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 1942 
 
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From the Library of 
 Dr. R. E. Hieronymus 
 1942 
 
 823 
 
 LI6-U 
 
 1 
 
X. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet 
 
 King Lear 
 
 Othello 
 
 Timon of Athens 
 
 .Macbeth 
 
 The Merchant of Venice 
 
 The Comedy of Errors 
 
 I Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 
 
 \ The Tempest 
 
 As You Like it. 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
 i Much Ado about Nothing 
 
 \ A Midsummer Night’s Dream 
 
 ' Measure for Measure 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew 
 
 ; Twelfth Night, or What You Will 
 
 Pericles, Prince of Tyre 
 
 The Winter’s Tale 
 
 All’s Well that Ends Well. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona 
 
 Cymbeline 
 
 Life of Shakspeare 
 
 Chronological Order of Shakspeare’s Dramas 
 
 
 9 
 
 35 
 
 57 
 
 77 
 
 96 
 
 *33 
 
 154 
 
 1 77 
 
 *95 
 
 5 
 
 24 
 
 42 
 
 64 
 
 80 
 
 100 
 
 I2 5 
 
 142 
 
 161 
 
 180 
 
 201 
 
 231 
 
TALES 
 
 FROM 
 
 SHAKSPEA 
 
 CHARLES and MARY LAMB 
 
 COMPLETE. 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 J 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO. 
 
 407-425 Dearborn St. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following Tales are meant to be sub- 
 mitted to the young reader as an introduction 
 to the study of Shakspeare, for which purpose 
 his words are used whenever it seemed possible 
 to bring them in : and in whatever has been 
 added to give them the regular form of a con- 
 nected story, diligent care has been taken to 
 select such words as might least interrupt the 
 effect of the beautiful English tongue in which 
 he wrote : therefore words introduced into our 
 language since his time have been as far as 
 possible avoided. 
 
 In those Tales which have been taken from 
 the Tragedies, as my young readers will per- 
 ceive when they come to see the source from 
 which these stories are derived, Shakspeare’s 
 own words, with little alteration, recur very 
 frequently in the narrative as well as in the 
 dialogue ; but in those made from the Come- 
 dies I found myself scarcely ever able to turn 
 his words into the narrative form : therefore I 
 fear in them I have made use of dialogue too 
 frequently for young people not used to the 
 dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it 
 be, as I fear, a fault, has been caused by my 
 
6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare’s 
 own words as possible : and if the “ He said” 
 and “ She said” the question and the reply, 
 should sometimes seem tedious to their young 
 ears, they must pardon it, because it was the 
 only way I knew of, in which I could give 
 them a few hints and little foretastes of the 
 great pleasure which awaits them in their elder 
 years, when they come to the rich treasures 
 from which these small and valueless coins 
 are extracted ; pretending to no other merit 
 than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shaks- 
 peare’s matchless image. Faint and imperfect 
 images they must be called, because the beauty 
 of his language is too frequently destroyed by 
 the necessity of changing many of his excellent 
 words into words far less expressive of his 
 true sense, to make it read something like 
 prose ; and even in some places, where his 
 blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from 
 its simple plainness to cheat the young readers 
 into the belief that they are reading prose, yet 
 still his language being transplanted from its 
 own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it 
 must want much of its native beauty. 
 
 I have wished to make these Tales easy 
 reading for very young children. To the 
 utmost of my ability I have constantly kept 
 this in my mind ; but the subjects of most of 
 them made this a very difficult task. It was 
 no easy matter to give the histories of men 
 and women in terms familiar to the apprehen- 
 sion of a very young mind. For young ladies 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 7 
 
 too it has been my intention chiefly to write, 
 because boys are generally permitted the use of 
 their fathers’ libraries at a much earlier age 
 than girls are ; they frequently have the best 
 scenes of Shakspeare by heart, before their 
 sisters are permitted to look into this manly 
 book ; and, therefore, instead of recommend- 
 ing these Tales to the perusal of young gentle- 
 men who can read them so much better in the 
 originals, I must rather beg their kind assist- 
 ance in explaining to their sisters such parts 
 as are hardest for them to understand ; and 
 when they have helped them to get over the 
 difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them 
 (carefully selecting what is proper for a young 
 sister’s ears) some passage which has pleased 
 them in one of these stories, in the very words 
 of the scene from which it is taken ; and I 
 trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, 
 the select passages, they may 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 you, my young readers, I hope will 
 have no worse effect upon you, than to make 
 you wish yourselves a little older, that you 
 may be allowed to read the plays at full length 
 (such a wish will be neither peevish nor irra- 
 tional). When time and leave of judicious 
 friends shall put them into your hands, you 
 will discover in such of them as are here 
 
abridged (not to mention almost as many more 
 which are left untouched) many surprising 
 events and turns of fortune, which for their 
 infinite variety could not be contained in this 
 little book, besides a world of sprightly and 
 cheerful characters, both men and women, the 
 humor of which I was fearful of losing if I 
 attempted to reduce the length of them. 
 
 What these Tales have been to you in child- 
 hood, that and much more it is my wish that 
 the true plays of Shakspeare may prove to you 
 in older years — enrichers of the fancy, strength- 
 ened of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish 
 and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet 
 and honorable thoughts and actions, to teach 
 you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity : 
 for of examples, teaching these virtues, his 
 pages are full. 
 
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 The two chief families in Verona were the 
 rich Capulets and the Montagues. There had 
 been an old quarrel between these families, 
 which was grown to such a height, and so 
 deadly was the enmity between them, that it 
 extended to the remotest kindred, to the fol- 
 lowers and retainers of both sides, insomuch 
 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 blood- 
 shed ensued ; and frequent were the brawls 
 from such accidental meetings, which disturbed 
 the happy quiet of Verona’s estate. 
 
 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, Rosa- 
 
 9 
 
IO 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 line, 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, per- 
 suaded 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. Ro- 
 meo had small faith in Benvolio’s words ; 
 nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was 
 persuaded to go. For Romeo was a sincere 
 and passionate lover, and one that lost his 
 sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, 
 thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and 
 never requited his love with the least show of 
 courtesy or affection ; and Benvolio wished to 
 cure his friend of this love by 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, 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 Ro- 
 meo was suddenly struck with the exceeding 
 beauty of a lady that 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 blackamoor : beauty too rich for 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET, 
 
 1 1 
 
 use, too dear for earth ! like a snowy dove 
 trooping with crows (he said), so richly did 
 her beauty and perfections shine above the 
 ladies her companions. While he uttered 
 these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a 
 nephew of lord Capulet, who knew him by his 
 voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being 
 of a fiery and passionate temper, could not en- 
 dure 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 himself, 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 
 favor of his masking habit, which might seem 
 to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in 
 the gentlest manner to take her by the hand, 
 calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by 
 touching it. he was a blushing pilgrim, and 
 would kiss it for atonement. “ Good pilgrim,” 
 answered the lady, “ your devotion shows by 
 far too mannerly and too courtly : saints have 
 hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not.” 
 
12 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 “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 allu- 
 sions 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 unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. 
 This troubled him, but it could not dissuade 
 him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, 
 when she found that the gentleman that she 
 had been talking with was Romeo and a Mon- 
 tague, for she had been suddenly smit with the 
 same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Ro- 
 meo 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 affec- 
 tions should settle there, where family consid- 
 erations should induce her chiefly to hate. 
 
 It being midnight, Romeo with his com- 
 panions 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 remained long, ruminating 
 on his new love, when Juliet appeared above 
 at a window, through which her exceeding 
 beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 13 
 
 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 
 luster of this new sun. And she leaning her 
 hand upon her cheek, he passionately wished 
 himself a glove upon that hand, that he 
 might touch her cheek. She all this while 
 thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, 
 and exclaimed, “ Ah me ! ” Romeo was 
 enraptured to hear her speak, and said softly, 
 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, hav- 
 ing this encouragement, would fain have 
 spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more ; 
 and the lady continued her passionate dis- 
 course with herself (as she thought), still chid- 
 ing Romeo for being Romeo and a Montague, 
 and wishing him some other name, or that he 
 would put away the 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 
 
14 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 to him personally, and not merely in fancy, he 
 bade her call him Love, or by whatever other 
 name she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, 
 if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, 
 alarmed to hear a man’s voice in the garden, did 
 not at first know who it was, that by favor of 
 the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon 
 the discovery of her secret ; but when he spoke 
 again, though her ears had not yet drunk a 
 hundred words of that tongue’s uttering, yet 
 so nice is a lover’s hearing, that she immedi- 
 ately knew him to be young Romeo, and she 
 expostulated with him on the danger t which 
 he -had exposed himself by dim 'ng 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 tbrt vast shore which is 
 washed with the farthest sea, I should advent- 
 ure for such merchandise.” A crimson blush 
 came over the face f T let, yet unseen by 
 Romeo upon the discovery which she had 
 reflected by reason of the night, when she 
 made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET, 15 
 
 to Romeo. She would fain have recalled her 
 words, but that was impossible; fain would 
 she have stood upon form, and have kept her 
 lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet 
 ladies is, to frown and be perverse, and give their 
 suitors harsh denials at first ; to stand off, and 
 affect a coyness or indifference, where they 
 most love, that their lovers may not think them 
 too lightly or too easily won : for the difficulty 
 of attainment increases the value of the object* 
 But there was no room in her case for denials* 
 or puttings off, or any of the customary arts 
 of delay and protractive courtship. Romeo 
 had heard from her own tongue, when she did 
 not dream that he was near her, a confession 
 of her love. So with an honest frankness, 
 which the novelty of her situation excused, 
 she confirmed the truth of what he had before 
 heard, and addressing him by the name of fair 
 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 
 accident of the night which had so. strangely 
 discovered her thoughts. And she added, 
 that though her behavior to him might net 
 be sufficiently prudent, measured by the cus- 
 tom of her sex, yet that she would prove more 
 true than many whose prudence was dissem- 
 bling, 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 dishonor 
 
16 TALES FROM SHA KS PE ARE. 
 
 to such an honored lady, when she stopped 
 him, begged 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 unad- 
 vised, too sudden. But he being urgent with 
 her to exchange a vow of love with her 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 honorable, and his 
 purpose marriage, she would send a mes- 
 senger to him to-morrow, to appoint a time 
 for their marriage, when she would lay all her 
 fortunes at his feet, and follow him as her lord 
 through the world. While they were settling 
 this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by 
 her nurse, and went in and returned, and went 
 and returned again, for she seemed as jealous 
 of Romeo going from 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 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 17 
 
 at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet 
 sleep and rest for that night. 
 
 The day was breaking when they parted, 
 and Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of 
 his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow 
 him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his 
 course to a monastery hard by, to find friar 
 Lawrence. The good friar was already up at 
 his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad 
 so early, he conjectured rightly that he had 
 not been abed that night, but that some dis- 
 temper of youthful affection had kept him 
 waking. He was right in imputing the cause 
 of Romeo’s wakefulness to love, but he made 
 a wrong guess at the object, for he thought 
 that his love for Rosaline had kept him waking. 
 But when Romeo revealed his new passion for 
 Juliet, and requested the assistance of the 
 friar to marry them that day, the holy man 
 lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of 
 wonder at the sudden change in Romeo’s 
 affections, for he had been privy to all Romeo’s 
 love for Rosaline, and his many complaints of 
 her disdain ; and he said that young men’s love 
 lay not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 
 But Romeo replying that he himself had often 
 chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who could 
 not love him again, whereas Juliet both loved 
 and was beloved by him, the friar assented in 
 some measure to his reasons ; and think that 
 a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet 
 and Romeo might happily be the means of 
 making up the long breach between the 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 her fondness for young Romeo 
 to whom he could deny nothing, the old man 
 
 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 
 Montague and young Capulet to bury the old 
 strife and long dissension of their families. 
 
 The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened 
 home, where she stayed impatient for the com- 
 ing 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 im- 
 patient 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 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 T 9 
 
 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 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 calm dishonorable submission, 
 with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt 
 to the prosecution of his first quarrel with him ; 
 and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercu- 
 tio fell, receiving his death’s wound while 
 Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeavoring 
 to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, 
 Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned 
 
20 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt 
 had given him ; and they fought till Tybalt 
 was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil fall- 
 ing out in the midst of Verona at noonday, the 
 news of it quickly brought out 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 himself, who, 
 being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had 
 slain, and having had the peace of his govern- 
 ment often disturbed by these brawls of Mon- 
 tagues 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 commanded 
 by the prince to relate the origin of it, which 
 he did, keeping as near to 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 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 21 
 
 by his having slain Mercutio. The prince, 
 unmoved by the passionate exclamations of 
 these women, on a careful examination of the 
 facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that 
 sentence Romeo was banished from Verona. 
 
 Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been 
 but a few hours a bride, and now by this de- 
 cree seemed everlastingly divorced 1 When 
 the tidings reached her, she at first gave way 
 to rage against Romeo, who had slain her dear 
 cousin ; she called him a beautiful tyrant, a 
 fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with 
 a wolf’s nature, a serpent-heart hid with a 
 flowering face, and other like contradictory 
 names, which denoted the struggles in her 
 mind between her love and her resentment : 
 but in the end love got the mastery, and the 
 tears which she shed for grief that Romeo 
 had slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy 
 that her husband lived whom Tybalt would 
 have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they 
 were altogether of grief for Romeo’s banish- 
 ment. 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 conso- 
 
22 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 lation 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 ex- 
 postulate with him on the unmanly weakness 
 which he had shown. He had slain Tybalt, but 
 would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady 
 who lived but in his life ? The noble form of 
 man, he said, was but a shape of wax, when it 
 wanted the courage which should keep it firm. 
 The law had been lenient to him, that instead 
 of death, which he had incurred, had pro- 
 nounced by the prince’s mouth only banish- 
 ment. He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would 
 have slain him : there was a sort of happiness 
 in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) 
 had become his dear wife, therein he was 
 most happy. All these blessings, as the friar 
 made them out to be, did Romeo put from him 
 like a sullen, misbehaved wench. And the 
 friar bade him beware, for such as despaired 
 (he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo 
 was a little calmed, he counseled 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 a fit occasion to publish his 
 marriage, which might be a joyful means of 
 reconciling their families ; and then he did 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. \ 
 
 2 3 
 
 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, purposing 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, acquaint- 
 ing him with the state of affairs at home. 
 
 That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, 
 gaining secret admission to her chamber from 
 the orchard in which he had heard her con- 
 fession of love the night before. That had 
 been a night of unmixed joy and' rapture ; but 
 the pleasures of this night, and the delight 
 which these lovers took in each other’s society, 
 were sadly allayed with the prospect of parting, 
 and the fatal adventures of the past day. The 
 unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, 
 and when Juliet heard the morning song of the 
 lark, she would fain have persuaded herself 
 that it was the nightingale, which sings by 
 night : but it was too truly the lark which 
 sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it 
 seemed to her ; and the streaks of day in the 
 east too certainly pointed out that it was time 
 for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave 
 of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising 
 to write to her from Mantua every hour in the 
 day, and when he had descended from her 
 chamber-window, as he stood below her on the 
 ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind, 
 
24 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 in which she was, he appeared to her eyes as 
 one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo’s 
 mind misgave him in like manner ; but now 
 he was forced hastily to depart, for it was 
 death for him to be found within the walls of 
 Verona after 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 un- 
 worthy 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 follow- 
 ing Thursday she should be married to Paris : 
 and having found her a husband rich, young, 
 and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona 
 might joyfully accept, he could not bear that 
 out of an affected coyness, as he construed her 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 25 
 
 denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own 
 good fortune. 
 
 In this extremity, Juliet applied to the 
 friendly friar, always her counsellor in dis- 
 tress, and he asking her if she had resolution 
 to undertake a desperate remedy, and she 
 answering that she would go into the grave 
 alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear 
 husband living ; he directed her to go home, 
 and appear merry, and give her consent to 
 marry Paris, according to her father’s desire 
 and on the next night, which was the night 
 before the marriage, to drink 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 ; that when the bridegroom came to 
 fetch her in the morning, he would find her to 
 appearance dead ; that then she would be 
 borne, as the manner in that country was, un- 
 covered, on a bier, to be buried in the family 
 vault ; that if she could put off womanish fear, 
 and consent to this terrible trial, in forty-two 
 hours after swallowing the liquid (such was its 
 certain operation) she would be sure to awake, 
 as from a dream • and before she should awake, 
 he would let her husband know their drift, 
 and he should come in thenigl t 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 ob- 
 serve his directions. # 
 
26 
 
 TALES FROM SHARSPEARE. 
 
 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 obed ent. All things 
 in the house were in a bustle against the ap- 
 proaching 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, 
 haWgiven 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 bestowed. But then her 
 love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris 
 returned, and she desperately swallowed the 
 draught, and became insensible. 
 
 When young Paris came early in the morn- 
 ing with music, to awaken his bride, instead 
 of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the 
 dreary spectacle of a lifeless corpse. What 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 27 
 
 death to his hopes! What confusion then 
 reigned through the whole house ! Poor Paris 
 lamenting his bride, whom most detestable 
 death had beguiled him of, had divorced from 
 him even before their hands were joined. But 
 still more piteous it was to hear the mournings 
 of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having 
 but this one, one poor lov ; ng 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 proper- 
 ties to do the office of a black funeral. The 
 wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, 
 the bridal hymns were changed to sullen 
 dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy 
 bells, and the flowers that should have been 
 strewed in the bride’s path, now served but to 
 strew her corse. Now instead of a priest to 
 marry her, a priest was needed to bury her ; 
 and she was borne to church indeed not to 
 augmen the cheerful hopes of the living, but 
 to swel- the dreary numbers of the dead. 
 
 Bad news, wh ch always travels faster than 
 good, now brought the dismal story of his 
 Junet’s death to Romeo at Mantua, before the 
 messenger could arrive who was sent from 
 friar Lawrence to app ise 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, expect- 
 
28 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ing when Romeo should come to release her 
 from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo 
 had been unusually joyful and lighthearted. 
 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 em- 
 peror ! And now that a messenger came from 
 Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm 
 some good news which his dreams had pre- 
 saged. But when the contrary to this flatter- 
 ing vision appeared, and that it was his lady 
 who was dead in truth, whom he could not re- 
 vive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be 
 got ready, for he determined that night to visit 
 Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And 
 as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts 
 of desperate men, he called to mind a poor 
 apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had 
 lately passed, and from the beggarly appear- 
 ance of the man, who seemed famished, and 
 the wretched show in his shop of empty boxes 
 ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of 
 extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time 
 (perhaps having some misgiv’ngs that his own 
 disastrous life might haply meet with a conclu- 
 sion so desperate), <c 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 apothe- 
 cary, who, after some pretended scruples, 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 29 
 
 Romeo offering him gold which his poverty 
 could not resist, sold him a poison, which, if he 
 swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength 
 of twenty men, would quickly 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 y 
 bade him desist from his unlawful business. 
 It was the young count Paris, who had come 
 to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time 
 of night, to strew flowers, and to weep over the 
 grave of her that should have been his bride. 
 He knew not what an interest Romeo had in 
 the dead, but knowing him to be a 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 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. 
 
3 ° 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 But the count in scorn refused his warning, 
 and laid hands on him as a felon, which 
 Romeo resisting, they fought, and Paris fell. 
 When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to 
 see who it was that he had slain, that it was 
 Paris, who (he learned in his way from Mantua) 
 should have married Juliet, he took the dead 
 youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune 
 had made a companion, and said that he would 
 bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in 
 Juliet’s grave, which he now opened : and there 
 lay his lady, as one whom death had no power 
 upon to change a feature or complexion in 
 her matchless beauty, or as if Death were 
 amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept 
 her there for his delight ; for she lay yet fresh 
 and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when 
 she swallowed that benumbing potion : and 
 near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom 
 Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless 
 corse, and for Juliet’s sake called him cousin, 
 and said that he was about to do him a favor 
 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 swal- 
 lowed, the effect of which was now nearly ex- 
 piring, and she about to awake to complain 
 that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he 
 had come too soon. 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 31 
 
 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 confine- 
 ment ; but he was surprised to find a light 
 already burning in the Capulets’ monument, 
 and to see swords and blood near it, and 
 Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the 
 monument. 
 
 Before he could entertain a conjecture, to 
 imagine how these fatal accidents had fallen 
 out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing 
 the friar near her, she remembered the place 
 where she was, and the occasion of her being 
 there, and asked for Romeo : but the friar, 
 hearing a noise, bade her come out of that 
 place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a 
 greater power than they could contradict had 
 thwarted their intents ; and being frighted by 
 the noise of people coming, he fled ; but when 
 Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love’s 
 hands, she guessed that poison had been the 
 cause of his end, and she would have swallowed 
 the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his 
 still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang 
 upon them : then hearing a nearer naj^e of 
 people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dag- 
 ger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died 
 by her true Romeo’s side. 
 
 The watch by this time had come up to the 
 
3 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 place. A page belonging to count Paris, who 
 had witnessed the fight between his master and 
 Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread 
 among the citizens, who went up and down 
 the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, 
 a Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumor had 
 imperfectly 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, com- 
 ing 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 Capulet, he faithfully related 
 the story of their children’s fatal love, the part 
 he took in promoting their marriage, in the 
 hope in that union to end the long quarrels 
 between their families : how Romeo, there dead, 
 was husband to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, 
 was Romeo’s faithful wife : how before he 
 could find a fit opportunity to divulge their mar- 
 riage, another match was projected for Juliet, 
 who to avoid the crime of a second marriage 
 swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised), 
 and all thought her dead : how meantime he 
 wrote to Romeo, to come and take her thence 
 when the force of the potion should cease, and 
 by what unfortunate miscarriage of the messen- 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET, 
 
 33 
 
 ger the letters never reached Romeo : further 
 than this the friar could not follow the story, 
 nor knew more than that, coming himself to de- 
 liver Juliet from that place of death, he found 
 the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remain- 
 der of the transactions was supplied by the nar- 
 ration 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 J uliet, 
 imploring the forgiveness of his parents, ac- 
 knowledging the buying of the poison of the 
 poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to 
 the monument, to die, and lie with Juliet. All 
 these circumstances agreed together to clear 
 the friar from any hand he could be supposed 
 to have had in these complicated slaughters, 
 further than as the unintended consequences 
 of his own well-meant, yet too artificial and 
 subtle contrivances. 
 
 And the prince, turning to these old lords, 
 Montague and Capulet, 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 
 3 
 
34 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 reconcilement) was all he demand- 
 ed for his daughter’s jointure : but lord Mon- 
 tague said he would give him more, for he 
 would raise her statue of pure gold, that while 
 Verona kept its name, no figure should be so 
 esteemed for its richness and workmanship as 
 that of the true and faithful Juliet. And lord 
 Capulet in return said, that he would raise 
 another statue to Romeo. So did these poor 
 old lords, when it was too late, strive to outdo 
 each other in mutual courtesies : while so 
 deadly had been their rage and enmity in past 
 times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow 
 of their children (poor sacrifices to their 
 quarrels and dissensions) could remove the 
 rooted hates and jealousies of the noble 
 families. 
 
KING LEAR. 
 
 Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters ; 
 Goneril, wife to the duke of Albany ; Regan, 
 wife to the duke of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a 
 young maid, for whose love the king of France 
 and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and 
 were at his time making stay for that purpose 
 in the court of Lear. 
 
 The old king, worn out with age and the 
 fatigues of government, he being more than 
 fourscore years old, determined to take no 
 further part in state affairs, but to leave the 
 management to younger strengths, that he 
 might have time to prepare for death, which 
 must at no long period ensue. With this 
 intent he called his three daughters to him, to 
 know from their own lips which of them loved 
 him best, that he might part his kingdom 
 among them in such proportions as their affec- 
 tion 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 professing stuff, which is easy to 
 counterfeit where there is no real love, only a 
 few fine words delivered with confidence being 
 
 35 
 
36 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 wanted in that case. The king, delighted to 
 hear from her own mouth this assurance of her 
 love, and thinking that truly her heart went 
 with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed 
 upon her and her husband one-third of his 
 ample kingdom. 
 
 Then calling to him his second daughter, he 
 demanded what she had to say. Regan, who 
 was made of the same hollow metal as her 
 sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, 
 but rather declared that what her sister had 
 spoken came short of the love which she pro- 
 fessed to bear for his highness : insomuch that 
 she found all other joys dead, in comparison 
 with the pleasure which she took in the love 
 of her dear king and father. 
 
 Lear 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 Cor- 
 delia, 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 favored by him above either 
 of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the 
 flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 37 
 
 were far from their lips, and seeing that all 
 their coaxing speeches were only intended to 
 wheedle the old king out of his dominions, 
 that they and their husbands might reign in 
 his 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 favorite 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 honor 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, hus- 
 bands, 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 little ungracious : 
 but after the crafty flattering speeches of her 
 sisters, which she had seen draw such extrav- 
 
38 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 agant 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 Cornwall : whom he now called to him, 
 and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing 
 a coronet between them, invested them jointly 
 with all the power, revenue, and execution of 
 government, only retaining to himself the name 
 of king ; all the rest of royalty he resigned: 
 with this reservation, that himself, with a 
 hundred knights for his attendants, was to be 
 maintained by monthly course in each of his 
 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- 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 39 
 
 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 honored as a 
 king, loved as a father, followed as a master : 
 and had never esteemed his life further than 
 as a pawn to wage against his royal master’s 
 enemies, nor feared to lose it -when Lear’s 
 safety was the motive : nor now that Lear was 
 most his own enemy, did this faithful servant 
 of the king forget his old principles, but man- 
 fully opposed Lear, to do Lear good ; and was 
 unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He 
 had been a most faithful counselor, in times 
 past, to the king, and he besought him now, 
 that he would see with his eyes (as he had 
 done in many weighty matters), and go by his 
 advice still ; and in his best consideration re- 
 call 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, honor was bound to plain- 
 ness. 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 
 
40 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 more, and like a frantic patient who kills his 
 physician, and loves his mortal disease, he 
 banished this true servant, and allotted him 
 but five days to make his preparations for 
 departure, but if on the sixth his hated person 
 was found within the realm of Britain, that 
 moment was to be his death. And Kent bade 
 farewell to the king, and said, that since he 
 chose to show himself in such fashion, it was 
 but banishment to stay there ; and before he 
 went, he recommended Cordelia to the protec- 
 tion of the gods, the maid who had so rightly 
 thought, and so discreetly spoken ; and only 
 wished that her sisters’ large speeches might 
 be answered with deeds of love : and then he 
 went, as he said, to shape his old course to a 
 new country. 
 
