware of Falstaff's plans, and the 
 hour of their execution, Ford proposed to punish him most soundly, 
 uncover the treachery of his own wife, pluck the veil of modesty 
 from Mistress Page and laugh at her husband for his fancied security. 
 
 So, between the hours of ten and eleven, Master Ford with neigh- 
 bours and servants, armed with pistols, whips and cudgels made an 
 onslaught on his home. 
 
 Strangely enough, however, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page in 
 following their design on Falstaff, had proposed to frighten him 
 by saying that this very thing would happen; they had provided 
 for the fat knight a hiding place in a basket of foul linen, and serv- 
 ants were to bear this forth on their shoulders, and empty it in the 
 muddy ditch close by the riverside. 
 
 While Master Ford and his followers drew near his house, Fal- 
 staff had already entered there. He called Mistress Ford his heav- 
 enly jewel and cried out upon that blessed hour, which was the period 
 of his ambition. He said that he could not prate and say that she 
 was this and that, like many of those lisping, hawthorn-buds who 
 came like women in men's apparel, but none the less he loved her, 
 none but she, and she deserved it of him. But Falstaff before long 
 was forced to conceal himself, for Mistress Page came to the door, 
 crying out that Master Ford with half Windsor at his # heels was 
 come to search the house, and pray heaven, said she, there was no 
 one concealed there, or else were Mistress Ford undone indeed! 
 
 " Nay, but there is," said Mistress Ford, exclaiming in apparent 
 terror, " a gentleman, my own dear friend, and I fear not my dis- 
 grace so much as his great peril. I had rather than a thousand 
 pounds he were out of the house ! " 
 
 " For shame," cried Mistress Page, " never stand and say ' you 
 had rather ' now ! Your husband's here at hand ! Bethink you, 
 woman, of some conveyance! Look, here is a basket, let him creep 
 
284 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 in here ! Throw linen on him, and send him by two men to Datchet 
 Mead!" 
 
 Mistress Ford replied that her friend was too big by far to go in 
 there; but Falstaff, in fear for his life, plunged from behind the 
 curtain, bellowing like a bull and crying out to her to follow her 
 friend's counsel. He clambered into the basket, was covered with 
 foul linen and borne away toward the ditch by serving-men, while 
 Ford and his followers burst into the house, ransacked closets, chests 
 and clothes-press, and even discharged their firearms up the chimney 
 in hopes the knight had taken refuge there. 
 
 The two dames, however, were not yet done with Falstaff, and 
 gave him to know through the same messenger, Mistress Quickly, 
 that they were heartily sorry for the mischance that had befallen 
 him; and Mistress Ford appointed a second meeting with Sir John, 
 when further mischief was to be worked upon him. 
 
 But Ford had wondered greatly why his plans had gone amiss, 
 and in disguise a second time, still under the name of Master Brook, 
 he went again to Falstaff who imparted to him all his misadventures 
 — how he had been carried and ducked in the name of foul clothes 
 at Datchet Lane, crying out for Master Brook to think of it, to 
 be half-stewed in grease like a Dutch dish and then to be thrown 
 into the Thames, glowing hot, and cooled in that surge like a horse- 
 shoe! 
 
 Ford said that he was in truth sorry Sir John had suffered so 
 greatly for his sake. His suit, he feared, was desperate. Assuredly 
 no one even so brave and valiant as Falstaff would undertake Mis- 
 tress Ford after such a reception. But Falstaff cried that he would 
 be thrown into Etna as he had been into the Thames ere he would 
 leave her thus. He had received, said he, another embassy of meet- 
 ing; the hour was betwixt eight and nine; he would even then ad- 
 dress him to his appointment; and Ford, with the vow that this 
 time Falstaff should not escape him, summoned once again his 
 friends and retainers and prepared for a second time to invade his 
 house. 
 
fc,,,»„,,-, . I , ll 1wlgw l jjj l llj 
 
 THROW LINEN ON HIM, AND SEND HIM BY TWO MEN TO DATCHET 
 
 mead ! ' ''—Page 284- 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 285 
 
 When Ford arrived, he beheld the basket that had concealed Fal- 
 staff so successfully on the day previous, for Mistress Ford had 
 slyly bidden her servants to carry it forth again, in the hope that her 
 husband would believe the knight a second time hidden within it; 
 and Ford bade the servants set it down, shouting for Falstaff to 
 come forth, and scattered the linen about the room to no other 
 purpose than confusion. For Mistress Ford had disguised Sir John 
 as the famous fat woman of Brentford, an old witch whom Ford 
 had promised roundly to cudgel if ever she came within his house; 
 and when Ford beheld this amazing figure, which he would have 
 detected had his anger been less violent (for Falstaff's beard showed 
 plainly beneath the veil about his head) he called Falstaff hag, witch 
 and runyon, cudgelled him soundly, and with hand and foot thrust 
 him from the door, proceeding then to search for him he had just 
 ousted, while his wife and Mistress Page were overcome with merri- 
 ment. 
 
 The two dames then made known to their husbands what they had 
 done, and Ford and Page were greatly astonished and laughed 
 heartily at the sorry plight in which the poor, unvirtuous, fat knight 
 had placed himself through his affections. Master Ford said that 
 he would never mistrust his wife again — she should stand in future 
 as a precious emblem of constancy and wifely virtues. They all de- 
 cided, however, that the jest would have no period if Falstaff were 
 not publicly disgraced, proposing to shame him openly in the presence 
 of their friends and neighbours, and for this purpose they conceived 
 the plan of luring him to a nearby forest said to be enchanted, where 
 their children, dressed as fairies, should swarm upon him, pinch him 
 and burn him with tapers, until the rest should disclose themselves 
 and mock him back to Windsor. 
 
 Among the young people who were to aid them in this jest, was 
 Mistress Page's daughter Anne, of sufficient dowry and appearance 
 to be desired in marriage by all the young and many of the older 
 men of Windsor; and her mother in this design on Falstaff had a 
 secret purpose, for she intended that Anne Page should be disguised 
 
286 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 in such a manner that a French doctor, whom she desired for a son- 
 in-law, should recognize the garments and steal Anne away secretly 
 to be married. Master Page bore this doctor little love and never 
 in the world would have consented to such an alliance. He proposed 
 that his daughter should marry a simple but wealthy youth named 
 Slender, whose fortune he desired to be united with his own acres, 
 and Master Page prepared to force his daughter to wed Slender, 
 who was utterly a fool and who possessed no grace save that of 
 wealth to recommend him as a husband. 
 
 Master Page was well aware of the opportunity this jest would 
 give him, for he also intended Anne to be dressed in a certain man- 
 ner, when, on a password, Slender was to lead her to the vicarage 
 and marry her there. 
 
 To both her father and her mother Anne Page promised due 
 obedience, but she intended to deceive them both. She loved neither 
 of the suitors chosen for her, and had, indeed, given her word and 
 her affections to a youth named Fenton. Boys, disguised in the 
 dresses that had been prepared with such secrecy, were to aid her in 
 her purpose by stealing away with the unwelcome suitors, while the 
 two lovers intended to hasten before a priest, be wedded in a trice, 
 and return to beg the pardon of the parents who were so grossly 
 to be deceived. 
 
 With these cross purposes to outwit one another, joined only in 
 the coming trick on Falstaff, the whole party repaired to the forest 
 oak — the meeting place chosen by the two wives for the completion 
 of what they intended. 
 
 Falstaff entered and beheld only Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, 
 for the others had all concealed themselves ; and with absurd expres- 
 sions he commenced once more to woo them, shouting that the sky 
 might rain potatoes and thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves ere he 
 would be driven for a third time from their company. 
 
 The children, dressed as fairies, then swarmed from their con- 
 cealment and surrounded him, while the two dames fled in apparent 
 terror; and Falstaff roared in fear and fell upon his face for he be- 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 287 
 
 lieved these apparitions to be no other than uncanny sprites and 
 goblins who had come to torment him. The supposed fairies 
 worked their will on him, pinching him and burning his fingers with 
 their tapers, until Page, Ford, their wives and neighbours came for- 
 ward with gales of laughter to mock Falstaff, who sat up and stared 
 about him with so dazed and bewildered an expression that merri- 
 ment was doubled at the sight of him. 
 
 Then Mistress Ford and Mistress Page In round words gave Fal- 
 staff to know how they regarded him — whom the devil himself, 
 they said, could not have made them love, were they resolved to 
 thrust virtue from their doors by head and shoulders. And their 
 neighbours and husbands vied with each other in contriving names 
 for Falstaff and his roguery. They called him a hodge-pudding, a 
 bag of flax, a puffed man, one that was as slanderous as Satan, and 
 as poor as Job ; and they united in ridiculing him until he bade them 
 use him as they would, he was dejected. 
 
 " And yet be cheerful, knight," said Master Page, " thou shall eat 
 posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my 
 wife who now laughs at thee. Tell her that Master Slender hath 
 married my daughter." 
 
 As he spoke, however, young Slender entered, crying out that the 
 one he took to be Anne Page was a great lubberly boy; — and the 
 French doctor likewise burst upon them shouting he had been de- 
 ceived and wedded to a country bumpkin. 
 
 At that moment, when all were wondering greatly what had be- 
 come of the right bride and who had married her, Anne Page and 
 Master Fenton entered and implored forgiveness, while Falstaff, who 
 began to recover his spirits, rejoiced loudly that those who came to 
 mock at him were themselves deceived even as he had been, and he 
 cried out that he was glad their arrows had glanced. 
 
 This remark put Master Page and his wife in better mind. They 
 were unwilling to take their ill fortune in worse part than the knight 
 himself; they gave their daughter forgiveness, saying that her hus- 
 band who could not be cast off should be embraced; and Mistress 
 
288 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Page bade every one of them, Sir John and the rest, to return and 
 laugh the sport o'er by a country fire, — for Falstaff, by the good 
 humour with which he had borne his misfortunes, was in part for- 
 given by them all. 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 
 
 KING FERDINAND of Navarre, when a young man, al- 
 though fond of pleasure and good company and blessed with 
 an easy light-hearted disposition, was possessed of thoughts 
 beyond his years that caused him to consider all amusements wherein 
 young men take delight as vanities suited only to the state of fools. 
 As Ferdinand himself was not averse to these amusements but secretly 
 delighted in them, he grew to detest himself for enjoying natural 
 pleasures. Whenever he spent a night with jovial companions, or 
 joined a hunting party, or whispered a pleasing conversation with 
 some fair lady of his court, he would repent afterward of his idle 
 and light behaviour; and longing to become famous, he resolved to 
 devote his days to serious study and his nights to meditation, until 
 he should acquire the name of a great scholar. 
 
 For the purpose of pursuing his studies without fear of interrup- 
 tion, the foolish, but ambitious Ferdinand resolved to turn his pleas- 
 ant court for three years' time into a silent hermitage. All sports 
 and pleasures were to be forbidden under pain of severe punishment; 
 no men save those that came on grave and learned errands were to 
 be admitted to his presence. As for women, who distracted the 
 mind with holiday and giddy humours and were enemies to knowl- 
 edge, Ferdinand swore that none should come within a mile of his 
 royal palace. He imposed a dreadful penalty on any transgressor 
 of this order, commanding that she lose her tongue — for the young 
 king believed that no woman could conceive of any fate more ter- 
 rible than to be deprived of her power of speech. And Ferdinand 
 prepared to pass away from joy and all his royal pursuits, to forego 
 his feasts, his friends, and his entertainments, all which, he said, he 
 would find in sweeter guise in learned hours with his books and in the 
 delights of a true scholar. 
 
 289 
 
290 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Ferdinand had invited three of his own courtiers, whose names 
 were Biron, Dumain and Longaville to share with him this monstrous 
 period of study and to undergo the same severe rules of conduct that 
 he had imposed upon himself. His invitation was, indeed, in the 
 nature of a royal command that the lords whom he had chosen could 
 not well disobey. Ferdinand spoke to them in high-sounding words 
 about the sovereign virtues of fame, that all men, as he said, hunt 
 for in their lives, to grace themselves, in the disgrace of death, with 
 the hope that their fair deeds shall blunt Time's edge and make them 
 heirs of all eternity. 
 
 " Great conquerors," said Ferdinand, " for so you are, who over- 
 come your affections and war against the huge army of the world's 
 desires, in this paper are set forth all the strict laws that you have 
 sworn to observe in living with me as fellow-scholars. You must 
 now sign your names, and may honour be forever lost by him 
 who violates the smallest particle of what is written here ! " 
 
 " I am content," said Longaville, " the mind shall banquet though 
 the body pine. The fast is, after all, for but three years, and three 
 years soon are ended." 
 
 " For my part," said Dumain, " away with the world's delights! 
 Farewell to love and merry-making ! I shall find them in philos- 
 ophy." But Biron, who was the most light-hearted of the three, 
 disliked exceedingly to forego his customary pleasures for so long 
 a period of time. Biron was fond of dancing and merry-making, he 
 liked the feasts that Ferdinand had now forbidden, and few were 
 better thought of by fair ladies than this madcap lord, who now 
 must forego their society. Biron was withal more honest than his 
 fellows, and he said to Ferdinand, " my liege, I have sworn to 
 live and study here for three years' time, but there are other strict 
 observances that I confess I do not love. To fast one day in every 
 week and eat only one meal on every day beside, is a barren task, 
 too hard to keep. — To sleep but three hours every night and not be 
 seen to wink from morn to eve, will weary out our eyes with con- 
 stant vigil. Far more willingly would I sleep all night and make 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 291 
 
 a dark night too of half the day! And last, your Majesty, to see 
 no woman! If I did swear to that, I swore only in jest." Bbon 
 then gave many excellent arguments against the studies that the king 
 proposed to enter, saying that plodders won no more than base 
 authority from others' books, and that they who could name all the 
 stars in heaven, had no more profit of their shining than ignorant, 
 but happy men, who walked abroad beneath their light, not knowing 
 what they were. Biron spoke with such excellent sense and wisdom 
 in defending idleness and the pleasures that he was unwilling to give 
 over, that the king cried out, " How well is he read to reason so 
 wisely against reading! " and said that Biron's speech proved plainly 
 that he had devoted himself to the very books that he pretended to 
 despise. The king said also with some show of displeasure, " Biron, 
 you may go and leave us. I release you from your vow. We will 
 have no unwilling scholars, no reluctant disciples in our search for 
 truth. As for you, my lords Dumain and Longaville, we will now 
 proceed to our high purposes and commence our solemn fast." 
 
 " No, my good lord," said Biron, " although I have spoken more 
 for pleasure and ignorance than you can say for knowledge, yet will 
 I stay with you, abide by my oath and keep the most severe penance 
 of you all." He then asked the king to give him the paper, saying 
 that he would sign to all the strict decrees that it contained. 
 
 When Biron read the schedule that the king with great labour had 
 prepared, he saw there the article that any who might be seen to talk 
 with a woman within the term of three years should endure public 
 shame and severe punishment. 
 
 " This article, my lord," said Biron " you yourself must break, 
 for the princess of France, as you well know, is coming hither in 
 embassy to speak with you about the surrender of the province of 
 Aquitaine. She is a maid of grace and complete majesty. Either 
 you must forego your oath, or the admired princess vainly comes to 
 see you." 
 
 The king was greatly concerned at what Biron told him. 
 
 " This was quite forgotten," said he. " My lords, what do you 
 
292 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 say? We must of force do away with our decree, and strong neces- 
 sity compels us to break our vow." But the king decided that al- 
 though he must converse with this foreign princess, still he would 
 not allow her in his court. She must be lodged before his gates and 
 treated, although with respect, more as if she had come to besiege 
 his palace than on a friendly errand; and the king with Dumain and 
 Longaville lamented the miscarriage of his plans, but Biron rejoiced 
 openly in what had befallen. Biron said to himself, " I'll wager 
 my head to any good man's hat these oaths and laws will prove an 
 idle scorn and that the dames of France will laugh at us. How- 
 ever, be it so ! For the sooner the king, my master, sees his folly, 
 the better for us all." For, although Biron had resolved to keep his 
 oath as long as any of the others, he hoped that this would not be 
 long, and that the princess with her ladies would soon put to flight 
 King Ferdinand's severe design. Ferdinand with his three lords 
 then prepared to greet the princess who so seriously had shaken his 
 intentions. 
 
 There were with the princess three merry ladies named Katharine, 
 Maria and Rosaline, to whom by some strange chance the three fel- 
 low scholars of King Ferdinand were known. When the princess, 
 who had heard of the king's strange vow, desired to know about his 
 " book-men," as she laughingly termed his followers, each of her 
 three ladies spoke of the lord that she particularly admired, praising 
 him above all others until the princess said, " What does this mean? 
 Are my ladies all in love with these stupid fellows that have for- 
 sworn the society of women ? " And when the princess learned that 
 the king would not admit her to his court, but determined to lodge 
 her in the open fields, she was greatly annoyed and cried out that 
 Ferdinand ought to be punished for such an oath, which was, she 
 said, a sin to break but a far more deadly sin to keep. When the 
 king came forward to greet her, the princess, therefore, received him 
 coldly and listened to his excuses for her poor reception with a show 
 of great displeasure. 
 
 But it was to be remarked that while King Ferdinand was speak- 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 293 
 
 ing with the princess, each of his three lords had singled out that 
 particular lady who had praised him to her mistress — Longaville 
 conversed with Maria, Dumain sought Katharine, while Biron en- 
 gaged in sprightly conversation with Rosaline, whose wit was as keen 
 as his own and who vanquished him completely in the encounter of 
 words that soon arose between them. When Biron, about to take 
 his farewell, wished her happiness and many lovers, she said tartly, 
 " Amen, so you be none ! " and left him to retire with the king his 
 master. And indeed the king had come off but little better from 
 his argument with the princess, who, although she did not dare to 
 treat him with the incivility that Rosaline had shown to Biron, none 
 the less had proved him in the wrong about the matters of state, 
 whereon she came to visit him. 
 
 The king with his three followers then returned into his court 
 to study, telling the princess he would visit her again ere she de- 
 parted; but misfortune had indeed befallen Ferdinand's stern pur- 
 pose to become a hermit, for he had now fallen in love with the 
 French princess and his lords had likewise become the willing slaves 
 of her three attendants. Most of all was Biron smitten by the 
 charms of the beautiful and discourteous lady, Rosaline. 
 
 Now was the toilful gaze of the great student changed to the 
 ardent and despairing glance of the devoted lover, and now the 
 minds of Ferdinand and his three lords were charged with thoughts 
 far different from their former longings after fame. Undying fame 
 they would have willingly exchanged for favour in their ladies' eyes, 
 and they spent their time devising poems to meet the graces of 
 their several paragons, seeking lonely places there to read what 
 they had written, and exclaiming to the moon and stars upon the 
 virtues of their loves. But although they had fallen so deeply into 
 the toils of the princess and her attendant women, no one of them 
 knew that any save himself was thus afflicted, for by assum- 
 ing a more serious manner and a greater interest in the books 
 that he now hated, each of them contrived to deceive the rest. To 
 all appearance, Ferdinand and his three lords were never more 
 
294 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 devoted to their studies, never more firm in their resolve to banish 
 vain delights and worldly pleasures than now, when they secretly 
 desired to do away with books and go a-courting to the ladies of 
 France. 
 
 Biron composed a letter that he addressed " to the snow white- 
 hand of the beauteous lady Rosaline," and being unable to visit 
 her except in the company of the king, and desiring greatly that 
 Rosaline receive this letter before the meeting that would take 
 place on the day following, Biron disregarded all his vows and 
 engaged a stupid clown to be his messenger to Rosaline. For 
 Biron knew this clown, whose name was Costard, to be a fellow 
 of such small wit that he would never give a thought upon his 
 errand, which the faithless Biron desired well to be kept secret from 
 his royal master. 
 
 There was at the royal court a Spanish nobleman, Don Adriano 
 de Armado, a fellow as conceited as his name was long, as proud 
 as a peacock and as flighty as a weather-vane. The king had re- 
 tained this nobleman partly for the purpose of a jester, believing 
 that Armado, as they called him, could afford them with all necessary 
 amusement in the time of their retirement. For Armado would 
 relate many a proud tale of knights and noblemen of tawny Spain, 
 and was, moreover, given to the most absurd expressions of English, 
 using great words and pompous language that never failed to 
 awaken laughter in all that heard him. \ 
 
 Armado likewise had been forbidden to converse with any woman 
 for three years, but as if to complete the confusion in Ferdinand's 
 affairs, he had fallen in love with Jaquenetta, the dairymaid to the 
 royal palace, and had himself written a love letter that set forth 
 in high flown phrases Jaquenetta's charms, which were marvellous 
 to his eyes. An imp of misfortune then caused Armado to give 
 this letter for delivery to Costard, the same clown that Biron em- 
 ployed as a messenger to Rosaline. Armado bade him bear it to 
 Jaquenetta, who was the light of all men's souls and the heart of 
 their desire; he gave to the clown a penny and a farthing, said that 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 295 
 
 it was a generous sum, and bade him to bring word presently of 
 the letter's safe delivery. 
 
 The two letters were alike, and the clown could not hope to read 
 the one from the other. So it was no more than natural that he 
 should bear Armado's letter to Rosaline, while the loving words of 
 Biron fell into the hands of Jaquenetta. 
 
 Jaquenetta lost no time in telling of the treasure that had befallen 
 her, and when her tale came to the ears. of a certain school-master 
 who knew of the king's oath, he ordered her to deliver the letter 
 immediately to Ferdinand; and Jaquenetta with Costard to accom- 
 pany her set forth in search of him. For Ferdinand was not at 
 his study, and none could tell of his whereabouts. 
 
 The unaccustomed absence of King Ferdinand from the grave 
 halls of his palace was easily explained. The king had composed 
 a marvellous poem, a sonnet to the French princess, and had retired 
 to a remote part of his park where he could read it at his leisure. 
 The king delighted in exclaiming upon her virtues and in the lack 
 of other hearers, took pleasure in reading his poems in the seclusion 
 of his forest, with none but silent trees or occasional spotted deer 
 to be his listeners. And while Costard sought for Ferdinand, he 
 was wandering in the park with many sighs, exclaiming to the empty 
 air upon the virtues of his mistress. 
 
 It happened that while the king thus sought retirement, Biron 
 also was strolling in the park. Not knowing of the mischief that 
 had befallen his letter, he was happy in the thought that even then 
 Rosaline was reading the expressions of his love. And Biron beheld 
 the king, who walked as in a dream, approaching; and he saw in 
 the king's hand a written paper, from which the king recited with 
 great fervor. 
 
 " What can this mean," thought Biron. " Is he in love? That 
 is beyond my wildest hope. Shot, by Heaven ! Cupid has 
 thumped him with his bird-bolt! I will hide behind a tree and 
 hear it all." Biron concealed himself, while the king, who knew 
 not of his presence, went on with his reading. And the king had 
 
296 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 indeed written a sonnet that was pleasant to hear, saying that the 
 golden sun gave not so sweet a kiss to the fresh, morning dew upon 
 the rose as did the eyebeams of his mistress, when they kissed the 
 dew of tears that wet his cheeks. He compared the princess to the 
 gleaming moon, and said that every tear he shed for love of her 
 was like a coach that bore her gracious image. Many other pretty 
 sayings were in the sonnet that Biron could not help admiring, 
 even while he laughed at the king for composing it. 
 
 " O queen of queens," sighed Ferdinand, " how far do you excel 
 my written words ! You are fairer than the tongue of man can 
 tell. No thought can think upon your marvellous beauty. How 
 may you know my griefs? I will drop this paper here, where the 
 sweet leaves will shade its folly; and here, if Love is kind, you will 
 discover it." 
 
 But when the king prepared to lay his poem upon the moss and 
 leaves that covered the forest ground, a sudden noise arrested his 
 attention, and glancing about he beheld — not Biron, but Longa- 
 ville, who likewise bore a paper that he read aloud as he made his 
 way through the thicket. And the king, who saw that Longaville 
 was in the same plight as himself, was happy in this proof of his 
 friend's inconstancy. " O sweet fellowship in shame ! " whispered 
 the king. " I rejoice, Longaville, that you too have fallen into dis- 
 grace. Here will I hide and listen to the outpouring of your love." 
 The king, like Biron, then concealed himself, while the ardent words 
 of Longaville in praise of his dear mistress seemed to burn upon the 
 air. For Longaville had composed a sonnet fully as loving as 
 Ferdinand's. 
 
 Dumain was now the only one of Ferdinand's companions who 
 had not revealed the state of his affections, and it seemed as if some 
 mocking forest spirit had contrived this scene of disclosure, for by 
 strange chance Dumain also was in the park, and now was guided 
 to the spot where Ferdinand, Biron and Longaville were assembled. 
 Here Dumain likewise gave instant proof of inconstancy to his 
 sworn promise, but of undying faith to his beloved lady, exclaiming 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 297 
 
 on her eyes, her hair, her features; and reading a dainty poem in 
 praise of all these glories. And Dumain, who believed that he was 
 utterly alone (for Longaville had hidden like the rest) cried out, 
 " O would that the king, Biron and Longaville were lovers too ! 
 Then I should be free from fault, for if all loved alike, none would 
 offend; and then we might release ourselves from all these dreary 
 vows." 
 
 At these words, Longaville stepped forth from behind his tree 
 and approached Dumain with an expression of great scorn upon 
 his face. " Your love is far from charity, Dumain," said he. " I 
 have heard every word of your great guiltiness. Believe me, Sir, 
 I should blush to be caught napping as you have been." 
 
 Before Longaville could accuse him further, the king also came 
 from his place of concealment, secretly rejoicing, and the king feigned 
 great anger at Longaville's hypocrisy, gazing upon his two guilty- 
 loving comrades with severe displeasure. " Come, Sir," said the 
 king, " I perceive that you are blushing. You offend twice as much 
 as Dumain in chiding at him. For shame, Longaville — you who 
 have laid your folded arms athwart your bosom to keep down your 
 heart! I heard your guilty rhymes and noted well the passion of 
 you both. You are equal in your love. ' Ay me ! ' says one, ' O 
 Jove ! ' the other cries ! What will Biron say when he hears of 
 this ? How will he spend his wit upon you ! How he will triumph, 
 leap and laugh at both of you ! I would not have him know so 
 much of me for all the world ! " 
 
 "Now," cried Biron, "do I step forth to whip hypocrisy!" 
 And while the king in guilty fear turned sharply at the sound of his 
 voice, Biron, with a malicious smile upon his face, advanced in 
 triumph, treading as if on air in his great joy to have learned the 
 secrets of his companions. " My lord," said Biron to the king, 
 " how do you dare to chide these worms for loving — you who are 
 the most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches? No princess 
 that we know of is treasured in your tears? Oh, what a scene of 
 foolery have I beheld! With what strict patience have I lain here 
 
298 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to see a king transformed into a gnat, and Solomon and Nestor 
 both at play like idle school boys ! " Biron, who could talk no more 
 for mirth, commenced to laugh until the forest rang with the most 
 unwelcome merriment that Ferdinand had ever heard. 
 
 " Your jest is too bitter," said Ferdinand sourly. " We have 
 been betrayed to you." 
 
 " Not so," said Biron, " it is I that have been betrayed. I that 
 am honest; I that hold it sin to break my vow; — for when shall 
 you see me write a thing in rhyme, or groan for love, or waste my 
 time before a mirror in bedecking myself? Oh, I am betrayed 
 indeed from my deep studies by inconstant men unworthy of my 
 fellowship ! " 
 
 As Biron spoke, he blessed his lucky stars that he had been the 
 first upon the spot, and as his joy increased that none had discovered 
 him, he indulged in even heavier blame upon the unhappy king and 
 his shamefaced companions. But if Biron even for an instant had 
 averted the triumphant gaze that he fixed upon them, he would 
 have beheld Jaquenetta and Costard drawing near among the trees; 
 and Costard held in his hand the tell-tale letter that Biron had 
 given him for Rosaline. 
 
 Costard gave this letter to the king, who, as yet unaware of 
 what it contained, handed it to Biron, commanding him to read it in 
 the presence of them all. And when Biron beheld his own letter 
 he became crimson, and tore it into fragments, that he scattered on 
 the ground. 
 
 " How now," said Ferdinand, " why do you destroy it? " 
 
 " It is a matter of no consequence," said Biron, " unworthy of an 
 instant's attention." 
 
 " Of that we will make sure," replied the king; and Longaville, 
 who gathered up the fragments, saw that they were in Biron's writ- 
 ing and even read Biron's name on one of them. 
 
 When the king, Dumain and Longaville fixed questioning and 
 suspicious glances upon Biron, they remarked his high colour and 
 the confusion of his manner, and Biron, who knew that he could 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 299 
 
 not hope to deceive them further, cried out, " Guilty, my lord, 
 guilty! I confess. You three fools lacked me to make the com- 
 pany. We are all pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die." 
 Bidding Costard and Jaquenetta to begone, Biron then exclaimed, 
 " Let us embrace ! Young blood will not obey an old decree, and 
 we are all forsworn together." 
 
 " What," said the king, who even now could not comprehend 
 what had befallen, " did these torn lines show some love of yours? " 
 
 " Did they, do you ask? " said Biron. " Who can refrain from 
 loving that sees the heavenly Rosaline? What eagle-sighted 
 eye can look upon her and remain unblinded by her majesty! " 
 
 When the king heard Biron praise his mistress in so extravagant 
 a fashion, he thought no more about his broken vow, and felt no 
 emotion save anger that Biron should exalt the lady Rosaline above 
 his own dear princess. 
 
 "What mistaken fury has inspired you now?" said the king. 
 " My love, the princess, is a gracious moon and Rosaline but an 
 attendant star, scarce seen in her great glory. Truly love has made 
 you blind and you know not what you speak! " And the recreant 
 scholars one and all began to praise the ladies of their affections, 
 arguing with each other in no uncertain terms as to their merits. 
 The king said that Rosaline was as black as ebony (she being 
 a trifle dark of her complexion) and Biron answered that the 
 princess dared not stand in the rain for fear her colours should 
 be washed away. Each of them said he knew not how the other 
 could hold vile stuff so dear, and the dispute grew hot between 
 them until the king said, " Come, enough ! We are agreed that 
 we love these ladies. Biron now must prove our loving to be 
 lawful and in accordance with our oath." So Biron then com- 
 menced a lengthy speech to ease their wounded consciences, and 
 he spoke even more wisely in defense of what they had done than 
 he had argued against learning when they were prepared to enter 
 their studies. 
 
 Strengthened in heart, the king and his companions then resolved 
 
3 oo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 to woo and win the ladies that they loved. They sent them costly 
 gifts of jewels and determined to visit them disguised and offer them 
 some merry entertainment. And the king and his companions pre- 
 pared to bend their utmost energy to courting the fair ladies that 
 had worked so great confusion among them. 
 
 The princess, however, and her attendants had learned of the 
 king's purpose, and knew likewise from the gifts that had been 
 sent them that they were high in the affections of Ferdinand and his 
 three noblemen. They were still angry, however, at the way these 
 lords had welcomed them, and thought also that Ferdinand and 
 his fellow-scholars should all be punished for so idly breaking the 
 deep vows that they had sworn together. They planned, therefore, 
 to receive the lovers coldly, to treat them with disdain and lack of 
 courtesy until they should be made bitterly to repent the utter folly 
 of their light behaviour. 
 
 To add a relish to their jest, and to humiliate Ferdinand and his 
 followers even more thoroughly, the ladies conceived the plan of 
 dressing all alike and wearing masks so that the king and his com- 
 panions could not tell the one from the other; and they cleverly 
 exchanged the jewels that had been sent them, so that Rosaline wore 
 the token that the king had given to her mistress, while the princess 
 wore the string of pearls that Biron had presented to Rosaline. 
 Maria and Katharine having also exchanged gifts, the deception was 
 complete; and when the king and his three lords came before them, 
 Biron addressed the princess in most ardent terms of true affection, 
 the king and Rosaline conversed apart, while Dumain and Longa- 
 ville likewise mistook each other's mistresses, and devoted their con- 
 versation to the wrong ladies, who were in great difficulty to restrain 
 their merriment. And the ladies treated the king and his followers 
 with such keen jests and biting wit that they were forced soon to 
 retire, returning in their own costumes the better to pursue their 
 purposes. 
 
 Then the princess and her ladies in no uncertain words gave the 
 discomfited lords to know how they considered men that would so 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 301 
 
 lightly perjure themselves to win their brides; but being, no doubt, 
 a trifle pleased at their complete victory, and as the king and his 
 followers, in spite of their shortcomings, were very eligible suitors, 
 the ladies agreed to marry them a year and a day thence. They 
 imposed on them, however, a most severe penalty; for until the day 
 of the weddings, the king and his followers must continue in their 
 fasts and studies. And the keen-witted Rosaline added even an- 
 other penance that her lover must perform. For Biron, whose 
 excessive merriment was distasteful to her, must spend his time in 
 cheering up the heavy spirits of the sick, and jest for a whole year at 
 the bedsides of the unfortunate. 
 
 When the French ladies had departed, Ferdinand and his three 
 lords addressed themselves with right good will to the tasks that 
 had been laid upon them. The princess and her ladies in high 
 good humour returned to France and without doubt the king and 
 his followers appeared there in due course of time, to marry them. 
 
T" 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 
 
 HE ancient city of Troy had been besieged for seven years 
 by the Greek kings, who had come with their bravest sol- 
 
 -*- diers and most terrible engines of war to overthrow the 
 Trojan state. The object of this war was to revenge a wrong 
 done to Menelaus, the king of Sparta, by a Trojan prince named 
 Paris — for Paris had persuaded Helen, the beautiful wife of 
 Menelaus, to fly from her husband into Troy, where the Trojans 
 barred their gates against Menelaus who came in pursuit of her. 
 The Trojans not only had refused to admit Menelaus, but to give 
 up Helen who remained in their city with Paris. Menelaus had 
 vowed vengeance, and assembling the other kings of Greece pre- 
 pared with them to capture Helen if they levelled Troy to the 
 ground in taking her. 
 
 Hence it was that a terrible and bloody war had raged between 
 the Trojans and the Greeks with varying fortunes, for the Trojans 
 who were as brave as their besiegers not only kept the Greeks from 
 their ramparts, but did battle with them on equal terms without the 
 city gates; while the Greeks on their part could not be driven to 
 their ships, or compelled to abandon the grim siege with which they 
 had invested Troy. 
 
 But the Greeks, who came from different kingdoms, in the way 
 of such allies were prone to jealousy of each other and therefore 
 did not fight with the complete and undivided power that they might 
 have directed against their enemies. A quarrel among them had 
 caused their most famous warrior, Achilles, to retire in anger from 
 the conflict, telling the others that for his part, the war was ended 
 and that the Trojans might drive them all into the sea before he 
 would draw sword again. While the Greeks were thus compelled 
 to fight without their mightiest soldier, Achilles lay idly in his tent, 
 
 302 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 303 
 
 listening to his boy friend, Patroclus, whom he caused to imitate, 
 one after one, the Greek commanders, shouting with laughter as 
 Patroclus, with scornful mimicry, would act to him the aged leader, 
 Nestor, or the proud Agamemnon, or the crafty, scheming Ulysses, 
 or the blockhead, Ajax; and in this idleness of Achilles the Greeks 
 commenced to lose heart, until it seemed as though without his aid 
 the Trojans must sooner or later be victorious. 
 
 The Trojans, on the other hand, possessed a hero as terrible as 
 Achilles and of a spirit far more noble. The name of this chief 
 was Hector. With Paris he was son to Priam, the Trojan king. 
 But Hector was mightier by far than Paris, or, indeed, than any 
 of his brothers, although the Trojans hoped that one day, Troilus, 
 their youngest prince, would become as great as Hector. So strong 
 a warrior was Hector, so skilled in every form of war, withal of 
 a nature wise and temperate, that he became the chief pillar and 
 support of his beleaguered city. And Hector, who was so brave 
 a soldier that the meaning of the word fear was unknown to him 
 on the battle-field, feared deeply for the future of his city, and 
 thought with sorrow on the petty cause of such a war, where, on 
 either side, hundreds of noble warriors had fallen to gratify the 
 idle affection of Paris, who showed himself more disposed to remain 
 within the walls with Helen than in armour to meet the enemies 
 that he himself had stirred against his city. 
 
 Troilus, the young brother of Hector, and himself, in spite of 
 his youth, a tried and valiant soldier, loved a maiden better even 
 than Paris loved Helen, and the beauty of this maiden was held 
 by many to rival if not to exceed the radiant loveliness of Helen 
 herself. The name of her that Troilus loved was Cressida, and 
 she believed that no other, not even Hector, was so brave, handsome 
 and noble as the youth, Troilus. But Cressida did not allow Troilus 
 to become aware of her affection for him, thinking, as all maidens, 
 that his passion would be increased in believing her unattainable. 
 Accordingly she feigned scorn whenever Troilus was mentioned, 
 saying there were dozens such as he, comparing him to no ad- 
 
304 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 vantage with the mighty Hector, and even ranking Paris before her 
 lover. 
 
 The father of Cressida was a priest who had forsaken Troy 
 with great treachery to aid the Greeks against his native city. In 
 his desertion, the Trojans had given Cressida to the care of her 
 aged uncle, Pandarus; and Troilus, who was not aware of Cressida's 
 secret affection for him, begged Pandarus to aid him in his love 
 and soften her heart until she looked on him with greater favour. 
 
 Pandarus did indeed attempt to influence his niece to favour 
 Troilus, as he had done constantly hitherto, being in part the cause 
 of the mutual affection between them, which he sought to inflame 
 on every opportunity. But Pandarus did this from no worthy 
 motive or any benevolence for either Cressida or Troilus, thinking 
 less of the good parts of Troilus than of his princely rank and the 
 rewards to be gained by serving him. For the nature of Pandarus 
 was base and incapable of any affection or goodness. 
 
 When the warriors would enter the city, however, after their 
 daily battle with the Greeks, Pandarus, in the hope to influence 
 Cressida to fall in love with Troilus, would bid her to look upon them 
 as they passed, saying, " Mark yonder, where Troilus goes. Look 
 you how his sword is bloodied and his helm more hacked than 
 Hector's. He is an admirable youth." And Pandarus would say 
 that if he had a sister who were one of the graces, or a daughter 
 rivalling the perfections of a goddess he would give her up to 
 Troilus, praising him in most exalted terms and giving frequent 
 hints of his devotion to Cressida. But Cressida, who thought in 
 secret how poorly her uncle could do credit to the noble figure of 
 her lover, pretended none the less to mock at Pandarus for praising 
 him, and when she held Troilus most dear, she would laugh at him 
 with open scorn and assume complete unconcern as to his presence. 
 