 The king of France and duke of Burgundy 
 were now called in to hear the determination of 
 Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know 
 whether they would persist in their courtship 
 to Cordelia, now that she was under her 
 father’s displeasure, and had no fortune but 
 her own person to recommend her ; and the 
 duke of Burgundy declined the match, and 
 would not take her to wife upon such con- 
 ditions : but the king of France, understanding 
 what the nature of the fault had been which 
 had lost her the love of her father, that it was 
 only a tardiness of speech, and the not being 
 able to frame her tongue to flattery like her 
 sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and 
 saying that her virtues were a dowry above a 
 
KING LEAR. 
 
 4i 
 
 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 possessions than her sisters : and 
 he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt 
 a waterish duke, because his love for this 
 young maid had in a moment run all away like 
 water. 
 
 Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave 
 of her sisters, and besought them to love their 
 father well, and make good their professions ; 
 and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to 
 them, for they knew their duty ; but to strive 
 to content her husband, who had taken her (as 
 they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's 
 alms. And Cordelia with a heavy heart de- 
 parted, for she knew the cunning of her sisters,, 
 and she wished her father in better hands than 
 she was about to leave him in. 
 
 Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devil- 
 ish dispositions of her sisters began to show 
 themselves in their true colors. 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 per- 
 formances. This wretch having got from her 
 father all that he had to bestow, even to the 
 giving away of the crown from off his head y 
 began to grudge even those small remnants of 
 royalty which the old man had reserved to 
 himself, to please his fancy with the idea of 
 
42 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 coun- 
 tenance ; and when the old man wanted to 
 speak with her, she would feign sickness, or 
 anything, to be rid of the sight of him ; for it 
 was plain that she esteemed his old age a 
 useless burden, and his attendants as un- 
 necessary 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 
 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 altera- 
 tion in the behavior 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 ///, 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 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 43 
 
 nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but do 
 service where it owes an obligation ! In the 
 disguise of a serving-man, all his greatness 
 and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered 
 his services to the king, who, not knowing 
 him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased 
 with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness in 
 his answers, which the earl put on (so different 
 from that smooth oily flattery which he had so 
 much reason to be sick of, having found the 
 effects not answerable in his daughter), a 
 bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took 
 Kent into his service by the name of Caius, as 
 he called himself, never suspecting him to be 
 his once great favorite, 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 majesty, made no more ado but pres- 
 ently tripped up his heels, and laid the un- 
 mannerly slave in the kennel ; for which 
 friendly service Lear became more and more 
 attached to him. 
 
 Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. 
 In his degree, and as far as so insignificant a 
 personage could 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 
 
44 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 humor, though 
 he could not refrain sometimes from jeering 
 at his master, for his imprudence in uncrown- 
 ing himself, and giving all away to his daugh- 
 ters : 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 compar- 
 ing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds 
 the young of the cuckoo till they grow old 
 enough, and then has its head bit off for its 
 pains : and saying, that an ass may know when 
 the cart draws the horse (meaning that Lear’s 
 daughters, that ought to go behind, now ranked 
 before their father) ; and that Lear was no 
 longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear : for 
 which free speeches he was once or twice 
 threatened to be whipped. 
 
 The coolness and falling off of respect which 
 Lear had begun to perceive were not all 
 which this foolish fond fatlvr was to suffer 
 from his unworthy daughter she now plainly 
 
KING LEAR. 
 
 45 
 
 told him that his staying in her palace was in- 
 convenient so long as he insisted upon keeping 
 up an establishment of a hundred knights ; 
 that this establishment was useless and ex* 
 pensive, and only served to fill her court with 
 riot and feastings ; and she prayed him that 
 he would lessen their number, and keep none 
 but old men about him, such as himself, and 
 fitting his age. 
 
 Lear at first could not believe his eyes or 
 ears, nor that it was his daughter who spoke 
 so unkindly. He could not believe that she 
 who had received a crown from him could 
 seek to cut off his train, and grudge him the 
 respect due to his old age. But she persisting 
 in her undutiful demand, the old man’s rage 
 was so excited, that he called her a detested 
 kite, and said that she had spoke an untruth : 
 and so indeed she did, for the hundred knights 
 were all men of choice behavior and sobriety 
 of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, 
 and not given to rioting c*.nd fea ting 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 chi’d 
 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 
 
46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 sharper than a serpent’s tooth it was to have 
 a thankless child. And Goneril’s husband, 
 the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse him- 
 self 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 creat- 
 ure 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 pre- 
 pared for his reception, 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 way- 
 wardness and ill humors, and advising her not 
 to receive so great a train as he was bringing 
 with him. This messenger arrived at the same 
 time with Caiu^, and Caius and he met : and 
 who should it be but Caius’s old enr my the 
 steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by 
 the heels for his saucy behavior to Lear. 
 Caius not liking he fellow’s look, and suspect- 
 ing what he came for, began to revile him, and 
 challenged him to fight, which the fellow re- 
 fusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat 
 
KING LEAK 
 
 47 
 
 him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and 
 carrier of wicked messages deserved : which 
 coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, 
 they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, 
 though he was a messenger from the king her 
 father, and in that character demanded the 
 highest respeet : so that the fir A thing the 
 king saw when he entered the castle was his 
 faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgrace- 
 ful situation. 
 
 This was but a bad omen of the reception 
 which he was to expect ; but a worse followed, 
 when, upon inquiry for his daughter and her 
 husband, he was told they were weary with 
 traveling 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 
 + o tell her own story, and set her sister against 
 vhe 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 preposterous that would sound, 
 if he were to down on his knees, and beg of 
 
48 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 his own daughter for food and raiment, and 
 he argued against such an unnatural depend- 
 ence, 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 that rather than return 
 to Goneril with half his train cut off, he would 
 go over to France, and get a wretched pension 
 of the king there, who had married his young- 
 est 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 out- 
 do her sister in unfilial behavior, she declared 
 that she thought fifty knights too many to wait 
 upon him : that five-and-twenty were enough. 
 Then Lear, nigh heartbroken, 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 daughters, as if they strove 
 to exceed each other in cruelty to their old 
 father who had been so good to them, by little 
 and little would have abated him of all his 
 train, all respect (little enough for him that 
 once commanded a kingdom) which was left 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 49 
 
 him to show that he had once been a king ! 
 Not that a splendid train is essential to happi- 
 ness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard 
 change, from commanding millions to be with- 
 out 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 old king to the heart : insomuch, that 
 with this double ill usage, and vexation for 
 having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his 
 wits began to be unsettled, and while he said 
 he knew not what, he vowed revenge against 
 those unnatural hags, and to make examples 
 of them that should be a terror to the earth ! 
 
 While he was thus idly threatening what 
 his weak arm could never execute, night came 
 on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning 
 with rain ; and his daughters still persisting in 
 their resolution not to admit his followers, he 
 called for his horses, and chose rather to 
 encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, 
 than stay under the same roof with these un- 
 grateful daughters : and they, saying that the 
 injuries which willful men procur to themselves 
 are their just punishment, suffered him to go 
 in that condition, and shut their doors upon 
 him. 
 
 The winds were high, and the rain and storm 
 increased, when the old man sallied forth to 
 combat with the elements, less sharp than his 
 daughters’ unkindness. For many miles about 
 there was scarce a bush ; and there upon a 
 heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a 
 4 
 
5 ° 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 dark night, did King Lear wander out, and 
 defy the winds and the thunder : and he bid 
 the winds to blow the earth int^ the sea, or 
 swell the waves of the sea, till they Irowned 
 the earth, that no token mig! t r main of any 
 such ungrateful animal as man. The Id 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 be that has a little tiny wit, 
 
 With heigh ho, the wind and the rain ! 
 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
 
 Though the rain it raineth every day : 
 
 and swearing it was a brave night to cool a 
 lady’s pride. 
 
 Thus poorly accompanied, this once great 
 monarch was found by his ever-faithful servant 
 the good earl of Kent, now transformed to 
 Caius, who ever followed close at his side, 
 though the king did not know him to be the 
 earl ; and he said, “ Alas ! sir, are you here ? 
 creatures that love night, love not such nights 
 as these. This dreadful storm has driven the 
 beasts to their hiding-places. Man’s nature 
 cannot endure the affliction or the fear.” Ani 
 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 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 5 * 
 
 that which beat at his heart. And he spoke 
 of filial ingrati' ude, and said it was all one as 
 if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting 
 food to it • for parents were hands and food 
 and everything to children. 
 
 But the good Caius still persisting in his 
 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 fright- 
 ed 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, say- 
 ing, “ Who gives anything to poor Tom ? ” stick- 
 ing 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 noth- 
 ing 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 
 
5 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 per- 
 ceived 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 essen- 
 tial 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 embarking for 
 France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and 
 did there in such moving terms represent the 
 pitiful condition of her royal father, and set 
 out in such lively colors the inhumanity of 
 her sisters, that this good and loving child with 
 many tears besought the king her husband, 
 that he would give her leave to embark for 
 England with a sufficient power to subdue these 
 daughters and their husbands, and restore the 
 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, wander- 
 ing about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable 
 condition, stark mad and singing aloud to him- 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 S3 
 
 self, with a crown upon his head which he 
 had made of straw, and nettles, and other wild 
 weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. 
 By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, 
 though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, 
 was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till, 
 by sleep and the operation of herbs which they 
 gave him, he should be restored to greater 
 composure. By the aid of these skilful phy- 
 sicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her 
 gold and jewels for the recovery of the old 
 king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his 
 daughter. 
 
 A tender sight it was to see the meeting 
 between this father and daughter : to see the 
 struggles between the joy of this poor old king 
 at beholding again his once darling child, and 
 the shame at receiving such filial kindness 
 from her whom he had cast off for so small a 
 fault in his displeasure ; both these passions 
 struggling with the remains of his malady, 
 which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made 
 him that he scarce remembered where he was, 
 or who it was that so kindly kissed him- and 
 spoke to him : and then he would beg the 
 standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were 
 mistaken in thinking this lady to be his 
 daughter Cordelia ! And then to see him fall 
 on his knees to beg pardon of his child ; and 
 she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a 
 blessing of him, and telling him that it did not 
 become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for 
 she was his child, his true and very child, 
 
54 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said) 
 to kiss away all her sisters’ unkindness, and 
 said that they might be ashamed of themselves, 
 to turn their old kind father with his white 
 beard out into the cold air, when her enemy’s 
 dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily 
 expressed it), should have 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 assist- 
 ance ; and he said, that she must forget and 
 forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not 
 know what he did ; but that to be sure she 
 had great cause not to love him, but her sisters 
 had none. And Cordelia said, that she had 
 no cause, no more than they had. 
 
 So we will leave this old king in the protec- 
 tion of this dutiful and loving child, where, by 
 the help of sleep and medicine, she and her 
 physicians at length succeeded in winding up 
 the untuned and jarring senses which the 
 cruelty of his other daughters had so violently 
 shaken. Let us return to say a word or two 
 about those cruel daughters. 
 
 These monsters of ingratitude, who had 
 been so false to their own father, could not be 
 expected to prove more faithful to their own 
 husbands. They soon grew tired of paying 
 even the appearance of duty and affection, and 
 in an open way 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 
 
KING LEAR . 
 
 55 
 
 Gloucester, who by his treacheries had suc- 
 ceeded 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 
 Cornwall, Regan’s husband, died, Regan im- 
 mediately declared her intention of wedding 
 this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the 
 jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to 
 Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times 
 professed love, 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 disap- 
 pointed love and rage, shortly put an end to 
 her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at 
 last overtook these wicked daughters. 
 
 While the eyes of all men were upon this 
 event, admiring the justice displayed in their 
 deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly 
 taken off from this sight to admire at the 
 mysterious ways of the same power in the 
 melancholy fate of the young and virtuous 
 daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds 
 did seem to deserve a more fortunate conclu- 
 sion ; 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 
 
56 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cor- 
 delia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who 
 did not like that any should stand between 
 him and the throne, ended her life in prison. 
 Thus Heaven took this innocent lady to itself 
 in her young years, after 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 under- 
 stand that it was he who had followed him 
 under the name of Caius ; but Lear’s care- 
 crazed brain at that time could not compre- 
 hend how that could be, or how Kent and 
 Caius could be the same person : so Kent 
 thought it needless to trouble him with ex- 
 planations at such a time ; and Lear soon 
 after expiring, this faithful servant to the king, 
 between age an grief for his old master’s 
 vexations, soon followed him to the grave. 
 
 How the judgment of heaven overtook the 
 bad earl of Gloucester, whose treasons were 
 discovered, and himself slain in single combat 
 with his brother the lawfiul earl ; and how 
 Goneril’s husband, the duke of Albany, who 
 was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had 
 never encouraged his lady in her wicked pro- 
 ceedings 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. 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had 
 a fair daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She 
 was sought to by divers suitors, both on ac- 
 count 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 'hosen 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 con- 
 demned for the unsuitableness of the person 
 whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
 ‘Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted 
 nothing which might recommend him to the 
 affections of the greatest lady. He was a 
 soldier, and a brave one ; and by his conduct 
 in bloody wars against the Turks had risen to 
 the rank of general in the Venetian service, 
 and was esteemed and trusted by the state. 
 
 He had been a traveler, 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 
 
 57 
 
$8 TALES FROM SH A KS PE A RE, 
 
 battles, sieges, and encounters which he had 
 passed through ; the perils he had been ex- 
 posed to by land and by water ; his hairbreadth 
 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 inso- 
 lent enemy, and sold to slavery : how he de- 
 meaned himself in that state, and how he 
 escaped : all these accounts, added to the 
 narration of the strange things he had seen in 
 foreign countries, the vast wildernesses and 
 romantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks and 
 mountains, whose heads are in the clouds ; of 
 the savage nations ; the cannibals who are 
 man-eaters, and a race of people in Africa 
 whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders : 
 these travelers’ stories would so enchain the 
 attention of Desdemona, 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 advantage of a 
 pliant hour and drew from her a prayer, that 
 he would tell her the whole story of his life at 
 large, of which she had heard so much, but only 
 by parts : to which he consented, and beguiled 
 her of many a tea:*, when he spoke of some 
 distressful stroke which his youth suffered. 
 
 His story being done, she gave him for his 
 pains a world of sighs ; she swore a pretty 
 oath, that it was all passing strange, and piti- 
 ful, wondrous pitiful : she wished (she said) 
 she had not heard it, yet she wished that 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 59 
 
 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 frank- 
 ness than modesty, accompanied with a certain 
 bewitching prettiness and blushes which 
 Othello could not but understand, he spoke 
 more openly of his love, and in this golden 
 opportunity gained the consent of the generous 
 lady Desdemona privately to marry him. 
 
 Neither Othello’s color nor his fortune was 
 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 de- 
 ceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, though 
 he was black, and devoted her heart and fort- 
 unes to his valiant parts and qualities : so 
 was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion 
 to the man she had selected for a husband, 
 that his very color, which to all but this dis- 
 cerning lady would have proved an insur- 
 mountable objection, was by her esteemed 
 above all the white skins and clear com- 
 plexions of the young Venetian nobility, her 
 suitors. 
 
 Their marriage, which, though privately car- 
 ried, could not long be kept a secret, came to 
 the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who ap- 
 peared in a solemn council of the senate as an 
 
6o 
 
 TALES FROM SHARSPEARE. 
 
 accuser of the Moor Othello, who by spells 
 and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced 
 the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry 
 him, without the consent of her father, and 
 against the obligations of hospitality. 
 
 At this juncture of time it happened that 
 the state of Venice had immediate need of the 
 services of Othello, news having arrived that 
 the Turks with mighty preparation, had fitted 
 out a fleet, which was bending its course to the 
 island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that 
 strong post from the Venetians, who then held 
 it : in this emergency the state turned its eyes 
 upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate 
 to conduct the defense of Cyprus against the 
 Turks. So that Othello, now summoned be- 
 fore the senate, stood in their presence at once 
 as a candidate for a great state employment, 
 and as a culprit charged with offenses which 
 by the laws of Venice were made capital. 
 
 The age and senatorial character of old 
 Brabantio commanded a most patient hearing 
 from that grave assembly ; but the incensed 
 father conducted his accusation with so much 
 intemperance, producing likelihoods and alle- 
 gations for proofs, that, when Othello was 
 called upon for his defense, he had only to 
 relate a plain tale of the course of his love • 
 which he did with such an artless eloquence, 
 recounting the whole story of his wooing, as 
 we have related it above, and delivered his 
 speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence 
 of truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, 
 
OTHELLO . 
 
 6l 
 
 could not help confessing, that a tale so told 
 would have won his daughter too : and the 
 spells and conjurations which Othello had 
 used in his courtship plainly appeared to have 
 been no more than the honest arts of men in 
 love ; and the only witc craft 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. 
 
 The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, 
 called the Moor to him with many expressions 
 of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, be- 
 stowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had 
 been free to withhold her (he told him) he 
 would with all his heart have kept from him 
 adding, that he was glad at soul that he had 
 no other child, for this behavior of Desdemona 
 would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang 
 clogs on them for her desertion. 
 
 This difficulty being got over, Othello, to 
 whom custom had rendered the hardships of 
 a military life as natural as food and rest are 
 to other men, readily undertook the manage- 
 ment of the wars in Cyprus : and Desdemona, 
 preferring the honor of her lord (though 
 with danger) before the indulgence of those. 
 
62 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 idle delights in which new-married people 
 usually waste their time, cheerfully consented 
 to his going. 
 
 No sooner were Othello and his lady landed 
 in Cyprus, than news arrived that a desperate 
 tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and 
 thus the ’sland was secure from any immediate 
 apprehension of an attack. But the war which 
 Othello was to suffer was now beginning ; and 
 the enemies which malice stirred up against 
 this innocent lady proved in their nature more 
 deadly than strangers or infidels. 
 
 Among all the general’s friends no one pos- 
 sessed the confidence of Othello more entirely 
 than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young 
 soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of 
 pleasing address, favorite qualities with 
 women ; he was handsome, and eloquent, and 
 exactly such a person as might alarm the jeal- 
 ousy 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 in- 
 capable of suspecting as of doing, a base 
 action. He had employed this Cassio in his 
 love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had 
 been a sort of go-between in his suit : for 
 Othello, fearing that himself had not those soft 
 parts of conversation which please ladies, and 
 finding these qualities in his friend, would 
 often depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a 
 courting for him : such innocent simplicity 
 being an honor rather than a blemish to the 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 6 3 
 
 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 Desdemona loved and trusted £assio. 
 Nor had the marriage of this couple made any 
 difference in their behavior to Michael Cassio. 
 He frequented their house, and his free and 
 rattling talk was no unpleasing 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 Des- 
 demona and Cassio would talk and laugh 
 together, as in the days when he went a court- 
 ing 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 favor- 
 ing 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 plot- 
 ting mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme 
 of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, 
 the Moor, and Desdemona in one common 
 ruin. 
 
64 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARR . 
 
 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 intolerable, 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 disper- 
 sion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday, 
 in the island. Everybody gave themselves up 
 to feasting and making merry. Wine flowed 
 in abundance, and cups went round to the 
 health of the black Othello, and his lady the 
 fair Desdemona. 
 
 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 dis- 
 gust them with the new-landed forces. That 
 night Iago began his deep-laid plans of mis- 
 chief ; under color of loyalty and love to the 
 general, he enticed 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 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 65 
 
 lady Desdemona, whom he again and again 
 toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite 
 lady : until at last the en my which he put into 
 his mouth stole away brains ; and upon some 
 provocation given him by a fellow whom I ago 
 had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, 
 a worthy officer who interfered to appease the 
 dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
 now began to be general, and Iago, who had 
 set on foot the mischief, 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 offense 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 com- 
 pletely ; he had now undermined his hated 
 rival, and thrust him out of his place; but a 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 further use was hereafter to be made of the 
 adventure of this disastrous night. 
 
 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, af- 
 fecting 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 Desde- 
 mona 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 gerreral’s 
 favor ; 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 would 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 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 67 
 
 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 offense 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 dis- 
 praise 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 that 
 Desdemona would leave the time to him, 
 promised to receive Michael Cassio again into 
 favor. 
 
 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 
 
68 
 
 TALES FROM SH A KS PE A RE. 
 
 the general answering in the affirmative, and 
 adding, that he had gone between them very 
 often during the courtship, lago knitted his 
 brow, as if he had got fresh light of some 
 terrible matter, and cried, “ Indeed ! ” This 
 brought into Othello’s mind the words which 
 lago 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 lago 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 lago to speak what he knew, and to 
 give his worst thoughts words. “ And what,” 
 said lago, “ if some thoughts very vile should 
 have intruded into my breast, as where is the 
 palace into which foul things do not enter? ” 
 Then lago went on to say, what a pity it were 
 if any trouble should arise to Othello out of 
 his imperfect observations ; 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 suspicions ; and when Othello’s 
 curiosity was raised almost to distraction with 
 these hints and scattered words, lago, 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, 
 
OTHELLO . 
 
 69 
 
 loves 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 behavior 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 countrywomen, better than Othello 
 could do; and that in Venice the wives let 
 heaven see many pranks they dared not show 
 their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated, 
 that Desdemona deceived her father in mar- 
 rying 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 ? 
 
 Iago begged pardon for having moved him ; 
 but Othello, assuming an indifference, while 
 he was really shaken with inward grief at 
 Iago’s words, begged him to go on, which 
 Iago did with many apologies, as if unwilling 
 to produce anything against Cassio, whom he 
 called his friend : he then came strongly to 
 the point, and reminded Othello how Desde- 
 mona 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 : 
 
7 ° 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 country- 
 men. He concluded 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 medi- 
 ation contriving stratagems for her ruin. 
 
 The conference ended with Iago’s begging 
 Othello to account his wife innocent until 
 he had more decisive proof ; and Othello 
 promised 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 wouL. and leap at the so, -d of a 
 drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, 
 seemed to have lost all that pride and ambi- 
 tion, which are a soldier’s virtue ; and his 
 military ardor and all his old joys forsook 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 7 1 
 
 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 in pieces with these distracting thoughts, 
 he once laid hold on Iago’s throat, and de^ 
 manded proof of Desdemona's guilt, or threat- 
 ened instant dea h f r 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 handkerchief spotted 
 with strawberries in his wife’s hand. Othello 
 answered, 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 have wronged her 
 
7 2 * 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving 
 his presents to another man ; both Cassio and 
 Desdemona were innocent of any offense 
 against Othello ; but the wicked Iago, whose 
 spirit never slept in contrivance of villiany, had 
 made his wife (a good, but a meek woman) 
 ste.l this handkerchief from Desdemona, under 
 pretenc 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, pre- 
 tended that he had a headache (as he might 
 indeed with truth), and desired her to lend 
 him her handkerchief to hold his temples. 
 She did so. “ Not this,” said Othello, “but 
 that handkerchief I gave you.” Desdemona 
 had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen 
 as we have related). “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 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 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 73 
 
 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 mummy of maidens’ hearts conserved.” 
 Desdemona, 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 hus- 
 band. 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 produce, she tried to divert her 
 husband from too serious thoughts, and cheer- 
 fully told him, she saw all his talk about the 
 handkerchief was only to put her off from her 
 suit about Michael Cassio, whom she went on 
 to praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in 
 perfect distraction burst out of the room, and 
 then Desdemona, though unwillingly, began 
 to suspect her lord was jealous. 
 
 What cause she could have m'nistered to 
 him she knew not, and then she accused her- 
 self 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 be- 
 shrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his 
 unkindness. 
 
 Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he 
 
74 
 
 TALES FROM SH A KS PE A RE. 
 
 accused her more plainly of being unfaithful, 
 and of loving another man, but he did not 
 name whom : and Othello wept, and Des- 
 demona 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 gentb 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 complaint 
 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 put- 
 ting his lady to death. But wh n 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 resolved she 
 should die, else (as he said) she would live to 
 betray more men, as she had done him. Then 
 
OTHELLO . 
 
 75 
 
 he kissed her for the last time (as he said), and 
 that kiss was so sweet, 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 proceed- 
 ing to clear herself, he suddenly would hear 
 no more, but covering her up in the bedclothes, 
 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 assas- 
 sinate ; 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 certain 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 
 
76 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor 
 innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him ; 
 the extreme anguish of which discovery mak- 
 ing 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 doting 
 husband. He had loved, not wisely, but too 
 well ; and his manly eyes (when he learned his 
 mistake), though not used to 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 exe- 
 cuted with strict tortures ; and to send word 
 to the state of Venice of the lamentable death 
 of their renowned general. 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment 
 of a princely fortune, affected a humor of lib- 
 erality 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 dependents 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 humor of his patron, to the rough and 
 unbending cynic, who, affecting a contempt of 
 men’s persons, and an indifference to worldly 
 things, yet could not stand out against the 
 gracious manners and munificent soul of lord 
 Timon, but would come (against his nature) to 
 partake of his royal entertainments, and return 
 most rich in his own estimation if he had re- 
 ceived a nod or a salutation from Timon. 
 
 If a poet had composed a work which wanted 
 
 77 
 
78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 a 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 only 
 had to take it to lord Timon, and pretend to 
 consult his taste as to the merits of it ; nothing 
 more was wanting to persuade the liberal- 
 hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweler 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 jewelry at any price, and the good- 
 natured lord would thank them into the bar- 
 gain, as if they had done him a piece of court- 
 esy 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, shark- 
 ing tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, 
 and expectants, who continually filled his 
 lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in 
 whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with 
 adulation as to a god, making sacred the very 
 stirrup by which he mounted his horse, and 
 seeming as though they drank the free air but 
 through his permission and bounty. 
 
 Some of these daily dependents were young 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 79 
 
 men of birth, who (their means not answering 
 to their extravagance) had been put in prison 
 by creditors, and redeemed thence by lord 
 Timon ; these young prodigals thenceforward 
 fastened upon his lordship, as if by common 
 sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all 
 such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not 
 being able to follow him in his wealth, found 
 it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious 
 spending of what was not their own. One 
 of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose 
 debts unjustly contracted Timon but lately 
 had paid down the sum of five talents. 
 
 But among this confluence, this great flood 
 of visitors, none were more conspicuous than 
 the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It 
 was fortunate for these men, if Timon took a 
 fancy to a dog or a horse, or any piece of 
 cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing 
 so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be 
 sent the next morning with the compliments 
 of the giver for lord Timon’s acceptance, and 
 apologies for the unworthiness of the gift ; and 
 this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did 
 not fail to produce, from Timon’s bounty, who 
 would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty 
 dogs or horses, certainly presents of far richer 
 worth, as these pretended donors knew well 
 enough, and that their false presents were but 
 the putting out of so much money at large and 
 speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius had 
 lately sent to Timon a present of four milk- 
 white horses trapped in silver, which this 
 
8o 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 grey- 
 hounds, whose make and fleetness Timon had 
 been heard to admire : these presents the easy- 
 hearted lord accepted without suspicion of the 
 dishonest views of the presenters ; and the 
 givers of course were rewarded with some rich 
 return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty 
 times the value of their false and mercenary 
 donation. 
 