 Pandarus, however, was too sly to be deceived long by Cressida 
 in such a manner; her every indifference to a youth of the good 
 parts of Troilus, while she looked with favour on his brothers, was 
 sufficient proof for Pandarus to guess the secret state of her affec- 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 305 
 
 tions; and when he saw that Cressida was becoming daily more in 
 love with the young prince whom she pretended to despise, he re- 
 solved to bring the two together in a secret meeting where he knew 
 that their love would prove too strong to be withheld, and that 
 Cressida would be forced to reveal her real affection. 
 
 For this purpose Pandarus brought Troilus to his own house, 
 where, to the youth's great joy Cressida at last declared her love 
 for him in ardent terms, saying that all her indifference in the past 
 had been merely feigned to render Troilus more certainly her own. 
 Troilus replied that he loved Cressida so truly that in time to come 
 all lovers in seeking to prove their love should speak of his; all 
 great comparisons, he said, should be topped by saying, " As true as 
 Troilus " ; and with tender words the lovers swore true faith to one 
 another. Cressida said that if she ever swerved a hair from the 
 devoted love of Troilus, she wished that in time to come maidens 
 in upbraiding falsehood could think of no stronger reproach than 
 to say, " As false as Cressida." With many other and similar 
 protestations they pledged lasting affection, while Pandarus, much 
 delighted, bade them speak their minds in telling of their love, 
 which became them so well, he said, that no outspoken pledge or 
 any token could be too dear as proof of it. No lovers, continued 
 Pandarus, should ever love so well as the two whom he had brought 
 together with such pains; were it to be otherwise he wished with 
 Cressida that his name might become a term of scorn forever, so 
 that all pitiful persons who went on lovers' errands and aided them 
 in their desires should be called " Pandars." 
 
 The happiness of the two lovers was hardly brought to this good 
 issue, however, when misfortune befell them, for Cressida's father, 
 who had been false to Troy, persuaded the Greeks to demand his 
 daughter from the Trojans and to offer in exchange for her a 
 Trojan prisoner named Antenor. Antenor was a person of such 
 importance that the Trojans would have given one of their own 
 princes to gain his liberty, for Antenor was skillful in war and had 
 invented many ways whereby the Trojans had been able to defend 
 
3 o6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 their city against their besiegers. Priam, the king of Troy, con- 
 sented to this exchange, and the Greeks sent one of their leaders, 
 who was called Diomed, with Antenor into Troy, whence Diomed 
 was to return with Cressida and bring her to her father's tent in 
 the Greek encampment. 
 
 It happened that Diomed entered the city on this errand while 
 Troilus was still with Cressida at the house of Pandarus; the lovers 
 were made aware of his unwelcome approach and forced to separate; 
 and it was not long before they were compelled to bid each other 
 a speedy farewell, which they did with added sorrow at the short 
 space of time allowed them for their parting. 
 
 Troilus said, however, that he would seek out Cressida in the 
 Grecian tents even if he must break into their lines by force to com- 
 plete his purpose, and he besought her to remain forever faithful 
 to him. " I speak not in fear of your true faith," said Troilus, 
 " for I will challenge Death himself upon its certainty. Be but true, 
 and I will see you, for I will bribe the Grecian sentinels to let me 
 pass through their lines by night to visit you," and stricken with 
 sudden grief that they must part, Troilus added once again, " but 
 yet, Cressida, be true." 
 
 " Surely," said Cressida, " you do not love me, or else you would 
 never say that I could be otherwise than true and faithful to 
 you." 
 
 " Hear why I speak it," replied Troilus, " for no fault of yours 
 but a kind of godly jealousy makes me afraid. The Grecian youths 
 are given to love-making and are masters of the graces that please 
 ladies. They are able to play at subtle games, to sing, dance and 
 converse artfully — while I myself, like all the Trojans, am un- 
 versed in these accomplishments." 
 
 Troilus gave Cressida a sleeve to wear in his absence, bidding 
 her to keep it always as a token of their dear affection, and he bade 
 her then to take farewell for they must part. To Diomed, who 
 now came forward to accompany Cressida from the city, Troilus 
 said that he must guard her with a tender care, adding that if 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 307 
 
 Diomed were ever at the mercy of his sword and should speak the 
 name of Cressida it should become a talisman to save his life. 
 
 No more unfortunate speech could have been made to Diomed, 
 who was a proud soldier, esteeming himself far greater at arms than 
 Troilus; and turning to Cressida Diomed beheld that she was fair 
 above all other women. He said then that the lustre in her eye 
 and the heaven in her cheek should plead for tenderness at his 
 hands far better than the words of any Trojan. For Diomed had 
 fallen in love with Cressida the instant that he beheld her, and 
 her beauty had awakened wonder and admiration within him. 
 
 Cressida then bade Troilus farewell with an affection seemingly 
 as great as his, and was conveyed by Diomed to the Greek tents 
 where her father awaited her. 
 
 Now whether the gods that watched over the siege of Troy had 
 willed that Cressida should become untrue to Troilus in requital 
 of Helen's treachery to the Greek Menelaus, or whether the false 
 blood of Cressida's father, who had sought to betray his city, was 
 at war within her heart with any true and steadfast affection cannot 
 be told; but Cressida no sooner arrived at the Greek tents than she 
 suffered Diomed to make advances of love to her, and in a space 
 of time so short as to be almost incredible, Cressida loved Diomed 
 as well as ever she had loved the deceived Troilus. 
 
 At the time when Cressida had been taken out of Troy by Diomed, 
 the Trojan warrior, Hector, in accordance with an ancient custom, 
 determined to maintain upon his sword the beauty of his wife, An- 
 dromache; and Hector sent among the Greeks a challenge to 
 single combat, proclaiming that if any Greek esteemed his mistress 
 better than ease or life, to him Hector would say that Andromache 
 was twice as fair, and prove his words by defeating him in battle. 
 This challenge, while general in its tone was known to intend the 
 great Achilles, for no brighter fame could be won by Hector than 
 to overthrow this mighty champion of the Greeks. 
 
 The Greek leaders feared, however, that if Achilles should slay 
 Hector, his pride, already great, would become unbearable; while 
 
308 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 if Hector should slay Achilles, their chief hope and strength would 
 be forever lost to them by his death. They decided, therefore, to 
 make a pretence of drawing lots to choose who should answer Hec- 
 tor's challenge, and the lots were to be artfully arranged so that 
 the choice should fall on Ajax — a blow in itself at Achilles' vanity, 
 for Ajax while a powerful soldier was far inferior to Achilles. 
 
 It happened, however, that Ajax, who was chosen in this manner, 
 was by a strange chance a distant kinsman to Hector, for in the 
 veins of Ajax Trojan and Greek blood were strangely intermingled. 
 On this account, Hector refused to fight with his full power against 
 Ajax, or to continue long in the combat, for, as Hector said, his 
 sword should never drain kindred and Trojan blood, and although 
 Ajax were an arrant Greek, he must not slay him. So, after a short 
 trial at arms where neither won advantage, Hector bade Ajax to 
 put aside his sword and embrace him as a kinsman, for Ajax, Hector 
 said, was worthy of his Trojan blood with the heart and strength 
 of a brave soldier. 
 
 The truce that had been made between the contending armies, 
 who desired to witness this combat, did not expire until dawn of 
 the next day, and Achilles invited Hector to his tent, eager to behold 
 unarmed the mightiest champion of Troy, who was considered by 
 many to be greater even than Achilles himself. Achilles, looking 
 on Hector and beholding his great limbs and soldierly appearance, 
 felt a sudden desire for battle come upon him and determined that 
 in spite of his vow never again to draw sword against the Trojans, 
 on the next day to seek Hector on the battle-field and slay him. 
 Achilles bade Hector to drink with him as a friend that night and 
 taste his wine, for on the morrow he must assuredly taste his sword. 
 And Hector was rejoiced that at last he was to do battle with the 
 great Achilles, and asked his hand upon that match, bidding Achilles 
 guard himself well when they should meet. Hector swore to slay 
 Achilles, and he called the gods to witness that he would keep his 
 oath. 
 
 Troilus, in his great love for Cressida, had accompanied Hector 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 309 
 
 to the Greek encampment, and while Hector was being feasted and 
 threatened at the tent of Achilles, Troilus besought Ulysses, a Greek 
 leader, to take him to the spot where he might behold Cressida ; 
 but while Ulysses promised to lead him there, he said what sounded 
 strangely in the ears of Troilus — that Diomed was feasting there 
 that night, and that Diomed looked neither on heaven nor earth, 
 but spent his loving gaze all on the fair Cressida, who seemed in no 
 way loath to make return of his affection. Ulysses then asked Troi- 
 lus if Cressida had not some lover in Troy, and what might be 
 her name and reputation in the city. 
 
 " My lord," said Troilus, " she both did love and have her 
 love returned. I beseech you guide me to her, for I find myself 
 unable to believe what you have spoken." And Troilus could not 
 think that Cressida had been false to him, until with his own eyes 
 he should behold this to be true. 
 
 Ulysses, who knew that even then Diomed was in company with 
 Cressida, bade Troilus to follow him in silence and to stand far 
 from the torches, when he should soon perceive, Ulysses said, that 
 his words had been spoken truly. And when Troilus came to the 
 tent that was Cressida's dwelling, he beheld to his grief and amaze- 
 ment, that Cressida was exchanging vows of love with Diomed. 
 
 While Ulysses with his utmost powers was attempting to restrain 
 Troilus from disclosing himself at this hateful sight, and breaking 
 forth in bitter rage against Cressida and Diomed, Cressida gave 
 Diomed the very sleeve that Troilus had bidden her so tenderly 
 to keep as a pledge of his true faith, and she told Diomed to behold 
 the token well, for he who had given it to her lay even at that 
 moment thinking of the sleeve and her. Diomed said that he would 
 wear it on his helm in battle and grieve the spirit of the Trojan 
 who had owned it, for Cressida refused to tell him that the sleeve 
 had belonged to Troilus; and Troilus vowed that the sleeve on 
 Diomed's helmet should be the cause of his speedy death, for he 
 would challenge him although the whole Greek army should oppose 
 him. And before Troilus was able to upbraid Cressida for her 
 
3 io TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 faithlessness he was compelled to return to Troy and arm himself, 
 for in the revelling at Achilles' tent and Cressida's faithless encoun- 
 ter with Diomed, the night had passed, and both the armies were 
 again preparing for their daily conflict. 
 
 It was destined, however, that Diomed should not then fall be- 
 fore the sword of Troilus, for a terrible misfortune befell the city of 
 Troy in the battle that began at dawn. Achilles, who was deter- 
 mined to slay Hector, cared not if he accomplished his purpose in 
 open battle or by treachery. Indeed Achilles was more inclined to 
 treachery than to open combat, for once during the day, when Hec- 
 tor, terrible in armour, came upon him, Achilles had avoided clos- 
 ing with him. But later, when Hector, wearied with fighting, had 
 laid aside his sword and shield, Achilles encountered him, and 
 Achilles bade him to behold how ugly night came breathing at the 
 heels of the setting sun, for even so, he said, death was approach- 
 ing Hector, and like the sun his life had run its course. The fol- 
 lowers of Achilles then struck Hector to the ground, and Achilles 
 tied the body to his chariot-wheels and dragged it beneath the walls 
 of Troy shouting that Hector had been slain by his hand. 
 
 In the death of Hector the Trojans became partly aware of the 
 terrible fate that threatened them, and Troilus in the horror at his 
 death and in rage against Achilles, thought no more of his mis- 
 guided affection for Cressida. And whether Diomed grew weary 
 of Cressida and cast her off or what became of her cannot be known, 
 for in the death of Hector the tale of Troilus and Cressida was 
 ended. 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 A QUARREL had arisen in Rome between the patricians, 
 who were noblemen, and the men of more common birth 
 who were called plebeians. The plebeians had demanded 
 gifts of the corn that lay stored in the city capitol; and when re- 
 fused they filled the streets with riots and confusion, casting the city 
 into a grave disorder. 
 
 More than any other nobleman the plebeians hated Caius Marcius, 
 a patrician who had often spoken bitterly against them to the senate, 
 saying that they deserved no better of the state than to be beaten 
 soundly to their homes and would be had he the ordering of it, aye, 
 Marcius had declared, or slain, and their bodies piled in the market 
 place. And Marcius had called them dogs and dissentious rogues, 
 hares that should be lions, curs that liked neither peace nor war, 
 becoming proud by the one and frightened by the other, untrust- 
 worthy as coals of fire on ice, or hailstones in the sun. 
 
 Marcius was not wholly unjustified in his contempt for the ple- 
 beians, for in the way of ignorant men they were prone to receive 
 all benefits and yet give nothing in return. Whenever possible they 
 would refuse to fight against Rome's enemies, but would call with 
 the same breath for a share in Roman government, or without rea- 
 son demand the food laid by for times of war and famine. Marcius, 
 however, did not hate the plebeians only for their base and un- 
 soldierlike qualities; he despised them also for their humble birth, 
 for his nature was so proud that he could not endure the failings 
 of weaker and lowlier persons than himself. He believed also that 
 in allowing the people any authority, the patricians were sowing 
 rank rebellion in the city, and that the plebeians in tasting a little 
 power would soon grow to crave it as some sweet but fatal drug 
 that poisoned them, until Rome must fall before their greedy in- 
 
 3il 
 
3 i2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 diligence and the vulgar, short-sighted policies of the rabble. Mar- 
 cius, therefore, denied that as fellow-citizens the plebeians had any 
 rights or privileges; he regarded them with scorn as slaves, and 
 treated them with unworthy intolerance. 
 
 The rash pride and fiery opposition shown to the plebeians by 
 Marcius, was regretted not a little by the wiser patricians, chiefly 
 by a nobleman of age and experience named Menenius Agrippa. 
 Whenever Marcius insulted the plebeians, Agrippa would endeavour 
 to allay their anger, for Marcius, although intemperate in scorn, 
 was a soldier of great achievement, endowed with manly and 
 Roman virtues, and Agrippa loved him as a son. Agrippa feared, 
 however, that pride would overthrow Marcius' fortunes, and on all 
 opportunities would praise him to the plebeians, falling into con- 
 versation with them, as though by chance, of Marcius' noble quali- 
 ties, or reminding them of some battle where Marcius had 
 distinguished himself. 
 
 It was Agrippa also who once told to the plebeians the wonderful 
 fable where he compared the Roman senate and nobility to the belly 
 of a man, and the plebeians themselves to the corporal parts that 
 served it, — to the kingly head and vigilant eye ; the sturdy coun- 
 sellor, the heart; the leg that bore the body as a steed, and the 
 tongue, its trumpeter. Once, said Agrippa, these members of the 
 body all revolted against the belly for whom they were condemned to 
 labour, as they believed, without return or service on the belly's part, 
 but they soon found out that the despised belly was the source of 
 all their power, and that without its aid they scarce were able to 
 bestir themselves. As the belly laboured for them constantly, al- 
 though in ways that were, perhaps, unseen, just so, said Agrippa, 
 did the senators of Rome apply their wisdom to the common good, 
 — even to the foolish plebeians that rose in anger against them. 
 
 It so happened that in the very hour of this outbreak on the part 
 of the plebeians, word came to Rome that a people called the 
 Yolscians under the leadership of a terrible warrior, Aufidius, were 
 devastating the whole countryside with fire and sword, preparing 
 
CORIOLANUS 313 
 
 even to march on Rome and besiege the city. Cominius, a Roman 
 general, was given troops to crush the Volscians, and Marcius ac- 
 companied him as second in command — a fortunate station, for 
 should disaster befall the Romans, the blame would all be laid 
 upon Cominius; but should they triumph, Marcius would reap the 
 praise, so great was his reputation as a soldier. Marcius determined 
 to slay with his own hand the Volscian leader, Aufidius, for aware 
 of his own great skill and courage, he deemed Aufidius his only 
 worthy opponent. And Marcius declared that were the entire world 
 in peace, he would revolt to make his war upon Aufidius alone. 
 
 Marcius had a noble mother, Volumnia, who was in a large 
 measure the cause of his great fame and soldierly reputation. 
 Volumnia had trained him to think that he must exceed all other 
 men, or deem himself disgraced. When he was but a boy, Volumnia 
 sent him to a cruel war, whence he returned with his brows bound 
 with oak as a sign of courage. Volumnia rejoiced in the coming 
 conflict which would give her son yet another chance to win renown 
 and honour; and while Marcius was at the war, she went abroad 
 with calm and unmoved demeanour to visit with her neighbours, or, 
 with a serene countenance, remained at home to sew and spin, 
 exhorting his wife, Virgilia, to do the like and to show no sign of 
 the fear that tortured her in her husband's absence. 
 
 The severe training that Marcius had received from his Roman 
 mother was well justified in the war against the Volscians, where 
 he outdid all his former feats at arms. When the Romans had 
 retreated, it was Marcius who drove them back to the conflict 
 manifesting bravery that was the wonder of his soldiers. He fol- 
 lowed the Volscians single-handed through the gates of a town 
 called Corioli, whence he came forth alive by a miracle of fortune; 
 and laying siege to Corioli, Marcius struck it like a thunderbolt and 
 captured the city. He then went to the aid of his general, Cominius, 
 who was sore pressed by the Volscian soldiers, and with the aid of 
 Marcius, Cominius was rescued and the Volscians put to flight, 
 leaving the Romans everywhere victorious. But Marcius had not 
 
3 H TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 succeeded In slaying Aufidius, although he had engaged with him in 
 combat, for a company of Volscians rescued their general when 
 Marcius had beaten him to his knees and was prepared to deal him 
 a fatal blow. And Marcius regretted Aufidius' escape more keenly 
 than he rejoiced in the success now crowning the Roman banners — 
 a success due wholly to his own courageous action. 
 
 There was great joy among the Romans at their victory, and 
 Cominius ordered that Marcius, who had saved the day, should be 
 dignified by the surname of Coriolanus, whereby he should be called 
 forever after as a token of respect and admiration. The soldiers 
 with acclamations hailed him by this honourable title, and returned 
 victorious to Rome bearing him with triumph into the city. 
 
 Many of the plebeians had served in the army under Marcius 
 and witnessed his bravery. In the manner of ignorant men, their 
 former hatred of his scorn was changed to thoughtless wonder at 
 his present achievement, and when it was proposed that Marcius be 
 given the office of consul, it appeared that he would have the unre- 
 served approval of the plebeians which was necessary for any 
 claimant to that office. Marcius, however, now regarded the ple- 
 beians with greater contempt than ever, having been compelled to 
 drive them to battle by blows and to suppress them in mutinies and 
 revolts where, as he said, they showed more courage than against 
 the enemy. 
 
 There was a custom in Rome that he who would be consul must 
 stand in humble garments in some public place and beg of the 
 plebeians their consent to his election. Marcius wished to avoid 
 this custom and besought Agrippa to tell him some means to escape 
 it, but Agrippa answered angrily, saying that avoidance was not 
 to be thought of and bidding Marcius prepare with all speed to 
 meet the plebeians. It was a custom, Agrippa said, that all hon- 
 ourable men had conformed to, and he asked why Marcius should 
 be freed from it. He prayed his friend to put aside such foolish 
 arrogance which would lose him all his fame and fortune; and 
 
CORIOLANUS 315 
 
 Marcius was compelled to don the loose robe worn on such an 
 occasion, and go forth to the market-place to meet the plebeians. 
 
 Among the plebeians there were public officers called tribunes, 
 two of whom, Sicinius and Brutus, liked it but ill that Marcius was 
 to be elected to the office of consul which would give him great con- 
 trol over the people whom he so despised. Sicinius and Brutus also 
 had observed his unwillingness to meet the plebeians in the market- 
 place, and they plotted to anger the plebeians against him on the 
 first opportunity. They hoped that in the public meeting where 
 Marcius must ask of the people their consent to his election, his 
 pride might show itself and become a handle to their purpose, " For 
 he will beg," said Sicinius, " as if he does despise the favour he 
 requests " ; and Brutus answered, saying that a man as proud as 
 Marcius must feel shame so to demean himself before the multitude. 
 Sicinius said that he sincerely hoped Marcius would give the ple- 
 beians some cause of offence, for otherwise they would be undone 
 in electing for their consul one whose chief purpose was to destroy 
 them. 
 
 In the meanwhile Marcius in his humble garments had prepared 
 for the ordeal in store for him, but he could no more frame fair 
 speeches for the ears of the plebeians than he could put his heart 
 into such a purpose. Although in humble garb, he accosted the 
 plebeians proudly, saying that his merit, not his desire, had brought 
 him in such a pass before them, for it had never been his choice, 
 he said, to trouble the poor with begging. And while he spoke to 
 them in civil words asking his election, he did so with a doubtful 
 manner and veiled contempt that made the slow-witted plebeians 
 wonder if he were ridiculing them. Nevertheless they consented 
 to his election; but Marcius thanked them then with even less 
 concealment of his scorn, telling them that as he now had their 
 approval, which he was pleased to call their " alms," he would 
 bid them adieu and trouble them no further. He prepared then to 
 be invested with the power and the name of a Roman consul. 
 
3 i6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Sicinius and Brutus, in the meanwhile, came among the plebeians 
 and asked them in what manner Marcius had requested their ap- 
 proval. The plebeians said that he had done so with concealed 
 contempt, difficult to explain precisely, but clearly evident both in 
 his words and manner. " Then you were childish," said Sicinius, 
 " to consent that he should become your ruler," and Brutus called 
 them fools to yield up power into the hands of one who would use 
 it for their injury. With clever accusations the two tribunes kin- 
 dled a flame of anger against Marcius, until the people revoked the 
 consent they had but lately given to his election and filled the mar- 
 ket-place to oppose his way to the senate house, crying out that a 
 devil should be consul sooner than Caius Marcius who despised 
 them. 
 
 Sicinius and Brutus then prepared to halt the patricians who were 
 conveying Marcius to the hall of state where his new title was to 
 be given him, and they contrived to do so in a manner to awaken 
 him to anger, hoping that in his rage he would injure himself even 
 further among the plebeians. When Marcius was well on his way 
 to the senate house, Sicinius and Brutus forbade him curtly to go 
 further; when he demanded their reason, they replied, as he con- 
 sidered, with great insolence, calling out for the plebeians to lay 
 hands on him for resisting them; and when Marcius in a storm of 
 rage burst forth into a fiery tirade against plebeians and tribunes 
 alike, abusing them with keen scorn and invective aptly chosen, the 
 tribunes commanded that he should be hurled from the Tarpeian 
 precipice, condemning him to the death that the Romans were 
 used to inflict upon their criminals. A riot then took place, for 
 the plebeians fell upon the patricians with stones and clubs, seeking 
 to slay Marcius, until the patricians with drawn swords drove the 
 enraged and shouting rabble to a distance. 
 
 In great distress Agrippa then besought Marcius to retire to 
 his house while yet there was time, for the plebeians were rallying 
 to make another attack upon him, and he persuaded Marcius with 
 great difficulty to leave the market-place, for Marcius was prepared 
 
CORIOLANUS 317 
 
 to defy the plebeians single-handed if need be, so great was his 
 anger against them. Agrippa spoke artfully to the plebeians as 
 they returned, telling them that it was ever the way of soldiers 
 to be rough of tongue and that Marcius intended them no harm 
 by his ungentle words. If they would have patience, said Agrippa, 
 he himself would fetch Marcius to answer in due order all their 
 accusations. The old man then hurried to the house of Marcius, 
 bidding him in the name of all the gods to come forth and speak 
 the plebeians fair and show them some appearance of respect, for 
 even yet they might be pacified. Volumnia joined her entreaties 
 to Agrippa's, praying Marcius to go in humility and kneel before 
 them, for action, as she said, was eloquent in such a turmoil. She 
 bade him tell them that he was a soldier who did not possess the 
 softer way of speech that was as fit for him to use as theirs to claim 
 — thus, she said, her son should win them utterly and gain the office 
 he desired; and Cominius entered saying that he had just been to 
 the market-place, where Marcius even now might pacify the plebeians 
 if he would speak to them with apparent gentleness. Marcius at last 
 consented to their entreaties, although he said that the tears of 
 schoolboys must water his cheeks and a beggar's tongue be placed 
 between his lips for such a purpose. Still, he prepared to go, and 
 with the patricians he made his way a second time to the market- 
 place, where the plebeians were awaiting him. 
 
 The tribunes, however, beholding the anger with which Marcius 
 had regarded them, had resolved to charge him with the crime 
 of treason to his country, for they believed, and rightly, that such 
 an accusation would cast him into another violent passion in the 
 presence of the multitude, who in their turn would be further in- 
 flamed against him. So, when Marcius returned to the market- 
 place in company with the patricians, the tribunes addressed him 
 haughtily, asking him if he were content to listen to his crimes 
 and suffer lawful censure for such faults as should be proved against 
 him. 
 
 Even then new anger had commenced to rise in the heart of 
 
318 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Marcius, and he replied that he would be content when first the 
 tribunes should inform him why the people had refused the office 
 of consul that they had promised to him. The tribunes answered 
 that he was there to be judged, not to ask the why and wherefor 
 of his just disgrace. They charged him then with plots to win 
 an undue power in the state, and called him a traitor to the people. 
 
 On the disgraceful term of traitor being applied to him, Marcius 
 could contain himself no longer, but for a second time burst into 
 anger against plebeians and tribunes, calling Sicinius an injurious 
 liar, which he would do, he said, were twenty thousand deaths the 
 penalty. When Agrippa reminded him of his promise Marcius 
 refused to hear him, calling out for the powers of Hell to take the 
 plebeians, exclaiming that the curs could pronounce upon him death, 
 exile, flogging or imprisonment, whatever might please them best, 
 for he would not buy their mercy with one fair word. 
 
 The tribunes had ordered the plebeians to support them in what- 
 ever sentence they should impose on Marcius. They said now that 
 on account of his former services they had decided to spare his 
 life, but they condemned him, none the less, to instant and eternal 
 banishment, forbidding him ever to re-enter Rome on pain of death. 
 The plebeians then raised their voices in approval of the tribunes' 
 sentence, shouting at Marcius with scorn and derision, while many 
 crowded to the city gates to hoot him into exile. 
 
 Thus with intolerance and anger as great as his own, Marcius 
 was driven from the city that he had saved. As for the plebeians, 
 he defied them bitterly with the wish that they might ever continue 
 to banish their defenders; and taking leave of his wife and mother 
 in great sorrow, Marcius turned his back upon his country. 
 
 When Marcius was banished, he bethought him of his enemy, 
 Aufidius, who had retired, after his defeat by the Romans, to the 
 city of Antium, where he won great influence in state affairs and 
 was honoured by the people; and Marcius was determined to seek 
 Aufidius, not for the purpose of further combat, but to offer his 
 services against the Romans who had cast him from their gates. 
 
CORIOLANUS 319 
 
 It was of small consequence to Marcius that Aufidius and the 
 people of Antium might instantly slay him. Far greater than such 
 fear was his desire to revenge himself upon the Romans, which 
 could be accomplished only through alliance with their enemies. 
 
 Aufidius on his part had thought constantly about his great enemy, 
 Marcius, whom he was resolved to be revenged upon; and he would 
 often dream that he and Marcius again were in deadly combat with 
 each other, locked in a fierce embrace or giving and exchanging 
 dangerous blows. Although Aufidius imagined these encounters 
 only in his sleep, his dreams were so real to him that he would 
 awaken from them fainting with exhaustion as though he had 
 indeed been striving in battle and they served well to keep alive 
 and hot the hatred that he bore to Marcius. 
 
 A feast was being given by Aufidius to the senators and states- 
 men of Antium, when Marcius in ragged garments entered his 
 house. When the servants attempted to repel him, Marcius drove 
 them away, demanding to speak with their master, and struck with 
 fear at his manner they bore word to Aufidius that a mad stranger 
 was within who insisted on seeing him, until Aufidius quitted the 
 banquet hall and came face to face with Marcius, demanding his 
 name and why with such insolence he forced his way into a private 
 dwelling at such a time. 
 
 Marcius replied that his name was most unmusical to Volscian 
 ears and harshest in its sound of all the world to Aufidius, who 
 had good cause to know it well. 
 
 " You have a grim appearance," said Aufidius, " your face bears 
 command. Though your garments are torn, you show nobility. 
 Tell me your name, I pray you." 
 
 Marcius answered, saying defiantly that the harm he had 
 worked upon Aufidius and all Volscians was witnessed by his surname 
 of Coriolanus. The nobles of his city, as he said, had basely 
 deserted him, allowing slaves to hoot him forth from Rome in ban- 
 ishment. This disgrace had brought him to the dwelling of Aufidius, 
 where, if he feared death, he would not stand, for of all men liv- 
 
3 2o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ing Aufidius was the most dangerous to him. But, said Marcius, 
 if Aufidius and the people of Antium had a heart to be revenged 
 on Rome, his misery would serve them well, for he would fight 
 against his cankered country with the anger of the under fiends. 
 If they doubted this, he continued, he offered Aufidius his throat 
 to cut which not to do would prove Aufidius no better than a fool, 
 as Marcius had ever followed him with hate and could not live 
 but to his shame unless he lived to do him service. 
 
 " O Marcius," cried Aufidius, " every word you have spoken 
 has weeded from my heart a root of ancient envy. If Jupiter should 
 speak divine things I would not believe them more true than your 
 own words." He said that even then there was an expedition on 
 foot against the Romans where he had purposed once again to 
 strive with Marcius in valour on the battle-field; and Aufidius con- 
 tinued that he had loved the maid he married, never man sighed 
 truer breath than he, but his heart danced more at thus beholding 
 Marcius than when he bore his wedded bride across his threshold. 
 He then led Marcius to the place of feasting, where the senators 
 of Antium were assembled. They greeted Marcius with hearty 
 welcome and sincere respect and created him commander over their 
 army with a power equal to that of Aufidius. 
 
 But how much terror was awakened among the Romans when they 
 heard that Marcius, whom they had but lately banished, was advanc- 
 ing with hot malice to destroy them ! For Marcius had determined 
 to sacrifice them all to his revenge and leave no man, woman or 
 child of Rome alive, including in his hate even his former friends 
 who were, he said, like scattered grains of wheat in a great pile 
 of chaff, not worth the labour of sifting. And it appeared that 
 Marcius' great anger had blinded him to the dearest ties of his affec- 
 tion, for while his mother with his wife and little son were still in 
 Rome, he and Aufidius led their soldiers to the Roman walls and 
 invested the city with a relentless and terrible siege that might not 
 be resisted. 
 
 Now did the plebeians turn against the tribunes who had coun- 
 
CORIOLANUS 321 
 
 selled them to banish Marcius, and now they remembered well his 
 former services in war and his glory on the battle-field, for these 
 were brought sternly home to them by finding their former pro- 
 tector a raging enemy. In great fear the plebeians begged the 
 friends of Marcius to go into his camp and endeavour to dissuade 
 him from his cruel and terrible purpose, and Cominius his former 
 general and dear companion visited him. But Marcius dismissed 
 Cominius with a motion of his hand, refusing to speak a single 
 word, and the aged Agrippa was driven away with equal scorn, 
 Marcius giving him no word of comfort, saying only that he knew 
 not wife, mother, or child and was turned Volscian. The Romans 
 must prepare for death, for he would cast them one and all into 
 the flames of their own dwellings; and turning to Aufidius, Marcius 
 bade him mark the deadly certainty of his purpose, for Agrippa, 
 as he said, had been beloved by him in former days, and yet he now 
 drove the old man back to Rome with a broken heart, as Aufidius 
 could perceive. 
 
 Agrippa returned to Rome in utter sadness and bade the people 
 to prepare for their execution. He said that sentence of death 
 was passed upon them, and that there was no thought of mercy in 
 the breast of Marcius. 
 
 In a last hope to win Marcius to be merciful, his mother 
 Volumnia approached him with his wife and little son, all robed in 
 black and bending in supplication; and the sorrowing family cast 
 themselves before him. Volumnia bade him to behold how un- 
 properly she thus did duty, kneeling with no softer cushion than the 
 flint before that son whom she had helped to frame and bring into 
 the world. She bade Marcius to look on his unhappy family who 
 were constrained to weep on seeing him, when his presence by all 
 natural laws should bring nothing but joy to their hearts. Marcius, 
 she continued, had bereft them of all comfort, even of praying to 
 the gods in their extremity, for how could they pray for his success, 
 she asked, when this must mean the ruin of his city, and how could 
 they wish Rome to conquer when the Roman's victory would de- 
 
322 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 mand that Marcius must be led as a foreign recreant through 
 Roman streets — a traitor. How would history speak of such un- 
 natural scenes and say of Marcius: " This man was noble, but his 
 last attempt wiped all the honour out " ? For her own part, Volum- 
 nia concluded, she would not wait until that time or even until the 
 enemy had broken down the Roman walls. No sooner should they 
 march to the attack, than Marcius must tread upon the mother's 
 womb that brought him into the world. 
 
 Marcius, although much affected by her sorrow, would then have 
 dismissed her, but Volumnia still clung to him, imploring him to 
 show the grace of mercy; and his wife and son joined in her appeals, 
 until it seemed as if a man of iron could not resist them, and 
 Marcius could bear their words no longer. 
 
 Volumnia had won for Rome a happier victory than all the 
 swords of Italy could have effected, for Marcius said to Aufidius 
 that he would proceed no further with the siege, asking Aufidius 
 if he could have done less when spoken to in such a way by 
 his own mother. But Marcius cried out to Volumnia, asking if 
 she knew what she had done. She had saved Rome, he said, but 
 with her own son she had prevailed most dangerously, if not to 
 his mortal hurt. For he feared that when he should return 
 to Antium, the senators on hearing of his action would decree his 
 death. Yet Marcius still refused to place his foot within the hated 
 city of Rome. 
 
 Marcius then departed, telling his mother that the Romans should 
 build a temple in her honour. She had saved them one and all 
 from certain death and their city from destruction, for he had re- 
 solved he said that even the name of Rome should perish beneath 
 his hand. He returned with Aufidius to Antium, leaving Rome 
 with no less hatred than he came, and the Romans never again beheld 
 him. 
 
 The Romans cherished Volumnia among the noblest of all their 
 patriots and her name and her great service were entered in the 
 archives of their city. As for Marcius, his belief in the fate that 
 
CORIOLANUS 323 
 
 awaited him at Antium was only too certain, for he was treacher- 
 ously slain there by no other than Aufidius. But the people of 
 Antium gave Marcius a soldier's funeral resolving that in spite of 
 all the injury they had received at his hands, his memory should be 
 noble and fair among them. 
 
JULIUS OESAR 
 
 MARCUS BRUTUS was a Roman of noble birth, whose 
 ancestors, famous for the stern patriotism with which they 
 guarded their city against tyrants, believed that their chief 
 duty was to preserve Rome from internal enemies, holding traitors 
 more dangerous than hostile armies and undue power in the hands 
 of any citizen the most harmful evil to the Roman state. Brutus 
 inherited the temper of his forefathers, and was loved alike by 
 the common people and the most famous men of Rome — both 
 for the great name that he bore and for the noble qualities of his 
 disposition that rendered him in all eyes worthy of the utmost fa- 
 vour. First among the friends of Brutus was Julius Caesar who 
 held him in affectionate regard and conferred kindness and honour 
 upon him. 
 
 Brutus, who beheld in Caesar the qualities of greatness shine with 
 so brilliant a lustre that few men have known the equal, made full 
 return of Caesar's friendship and affection. And although Caesar, 
 as the conqueror of the world, was worthy of the utmost reverence, 
 Brutus in many ways was not inferior to his mighty friend, — rather 
 did he surpass Caesar in the pure and self-sacrificing flame of his 
 patriotism, being prepared to render up his life and what was far 
 dearer to him, his personal honour, in any cause that he considered 
 for his country's good. This disinterested patriotism on the part 
 of Brutus was stronger even than his friendship for Julius Caesar. 
 
 As every great man has bitter enemies, there were in Rome many 
 who through spite and secret ambition were resolved to curb Caesar's 
 flight to that of their own lesser powers, to pluck his laurels from 
 him and work on him all possible injury. Chief of these was Caius 
 Cassius, to whom the glory of another than himself was gall and 
 bitterness. 
 
 324 
 
JULIUS CjESAR 325 
 
 Cassius was possessed of a dark and rebellious spirit that suffered 
 him no joy or peace of mind while he beheld any other to be greater 
 than himself. Cassius scorned the amusements of his fellows; the 
 common sports and pleasures of his time, the enjoyments in which 
 his countrymen took delight were held by him to be contemptible. 
 He saw no plays, and listened to no music. He seldom smiled, 
 and when he did he smiled as if he mocked himself for being moved 
 to mirth. And Cassius, who was a great observer, would spend his 
 time considering the deeds of other men; and his thoughts were 
 gloomy, discontented and dangerous. 
 
 Cassius had formed a plot against the life of Caesar, and num- 
 bered among his fellows as many restless and intolerant spirits as pri- 
 vate hatred and malicious envy could assemble for his purpose. 
 Knowing the character of Brutus, who with all his virtues was open to 
 deception, Cassius determined to persuade him that his great friend 
 Caesar was indeed too great for safety, and appealing openly to 
 Brutus' sense of patriotism, in secret to flatter his pride and mis- 
 direct his energies until Brutus should consent to Caesar's death. 
 For Brutus, he believed, was held so dear in the hearts of all the 
 people that his name and countenance would gild the evil efforts of 
 the other conspirators, changing offence to virtue, until Caesar's 
 murder should appear a high and honourable sacrifice. 
 
 There were at this time certain signs that should have warned 
 Caesar of the danger that threatened him, for when he was being 
 accompanied through Rome in triumph after his defeat of the great 
 Pompey, a voice cried out to him in the street, bidding him beware 
 the Ides of March in tones of strange and prophetic warning; and 
 when Caesar halted his progress and commanded that the speaker 
 be set before him, there was brought into his presence an old man 
 who was a soothsayer, having a strange power to foretell the future, 
 and he bade Caesar a second time to beware the Ides of March 
 in tones of unearthly significance that the bystanders shuddered to 
 hear. Other warning prophecies had been made to Caesar, but he, 
 
326 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 who called himself danger's elder brother, regarded none of them, 
 and went his way unheeding the utterance of the soothsayer. 
 
 It was then that Cassius resolved to approach Brutus with the 
 secret infamy he meditated, and no time could have suited his 
 purpose more exactly, for Brutus himself, with the thoughts of his 
 country that were ever in his mind, had begun to fear that Caesar 
 was too powerful. He had remained behind in thought, while 
 Caesar in his triumphant march continued after being halted by the 
 soothsayer; and Cassius came on Brutus when his brow was dark 
 at a distant shouting that made him think the people were proclaim- 
 ing Caesar king. 
 
 Cassius, who beheld the distress and uneasiness of Brutus and 
 marked how he alone remained solitary while all others were cel- 
 ebrating Caesar's triumph, was able partly to read his thoughts and 
 to guess the cause of his disturbance, that made itself evident 
 both by look and gesture. He spoke to Brutus in a crafty manner, 
 saying it was to be lamented that Brutus might not behold his own 
 secret thoughts, which Cassius like a mirror would now disclose to 
 him by reflection. And he gave to Brutus obscure hints of his 
 purpose, that Brutus, whose brain was quick with the same thoughts 
 — ■ although as yet he guessed them not, was quick to read. And 
 Brutus asked him what he meant by speaking to him in that manner 
 and inquired into what dangers Cassius would lead him, by bidding 
 him look inward on himself to read what was not in his heart. 
 
 As he spoke these words, there came another distant shout, louder 
 than any previous, and with it there was a prolonged noise of trump- 
 ets, and Brutus exclaimed, " What can this shouting mean? " and said 
 he feared the people had chosen Caesar for their king. 
 
 " If you fear it, Brutus," said Cassius, " I must think you would 
 not have it so." 
 
 " That I would not," said Brutus, " and yet I love Caesar well. 
 But why do you hold me here so long ? What is it that you would 
 impart to me? If it be anything for the general public good speak 
 boldly and I will hear you, aye and follow you, Cassius, wherever 
 
AN OLD MAN — A SOOTHSAYER — BADE HIM TO BEWARE THE IDES OF 
 
 march "—Pag-e 325 
 
JULIUS GflESAR 327 
 
 you will lead, for as the gods may speed me while I love the name 
 of honour more than I fear death, yet will I look on both in- 
 differently in such a cause." 
 
 Cassius then spoke more boldly. He said that both he and Brutus 
 were born as free as Caesar; that both had fed as well and could 
 endure the winter's cold as well as he, — aye, better, for once, said 
 Cassius, he rescued Caesar from the raging Tiber, bearing him on his 
 shoulders from the flood when together on a raw and gusty day they 
 had attempted to swim its torrent. This was the man, said Cassius, 
 who had become a god, to whom he, a wretched creature must bend 
 his body if Caesar carelessly but nod on him! It did amaze him, 
 said he, that a man of so feeble temper had become so mighty. He 
 called Caesar a colossus that bestrode the world while more petty 
 men walked under his huge legs and peeped about to find dishon- 
 ourable graves; and in a fit of jealous rage he cried, " Now, in the 
 names of all the gods, upon what meat doth Caesar feed that he is 
 grown so great! " He said the fault that they were underlings lay 
 not in their stars but in themselves, for all men at some time were 
 masters of their fates, if they would but seize their opportunities. 
 He then bade Brutus to think of his ancestors, who would have 
 bowed to the rule of any evil spirit sooner than to a Roman king, 
 for once there was a Brutus, said Cassius, who drove the Tarquin 
 from the streets of Rome for being called a king. 
 
 Hardly had he spoken in this manner, when they learned that 
 Caesar's follower, Mark Antony, had offered Caesar thrice, a kingly 
 crown, which Caesar, to be sure, had thrice refused, though each 
 time, it was said, with greater gentleness, putting it aside as though 
 he fain would have accepted it. And Brutus on hearing this, whis- 
 pered to Cassius to come to him again and speak further of his 
 purposes, for he was torn between a natural and loving affection for 
 his friend and the fear lest Caesar should indeed become a king. 
 And Cassius rejoiced greatly to have stricken such show of fire from 
 one who by all laws of gratitude and kindness should have been 
 Caesar's dearest supporter. 
 
328 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 To influence Brutus even further, Cassius had letters secretly- 
 thrown in at his window; and in these, which were written in differ- 
 ent hands, as though they came from several citizens, the noble 
 qualities of Brutus were highly praised and Caesar's ambition 
 glanced at; and in the letters also was written, " Brutus, thou sleep' st, 
 awake! " and the words " speak, strike, redress! " 
 
 The night that Brutus received the letters was dark, and terrible 
 with thunder and lightning. The sky seemed to rain fire upon the 
 city, and strange occurrences affrighted all that went abroad. A 
 common slave was seen to hold up his left hand that flamed like 
 twenty torches; men all in fire walked the streets, and a thousand 
 fearful apparitions brought terror to all that beheld them. 
 
 To Brutus, in the hour before dawn, came all the conspirators, 
 closely muffled in their cloaks so that none might recognize them. 
 They resolved to murder Caesar that very morning in the senate 
 house. The manner of the murder should be that all were to 
 surround him and when Casca, one of their number, raised his hand 
 to strike, the rest should fall on Caesar with their swords, and slay 
 him. 
 
 Cassius would have made them swear one and all to perform what 
 they intended, but Brutus would not have it so, saying that if their 
 purpose were so weak it must be strengthened by an oath, they were 
 better all at home in their idle beds while tyranny ranged on un- 
 checked; while if their hearts were sure and their purpose certain 
 (for it was a purpose, said Brutus, to make bold the hearts of 
 cowards and fire the spirits of women) what other bond was needed 
 than their secret word? Brutus likewise refused to consent to the 
 murder of Mark Antony, whom Cassius wished to slay with Caesar; 
 for Brutus thought their course would then seem too bloody, like 
 wrath in death and envy afterwards. And Brutus, who loved 
 Caesar even while plotting against him, bade them slay him boldly 
 but without wrath as a sacrifice fit for the gods. Thus, said he, 
 they should be called patriots, not murderers, and their purpose 
 should seem to have been performed less out of envy than for the 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 329 
 
 common good of Rome. The conspirators then departed with their 
 plot completed. Some were to fetch Caesar to the senate house; 
 the rest were to contrive to be near his person there. And Brutus 
 was left alone in that waking hour betwixt night and dawn, a prey 
 to terrible thoughts that distracted him. 
 
 Calpurnia, the wife of Caesar, had been sorely frightened by the 
 strange occurrences of the night, and evil dreams had befallen her. 
 She dreamed that Caesar's statue spouted blood in an hundred differ- 
 ent places, and that many smiling Romans came to bathe their hands 
 in it. In the morning when she beheld Caesar prepare to go 
 forth as usual, she cried that he should not stir out of his house that 
 day; and she recounted to him all the fearsome things that had 
 befallen. A lioness, said she, had whelped in the open streets; 
 graves had yawned and yielded up their dead; and ranks and 
 squadrons of fierce warriors had fought upon the clouds, so that the 
 noise of battle was born through all the air and blood was sprinkled 
 on the Capitol. Word was then brought to Caesar from the 
 augurers — the priests who foretold the future by strange signs 
 that none save themselves could read — counselling him to stay 
 within his house, for on plucking forth the entrails of a beast that 
 they had slain in sacrifice, they could find no heart within it. 
 
 Calpurnia, when hearing this, called on Caesar by all that was 
 dear to her to go not forth, for she feared these signs were portents 
 of his speedy death; and on her knees she begged him to remain 
 at home, until Caesar said at last that he would humour her and 
 that Mark Antony should bear word to the senators he would not 
 come that day. 
 
 On that instant, however, a conspirator came to fetch Caesar to 
 the senate house. On hearing that he would not go, and for what 
 reasons, he said the dream was all amiss interpreted — the statue 
 spouting blood in which so many smiling Romans bathed, signified 
 that from the noble Caesar Rome should suck reviving energies and 
 great men seek his favour. The senate (as he said) had concluded 
 on that very day to give a crown to mighty Caesar; would not their 
 
330 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 minds change in case he should remain away until Calpurnia had 
 better dreams, and might not people also mock at Caesar and say 
 to one another, " Can it be that Caesar is afraid? " In short the 
 reasons for his going were so artfully contrived, and other con- 
 spirators who he believed friends were now urging him forth with 
 such persistence, that Caesar said he was ashamed to have yielded 
 to Calpurnia; he called for his robe, for he would go, and set 
 forth all unconscious that none save relentless enemies were near 
 him. 
 
 On his way to the senate, Caesar encountered once again the 
 soothsayer who had cried out in warning on the day previous, and 
 Caesar said to him, " The Ides of March have come," to which the 
 soothsayer replied, " Ay, Caesar, but not yet passed." Another old 
 man then thrust into Caesar's hand a paper giving warning of his 
 danger, which might yet have saved him had he read it, but he 
 put it aside unread, entered the senate house and took his place near 
 Pompey's statue to hear the order of the day. 
 
 At this the conspirators brought forward a petition that they knew 
 well Caesar would refuse to grant, and one by one they addressed 
 him, calling him mighty Caesar, kneeling before him and caressing 
 his garments, until Casca giving the signal by lifting his dagger 
 stabbed him treacherously from behind, when one by one they 
 turned their weapons against him. And when Caesar beheld the 
 hand of his beloved Brutus raised to strike, he could bear no more 
 and muffling his face in his toga, fell bleeding in front of Pompey's 
 statue and there died. 
 
 Then with uplifted weapons the conspirators shouted, " Liberty! 
 Freedom ! " and Brutus cried out to the people that they should have 
 no fear: harm was intended to no other than Caesar. For a roar 
 as from a mighty sea had arisen when Caesar fell, and men ran 
 blindly here and there, calling out in horror, grief and amazement. 
 Guarding themselves, the conspirators stood in a little group to 
 defend themselves if need be against the people, and they bathed 
 their hands and arms in Caesar's blood, preparing, when the turmoil 
 
JULIUS CAESAR 331 
 
 had subsided to walk forth with crimson weapons and cry " peace," 
 " freedom " and " liberty " even to the market-place. 
 
 While they were thus standing with unwiped swords, a servant 
 of Mark Antony came and fell before them, saying that his master 
 bade him to do so, and, being prostrate, bade him to say that 
 Brutus was noble, wise, valiant and honest; that if Brutus would 
 vouchsafe that Antony might safely come to him and be resolved 
 how Caesar had deserved to lie in death, Antony should not love 
 Caesar dead so well as Brutus living, but would follow him with all 
 true faith and be his friend in all his fortunes and affairs. 
 
 Brutus bade the servant to tell Antony that safety should be 
 given him and Antony shortly came upon them. Beholding Caesar 
 dead, he scarce could contain himself and wept over the body. He 
 bade each one of the conspirators render him his bloody hand, 
 saying that he would remember them in equal love : friends would 
 he be with all (on the hope and condition, as he said, that they 
 give him reasons wherein Caesar was dangerous) . And Antony said 
 further that he begged of them one boon : that as became a friend, 
 he should be allowed to speak to the people at Caesar's funeral. 
 
 Brutus granted this request and gave Antony the charge of 
 Caesar's body. He said that Antony should speak all good of 
 Caesar but say no blame of those that slew him; and further, said 
 Brutus, Antony must say he spoke by leave of the conspirators, to 
 which Antony assented. For Antony knew that could he but once 
 address the people, his grief and anger, inspiring his words, would 
 set on foot the greatest mischief to the murderers; and the limits 
 Brutus imposed on him were still not great enough to thwart his 
 purpose, for Antony was master of the art of making fair words 
 praise or condemn as he might choose. 
 
 And now that Antony was left alone with Caesar's body, he gave 
 way to tears and addressed the bleeding form that lay before him, 
 asking the dead Caesar to forgive him that he seemed so meek and 
 gentle with these butchers. And over Caesar's wounds that seemed, 
 he said, to open their ruby lips and beg the voice and utterance of 
 
332 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 his tongue, Antony bade Caesar to have patience, for the dogs of 
 war should be let loose in Italy until they should revenge his death. 
 And Antony prophesied destruction and fierce civil strife as a result 
 of that foul deed, that should be made to smell above the earth, 
 like carrion men, groaning for burial. 
 
 The conspirators, in the meanwhile, had gone to the forum, and 
 Brutus addressed the throng that had assembled there. He called 
 them Romans, fellow-countrymen, and bade them hear him to the 
 end and have respect for his honour that they might believe. He 
 said that as Caesar loved him, so did he weep for Caesar; as Caesar 
 was fortunate, he rejoiced at it; as he was valiant, he honoured him; 
 but as he was ambitious, he slew him. Who, said Brutus, was so 
 base that he would be a slave and a bondman? If any, let him 
 speak, for him alone this sacrifice had offended. He added that as 
 he slew his dearest friend for the glory of Rome, he had the same 
 dagger for himself when it should please his country to need his 
 death; and having won the people by his words, Brutus bade them 
 to listen to Mark Antony, who, by his permission, was to do grace 
 unto Caesar's corpse and speak of Caesar's glories. For himself, he 
 entreated them to let him depart unattended and to harken to the 
 words of his successor. So Antony, his eyes all red with weeping, 
 ascended the speaker's place and addressed the multitude. 
 
 He came, he said, to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil 
 that men did lived after them, — the good was oft interred with 
 their bones. The noble Brutus had told them Caesar was ambitious 
 and ambition were a grievous fault. Caesar, said Antony, was his 
 own dear friend, faithful and just to him. He had brought many 
 captives home to Rome whose ransom did the general coffers fill. 
 Was that ambition? When the poor had cried, Caesar had wept. 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. They all did see how 
 Antony had offered Caesar thrice a kingly crown, which Caesar thrice 
 refused. And how, asked Antony, was that ambition? Still, he 
 said, he came not to disprove the noble Brutus who was an honour- 
 able man (as were they all that had killed Caesar), he came merely 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 333 
 
 to speak what he did know: that all had once loved Caesar, not 
 without cause. What cause withheld them, then, to mourn for 
 him? 
 
 Antony then showed them Caesar's will which he said he would 
 not read — for it would wrong the honourable men whose daggers 
 had killed Caesar. But should he read it, the people would all 
 weep and dip their handkerchiefs in Caesar's sacred blood — yea, 
 beg a hair from him in memory, mentioning it in their own wills 
 as a rich legacy to be bequeathed to their heirs forever. It was 
 not meet that they should know how Caesar had loved them. De- 
 scending to the body Antony then lifted Caesar's mantle and showed 
 his wounds, saying that all did know that mantle — it was the one 
 that Caesar wore that day he overcame the Nervii. Here ran 
 Cassius' dagger through ; there was the rent the envious Casca made ; 
 here Brutus stabbed,^ — and Antony bade them mark how blood had 
 followed that last stroke as if it had rushed forth to know if it were 
 indeed Brutus who knocked with such unkindness, for Brutus, as 
 they all knew, was Caesar's dearest friend, almost his angel. 
 
 When the people, who had been thrown into a frenzy by this 
 speech of Antony's, were breaking away to set fire to the houses of the 
 conspirators, Antony called them back saying they had forgotten the 
 will that they had forced him, although against his better judgment, 
 now to read. And he read how Caesar had bequeathed them every 
 one seventy-five drachmas, how he had left to them and their heirs 
 forever all his walks, all his private arbours and new-planted or- 
 chards on this side of the river Tiber — common pleasure-grounds 
 where they might walk abroad and recreate themselves. And the 
 reading of the will — as Antony had intended — aroused such rage 
 and grief among the people that they straightway rushed to the 
 homes of the conspirators and burned them, seeking to shed the 
 last drop of blood of all that had taken part in Caesar's death. 
 
 The conspirators, however, had learned of their approach and 
 had fled from the city, riding like madmen through the gates, for 
 Rome was now in the complete control of Antony and his followers. 
 
334 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 And Brutus and Cassius assembled an army and awaited near Sardis 
 the approach of Antony, who, with a nephew of Caesar named 
 Octavius, and a great force of soldiers were come in their pursuit. 
 
 At this time there came upon Brutus a visitation that made him 
 well aware his cause was lost and that the murder of Csesar must 
 be requited by the death of those that slew him : for one night 
 when Brutus sat awake in his tent, while all others slept and the 
 lamp burned low, he saw an apparition moving towards him in the 
 likeness of the murdered Caesar, and it was indeed his ghost. It 
 cried to Brutus it had come as his evil angel and would meet him 
 once again at Philippi. It then vanished, leaving Brutus pale and 
 shaken. And strangely enough, the forces of Antony and Octavius 
 came upon Brutus in such a manner that they must be encountered 
 near the place the spirit had mentioned to him. And there the ghost 
 appeared again to Brutus, and in a bloody battle that followed, the 
 death of Caesar was requited for Antony overwhelmed the troops 
 of the conspirators and Brutus and Cassius both perished, slaying 
 themselves sooner than to be taken captive and led chained through 
 Rome at the chariot-wheels of their conqueror. 
 
 Thus was the tragedy concluded that had its beginning largely 
 through the mistaken patriotism of Marcus Brutus. For Brutus, 
 as Antony afterward said of him, was the only one of the conspira- 
 tors who had not acted out of envy of Caesar's greatness. His 
 conquerors, therefore, gave Brutus' body an honourable burial, using 
 him according to his virtues, as a soldier and a patriot of Rome. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 IN Egypt there once reigned a beautiful and ambitious queen 
 named Cleopatra, of such rare charm and strange attraction 
 that she seemed to cast a spell over all men that came into her 
 presence; and Cleopatra used her beauty with a deep and artful 
 cleverness to win whatever she desired — in a manner beyond ex- 
 planation, almost magical. 
 
 Cleopatra had been placed upon the throne of Egypt by Julius 
 Caesar, who won her kingdom from her brother Ptolemy — for 
 Caesar had been stricken with instant and blinding affection for 
 Cleopatra, who overpowered him with the amazing wonder of her 
 beauty until he became bound hand and foot to do her service. 
 But when Caesar was murdered, his control over the Roman do- 
 minions of which Egypt was part, was taken by three men who 
 called themselves triumvirs, one of whom was Caesar's former 
 friend, Mark Antony. 
 
 When the triumvirs divided the Roman territory, Egypt and the 
 kingdoms of the east were given to Mark Antony, and Cleopatra 
 determined to win his heart as she had won the heart of Caesar 
 before him, until like Caesar, Antony should be fast fettered in her 
 love to do her bidding. For Cleopatra intended through the love 
 of Antony to become the mistress of the eastern kingdoms that he 
 ruled, and she resolved to spare no pains to win this power for which 
 purpose she must first become the mistress of Antony's affections. 
 
 So, when Antony came into the east, Cleopatra surrounded her- 
 self with a display of wealth unparalleled even in that day, when 
 kings and queens spared no splendour in their adornment; and she 
 sailed down the river Cydnus to meet him, in a barge wonderful 
 with gold until it seemed to burn upon the water. The oars were 
 all of silver and kept stroke to time of flutes that played in pleasing 
 
 335 
 
336 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 melody; the sails were of purple silk, perfumed until the very winds 
 were love-sick with them and a strange and subtle scent was blown 
 to the shore. On deck, in a pavilion of gold cloth, where were 
 embroidered the loves of Venus, Cleopatra lay in great magnificence, 
 waited on by boys like Cupids, while her handmaidens, who were 
 her sailors, pulled at the silken ropes until the great sails swelled 
 and flared like flame above her head. 
 
 That night Cleopatra invited Antony to a great banquet, where 
 she won his heart as she had won the heart of Caesar before him; 
 and Antony became her complete slave, forgetting all save his desire 
 to serve and to be near this marvellous queen. Antony thought 
 no more of his fellow triumvirs, to whom he owed the duty of safe 
 keeping the great countries in his charge; he forgot his wife, Fulvia, 
 or if thinking of her wished her dead, and spent his time revelling 
 and feasting with Cleopatra. She, who saw that Antony was held 
 in love of her, would laugh him in and out of patience; and once, 
 while he was in his cups, she arrayed him for a jest in her mantles 
 and head-dress, while she buckled to her waist his Roman sword. 
 By her side the nights of Antony were made light with wine and 
 revelry, but his days were spent in idle slumber and dull ease, ill 
 fitting his great fame and his honour as a Roman general. For 
 Antony, in his affection for Cleopatra, forgot his duties as a sol- 
 dier and the care of the great countries that had been entrusted 
 to him; and in his way of life, the ease in which he took his pleasure 
 and the luxury that surrounded him, Antony became as womanly 
 as the queen he loved. 
 
 The love-making of Antony and his utter subjection to the idlest 
 whim of Cleopatra, were soon born to the ears of Octavius Caesar 
 and Marcus Lepidus, his fellow triumvirs, who were greatly an- 
 gered by his misconduct. For Antony's lieutenants were more pow- 
 erful in deed than their commander, who would, moreover, insult 
 the messengers from Rome and pay but little heed to their most 
 urgent tidings. Antony preferred to reel the streets of Alexandria 
 at noon, brawling and exchanging buffets with the idle rogues that 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 337 
 
 he encountered, and he cared not that his feasting and luxurious 
 ways were the shame of his friends at Rome and had become the 
 common theme of gossip in the Roman market-place. Antony's 
 wild revels and carousings were the more marked and brought more 
 sharply into public disfavour by his former greatness, for until he 
 met with Cleopatra, he had been a skillful and brave commander, 
 capable of any hardship, disdaining not the rudest berry on the 
 roughest hedge for food, prepared to couch himself on flint and 
 sleep there as in a bed of down, with action and purposes all strong 
 and resolute, as befitted a great soldier. 
 
 If any time could have awakened Antony from his revels, affairs 
 in Italy should then have called him thither, for Rome was threat- 
 ened with the swords of civil war, and Caesar and Lepidus were in 
 sore need of the troops that Antony had with him in the east. The 
 son of the great Pompey who had been Julius Caesar's enemy, now 
 threatened the triumvirs as his father had threatened Caesar, and all 
 discontented persons who hoped to repair their fortunes by a war, 
 had flocked to Pompey's banner. Antony's wife, Fulvia, had raised 
 an army against Caesar, hoping by this means to call her lord from 
 Egypt; but Fulvia had been stricken with a grievous illness and 
 suddenly in the midst of her preparations she had died. 
 
 Word of these ill tidings came together to the court of Cleopatra, 
 and Antony determined that he must break his strong Egyptian 
 fetters, as he named her charms, and hasten to Italy, where the 
 times, he said, cried out to him to leave his idle love-making. So 
 Antony bade Cleopatra to use no means to withhold him for he 
 would go; and he took his farewell fearfully lest even then sh^ 
 might dissuade him. For Cleopatra cared not if his Roman for- 
 tunes were destroyed forever so long as he remained with her and 
 had the power to do her bidding in the east. She feared that if 
 Antony departed, her control over him would be lost, and she sought 
 to change his purpose with all her skill and all her arts. She said 
 that eternity had spoken from their lips and eyes ; that love such as 
 theirs could bide no separation. When she found him still resolved 
 
 * 
 
338 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 in spite of all her pleadings, she wished him smooth success and 
 laurelled victory, and bade him, although in anger and sadness, to. 
 leave her. And Antony left in haste, flying like a fugitive from 
 Egypt, lest the persuasion of Cleopatra weaken him and force him 
 to forego his purpose. 
 
 When Antony arrived at Rome, he found that his long continued 
 absence and the evil repute that preceded him had harmed him not 
 a little in all Roman eyes, while Caesar was enraged to the point of 
 taking up arms against him. Were it not for their common enemy, 
 Pompey, Antony and Caesar then and there would have made war 
 upon each other, but Pompey had gained control of all the sea and 
 was proud in his new strength. Antony and Caesar, therefore, 
 became reconciled, and to seal their revived friendship, Antony mar- 
 ried Caesar's sister, Octavia, a matron of high and noble character, 
 ill suited to become the wife of such a reveller as Antony. For 
 even then Antony was planning to acquit himself against Pompey 
 with the utmost speed and return to the gorgeous pleasures of the 
 east and to the arms of Cleopatra. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Cleopatra was love-sick and restless at the 
 absence of her beloved Antony. She told her maids that she would 
 drink mandragora and sleep till his return; yet how then, said she, 
 might she hear about this paragon of men, his bearing, his words, 
 his actions, how he appeared and what he spoke; for the slightest 
 thing when graced by his dear presence became, she said, a matter 
 for an empire. Cleopatra sent to Antony each day a troop of 
 messengers with letters for him, saying that she would unpeople 
 Egypt before he should lack many daily greetings from her; and 
 Antony sent to her a priceless pearl that he had kissed, with the 
 message that her throne should be increased with conquered king- 
 doms, to mend what he was pleased to call the poorness of his 
 present. 
 
 In such manner did Antony receive the renewed friendship and 
 confidence of Caesar, who had been willing to strengthen the bonds 
 between them by the hand of his own sister, whom he loved tenderly. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 339 
 
 For Antony had spoken to Caesar so like his former self, with such 
 apparent readiness of purpose and so many promises of reformation, 
 that Caesar had no thought of his future intentions, which he be- 
 lieved to be honourable. But the friends of both knew that Antony 
 was still in Cleopatra's bondage, proposing to return to Egypt on 
 his first opportunity; and they knew likewise that this would mean 
 instant war between Caesar and Antony, whose new relationship by 
 marriage would become a very sword between them. 
 
 When Cleopatra learned that Antony had wedded Octavia, she 
 was angered so greatly that she endeavoured to slay with her own 
 hand the messenger who brought the tidings ; but when she learned 
 how this Octavia appeared — the colour of her hair and eyes, what 
 were her years and features, she knew that such a wife could never 
 keep her Antony away from Egypt. She determined that when 
 Antony returned, she would confuse his senses with the utmost 
 luxury until he could nevermore escape, even should he desire to; 
 and she believed that if war should come between Caesar and An- 
 tony, that with her aid Antony could overthrow his enemies and 
 win a power even greater than before. Her days were spent in 
 talking with her maidens of Antony's virtues, her nights in dream- 
 ing of Antony; and she fed her mind by night and day with love, 
 as with delicious poison. 
 
 With Caesar and Lepidus, in the meanwhile, Antony had pre- 
 pared to overthrow the force of Pompey and regain control over 
 the Roman empire. But conflict was no longer necessary, for when 
 Pompey knew that Antony had joined the others against him instead 
 of remaining idly in Egypt, he made peace with the triumvirs, for 
 he knew likewise that Antony was a better general than either Caesar 
 or Lepidus, and he feared that against their triple strength his own 
 power would be useless. 
 
 When peace was made, it was not long before Antony bade his 
 wife Octavia farewell, saying falsely that he would go to the city 
 of Athens, and he returned to Cleopatra to spend his time with her 
 in feasts and revelry of such profuse extravagance that the like had 
 
340 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 never been beheld. Antony caused himself and Cleopatra to be 
 publicly enthroned on chairs of gold, making her absolute queen of 
 the dominions that had been entrusted to his care. Not only did 
 he break all promises to Caesar and with his own hand sever all 
 ties that bound him to his country, but he demanded money from 
 the eastern kingdoms and prepared for war with Rome, showing 
 in all his deeds how far he had been betrayed from his former self. 
 
 All this while Antony became more and more bound in his love 
 to Cleopatra, and indeed it was nothing but his blind affection for 
 her that had caused him to become a stranger to his honour and his 
 patriotism. Love had overpowered all his senses. His skill as a 
 commander, his soldierly pride and judgment forsook him. His 
 thoughts, that should have been directed to the war that threatened 
 him, hung on Cleopatra; and to all appearance he cared little 
 that Caesar with a powerful force of soldiers had come into the east 
 to conquer him, for he believed that with Cleopatra to aid him, 
 Caesar would be driven back to Rome. 
 
 In spite of the entreaties of his lieutenants, Antony conceived the 
 mad purpose of fighting Caesar by sea instead of by land; and this 
 intent showed plainly that his former skill in war had been destroyed. 
 For the Roman fleet was infinitely stronger than Antony's, with 
 experienced seamen and captains, while the Egyptian vessels were 
 manned for the most part by reapers or ploughmen, slaves who were 
 unused to ships and soldiers, who while brave on land would lose 
 their courage in the untried action of a fight at sea. Also Cleopatra 
 determined to be present in her own galley at this conflict — an 
 act unheard of in the customs of war and greatly disapproved 
 by Antony's commanders, who feared, not without cause, that 
 Antony might be distracted by her presence until his fleet should 
 suffer as a consequence. But Antony, however, would hear no 
 reasons to the contrary, and accompanied by Cleopatra prepared 
 to meet Caesar in a naval engagement. 
 
 How far Antony's commanders had been justified in their fears 
 was soon beheld, for in the terrible encounter with the Roman 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 341 
 
 vessels, while the conflict was at height, before advantage had 
 been given to either side, Cleopatra took fright at the confusion of 
 battle, which was new and fearful to her, and she sailed away with 
 all her vessels, leaving Antony to overcome his enemies as best he 
 might without her further aid. When the ships of Cleopatra had 
 departed, the Roman fleet soon began to prevail over the lessened 
 number of their enemies, and it was plain to see that Caesar would be 
 victorious. 
 
 But a calamity even more terrible than Cleopatra's flight had be- 
 fallen the ill-fated ships of Antony, for Antony himself, when he 
 saw the retreating sails of the Egyptians, showed the complete ruin 
 that Cleopatra's magic had wrought within him, and to his eternal 
 disgrace followed her out of the conflict, leaving his fleet without 
 an admiral at the mercy of the Roman vessels. By this act Antony 
 not only undid the fame that he had won in many battles, but lost 
 forever his chance to defeat Caesar. For many kings that would 
 have remained loyal to Antony in case of his success, now offered 
 their allegiance to Caesar, while many of Antony's own officers and 
 soldiers deserted in shame and anger to the Roman ranks. 
 
 In this way did the strength of Antony's blind love which was 
 akin to madness work the complete ruin of his fortunes. But after 
 flying from his enemies, Antony seemed to awaken as from a dream 
 to a sense of his past conduct. In bitter shame he called his friends 
 about him, bidding them to fly and save themselves, for by his own 
 example, as he said in sorrow, he had taught them how to turn their 
 shoulders to a foe; and he blamed himself so pitifully that all who 
 heard him were compelled to weep and wonder at the ruins of his 
 former self; Cleopatra herself wept and begged him to forgive her, 
 saying she little thought he would have followed when she fled. 
 
 Antony bade Cleopatra, although with tenderness, to be ashamed 
 for leaving him in such a manner. He said that she knew his sword 
 had become weak through love of her alone and that he would 
 follow where she led, even against the bidding of the gods. But 
 when Cleopatra made as though she would weep again, Antony 
 
342 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 could blame her no longer and bade her kiss him, saying that such 
 a kiss repaid him utterly for all that he had lost, and he called 
 for food and wine with a sad attempt at cheerfulness, commanding 
 his dismayed followers to be merry in spite of their ill fortunes. 
 
 To Caesar Antony sent a messenger who in his own person showed 
 the pitiful state to which his lord had fallen, for while Antony could 
 once have ordered kings to do his bidding, this messenger was no 
 other than a poor schoolmaster, who begged of Caesar that Antony 
 should be allowed to live in Egypt, or if not, that he might retire to 
 Athens and remain there, a private citizen. 
 
 Cleopatra also sued for favours from Caesar, and she worded her 
 message in most gracious terms, acknowledging his greatness. She 
 said that she craved of him her kingdom for her heirs, for that in 
 Caesar's voice she heard the doom of Egypt; and she framed this 
 message in such manner that Caesar believed she was prepared to 
 forsake Antony. Caesar was partly right in this surmise, for Cle- 
 opatra would indeed have been both ready and willing to keep her 
 power through his love could she have won it, even as she had 
 ruled through Antony's affection. And while she was not yet pre- 
 pared to forsake Antony, she smoothed her way with Caesar with 
 her utmost skill, and it was plain to see that when he finally should 
 triumph, she would turn to him for favour. 
 
 Caesar replied that for Antony's request he had no ears. If 
 Cleopatra would renounce her disgraced friend and slay him, or 
 at least drive him from Egypt, he would consider what she asked 
 him. Caesar also sent an officer named Thyreus to Cleopatra in 
 the endeavour to win her away from Antony, and with smooth words 
 Thyreus tempted her until she sent by him another gracious message 
 to Caesar. 
 
 It chanced, however, that when Thyreus prepared to leave her 
 he begged her hand to kiss, and Cleopatra gave it to him, say- 
 ing that it was a hand that Julius Caesar and the great Pompey had 
 often stooped to honour. But while Thyreus bent over her hand, 
 Antony came before them, and beholding Caesar's messenger in such 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 343 
 
 favour he partly realized Cleopatra's faithlessness. Antony cried 
 out in grief and anger, demanding of Cleopatra how she dared 
 to stoop so low as to bestow upon a servant, his own playfellow, 
 her hand — that kingly seal and plighter of high hearts. He com- 
 manded his attendants to bear Thyreus from his presence and whip 
 him until he cried aloud for mercy; and turning to Cleopatra, 
 Antony gazed on her in a terrible manner and asked if he had 
 sacrificed his fame in Rome, forsaken all his fortunes and forborne 
 the getting of a lawful race by a gem of women to be made at last 
 the rival of a slave in the pay of Caesar. When the attendants 
 returned with Thyreus, Antony said to him that the next time 
 a lady's hand should fever him, he would do well to shake with 
 fear in looking on it; and he bade Thyreus return with his stripes 
 to Caesar, and bear him word of his entertainment. 
 
 Cleopatra, however, with words of affection contrived to soothe 
 the angered heart of Antony — an easy task, when Antony did so 
 desire to believe in her true love. For as a flame will flicker into 
 life before it dies, men in evil fortune entertain wild hopes that 
 never can come true, and Antony now was ready both to believe 
 Cleopatra and to think that he could conquer the army arrayed 
 against him. He prepared for a final encounter with Caesar and 
 called his disheartened followers .about him to spend one more 
 night together in revelry and drown their fears in drinking to the 
 battle that was imminent. 
 
 That night, while Antony and his lieutenants were carousing, 
 a sign of his approaching ruin was given to the soldiers of his guard 
 without the palace. For a noise as of music filled the air, and 
 muffled drums and hautboys sounded underneath the earth. The 
 sounds grew dim in distance until they faded into silence, and the 
 soldiers said in fear that they were caused by the great god Hercules 
 whom Antony had loved, and they signified, said the soldiers, that 
 Hercules was leaving Antony to his fate. When the soldiers ap- 
 proached others who were on guard in different places about the 
 palace it seemed that all had heard the unearthly music, and every- 
 
344 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 where it had waned and died away as though played by someone 
 taking leave of them. 
 
 The fighting that followed between Antony and Caesar was brief 
 and final; for while Antony at first seemed to conquer, Caesar soon 
 prevailed. And now a further proof was given to Antony of 
 Cleopatra's hollowness, for again her Egyptian vessels that were 
 to aid him in his battle which was partly fought by sea gave way 
 speedily, surrendering to Caesar; and the sailors of both fleets 
 shouted in joy, more like friends that met after a time of separa- 
 tion than enemies that had contended against each other. 
 
 Antony was resolved bitterly to upbraid Cleopatra who had a 
 second time been false to him, and when he saw her she had become 
 so hateful to his eyes that he warned her away quickly lest he 
 should blemish Caesar's triumph by slaying her. He called her 
 the greatest spot of all her sex, most terrible and monster-like to" 
 have betrayed him; and his rage increasing almost to madness, he 
 could no longer withhold his vengeance but resolved to follow her 
 and slay her. 
 
 Cleopatra, in the utmost terror at his anger, fled with her women 
 into one of the great monuments of stone that were near her pal- 
 ace, and there she barred herself so that Antony might not follow 
 her. She sent to Antony a slave who was to tell him that his 
 anger had made her do the deed that he intended, for that she 
 had taken her own life; and she bade the slave to word his message 
 piteously, thinking that when Antony should hear this false report, 
 his anger would give way to instant grief, and then learning the 
 truth, he would do nothing but rejoice that she was still alive. 
 
 Cleopatra's deception, however, had an effect far different from 
 what she had believed, and with most fatal consequence to Antony; 
 for when he learned of her death, although he himself had pur- 
 posed to effect it, he could no longer bear to live but stabbed himself 
 with his own sword; and learning before he died that Cleopatra 
 still was living, he was carried, mortally hurt, to the monument 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 345 
 
 where she had taken refuge. For the tidings of her death had 
 completely reawakened his great love. 
 
 There Antony was lifted to Cleopatra's side, and lay dying with 
 her arms about him; and as he died, he bade her with his last 
 breath to seek her safety from Caesar. And Antony begged her 
 never to remember him as he was then — crushed, despised and at the 
 point of death, but to think of him as he had been in former days 
 when he first loved her, — strong to give her what she wished and 
 powerful in pride with all the eastern world at his command. Then 
 the tormented heart of Antony could bear no more and in the midst 
 of his words he became silent; even his love could no longer with- 
 hold the death that was swiftly coming upon him, and he died. 
 
 Cleopatra did not long survive Antony, for when she knew that 
 Caesar was resolved to bear her as a captive to Rome and lead her 
 through the open streets in his triumph, she also determined to 
 end her life; and she caused a slave to bring her in secret a snake 
 that was called the asp, whose sting is almost instantly fatal to 
 its victims, causing them to die as though they fall into a sudden 
 slumber with no pain. Cleopatra laid one of these snakes upon 
 her breast, keeping it there until she seemed to fall asleep; and 
 her handmaidens did likewise; and when the guard came upon 
 them, only one of her attendants remained alive, who breathed out 
 faintly that such a death was well and fitting for a princess like 
 her mistress, who was descended from so long a line of royal kings. 
 
 There remained nothing for Caesar but to perform the funeral 
 rites df Cleopatra and of his former friend and confederate, Antony, 
 and Caesar laid them together in one tomb so that Antony might 
 sleep forever in the presence of the queen whom he had loved so 
 well. 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 
 
 IN the days when the state of Rome had been changed from a 
 republic to an empire, and when the city, robbed of its an- 
 cient power, was beset by many enemies, there lived a Roman 
 general whose name was Titus Andronicus. Andronicus was the 
 bravest soldier and the most respected citizen of his time, beloved 
 alike for his integrity, his patriotism and his knowledge of the 
 art of war. His skill as a soldier had recently overcome a people 
 called the Goths, who were bitter and dangerous enemies to the 
 Roman state; moreover he had captured a Gothic queen called 
 Tamora, bringing her with her three sons as prisoners to Rome, 
 where the people rejoiced greatly at the triumph of their beloved 
 general. For the Romans, who had lost their former strength 
 at arms, knew only too well that their present success was wholly 
 due to the wisdom and indomitable courage of Andronicus. 
 