 Sometimes these creatures would go to work 
 in a more direct way, and with gross and pal- 
 pable 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 those 
 supposed friends, and never have been weary. 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 81 
 
 . 
 
 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 they must needs 
 love him ; and because they smiled and flat- 
 tered him, he thought surely that his conduct 
 was approved by all the wise and good. And 
 when he was feasting in the midst of all these 
 flatterers and mock friends, when they were 
 eating him up, and draining his fortunes dry 
 with large draughts of richest wines drunk to 
 his health and prosperity, he could not perceive 
 the difference of a friend from a flatterer, but 
 to his deluded eyes (made proud with the 
 sight), it seemed a precious comfort to have 
 so many, like brothers commanding one 
 another’s fortunes (though it was his own fort- 
 une 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 frater- 
 nal meeting. 
 
 But while he thus outwent the very heart of 
 2 
 
82 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 impor- 
 tunity that op any other occasion would have 
 been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him 
 with tears to look into the state of his affairs. 
 Timon would still put him off, and turn the 
 discourse to something else ; for nothing is so 
 deaf to remonstrance as riches turned to 
 poverty, nothing so unwilling to believe its 
 situation, nothing is so incredulous to its own 
 true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. 
 Often had this good steward, this honest creat- 
 ure, when all the rooms of Timon’s great house 
 have been choked up with riotous feeders at 
 his master’s cost, when the floors have wept 
 with drunken spilling of wine, and every 
 apartment has blazed with lights and resounded 
 with music and feasting, often had he retired 
 by himself to some solitary spot, and wept 
 faster than the wine ran from the wasteful 
 casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, 
 and to think, when the means were gone which 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS, 
 
 83 
 
 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 represen- 
 tations 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 endeavored 
 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 repre- 
 sentation, Timon hastily replied, “ My lands 
 extended from Athens to Lacedemon.” “ O 
 my good lord,” said Flavius, “ the world is but 
 a world, and has bounds ; were it all yours to 
 give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone ! ” 
 
 Timon consoled himself that no villainous 
 bounty had yet come from him, that if he had 
 given his wealth away unwisely, it had not 
 been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish 
 his friends ; and he bade the kind-hearted 
 steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in 
 the assurance that his master could never lack 
 means while he had so many noble friends ; 
 and this infatuated lord persuaded himself 
 that he had nothing to do but to send and 
 borrow, to use every man’s fortune (that had 
 ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity as 
 
84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 freely as his own. Then with a cheerful look, 
 as if confident of the trial, he severally des- 
 patched 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 these noble lords the 
 loan of fifty talents : nothing doubting that 
 their gratitude would supply his wants (if he 
 needed it) to the amount of five hundred times 
 fifty talents. 
 
 Lucullus was the first applied to. This 
 mean lord had been dreaming overnight of a 
 silver bason and cup, and when Timon’s serv- 
 ant 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 coun- 
 sel nor warning by his coming : and true it 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 85 
 
 was that he had been a constant attender (as 
 he said) at Timon’s feasts, as he had in greater 
 things tasted his bounty, but that he ever 
 came with that intent, or gave good counsel or 
 reproof to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, 
 which he suitably followed up with meanly 
 offering the servant a bribe, to go home to his 
 master and tell him that he had not found 
 Lucullus at home. 
 
 As little success had the messenger who was 
 sent to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was 
 full of Timon’s meat, and enriched almost to 
 bursting with Timon’s costly presents, when 
 he found the wind changed, and the fountain 
 of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first 
 could hardly believe it ; but on its being con- 
 firmed, he affected great regret that he should 
 not have it in his power to serve lord Timon, 
 for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) 
 he had made a great purchase the day before, 
 which had quite disfurnished him of the means 
 at present, the more beast he, he called him- 
 self, 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 honorable gentleman. 
 
 Who can cal 1 any man friend that dips in 
 the same dish with him ? just of this metal is 
 every flatterer. In the recollection of every- 
 body Timon had been a father to this Lucius, 
 had kept up his credit with his purse ; Timon’s 
 money had gone to pay the wages of his 
 servants, to pay the hire of the laborers who 
 
86 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 had sweat to build the fine houses which 
 Lucius’s pride had made necessary to him : yet 
 — oh ! the monster which man makes himself 
 when he proves ungrateful ! — this Lucius now 
 denied to Timon a sum which, in respect of 
 what Timon had bestowed on him, was less 
 than charitable men afford to beggars. 
 
 Sempronius and every one of those merce- 
 nary 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 openhanded, 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, mort- 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 87 
 
 gages, 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 incredi- 
 ble luster, which this setting sun put forth. 
 Once more lord Timon proclaimed a feast, to 
 which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, 
 ladies, all that was great or fashionable in 
 Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came 
 Yentidius, 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 honorable a friend. But 
 Timon begged them not to give such trifles a 
 
88 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. 
 And these base fawning lords, though they had 
 denied him money in his adversity, yet could 
 not refuse their presence at this new blaze of 
 his returning prosperity. For the swallow 
 follows not summer more willingly than men of 
 these dispositions follow the good fortunes of 
 the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than 
 these shrink from the first appearance of a 
 reverse : such summer birds are men. But 
 now with music and state the banquet of 
 smoking dishes were 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 they saw was real, as scarce trusting 
 their own eyes ; at a signal given, the dishes 
 were uncovered, and Timon’s drift appeared: 
 instead of those varieties and far-fetched 
 dainties which they expected, that Timon’s 
 epicurean table in past times had so liberally 
 presented, now appeared under the covers of 
 these dishes a preparation more suitable to 
 Timon’s poverty, nothing but a little smoke 
 and lukewarm water, fit feast for this knot of 
 mouth-friends, whose professions were indeed 
 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 surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that 
 they might have enough, and throwing dishes 
 and all after them, who now ran huddling out, 
 
TIMO/V OF A THENS. 
 
 89 
 
 ♦ 
 
 lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in 
 haste, a splendid confusion, Timon pursuing 
 them, still calling them what they were, 
 “ Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under 
 the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek 
 bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends, time-flies. ” 
 They, crowding out to avoid him, left the 
 house more willingly than they had entered it : 
 some losing their gowns and caps and some 
 their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out 
 of the presence of such a mad lord, and the 
 ridicule of his mock banquet. 
 
 This was the last feast that 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 their houses fall upon their owners, wish- 
 ing all plagues which infest humanity, war, 
 outrage, poverty, and diseases, might fasten 
 upon its inhabitants, praying the just gods to 
 confound all Athenians, both young and old, 
 high and low ; so wishing, he went to the 
 woods, where he said he should find the un- 
 kindest 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 drinking water, 
 flying from the face of his kind, and choosing 
 rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harm- 
 less and friendly than man. 
 
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 O ' 
 
 9 ° 
 
 • 
 
 What a change from lord Timon the rich, 
 lord Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon 
 the naked, Timon the man-hater ! Where 
 were his flatterers now ? Where were his at- 
 tendants 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 fairy pages to him, to skip on his errands 
 when he bade them ? Would the cold brook, 
 when it was iced with winter, administer to 
 him his warm broth and caudles when sick of 
 an overnight’s surfeit ? Or would the creatures 
 that lived in those wild woods come and lick 
 his hand and flatter him ? 
 
 Here on a day, when he was digging for 
 roots, his poor % sustenance, his spade struck 
 against something heavy, which proved to b& 
 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 conceal- 
 ment : 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 
 
TIM ON OF A THE NS. 9 1 
 
 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, in- 
 justice, briberies, violence, and murder among 
 them, 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 at Athens 
 (the Athenians were ever noted to be a thank- 
 less and ungrateful people, giving disgust to 
 their generals and best friends), was marching 
 at the head of the same triumphant army 
 which he had formerly headed in their defense, 
 to war against them : Timon, who liked their 
 business well, bestowed upon their captain the 
 gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other 
 service from him than that he should with his 
 conquering army lay Athens level with the 
 ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants ; 
 not sparing the old men for their white beards, 
 for (he said) they were usurers, nor the young 
 children for their seeming innocent smiles, for 
 those (he said) would live, if they grew up, to 
 be traitors ; but to steel his eyes and ears 
 against any sights or sounds that might awaken 
 compassion ; and not to let the cries of virgins, 
 babes, or mothers, hinder him from making 
 
92 TALES FROM S1IAKSPEARE . 
 
 one universal massacre of the city, but to con- 
 found 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 sud- 
 denly 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 affec- 
 tion to his master had led to seek him out at 
 his wretched dwelling, and to offer his serv- 
 ices ; 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 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 93 
 
 was forced to confess that the world contained 
 one honest man ; yet, being in the shape and 
 form oE 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 de- 
 part, because he was a man, and because, with 
 a heart more gentle and compassionate than 
 is usual to man, he bore man’s detested form 
 and outward feature. 
 
 But greater visitants than a poor steward 
 were about to interrupt the savage quiet of 
 Timon’s solitude. For now the day was come 
 when the ungrateful lords, of Athens sorely 
 repented the injustice which they had done to 
 the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an in- 
 censed wild boar, was raging at the walls of 
 their city, and with his hot siege threatened to 
 lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the 
 memory of lord Timon’s former prowess and 
 military conduct came fresh into their forgetful 
 minds, for Timon had been their general in 
 past times, and was a valiant and expert 
 soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was 
 deemed able to cope with a besieging army 
 such as then threatened them, or to drive back 
 the furious approaches of Alcibiades. 
 
 A deputation of the senators was chosen in 
 this emergency to wait upon Timon. To him 
 they come in their extremity, to whom, when 
 he was in extremity, they had shown but small 
 regard ; as if they presumed upon his gratitude 
 whom they had disobliged, and had derived a 
 
94 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 claim to his courtesy from their own most dis- 
 courteous 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 honors and the public love ; their per- 
 sons, 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 valor, their defense in war, their 
 ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his 
 countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked 
 fair Athens, and slew her old men and her 
 infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told 
 them ; and that there was not a knife in the 
 unruly camp which he did not prize above the 
 reverendest throat in Athens. 
 
 This was all the answer he vouchsafed to 
 the weeping, disappointed senators ; only at 
 parting, he bade them commend him to his 
 countrymen, and tell them, that to ease them 
 of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent 
 the consequences of fierce Alcibiades’ wrath, 
 there was yet a way left, which he would teach 
 them, for he had yet so much affection left for 
 his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them 
 a kindness before his death. These words a 
 little revived the senators, who hoped that his 
 kindness for their city was returning. Then 
 Timon told them that he had a tree, which 
 
TIMON OF A THE NS. 
 
 95 
 
 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 afflic- 
 tion that way. 
 
 And this was the last courtesy, of all his 
 noble bounties, which Timon showed to man- 
 kind, 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, pur- 
 porting 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 con- 
 clusion, 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 made of 
 the sea-beach for his place of burial, where 
 the vast sea might weep forever upon his 
 grave, as in contempt for the transient and 
 shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful 
 mankind. 
 
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 valor and conduct in the wars ; 
 an example of which he had lately given, in 
 defeating a rebel army assisted, by the troops 
 of Norway in terrible numbers. 
 
 The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and 
 Banquo, returning victorious from this great 
 battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, 
 where they were stopped by the strange ap- 
 pearance of three figures like women, except 
 that they had beards, and their withered skins 
 and wild attire made them look not like any 
 earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed 
 them, when they, seemingly offended, laid 
 each one her choppy finger upon her skinny 
 lips, in token of silence : and the first of them 
 saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of 
 Glamis. The general was not a little startled 
 to find himself known by such creatures ; but 
 how much more, when the second of them 
 followed up that salute by giving him the title 
 of thane of Cawdor, to which honor he had no 
 pretensions ; and, again the third bid him, 
 96 
 
MACBETH . 
 
 97 
 
 “All hail! king that shall be hereafter ! ” 
 Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze 
 him, who knew that while the king’s son 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, yet 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, br witches. 
 
 While they stood pondering on the strange- 
 ness of this adventure, there arrived certain 
 messengers from the king, who were em- 
 powered by him to confer upon Macbeth the 
 dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event so 
 miraculously corresponding with the prediction 
 of the witches astonished Macbeth, and he 
 stood 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 children shall be kings, when 
 what the witches promised to me has so won- 
 derfully come to pass?” “That hope,” an- 
 swered the general, “ might enkindle you to aim 
 at the throne ; but oftentimes these ministers 
 of darkness tell us truths in little things to be- 
 tray us into deeds of greatest consequence.” 
 
 7 
 
g8 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE , 
 
 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 Scot- 
 land. 
 
 Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communi- 
 cated the strange prediction of the weird sisters, 
 and its partial accomplishment. She was a 
 bad ambitious woman, and so as her husband 
 and herself could arrive at greatness, she cared 
 not much by what means. She spurred on 
 the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt 
 compunction at the thoughts of blood, and 
 did not cease to represent the murder of the 
 king as a step absolutely necessary to the 
 fulfillment of the flattering prophecy. 
 
 It happened at this time that the king, who 
 out of his royal condescension would oftentimes 
 visit his principal nobility upon gracious terms, 
 came to Macbeth’s house attended by his two 
 sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous 
 train of thanes and attendants, the more to 
 honor Macbeth for the triumphal success of 
 his wars. 
 
 The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situ- 
 ated, and the air about it was sweet and whole- 
 some, which appeared by the nests which the 
 martlet, or swallow, had built under all the 
 jutting friezes and buttresses of the building, 
 wherever it found a place of advantage : for 
 where those birds most, breed and haunt the 
 air is observed to be delicate. The king 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 99 
 
 entered well pleased with the place, and not 
 less so with the attentions and respect of his 
 honored hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the 
 art of covering treacherous purposes with 
 smiles : and could look like the innocent flower, 
 while she was indeed the serpent under it. 
 