 Of a great many sons that Andronicus had reared to become 
 soldiers, all but four had perished on the battle-field, and more than 
 one had been slain in the very war whence Andronicus with his four 
 surviving sons were now returning victorius into the city. These 
 four sons were called Lucius, Martius, Quintus and Mutius, their 
 names being as similar as they themselves were alike in the soldierly 
 qualities that they inherited from their noble father. With their 
 father they were given a warm welcome by the Roman people, who 
 beheld in them the virtues of Andronicus and regarded them with 
 him as the deliverers of Rome from a great and terrible calamity. 
 
 It remained for this brave general to perform the funeral rites 
 of his slain sons, whose bodies had been brought with sorrow 
 into the city. In accordance with the ancient custom that called for 
 a sacrifice at the funeral of Roman soldiers, the sons of Andronicus 
 demanded of their father the most noble of his prisoners, saying 
 
 346 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 347 
 
 that they would slay him to appease the spirits of their brothers 
 that might not (as they believed) enter in the lower world until 
 their funeral obsequies had been performed. Andronicus therefore 
 gave up for sacrifice the prisoner, Alarbus, the eldest son of 
 Tamora, the unhappy queen whom he had captured. And when 
 this queen with tears begged for her son's life, Andronicus bade 
 her spare her useless entreaties, for Alarbus had been marked for a 
 religious offering and must die. 
 
 Lucius and his brothers then conveyed Alarbus to a funeral pyre, 
 where they slew him with their swords and gave his body to the 
 flames. They then returned into their father's presence with 
 bloodied weapons, bidding him mark how they had performed their 
 Roman rites. 
 
 When Tamora and her surviving sons knew that Alarbus had 
 been put to death, they resolved if ever they should gain their 
 liberty, fully to requite his fate upon the family and kinsmen of 
 Andronicus, and to include in their revenge all that bore that name, 
 even his most remote relatives, for they believed the blood of all his 
 family would be a scant return for Tamora's beloved and valiant 
 son, Alarbus. Demetrius, who was now her eldest, bade his mother 
 remember the time when she had been a queen instead of a despised 
 captive and thinking on it be resolved to revenge her wrongs upon 
 her enemies. Demetrius bade her hope that such a time might 
 befall her soon, telling her that the gods who armed the queen of 
 Troy for vengeance might favor the queen of Goths with a like 
 opportunity. 
 
 While the war against the Goths had been in progress, the em- 
 peror of Rome had died, and dispute had at once arisen as to 
 who should succeed him on the throne. For the emperor had left 
 two sons who were contending for their father's title. The eldest 
 of these, who was named Saturninus, claimed that the empire was 
 his by right of birth, while Bassianus, his younger brother, think- 
 ing himself more loved among the people than Saturninus, de- 
 manded that the Romans should choose their ruler by a popular 
 
348 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 election; and the friends and retainers of these two brothers went 
 about the streets in arms, prepared to do battle with each other on 
 the slightest opportunity. 
 
 But when Andronicus with his army arrived in the city, the rival 
 claimants for the empire, fearing the people's anger, allowed the 
 justice of their cause to be decided by the Roman citizens; and as 
 it chanced neither of them was to be favoured by the people's choice, 
 who named for the proud office of emperor no other than 
 Andronicus himself. And the people sent to Andronicus a white 
 robe in token of their decision, telling him that he was chosen as 
 a candidate with Saturninus and Bassianus. And it was plainly to 
 be perceived that Andronicus would triumph in the election over 
 the late emperor's two sons, who had disputed so angrily that the 
 people's displeasure was awakened against them. 
 
 Andronicus, however, who was old, and wearied by the severe 
 life of a soldier that he had led for forty years, did not desire the 
 mighty power that the people wished to confer on him. At the 
 best, he said, his rule could last but a short period of time, as 
 his life, now almost at an end, must soon be spent, and leave that 
 mighty office open again to further disputes such as had lately 
 arisen. He asked the people if they would allow him to choose 
 who should be their emperor, saying, when they consented, that he 
 wished them to observe the right of Saturninus, their emperor's 
 eldest son, whose virtues, as he hoped, would bring to Rome the 
 utmost happiness. And the people, on learning the desire of 
 Andronicus, created Saturninus as their emperor. 
 
 When Saturninus heard Andronicus speak of him in so generous 
 a manner and when he knew that through the efforts of this general 
 his title so long and so eagerly desired had been attained at last, 
 he was to all appearance overcome with the deepest gratitude, and 
 offered, both as a reward for Andronicus' gentleness and to advance 
 his family in Rome, to wed Lavinia, the only daughter of Andronicus, 
 and make her, as he said, Rome's empress and the mistress of his 
 own affections. Andronicus joyfully consented to this proposal, 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 349 
 
 and in honour of the marriage he gave to Saturninus all the prisoners 
 that he had taken, with his chariot and armour, and all the spoils 
 of the late war against the Goths. Saturninus was rejoiced to have 
 as his own prisoner the Gothic queen whose beauty he greatly ad- 
 mired, and he told her that she should be used with all respect and 
 ceremony. Saturninus then prepared to wed Lavinia, calling his 
 friends to witness the marriage about to be performed. 
 
 Lavinia, however, was loved by the emperor's brother, Bassianus, 
 and loved him in return. When Bassianus knew that Saturninus 
 not only had taken from him his chance to become emperor but 
 was about to do him even greater injury by marrying Lavinia, he 
 determined to fly with Lavinia from the emperor's presence and 
 marry her before his brother could prevent him. And Bassianus 
 was aided in his purpose by the four sons of Andronicus, who had 
 known of his betrothal to their sister, and were unwilling that she 
 should become the bride of Saturninus. 
 
 Accordingly, Bassianus with Lavinia fled suddenly from the em- 
 peror's presence, and when Andronicus and the emperor in great 
 anger attempted to follow, the sons of Andronicus opposed them 
 and a brawl was started, wherein Andronicus slew his son, Mutius, 
 who had attempted to bar his way with drawn sword. And while 
 this quarrel was in progress, Bassianus and Lavinia effected their 
 escape and were privately married. 
 
 As there was a law in Rome that gave to any father the power 
 of life and death over his children, Andronicus could not be pun- 
 ished for his rash and terrible action in slaying Mutius; and he had, 
 indeed, done this in a heat of rage, and in the service of his em- 
 peror; and Mutius in opposing his own father had committed in 
 all Roman eyes a crime far greater than that of Andronicus in 
 slaying him. But the utmost grief was shown for the unfortunate 
 Mutius who had returned from triumphant wars to fall disgrace- 
 fully in a city brawl by the hand of his own father. 
 
 Saturninus, however, was secretly rejoiced in what had just oc- 
 curred, for the beauty of queen Tamora, who was his prisoner, had 
 
350 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 aroused in him a sudden and violent flame of love that made him 
 wholly unwilling to wed Lavinia as he had promised. And the 
 emperor showed great anger against Andronicus, saying that the 
 flight of Lavinia had been contrived by Andronicus himself to make 
 of him, Saturninus, a mock in the eyes of all the assembled multi- 
 tude. He said that he desired no longer to espouse Lavinia or to 
 have any further dealings with Andronicus who had so basely be- 
 trayed him, and forgetting that he owed his throne and all his 
 high position to Andronicus, Saturninus accused him openly of 
 treachery and secretly prepared to be revenged upon him. And 
 Saturninus said that instead of Lavinia, whom he now scorned, he 
 would take for his bride the Gothic queen who had been his prisoner, 
 and he married Tamora with pomp and great magnificence. 
 
 By this strange turn of fortune, Tamora became empress over the 
 people who lately had beheld her in chains as the prisoner of An- 
 dronicus. 
 
 Tamora bore in mind the words of her son Demetrius, and saw 
 now that the opportunity she desired to injure Andronicus had 
 been given her. She persuaded her new husband to make a pre- 
 tence of forgiving him, saying that Saturninus had but lately come 
 to his new honour and that the people even now might turn against 
 him and place Andronicus upon the throne. If Saturninus would 
 have patience, she continued, she would find a way to work the 
 complete ruin of Andronicus and all his family, to whom she had 
 pleaded vainly for the life of her dear son. In the presence of 
 Andronicus, Tamora then bade her lord to be reconciled with him, 
 saying that as she had become a Roman through her marriage 
 with the emperor, she was resolved to forget all former quarrels, 
 and turning with an assumed kindness of manner to Andronicus 
 she entreated his friendship. The open-hearted Andronicus pos- 
 sessed the blunt honesty of an old soldier, and was more used to 
 severe battle with his foes than to intrigues such as Tamora had 
 prepared against him. He believed her words and was rejoiced at 
 the change that had again befallen Saturninus, who now entreated 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 351 
 
 his friendship and besought his pardon. Andronicus replied that 
 new life was infused in him by the happy reconciliation with his 
 lord and ruler; and through all the city the marriages of Tamora 
 and Lavinia were celebrated with feasting and revelry by the 
 emperor's decree. 
 
 Tamora had been accompanied to Rome by a Moor named Aaron 
 who had likewise been taken prisoner by Andronicus, and Aaron 
 was fast held in the affections of his royal mistress, who, indeed, 
 entertained a secret love for him that was unknown to her husband, 
 Saturninus. This Moor, who was a wicked and hard-hearted man, 
 aided the queen in her purpose of revenge upon Andronicus, con- 
 ceiving a plan of great cruelty to bring misfortune upon his children. 
 For Aaron plotted that Bassianus should be murdered by Tamora's 
 two sons, and he devised a plan whereby the guilt of this crime 
 should be fixed upon the sons of Andronicus. 
 
 There was a forest near Rome where game was known to be 
 plentiful, and the emperor intended to go hunting there on the day 
 following his marriage with Queen Tamora. This hunt was a part 
 of the wedding festivities and was to be the occasion of great 
 pleasure and rejoicing; all the emperor's friends and followers had 
 been invited, and Tamora with Aaron had made certain that An- 
 dronicus with his sons, and Lavinia and Bassianus all intended to 
 be present. For in this forest Aaron and Tamora intended to 
 revenge themselves upon Andronicus. 
 
 For the completion of his design, Aaron had written a letter that 
 spoke of Bassianus' murder and of a reward to be gained for com- 
 mitting it. The letter told also of a remote part of the forest 
 where the reward had been secreted, and Aaron had concealed a 
 bag of gold in the exact place and manner that the letter had 
 described, giving the letter to Tamora who was to deliver it to 
 Saturninus as though she had discovered it by chance. Bassianus 
 was to be lured to the place where the reward was hidden and 
 murdered there. And Aaron had contrived that Martius and 
 Quintus, Andronicus' two sons, were to be discovered with the slain 
 
352 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Bassianus, so that the emperor would be forced to believe that they 
 were guilty of the murder. All was now prepared for Aaron to 
 complete the villainy that he intended, for Bassianus and Lavinia 
 who were enjoying the pleasures of the hunt, had wandered far away 
 from the emperor's party and came upon the lonely place where 
 Aaron had contrived his design against them. There they en- 
 countered Tamora, who was to engage them in a quarrel until 
 Demetrius and Chiron, her two sons, should fall upon them with 
 their swords and murder Bassianus. 
 
 Tamora spoke scornfully to them, calling Bassianus an unman- 
 nerly intruder for following her, as she accused him, to the remote 
 spot where she had been discovered. When Bassianus replied with 
 bitter words in which Lavinia joined him, a quarrel soon arose, and 
 Bassianus accused Tamora of treachery to her own husband, say- 
 ing that he would acquaint the emperor with her faithlessness. 
 Demetrius and Chiron then came suddenly upon them and attacked 
 Bassianus, who, taken unawares, had no chance to defend himself 
 and soon was slain. His body was then concealed in a deep pit 
 overgrown with vines and brambles and the murderers fled from 
 the place, taking Lavinia with them as their prisoner. 
 
 In the meanwhile Aaron had gone in search of Martius and 
 Quintus, whom he persuaded to accompany him, by telling them 
 of a sleeping panther that easily might fall a prey before their 
 weapons; and he enticed them to the place where the murdered 
 Bassianus lay concealed. And before they knew where he was 
 leading them, Martius stumbled and fell headlong into the pit that 
 was so covered with the forest growth that he had not perceived 
 it, until his feet had been betrayed into its depth; and while 
 he was struggling to free himself, he beheld the body. Quintus, 
 who had seen him fall, cried out to know if he were injured; and 
 Martius replied with horror, " O brother, I am hurt with the most 
 dismal sight that ever grieved my eyes. Look down into this 
 den and behold it. Poor Bassianus lies here murdered." — " Reach 
 me your hand," said Quintus, " so I may help you out, or wanting 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 353 
 
 strength be buried with you in this dreadful grave." When he 
 endeavoured to pull his brother from the gulf, he found the task 
 was utterly beyond his power, and Quintus also slipped and fell 
 and both were imprisoned without hope of rescue. For Aaron, 
 who had seen them fall, made haste to bring the emperor to the 
 spot who beheld Martius and Quintus in the pit where lay the body 
 of Bassianus. 
 
 Hardly had Saturninus learned of his brother's terrible death, 
 when Tamora came upon them, crying out with great appearance 
 of distress, " Where is Bassianus," and she gave to the emperor the 
 letter that disclosed the pretended plot. And when they looked 
 for the reward of gold, they found it beneath an elder-tree as the 
 letter had described. And nothing could persuade the emperor that 
 Martius and Quintus were not guilty of his brother's murder. 
 
 As a punishment for this crime, Martius and Quintus were sen- 
 tenced to be put to death, and neither their father's entreaties nor 
 their own great service to their country in the Gothic wars could 
 effect their pardon. For the emperor and all the people were en- 
 raged at the base murder of Bassianus, and the plot had been so 
 cleverly contrived that all believed it had been committed by the 
 two unhappy men whom Aaron had betrayed. And Martius and 
 Quintus were put to death with the law's utmost severity, while 
 Tamora's two sons rejoiced greatly in the fate that had overtaken 
 them — still more, in the sorrow that had been caused to their 
 unhappy father. For Andronicus grieved for Martius and Quintus 
 more than for all the courageous sons that he had lost in battle, 
 who had died, as he said of them, in honour and bravery, while 
 their two brothers were put to death in shame by the hands of their 
 fellow citizens. Even another sorrow had befallen Andronicus, for 
 Lucius, his only surviving son, was banished from the Roman 
 dominions for attempting to rescue his condemned brothers. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the wickedness of Tamora and her two sons 
 had been revealed to Andronicus. After Lavinia had been taken 
 prisoner by Demetrius and Chiron, she was subjected by them to 
 
354 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 cruel tortures that deprived her, as they believed, of any power to 
 injure them when she should be set at liberty ; but Lavinia contrived 
 to disclose to her father both the manner of her own cruel fate 
 and how her husband, Bassianus, had been murdered; and she suc- 
 ceeded in revealing to him also that Demetrius and Chiron were 
 the authors of these crimes, so that Andronicus could be revenged 
 upon them. 
 
 When Andronicus knew that Tamora's sons had been the cause 
 of all his sorrow he prepared to overwhelm them with a misfortune 
 fully as terrible as his own, and to include in his revenge the heart- 
 less queen who had encouraged them, also the emperor, Saturninus, 
 for ordering the death of his two sons, innocent of the crime for 
 which they suffered. Andronicus therefore invited Tamora and the 
 emperor to a great feast, where he intended to destroy them, and he 
 enticed them thither by saying that his son Lucius would be present. 
 
 When Lucius had been banished, he fled to the country of the 
 Goths who had been his recent enemies, and they, who knew to 
 their cost his skill and bravery as a soldier were more than willing 
 that he lead their army against Rome, where Lucius was determined 
 to place his father or himself in full control over the Roman state. 
 
 Tamora was well aware of this, and also that Lucius with his 
 hostile power even then was near the city gates; she had determined 
 to slay Lucius at the banquet and to kill Andronicus himself there, 
 and she believed that Andronicus, by giving this feast and causing 
 Lucius to leave his army and come unguarded into Rome, had be- 
 trayed himself and Lucius into her hands. Andronicus had 
 feigned a strange disorder of mind the more thoroughly to deceive 
 her, and Tamora did not dream that the feast was only a ruse on his 
 part to entice her and the emperor into his house. 
 
 Before the hour of the banquet, Andronicus contrived to bring 
 Demetrius and Chiron into his power which was easy for him to 
 do as they were unaware that he had discovered their guiltiness; 
 he said that unless they aided him in his preparations for the ban- 
 quet he would refuse to summon Lucius into Rome, and they, who 
 
TITUS ANDRONICUS 355 
 
 knew the plot to murder Lucius, attempted to further it by con- 
 senting to whatever Andronicus demanded. And when Demetrius 
 and Chiron came within the house of Andronicus, they were set upon 
 and bound by his retainers; and Andronicus then slew them, saying 
 that their death could only partially repay the murder of his sons, 
 and the injuries they worked upon Lavinia. 
 
 When the emperor and Tamora came to the banquet, Andronicus 
 made known to them that he had killed Demetrius and Chiron and 
 suddenly uplifting his sword he said that Tamora, the partner of 
 their guilt, should not survive them; and he slew the wicked queen 
 with his own hand as he had slain her sons before her. And when 
 in the confusion that followed, Andronicus was himself killed by 
 Saturninus, Lucius, who had left his army and hurried into Rome, 
 attacked the emperor with such violent anger that Saturninus could 
 not withstand him but fell beneath his sword. And in this terrible 
 manner the family of the brave Andronicus came to an end. They 
 did not die, however, before a complete revenge had been worked 
 upon their enemies, for even Aaron, the Moor, was captured 
 and put to death by Lucius. And Lucius was proclaimed the 
 emperor of Rome, succeeding Saturninus to that power; and the 
 Romans in acclaiming him their ruler did so no more for his own 
 sake than out of respect for the memory of his brave father, whose 
 unhappy death was greatly lamented by them all. 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 
 
 JOHN, a wicked and hard-hearted prince, came to rule over 
 the English people on the death of his brother Richard; 
 and possessing none of Richard's virtues, soon was feared 
 and hated throughout his entire kingdom. For John would take 
 delight in working injury on his unhappy subjects, who were with- 
 held by force of arms alone from rising in rebellion against him. 
 He would tax them unjustly and afflict them with inhuman punish- 
 ments; the dismal terrors of his prisons were rivalled only by th,e 
 wickedness of his court, where no man was safe from the evil 
 passions that awaited, like attendant devils, on their lord and 
 master, the king. There were many also who believed that John 
 had usurped the title of king that he so misused from his young 
 nephew, Arthur, for Arthur was son to John's elder brother, and 
 therefore, as many wise persons claimed in secret, should have 
 worn the crown before his most unnatural uncle. Arthur, more- 
 over, who was but a child, possessed a gentle and sunny nature, 
 far removed from the gloomy temper of the tyrant, John. 
 
 Arthur's claim to the English kingdom afforded to the king of 
 France, whose name was Philip, a pretext to interfere in English 
 affairs, and seek excuse thereby for making war and increasing his 
 own power and dominion. The lady Constance, Arthur's mother, 
 continually besought Philip to direct his armies against England, 
 until her son should be made lord and king of it; and Philip saw 
 in Arthur's title to the crown, fair opportunity. Philip sent an 
 imperious message to King John, demanding him to render up his 
 borrowed majesty to Arthur, his nephew. Should John refuse, 
 said Philip, the proud control of bloody war should force him to 
 the will of France. 
 
 But John, like many other tyrants, having no good affections and 
 
 356 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 357 
 
 no generous and kindly virtues wherein most men are wont in some 
 degree to take their pleasure, held his crown more precious on this 
 account, esteeming his high power all the more dear as he put it to 
 baser usage. When John received this message from the French, 
 he assembled in rage as many soldiers as he could call together, 
 resolving to make King Philip bitterly repent his rash intrusion. 
 And John's invading army reached France as soon as Philip's own 
 ambassador, who was returning in hot haste to bid his king beware 
 of England's approaching power, for John had warned this lord 
 to be as swift as lightning in the eyes of France, or the English 
 swords should be their own wrathful messengers. With John 
 came his mother, the proud Elinor, and his niece the lady Blanche 
 of Spain; for at such a time it was no way unusual for ladies of 
 high rank to attend their lords on their adventures over seas; and 
 they were accompanied by an army of fiery soldiers, — youths with 
 ladies' faces but fierce dragons' spleens, who were resolved to win 
 their fortunes by their swords. This assemblage of rash and 
 dauntless spirits came on King Philip without the walls of Angiers, 
 a town that Philip purposed to besiege until its citizens, who were 
 English subjects, should hail young Arthur as their king. 
 
 Ere the two armies should meet in battle, these warlike rulers 
 themselves met before the city walls, and at this meeting were 
 present all who were concerned in any manner with their quarrel 
 — the boy Arthur with his mother Constance, Elinor and the lady 
 Blanche, the French prince who was called the dauphin, and many 
 statesmen of both kingdoms. 
 
 The bitterness between John and Philip, however, was rendered, 
 if possible, even sharper by this encounter, where an unseemly 
 wrangle took place between Queen Elinor and Constance. For 
 each of these mothers, in seeking to behold her own son king of 
 England, could invent no taunt or reproach too bitter for her 
 rival, until Arthur himself begged them to desist, saying that such 
 hard words ill become their kinship and that he was little worth 
 the broil that had arisen over his title; and the unhappy child 
 
358 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 wished that he were laid low in his grave, so that he might escape 
 the rank contention caused by his noble birth, which was, he said, 
 no fault of his, who had not power to shape his destiny. 
 
 Philip, who wished to put an end to the dispute, which John's 
 swift action had made him suddenly eager to conclude, proposed 
 that quarrel should be laid in its entirety before the citizens of 
 Angiers, saying, that they should speak whose title they admitted, 
 Arthur's or John's; and he bade his trumpeters to summon the 
 citizens to the walls where he would parley with them. 
 
 When the townsmen came to the parley, John artfully addressed 
 them, commanding them to throw open their gates to him, their right- 
 ful king; while Philip bade them pay the duty that they truly owed, 
 to Arthur, who, as king of England, was lord of their fair city. 
 
 The townsmen, however, would acknowledge the title of neither, 
 saying that their claims appeared so equal, that Angiers for the 
 present should be closed against them both. When it should be 
 decided who might truly be England's king, then, said these prudent 
 citizens, they would freely acknowledge him their lord. Until that 
 time, however, their strong gates were to be barred against the 
 world. 
 
 There was then no other course but for John and Philip to de- 
 cide their claims by battle and their armies immediately advanced 
 upon each other in conflict; but their forces were so evenly matched 
 that neither side could win advantage, and after a bloody battle, 
 French and English came again before the walls of Angiers, each 
 side claiming victory and demanding that the city gates now be 
 thrown open to their cause. 
 
 The townsmen, however, still refused to admit them, saying that 
 from their towers they had beheld the onset and retire of both 
 armies, where blows had answered blows and power confronted 
 power. To the demands of John and Philip, they replied that 
 until the issue be more certainly decided, they should hold their 
 gates fast locked, and admit neither. 
 
 Among the nobles who attended John was a knight, whose father 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 359 
 
 had been no other than the former mighty king, Richard the Lion- 
 hearted, This knight, who was born out of wedlock, could never 
 inherit any of the titles that had formerly belonged to his great 
 father, but being a fierce and resolute soldier with a thirst for wild 
 adventure, he had become a powerful adviser of King John and 
 a commander in the English army. Richard, for so he was called, 
 proposed an issue from the difficulty that suited well his own rash 
 temper, saying that both French and English should proclaim a 
 truce and jointly bend their sharpest deeds of malice on the town 
 that defied them. When Angiers lay in dust, there would then be 
 time to part their mingled colours in angry war, until one side, 
 favoured by fortune, should gain victory. The rival kings liked 
 this counsel well, and agreed for the while to knit their powers, 
 level Angiers to the ground and then renew their wars upon each 
 other. But the townsmen were much dismayed and not without 
 cause, at hearing this bloody proposal, which would mean, whatever 
 the outcome of the battle, that Angiers must lie in ruins. Accord- 
 ingly, their wits made sharp by danger to themselves, they hit on 
 a plan whereby peace could be gained not only for their city, but 
 for France and England as well. 
 
 They bade the kings hear them, saying that their city might be 
 won without stroke or wounds and all the breathing lives that 
 come as sacrifices for their wars likewise be rescued. And they bade 
 both John and Philip to look on the lady Blanche, the niece of John, 
 and on Lewis the dauphin, Philip's son; where beauty, youth and 
 rich estate were all complete save in the union of their marriage. 
 Let them wed, said the men of Angiers, and all the contending 
 powers would be united, the city gates unlocked as though by 
 magic and the banners of both armies furled in peace. And John 
 knew that in this match lay his most certain safety, while Philip was 
 not loath to wed his son to a lady of such wealth and power as 
 Blanche. 
 
 In the wedding, therefore, these kings believed they had effected 
 a happy compromise, whereby each side should benefit, and the bells 
 
360 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 of Angiers rang out joyfully, proclaiming peace, good union of the 
 hostile armies and a marriage that gave promise of all faith and 
 true alliance. 
 
 But Constance, Arthur's mother, remained angry and sorrow- 
 ful in her tent, for by this peace her cause had been forsaken 
 and Arthur forever barred and disinherited from his kingdom. 
 Looking on Arthur, who bade his mother be content with her ill 
 fortune, Constance said that were he grim, ugly and slanderous 
 to her that bore him, lame and foolish, or patched with foul, un- 
 sightly marks, he would then disgrace his noble birth and be 
 unworthy of the name of king. But Arthur, as she said, was fair 
 and kind of heart, and at his birth Nature had joined with Fortune 
 to make him great. Of Nature's gifts he could boast with the 
 lily and the half-blown rose, while his inner self was of a rare and 
 winning gentleness. And Constance, with noble dignity, bade King 
 Philip to think shame for thus deserting her, to conclude false 
 amity and painted peace with the evil-hearted John. 
 
 Philip, however, was not long to benefit by this alliance, for 
 John had incurred the anger of the pope of Rome, whose legate 
 came upon him even while the lady Constance spoke these bitter 
 words. This deputy, a cardinal named Pandulph, pronounced 
 Rome's curse upon the English kingdom, saying that John was ex- 
 communicate, and in all England the mass should be unsaid, the 
 church bells silent, the dead unburied, or laid within their graves 
 without a single prayer for their departed souls; blessed should be 
 the subjects that revolted from John's power, while the assassin who 
 might strike him dead, or end by any secret course his hateful life, 
 should be worshipped as a saint. And Pandulph bade King Philip 
 leave the hand and the alliance of the heretic and traitor, John, for 
 otherwise, said he, France too should fall beneath the most severe 
 displeasure and the blighting ban of Rome. 
 
 Philip feared the anger of the pope even more than further bat- 
 tle with the English, and he told King John that he did now re- 
 nounce his proffered friendship; and John and Philip became again 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 361 
 
 embattled enemies, further conflict coming to pass between them. 
 
 Here and now misfortune came to the unhappy Constance and a 
 terrible fate befell her innocent boy, Arthur, who was captured 
 by John's soldiers and taken prisoner to England. And John him- 
 self returned in triumph to his country, believing that as he was now 
 the master of Arthur's fate, he could command the destinies of his 
 own. 
 
 It was not to be thought that John would forego the advantage 
 gained in such manner over his enemies; and thinking only how 
 Arthur's title had awakened angry war, and how the boy was, as he 
 expressed it, a serpent in his path, over whose dead body only could 
 he pass to safety, John concluded, therefore, to murder Arthur 
 within the secrecy of his prisons. John had a retainer whose name 
 was Hubert de Burgh, to whom he deputed the carrying out of his 
 evil intent upon his nephew; and he conceived a vengeance to be 
 worked on Arthur that is almost unbelievable, for not content with 
 putting him to death, he gave Hubert a written warrant attached 
 with the royal seal, commanding that Arthur's eyes be burned with 
 red hot irons ; and while it is incredible to think that any man, how- 
 ever monstrous, should undertake so foul an errand, Hubert actually 
 prepared to afflict the tender prince with his abominable torture. 
 
 Hubert bade some rough men to attend him, and summoned 
 Arthur to his presence; and Arthur, as was his custom, greeted Hu- 
 bert cheerily for Hubert hitherto had always treated him with kind- 
 ness. Beholding the fair child in such sad circumstance, Hubert 
 was strangely affected by his youth and innocence, and was com- 
 pelled to turn aside and weep, chiding the while the foolish and 
 womanly tears that fell from his eyes. Arthur remarked on Hu- 
 bert's sadness, who replied that indeed he had often been far mer- 
 rier. He then gave Arthur the warrant and bade him read, asking 
 with a show of gruffness if it were not fairly writ that Arthur took 
 so long in gazing at it; and he told him to prepare, for there was 
 no remedy, bidding his men approach, bind Arthur to a chair, and 
 work their inhuman purpose upon him. 
 
362 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " Oh, Hubert," cried Arthur, " send these men away. I will not 
 stir nor wince nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these 
 men away and I will forgive whatever torment you do put me to." 
 
 " Even though I send them forth," said Hubert, " you must pre- 
 pare to lose your eyes." 
 
 " Oh, spare me," cried Arthur, " would there were but a mote in 
 yours, — a grain, a speck of dust, a wandering hair; for then your 
 vile intent must needs seem horrible ! See, the iron is now cold and 
 will not harm me ! " 
 
 " But I can heat it, boy," said Hubert. 
 
 " No, in God's name you cannot ! " cried Arthur. " The fire is 
 dead with grief. Look, Hubert, there is no more malice in this 
 burning coal. The breath of Heaven has blown its anger out and 
 strewed repentant ashes on its head." 
 
 " But with my breath I can revive it," said Hubert. 
 
 " And if you do," replied Arthur, " you will but make it blush 
 and glow with shame at your proceedings; nay, the fire will, per- 
 chance, sparkle in your eyes, who do kindle it against its will. All 
 things you should use to wrong me, Hubert, will deny their office 
 — only you who lack their mercy." And Arthur reminded Hubert 
 of a time when he gave to him to bind his aching brows, his own 
 best handkerchief — never so much as asking it again, although a 
 princess had wrought it for him — and how one night, when Hu- 
 bert was ailing, Arthur had soothed his head with his own hand and 
 cheered the heavy time of pain until it passed. 
 
 Hubert could bear his words no longer and cried out for him 
 to say no more, for he would not harm him — not for his uncle's 
 wealth and all the riches in the world. He bade Arthur sleep se- 
 cure, saying that he would guard him from all future danger and 
 tell the king that his nephew had indeed been put to death; and 
 Arthur thanked him tenderly, until Hubert commanded him to be 
 silent and follow him into some secret place, for that he underwent 
 much danger in sparing him. 
 
 John, in the meanwhile, had born himself so rashly against the 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 363 
 
 people that they were on the point of overthrowing him; and sev- 
 eral of his best advisers besought him to set young Arthur free, for, 
 they said, if mischance should come to the innocent boy, and the 
 people learned it, John's best fortunes would be ruined forever. 
 John replied that he would do as they counselled and set Arthur at 
 liberty, but even before their audience was over, Hubert came and 
 whispered to him that Arthur was dead. 
 
 " My lords," said John, " over the laws of fate we have no 
 power. Young Arthur is deceased to-night," and he turned pale 
 when he beheld how all regarded him; for his noblemen, on hearing 
 this news, fell from him with looks of horror, shrinking away as 
 though from pestilence. John then turned on Hubert, who, he said, 
 was the cause of all this mischief, and he called Hubert a bold 
 villain who obeyed too eagerly all hints to crime and who had read 
 into his royal words a meaning that was not there. He bade 
 Hubert begone and never see him more, for he detested him; 
 and he said that he had cause for wishing Arthur's death, but Hu- 
 bert had none to kill him. It was ever the fate of kings, John said, 
 to be attended thus by hateful fiends, who at a hint would pleasure 
 their own evil hearts. 
 
 " Your majesty," said Huber% " although I had your hand and 
 seal for this foul work, I did it not. Young Arthur lives." He 
 then told John how pity had withheld his hand and how Arthur lay 
 concealed. 
 
 The king on hearing this, bade Hubert haste and tell the nobles 
 that report had lied, and Hubert came upon them without the walls 
 of Arthur's prison where they had gone in search of his body. But 
 Hubert, on drawing near, saw that they wept and that their heads 
 were bowed for grief; and he beheld amid them the lifeless body 
 of Arthur. In terror at what had passed, the unhappy child had 
 endeavoured to escape by leaping from the prison wall, whence he 
 had fallen on cruel stones that killed him. But the noblemen who 
 beheld Hubert approaching, trembled with abhorrence and drew 
 their swords, for they believed that Hubert had been the instrument 
 
364 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 of Arthur's death. And still they wept, calling on Heaven to 
 witness that so foul a deed had never seen its like upon the face 
 of all the earth. Only one of them, King Richard's son, kept them 
 from slaying Hubert, and Richard alone remained faithful to King 
 John. For Hubert's own deep sorrow at beholding Arthur dead 
 gave this lord to know that he was innocent. The rest, however, 
 bore their swords and their allegiance to the king of France, and 
 spread throughout the country the foul news of Arthur's murder. 
 
 When the people learned that Arthur had been made away with, 
 as they believed by the hand of the king, his uncle, they rose in 
 thousands against John, and they welcomed to their shores the 
 invading fleet that France had sent to overthrow him. And the 
 news of Arthur's death affected them in a strange and ominous 
 manner, for the smith at his forge would pause in the middle of a 
 blow to nod grimly and roll up his eyes at hearing of it, the tailor 
 and tradesman would drop their work and rush out of doors to 
 impart the news to all their neighbours; and men who passed 
 through the streets would turn pale and draw their weapons when 
 they heard. 
 
 John was still able, however, to collect an army, and some of his 
 captains still remained unshaken from him. To strengthen him- 
 self, he summoned to him Cardinal Pandulph, the pope's legate who 
 had laid his kingdom under a curse before the walls of Angiers, 
 and John ignobly submitted himself through Pandulph to the law 
 of Rome, so that the curse should be removed, for he knew that 
 Pandulph would then bid the French withdraw their army from 
 England. 
 
 The French, however, beholding England so nearly conquered, 
 refused to obey the cardinal's order, and it surely seemed as though 
 just retribution must overtake the English king. And John, in lead- 
 ing his army to the coming battle with the French was secretly 
 poisoned, so that he lay helpless and dying of a burning fever while 
 the French and his own revolted subjects triumphed in battle over 
 the royal army. And the last words that fell upon John's ear were 
 
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 365 
 
 that his power was completely overthrown, and that the French 
 and his subjects were everywhere victorious, having triumphed no 
 more from their own strength than from hatred of him who opposed 
 them; and in the death of this cruel king the fate of Arthur was in 
 some measure revenged. 
 
 On hearing of John's death, the English concluded peace with 
 their invaders, refusing, now that they were rid of the king they 
 hated, to fight any longer against their countrymen. And the 
 French, who had also suffered great reverses, were glad enough to 
 return to their own country, knowing that they never could take 
 England now that she had been freed from the affliction of the in- 
 famous King John. 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 RICHARD the Second, king of England, possessed none of 
 the great qualities that made his grandfather, King Ed- 
 ward, famous; for Richard did not seek to win renown in 
 foreign wars, or to benefit his country with the contentment of a 
 time of peace. While the English people should have prospered 
 in the happy quiet that had befallen their country, Richard, their 
 king, lived with idle and profuse extravagance, requiring great sums 
 of money for his royal pleasures, — more, indeed, than Edward, his 
 grandfather, would have needed to win victories in France. Rich- 
 ard seemed not content with squandering his own treasure, but 
 sought to obtain gold by unjust means, for he would tax his subjects 
 unlawfully, or call for loans that he intended never to repay. The 
 gold that he obtained was soon dispelled as if in air, and the king 
 of England seemed like a magician, who caused what he would 
 touch to vanish from his hand, until the English people became 
 angered that their country showed no visible or outward benefit from 
 all this spending. As it is assured that a wicked king must ever 
 reap the hatred of his subjects, a king who rules unwisely will surely 
 win contempt that in the end may drive him from his throne; and 
 the statesmen surrounding Richard feared for the future safety of 
 their country, and their king. Most gravely of them all did Rich- 
 ard's uncle, John of Gaunt, fear for him — for John of Gaunt was a 
 nobleman of age and deep experience who knew too well the out- 
 come of such giddy and profuse extravagance as Richard's. 
 
 John of Gaunt had a son named Henry Bolingbroke who was 
 of far different temper from his royal cousin, for Bolingbroke, al- 
 though hasty in anger, was a soldier of vast courage, stern and 
 resolute, skilled in the laws of government and greatly respected 
 by the English people, who held King Richard in but light esteem. 
 
 3 66 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 367 
 
 And whether from loyalty to England or from secret designs of his 
 own for future greatness, Bolingbroke did what lay in his power to 
 win the love of all the people in the land. 
 
 It came to pass that Bolingbroke accused the Duke of Norfolk 
 of treachery against King Richard, and before Richard himself, 
 Bolingbroke declared his charges against Norfolk, who denied them 
 utterly. The anger of these noblemen was so great, that in the 
 presence of their sovereign they fell into a hot dispute, charging 
 each other with bitter crimes and dangerous treason to their country, 
 and each of them cast down his glove at the feet of his enemy 
 in challenge to mortal combat. When the king attempted to check 
 this unseemly quarrel, commanding them to make their peace, for 
 he would have no civil bloodshed in his kingdom, Bolingbroke and 
 Norfolk showed the slight regard in which they held him, by re- 
 fusing to obey. They implored Richard to appoint a day when 
 they might settle their dispute by strength of arms, which was be- 
 lieved at that time to be a certain means of learning the truth of 
 any quarrel; and Richard at last appeared to consent to their 
 request, so that these two hot-headed noblemen prepared to meet 
 each other on horseback in deadly battle, armed from head to 
 foot and bearing swords and lances, as their own high rank and 
 all the rules of chivalry required. 
 
 But Richard, thinking how Bolingbroke and Norfolk had dis- 
 regarded his own royal presence in their quarrel, and how their 
 rage might in part be feigned to hide in themselves the very treason 
 that so angrily they heaped upon each other, secretly determined 
 that this combat never should take place between them, resolving 
 to punish them as severely as their guilt, in his belief, should justify. 
 So, when the two opponents armed at all points had entered in 
 the lists and were awaiting the signal to begin their battle, Richard 
 cast down his staff as a sign that they must cease, and he bade 
 them lay aside their spears and helmets and hear what he had 
 decreed. He pronounced on Bolingbroke the sentence of banish- 
 ment, saying that for ten long years he must wander in foreign 
 
368 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 countries and turn his back upon the fair dominions of his native 
 soil, where, said Richard, it would be death for him to return 
 before the limit of his exile had expired. To the Duke of Norfolk, 
 Richard then said his penalty was even heavier, and that he pro- 
 nounced it on this account with some unwillingness : for Norfolk 
 should become a hopeless exile, and the words " never to return " 
 were breathed against him. 
 
 " A sentence," said Norfolk, " as heavy as unlooked for from 
 your Highness' mouth, and I have deserved far better at your hands 
 than to receive so deep a wound." For now that English was 
 banished from his lips, he must forgo, he said, the use of speech, 
 being too old to become a pupil; and his exile would be no better 
 than a silent death, since he could hold no further converse with 
 his countrymen or listen to the known and dear accents of his 
 native tongue. But Bolingbroke, who had fair hopes of a return 
 to England, received his sentence with less show of grief. Turn- 
 ing to the Duke of Norfolk, Bolingbroke bade him, now that he 
 was an exile and could no longer fear the anger of the king, to 
 confess his treason, saying that Norfolk had far to go, and bidding 
 him bear not along the burden of a guilty heart. 
 
 Norfolk, however, replied that if he were a traitor, as Bolingbroke 
 accused him, he wished his name to be blotted from the book of 
 life and that he should be banished from heaven as well as from 
 the country of his birth; and he said to Bolingbroke, " proud man, 
 call me traitor if you will, but what you are, God, you and I do 
 know, and all too soon, I fear, the king shall learn and have good 
 reason to repent." 
 
 Norfolk then took his departure, bidding them all farewell with 
 sorrowful words; and it seemed from the manner of his leave- 
 taking that he was guiltless of the crimes that had been laid against 
 him. 
 
 But the king, observing the troubled look of his uncle, John of 
 Gaunt, whose sorrow at the banishment of his dear son was great 
 and plain to see, said to him that his grieved aspect had plucked 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 369 
 
 away four years from his son's banishment, and Bolingbroke might 
 now return after six winters with welcome to his native country. 
 
 Old John of Gaunt, however, knew too well that before that 
 time should pass, his life, far spent with age would be extinct; and 
 to the king he said he could not hope to see his son again, calling 
 his own life an oil-dried lamp that before long must flicker out in 
 endless night. He bade his son farewell with much affection, bid- 
 ding him regard his banishment as a willing journey undertaken 
 with gladness and a happy heart, for sorrow, said this wise old 
 man, weighs all the heavier when it is hardly borne; but when it 
 is regarded lightly and suffered with a cheerful patience some of 
 its harmful power is taken from it. And John of Gaunt concealed 
 his own sorrow to cheer the departing steps of Bolingbroke; but 
 none the less he was afflicted by the loss of his beloved son until 
 he fell into a severe illness, and he knew that death at no long 
 period must put an end to his unhappiness. 
 
 Before he died, John of Gaunt desired to chide the king for his 
 reckless and unthrifty ways that must soon destroy his country and 
 himself, for all the land was being laid in waste by the thoughtless 
 extravagance of its spendthrift ruler. While Richard always had 
 refused to hear advice, his uncle believed that such a warning, 
 spoken from a bed of pain and grievous sickness, would have effect 
 upon him, for he knew that the tongues of dying men enforce at- 
 tention, and when words are scarce they seldom can be spent in 
 vain. So John of Gaunt sent word to Richard that he lay dying, 
 and besought the king to visit him before the brief remainder of 
 his life was ended; and he spoke to Richard sternly of his gross 
 folly, contrasting it with the great wisdom of the former king. He 
 said that the waste caused by Richard was no whit less than the 
 extent of his dominions, that a thousand flatterers attended him; 
 that he himself who was about to die beheld the king who stood 
 before him in a state of death even more terrible — as wide and 
 far reaching as his dominions that were perishing from the neglect 
 of their own ruler. When Richard in great anger threatened him 
 
370 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 for speaking so to his own sovereign, saying that were he not of 
 kindred blood his head should pay the forfeit of such words, John 
 of Gaunt bade Richard not to spare him on that account, for kindred 
 blood he had already drunkenly caroused, meaning the Duke of 
 Gloucester, his own brother and Richard's uncle, whom Richard 
 had unjustly put to death. He bade his nephew to continue in 
 his shame, but said that shame should not die with him in his grave, 
 and that Richard would be forced to think upon his words and 
 make them his tormentors in the future. The old man spoke no 
 more, and word was soon brought to the king that John of Gaunt 
 had died. 
 
 When Richard heard these too just words of blame, instead of 
 taking them to heart or thinking of the consequence of his own 
 acts that sooner or later must fall upon him, he fell into a rage 
 against his uncle that was not allayed by hearing of his death. 
 As if in defiance of the wise counsel that lately had been given him, 
 he determined on an act of injustice greater than any he had ever 
 yet committed — an outrage against his uncle who lay dead and 
 against Bolingbroke, who by this time had departed in banishment. 
 For a sudden revolt having arisen in Ireland, Richard knew not 
 where to raise the money for a war against the Irish rebels, and he 
 purposed to take John of Gaunt's estate, — all his lands and money, 
 his horses and his silver, all that should have been inherited by 
 Bolingbroke, and with this wealth the king prepared to muster an 
 army and set sail for Ireland, hoping to overthrow the enemies that 
 defied him. 
 
 There was great anger among the noblemen at this unjust and 
 violent proceeding, and many sought to dissuade Richard from an 
 act of such dishonour. The Duke of York, Richard's only uncle 
 who now remained alive, warned him to desist, saying that such 
 a deed must bear most bitter consequence against the king who 
 lowered his great power to rob an absent and defenceless man. 
 But Richard refused to regard this warning, and seized into his 
 hands all that had been left to Bolingbroke by John of Gaunt; 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 371 
 
 and a number of noblemen determined now to serve no longer under 
 such a tyrant as King Richard. Word was sent to Bolingbroke 
 of what had taken place, and many fled to offer him their service, 
 for it was soon rumoured that Bolingbroke was returning to Eng- 
 land to revenge himself upon the king. 
 
 The report of Bolingbroke's return caused great dismay among 
 the few persons that remained loyal to Richard — chiefly to his 
 uncle, the Duke of York, who ruled the country while Richard was 
 absent in Ireland. When the news was known to be true, and 
 Bolingbroke was said to be collecting a mighty army, swollen alike 
 by noblemen and peasants that rejoiced in the chance to overthrow 
 the king they hated, even the Duke of York knew not where to turn 
 for aid, or how to protect his country from the danger that was 
 threatening it. For Richard had wrung from his dominions the 
 last farthing that he could extort to lead his army into Ireland, and 
 no money was to be had to meet a war against the might of Boling- 
 broke, to whose banners the English had flocked in prodigious 
 numbers. And when King Richard made a quick return to England, 
 he beheld that all his land rejoiced openly in the mischance that had 
 come upon him : for even women had gone to the wars, and old men 
 and boys had armed themselves against their king. 
 
 Now did the king remember the words of his late uncle, John 
 of Gaunt. The flatterers that in more happy days had seemed to 
 support his power now had fled and joined the army of his enemies. 
 The noblemen whose greatness in the land was most complete, had 
 likewise joined Bolingbroke. And Richard, when he asked for the 
 Duke of York, into whose charge he had entrusted the whole of his 
 kingdom, received a piece of news that showed him how irrevocably 
 he was lost; for York himself had fled to the enemy, feeling utterly 
 convinced that none could stand against him. There remained 
 nothing but for Richard to shut himself within his strongest castle 
 and seek to make what terms he could with the enraged lord 
 whose vengeance he had brought upon himself. 
 
 To the castle where Richard had taken refuge came the proud 
 
372 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 army of Bolingbroke, who demanded a parley with the king. 
 Richard, accompanied by the lords that still remained faithful 
 to him showed himself upon the walls to answer Bolingbroke; and 
 although the sun of his past fortune was now set, and he could 
 hope for little from the foes who thus defied him, Richard gazed 
 on them with haughty majesty of bearing and conducted himself 
 still as though he were more powerful than his enemies. He said 
 that he was amazed to see his subjects in such show of arms against 
 him, asking how they dared so to forget themselves as not to kneel 
 before him where they stood. From the Earl of Northumberland 
 Richard demanded that he show the hand that had dismissed him 
 from his kingship, and he bade Northumberland to tell to Boling- 
 broke who stood nearby, that every step he took on English ground 
 was dangerous treason. For Richard said that he had been crowned 
 by God to rule the land of England as his fathers had ruled before 
 him, and although he was now bereft of friends, pestilence and sor- 
 row should fall upon the subjects who should dare to lift their hands 
 against his throne. 
 
 Bolingbroke, however, while he secretly desired to win the crown 
 and intended nothing less than to depose King Richard and place 
 himself in royal power, was not prepared as yet to disclose to his 
 followers the full extent of his purpose. He replied to the king 
 that he had come but to take back again his own possessions and 
 to seek repeal of the sentence of banishment that had been passed 
 upon him. If this request were granted he would soon disperse 
 his army. And he sent to Richard as a messenger the Earl of 
 Northumberland to assure the king of his good will and generous 
 intentions toward him. 
 
 But the king had no sooner consented to Bolingbroke's terms than 
 Bolingbroke made further demands upon him, for he requested 
 that Richard descend from off the walls and parley with him in 
 the castle court; and at this King Richard perceived that his cousin, 
 while pretending homage and fair treatment, was secretly deter- 
 mined to work his ruin; and Richard lost completely his assurance 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 373 
 
 of mind and the royalty of his bearing, crying out, " What must 
 the king do now to please his cousin? Must he submit? He is 
 content to do so. Must he lose the name of king? In God's name 
 let it go ! " He said that he would give away his jewels for a set of 
 beads and his scepter for a palmer's staff; his subjects he would 
 exchange for a pair of carved saints that he might pray to, and 
 in return for all his kingdom he desired only an obscure grave. Or, 
 better still, said Richard, let him be buried in the king's highway, 
 where subjects' feet hourly might trample on his head as they had 
 trod upon his heart while yet he was alive. And Richard gave him- 
 self into the power of his cousin, who proceeded then to march 
 toward London, bearing the king a prisoner into the city. 
 
 No sooner did Bolingbroke attain power over Richard, than he 
 commenced with all his noblemen to compel the captive king to 
 resign the crown and to do it as though of his own choice and 
 free will, for thus, thought Bolingbroke, his new title would be 
 strengthened against wars to take from him what he had won. And 
 Richard, whose spirit had become weakened in his captivity, soon 
 consented to this hard-hearted measure and prepared to give away 
 in public all his high authority, his crown and his robes of office 
 to Bolingbroke. 
 
 In the presence of the nobles and many witnesses, the unfortunate 
 Richard was summoned from his place of imprisonment, and he 
 came with such show of grief that even his enemies were moved to 
 pity as they looked upon him. And he asked why he was sent for to 
 a king, .and cried, " God save the king! " asking if no man present 
 would say amen. Again he demanded for what service he had 
 been summoned, and the Duke of York then told him he must pub- 
 licly make offer of his state and crown to Bolingbroke. 
 
 Richard then lifted the crown and gave it to his cousin, bidding 
 him seize upon it; and when Bolingbroke asked if he were not 
 willing to resign, and that he thought it had been done of his own 
 free will, Richard answered that he gave away his crown but that 
 his griefs were still his own. None the less, said Richard, he 
 
374 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 washed away his balm with his own tears and plucked away his 
 crown with his own hand; and he cried, " God save King Henry 
 and send him many years of sunshine days," asking what more 
 remained that he must do. 
 
 The Earl of Northumberland replied that Richard must read a 
 list of the grievous crimes that he had committed against his 
 country, so that all men might think that he was worthily deposed. 
 
 " Must I do this? " said Richard. " Gentle Northumberland, if 
 your offenses were on record would it not shame you in such a 
 company to read them?" And when Northumberland gave him 
 the written paper, Richard said that his eyes were too full of tears 
 to gaze upon it, and yet, he said, salt water had not blinded them 
 so much but that he saw a group of traitors that surrounded him. 
 But turning his eyes upon himself, he saw, he said, that he, too, was 
 a traitor with the rest, for giving consent to make his glory base, 
 and from his state of king to become a slave. He called for a 
 mirror, saying he would look therein and see how he appeared 
 since he had lost his majesty; and beholding his face the same, where 
 sorrow as yet had struck no visible marks of grief, he dashed the 
 mirror from his hand and shattered it. And Richard then was 
 taken to the castle of Pomfret where Bolingbroke commanded that he 
 should be kept in close confinement. 
 
 On his way to prison Richard met his queen and took a sorrowful 
 leave of her, for Bolingbroke had ordered her into banishment, 
 bidding her return to France whence she had come as Richard's 
 bride. And after Bolingbroke was crowned, Richard was shut up 
 within a dungeon where he beheld no man except the jailer who 
 would bring him daily food, who seemed, as Richard said, to offer 
 it only to prolong the misery that he wished were at an end. And 
 the poor, forsaken Richard tried to reconcile his mind to his captiv- 
 ity, passing the time by thinking that he still was king of England, 
 or again that he had been unkinged by Bolingbroke and how the 
 people had thrown dust and refuse on his head when he was brought 
 a prisoner to London. And the thoughts of Richard were desperate 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 375 
 
 and melancholy, until it seemed that he must soon forgo his reason 
 and become mad. 
 
 In all his former kingdom there was one man, however, who still 
 remained loyal to Richard and desired even then to serve him. 
 This was a poor groom who formerly had been employed in the 
 royal stables. And this groom prevailed upon the gaolers of King 
 Richard that he be allowed to look again upon the face of his 
 former master; and forgetting in his joy the changed state that 
 had befallen Richard, he called him " royal prince " with all signs 
 of true loyalty and affection, telling him that he had laboured hard 
 to see him, and how his heart had ached when he beheld Boling- 
 broke in the coronation riding on Richard's own horse, Barbary, 
 who bore him proudly, seeming to disdain the ground. And 
 Richard cried out in grief on hearing this, for Barbary had 
 been his favourite steed and often had been fed from his own 
 hand. 
 
 Bolingbroke, although he was crowned king, feared lest Richard 
 might regain his liberty and stir up war against him. And once 
 he exclaimed in anger, asking if he had no friends who would rid 
 him of the living fear of Richard's presence. While Bolingbroke 
 refused to order Richard's death, he secretly desired it, and his wish 
 was known to his followers, one of whom believed that if he 
 should slay Richard, Bolingbroke would give him rich reward for 
 freeing him of a tormenting terror. 
 
 This knight, who was called Sir Pierce of Exton, came to Pomfret 
 shortly after the groom had departed from Richard's presence; and 
 he burst into the cell with armed servants who set on Richard with 
 their weapons, seeking to strike him down. And although Richard 
 bravely endeavoured to defend himself, he was soon wounded mor- 
 tally, overborne by the strength and numbers of those that beset 
 him. And he died nobly as a king, while those that slew him, 
 marking how courageously he met his end, were stricken with a 
 sudden shame and sorrow. And they brought his body to Boling- 
 broke, who showed a sincere grief on seeing it. 
 
376 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Thus this unfortunate king whose fate, although brought upon 
 him by himself, seemed far more terrible than he deserved, lost both 
 his country and his life ; and Henry the Fourth ruled over England 
 in his stead. 
 
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 PRINCE HAL, the eldest son of Henry the Fourth and due 
 successor to the crown of England, caused his father many 
 doubts and anxieties; for the young prince thought little of 
 preparing himself for his high office, but haunted the taverns of 
 Eastcheap, surrounded himself with dissolute supporters and, to 
 all appearance, cared for no other pastime than drinking, dicing 
 and brawling with his wild companions. 
 
 The looseness and seeming indifference on the part of the young 
 prince was rendered even darker by the brilliance of a youth of his 
 own age named Harry Percy, son to the Earl of Northumberland, 
 but more widely known as Hotspur — for Percy bore himself in 
 battle with such fury that this nickname had been given him, and 
 was, withal, so skillful and brave a soldier that he commanded 
 many noblemen far older than himself. The king with a sigh often 
 wished that his son were the Percy and Hotspur the Plantagenet, 
 for while Percy distinguished himself as any prince, the king 
 beheld riot and dishonour stain the brow of his young Harry, who, 
 he feared, would work the ruin of his subjects. 
 
 But the same high spirit that won for Hotspur his fame on the 
 battle-field caused him to be impatient of submission, unwilling to 
 render to the king a proper deference; and when his sovereign de- 
 manded of him certain prisoners, Hotspur refused to give them up, 
 asking for their ransom the recall of his banished relative, Mortimer : 
 so that the king in no uncertain terms warned Hotspur never again 
 to speak of a rebel who had incurred the royal displeasure and bade 
 him on pain of severe punishment to deliver up his prisoners at once 
 and with no further words. 
 
 Hotspur, angered at this tyranny, for so he called it, rose in re- 
 bellion against the king, and with him rose his father, the Earl of 
 
 377 
 
378 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Northumberland and many powerful noblemen joined them, chief 
 of whom were the Archbishop of York and the Earl of Worcester. 
 As they had placed Henry upon the throne by force of arms against 
 King Richard, they plotted to drive him from it with an equal vio- 
 lence, and to crown as king no other than Mortimer himself. 
 
 At this very time the young prince was engaged in his usual pur- 
 suits and had devised a marvelous jest on his monstrous friend and 
 follower, Sir John Falstaff — the dishonest knight who ruled in 
 taverns, loved a capon only less than he loved sack and best of all 
 delighted to go a thieving; for, closely as Sir John hugged his quart 
 pot and his roast, he called himself one of Diana's foresters, — a 
 highwayman, a minion of the moon. Well from the rear would 
 he cheer on his retainers, roaring out commands in an awful voice 
 to the terror of honest men ! 
 
 This fat rascal had besought Prince Hal to go with him on one 
 of these same sallies, a robbing expedition to Gadshill; and the 
 prince, with his friend Poins, determined to accompany Falstaff 
 thither, but for a purpose far different from what the rogue imag- 
 ined. Disguised in suits of buckram, the prince and Poins pro- 
 posed to fall upon the thieves themselves and take their booty from 
 them, the virtue of which, Poins said, would be the uncomprehensi- 
 ble lies that Falstaff would tell them at supper: — how thirty at 
 least he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he 
 endured, and in reproving him would lie the jest. 
 
 So, while the king, in great disturbance, had sent in search of his 
 wild son, that youth, with Poins, Falstaff and his retainers, had 
 issued from their tavern and prepared to waylay the king's subjects; 
 and the prince and Poins for their own secret purpose had deserted 
 the rest of the company. When the travellers were set upon and 
 their purses taken from them, these two in disguise leaped forth upon 
 the thieves, who took to their heels in fear for their lives, Falstaff 
 roaring and begging for mercy as he fled. 
 
 Poins and the prince then bore to the tavern the money they had 
 taken and awaited there the return of the faint-hearted robbers, 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 379 
 
 who with swords in their hands and pistols at their sides had suf- 
 fered two men to outface them from their prize; and these rascals 
 soon made their entrance, Falstaff calling for sack and invoking a 
 plague on all cowards, for he believed that the prince and Poins 
 had run away even before himself. 
 
 Falstaff said that he could beat such a prince out of his kingdom 
 with a dagger of lath and drive his subjects before him like a 
 flock of wild geese ; that his party had been set on by an hundred men, 
 who had torn their booty from them ; that for two hours he had 
 been at half swords with a dozen of them together and escaped 
 by a miracle, being eight times thrust through the doublet, four 
 through the hose; his buckler cut through and through, his sword 
 hacked like a handsaw. He told a monstrous tale of two men in 
 buckram suits whom he had encountered, and these two soon grew 
 to be four, then seven, then nine, and then eleven, — seven of whom 
 Falstaff swore that he had slain with his own hand. 
 
 The prince cried out that these lies were as monstrous as their 
 father that begot them, gross as a mountain; and he and Poins dis- 
 closed themselves and confounded Falstaff. But the rogue said then 
 that he had known them all the while and had refused to raise his 
 sword against the person of his own future liege and sovereign; 
 though he were as valiant as Hercules, he said, he would not harm 
 the heir apparent; and he called them gallant lads and hearts of 
 gold and prepared to make merry with them until morning. 
 
 It was at this time that the king's messenger summoned Prince 
 Hal to court, where he was at once called to private audience with 
 his father, who spoke to him of the foes who had risen in rebellion 
 and even then were threatening the crown. In sorrowful words he 
 blamed the prince for his past wildness and ill behaviour, saying 
 that he knew not but that God had bred revengement out of his 
 own blood for some past sin he had committed, otherwise, said he, 
 such barren pleasures and rude society could not accompany the 
 greatness of his blood and hold their level in a princely heart. 
 
 " Let me wonder, Harry, at your affections," said his father, 
 
380 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " which do hold a wing quite from the flight of all your ancestors. 
 Your place at council you have rudely lost. You are become almost 
 an alien to the hearts of all the court and princes of your blood." 
 
 He said the hope and expectation of Prince Harry's time were 
 ruined, and the soul of every man prophetically did forethink his 
 fall. In even deeper sorrow he compared his son with the 
 weak king, Richard, who likewise grew companion to the common 
 streets, until the sun-like presence of his majesty was dimmed and 
 no man regarded him; and Hotspur he likened to himself that con- 
 quered Richard, saying that even as he had been then, so was Percy 
 at that very hour. " Yet wherefore do I tell you this? " he ended. 
 " You, Harry, who are like enough to fight against me under Percy's 
 pay, to show how much you are degenerate." 
 
 When the prince heard his father speak in this manner, he knew 
 that slanderers had borne ill tales against him, for while he had been 
 irregular and wild, these were the limits of his vices, and, indeed, 
 he had privately resolved to overcome them and put on a better front 
 before the world. 
 
 So Harry cried out to the king never to say or believe such things 
 against him, exclaiming, " God forgive them that so much have 
 swayed your Majesty's good thoughts away from me ! " He vowed 
 that all this he would redeem on Percy's head and call him to so 
 strict account that he should render every glory up. He said he 
 wished his shames were doubled and every honour crowning the 
 Percy's helm were multitudes, for he should make this northern 
 youth exchange the glorious deeds for the indignities; and he 
 swore that, God willing, he should perform what he had promised, 
 and would die a hundred thousand deaths ere he should break the 
 smallest parcel of his vow. 
 
 " In this," cried the king, " a hundred thousand rebels die," and 
 he rejoiced in the change that had befallen his dear son, who he said 
 should now have charge and sovereign trust. He commanded 
 Harry to set forward in a few days time with the troops that had 
 been given him, and to await his own royal presence and the coming 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 381 
 
 of other forces at a place called Bridgenorth, there to make headway 
 against the rebels. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Hotspur and certain of his confederates, the 
 Earl of Worcester and the great Scot, Douglas, were sorely dis- 
 turbed at an illness that had befallen the Earl of Northumberland, 
 who informed them that he would be delayed in joining their forces. 
 They feared that in the lack of this jointure, wanting as they did 
 the troops the earl would bring them, they might not stand against 
 the soldiers of the king. 
 
 They heard at the same time that the king and the Prince of Wales 
 were marching against them; and Hotspur on hearing this forgot 
 his disturbance in his usual ardour for battle. He cried out that 
 they came like sacrifices in their trim, and should all be offered hot 
 and bleeding to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war. He could not 
 bear, he said, to hear they were so nigh and yet unconquered; he 
 was impatient for his horse which was to bear him like a thunder- 
 bolt against the bosom of the Prince of Wales, for Harry to Harry 
 should meet and never part till one were slain. 
 
 There was other news for the rebels, and of more evil tenor 
 than any that as yet had come to them, for they learned by the same 
 messenger that the Welsh soldiers under Glendower could not be 
 drawn together under fourteen days; and Hotspur knew that this 
 reverse was a deathblow to his cause, for now could he never hope 
 to defeat the king; but he resolved, nevertheless, to offer battle with 
 all the strength he was able, and the ill wind that blew upon his 
 fortune rendered him only keener to slay the Prince of Wales, whom 
 he hated with a double hatred, for being heir apparent and son to 
 Henry. 
 
 The king, however, held Hotspur and other of his opponents in 
 so high regard that he determined not to attack them without a 
 final effort to come at peace with no bloodshed; so he sent to the 
 rebels as messenger, Sir Walter Blunt, one of his most trusted noble- 
 men, who came before Hotspur saying he bore gracious offers from 
 his Majesty. 
 
382 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Hotspur replied that Henry well knew when to promise, when 
 to pay. The king, said he, had disgraced him in his victories, rated 
 his uncle from the council board and in rage dismissed his father 
 from the court, breaking oath on oath, committing wrong on wrong 
 until he had driven them to seek out this head of safety. When 
 Sir Walter Blunt asked if he should return with this answer, Hot- 
 spur bade him tell the king he would withdraw awhile and in the 
 morning send the Earl of Worcester with his purposes; for Hotspur 
 had been persuaded by his confederates to delay battle in hope of re- 
 inforcement and was likewise somewhat moved by the good words of 
 the king's messenger. 
 
 In the morning, therefore, the Earl of Worcester went to King 
 Henry and learned from him his generous intentions, which were 
 that if the rebels would accept his grace, he would welcome them 
 again as friends and followers and freely forgive their outrage, 
 but if they were obdurate and persisted in defying him, rebuke and 
 dread correction should do their offices upon them. 
 
 In the parley Prince Hal besought the king that if there must be 
 battle to let the issue rest between himself and Harry Percy, and 
 through Worcester he sent Hotspur a challenge to single combat, 
 saying that while he had been a truant to chivalry and heard that 
 Hotspur did so account him, he was content to save bloodshed on 
 either side by trying fortune with him in single fight; and he spoke 
 of Hotspur in so generous a manner, with such modest and manly 
 courtesy, that Worcester withdrew greatly impressed, wondering 
 at the change in one whom he had considered no better than a tavern 
 brawler. 
 
 Worcester, however, distrusted the king to such extent that he 
 dared not acquaint Hotspur with the generous terms that had been 
 offered — for he feared his nephew would accede to them, and in 
 all probability Hotspur would have done so; but Worcester informed 
 him that the king had called them rebels and traitors and would 
 bid them battle presently; and the two armies then came together in 
 unequal but bitter conflict. 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 383 
 
 While the battle was in progress, Hotspur came upon the prince, 
 and recognizing each other at an instant, the two prepared for mor- 
 tal combat; and the prince said that Percy must no longer think to 
 share with him in glory, for two stars could not keep their motion in 
 one sphere, nor England brook the double reign of Harry Percy and 
 the Prince of Wales. 
 
 " Nor shall it," replied Hotspur, " for the hour is come to end the 
 one of us." With these words they closed upon each other, until 
 the prince struck Hotspur to the ground, mortally wounded, who 
 barely had time to grieve the loss of his proud name at arms, which 
 lay heavier at his heart than loss of life itself, when death silenced 
 his lips forever, and the prince in sorrow covered up his face, saying 
 that the earth that bore him dead, bore not alive so stout a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 When the noble Percy was slain, it was quickly seen that the heart 
 of his cause was broken, for his soldiers could make no headway 
 without him; and the rebels soon were routed, leaving the king 
 to turn against the other forces that threatened him. 
 
 The Earl of Worcester, who was taken captive, was condemned to 
 death, for Henry had learned of the false message he delivered to 
 the noble Hotspur. Henry bade Prince John proceed against Nor- 
 thumberland and the Archbishop, while he with the Prince of Wales 
 should overcome Glendower; for, said Henry, with such another 
 check rebellion would lose all sway, and leave to him his own again. 
 
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 WHEN the battle of Shrewsbury was ended, Hotspur 
 slain and his forces put to flight, Rumour with many 
 tongues invaded all the countryside and scattered false 
 reports like rain among the villages, where it was told that young 
 Prince Hal no longer lived and that the king himself had bowed his 
 anointed head as low as death before the wrath of the great 
 Douglas. 
 
 With strange swiftness these false tidings were borne to the 
 castle of Northumberland, where the old, sick earl awaited word 
 of the battle and the fate of his son, Hotspur. A lord named 
 Bardolph came before the earl with gracious news — as good as 
 heart could wish, he said — for it was certain that the prince was 
 slain by Hotspur, that the royal troops were routed and that fortune 
 everywhere appeared to shine upon the swords of the insurgents. 
 When the earl asked if Lord Bardolph had seen the field himself 
 and if he came from Shrewsbury, Bardolph replied, no; but that a 
 gentleman who witnessed the battle had told him all this news and 
 vouched it to be true. 
 
 Even while Lord Bardolph spoke, a harsher message came, cast- 
 ing a cloud of doubt upon his words; for one of Northumberland's 
 retainers heard that everywhere rebellion had ill luck and that young 
 Harry Percy's spur was cold in death. And the earl knew not what 
 to think or whom to believe, and his doubt ana! fear were terrible to 
 behold. 
 
 Soon there came to his castle a gentleman named Morton, pale 
 and trembling as though in illness, and the earl cried that Morton's 
 face was like the title-leaf of a most tragic volume; in the whiteness 
 of his cheeks he knew that all was lost : for even did such a man, 
 he said, so faint, so spiritless, draw Priam's curtain in the dead 
 
 384 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 385 
 
 of night to tell him Troy was burnt. As Priam found the fire ere 
 the messenger his tongue, just so, said Northumberland, did he know 
 of his son's death before it was spoken, for Morton's brow was 
 terrible with dark events and Hotspur's fate was plainly written 
 on it. But the earl, although he guessed what was as yet unsaid, 
 shuddered to believe and asked with trembling hope if his divina- 
 tion lied. He implored Morton to tell him that his fears were 
 false, saying that they should be a sweet disgrace in the most happy 
 tidings he desired to hear; but when Morton still looked sadly on 
 him and hesitated in his speech the earl cried out for him to speak the 
 worst that had befallen and speak it swiftly, for the tongue that bore 
 ill news could not be blamed, and yet must sound forever after as a 
 funeral bell that tolled for a departed friend. 
 
 Morton said that the earl's spirit was most true, his fears most 
 certain; to the question if he came from the place of battle he 
 answered that he ran away from thence, where hateful death put on 
 his ugliest mask to fright his party. He had seen with his own eyes 
 the prince strike Hotspur to the earth, and Hotspur nevermore 
 sprang up alive. His death, continued Morton, took all fire and 
 heat from the best tempered courage of his troops, so that arrows 
 flew not swifter to their aim than did the rebel soldiers, aiming at 
 safety, fly from the field on hearing of their leader's fate. In 
 short, the king had won the day, and had despatched a speedy force 
 of soldiers against Northumberland himself. 
 
 " There is physic in your news," replied Northumberland, " and 
 in some measure it had made me well, for my limbs, weakened with 
 grief, are now made strong with grief; and, as a wretch in fever who 
 breaks from his keepers' arms, I cast aside my crutch to grasp a 
 sword, and glove the hand that holds it with a scaly gauntlet, jointed 
 with steel." The old man bade them bind his brows with iron, 
 for lighter coverings would be too wanton for a head that princes 
 aimed at, and he called forth all the evil hours that must come, 
 to frown upon him now with all their spite, when he cared not 
 what became of him. And the false strength of the earl changed 
 
386 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 suddenly into a violent outburst of grief for his lost son, so terrible 
 that all about him feared for his reason; and his grief when it 
 subsided was succeeded by weakness, until he could no longer be 
 relied on by his companions who were struggling to make a final 
 stand against the king. They prepared at once to meet Prince John 
 who had been sent against them, strengthening themselves until they 
 might proceed without the power of Northumberland, for the lack 
 of this, they said, had been the cause of their defeat at Shrewsbury. 
 
 It was well for the rebels that they did so, for Northumberland's 
 wife and the Lady Percy, Hotspur's widow, persuaded the earl in 
 his weakened state to withdraw before he, too, should lose his life. 
 They reminded him that his own son had died in the lack of his sup- 
 port and begged him to be no dearer of his honour now than 
 hitherto. Honour, said Lady Percy, lay dead in the grave of her 
 heart's dear Harry, whom the earl had left to defend a field where 
 nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name did seem defensible. She 
 so worked upon the fears of the old earl that he deserted his con- 
 federates, sending word to them that while he prayed heartily for 
 their good success and wished his person with them, he could not 
 bring such powers as would do credit to his rank; hence, he said, 
 he purposed to retire to Scotland and to ripen his fortunes there 
 until he should be in a better state to aid them in their struggle. 
 
 The Archbishop of York and his allies justly believed that North- 
 umberland feared the result of their encounter with Prince John, and 
 they were forced to give up hope in him who should have been the 
 strongest power of their enterprise, whose wrongs were deeper than 
 their own and sealed by a son's blood; and as they had already 
 planned they now prepared to make headway by themselves, march- 
 ing against the prince with an army of twenty-five thousand men that 
 they had gathered. 
 
 In the meanwhile Prince John was adding to his army every day; 
 and an order was sent to Sir John Falstaff to join him with a com- 
 pany of soldiers; for Falstaff, who had fought in his own fashion at 
 the battle of Shrewsbury, pretended to have performed most valiant 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 387 
 
 deeds there, bragging of his bravery until he had acquired the name 
 of a great warrior in all the taverns of Eastcheap. And Falstaff 
 set forth to join the prince, taking with him his favourite rascal, 
 Bardolph, a rogue whose face flamed like a firebrand from drinking; 
 and Bardolph was to recruit soldiers with Falstaff in the towns that 
 they passed through, until they had impressed a sufficient number, as 
 they had been commanded, to swell the ranks of John against the 
 rebels. 
 
 Falstaff travelled by most easy stages to the wars, stopping long 
 in Gloucestershire to recruit his soldiers, where he tarried pleasantly 
 at the house of one Justice Shallow who was known to him, and 
 with whom he emptied countless bumpers of sack while his soldiers 
 lacked their commander. For Falstaff said that he had taken but 
 two shirts with him to the wars and did not intend to sweat extraor- 
 dinarily either on his way thither or in battle when he arrived. If 
 the armies came together on a hot day he swore by all that was holy 
 he would brandish nothing but a bottle ; and for all his long stay in 
 Gloucestershire, he impressed there no more than three ragged, for- 
 lorn knaves — the rest having succeeded in bribing him to pass 
 them by. 
 
 Prince John and Lord Westmoreland, in the meanwhile, had con- 
 ceived a plan of treachery to overcome their enemies with a show 
 of peace and apparent fairness. They sent to the Archbishop of 
 York, who was the leader of the rebels, a flag of truce requesting 
 a parley, and the Archbishop with his several lords met the prince at 
 an equal distance between the two armies. 
 
 The prince spoke to them with apparent friendliness and with 
 great seeming desire to effect peace with no further bloodshed. 
 When the rebel leaders gave to him a list of all their grievances, he 
 admitted that these were just and promised that he would redress 
 them all. And when the rebels in great joy said that now a battle 
 was no longer necessary, John bade them go and disperse their army 
 as he would likewise do; then they should drink together and em- 
 brace as friends that had been reconciled. 
 
388 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 It was to be observed, however, that while the rebel soldiers 
 hastened away with shouts of rejoicing, the prince's army remained 
 standing in battle order; and no sooner were the rebels scattered, 
 than John bade his captains strike up their drums and pursue them, 
 commanding also that the Archbishop and all his lords be brought to 
 instant execution. For, said John, while he would keep his promise 
 with most Christian care, it contained no word of safety either to 
 the Archbishop or any of the rebel leaders, who must all look to the 
 headsman for their punishment as traitors to the king. In this way 
 at a single blow the country came again beneath the rule of Henry, 
 and the rising to place Mortimer upon the throne of England was 
 suppressed forever. 
 
 King Henry, however, had met with harder fortune in Wales, 
 where the enemy retired into the impassable mountains of their 
 country, leaving the royal army to contend with sickness and famine. 
 And no sooner did the king return to his own court, than a grievous 
 illness came upon him. 
 
 While the king lay ill, news of Prince John's success was brought 
 to him, and in his weakness word of this good fortune was more than 
 he could bear; and while he had been reviving to all appearance, 
 now a sudden change came over him, and it was plain to see that 
 he lay dying. 
 
 In King Henry's last hours, an unfortunate happening made him 
 believe that his son Harry, who had distinguished himself so bravely 
 on the field of battle, had returned to his former evil conduct; for 
 while the royal crown lay on the pillow of the dying king, he closed 
 his eyes in a still slumber, and Prince Harry, who was alone with him 
 at the time, believed this sleep to be his father's death. Looking on 
 the crown that was, he said, a golden care, the root of his father's ill- 
 ness and the disturber of his peace, the prince removed it from the 
 pillow where it lay, and placed it on his brows, as though to contend 
 with it. For, he said, while his due to his father was tears and 
 heavy sorrows of the blood, his father's due to him was that same 
 imperial crown, which he should henceforth guard with a most rev- 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 389 
 
 erent care, and in deep sorrow he quitted the room, taking the crown 
 with him. 
 
 But the king was not yet dead as the prince believed, and he now 
 awoke and called his lords about him, missing his crown; and he de- 
 manded who had taken it away. His lords replied that they knew 
 not, but that Prince Harry had recently been with him, and the king 
 believed that Harry had taken the crown with unseemly haste from 
 a sense of undue vanity, begrudging his own father half an hour 
 more of life. He summoned the prince before him and dismissed 
 the others; and he administered to the prince a deep rebuke, pitiful 
 to hear in his great weakness. For he bade the prince begone and 
 dig his father's grave himself, and bid the merry bells ring to his ear 
 that he was crowned, not that his father died. Forgetting the 
 changed habits of his son and his great deeds at Shrewsbury, the 
 king cried out for his poor country, for when the fifth Harry 
 should come to power, apes of idleness, he said, should flock to 
 court from every region, driving his wise counsellors away, break- 
 ing his wise decrees, plucking the muzzle of restraint from the 
 curbed license of his time, until all England should again become 
 a wilderness, peopled with its old inhabitants, the wolves. And he 
 bade the prince to tarry but a little, for his cloud of dignity would 
 quickly drop ; and in a few hours more, the prince would own by 
 right the crown that he had stolen. 
 