 The king, being tired with his journey, went 
 early to bed, and in his state-room two grooms 
 of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside 
 him. He had been unusually pleased with his 
 reception, and had made presents before he 
 retired to his principal officers; and among 
 the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Mac- 
 beth, 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 inordinate 
 ambition. She had won him to consent to the 
 murder, but she doubted his resolution : and she 
 feared that the natural tenderness of his dis- 
 position (more humane than her own) would 
 come between, and defeat the purpose. So 
 
lOO 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 with her own hands armed with a dagger, she 
 approached the king’s bed ; having taken care 
 to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, 
 that they slept intoxicated, and careless of 
 their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound 
 sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as 
 she viewed him earnestly, there was something 
 in his face, as he slept, which resembled her 
 own father ; and she had not the courage to 
 proceed. 
 
 She returned to confer with her husband. 
 His resolution had begun to stagger. He con- 
 sidered that there were strong reasons against 
 the deed. In the first place, he was not only 
 a subject, but a near kinsman to the king ; and 
 he had been his host and entertainer that day, 
 whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was 
 to shut the door against his murderers, not 
 bear the knife himself. Then he considered 
 how just and merciful a king this Duncan had 
 been, how clear of offense 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 favors of the 
 king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all 
 sorts of men, and how would those honors be 
 stained by the reputation of so foul a murder 1 
 
 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 
 
MACBETH , ; 
 
 101 
 
 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 a sovereign away and royalty ! 
 Then she threw contempt on his change of 
 purpose, and accused him of fickleness and 
 cowardice ; and declared that she had given 
 suck, and knew how tender it was to love the 
 babe that milked her, but she would, while it 
 was smiling in her face, have plucked it from 
 her breast, and dashed its brains out, if she 
 had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to per- 
 form that murder. Then she added, how prac- 
 ticable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon 
 the drunken, sleepy grooms. And with the 
 valor of her tongue she so chastised his slug- 
 gish 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 an- 
 other dagger in the air, with the handle to- 
 wards 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 phan- 
 tasm proceeding from his own hot and op- 
 pressed 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 
 
102 
 
 TALES FROM S HA KS PE A RE. 
 
 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 bless- 
 ing, the word stuck in his throat, and he could 
 not pronounce it. 
 
 Again he thought he heard a voice which 
 cried, “ Sleep no more ; Macbeth doth murder 
 sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life.” 
 Still it cried, “ Sleep no more,” to all the house. 
 “ Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore 
 Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall 
 sleep no more.” 
 
 With such horrible imaginations Macbeth 
 returned to his listening wife, who began to 
 think he had failed of his purpose, and that 
 the deed was somehow frustrated. He came 
 in so distracted a state, that she reproached 
 him with his want of firmness, and sent him to 
 wash his hands of the blood which stained 
 them, while she took his dagger, with purpose 
 to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, 
 to make it seem their guilt. 
 
 Morning came, and with it the discovery of 
 the murder, which could not be concealed ; 
 and though Macbeth and his lady made great 
 show of grief, and the proofs against the 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 I0 3 
 
 grooms (the dagger being produced against 
 them and their faces smeared with blood) were 
 sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell 
 upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such a 
 deed were so much more forcible than such 
 poor silly grooms could be supposed to have ; 
 and Duncan’s two sons fled. Malcolm, the 
 eldest, sought for refuge in the English court; 
 and the youngest, Donalbain, made his escape 
 to Ireland. 
 
 The king’s sons, who should have succeeded 
 him, having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth 
 as next heir was crowned king, and thus the 
 prediction of the weird sisters was literally 
 accomplished. 
 
 Though placed so high, Macbeth and his 
 queen could not forget the prophecy of the 
 weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be 
 king, yet not his children, but the children of 
 Banquo, should be kings after him. The 
 thought of this, and that they had defiled their 
 hands with blood, and done so great crimes, 
 only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the 
 throne, so rankled within them, that they deter- 
 mined to put to death both Banquo and his 
 son, to make void the predictions of the weird 
 sisters, which in their own case had been so 
 remarkably brought to pass. 
 
 For this purpose they made a great supper, 
 to which they invited all the chief thanes ; 
 and, among the rest, with marks of particular 
 respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were 
 invited. The way by which Banquo was to 
 
104 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 mon- 
 archs who afterwards filled the Scottish 
 throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scot- 
 land and the First of England, under whom 
 the two crowns of England and Scotland were 
 united. 
 
 At supper the queen, whose manners were 
 in the highest degree affable and royal, played 
 the hostess with a gracefulness and attention 
 which conciliated every one present, and Mac- 
 beth discoursed freely with his thanes and 
 nobles, saying, that all that was honorable 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 Mac- 
 beth was a bold man, and one that could have 
 faced the devil without trembling, at this hor- 
 rible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, 
 and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes 
 fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the 
 nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him gaz- 
 ing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, took 
 it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached 
 him, whispering that it was but the same 
 fancy which had made him see the dagger in 
 
MACBETH, 
 
 io 5 
 
 the air when he was about to kill Duncan. 
 But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and 
 gave no heed to all they could say, while he 
 addressed it with distracted words, yet so 
 significant, that his queen, fearing the dreadful 
 secret would be disclosed, in great haste dis- 
 missed the guests, excusing the infirmity of 
 Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled 
 with. 
 
 To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was 
 subject. His queen and he had their sleeps 
 afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of 
 Banquo troubled them not more than the 
 escape of Fleance, whom now they looked 
 upon as father to a line of kings, who should 
 keep their posterity out of the throne. With 
 these miserable thoughts they found no peace, 
 and Macbeth determined once more to seek 
 out the weird sisters, and know from them the 
 worst. 
 
 He sought them in a cave upon the heath,, 
 where they, who knew by foresight of his 
 coming, were engaged in preparing their 
 dreadful charms, by which they conjured up 
 infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. 
 Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and 
 serpents, the eye of a newt and the tongue of 
 a dog, the leg of a lizard and the wing of a 
 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 poison- 
 ous hemlock (this to have effect must be 
 digged in the dark), the gall of a goat and the 
 
io6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 caldron, which, as fast as it grew too 
 hot, was cooled with a baboon’s blood : to 
 these they poured in the blood of a sow that 
 had eaten her young, and they threw into the 
 flame the grease that had sweaten from a 
 murderer’s gibbet. By these charms they 
 bound the infernal spirits to answer their 
 questions. 
 
 It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he 
 would have his doubts resolved by them, or by 
 their masters the spirits^ He, nothing daunted 
 by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, 
 boldly answered, “ Where are they ? let me 
 see them.” And they called the spirits, which 
 were three. And the first arose in the like- 
 ness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth 
 by name, and bid him beware of the thane of 
 Fife ; for which caution Macbeth thanked 
 him : for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy 
 of Macduff, the thane of Fife. 
 
 And the second spirit arose in the likeness of 
 a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by 
 name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to 
 scorn the power of man, for none of woman 
 born should have power to hurt him : and he 
 advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. 
 “ Then live, Macduff ! ” cried the king; “ what 
 need I fear of thee ? but yet I will make 
 assurance double-sure. Thou shalt not live ; 
 that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, and 
 sleep in spite of thunder.” 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 107 
 
 That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in 
 the form of a child crowned, with a tree in his 
 hand. He called Macbeth by name, and 
 comforted him against conspiracies, saying, 
 that he should never be vanquished, until the 
 wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill should 
 come against him. “ Sweet bodements ! 
 good ! ” cried Macbeth ; “ who can unfix the 
 forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots ? 
 I see I shall live the usual period of man’s 
 life, and not be cut off by a violent death. 
 But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell 
 me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo’s 
 issue shall ever reign in this kingdom ? ” 
 Here the caldron sunk 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 Macbeth, and pointed to them ; 
 by which Macbeth knew that these were the 
 posterity of Banquo, who should reign after 
 him in Scotland ; and the witches, with a 
 sound of soft music, and with dancing, making 
 a 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 army 
 which was forming against him under Mal- 
 colm, the eldest son of the late king, with 
 intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, 
 
108 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, 
 stung with rage, set upon the castle of Mac- 
 duff, and put his wife and children, whom the 
 thane had left behind, to the sword, and ex- 
 tended 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 Eng- 
 land ; 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 honored him, but all sus- 
 pected him, and he began to envy the condi- 
 tion of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who 
 slept soundly in his grave, against whom trea- 
 son 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 wicked- 
 ness, 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 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 1 09 
 
 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 armor on his back.” 
 Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches 
 had filled him with false confidence, and he 
 remembered the sayings of the spirits, that 
 none of woman born was to hurt him, and that 
 he was never to be vanquished till Birnam 
 wood should come to Dunsinane, which he 
 thought could never be. So he shut himself 
 up in his castle, whose impregnable strength 
 was such as defied a siege : here he sullenly 
 awaited the approach of Malcolm. When, 
 upon a day, there came a messenger to him, 
 pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to 
 report that which he had seen : for he averred 
 that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he 
 looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking 
 the wood began to move! “Liar and slave, ” 
 cried Macbeth, “ if thou speakest false thou 
 shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine 
 end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not if 
 thou dost as much by me : ” for Macbeth now 
 began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the 
 equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not 
 to fear till Birnam wood should come to 
 Dunsinane : and now a wood did move .! 
 “ However,” said he, “ if this which he avouches 
 be true, let us arm and out. There is no 
 flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be 
 weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end.” 
 With these desperate speeches he sallied forth 
 
\ 10 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 upon the besiegers, who had now come up to 
 he 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, Mal- 
 colm, like a skillful general, instructed his sol- 
 diers 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 messen- 
 ger. Thus were the words of the spirit 
 brought to pass, in a sense different from that 
 in which Macbeth had understood them, and 
 one great hold of his confidence was gone. 
 
 And now a severe skirmishing took place, 
 in which Macbeth, though feebly supported 
 by those who called themselves his friends, 
 but in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to 
 the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought 
 with the extreme of rage and valor, cutting to 
 pieces all who were opposed to him, till he 
 came to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing 
 Macduff, and remembering the caution of the 
 spirit, who had counseled him to avoid Mac- 
 duff above all men, he would have turned, but 
 Macduff, who had been seeking him through 
 the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a 
 fierce contest ensued ; Macduff giving him 
 many foul reproaches for the murder of his 
 wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was 
 charged enough with blood of that family 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 labor, 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 th ir 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 re- 
 turned with despair ; “ I will not live to kiss 
 the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, and 
 
1 1 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 to be baited with the curses of the rabble. 
 Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
 and thou opposed to me wast never born of 
 woman, yet will I try the last.” With these 
 frantic words he threw himself upon Mac- 
 duff, who after a severe struggle in the end 
 overcame him, and cutting off his head, 
 made a present of it to the young and law- 
 ful 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. 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice ; he was 
 a usurer, who had amassed an immense for- 
 tune by lending money at great interest to 
 Christian merchants. Shylock, being a hard- 
 hearted man, exacted the payment of the money 
 he lent with such severity, that he was much 
 disliked by all good men, and particularly by 
 Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice; and 
 Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he 
 used to lend money to people in distress, and 
 would never take any interest for the money 
 he lent ; therefore there was great enmity be- 
 tween this covetous Jew and the generous mer- 
 chant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met 
 Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used 
 to reproach him with his usuries and hard 
 dealings ; which the Jew would bear with 
 seeming patience, while he secretly meditated 
 revenge. 
 
 Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, 
 the best conditioned, and had the most un- 
 wearied spirit in doing courtesies ; indeed he 
 was one in whom the ancient Roman honor 
 more appeared than in any that drew breath 
 in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his 
 fellow-citizens ; but the friend who was nearest 
 and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble 
 8 113 
 
1 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, 
 had nearly exhausted his little fortune by liv- 
 ing in too expensive a manner for his slender 
 means, as young men of high rank with small 
 fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bas- 
 sanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted him ; 
 and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
 and one purse between them. 
 
 One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and 
 told him that he wished to repair his fortune 
 by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he 
 dearly loved, whose father, that was lately 
 dead, had left her sole heiress to a large es- 
 tate ; and that in her father’s lifetime he used 
 to visit at her house, when he thought he had 
 observed this lady had sometimes from her 
 eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to 
 say he would be no unwelcome suitor ; but 
 not having money to furnish himself with an 
 appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
 heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the 
 many favors he had shown him, by lending 
 him three thousand ducats. 
 
 Anthonio had no money by him at that time 
 to lend his friend ; but expecting soon to have 
 some ships come home laden with merchandise, 
 he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money- 
 lender, and borrow the money upon the credit 
 of those ships. 
 
 Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shy- 
 lock, and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend him 
 three thousand ducats upon an interest he 
 should require, to be paid out of the merchan- 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 IJ 5 
 
 dise contained in his ships at sea. On this, 
 Shylock thought within himself, “ If I can once 
 catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient 
 grudge I bear him ; he hates our Jewish nation • 
 he lends out money gratis ; and among the 
 merchants he rails at me and my well-earned 
 bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be 
 my tribe if I forgive him ! ” Anthonio finding 
 he was musing within himself and did not an- 
 swer, and being impatient for money, said, 
 “ Shylock, do you hear ? will you lend the' 
 money?” To this question the Jew replied, 
 “ Signor Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time 
 and often you have railed at me about my 
 moneys 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 were a cur. Well then, it now 
 appears you need my help ; and you come to 
 me, and say, Shylock , lend me moneys. Has 
 a dog money ? Is it possible a cur should 
 lend three thousand ducats ? Shall I bend 
 low and say, Fair sir, you spat upon me on 
 Wednesday last, another time you called me 
 dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you 
 moneys ? ” Anthonio replied, “ I am as like 
 to call you so again, to spit on you again, and 
 spurn you too; If you will lend me this money, 
 lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather lend 
 it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you 
 may with better face exact the penalty.” 
 