 At this the prince with tears begged his father to desist and told 
 him in what spirit he had taken the crown from his pillow. He 
 said that if it infected his blood with joy, or if he welcomed it with 
 any spirit of vanity, he wished that it might be kept from him for- 
 ever, and that he should become as the poorest vassal that knelt in 
 awe and terror before it. With loving words the prince once more 
 convinced his father of his repentance and sincerity of purpose, until 
 the king rejoiced again and said that God had put it in Prince 
 Harry's heart to take the crown, to plead so wisely in excuse of it. 
 
 With his last breath the king gave his son counsel how to conduct 
 his realm and meet the enemies that surrounded him, who must be 
 
39Q TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 engrossed with foreign wars to keep them from plotting further mis- 
 chief in their own country; and the king died in the assured be- 
 lief that his son would carry on his own wise measures and become 
 a just and mighty ruler of whom England could be proud. 
 
 When King Henry the Fourth lay dead and Prince Harry had 
 assumed the royal powers, there was doubt and forboding among 
 his brothers and the gentlemen of his court as to how he would 
 conduct himself; and Harry beheld many look askance upon him 
 and regard him with a certain fear. First of those that feared 
 him was the Lord Chief Justice of England, who had caused him 
 once to be arrested and thrown into prison for breaking some de- 
 cree enacted by his father. But Harry bade the justice to continue 
 to wield his power with the same bold and impartial spirit that he 
 had formerly shown against himself; and he bade his brothers like- 
 wise to fear no longer, for his former faults, he said, were buried 
 in the grave of his dead father. Instead of summoning to court 
 his old tavern associates and low companions, as many had feared 
 that he would do, King Henry surrounded himself with grave and 
 wise counsellors, preparing with all his heart to enter in the cares and 
 duties of his kingdom. 
 
 Sir John Falstaff, however, who had returned from the wars 
 (where he had arrived too late to be of any assistance) had no 
 idea of the change that had befallen his companion, the former 
 prince, who now was king. He believed the death of King Henry 
 to be an earnest of reward and great distinction for himself now 
 that Harry had attained his royal power. No sooner, therefore, did 
 Falstaff hear the welcome news of Henry's death, than he hastened 
 rejoicing to bear his great bulk to London, inviting with him all his 
 old friends and associates, to whom he promised offices unheard 
 of, honour and vast wealth, for now, said Falstaff, he should be the 
 king's nearest and dearest adviser, great in the estimation of all 
 that regarded him. And Falstaff placed himself where he could 
 greet the new king after his coronation, intending to call out to him 
 from the streets as he went by. 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 391 
 
 " Stand here by me," said Falstaff to the rogues that accompanied 
 him, " I will compel the king to do you grace and honour. I will 
 leer on him as he comes by, and do but mark the countenance that 
 he will give me." 
 
 And when the new king was returning from his coronation sur- 
 rounded by grave noblemen, soldiers and attendants, Falstaff called 
 out to him loudly, nicknaming him Hal, his own royal Hal, his 
 sweet boy and his Jove; and when the chief justice approached him 
 demanding silence, asking if he were mad to address his sovereign 
 in such a manner, Falstaff continued to address the king, calling out 
 to know if Henry were not glad to see him, and invoking blessings 
 upon him. 
 
 Then King Henry said to Falstaff that he knew him not, although 
 in earlier days he often had dreamed of such a man, so monstrous, 
 so old and so profane. Being awake, he said, he did despise his 
 dream; and he told Falstaff never to presume to think that he was 
 now his former self. And he bade Falstaff think upon his sins for 
 that the grave yawned thrice as wide for him as for other men, 
 commanding him to leave gormandizing, to make less his body and 
 increase his grace. He banished Falstaff on pain of death not to 
 come near his royal person by ten mile; but he gave his old com- 
 panion a liberal sum of money for his support, so that lack of means 
 might not enforce him to do evil. And thus King Henry publicly 
 renounced his former ways and companions, preparing to become 
 a great and successful ruler over England. 
 
THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 WHEN King Henry the Fourth lay dying, he bade his son 
 to occupy the English noblemen with foreign wars and 
 in this way to restrain them from plotting against the 
 crown in further rebellion ; the young king bore in mind his father's 
 words and bethought him of his mighty ancestor, King Edward 
 the Third, who was descended from the royalty of France and 
 invaded France for the chief purpose of enforcing his demand upon 
 the throne. Henry likewise cast his eye over the fair and fertile 
 provinces of France, considering how with justice he could gain 
 dominion there; he remembered the great victories of Edward, and 
 in Edward's name made claim to certain French dukedoms and 
 even thought to take the crown of France itself. 
 
 Henry was encouraged to seek this crown by the priests and 
 noblemen of England, who told him that his claim to it was right 
 and just. The Archbishop of Canterbury said that there was no 
 bar to Henry's accession except the law of Salique land which 
 read that only those of male descent should inherit royal powers. 
 King Henry's right, said the Archbishop, came from the line of 
 women and by the Salic law was void of justice. But Salique 
 land, continued he, lay not in France but in Germany, between the 
 rivers Sala and Elbe, which made it plain that the law had been 
 devised for a people other than the French, and furthermore, the 
 French had often disregarded it in choosing their own rulers. 
 The Archbishop, therefore, bade his dread lord, as he called 
 King Henry, to unwind his bloody flag in the thoughts of his great 
 ancestors, — of the Black Prince, who foraged in the blood of 
 French nobility, and of the great King Edward who stood on a 
 hill nearby and smiled to behold his lion's whelp defeat the whole 
 proud power of France without his father's aid. Other priests 
 
 392 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 393 
 
 and noblemen likewise besought King Henry to awaken remem- 
 brance of those valiant dead, whose blood and courage ran in his 
 own veins; and the king replied to them at last that he would 
 rule in France and be its lord or lay his bones in an unworthy 
 urn, for History, he said, either should speak freely of his deeds or 
 pass him by in silence. Henry^.then discussed with his counsellors 
 the best defenses for his country in his absence, lest the furious 
 Scots should pour over the unguarded borderland to ravage 
 England as they had attempted in the reign of the great Edward, 
 — for Henry was determined now to marshal an invading army 
 and set sail to conquer France. 
 
 The resolution of King Henry to make war on France was 
 quickened by an act of the French prince who was called the 
 Dauphin, who believed that the English king retained the follies 
 of his early youth; that he was still surrounded with dissolute 
 companions, such as Falstaff; and that he was not to be feared 
 or even treated with due courtesy. For the Dauphin returned word 
 to Henry's claim, that Henry savoured far too greatly of his youth 
 to demand dukedoms or provinces — which were not easily to 
 be won in France, he said; and he sent to Henry (as more fitting 
 for his light and idle spirit than the dukedoms he required) a 
 present of tennis-balls — a bitter mock at Henry that a prince more 
 thoughtful than the Dauphin would have forborne. For Henry 
 replied in a terrible manner to the ambassadors that conveyed this 
 insult, bidding them return and tell their master that when the 
 English rackets were matched to those balls of France a set of 
 tennis should be played that would, ere ended, strike the Dauphin's 
 crown into the hazard: for the tennis-balls, said Henry, should 
 be turned to gun-stones and the Dauphin's soul should be sore 
 charged for the wasteful vengeance that should fly with them. 
 The Dauphin's mock, continued Henry, should savour of but shallow 
 wit when thousands more should weep than ever laughed with him 
 that made it, for his merry message should mock many a thousand 
 widows out of their dear husbands; mock mothers from their 
 
394 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 sons, mock castles down. And Henry bade his noblemen to hasten 
 his expedition with all speed, for now there lay no thought in him 
 save thoughts of France, and he was eager now to bring the Dauphin 
 to a speedy answer of his insolence. 
 
 Through England, then, there ran the hum and stir of busy 
 preparation. At a thousand forges, armourers laboured night and 
 day to equip the troops that must set forward; ships were built 
 and fitted with sails and rigging; and a great fleet soon awaited 
 Henry and his forces at Southampton, while from all parts of the 
 country men and boys flocked thither to enlist under his banner. 
 
 But the rebellion that Henry feared among the turbulent noble- 
 men that surrounded him was even then arising, and the French 
 had been able to bribe three English lords to slay the king before 
 he should set foot on shipboard. These noblemen were doubly 
 dangerous because King Henry numbered them among his dearest 
 supporters — one of them in particular knew all Henry's plans and 
 all his counsels, and had ever been in close and personal attendance 
 on him. 
 
 Henry, however, was aware of all the purposes of these false 
 lords. While he allowed them to attend him as usual, to fawn on 
 him and flatter him, and while he feigned to believe in every word 
 they spoke, he intended to make a fitting example of them at the 
 time of his embarkment. So, when the day approached that Henry 
 must set sail, he called the three conspirators before him and gave 
 them what they thought to be their French commissions, but what 
 really were their death warrants; and he bade them all three to 
 read, remarking that he knew their worthiness. When they did 
 so, and beheld their plot to be as palpable as day, they begged for 
 mercy from the king; but strangely enough, they had but lately 
 counselled him to put to death a poor wretch who had railed against 
 his person when in drink. So Henry told them that for very 
 shame they must not dare to talk of mercy, which their own 
 advice suppressed and killed within him. He bade his other noble- 
 men to look upon the inhuman monsters who for a few light crowns 
 
 •V 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 395 
 
 would give their sovereign to death and their country to desolation. 
 And he called that lord who knew his secrets and who had even 
 been his bedfellow, so close was their former friendship, a cruel, 
 savage and inhuman beast, wondering that foreign hire could ex- 
 tract from him one spark of evil to annoy his little finger. For 
 treason and murder, said Henry, ever kept company together like 
 two yoke-devils, but this lord had now brought in amazement by 
 his act to wait upon the two; and his revolt was like a second fall of 
 man, leaving a blot to mark all true and honourable souls with some 
 suspicion. 
 
 Henry believed that the discovery of so fearful a plot at such 
 a time was a good omen for the success of his expedition into 
 France. His fleet set sail and soon arrived before the town of 
 Harfleur, which Henry prepared to lay siege to, while he sent to 
 the French king, ambassadors, who were to acquaint him with the 
 English purposes and bid him resign his crown before his country 
 should be wasted in bloody war. 
 
 When Henry sailed for France, a sad fate befell his former 
 companion, Sir John Falstaff, who was grieved to the heart that he 
 could not accompany the king, and who chafed under the banish- 
 ment from the royal presence that Henry had laid upon him. Fal- 
 staff fell ill of a burning fever and took to his bed in strange 
 disorder of mind. And there he died, and the hostess of the 
 tavern who was with him at his end, said she knew there could 
 be only one outcome when she beheld Sir John so changed from his 
 [former self: for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and he babbled 
 of green fields. " How now, Sir John," the hostess had said to 
 him, "what, man, be of good cheer!" But with that, he had 
 cried out the name of God three or four times; and when the 
 hostess, to comfort him, bade him to think not thus dismally — 
 there was no need, she hoped, for him to trouble himself with 
 thoughts of God as yet — he desired her to lay more clothes at 
 his feet which were as cold as any stone; and then he died, the hostess 
 said, like any innocent child, just between twelve and one at the 
 
396 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 turning of the tide; making a finer end than he had lived, and 
 going to his death in peace, like any Christian. 
 
 The French, in the meanwhile, were made aware of Henry's 
 coming, and their king, whose name was Louis, bade his knights 
 to prepare with all speed to meet the English. Henry, the French 
 king said, was strong and came of that bloody strain that had 
 so shamed the French at Cregy, where the black name of Edward 
 the Black Prince had worked havoc among their proudest noble- 
 men. Louis ordered his son, the Dauphin, and many others, to 
 strengthen his towns of war, to call together soldiers and prepare 
 in every way for the bitter struggle that shortly would be on foot; 
 and Louis blamed the Dauphin for saying that the English were 
 idly kinged, when Henry's warlike preparations spoke so clearly to 
 the contrary. 
 
 Even at that moment, the ambassadors from Henry came into 
 Louis' presence, demanding the crown and calling all the terrors 
 of the coming war upon the head of the French king should he re- 
 fuse. To the Dauphin, Henry sent scorn and contempt, saying 
 that he was now come to force requital from him, and that unless 
 the king, his father, should sweeten his bitter mock by full consent 
 to his demands, he would call the Dauphin to so hot answer that the 
 caves of France should all complain of his former jest in echo of 
 the English cannon. 
 
 The English then invested the town of Harfleur with a swift and 
 bloody siege until the citizens were compelled to parley with them; 
 and Henry bade them unbar their gates or he would leave their 
 town in ashes and allow his men to range with conscience wide 
 as hell among them, putting to the sword their infants and old 
 men, and laying rude enforcing hands upon their wives and fresh- 
 fair virgins. And when the town surrendered, which it did 
 promptly, Henry left a portion of his force as garrison, and marched 
 with the rest toward Calais, where he purposed to go into winter 
 quarters. 
 
 The English at this time were in sore distress, for sickness had 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 397 
 
 made havoc in their ranks and what with their weakened numbers 
 and the men that had been left behind in Harfleur, the French 
 possessed five soldiers for every one of them. They were, moreover, 
 starved and worn out with toil, appearing gaunt and famished like 
 an army of spectres — heart-sick and utterly dispirited. And in 
 this plight they came upon the whole French army that was em- 
 battled against them near a castle called Agincourt. 
 
 The French observed the weak condition of their enemies, and 
 sent to Henry a herald, insolently demanding that he consider his 
 ransom or prepare to die with all his followers; but Henry bade the 
 herald return and say that the English although lessened in numbers 
 and weakened by starvation and disease would not avoid a battle; 
 and if the French opposed their line of march, they would come 
 on though France and such another neighbour stood in their way. 
 
 Henry then drew his forces forward until they were not fifteen 
 hundred paces from the French lines. And when night fell, his 
 men could hear the voices of their foes and see their figures, dark 
 in the firelight; while the hammers of the armourers closing up 
 rivets, the neighing of horses and the thousand sounds of dreadful 
 preparation for battle could be heard in either camp. 
 
 That night in the French tents there was drinking and merriment, 
 and the French lords even played at dice for the prisoners they 
 intended to take upon the morrow; but the English, who seemed 
 like so many ghosts, spent their night in prayer and watchfulness. 
 No sound came from their camp save sounds of martial prepara- 
 tion, and King Henry walked from tent to tent with cheerful de- 
 meanour and brave words, putting heart into his followers and giv- 
 ing no sign by word or look, that he realized his great danger. To 
 a nobleman who wished that all the valiant gentlemen who were 
 left in England could be with the king in his hour of need, Henry 
 replied that he would have no other men than those that were with 
 him. If they were to die, they were sufficient for England to lose, 
 and if to live, so much the more honour for each one of them. 
 Rather, said Henry, let it be proclaimed throughout his army that 
 
398 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 any man who feared the battle should be given free leave to depart 
 and money for his passage home be put into his purse, for, Henry 
 said, he would not die in that man's company. 
 
 In the morning King Henry saw to it that the English were the 
 first to draw up their forces in battle order, and the French upon 
 awakening beheld their enemies prepared to meet them — a strange 
 array, for the English were so lean and worn that they appeared 
 like shadows, their clothes in rags, their armour darkened with rust; 
 and they were mounted on dull eyed steeds with drooping heads and 
 gum down-dropping from their lips, scarce strong enough to bear 
 their riders' weight, while ravens flew above the sorry host and almost 
 perched upon their standards. And the French gave way to merri- 
 ment at the appearance of their foes, believing that in the weakened 
 veins of the English, blood ran so thin as scarce to give each naked 
 curtle-axe a stain, and that the French soldiers would be forced to 
 sheathe their swords for lack of sport, while the battle, if battle it 
 could be called, might just as well be left to their lackeys and to the 
 peasants that swarmed about their ranks. 
 
 The despised English, however, were destined completely to over- 
 throw their enemies in that battle, for the French came on them 
 in great numbers, but with such assurance that they planned no 
 order; and the very numbers of the French enabled the English 
 to throw them into confusion, driving them to fly in a headlong 
 mass where they were easily slain by thousands. The success of 
 the English seemed little short of miraculous, and the proudest 
 noblemen of France fell down in death before their swords or died 
 beneath the arrows of the English archers, who fought that day 
 bare-breasted and bare-armed, the better to draw their bows against 
 their enemies. At last the same herald who had come to Henry 
 demanding ransom returned with a message far different: for he 
 begged permission that the French might bury their dead and sepa- 
 rate their slaughtered noblemen and peasants who lay side by side 
 about the field in heaped confusion. And wounded horses scream- 
 ing with pain lay fetlock deep in gore and mire among the bodies 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 399 
 
 of the French, dealing the wounded mortal blows with their armed 
 hoofs, and killing the dead twice over with their heels. 
 
 The French although amazed and terrified at the triumph of 
 Henry's army, did not give in to him until further conflict and a 
 bitter war had raged over all their country; but at last they were 
 compelled to ask for peace, and Henry with his noblemen went to 
 the French court to hear himself acknowledged victor and to receive 
 complete submission from the king whom he had conquered. 
 
 First of Henry's conditions was that the king should give to him 
 in marriage the French princess, Katharine, and this demand with 
 all the others was acceded to; but Henry, who knew not the language 
 of the French, had but a sorry time of it with his new bride, for 
 wooing her in her own speech, he said, was harder than the con- 
 quering of her kingdom. Henry then returned from the French 
 wars to England where rejoicing was great in his double conquest 
 of a kingdom and a bride. But the conquest of France was doubt- 
 ful after all, for the new queen of England was able to rule there 
 with the complete possession that a true wife should ever have over 
 her husband, — even though that husband be as great a warrior as 
 Henry the Fifth of England. 
 
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 THE crown that had been worn so nobly by Henry the 
 Fifth was given on the death of this great king to his 
 infant son, also named Henry, who, being a child in cradle, 
 could not take upon himself his royal powers. Until the day that 
 he should become of fitting age to bear himself as king, that the 
 bright crown of Henry the Fifth should not overweigh the brows 
 of a mere infant, the Duke of Gloucester was appointed Lord Pro- 
 tector to rule the English people in the name of Henry. 
 
 But how much grief was shown for the departed king, at whose 
 sudden and untimely death the heavens, it was said, should have 
 been hung all with black, day turned to night, and comets — those 
 fearful omens of some future change — burned in the sky ! For 
 now the noblemen at court were quarreling with turbulence to win 
 such power as they never would have dared to seek in Henry's 
 reign. There was a quarrel on foot between the Duke of Glouces- 
 ter, who was Lord Protector over England, and a proud churchman 
 the Bishop of Winchester, their retainers even coming to blows 
 within the streets of London, while other noblemen banded in 
 warring factions in support of them, until the people feared that 
 civil conflict would work the ruin of their country. 
 
 They fearepl still more as young Henry grew to be a man, for 
 he had none of the qualities that were his father's, caring not, to 
 all appearance for the duties of a king. In all his deeds Henry 
 showed that he was fitter to be a herdsman tending his flocks, or 
 a monk sequestered in a cell than to hold a sceptre or do credit 
 to the glories of his father's crown. Henry was forever closeted 
 with books, although he learned but little from them, and forever 
 saying prayers that seemed to bring him little grace or manliness. 
 
 400 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART. 401 
 
 So far from seeking any of his royal powers as he grew to man- 
 hood, the young king seemed content to leave them to the Duke of 
 Gloucester, and the noblemen and people of the realm bethought 
 them of a proverb that had been a byword once in all of England: 
 that Henry the Fifth, who was born at Monmouth, should win 
 all, but the Henry born at Windsor should lose what had been won 
 — for Windsor was the birthplace of the present king. 
 
 It appeared that this dark proverb would fall true even before 
 the late King Henry had been laid within his tomb, for at the time 
 of his funeral, messengers came from France with word of sore 
 disaster there — the English had been defeated by the same French 
 lords that were used to fly before them, towns had been recaptured 
 and in place of Henry, Charles the Dauphin had been proclaimed 
 the rightful king of France. 
 
 The noblemen who accompanied the body of the king, bade the 
 messengers to speak their news with softness, or such bitter tidings 
 would be heard by their dead lord within his coffin and cause him 
 to burst its lead and rise, although lifeless, to recapture the fair 
 towns that he had won so recently. Even while they spoke, more 
 news arrived that might indeed have awakened the dead king, for 
 England's bravest general, Lord Talbot, who the king had dearly 
 loved, was overthrown and captured by the French, and unless a 
 speedy aid were sent, the remainder of the English troops must 
 likewise fall before their enemies or perish for lack of food. 
 
 In France there was also another power that had risen against 
 the English, — for a maiden of humble birth, who possessed a 
 strength that seemed to issue from no human source, opposed them. 
 This maiden was called Joan of Arc, and although a shepherd's 
 daughter, accustomed to no ruder task than tending her father's 
 sheep, Joan of Arc believed that by her marvellous aid the French 
 could overthrow their enemies and drive the English from the towns 
 and fortresses still held by them. Joan of Arc had visions, caused, 
 as the French believed, by angels, whereby she would behold herself 
 in armour, leading the French to victory against the English. 
 
4 o2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Through her alone this maid believed that the town of Orleans, 
 then besieged by all the English with their utmost strength could 
 be delivered into safety; and Joan of Arc went, therefore, to Prince 
 Charles and told him that in her there lay the power to deliver 
 Orleans and save his kingdom. 
 
 Charles, before her coming, had heard much about the miracles 
 performed and the visions said to have been beheld by this wonderful 
 maiden, and he determined to make test without her knowledge if 
 these things were true and if Joan of Arc could be deceived by 
 mortal means. With purpose so to deceive her, he caused one of 
 his own noblemen to attire himself as though he were the prince 
 and take his place upon the royal seat, while Charles in humbler 
 garments concealed himself amid a group of courtiers who waited 
 on this duke and did pretended homage unto him. The duke, 
 whose name was Reignier, addressed Joan as though he were the 
 rightful lord of France, demanding if it were indeed true that she 
 could perform the marvels accredited to her. And although in 
 all her life Joan of Arc had never beheld the prince or Reignier, she 
 called the duke by name and bade him to think not that he could 
 thus beguile her, for she knew that he was not the dauphin as he 
 pretended. Then, to the wonder of all that beheld her, she went 
 straight to Charles in his disguise and knelt before him, offering 
 with all humility her aid to save his country. 
 
 When Charles beheld this, he was stricken with amazement as 
 were all the nobles that surrounded him — far more, when Joan 
 offered, as a further proof of her divine assurance, to do combat 
 with him; and when the prince was armed, Joan, although a maiden, 
 overcame him, until Charles was glad to cry enough, saying that she 
 was an Amazon and that the sword of Deborah lay in her hand. 
 Charles conferred upon Joan of Arc a high position in his army, 
 and she became the idol of his men at arms, who followed her with 
 complete faith and confidence into the utmost dangers. So great 
 was her power over the rough minds and savage hearts of the 
 French soldiers, that they worshipped her as a saint who had come 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 403 
 
 to their deliverance, and they fought beneath her with a courage no 
 less irresistible than marvellous to behold. 
 
 Great wonder was evinced among the English at this beholding a 
 maiden do battle with them; but they believed Joan of Arc to be 
 a hateful witch surrounded with infernal agencies, that she com- 
 manded the spirits of the under world, and that her strength, at- 
 tained by sinister means of magic and the powers of darkness, was 
 no other than the hateful strength of Hell. The English became 
 afraid, believing that no earthly power could prevent the French 
 from victory and their own fear, no less than the confidence of their 
 enemies, became the cause of their defeat, until it seemed that 
 nothing could withhold the French from entering the town of 
 Orleans as Joan of Arc had prophesied. 
 
 Although Lord Talbot had by this time gained his liberty from 
 the French he was unable to prevail against the maiden that opposed 
 him. Time after time his men were forced to fly before her and at 
 last Orleans was indeed rescued, while the English, wounded, scat- 
 tered and dismayed wondered at the ease with which they had been 
 vanquished by the enemies they were accustomed to despise. 
 
 There was, then, severe fighting around the walls of Orleans, and 
 Talbot with his followers attacked the city in the dead of night, 
 scaling the walls by means of ladders, so that the French were forced 
 to fly for their lives and even leap from off the ramparts to escape 
 the revengeful swords of the English soldiers. But Joan of Arc 
 with brave words rallied the French troops and reawakened in them 
 the courage that her presence always commanded. Disguised as 
 country people who came to market, Joan, with a few followers 
 entered then the town of Rouen and made a secret signal to the 
 French, informing them where to lead their forces by thrusting 
 from the battlements a lighted torch to guide them. The French 
 then captured Rouen, but on being unable to hold it from the 
 English, they retired with undaunted courage for Joan imbued them 
 with all the wonder of her presence by going among them to rally 
 them, bidding them have no despair for all would yet go well. 
 
4 o 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 This maiden determined then to win if possible the Duke of 
 Burgundy from his alliance against France, for the duke was fight- 
 ing side by side with Talbot, and had shown himself to be a vigor- 
 ous supporter of the English cause. When the duke was marching 
 forth from Rouen, which was now so strongly garrisoned that he 
 could use his forces elsewhere, Joan caused Charles to seek a 
 parley with him, and she spoke to Burgundy in such a manner that 
 he seemed bewitched, unable any longer to continue in his purpose. 
 For Joan bade him look upon his country and behold the cities 
 and the towns defaced by the cruel, wasting ruin of the foe with 
 whom he had allied himself. She spoke of patriotism, and the 
 most unnatural wounds that Burgundy had given to the land he 
 should hold dearest; and in her words there lay, to all appearance, 
 a secret power, for the duke, although a former and inflexible enemy 
 to Joan herself, whom he had accused of witchcraft and foul dealing 
 with evil spirits, on hearing her speak thus, placed his sword and 
 army at the service of Prince Charles, swearing that he would 
 have no more to do with the English who he saw were palpably 
 his enemies. And Burgundy seemed bound as though by a spell 
 to repent his former actions, and render in requital faithful service 
 to the French; and by the winning of this duke, Joan of Arc dealt 
 unto the English a blow as shrewd as any they had yet received. 
 
 Joan of Arc was not the only cause of England's declining for- 
 tunes, for the quarrels between the English nobles were so bitter 
 that the English could no longer fight in harmony against a common 
 foe, and they were fainer to turn their weapons on each other 
 than to draw them side by side to keep the land they once had con- 
 quered. 
 
 Chief of these warring nobles was Richard, the Duke of York, 
 whose uncle was no other than the Mortimer who sought the throne 
 in the time of Henry the Fourth, aided by the noble Hotspur, who 
 had lost his life at Shrewsbury. Richard had quarreled fiercely 
 with the Duke of Somerset and the court of Henry was divided 
 into parties favouring the one or the other of these noblemen. It 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 405 
 
 had come to pass that Richard, in a former meeting with the Duke 
 of Somerset, had plucked in anger a white rose, bidding his fol- 
 lowers do likewise as a token of their friendship, while Somerset 
 with his friends had chosen roses all of red to be the sign of their 
 party; and from this custom came the name of civil wars that were 
 to shake all England with their fury. These wars of the roses re- 
 sulted from Richard's seeking to win the English crown, as his 
 uncle Mortimer had done before him, and this, although at first 
 it was concealed, was the real issue of his quarrel with the Duke of 
 Somerset. 
 
 The enmity of these two noblemen was the undoing of the brave 
 lord, Talbot, who, having gone to besiege the town of Bordeaux, 
 was surrounded there by a great force of Frenchmen led by Joan 
 of Arc and the French prince, Charles. The Duke of Somerset and 
 Richard of York each refused to send any aid to Talbot, quarrel- 
 ing in most unseemly manner as to which one of them must spare 
 the troops to save his life; and while these noblemen delayed so 
 basely, their opportunity was lost and shame of their unworthy action 
 firmly and forever sealed upon their names. For the French closed 
 upon Talbot in a conflict that must surely be fatal to the forces 
 that he led, and most certain death of all to their commander — 
 for Talbot by his bravery and vengeful spirit toward his enemies 
 had caused the French to hate him above all other men, and ten 
 thousand soldiers had taken oath to turn their weapons in the com- 
 ing encounter on no other than himself. 
 
 Talbot had an only son — a youth that had but lately joined 
 his father's army to be taught the art of war; and the presence of 
 this lad, who was his father's dearest hope, the sole support of his 
 increasing age and the only issue of his blood to give the honourable 
 name of Talbot to futurity, caused far more sorrow to Talbot than 
 the thought of his own approaching death. Accordingly, he begged 
 his son to fly from the fatal place and he spoke to the lad of the 
 great name of Talbot that must perish, did he remain. He com- 
 manded him as a father to take flight, were it only to revenge his 
 
4 o6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 father's death; but the lad refused to hear him, saying that to 
 fly at such a time would only prove that he was no son of the great 
 soldier who begot him. And Talbot and his son prepared to die 
 together, and to sell their lives as dearly as possible to the French, 
 who now were coming to destroy them. 
 
 In the terrible battle that followed, young Talbot was soon slain 
 and his father, mortally wounded, was forced to look upon the 
 body of his son borne from the combat by his own soldiers, who 
 laid it before him. Talbot cried out to his son to speak, and he 
 bade the soldiers mark how the lad appeared to smile as though 
 death itself were a thing of scorn, coming as it did from the French 
 he so despised. He bade his followers to place the body of his son 
 within his arms, and embracing it Talbot himself perished, while the 
 French in triumph scattered the last of his supporters and rejoiced to 
 behold their most bitter enemy lifeless before them. 
 
 The French, however, were not destined to win what Talbot's 
 overthrow seemed to promise them, for Joan of Arc, whose powers 
 now appeared to fail her, was captured by her enemies and put to a 
 cruel death by fire, being burned at the stake by the English, who 
 were convinced that evil spirits were her ministers and that the 
 French in taking her as their leader had sold themselves forever to 
 the powers of the under world. In the death of this maiden the 
 French were more than requited for the overthrow of Talbot, for 
 Joan of Arc had ever been the source of all their power; in her 
 words and courage had appeared wonders that seemed not of earth, 
 and in her death a grievous injury was worked upon the land that 
 she had saved. 
 
 Both countries now were spent and weary from the wars that 
 had continued for many years, and a peace was soon concluded 
 between them. And while the English in this peace apparently were 
 not the losers, their statesmen and the wiser nobles knew too well that 
 they could never hope to regain their former ascendancy in France. 
 
 While the wars had been in progress, King Henry the Sixth had 
 grown of a marriageable age and his nobles were of many minds 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 407 
 
 in regard to how their sovereign should choose his queen. It was 
 finally proposed, however, that he should wed the daughter of the 
 Earl of Armagnac which would seal the peace that had just been con- 
 cluded. 
 
 But an English nobleman, the Earl of Suffolk had conceived a 
 plan whereby he could gain much control over the king and become 
 a power in the state, for Suffolk purposed to dominate King Henry 
 by means of the bride that Henry was to marry. Suffolk loved a 
 lady named Margaret, daughter to the French duke, Reignier; and 
 being unable to wed Margaret himself, although he perceived she 
 would return his affection, he intended, were it possible, to make 
 Margaret queen of England, knowing well that Margaret was as 
 resolute of spirit as King Henry was infirm and hesitating in dis- 
 position, that she would soon have great control over her husband 
 and through this means and the love that she should bear for 
 Suffolk, he could win a vast control over all England. 
 
 In pursuance of this artful plot the Earl of Suffolk bore to Henry 
 the most extravagant tales of Margaret's beauty and perfection; 
 and coupled with his praise strong reasons of state necessity for 
 Henry to marry her. Henry was enkindled by the words of 
 Suffolk to seek the lady Margaret as his queen; and although 
 Margaret should bring with her no bridal portion — a thing un- 
 heard of in the marriage of an English king, Henry prepared to 
 make her queen of England. He left France for his own country 
 where Margaret was soon to join him. And Henry had not only 
 effected little in his foreign wars, but was returning to a struggle 
 infinitely nearer to the welfare of his kingdom, where in his uncer- 
 tain rule it was most probable that an ill fate would overtake his 
 country and himself. 
 
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 THE loss of the great realm of France — for lost it was in 
 spite of the apparent English rule that still continued there 
 — caused grief and anger among the noblemen of Henry's 
 court. But they were no less incensed by the unwise marriage of 
 their king, for Margaret, the daughter to Duke Reignier, was not, 
 they maintained, a match for England's greatness either in birth 
 or property, bringing neither the dowry expected of a royal princess, 
 nor the high position due the king who was to honour her by 
 marriage. And the French, aware of Henry's weakness of spirit, 
 had imposed upon this marriage conditions that showed too plainly 
 the scorn with which they regarded the English king. They re- 
 quired that as price for this fair maiden, the lands of Maine and 
 Anjou be given to Duke Reignier her father; and that the expense of 
 bringing Margaret to English shores be laid upon King Henry, 
 bidding him, as though by a direct command, to buy the bride for 
 whose sake he was to forfeit both his pride as king and the benefits 
 due England by his marriage. 
 
 King Henry, however, seemed not aware of the great anger his 
 act had caused, or of the contempt evinced among his courtiers for 
 the dowerless maiden he had chosen to become his queen. The 
 lands he had renounced, he deemed but slight in value when com- 
 pared to the great worth and peerless beauty of Queen Margaret, 
 and as for the English reverses in their wars with France, they were, 
 he said, God's will and not to be avoided. 
 
 In the presence of the court, King Henry commanded the Duke 
 of Gloucester, who was still Lord Protector over England, to pro- 
 claim the marriage contract; and Gloucester read how it had been 
 agreed that Henry was to wed the lady Margaret. But when the 
 duke came to the shameful words about the provinces where the 
 
 408 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 409 
 
 dead king, Henry the Fifth, had toiled for weary years with armour 
 on his back — those lands now lightly lost for purchase of a bride 
 — he could read no more, but let the document fall from his hand. 
 And Cardinal Beaufort who, when Bishop of Winchester had been 
 a bitter enemy of Gloucester, and even now restrained his hatred 
 only to work future injury upon him, made it appear that Glouces- 
 ter's sorrow was the result of secret ambition and designs upon the 
 crown. For the Cardinal was jealous of the Lord Protector's posi- 
 tion in the government, and determined to ruin him by any means 
 within his power, seeking no less than Gloucester's death. 
 
 The Duke of Suffolk, who had artfully arranged the marriage of 
 Henry with Margaret, was likewise angered against Gloucester, 
 while the queen herself beheld in him the strongest opposer to her 
 designs upon her weak husband. And these enemies were forever 
 plotting harm against the Lord Protector, seeking both by treachery 
 or open malice to bring about his downfall. 
 
 The Duke of Gloucester had a wife named Eleanor who was a 
 woman of proud and rebellious spirit, being unable to bear with 
 a good grace the thought that any lady in the land, even the queen 
 should be superior to herself. Eleanor bore herself at court as 
 though she were indeed the queen of England, surrounded herself 
 with many attendants and followers, wore costly dresses and rich 
 jewels and treated all that she encountered with the utmost pride 
 and arrogance. 
 
 Eleanor was forever urging her husband to seek for greater power 
 in the state, and would drop a thousand hints how easy it would be 
 for him to take the crown, telling him once that she had dreamed 
 that Henry and the hated Margaret kneeled to her in the cathedral, 
 presenting her with a bright diadem which they placed upon her 
 head. She bade her lord stretch forth his hand to take the crown 
 whose glory was so easily to be attained, and then, said she, together 
 they would lift their heads so high as not to glance again upon 
 the humble earth, or give a thought to the more lowly station whence 
 they had arisen to such honour. 
 
410 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Gloucester, who was loyal to King Henry, disliked exceedingly to 
 hear Eleanor speak in such a manner. He had at heart none of the 
 ambition of his wife, nor any desire save to be of service to the 
 kingdom and to acquit himself well of the great office that he held 
 in trust. He blamed Eleanor for the ambitious thoughts that were, 
 he said, as cankers to her mind; and he refused to entertain a 
 single design against the king who was his lord — he would rather 
 die, he said, than be false to his high power or dethrone the son 
 of his great brother, the dead king. But Gloucester, while resolute 
 in what he knew to be his duty, desired eagerly to crush the power- 
 ful enemies who surrounded him, chief of whom was Cardinal 
 Beaufort who formed many intrigues against him, setting snares 
 and collecting false informers to undermine his power and work his 
 death. 
 
 The arrogance and pride of the lady Eleanor was not the least 
 of Queen Margaret's reasons for desiring the ruin of the Duke of 
 Gloucester; for Eleanor took little pains to hide the contempt she 
 felt for Margaret who was, as Eleanor considered, a beggar who 
 had gained her place through the mistaken charity of the king, her 
 husband. Once Eleanor went so far as to say that the value of 
 the gown she wore was greater than all Margaret's estate; that the 
 queen had been dignified too highly above the humble station of her 
 birth, that there were among Eleanor's own ladies many who were 
 nobler than Margaret; and these proud words had been repeated to 
 the queen. 
 
 Margaret entertained a secret affection for the Duke of Suffolk to 
 whom she now turned in her anger against Eleanor. She also ex- 
 pressed to him the contempt she held for her own husband, for 
 she said that she thought King Henry would resemble in his courage 
 and manly graces the noble Duke of Suffolk himself, who had run 
 a tilting in the honour of her love and stolen the hearts of all French 
 ladies. How utterly was she deceived ! For Henry's courage 
 served only to count his beads so many times a day. His weapons 
 were not swords but the sayings of the prophets and apostles. His 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 411 
 
 tilt yard was his study, and he loved the brazen images of holy 
 saints far more than the most lovely lady in his realm. He ought 
 to have been pope, said she, and ruled in Rome. That were a fit 
 station for his holiness. And the queen cried out against the 
 humility that Henry showed to his protector, the Duke of Gloucester, 
 who was king in all but name, while Eleanor, the duke's wife, swept 
 through the court like an empress with troops of ladies at her heels. 
 Margaret continued that all the lords and noblemen who hated 
 her and who opposed King Henry's claim upon the throne caused 
 her not half the anger and vexation of the haughty duchess, Eleanor. 
 She was resolved to be revenged, and she begged the Duke of 
 Suffolk to assist her in working some great mischief upon Eleanor, 
 either to bring about her death or at least to work the complete 
 undoing of her exalted state at court. 
 