1 1 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 “ 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 seem- 
 ingly kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio ; 
 and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, 
 and that all he did was to gain Anthonio’s 
 love, again said he would lend him the three 
 thousand ducats, and take no interest for his 
 money; only Anthonio should go with him to 
 a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, 
 that if he did not repay the money by a certain 
 day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be 
 cut off from any part of his body that Shylock 
 pleased. 
 
 “ Content,” said Anthonio : “ I will sign to 
 this bond, and say there is much kindness in 
 the Jew.” 
 
 Bassanio said Anthonio should not sign to 
 such a bond for him ; and still Anthonio in- 
 sisted that he would sign it, for that before the 
 day of payment came his ships would return 
 laden with many times the value of the money. 
 
 Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, 
 “O father Abraham, what suspicious people 
 these Christians are ! Their own hard dealings 
 teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. 
 I pray you tell me this, Bassanio : if he should 
 break this day, what should I gain by the 
 execution 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 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE . 117 
 
 or of beef. I say, to buy his favor I offer this 
 friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not, adieu. ” 
 
 At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, 
 notwithstanding all the Jew had said of his 
 kind intentions, did not like his friend should 
 run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his 
 sake, Anthonio signed the bond, thinking it 
 really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 
 
 The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to 
 marry lived near Venice, at a place called Bel- 
 mont : her name was Portia, and in the graces 
 of her person and her mind she was nothing 
 inferior to that Portia, of whom we read, who 
 was Cato’s daughter, and the wife of Brutus. 
 
 Bassanio being so kindly supplied with 
 money by his friend Anthonio, at the hazard 
 of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid 
 train, and attended by a gentleman of the name 
 of Gratiano. 
 
 Bassanio proving successful in his suit, 
 Portia in a short time consented to accept of 
 him for a husband. 
 
 Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no 
 fortune, and that his high birth and noble an- 
 cestry 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 hus- 
 band, 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, un- 
 
1 1 8 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 practiced, yet not so old but that she could 
 learn, and that she would commit her gentle 
 spirit to be directed and governed by him in 
 all things ; and she said, “ Myself and what is 
 mine, to you and yours is now converted. 
 But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of 
 this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mis- 
 tress over these servants ; and now this house, 
 these servants, and myself are yours, my lord ; 
 I give them with this ring ; ” presenting a ring 
 to Bassanio. 
 
 Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude 
 and wonder at the gracions manner in which 
 the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man 
 of his humble fortunes, that he could not 
 express his joy and reverence to the dear lady 
 who so honored 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 
 wishing Bassanio and the generous lady joy, 
 desired permission to be married at the same 
 time. 
 
 “ With sill my heart, Gratiano,” said Bassanio, 
 “if you can get a wife.” 
 
 Gratiano then said that he loved the lady 
 Portia’s fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, 
 and that she had promised to be his wife, if 
 her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked 
 Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, 
 
THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 1 19 
 
 “ Madam, it is so, if you approve of it.” 
 Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleas- 
 antly said, “Then our wedding-feast shall be 
 much honored by your marriage, Gratiano.” 
 The happiness of these lovers was sadly 
 crossed at this moment by the entrance of a 
 messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio 
 containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio 
 read Anthonio’s letter, Portia feared it was to 
 tell him of the death of some dear friend, he 
 looked so pale ; and 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 related, of his borrowing the 
 money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio’s procur- 
 ing it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by 
 which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound 
 of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day ; 
 and then Bassanio read Anthonio’s letter ; the 
 words of which were, “ Sweet Bassanio, my 
 ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is for- 
 feited, and since in paying it is impossible I 
 should live, I could wish to see you at my 
 death ; notwithstanding, use your pleasure ; if 
 your love for me do not persuade you to come, 
 let not my letter.” “ Oh my dear love,” said 
 Portia, “ dispatch the business and be gone ; 
 
120 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 you shall have gold to pay the money twenty 
 times over, before this kind friend shall lose a 
 hair by my Bassanio’s fault ; and as you are 
 so dearly bought, I will dearly love you.” 
 Portia then said she would be married to 
 Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal 
 right to her money ; and that same day they 
 were married, and Gratiano was also married to 
 Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the 
 instant they were married, set out in great haste 
 for Venice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in 
 prison. 
 
 The day of payment being past, the cruel 
 Jew would not accept of the money which 
 Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon hav- 
 ing a pound of Anthonio’s flesh. A day was 
 appointed to try this shocking cause before the 
 duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in 
 dreadful 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 re- 
 turned ; yet she feared it would go hard with 
 Anthonio, and when she was left alone, she 
 began to think and consider within herself, if 
 she could by any means be instrumental in 
 saving the life of her dear Bassanio’s friend 
 and notwithstanding, when she wished to 
 honor 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 honored 
 
THE MERCHANT OE VENICE . 12 I 
 
 husband’s friend, she did nothing doubt her. 
 own powers, and by the sole guidance of her 
 own true and perfect judgment, at once re- 
 solved to go herself to Venice, and speak in 
 Anthonio’s defense. 
 
 Portia had a relation who was a counselor 
 in the law ; to this gentleman, whose name 
 was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to 
 him, desired his opinion, and that with his 
 advice he would also send her the dress worn 
 by a counselor. 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 counselor, she took Nerissa along with her 
 as her clerk ; and setting out immediately, 
 they arrived at Venice on the very day of the 
 trial. The cause was just going to be heard 
 before the duke and senators of Venice in the 
 senate-house, when Portia entered this high 
 court of justice, and presented a letter from 
 Bellario, in which that learned counselor 
 wrote to the duke, saying he would have come 
 himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was 
 prevented by sickness, and he requested that 
 the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he 
 called Portia) might be permitted to plead in 
 his stead. This the duke granted, much 
 wondering at the youthful appearance of the 
 stranger, who was prettily disguised by her 
 counselor’s robes and her large wig. 
 
122 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 And now began this important trial. Portia 
 looked around her, and she saw the merciless 
 Jew, and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her 
 not in her disguise. He was standing beside 
 Anthonio, in an agony of distress and fear for 
 his friend. 
 
 The importance of the arduous task Portia 
 had engaged in gave this tender lady courage, 
 and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had 
 undertaken to perform ; and first of all she 
 addressed herself to Shylock ; and' allowing 
 that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
 have the forfeit expresed in the bond, she 
 spoke so sweetly of the noble quality of mercy 
 as would have softened any heart but the un- 
 feeling 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 proportion as mercy tem- 
 pered justice : and she bid Shylock remember 
 that as we all pray for mercy, that same prayer 
 should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only 
 answered her by desiring to have the penalty 
 forfeited in the bond. “ Is he not able to pay the 
 money ? ” asked Portia. Bassanio then offered 
 the Jew the payment of the three thousand 
 ducats as many times over as he should desire ; 
 which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon 
 having a pound of Anthonio’s flesh, Bassanio 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 123 
 
 begged the learned young counselor would 
 endeavor to wrest the law a little, to save 
 Anthonio’s life. But Portia gravely answered, 
 that laws once established must never be 
 altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that 
 the law might not be altered, it seemed to him 
 that she was pleading in his favor, and he 
 said, “ A Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise 
 young judge, how I do honor you ! How 
 much elder are you than your looks ! ” 
 
 Portia now desired Shylock to let her look 
 at the bond ; and when she had read it, she 
 said, “ This bond is forfeited, and by this the 
 Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be 
 by him cut off nearest Anthonio’s heart.” 
 Then she said to Shylock, “ Be merciful ; take 
 the money, and bid me tear the bond.” But 
 ho mercy would 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, Anthonio,” said Portia, “ you must pre- 
 pare your bosom for the knife ; ” and while 
 Shylock was sharpening a long knife with 
 great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, 
 Portia said to Anthonio, “ Have you anything 
 to say ? ” Anthonio with a calm resignation 
 replied, that he had but little to say, for that 
 he had prepared his mind for death. Then he 
 said to Bassanio, “ Give me your hand, Bas- 
 sanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that I am 
 fallen into this misfortune for you ! ” Com- 
 mend me to your honorable wife, and tell 
 her how I have loved you ! ” Bassanio in the 
 
124 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 deepest affliction replied, “ Anthonio, I am 
 married to a wife who is as dear to me as life 
 itself ; but life itself, my wife, and all the 
 world, are not esteemed with me above your 
 life : I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to 
 this devil here, to deliver you.” 
 
 Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted 
 lady was not at all offended with her husband 
 for expressing the love he owed to so true a 
 friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet 
 could not help answering, “ Your wife would 
 give you little thanks if she were present to 
 hear you make this offer.” And then Gratiano, 
 who loved to copy what his lord did, thought 
 he must make a speech like Bassanio’s, and he 
 said, in Nerissa’s hearing, who was writing in 
 her clerk’s dress by the side of Portia, “ I have 
 a wife, whom I protest I love ; I wish she were 
 in heaven, if she could but entreat some power 
 there to change the cruel temper of this currish 
 Jew.” “ It is well you wish this behind her 
 back, else you would have but an unquiet 
 house,” said Nerissa. 
 
 Shylock now cried out impatiently, “ We 
 trifle time ; I pray pronounce the sentence.” 
 And now all was awful expectation in the 
 court, and every heart was full of grief for 
 Anthonio. 
 
 Portia asked if the scales were ready to 
 weigh the flesh ; and she said to the Jew, 
 “ Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, 
 lest he bleed to death.” Shylock, whose whole 
 intent was that Anthonio should bleed to 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 125 
 
 death, said, “ It is not so named in the bond.” 
 Portia replied, “ It is not so named in the 
 bond, but what of that ? It were good you 
 did so much for charity.” To this all the 
 answer Shylock would make was, “ I cannot 
 find it ; it is not in the bond.” “ Then,” said 
 Portia, “ a pound of Anthonio’s flesh is thine. 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it.” 
 Again Shylock exclaimed, “ O wise and upright 
 judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment ! ” 
 And then he sharpened his long knife again, 
 and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, 
 “ Come, prepare ! ” 
 
 “ Tarry a little, Jew,” said Portia ; “ there 
 is something else. This bond here gives you 
 no drop of blood ; the words expressly are, ‘ a 
 pound of flesh. ’ If in the cutting off the 
 pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian 
 blood, your land and goods are by the law to 
 be confiscated to the state of Venice.” Now 
 as it was utterly impossible for Shylock to 
 cut off the pound of flesh without shedding 
 some of Anthonio’s blood, this wise discovery 
 of Pgrtia’s, that it was flesh and not blood that 
 was named in the bond, saved the live of 
 Anthonio ; and all admiring the wonderful 
 sagacity of the young counselor who had so 
 happily thought of this expedient, plaudits 
 resounding from every part of the senate- 
 house ; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words 
 which Shylock had used, “ O wise and upright 
 
126 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judg- 
 ment ! ” 
 
 Shylock, finding himself defeated in his 
 cruel intent, said with a disappointed look, 
 that he would take the money ; and Bassanio, 
 rejoiced beyond measure at Anthonio’s unex- 
 pected deliverance, cried out, “ Here is the 
 money ! ” But Portia stopped him, saying, 
 u Softly; there is no haste ; the Jew shall "have 
 nothing but the penalty: therefore prepare, 
 Shylock, to cut off the flesh ; but mind you 
 shed no blood ; nor do not cut off more nor 
 less than just a pound ; be it more or less by 
 one poor scruple, nay, if the scale turn but by 
 the weight of a single hair, you are condemned 
 by the laws of Venice to die, and all your 
 wealth is forfeited to the senate.” “ Give me 
 my money, and let me go,” said Shylock.” 
 4 4 1 have it ready,” said Bassanio : “ here it is.” 
 
 Shylock was going to take the money, when 
 Portia again stopped him, saying, “ Tarry, Jew ; 
 I have yet another hold upon you. By the 
 laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the 
 state, for having conspired against the life of 
 one of its citizens, and your life lies at the 
 mercy of the duke ; therefore down on jour 
 knees, and ask him to pardon you.” 
 
 The duke then said to Shylock, “That you 
 may see the difference of our Christian spirit, 
 I pardon you your life before you ask it : half 
 your wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other 
 half comes to the state.” 
 
 The generous Anthonio then said that he 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 127 
 
 would give up his share of Shylock’s wealth, if 
 Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at 
 his death to his daughter and her husband ; 
 for Anthonio knew that the Jew had an only 
 daughter, who had lately married against his 
 consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, 
 a friend of Anthonio’s, which had so offended 
 Shylock that he had disinherited her. 
 
 The Jew agreed to this : and being thus 
 disappointed in his revenge, and despoiled of 
 his riches, he said, “ I am ill. Let me go 
 home : send the deed after me, and I will sign 
 over half my riches to my daughter. ” “ Get 
 
 thee gone then/’ said the duke, “ and sign it; 
 and if you repent your cruelty and turn Chris- 
 tian, the state will forgive you the fine of the 
 other half of your riches.” 
 