 Suffolk bade the queen content herself. He had conceived a plan, 
 he said, whereby he would betray dame Eleanor into a snare whence 
 she might never be disentangled. He told the queen that his pur- 
 pose would prove to Eleanor as a limed twig, and yet appear so 
 attractive to her that she needs must light upon it. For Suffolk 
 had prepared a plot that would cause Eleanor to work her own dis- 
 grace and ruin; and Cardinal Beaufort and the Duke of York, with 
 the Duke of Buckingham and other noblemen had joined with 
 Suffolk to disgrace her, hoping by this means to overthrow her hated 
 husband, Gloucester, and take away his power over the king. 
 
 In those days, designing persons would often employ witchcraft 
 and the powers of darkness to reveal to them futurity, and Suffolk 
 had contrived to tempt the lady Eleanor, to seek such means as 
 these to learn the state of her own future fortunes, although to do 
 so was a crime punishable by death. Suffolk had engaged an artful 
 impostor named Hume to lead her to a certain conjurer who had 
 the power to summon forth dark spirits from the under world, 
 and Suffolk hoped that Eleanor would be induced to seek this 
 wizard and thus betray herself. He had prepared for Eleanor's 
 immediate detection, and that she be taken in her guilt at once before 
 
412 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 King Henry, who would doubtless visit her with heavy punish- 
 ment. 
 
 Hume addressed himself to Eleanor with skill and cleverness, 
 calling her in a significant manner " your Majesty " and when in 
 amazement she questioned him as to his purpose in giving her 
 such title, he replied that if she would follow his counsel she might 
 soon become as great as he had named her. He bade her confer 
 with the conjurer and learn King Henry's fate and her own future. 
 Strong in this knowledge, said he, she could overcome her enemies 
 and win whatever she desired. When Eleanor consented to this 
 proceeding, Hume informed the Duke of Suffolk and the other noble- 
 men, that she was prepared to call upon infernal powers to aid her 
 in designs against the crown. 
 
 Eleanor, indeed, had been only too ready to visit the conjurer, 
 who prepared by various powerful spells and incantations to sum- 
 mon from the bowels of the earth a fiend who should reply to all 
 that might be asked. And in her presence the conjurer commenced 
 his terrifying art, first making a blest circle from whose bounds the 
 evil being he should summon might not pass to do them injury; 
 he then uttered the strange words that penetrated through the earth, 
 and dark spirit rose from the under world and appeared before 
 them. 
 
 When the question was put to this apparition, what should be the 
 fate of England's king, it answered that the duke still lived who 
 should depose Henry from the throne, but that Henry should out- 
 live this duke, although at last he must die a violent death. On 
 asking for the future of the Duke of Suffolk, the fiend said, " By 
 water shall he die and take his end," and it then uttered a warning 
 for the Duke of Somerset, the enemy to Richard of York, saying, 
 "Let the Duke of Somerset avoid castles; safer shall he be upon 
 the sandy plains," and crying out then that it could bear no more 
 the spirit vanished with a clap of thunder. 
 
 At this, the Duke of York and the Duke of Buckingham burst 
 into the presence of the conjurer, and conveyed dame Eleanor with 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 413 
 
 her accomplices before the king. And Henry was so stricken with 
 horror at their crime that he prepared a bitter punishment for them, 
 commanding that the conjurer and his assistants be put to instant 
 execution, while Eleanor after three days' open penance on the 
 streets, barefoot, with placards on her back proclaiming all her 
 treachery, be banished to the Isle of Man and nevermore return to 
 her own country. 
 
 The utmost grief was shown by the Duke of Gloucester, who was 
 forced now to behold his own dear wife whom he loved tenderly 
 become the laughter and scorn of the insulting rabble, who followed 
 her about the streets with mocking and ill favoured jests, reading 
 the sentences pinned to her garments and laughing when the rough 
 and flinty stones, where she was forced to tread, wounded her tender 
 feet. Eleanor bade her husband farewell with utter sadness, saying 
 that she knew too well that his enemies would soon have him in 
 a plight as bitter as her own — his star was set, she said, and she 
 beheld the downfall of his house. And Eleanor was led away to 
 banishment, bearing her fate with calm resignation and a pride that 
 became her far better than her former lofty arrogance. 
 
 It seemed that the words of Eleanor were to fall true with greater 
 swiftness than she herself had dreamed. For the king, while he 
 entertained no anger against Gloucester, had bidden him resign his 
 power as Lord Protector, saying that he would himself conduct 
 the affairs of his country from that day forth, and require no over 
 lord to direct him further in matters of state. And Gloucester 
 rendered up to Henry the staff that he had carried as a sign of 
 his protectorship, replying to the king that he resigned his power 
 with gladness and content of spirit, even as he had received it from 
 Henry's noble father. 
 
 But Cardinal Beaufort, the Duke of Suffolk, and all the artful 
 and ambitious men who wished the Duke of Gloucester's ruin, were 
 not content with depriving him of his authority. They now caused 
 Henry to summon him to court, where they laid upon him a great 
 burden of accusations, whence the duke could hardly hope to free 
 
4H TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 himself. Until the day when Gloucester should be brought to trial, 
 these nobles, in spite of Henry's futile efforts to restrain them, cast 
 him into prison, and the charge of his safe keeping was given to 
 Cardinal Beaufort, his most bitter enemy. 
 
 Queen Margaret and the nobles who had thus overthrown 
 Gloucester, feared lest Henry should disbelieve the charges against 
 him, or offer him a pardon in spite of them. Being resolved upon 
 his death, the conspirators against him consulted how it might best 
 be effected, and they arranged that Gloucester be murdered in 
 prison before he ever should be brought to trial. In this wicked pro- 
 ceeding, Queen Margaret showed a great hardness of heart and 
 pitiless desire for revenge. For when Suffolk suggested that 
 Gloucester be put to death sleeping or waking by any means how- 
 ever foul, she cried out that he spoke most resolutely, urged him 
 not to relent from that ill deed and besought him to slay Gloucester 
 with no thought save of gladness at his death. Suffolk then sent 
 assassins to the prison who murdered Gloucester while he slept, 
 arranging his garments and the bed whereon he lay, as though his 
 death were caused by natural means. Suffolk then informed the 
 king who was come to hear the charges against Gloucester, that the 
 duke had died in prison of an unknown malady. 
 
 But Henry, stricken with the utmost grief and horror at the 
 death of his beloved uncle, refused to believe the words of Suffolk 
 or of the Cardinal, who swore together that Gloucester had been 
 treated with all kindness in his confinement — that they knew not 
 of his death, or what had caused it, protesting their innocence so 
 eagerly that this alone in a far-seeing person would have been suffi- 
 cient to cast suspicion upon them. 
 
 The king then bade the Earl of Salisbury to view the body of the 
 murdered duke and to determine, were it possible, by what means 
 his death had been effected. The earl brought word that violent 
 hands had been laid upon him, and that every evidence was plain 
 that Gloucester had been foully dealt with. Bearing the body be- 
 fore King Henry, Salisbury bade him to look on the clenched hands, 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 415 
 
 the staring eyes, the blood that remained in the face, instead of hav- 
 ing returned as was natural in death to the labouring heart; and 
 looking with horror on the Duke of Suffolk, Salisbury called him 
 " murderer " and begged his majesty to spare no pains to put him 
 to instant punishment. The Cardinal, too, he suspected; saying that 
 when a heifer was found dead and bleeding fresh, and by its side a 
 butcher one could not but conclude how the beast was slain; 
 that he who found the body of a partridge in the nest of the kite 
 could not but think how it had met its death, although the bird of 
 prey soared with an unbloodied beak far from the place of slaugh- 
 ter. The death of Gloucester, said the earl, was even clearer in its 
 cause, and even more palpable to thought. 
 
 The king, who was greatly moved by the hard fate of his be- 
 loved uncle, Gloucester, showed for once a resolution that seemed 
 foreign to his nature, for he ordered Suffolk into instant banishment, 
 saying if he ever be found in England or any portion of the English 
 dominions the world should not be ransom for his life. Suffolk 
 was forced to take his leave forever from the queen he loved, and 
 seek no more for power in the land where he was now a disgraced 
 outcast. And the king prepared for the trial of Cardinal Beaufort 
 who, however, was destined never to answer the grave charges 
 against him ; for, whether from remorse, or fear for his own future 
 fate the Cardinal fell ill of a severe fever that resulted in his death. 
 And to those who attended at his bedside, his guilty heart was dis- 
 closed in all its wickedness, for he would cry out strangely about 
 Gloucester, saying that he would confess, or bidding the ghost of 
 him he had murdered to torture him no more but leave him to make 
 his peace with Heaven ere he died. 
 
 It seemed, indeed, as if a divine power of justice followed those 
 who were guilty of this shameful murder. For the Duke of Suf- 
 folk was slain as he fled from England by pirates who captured the 
 vessel that conveyed him. And thus the saying of the evil spirit 
 came to pass, for Suffolk died and took his end by water even as had 
 been prophesied. 
 
4 i6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 But although Henry in the death of the Cardinal and of the hard 
 hearted and ambitious Duke of Suffolk had escaped two chief de- 
 signers against his crown and life, there were still many powerful 
 enemies near his person, who awaited only their good vantage to 
 confound him utterly. Chief of these was Richard, Duke of York, 
 who was seeking to become king. Richard had been given the com- 
 mand of a large troop of soldiers who were to put down a rebellion 
 that had arisen against Henry among the chiefs of Ireland; and 
 Richard believed this task would prove a heaven sent opportunity 
 to seize the crown. Wanting soldiers for his purpose, he was now 
 possessed of them, and he retired to Ireland with the intent of nour- 
 ishing there a mighty army, calling to his rebellious banner the very 
 enemies he had been sent forth to subdue. When his force should 
 be sufficient in its power, Richard determined to return to England 
 as invader, do battle with King Henry and leave no man alive who 
 might dispute his claim upon the throne. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Richard plotted to arouse rebellion and discord 
 that should shake all England in his absence and prevent his enemies 
 from maintaining any sort of order until he was prepared to fall 
 upon them. With this intent he took into his service a bold rascal 
 named John Cade, who was well known as a sturdy soldier and a 
 man of rash and fiery temper. Cade for a purse of gold would fight 
 against all odds, and preferred the turbulence of an armed camp, 
 plunder, rioting and confusion to the quiet and contentment of a 
 state at peace. Cade, moreover, would suffer any torture ere he 
 would betray his confederates, or be false to those whom he had 
 bound himself to serve. 
 
 This hot-headed rascal was induced by Richard to make a false 
 claim upon the crown through a feigned relationship to the Morti- 
 mer who had been overthrown in the fight at Shrewsbury. Cade 
 maintained that a son to Edmund Mortimer was stolen from his 
 cradle and reared, ignorant of his great birth, amid humble sur- 
 roundings. This son, said Cade, was no other than himself, and 
 now aware of his claim to royalty he would enforce it by all means 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 417 
 
 within his power. And Cade ordered that any who opposed his 
 claim, should meet swift justice as a traitor to his king. 
 
 With an army of idle and rebellious vagabonds, jailbirds, the off- 
 scourings of city streets — all ill-favoured persons that sought gold 
 without labour and hated the more fortunate, Cade marched towards 
 London. On his way he recruited his ranks by opening the prisons 
 and setting free all who were confined there. He won the hearts 
 of the ignorant and discontented by marvellous promises of the won- 
 ders he would perform when king of England, for he said that all 
 things, then, should be in common; the lowest beggar and the 
 proudest nobleman should have an equal share of wealth; the laws 
 that oppressed the poor — all laws in fact — should be abolished, 
 and the king himself should prove sufficient law to all the realm; all 
 documents of state, said Cade, should be publicly burned; wine 
 should flow as water in his dominions; and knowledge how to read 
 and write should be crimes punishable by death. 
 
 The rabble that composed Cade's army were ready to follow him 
 into any danger believing that England was to enter on a state of 
 happiness and plenty unparalleled in all the history of the world — 
 a heaven on. earth, where none need labour to support himself, 
 where food and drink were to be had for the asking and the people 
 gain their ancient liberties. And at head of his army of rogues 
 Cade entered London, overcoming in battle a force of soldiers sent 
 against him by the king. 
 
 But the superior temper of the nobles and gentlemen who sur- 
 rounded Henry was not long in manifesting itself, for the Duke of 
 Buckingham and a lord named Clifford, who was Henry's most 
 faithful supporter, addressed the rabble in a speech that soon won 
 them from the impostor who led them. These lords said that the 
 king sent greeting to his subjects whom he would pardon, one and 
 all if they did yield to mercy while it was offered them; and they 
 spoke of Henry the Fifth, at whose name the people tossed their 
 caps into the air, so greatly had this king been loved even among 
 the basest of his subjects. The noblemen then called Cade, their 
 
4 i8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 leader, an impostor who had no home to fly to nor any means 
 of support except in riot and turmoil such as he had aroused. The 
 French, said they, would soon be lording it in London streets when 
 Cade was crowned. And Cade was forced to take to his heels, pur- 
 sued now by his own followers for Buckingham had set a heavy 
 price upon his life; and it was not long before this rogue was slain 
 and his head brought to King Henry. 
 
 But the turmoil and dissension stirred up by the rascal Cade, had 
 served only too well the purpose of the Duke of York, who now 
 had landed on the English coast with a formidable army composed 
 of his own soldiers and the savage warriors of Ireland who had en- 
 listed under his banner. Richard of York marched on London, 
 claiming, to deceive the king, that he came only to punish the Duke 
 of Somerset for misconducting the affairs of France where the duke 
 had ruled as deputy to Henry. 
 
 This in itself was a piece of insolence almost unparalleled, for 
 the punishment of Somerset, were it deserved should have been ad- 
 ministered by none but Henry himself. No subject should have 
 dared to make such a demand, which was indeed inspired only 
 through the meekness of King Henry, who knew not his own rights, 
 nor the contempt and slight regard with which his enemies esteemed 
 him. 
 
 Henry in great fear of the stout army that York as an in- 
 vader was leading against him, gave order that the Duke of Somer- 
 set be imprisoned in the Tower of London as Richard of York de- 
 manded, sending word to Richard that he should now disband his 
 forces for their purpose had been effected. 
 
 On hearing this, York made a pretence of discharging his soldiers, 
 bidding them, however, to meet him on the next day at Saint 
 George's field when he would pay them for their services. And he 
 hastened in advance of his own men to interview the king, seeking 
 another cause for quarrel with him. 
 
 The Duke of York had already won from the cause of Henry 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 419 
 
 two of his most steadfast supporters — the Earl of Salisbury and 
 his son, the Earl of Warwick — whom he had convinced of the 
 justice in his claim to Henry's crown. And while these lords still 
 waited in attendance upon Henry, they were prepared upon an in- 
 stant's notice to join the Duke of York and serve his cause with the 
 same loyalty that once they showed unto the present king. The 
 service of these lords would not unprobably decide the issue of the 
 coming contest, for they were skilled in arts of war and possessed 
 a force of soldiers that would prove a great addition to York's 
 cause. 
 
 The queen, whose proud spirit could not bear that York should 
 command her husband, had set the Duke of Somerset at liberty and 
 when York came before the king, Queen Margaret and Somerset 
 confronted him. 
 
 York in an outburst of rage showed on the instant his whole pur- 
 pose for he addressed Henry with unbridled insolence, calling him 
 " false king," and demanding the reason that Henry had thus broken 
 faith with him. He then said that while he had just called Henry 
 " king," he revoked the name, for Henry was more fit to grasp a 
 palmer's staff than hold a sceptre, — that bright sign of dreadful 
 and kingly power that Henry could not and dared not employ. He 
 commanded Henry to give way to him, the Duke of York, whom 
 Heaven had created as Henry's ruler; and he called to his support 
 his two friends, the Earl of Salisbury and Warwick, whom he 
 called his two brave bears that with the very shaking of their 
 chains should fright all men that remained unshaken in their 
 service to King Henry. York also summoned to his side his two 
 sons, Edward and the hump-back, Richard, of whom it was said that 
 his manners and spirit were more crooked than his shape. Casting 
 defiance at Henry, the queen and all who still supported them, York 
 with his turbulent followers then quitted the king's presence — not, 
 however, before the Earl of Clifford vowed that in the coming con- 
 flict he would destroy him — a vow that York and Warwick an- 
 
4 20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 swered by warning Clifford, while the deformed Richard bade Clif- 
 ford to make his peace with Heaven where his enemies should 
 shortly send him. 
 
 Thus began the terrible wars of the roses that were to end by 
 York's sons, Edward and Richard, becoming kings of England. 
 The forces of King Henry and the Duke of York met in battle on 
 the field of Saint Albans, and in this fight the Earl of Clifford was 
 slain by York's own hand, while Richard, York's son, who in spite 
 of his misshapen body was a soldier of great skill and daring, over- 
 came and slew the Duke of Somerset. And it so chanced that 
 Somerset was slain at the doorway of an inn called The Castle and 
 that the words of the spirit summoned before Lady Eleanor were 
 thus a second time come true, although in a way far different from 
 what all had imagined. 
 
 Lord Clifford, who was slain by the Duke of York, had a son 
 who was destined to become the greatest champion of Henry's cause, 
 and young Clifford on beholding the body of his dead father swore 
 that he would never rest until a complete vengeance had overtaken 
 York and all his house. For the sight of his dead father steeled 
 his heart against all thoughts of mercy; and caused him to become 
 a restless and inexorable enemy to all York's followers, inspiring 
 them with fear and hatred against him. 
 
 The battle in the meanwhile had gone badly with the forces of 
 King Henry, who was compelled to fly to London with the queen and 
 all his followers ere they should all be slain or captured by the Duke 
 of York. And Margaret became the chief commander of her hus- 
 band's fortunes, conducting the affairs of his army and the emergen- 
 cies of his defeat with a courage and resolution that seemed beyond 
 a woman, showing herself, though wicked, possessed of an in- 
 domitable spirit that prolonged for many years the struggle for the 
 crown between the rival claims of York and Lancaster. 
 
THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 WHEN the army of King Henry was defeated, there was 
 great rejoicing among the noblemen that followed the 
 Duke of York, for they now hoped to behold their lord 
 upon the throne of England. The hump-backed Richard brought 
 to his father the head of the Duke of Somerset. And although 
 York's other sons had worked fierce vengeance on his enemies, he 
 cried that Richard had deserved the best of all and that Richard's 
 trophy was the fairest sight he had beheld that day. 
 
 The Duke of York with his followers, determined then to enter 
 the parliament-house at London, believing that King Henry would 
 assemble all his party in that place, for York had planned to occupy 
 the chair of state, and from that proud position to defy Henry, 
 when he should enter, bid him resign all claim upon his title and in 
 case he should refuse call soldiers to attack him; and York's fol- 
 lowers remarked that unless the weakling, Henry, utterly renounced 
 the name of king upon the spot, that assembly should be called 
 " The Bloody Parliament." 
 
 When Henry and his lords came to the parliament-house, this 
 most unwelcome sight awaited them, for they beheld the Duke of 
 York seated in the chair of highest dignity; by his side sat the am- 
 bitious Earl of Warwick in full armour, York's sons, Edward and 
 Richard, were also near him, eager to draw swords against the king, 
 and other noblemen with weapons in their hands surrounded him. 
 They gazed on the approaching king as though he came to do them 
 open battle, as though the hall of state, where they assembled, were 
 besieged by an advancing enemy; and York was fully prepared to 
 outrage its great dignity and to profane the memory of many 
 kings who had devoted it to peace and justice, by doing battle 
 in that consecrated place. 
 
 421 
 
422 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 King Henry bade his followers to behold the sturdy rebel who 
 usurped the seat that none but kings should occupy, profaning it 
 with arms and open defiance of its sacred name. He besought 
 his lords to remain faithful to him in his hour of danger, and 
 bade Lord Clifford and the Earl of Northumberland to remember 
 how the Duke of York had slain their fathers, and how they had 
 vowed to be revenged on York and all his house. 
 
 " The hope of that revenge," said Clifford, " makes me mourn 
 in steel." 
 
 Northumberland expressed himself with equal bitterness, pray- 
 ing Heaven to punish him if he did not fully requite his father's 
 death. Other noblemen besought King Henry to attack the rebel 
 instantly, to hurl him from the chair whereon he sat and put him 
 to a sudden execution, for York once dead, said they, his soldiers 
 would soon fly and the crown become assured to Henry with no 
 further bloodshed. 
 
 But Henry had not the courage to attempt what they advised 
 him, for he feared the soldiers of his enemies, and dared not to 
 defy their power in so bold a manner. He bade his lords have 
 patience and think upon the holy place where they were assembled, 
 for never, said he, should they profane it by their swords. Frowns, 
 words and threats should be his only weapons; and he addressed 
 the Duke of York, commanding him to leave his throne and kneel 
 for mercy at the feet of his lawful sovereign. 
 
 York replied most haughtily, bidding the king in his turn to 
 kneel to him, acknowledge his due title to the crown, and ask pardon 
 for usurping the high power that belonged to the house of York. 
 He was prepared, he said, to prove his right upon the spot; and 
 if Henry would not hear him, his sword must plead his cause 
 in battle. Edward and Richard loudly besought their father to 
 tear the crown from the usurping Henry's head and place it on his 
 own, to sound his drums and trumpets and manifest his power, when 
 Henry, they said, would become afraid and do whatever they com- 
 manded him. 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 423 
 
 The Earl of Warwick, however, who observed that the king 
 was strangely agitated, bade them be silent and let Henry speak, 
 for he believed that in so doing, Henry, who had not at his com- 
 mand the arguments that could be marshalled to prove his right, 
 would betray himself even further into the power of the house of 
 York; that Henry's own lords in hearing him plead as though 
 before a court of justice for the crown his father and grandfather 
 had worn with such nobility, would behold his weakness and fall 
 from him. And, indeed, the Earl of Warwick's purpose was suc- 
 cessful beyond his utmost hopes, for Henry addressed his enemies 
 with unworthy mildness, asking them if it were not lawful to adopt 
 an heir as Richard the Second had adopted the great king, Henry 
 the Fourth — then, said he, his title to the crown would be clear 
 and evident. Not only did Henry speak in this unwise manner of 
 King Richard (who had been compelled by force of arms and fear 
 of instant death to resign his title) but he spoke of the great deeds 
 performed in France by Henry the Fifth, forgetting that his own 
 weak rule had lost that land forever. 
 
 The effect of this ignoble speech was shown in the action of the 
 Duke of Exeter, who hitherto had served King Henry with the 
 utmost loyalty. Exeter now said that in his conscience he believed 
 that York should gain the throne in place of Henry, and in the 
 presence of Henry whom he had served so long, he prepared to 
 join Warwick among those whom he had but lately considered as 
 traitors both to England and their rightful king. 
 
 Lord Clifford and Lord Northumberland, however, defied War- 
 wick with great bitterness, saying that whether Henry's claim be 
 right or wrong, they vowed to fight in his defense; and Clifford 
 cried out that the ground should gape and swallow him alive ere 
 he would kneel before the duke that slew his father. 
 
 Warwick on hearing them demanded in great anger that Henry 
 instantly renounce the title of king, or he would fill the house with 
 soldiers and write over the chair of state York's claim upon the 
 kingdom in the blood of Henry and his followers. He stamped 
 
4 2 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 his foot to summon soldiers, who appeared with drawn swords in 
 all the entrances, prepared, upon command, to make attack on 
 Henry and his followers. 
 
 Now did Henry in fear of death perform the most ignoble act 
 of all his reign, give ground to his enemies that never was wholly 
 reclaimed from them and alienate forever the affections of his 
 own supporters. When Henry beheld the soldiers that surrounded 
 him, he forgot in utter terror both his rights as king and the proud 
 bearing that befitted his royal station. And he implored the Earl 
 of Warwick to hear him but one word, saying that if the Duke of 
 York would allow him to reign in peace and contentment for the 
 remainder of his natural life, he would confirm the crown to York 
 and his heirs forever after. By this base proposal Henry lost com- 
 pletely the respect of the brave lords that had supported him, for 
 Clifford and Northumberland cried out in rage on this unmanly 
 action, saying that they would not stop to hear so shameful an 
 agreement. How much wrong, said they, had Henry done both to 
 the prince, his son, and the great kings who were his ancestors ! 
 They quitted the parliament with bitter words, saying that in the 
 faint-hearted Henry there lay no spark of honour, and that they 
 now hoped he would be slain on the field or forced to live in shame- 
 ful peace, abandoned and despised by all the world. 
 
 Northumberland and Clifford then informed the queen of the 
 disgrace that Henry had brought upon them — how the prince's 
 title had been lost forever, how Henry in spite of his great birth 
 had shown himself contemptible beyond all words and how they 
 had refused to serve beneath a ruler who lacked utterly all sense 
 of shame, richly deserving to lose the crown. And to the king then, 
 came Queen Margaret with her son the former Prince of Wales, 
 so basely sacrificed by his faint-hearted father. 
 
 But the followers of York were filled with joy at this compact, 
 for the duke could not but hope by course of years and time of life 
 to survive Henry. Or what would be easier than secretly to make 
 away with such a king who governed with so weak a rule that his 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 425 
 
 subjects would not feel their loss or know that the feeble Henry 
 ceased to live until the stronger hand of York were laid upon them? 
 The Earl of Warwick and the other nobles cried out now that York 
 and Lancaster were reconciled. They bade their duke embrace the 
 king in pledge of new and everlasting friendship; and York with 
 all his followers in triumph quitted the parliament-house, leaving 
 King Henry forsaken in that place of state, where Margaret and 
 her wronged son discovered him. 
 
 Margaret said she wished she never had beheld her husband and 
 never born a son to so unnatural a father. Fainer would she have 
 died a maid than wedded a king unworthy of the name, unworthy, 
 indeed, even to be called a man, for that he could be put to shame 
 in noble action by the humblest peasant in his realm. She bade him 
 to think not that he would be safe in this agreement. Such safety, 
 she said, is found by the trembling lamb surrounded by wolves. 
 Had she been there the soldiers would have tossed her on their 
 pikes before she would have granted such an act. It was an act, 
 she said, to make King Henry creep untimely to his grave, crowded 
 out of life by those who sought his place and high authority. And 
 she added that until it were repealed, and her son, so basely dis- 
 inherited, given back his rights, she would divorce herself from 
 Henry's table and his bed, refuse to look upon his face or call him 
 by the name of " husband." Then Margaret in anger left her 
 lord and prepared to follow Clifford and Northumberland, saying 
 that while they would refuse to fight for Henry, nevertheless they 
 would support her cause, for though a woman she would lead an 
 army against York and win again the rights that had been yielded 
 to him with more than a woman's weakness. 
 
 The Duke of York, however, did not think long of the promise 
 he had given Henry, but prepared to take the crown at once, and 
 to confound his enemies so they might nevermore disturb him, 
 or question his right to the high power he had won. Edward and 
 Richard, his sons, urged him to do further battle at once against the 
 house of Lancaster, saying that this agreement was a breathing 
 
426 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 space wherein their enemies might win back all their former power. 
 When York spoke of his oath, and said that in doing this it would 
 be broken and he lose his honour forever, Edward replied that for 
 his part he would break a thousand oaths to reign one year; 
 and Richard, who was no less dishonest but more crafty than his 
 brother, said that the Duke of York need not even forswear himself 
 or break the smallest fragment of his vow. His oath, said Richard, 
 had not been taken before a true and lawful magistrate, for Henry 
 being a usurper had not authority, and could compel no man 
 to do his bidding except by violence and unjust means. The 
 oath, therefore, was void and had no binding power. And Richard 
 bade his father to think how sweet a thing it was to wear a crown, 
 within whose narrow circle lay all that poets feigned of bliss and 
 joy — all the wealth and honour of a country; until the Duke of 
 York cried out enough, saying that he would be king, or die in fight- 
 ing to attain the crown. 
 
 But Margaret, with Clifford and Northumberland and all the 
 nobles that deserted Henry, now opposed the Duke of York before 
 the very gates of his own town. They had gathered beneath their 
 banners a force of twenty thousand men — far more than York 
 could hope to muster, and they met the duke in a severe battle near 
 a place called Wakefield where the odds were great against him. 
 
 The Duke of York had a young son named Rutland, who being 
 but a child had taken no part in the quarrel of his father against 
 the king; but this boy, with his tutor, had been near the place of 
 battle, and was captured by the angry Clifford who slew him without 
 a thought of mercy. For Clifford was so enraged at the death 
 of his father, who though an old man had been slain on the 
 field by York's own hand, that he had sworn to leave no member 
 of York's family alive — and neither the innocence of this tender 
 child nor the pity aroused in the hearts of the soldiers that had cap- 
 tured him could move the hard-hearted Clifford to spare his life. 
 And Clifford, with the blood of the unhappy child upon his sword, 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 427 
 
 sought out the Duke of York, saying that he should not be content 
 until he too had fallen before his vengeance. 
 
 It seemed that the triumph of Queen Margaret and Clifford was 
 complete, for after putting to flight the forces of their enemies, 
 they came on York himself, wearied and half dead and fallen far 
 behind the soldiers that deserted him. York was captured by Mar- 
 garet and her followers, and Margaret spoke to him of Rutland's 
 death and gave him a handkerchief that she had dipped in the child's 
 blood, bidding him, if that he chose to weep to dry his eyes upon it. 
 She crowned him with a paper diadem, and when Lord Clifford 
 moved to slay him, bade him wait for she would hear the prayers 
 that York would say before he died. And York then wept, and 
 said that he washed away with tears the blood of his sweet boy. 
 He gave again the handkerchief to Margaret, bidding her make 
 boast of it, for if she told the story right, even his foes would shed 
 fast-falling tears and say it was a piteous deed. Lord Clifford then 
 turned his sword against him, and Margaret bade her soldiers take 
 the traitor's head and set it with its paper crown upon the city gates, 
 so York might overlook the town of York, where once he ruled. 
 
 But York's two sons, Edward and Richard, had fled and had col- 
 lected as well as they were able, all who were left alive from out 
 their scattered army. Other nobles joined them until they were 
 prepared once more to make headway against Queen Margaret. 
 And when they heard of the death of their father and the murder 
 of their innocent brother, Rutland — how this had been effected 
 by Clifford and the heartless queen, and how the blood of Rut- 
 land had been offered to his sorrowing father at the moment of 
 his own death, Edward and Richard could hardly contain them- 
 selves, and vowed that they would not rest nor take an instant's ease 
 before these monsters met a fate of equal bitterness. And Edward 
 and Richard at the head of a great force of soldiers met the army 
 of Margaret on Towton Field, where they completely overcame all 
 of her forces, routed the lords that aided her and forced Margaret 
 
428 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 herself to fly from England, where now there was no safety for any 
 of her followers. 
 
 In this battle, retribution overtook Lord Clifford who died of 
 grievous wounds inflicted on him by Richard. For Richard, al- 
 though misshapen until he seemed not human, was given in his anger 
 a formidable power that enabled him to cope with soldiers far 
 stronger than himself. And the rage of this deformed creature, 
 his gruff voice, grumbling the foulest curses on his enemies, the 
 evil that in battle seemed to leap forth from his heart and shine 
 upon his countenance, produced in all who fought with him a fear 
 that seemed not earthly — as terrible indeed as the appearance of 
 the prodigy that opposed them. 
 
 There was now no further hindrance to Edward's being crowned 
 king of England, and the ceremony was speedily performed in the 
 presence of those nobles who had fought to place the crown on 
 his father's head and who transferred their loyalty, as a matter of 
 course, to Edward, on the Duke of York's unhappy death. Edward 
 gave to his brothers the dukedoms that were nearest to the crown, 
 creating George who was nearest to his own age and higher, there- 
 fore, in rank than the ill-favoured Richard, Duke of Clarence, while 
 Richard was appointed Duke of Gloucester — an ominous title for 
 the murder of the duke who lately held it, had cast a shadow on 
 that name. 
 
 When Margaret's forces were defeated, King Henry fled to 
 Scotland, and liking not the land where he was forced to take his 
 refuge, he stole in disguise over the borderland of England for 
 no other purpose than to behold again the country where he was 
 now a hunted exile. In his wandering, he fell into the hands of 
 huntsmen to whom he had revealed himself by musing aloud within 
 their hearing, upon the most unhappy change that had befallen him. 
 For Henry had filled the air with sighs and cried out that his land 
 was native to him no longer. His place was filled, his scepter 
 wrung from his hands; no man would come to him again to seek 
 redress, and no bending knee would do him homage as a king. 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 429 
 
 Henry also had called on the name of his wife, Margaret, who had 
 fled across the sea to seek the aid of Lewis, King of France, saying 
 that he hoped her suit would prosper at Lewis' hands; and when 
 the huntsmen heard these words, they knew that he who stood 
 before them was the deposed king and conveyed him as a captive to 
 Edward. And Henry was confined in the Tower of London and 
 kept there a close prisoner. 
 
 When Edward had been crowned, he soon began to show a reck- 
 lessness of purpose and a disregard of the noblemen who were his 
 friends that speedily awakened their anger. For the new king con- 
 ducted himself in a haughty and imperious manner, treating them 
 as absolute inferiors, preferring, as it seemed, to hold his power 
 by arousing fear in his retainers rather than make the name of king 
 loved and revered as had been done by Henry the Fifth without 
 the loss of any of his high authority. 
 
 Edward, as it chanced, had sent the Earl of Warwick as ambassa- 
 dor to France for the purpose of requesting the hand of Lewis' sister, 
 the princess Bona, whom he desired to make queen of England, 
 thinking, and not unwisely, that alliance with the French through 
 marriage would make firm the ties that bound him to his throne. 
 Before Warwick had returned with word of his success, however, 
 King Edward had determined to wed elsewhere, for he had con- 
 ceived a passion for one of his own subjects, a lady of great virtue, 
 wit and good appearance but of humbler rank than Edward and not 
 to be considered for the dignity of queen by any ruler who held 
 at his heart the welfare of his subjects or respect for his great title. 
 This lady was, moreover, a widow, and possessed of several children, 
 who, as she said, the king would like but little to hear name him 
 father. Being of excellent sense and spirit, she plainly beheld the 
 difficulties that would attend her exalted rank — indeed, she would 
 have refused it but that Edward pressed her beyond all power of 
 resistance, commanding her, as her own sovereign to obey his royal 
 pleasure. And Edward sent letters to the Earl of Warwick, bid- 
 ding him return to England for his embassy was now to no purpose 
 
430 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 — England's queen was chosen and there could be no further thought 
 of binding France to the English throne by marriage. 
 
 It happened that Queen Margaret had come before King Lewis 
 to beseech his aid for Henry at the same time that Warwick re- 
 quested him to confer the hand of Princess Bona on King Edward; 
 and the court of France beheld the bitterness of these two enemies, 
 each of whom bade Lewis have no trust in the fair words of the other 
 which were against all faith and honesty. But Lewis, who thought 
 only of advantage to himself, beholding that Edward was in power 
 and Henry an outcast of no strength, save the strength that France 
 might lend him, listened more favourably to the Earl of Warwick 
 and determined that the princess should become the bride of Ed- 
 ward. It was at this time and Lewis had just consented to this 
 alliance when word arrived of Edward's sudden marriage. 
 
 The anger of King Lewis at thus being trifled with was exceeded 
 only by the rage of Warwick, who protested that he knew not of 
 this marriage, that Edward in performing it had grossly deceived 
 him, and that he would have no further dealing with the false 
 king, but pull him from the throne by violence, doing justice to the 
 injured Henry. Turning to Margaret the Earl of Warwick then 
 asked her pardon for the injuries that he had worked upon her. 
 Henceforth, said he, she would find in him the truest friend of all, 
 for through his aid her husband should regain his crown. And 
 Warwick asked Lewis to aid him in a war against King Ed- 
 ward, for in this way alone, said Warwick, could the insult done to 
 Lewis' gracious sister be avenged. 
 
 A troop of soldiers was at once prepared, and Lewis said that 
 Queen Margaret with a far larger army should soon follow War- 
 wick to England. Lewis then bade the messenger return and defy 
 the English king, saying to him that Lewis of France was sending 
 over masquers who should revel it with Edward and his bride, 
 while Margaret bade the messenger to say that her robes of sorrow 
 were now laid aside and that she had again put armour on. 
 
 Warwick's soldiers reached England with such swiftness that 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 431 
 
 they caught King Edward off his guard and took him prisoner. 
 Henry was set at freedom, and the house of Lancaster returned to 
 all its former power. The brothers of King Edward, and his 
 friends and followers, in their turn were now forced to become exiles, 
 and it seemed as if the wars that for so long had shaken England 
 were at end. 
 
 But the scheming Richard, brother to King Edward, although 
 friends and enemies were equally hateful to him, who seemed himself 
 to be formed all of hatred with no love for any human being, no 
 joy save in gaining power over others and working injury upon 
 them, now determined if possible to set his brother free and aid 
 him to escape to Flanders. For Richard, who aimed at no less than 
 to become king himself, must first behold his brother safe upon the 
 throne. 
 
 Richard, therefore, with a company of friends contrived in an 
 artful manner to accomplish his brother's freedom, who, when hunt- 
 ing was torn from the guard that accompanied him, and hurried on 
 shipboard, setting sail at once for Flanders. And there Edward 
 raised an army with such speed that in his turn now he came un- 
 awares upon his enemies; Henry was recaptured and sent again into 
 his prison in the tower, while the Earl of Warwick was surrounded 
 by enemies and after a severe battle slain by the hand of Edward. 
 And the fortunes of this contest were again completely changed, for 
 Margaret was still in France occupied there in raising the force of 
 soldiers that King Lewis had promised her; and the power of War- 
 wick had been destroyed as utterly as their own leader, who lay dead 
 upon the field of battle. 
 
 When the army of Margaret was at last assembled, and with 
 her son, young Edward, she had arrived at the English coast and 
 prepared for battle, Edward and Richard met her with a great force 
 of soldiers and defeated her so thoroughly that there could never 
 be further thought of her opposing them. Both Margaret and 
 Edward, her son, were taken prisoners; and Edward was slain be- 
 fore his mother's eyes in the same manner that young Rutland had 
 
432 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 met his death by the sword of Clifford. For the king with his 
 brothers, bidding Margaret to think on that former crime, slew 
 the prince with the same cruelty that Margaret had slain their 
 father, the Duke of York. And Margaret in this way was com- 
 pletely punished, for although hard of heart, the greater measure 
 of her rage had come from York's designs against the prince, her 
 son, who now lay slain before her. 
 
 Margaret called on him to speak and knelt beside him, and she 
 begged the king and his brothers to turn their swords against her 
 breast and complete their work of murder. But when Richard 
 turned upon her with uplifted sword and prepared to strike her 
 down, his brothers held his arm bidding him to desist; for Mar- 
 garet must live, they said, and behold the overthrow of all her high 
 ambitions. And Edward bade his men convey Margaret into some 
 place of captivity until he should decide upon her fate. 
 
 Richard, when his brothers had prevented him from slaying Mar- 
 garet, bade them listen for a piece of news that they should hear 
 before nightfall; he leaped upon his horse and spurred for London 
 where he came to the prison of King Henry and demanded instant 
 admission, saying that he would confer alone with Henry on matters 
 that touched him deeply. Richard bade the unfortunate king pre- 
 pare for death, and told him how his son was slain and his queen a 
 prisoner in the hands of Edward. And he cruelly murdered the 
 defenseless Henry, who met his end with resignation and, what 
 seemed remarkable in one of his weak spirit, with an utter lack of 
 the fear so often manifested by him. 
 
 Thus the line of the great Henrys ceased to exist, and Edward 
 became lawful king of England. Queen Margaret was conveyed 
 to her father's court at Naples under sentence of eternal banish- 
 ment. And Richard was now left free to weave dark plots against 
 the lives of his own brothers who stood between him and the crown 
 that he resolved to win; and to become, as soon he did, the chief 
 adviser of King Edward who ruled in triumph over all the English 
 dominions. 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 THE crown of England being assured to the great house of 
 York, Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, determined to be 
 king in place of his brother Edward, who then reigned; for 
 Richard, whom deformity had rendered unfit for ordinary happiness, 
 sought with his whole heart to become greater than the more 
 fortunate persons that surrounded him; being unable to share the 
 joys of these, or follow the happy occupations of a time of peace. 
 For how could Richard court his fellow nobles, or present a pleas- 
 ing aspect to a lady's eye, — Richard who had been born before his 
 time, misshapen and half finished, bearing a hideous mountain on 
 his back and compelled to be a thing apart from all his fellows? 
 Thus, being barred from all soft pleasure and all gentler sort of 
 happiness that men delight in, he believed a royal crown to be his 
 utmost fortune; since he could not command love, he was determined 
 to awaken fear, and he resolved to destroy all who should come 
 between him and his intention of becoming king. And the pur- 
 poses of Richard were deadly, all the more so that he hid them 
 in his heart and showed the world an open and deceiving face of 
 friendship. 
 
 Richard could not hope to become king so long as his brother, 
 the Duke of Clarence was alive, for Clarence was older than 
 himself, and nearer therefore to the royal line of Edward. Even 
 before Clarence could rule, the two young sons of Edward must 
 come to power; and these children, although very young, were quick 
 of wit and pleasing of appearance, of such tender and bright natures 
 that it seemed as if all England must be happy in their reign. 
 Richard secretly meditated evil against his nephews, and also against 
 his brother, the Duke of Clarence, seeking by what means he could 
 effect his death. For Edward, the king, had been stricken with a 
 
 433 
 
434 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 sudden illness, whence Richard hoped that he would never rise; 
 and if Richard could murder the Duke of Clarence, he knew that he 
 could then effect the ruin of his nephews and seize upon the crown 
 that he desired. 
 
 King Edward, who then lay upon his sick-bed, was prone to be- 
 lieve in divinations of all sorts, in the workings of witchcraft and 
 the power of strange dreams to foretell the future; and Richard, 
 who was aware of this, determined by means of false prophecies and 
 dangerous sayings that he caused to be spread abroad, to awaken 
 the king's hatred against his brother, Clarence. Richard hoped that 
 Clarence would be cast into prison and put to death there for some 
 crime that should be foretold against him; and a prophecy reached 
 Edward's ears that soon effected the first part of Richard's purpose, 
 for it told that one whose name began with G would murder the 
 king's sons and seek the throne. Edward who thought not of 
 Richard (the Duke of Gloucester), believed this prophecy to mean 
 his more honest brother, Clarence, whose first name indeed was 
 George; and Clarence was placed under arrest and imprisoned in 
 the Tower of London, where the late king, Henry the Sixth, had 
 been so recently and darkly murdered. 
 
 On his way to prison, Clarence was encountered by Richard, 
 who asked him, with great appearance of surprise, why he was thus 
 attended by armed men; was he under arrest, and if so for what 
 cause? Clarence replied that he had been made prisoner because 
 of an idle prophecy concerning his name of George, which he could 
 not help, and he knew not, said he, why his brother Edward who was 
 wont to be so affectionate had turned against him for so slight a 
 reason. 
 
 " No," said Richard, " it is not the king who has imprisoned you. 
 It is the queen, who without doubt has borne false tales against you 
 and laboured for your injury. No man is safe against her displeas- 
 ure." Richard had designs against the queen and hated her as well 
 as his brother Clarence. He went on to say how the queen and one 
 Mistress Shore ruled all the kingdom, ana! how ill fortune favoured 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 435 
 
 all that incurred their spite. But Clarence need not fear, continued 
 Richard, for he would win him back to favour with King Edward. 
 And he embraced his brother, saying that he would deliver him ere 
 long, adding, however, when the guard had led Clarence out of 
 hearing: " Deliver you, aye that I will, simple, plain Clarence! Go 
 tread the path that you shall not return, for I will shortly send your 
 soul to Heaven." 
 
 The king, who, in his sickness had fallen into a state of fear, 
 and possessed no more that sound and well ordered judgment that 
 would keep him from injustice and prevent him from committing 
 thoughtless actions that later he must repent, had become so angered 
 against the Duke of Clarence that he gave an order for his death* 
 He commanded that Clarence be murdered secretly within his prison 
 cell; and although remorseful pity came upon Edward before this 
 hard-hearted command was executed, until he sent a second order 
 that revoked the harsh decree upon his brother, Richard now could 
 murder Clarence with perfect safety and lay the blame of the murder 
 on Edward, forcing him to think his own command had been obeyed. 
 So Richard gave a warrant for the death of Clarence to assassins 
 that he hired, bidding them to go at once to the Tower and fulfill 
 their wicked errand on his brother. 
 
 The Duke of Clarence, without knowing it, had been warned 
 in a terrible dream of his approaching fate. He had dreamed that 
 with his brother Richard he took ship for Burgundy; that together 
 they looked back upon the shores of England they were leaving, and 
 recalled to mind a thousand dreadful times in the wars of York 
 and Lancaster that had befallen them. As they paced along the 
 hatches of their vessel, — a giddy footing — Richard stumbled, 
 and struck Clarence, who had thought to stay him, overboard into 
 the sea. There Clarence dreamed that he was drowned, with 
 dreadful noise of waters in his ears and ugly sights of death that 
 came before his eyes. He beheld the fearful wrecks of vessels 
 scattered on the bottom of the sea, and he thought that on the 
 sands there lay ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon. Vast 
 
436 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 heaps of treasure lay there — bars of gold and pearls and pre- 
 cious stones, some of which were lodged in dead men's skulls and 
 shone as if in scorn of the eyes they had displaced. At last, Clarence 
 dreamed, he died; and there began a tempest to his soul, for it 
 crossed the melancholy river that hems in the under world, where 
 he met the mighty Earl of Warwick whom he had betrayed, and 
 Edward, Henry's son, whom he had helped to murder; and a legion 
 of foul fiends surrounded him and howled into his ears with dreadful 
 cries, until in utter fear he started from his slumber unable to think 
 for some time after but that he had been in Hell. 
 
 To Clarence, then, there came the murderers who were to work 
 his death; and Richard had commanded them to use all haste in what 
 they were to do, for Clarence, as he said, knew well how to employ 
 the art of speech, and perchance might win them to be merciful if 
 they delayed to hear him beg for life. They stood beside the 
 sleeping man and were prepared to strike him with their swords 
 before he should awaken, when Clarence stirred from slumber and 
 gazed upon them. Beholding in what deadly way they looked on 
 him, he asked them if their purpose were his death; they replied, 
 ay, and bade him prepare at once to meet it for they should not 
 leave that chamber while he lived. 
 
 " You hardly have the hearts to tell me so," said Clarence, " and 
 cannot therefore have the hearts to seek my life. How, my friends, 
 have I offended you? " 
 
 When they said they came upon the king's orders, Clarence bade 
 them think upon that king of kings, whose ^law commanded them 
 to do no murder. He besought them to be merciful. He said 
 that before long he would be reconciled with Edward. If the king 
 had paid them for his death, let them go, said he, to his kind 
 brother, Richard, for Richard loved him and would reward them 
 far more generously for his life than Edward for the deed that 
 they intended. At the name of Richard, however, the murderers 
 looked at each other askance and bade him say no more, for it was 
 Richard that had sent them, saying that Richard, whom Clarence 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 437 
 
 had named kind, was as kind as a blighting frost, or snow in 
 harvest time. They then murdered Clarence and drowned his 
 body for concealment in a cask of wine that happened to be near his 
 prison cell; and word was born to Richard that his order had been 
 performed. 
 
 Richard then determined to bear word of Clarence's death to 
 the enfeebled king, who was attended by the queen and certain 
 noblemen who were her friends; he would tell it he resolved, in 
 such a manner, so suddenly and with so little preparation in the 
 minds of those that were to hear it, that his news might startle 
 Edward in his illness into a state of grief that must be fatal to him. 
 So, when the queen by chance spoke to Edward of the Duke of 
 Clarence, begging that Edward become reconciled with him, Richard 
 asked if she were jesting at his brother's memory, and also asked 
 if she did not know that the Duke of Clarence were now dead. 
 When the noblemen that were present heard this dreadful question, 
 they became suddenly pale, and Edward in a faltering voice asked 
 if Richard's words were true; the order for Clarence's death, he 
 said, had been reversed and Clarence was to live and receive a royal 
 pardon. 
 
 " But Clarence, poor soul," said Richard, " died by your first 
 order, and while a winged Mercury did bear it to the prison, a tardy 
 cripple bore the countermand that came too late to see our brother 
 buried." 
 
 Richard with a lively show of grief said then that he prayed 
 to Heaven there were none at Edward's court who were more 
 guilty than the innocent Clarence, and while he rejoiced inwardly 
 at Clarence's murder and the way that he had imparted it to Ed- 
 ward, he wept false tears and feigned a heavy sorrow. 
 
 Edward also wept, and bade his noblemen convey him to his 
 chamber for this news had seemed to cast a leaden weight upon 
 his spirit. He recalled a thousand kindnesses that Clarence had 
 done to him; how he had saved his life in battle, saying to him, 
 " Dear brother, live and be a king," and how Clarence, when they 
 
438 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 slept afield in the hardships of the winter, had wrapped him in his 
 own garments, giving himself all thin and naked to the numbing 
 cold of night. And, indeed, it was not long before King Edward 
 died, stricken with remorse at the cruel fate of his unfortunate 
 brother, caused as he believed by his own rash and groundless anger. 
 
 But although Edward and Clarence now were dead as he desired, 
 Richard still could not attain the throne, for many noblemen deter- 
 mined that young Edward should be crowned as king without delay; 
 and there were many that hated Richard bitterly and would have 
 died ere they beheld him on that throne where they had placed his 
 nobler brother. 
 
 Chief of Richard's enemies were certain friends of the widowed 
 queen, who would suffer nothing to prevent her son from being 
 king, as was his right. But Richard, by the law that all of Eng- 
 land held as sacred, since the rightful king, his nephew, was a 
 child, unfit for many years to take upon himself the cares of 
 state, must rule in place of him as Lord Protector, and this office 
 gave to him a vast power that he could use to destroy all that might 
 oppose him. He plotted many pretexts for the death of the queen's 
 friends, confining them at last in prison, where, on false charges 
 of treason, he caused them to be executed. And Richard made 
 known to certain of his friends, that it was his firm intention to 
 become a king; he promised them rewards of land and money if 
 they aided him, saying his royal favour when he won the crown 
 would ever follow them and make them great above all others in the 
 land; and he promised to Buckingham that when his plans had pros- 
 pered and the throne was fast in his possession, he would give the 
 duke the earldom of Hereford for his own and all the rich posses- 
 sions that attended it. Buckingham became his secret spy, and 
 through his means Richard learned the hearts of all the noblemen 
 and contrived to work the downfall of all men that opposed him. 
 
 The time was now prepared, so Richard thought, to seize upon 
 the kingdom and gain the throne before his nephew, Edward, 
 should be crowned openly in the presence of the people. But the 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 439 
 
 name of king, Richard believed, would be more firmly won if it 
 were freely offered him — still more if he should feign humility and 
 reluctance to receive it. So Richard bade the Duke of Buckingham 
 to contrive that this be effected and win the people to his cause; 
 to spread abroad dark slanders on the name of Edward; to infer 
 that Edward's children were unlawfully begotten and of humble 
 birth; to speak of Edward's vices, of his prodigality and freedom 
 of nature, until the people would renounce their loyalty to Edward's 
 son. This done, said Richard, he would feign remonstrance at the 
 honour that the people thrust upon him, and would beg them to do 
 right to his nephew who was their lawful heir and ruler. Thus 
 they would believe he had become king by their own choosing. 
 
 In the meanwhile Richard's nephews, young Edward and his 
 brother, the little Duke of York, had come to London for the coro- 
 nation and were given into the care of Richard. And Richard met 
 them with gracious smiles and a simulated affection; he inquired if 
 their journey had weaned them and if they would rest for he had, 
 he said, prepared a chamber for them in the Tower, and he gave 
 them welcome with so kindly a manner, that in the way of children 
 they soon commenced to ply him with a thousand questions, asked 
 if he believed that there were ghosts in that dark tower, and if 
 Julius Caesar built it as their tutors had told them. And Edward 
 began to talk of what he would do when he became a man and 
 could lead soldiers to the wars, while his brother commenced to play 
 with the jewelled dagger at his uncle's side. When Richard had 
 conducted them to the Tower — a gloomy place to shelter the sweet 
 children he had taken thither — he gave commands that none 
 should approach them save by his own orders, that even the queen 
 herself should be denied to see them and that on no account should 
 they be allowed to pass from out the prison where he had consigned 
 them. 
 
 The Duke of Buckingham, who was a clever orator, had made 
 the citizens believe that Richard should be king. The citizens, 
 indeed, cared little who ruled over them, so long as they were left at 
 
440 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 peace, being weary of the wars that so many years had raged 
 about the crown. They feared also that the country under Edward, 
 who was only a child, would be torn with further bloodshed, as 
 it had been in the time of Henry the Sixth, who was incapable of 
 rule. And a multitude of people with the Mayor of London at 
 their head came to offer their allegiance to Richard. 
 
 Richard knew of their approach, and desired to impress them 
 utterly with his unwillingness to take the crown. He answered 
 their demand to see him, by saying that he was engaged in prayer 
 and could not leave the priests with whom he was consulting, and 
 when they insisted that he show himself, he appeared with an open 
 prayer-book in his hand, bidding them pardon him for neglecting 
 them, while Buckingham whispered that the citizens should mark 
 how different was this prince from the late Edward. Richard was 
 not spending his time in idle pleasures, in loose living and dissipa- 
 tion; he was on his knees with holy men at prayer, seeking to benefit 
 his soul. Richard himself said that he had been occupied with his 
 spiritual welfare, far sweeter to him than any earthly matter. And 
 when the people cried that he should be their king, he looked on 
 them with an appearance of reproof, refusing to think of such an 
 offer, however kindly meant, and bidding them turn to Edward, his 
 nephew, who was their rightful lord, more fit for such high state 
 and majesty than he. 
 
 The Duke of Buckingham, who had urged the people on to make 
 this request, pretended to be angry at Richard's refusal of such 
 honour. He said that if Richard denied them, Edward even then 
 should not be king for they would plant upon the throne some other 
 who should cause the downfall of the house of York, and he called 
 the citizens to come away for he would entreat no longer with one 
 who seemed both blind and deaf to the best welfare of his country. 
 
 But other noblemen begged Richard to call the people back and 
 consent to their proposal lest his country suffer in his refusal, and 
 Richard, who said he was not made of stone, finally agreed to do 
 so, although apparently with great reluctance. He said to the peO- 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 441 
 
 pie that as they forced him to this great fortune, if any ever did re- 
 proach him with it or accused him of designing to attain the throne 
 his own unwillingness must tell them that he was free and clear from 
 fault. As he was king through no desire of his own but through 
 the true love of his subjects and the choice of the people made at 
 their own free will, he washed his hands, he said, of all the stains 
 and blots that might befall them in his reign. 
 
 But Richard now began to think upon his nephews in the Tower 
 and how some factious noblemen in future times if they should weary 
 of his rule might seek to place young Edward on the throne. He 
 thought also of how the dead king had been set at freedom; and 
 how he himself had contrived the escape of his brother Edward, to 
 stir up further conflict and cast the whole land into the confusion of 
 a long and bloody war. If he were to reign in peace, thought 
 Richard, Edward's children must not live to trouble him; and he 
 conceived the shocking purpose of murdering them as he had mur- 
 dered the Duke of Clarence, their uncle. 
 
 Richard took into his confidence the Duke of Buckingham, who 
 had served him ceaselessly, for Buckingham, he thought, would 
 give him aid in the dreadful deed of putting his nephews to death. 
 And he said to Buckingham that he would test him now and learn 
 if his great friendship had indeed been true or nothing but a sham 
 and a deception; if Buckingham were solid gold or merely gilded 
 — fair to the outward view but of less value than he seemed. He 
 concluded that he would contrive his nephews' death, asking the Duke 
 of Buckingham to help him in their murder. 
 
 But the Duke of Buckingham, although a wicked man, could not 
 think of such a deed without great horror and reluctance to perform 
 it. And before he should consent to give his aid in this brutal 
 purpose of murdering two children that had harmed no living thing 
 in all their lives and were as innocent as they were fair to look 
 upon, Buckingham determined to find out if Richard would give 
 him the reward that had been promised him. And he spoke to 
 Richard of this promise, saying that as Richard now was king, 
 
442 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 he desired of him the earldom of Hereford and all the rich estate 
 that was a portion of it. But Richard was very angry that Buck- 
 ingham had refused even for an instant to consent to his request; 
 he put him off with doubtful words, paying little attention to what 
 was urged upon him. And Buckingham, in mingled rage and 
 horror, fled from the court and prepared to raise a force of soldiers 
 against Richard: for even at that moment, Henry, the young Earl 
 of Richmond, was coming to England with an army to drive Richard 
 from the kingdom and seize the throne. 
 
 Richard summoned to him a man whose name was Tyrrel who 
 was a person of such wicked cruelty that he would not hesitate 
 at any ill deed imposed upon him if the reward for performing it 
 were sufficiently great; and Richard acquainted Tyrrel with his 
 purpose, bidding him seek out his nephews in the tower and murder 
 them by any means at his command. He bade him to make haste 
 and remained alone with brooding and bitter thoughts until the 
 news of his nephews' murder should be brought to him. 
 
 Tyrrel with some hard-hearted and cruel helpers then sought the 
 children as they slept, locked in each others arms in tender slumber; 
 and when they beheld these gentle babes, their lips like four red roses 
 on a stalk, their arms girdling one another in a soft embrace, and 
 their breasts scarce stirring with the peaceful breath of their calm 
 sleep, remorse almost turned them from their purpose. But they 
 stifled the two children in the coverings of the bed whereon they 
 lay; and the chaplain of the Tower buried them with haste and 
 secrecy. 
 
 But Richard did not gain the safety that he thought to win by 
 this abominable murder, for Henry, the Earl of Richmond, with a 
 mighty army had landed on the English coast and was marching 
 against him. And many nobles fled from Richard to join the 
 army of Henry, who purposed to rid England of the tyrant who 
 controlled it. And Henry possessed a calm and untroubled spirit, 
 feeling sure of victory, while Richard trembled lest his supporters 
 desert him to join with his enemies. 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 443 
 
 The two armies beheld each other at last near a place called 
 Bosworth Field, and as night came upon them before they could 
 meet in battle, they prepared for an encounter on the following 
 day. Henry cheered his men with encouraging words and bade 
 them have no fear: right and justice were on their side and on the 
 morrow would direct their swords against their enemies. But 
 Richard, although his army was far greater than his adversary's, 
 possessed none of Henry's assurance or certitude of victory, evil 
 doubts and fears besetting him. And he wearied himself in think- 
 ing of the morrow's combat, while Henry lay sleeping to refresh his 
 strength against it. 
 
 When Richard at last sought to sleep, a strange and terrible 
 event befell him, for in his dreams he beheld the ghosts of all that 
 he had murdered. They passed before him one by one and each 
 one as it passed cried out " despair and die," for that his edgeless 
 sword should fall before the anger of his enemies. First came the 
 shade of Edward whom he stabbed upon the field of battle; 
 Henry the Sixth followed, then the noblemen whom Richard had 
 condemned to death for opposing his designs upon the throne; and 
 his nephews who were stifled in the Tower, and his wife, the lady 
 Ann, whom he had also murdered; and last of all, there came the 
 Duke of Buckingham, whose army had been routed and he himself 
 captured and slain by Richard; and Buckingham, too, cried out that 
 Richard must despair and die : that as he was the last to feel the 
 tyranny of Richard, Richard sliould think of him in battle, and 
 die at last in terror of his guiltiness. The spirits then departed 
 from his sight, and they entered the tent of Henry, bidding him 
 keep fair hopes upon the morrow for his enemies would all be 
 routed and Richard himself slain. 
 
 Richard started from his sleep in utter terror, thinking, in his 
 disordered mind, that he was in the thick of conflict, wounded, 
 and sore pressed by the besieging swords of many enemies. And 
 when he awakened he thanked Heaven that he did but dream and 
 yet, said he, how could one talk of Heaven who was such a bloody 
 
444 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 villain. He thought that if he died as had been foretold to him 
 in sleep, none would pity him, and that in all his kingdom there 
 would be no feeling save joy that he no longer lived. In his fear 
 and terror, and the sudden burnings of remorse that came upon him 
 he knew not where to turn and blessed the minute when his followers 
 came to his tent as he had ordered, bidding him arise and prepare 
 himself, for that his friends were even at that moment buckling on 
 their armour. 
 
 The battle then began between the rival armies. But the troops 
 of Richard fought less bravely than their adversaries and soon were 
 completely overthrown. And Richard himself was slain by the 
 sword of Henry as had been prophesied, and Henry, beholding him 
 lifeless, bade his followers cease their pursuit of the defeated army 
 for the battle was completely won and Richard dead. Henry then 
 became king over the English people who found him a wise and 
 virtuous ruler, in high contrast to the terrible king, Richard, from 
 whom he had delivered them. 
 
THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING 
 HENRY THE EIGHTH 
 
 IN the time of the proud king, Henry the Eighth, there lived 
 in England a priest called Cardinal Wolsey, who became so 
 powerful at court and so close a friend to his royal master 
 that all the noblemen of England could not hope to rival his 
 greatness. But although Wolsey was Henry's dearest adviser 
 with power and influence hardly less than the king's own, he laboured 
 constantly both to get further wealth and honour for himself and 
 to overthrow all men that might oppose him. The schemes that 
 Wolsey wrought against his enemies were no less crafty in design 
 than artfully executed upon them. His wealth was known to be 
 great and he would use it freely to further his own ends, whether 
 to obtain some dignity that he desired, or to bribe the retainers of 
 an enemy to reveal to him their master's secrets. Few were able 
 and still fewer dared oppose his will; and this mighty and ambi- 
 tious Cardinal became famous not only at home but in foreign 
 countries. Kings and princes sought his favour and contrived with 
 him in the affairs of state, until Wolsey with great pride and arro- 
 gance ranked himself the equal of these rulers. At times he would 
 engage in secret dealings with them for his own private advantage, 
 and it was no other then Cardinal Wolsey who arranged the famous 
 meeting known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold, where the king 
 of England and the king of France met on terms of friendship 
 with great splendour, and where the Cardinal, with his enormous 
 wealth, appeared in greater pomp than any other nobleman. 
 
 But although Cardinal Wolsey was powerful at court until no 
 man dared to oppose him openly, in secret he was hated by many 
 noblemen who through jealousy or anger at some wrong he had 
 
 445 
 
446 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 worked upon them desired his ruin. Chief of his enemies was the 
 Duke of Buckingham — a nobleman of a courageous spirit, and 
 well aware of Wolsey's trickery. 
 
 The Duke of Buckingham through some means had become 
 aware of one of Wolsey's secrets: that the emperor, Charles, had 
 offered to him a sum of money to persuade King Henry to break the 
 friendly peace that had just been concluded at the Field of the 
 Cloth of Gold, Buckingham intended to inform King Henry of 
 the secret dealings of the Cardinal, and tell of his agreement with 
 the emperor: how Wolsey would buy and sell the honour of his 
 country, and how he intended to influence his own king to be false 
 to the treaty so recently concluded with the land of France. And 
 Buckingham alone of all the courtiers treated the great Cardinal 
 with high disdain showing with open plainness that he had no fear 
 of any injury that Wolsey could work upon him, with a reckless dis- 
 regard of Wolsey's power. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey, however, was not unaware of what Buckingham 
 intended against him, for by gold and promises he had bribed the 
 servants of this duke to act as spies and informers against their 
 own master. By means of truths artfully twisted until they ap- 
 peared as treason to the king, and by false reports and slanders, the 
 Cardinal had also obtained a number of accusations against Buck- 
 ingham that must without a question condemn the unfortunate duke 
 to the severest penalty of the law. Having prepared his net, the 
 Cardinal caused Buckingham to be arrested on these charges and 
 brought to trial to answer them: for his accusers had informed 
 the king of prophecies foretelling that Buckingham should rule 
 all England; and how the duke not only had plotted to gain the 
 throne, but had sworn with the deepest oaths to murder Henry 
 himself. And Henry, in great rage, spoke of Buckingham as a 
 giant traitor and consigned him to his trial with the resolve that 
 were he guilty nothing in the land could save him from the doom 
 that even then the Cardinal had prepared against him. 
 
 Katharine, the queen of England, was a noble minded and 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 447 
 
 generous lady who perceived too plainly the malicious purpose of 
 Wolsey in seeking the Duke of Buckingham's death. Katharine 
 did all that lay in her power to save the duke, reminding the king 
 that these same accusers had formerly been discharged from his 
 service and bore ill will against their master. And Katharine 
 spoke to the king of a grievous tax the Cardinal had caused to be 
 laid on all the people of the land — desiring in her heart to destroy 
 his power over her husband — bidding the Cardinal himself, who 
 was urging Buckingham's offenses, to speak with charity and justice, 
 even if he must speak against the noble duke who was completely 
 in his power. 
 
 But all the efforts of Queen Katharine were to no purpose, for 
 Buckingham was speedily condemned to death by the group of noble- 
 men who sat in judgment upon him; and although he grieved tor 
 the cause of his sad fate, having ever born himself as a loyal subject 
 and one that loved his king,, he met his end with the utmost 
 bravery and with his last breath assured his friends who accom- 
 panied him to the scaffold, of his entire innocence, bidding them 
 and all the people to pray for him as a true subject, now that the 
 last hour of his long and weary life was at hand. The Duke of 
 Buckingham dead, there seemed to be no man who could dispute 
 in any way the high position of Cardinal Wolsey or thwart what he 
 intended. 
 
 In accusing the Duke of Buckingham to the king, Cardinal 
 Wolsey plainly perceived the ill will born against him by Queen 
 Katharine, and he determined both as a means of revenge and to 
 increase his own authority to persuade the king, his master, to divorce 
 her. Although Katharine for twenty years had served her husband 
 with the utmost truth and loyalty, becoming through all England 
 the model of a sincere and loving wife, the Cardinal sought to 
 poison the mind of Henry until he should believe his marriage with 
 the gentle lady had been contrary to law. And Henry was pre- 
 pared to listen to the Cardinal, for Katharine had formerly been 
 wedded to the king's brother and the closeness of this relationship 
 
448 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 was the means whereby Wolsey cast doubt upon her second marriage 
 and her present state of wedlock with the king. 
 
 But another and greater reason that made Henry wish for so 
 cruel a separation from his wife was the secret state of his own 
 affections. A feast had been given by the Cardinal, who was wont 
 to entertain his guests with great liberality, where all the fairest 
 and most noble ladies of the land had been invited. To this 
 feast King Henry with a number of his courtiers went disguised in 
 masks and foreign garments, and Henry had danced with a lady 
 whose rare beauty startled and enchanted him until he wished her 
 to become his queen. On inquiring from his courtiers about her, 
 what was her name and her position the king learned that she 
 was called Anne Bullen, one of the queen's attendants, and her breed- 
 ing suited well, so he believed, the dignity that he professed to 
 confer upon her. For Henry was determined to wed Anne Bullen 
 and he sought with the utmost of his power to bring about separa- 
 tion from his wife, Katharine, as speedily as possible on this account. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey aided Henry, writing letters to the pope of Rome 
 and not yet aware of the king's secret passion for Anne Bullen, in- 
 dulging in ambitious plans to win a new and wealthy bride for his 
 royal master. 
 
 Katharine at last was summoned before a court of law where it 
 was purposed to divorce her, but when, according to due custom, 
 she was called loudly by name by the court crier, she made no answer 
 to him, but rose and went to Henry where he sat in state; and on 
 her knees she cast herself before him, saying that she desired his 
 right and justice and that he bestow his royal pity upon her. She 
 was, she said, a most poor woman born in another country, with no 
 judge or friend who could protect her in this harsh proceeding, so 
 much undeserved and so unworthily set on foot against her. She 
 asked Henry if she had not always been his true and loyal wife, 
 who strove to do his will and ever feared to kindle his dislike or 
 anger. And she said to him " My gracious lord, I pray you to re- 
 member that for twenty years I have continued in this obedience 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 449 
 
 and have been blest with many children by you. If in this time 
 you can report a single stain upon my honour, a single wrong that 
 I have done against you, in God's name turn me away and shut the 
 door on me with foul contempt! If not, I pray you spare me until 
 I hear from my friends in Spain whose advice and help in my unhap- 
 piness I will speedily implore." 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey, who had heard the queen's appeal with great 
 attention, said that this might not be allowed her, for learned and 
 reverend fathers had assembled to defend her cause; and the queen 
 replied she had been prepared to weep, but looking on the Cardinal 
 her tears were changed to sparks of fire. It was Wolsey, she said, 
 that had blown this coal between her and the king, and she continued 
 that she utterly abhorred and from her soul refused to hear Car- 
 dinal Wolsey judge her, holding him her most malicious foe, and 
 not at all a friend to truth or charity. 
 
 When the Cardinal attempted to defend himself (and he had con- 
 ducted his affairs so craftily that even the king was not aware that 
 he desired this divorce) Katharine would hear no more, but with 
 her followers and attendants left the court, saying that never again 
 would she appear to answer such a summons, which her dignity of 
 queen or, if she might be queen no longer, as the daughter of a 
 noble king prevented her. And Katharine in great sadness retired 
 to her apartments and except in the expression of her grief gave no 
 outward sign that she regarded the cruel measures that had been 
 taken against her. For the court in her refusal to appear pro- 
 nounced the sentence of divorce upon her and proclaimed that hence- 
 forth she must nevermore assume the name of queen or even of the 
 former wife of Henry. 
 
 Even before the divorce had been proclaimed, the king had sought 
 to favour the new object of his love, Anne Bullen, who was sorely 
 grieved at the affliction that had befallen her royal mistress. It 
 chanced, however, that even while she was lamenting the misfortune 
 that had overtaken Katharine, a nobleman came to her and in- 
 formed her of a marvellous change in her own fortunes : for the 
 
!5o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 king, he said, had created her the Marchioness of Pembroke and 
 had added to this honour a large sum of money for the maintenance 
 of her newly acquired rank. It was not long, indeed, before the 
 king exalted her to honours even greater for he married her in secret 
 and awaited only for some fitting time to proclaim her as his queen. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey had not a suspicion that the king had already 
 been wedded to Anne Bullen, but his heart misgave him when he 
 beheld the affection with which Henry regarded her. It would 
 never do, thought Wolsey, for his king to marry so far beneath him, 
 and Wolsey had also chosen a rich bride that he resolved Henry 
 should wed — no other than the Duchess of Alengon, sister to the 
 king of France. Before the separation from Katharine had been 
 granted, Wolsey perceived that the divorce formerly desired by 
 him would now impede his plans, and he sent to the pope a secret 
 letter asking for delay, for he said that he perceived the king to 
 be entangled in his affections to a creature of his court. And 
 Wolsey carefully concealed this act from Henry's knowledge, 
 thoroughly aware that it would awaken his severe displeasure. 
 
 But the destiny that had permitted the divorce of the unhappy 
 and innocent queen, Katharine, which had been effected in spite of 
 Wolsey's recent efforts, did not allow him to continue long in his 
 high state of favour, for his letter was intercepted and brought to 
 the attention of King Henry; the king also obtained another paper 
 that aroused him to further anger — and it seemed that justice had 
 caused the Cardinal to work his own undoing, for he had himself 
 given this paper into the king's hands, including it by oversight in 
 a number of state documents. In it was written a complete list of 
 all the Cardinal's wealth and vast possessions, all his secret stores of 
 gold, his land-holdings, houses and moveables, his horses and his 
 silverware, his velvets and his jewels, his costly wines, laces, silks 
 and sumptuous attire — wealth so vast that no one save the king 
 himself should have the right to own it, for such great property 
 showed that the Cardinal had plundered all the country to possess 
 it. Cardinal Wolsey secretly had purposed to become the pope of 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 451 
 
 Rome and had amassed this property to influence his friends and 
 smooth his path to that great office; and the king in reading these 
 two papers, learned that Wolsey was indeed far greater than he 
 pretended : that while he showed an outward humility in the presence 
 of his sovereign, his heart was full of high and ambitious desires, 
 far removed from the conscience of a priest. And Henry in his 
 anger forgot that while the Cardinal enriched himself, he had 
 laboured intently for his king and striven to perform the royal 
 wishes; that he had ever been affectionate, and, for the most part, 
 loyal, and that his craft and statesmanship had made all England 
 great. The king's high friendship for the Cardinal was turned at a 
 blow to wrath and deep resentment, and he determined to punish 
 Wolsey with the utmost severity. 
 
 Never had the thoughts of Cardinal Wolsey flown so high or had 
 he been so vexed at the difficulties that attended his designs as on 
 the day when this misfortune was to befall him. He was planning 
 how his king should wed the princess of France, and he said to him- 
 self that he would have no man or woman interfere with his great 
 purpose. What though Anne Bullen were beautiful and virtuous, 
 he exclaimed. There was more in such matters than a fair com- 
 plexion. And Wolsey also thought of a new rival that had sprung 
 up against him in the person of a lord named Cranmer, who was 
 high in the king's affections — a heretic, one that was a traitor to 
 the church of Rome — and the Cardinal began, according to his 
 custom, to contrive the downfall of this man who had, as he ex- 
 pressed it, crawled into the favour of his king. 
 
 Even while Cardinal Wolsey was engaged in these proud 
 thoughts, Henry, accompanied by many noblemen came into his 
 presence, and fixed him with a severe glance, frowning upon him 
 until the Cardinal wondered at the cause of his displeasure; and 
 Henry said ironically that he perceived the Cardinal was full of 
 heavenly thoughts and scarcely could steal time to think of the affairs 
 of earth, but he would ask of him, he said, if he had not become the 
 first man in the state through Henry's favour alone, and if he were 
 
452 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 not bound to Henry more than to any other for all his great- 
 ness. The Cardinal replied that Henry's benefits had been show- 
 ered upon him daily, for which he could render nothing but his 
 thanks, his prayers to Heaven and his firm loyalty to the king which 
 grew, as he said, more great each day, and ever would until death, 
 should put it to an end. Henry answered that he spoke most nobly, 
 calling his lords to witness that the Cardinal had a loyal breast, 
 for they had seen him open it. He then gave to the Cardinal the 
 papers that disclosed his secrets, and left him abruptly, bidding him 
 to read them. And the noblemen who rejoiced in Wolsey's down- 
 fall, crowded after the king with smiles and whispers, showing 
 openly their delight and giving free expression to the hostile feelings 
 that so long they had been forced to conceaL 
 
 When Wolsey read the papers he perceived that all his high am- 
 bitions and his own proud fortunes were at an end, for he knew 
 that he could never hope to win back the favour of the king. And 
 word soon came from Henry that confirmed the worst of the Car- 
 dinal's fears, for noblemen returned into his presence demanding 
 him to deliver to them at once the great seal of England, and to 
 confine himself in retirement until he should hear further from the 
 king, his master; and they triumphed over him with such malicious 
 spite, that Wolsey could not long defend himself, and when they 
 left him he seemed as a man in grievous illness, bidding farewell to 
 all his hopes of greatness. He exclaimed upon the wretched state 
 of men like himself who hung on princes' favours for their happi- 
 ness, and cried out to his own secretary, who showed both wonder 
 and grief to see his lord so changed, that had he but served his God 
 with half the zeal he served his king he would not have been left in 
 his old age naked and defenseless before his enemies. The Cardinal 
 then went to the place of his retirement, whence he was soon sum- 
 moned into Henry's presence; but the journey in his changed state 
 was more than he could endure, and in an abbey, where he had 
 taken refuge in his illness, he died in great repentance, and his 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 453 
 
 last hours were given up to grief for all the wrongs he had com- 
 mitted in his long and ambitious life. 
 
 A fate fully as unhappy as Cardinal Wolsey's now overtook the 
 last of the unfortunates whose ruin he had effected, for the poor, 
 divorced queen, Katharine, also pined away in sorrow at the change 
 that had befallen her. Katharine had a vision in her sleep that 
 gave her to know her end was near at hand, for in a dream she 
 beheld spirits robed in white and clad in garlands who crowned her 
 as one of themselves. Katharine believed this vision prophesied 
 her death which she felt was swiftly approaching her, and she sent 
 to Henry, her former lord, a message of farewell commending to 
 his care her daughter, Mary, and telling him that even though 
 unkindly treated, she still loved him. She bade her women to use 
 her with all respect and strew upon her when she died, white, maiden 
 flowers, that the world might know that she had been a chaste wife 
 to the hour of her death; and thus the life of this unhappy queen 
 came to an end. As for Henry, her death was little regarded by 
 him, for he was proud in the birth of a daughter by the lady who 
 displaced Queen Katharine in his affections; and this child was 
 named Elizabeth who was later to become a great and illustrious 
 ruler over the English people. 
 
 THE END 
 
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