 The duke now released Anthonio, and dis- 
 missed the court. He then highly praised the 
 wisdom and ingenuity of the young counselor, 
 and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who 
 meant to return to Belmont before her husband, 
 replied, “ I humbly thank your grace, but I 
 must away directly.” The duke said he was 
 sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with 
 him ; and turning to Anthonio, he added, 
 “ Reward this gentleman ; for in my mind you 
 are much indebted to him.” 
 
 The duke and his senators left the court ; 
 and then Bassanio said to Portia, u Most worthy 
 gentleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by 
 your wisdom been this day acquitted of griev- 
 ous penalties, and I beg you will accept of three 
 
128 * TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 thousand ducats due unto the Jew.” “ And 
 we shall stand indebted to you over and above,” 
 said Anthonio, “ in love and service evermore.” 
 Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept 
 the money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing 
 her to accept of some reward, she said, “ Give 
 me your gloves ; I will wear them for your 
 sake ; ” and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, 
 she espied the ring which she had given him 
 upon his finger ; now it was the ring the wily 
 lady wanted to get from him, to make a merry 
 jest when she saw Bassanio again, that made her 
 ask him for his gloves ; and she said, when she 
 saw the ring, “ And for your love I will take 
 this ring from you.” Bassanio was sadly dis- 
 tressed that the counselor should ask him for 
 the only thing he could not part with, and he re- 
 plied in great confusion, that he could not give 
 him that ring, because it was his wife’s gift, 
 and he had vowed never to part with it ; but 
 that he would give him the most valuable 
 ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. 
 On this Portia affected to be affronted and left 
 the court, saying, “ You teach me, sir, how a 
 beggar should be answered.” 
 
 “ Dear Bassanio,” said Anthonio, “ let him 
 have the ring ; let my love and the great service 
 he has done for me be valued against your 
 wife’s displeasure.” Bassanio, ashamed to 
 appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gra- 
 tiano after Portia with the ring ; and then the 
 clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano 
 a ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE . 129 
 
 (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by 
 his lord) gave it to her. And there was laugh- 
 ing among these ladies, to think, when they 
 got home, how they would tax their husbands 
 with giving away their rings, and swear that 
 they had given them as a present to some 
 woman. 
 
 Portia, when she returned, was in that happy 
 temper of mind which never fails to attend the 
 consciousness of having performed a good 
 action ; her cheerful spirit enjoyed every thing 
 she saw ; the moon never seemed to shine 
 so bright before ; and when that pleasant moon 
 was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she 
 saw from her house at Belmont as well pleased 
 her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, 
 “ That light we see is burning in my hall ; 
 how far that little candle throws its beams, so 
 shines a good deed in a naughty world ; ” and 
 hearing the sound of music from her house, 
 “ she said, Methinks that music sounds much 
 sweeter than by day.” 
 
 And now Portia and Nerissa entered the 
 house, and dressing themselves in their own ap- 
 parel they awaited the arrival of their husbands 
 who soon followed them with Anthonio ; and 
 Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the lady 
 Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of 
 that lady were hardly over, when they perceived 
 Nerissa and her husband quarreling in a cor- 
 ner of the room. “ A quarrel already ? ” said 
 Portia. “ What is the matter ? ” Gratiano 
 replied, “ Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring 
 9 
 
130 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like 
 the poetry on a cutler’s knife : Love me, and 
 leave me not .” 
 
 “ What does the poetry or the value of the 
 ring signify?” said Nerissa. “ You swore to 
 me when I gave it to you, that you would 
 keep it till the hour of death ; and now you say 
 you gave it to the lawyer’s clerk. I know you 
 gave it to a woman.” “ By this hand,” replied 
 Gratiano, “ I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy 
 a little scrubbed boy no higher than yourself : 
 he was clerk to the young counselor that by his 
 wise pleading saved Anthonio’s life : this prat- 
 ing 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 counselor, and then the boy, his clerk, that 
 took some pains in writing, he begged my 
 ring.” 
 
 Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and 
 reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; 
 and she said Nerissa had taught her what to 
 believe, ‘and that she knew some woman had 
 the ring. Bassanio was very unhappy to have 
 so offended his dear lady, and he said with great 
 earnestness, “ No, by my honor, no woman 
 had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three 
 thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, 
 which when I denied him he went displeased 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE . 131 
 
 away. What could I do, sweet Portia ? 1 was 
 
 so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude 
 that I was forced to send the ring after him. 
 Pardon me, good lady ; had you been there, I 
 think you would have begged the ring of me 
 to give the worthy doctor.” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” said Anthonio, “ I am the unhappy 
 cause of these quarrels.” 
 
 Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for 
 that he was welcome notwithstanding ; and then 
 Anthonio said, “ I once did lend my body for 
 Bassanio’s sake ; and but for him to whom 
 your husband gave the ring, I should have now 
 been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul 
 upon the forfeit, your lord will never more 
 break his faith with you.” “ Then you shall 
 be his surety,” said Portia ; “ give him this 
 ring, and bid him keep it better than the 
 other.” 
 
 When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was 
 strangely surprised to find it was the same he 
 gave away ; and then Portia told him how she 
 was the young counselor, and Nerissa was 
 her clerk ; and Bassanio found, to his unspeak- 
 able wonder and delight, that it was by the 
 noble courage and wisdom of his wife that An- 
 thonio’s life was saved. 
 
 And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and 
 gave him letters which by some chance had 
 fallen into her hands, which contained an 
 account of Anthonio’s ships, that were supposed 
 lost, being safely arrived in the harbor. So 
 these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant’s 
 
i3 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 story were all forgotten in the unexpected 
 good fortune which ensued ; and there was 
 leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of 
 the rings, and the husbands that did not know 
 their own wives ; Gratiano merrily swearing in 
 a sort of rhyming speech, that 
 
 while he lived, he’d fear no other thing, 
 
 So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being 
 at variance, there was a cruel law made at 
 Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of 
 Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he 
 was to be put to death, unless he could pay a 
 thousand marks for the ransom of his life. 
 
 HCgeon, 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. 
 
 ^Egeon 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 Ephe- 
 sus, which it was death for any Syracusan 
 merchant to enter. 
 
 yEgeon 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 im- 
 posed 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 
 
 *33 
 
134 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 obliged to go to Epidamnium, I was detained 
 there by my business six months, and then, 
 finding I should be obliged to stay some time 
 longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as 
 she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons, 
 and, what was very strange, they were both so 
 exactly alike, that it was impossible to distin- 
 guish the one from the other. At the same 
 time that my wife was brought to bed of these 
 twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where my 
 wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, 
 and these twins were as much like each other 
 as my two sons were. The parents of these 
 children being 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 un- 
 willingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got 
 on shipboard ; for we had not sailed above a 
 league from Epidamnium before a dreadful 
 storm arose, which continued with such vio- 
 lence, that the sailors, seeing no chance of sav- 
 ing 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, be- 
 cause they saw their mother weep, filled me 
 with terror for them, though I did not for my- 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . 
 
 *35 
 
 self fear death ; and all my thoughts were bent 
 to contrive means for their safety ; I tied my 
 youngest son to the end of a small spare mast, 
 such as seafaring men provide against storms ; 
 at the other end I bound the youngest of the 
 twin slaves, and at the same time I directed my 
 wife how to fasten the other children in like 
 manner to another mast. She thus having the 
 care of the two eldest children and I of the 
 two younger, we bound ourselves separately to 
 these masts with the children ; and but for 
 this contrivance we had all been lost, for the 
 ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in 
 pieces, and we clinging to these slender masts 
 were supported above the water, where I, hav- 
 ing 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 supposed), 
 and seeing them in safety, I had no care but 
 to struggle with the wild sea- waves, to preserve 
 my dear son and the youngest slave. At 
 length we in our turn were taken up by a ship, 
 and the sailors, knowing me, gave us kind wel- 
 come and assistance, and landed us in safety 
 at Syracuse ; but from that sad hour I have 
 never known what became of my wife and, 
 eldest child. 
 
 “ My youngest son, and now my only care, 
 when he was eighteen years of age, began to 
 be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, 
 and often importuned me that he might take 
 
136 TALES FR OM SHA KSPEA RE . 
 
 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 anx- 
 iously 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 traveling 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 harbors 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 ^Egeon ended the account 
 of his misfortunes ; and the duke, pitying this 
 unfortunate father, who had brought upon 
 himself this great peril by his love for his lost 
 son, said, if it were not against the laws, which 
 his oath and dignity did not permit him to 
 alter, he would freely pardon him ; yet, instead 
 of dooming him to instant death, as the strict 
 letter of the law required, he would give him 
 that day, to try if he could beg or borrow the 
 money to pay the fine. 
 
 This day of grace did seem no great favor 
 to Aigeon, for not knowing any man in Ephe- 
 sus, there seemed to him but little chance that 
 any stranger would lend or give him a thou- 
 sand marks to pay the fine : and helpless, and 
 hopeless of any relief, he retired from the 
 
THE COMEDY OE ERRORS \ 
 
 J 37 
 
 presence of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 
 
 ^Egeon 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 Antipholis, and the two twin 
 slaves were also both named Dromio. ^Egeon’s 
 youngest son Antipholis of Syracuse, he whom 
 the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, 
 happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave 
 Dromio, that very same day that /Egeon did; 
 and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he 
 would have been in the same danger that his 
 father was, but by good fortune he met a 
 friend who told him the peril an old merchant 
 of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass 
 for a merchant of Epidamnium : this Antiph- 
 oiis 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 oldest son of ^Egeon (who must be 
 called Antipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish 
 him from his brother, Antipholis of Syracuse) 
 had lived at Ephesus twenty years, and, being 
 a rich man, was well able to have paid the 
 money for the ransom of his father’s life ; but 
 Antipholis knew nothing of his father, being 
 so young when he was taken out of the sea 
 
138 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 with his mother by the fishermen that he only 
 remembered he had been so preserved, but he 
 had no recollection of either his father or his 
 mother ; the fishermen, who took up this 
 Antipholis and his mother and the young slave 
 Dromio, having carried the two children away 
 from her (to the great grief of that unhappy 
 lady), intending to sell them. 
 
 Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them 
 to duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was 
 uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried 
 the boys to Ephesus when he went to visit the 
 duke his nephew. 
 
 The duke of Ephesus taking a fancy to 
 young Antipholis, when he grew up, made him 
 an officer in his army, in which he distinguished 
 himself by his great bravery in the wars, where 
 he saved the life of his patron the duke, who 
 rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, 
 a rich lady of Ephesus ; with whom he was 
 living (his slave Dromio still attending him) 
 at the time his father came there. 
 
 Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with 
 his friend, who advised him to say he came 
 from Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some 
 money to carry to the inn where he intended 
 to dine, and in the mean time he said he would 
 walk about and view the city, and observe the 
 manners of the people. 
 
 Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when 
 Antipholis was dull and melancholy he used 
 to divert himself with the odd humors and 
 merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms 
 
THE CO MED Y OF ERRORS . 
 
 J 39 
 
 of speech he allowed in Dromio were greater 
 than is usual between masters and their 
 servants 
 
 When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent 
 Dromio away, he stood 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. Antipholis, 
 wondering that he came back so soon, asked 
 him where he had left the money. Now it 
 was not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother 
 that lived with Antipholis of Ephesus, that he 
 spoke to. The two Dromios and the two 
 Antipholises were still as much alike as ^Egeon 
 had said they were in their infancy ; therefore 
 no wonder Antipholis thought it was his own 
 slave returned, and asked him why he came 
 back so soon. Dromio replied, “ My mistress 
 sent me to bid you come to dinner. The 
 capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, 
 and the meat will be all cold if you do not 
 come home.” “ These jests are out of season,” 
 said Antipholis : “ where did you leave the 
 money ? ” Dromio still answering that his 
 mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholis to 
 
140 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 dinner : “ What mistress ? ” said Antipholis. 
 “ Why, your worship’s wife, sir,” replied 
 Dromio. Antipholis having no wife, he was 
 very angry with Dromio, and said, “ Because 
 I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you 
 presume to jest with me in this free manner. 
 I am not in a sportive humor now: where is 
 the money ? we being strangers here, how dare 
 you trust so great a charge from your own 
 custody ? ” Dromio hearing his master, as he 
 thought him, talk of their being strangers, 
 supposing Antipholis was jesting, replied 
 merrily, “ I pray you, sir, jest as you sit at 
 dinner : I had no charge but to fetch you 
 
 home to dine with my mistress and her sister.” 
 Now Antipholis lost all patience, and beat 
 Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress 
 that his master had refused to come to dinner, 
 and said he had no wife. 
 
 Adriana the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus 
 was very angry when she heard that her hus- 
 band 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 ground- 
 less suspicions. 
 
 Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and 
 found Dromio with the money in safety there, 
 and seeing his own Dromio, he was going 
 again to chide him for his free jests, when 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 141 
 
 Adriana came up to him, and not doubting 
 that it was her husband she saw, she began to 
 reproach him for looking strange upon her (as 
 well he might, never having seen this angry 
 lady before) ; and then she told him how well 
 he loved her before they were married, and 
 that now he loved some other lady instead of 
 her. “ How comes it now, my husband,” said 
 she, “oh how comes it that I have lost your 
 love ? ” “ Plead you to me, fair dame ? ” said 
 
 the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he 
 told her he was not her husband, and that he 
 had been in Ephesus but two hours ; she in- 
 sisted on his going home with her, and Anti- 
 pholis 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 sur- 
 prised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother’s 
 wife, also claimed him for her husband. 
 
 While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining 
 with his brother’s wife, his brother, the real 
 husband, returned home to dinner with his 
 slave Dromio ; but the servants would not 
 open the door, because their mistress had 
 ordered them not to admit any company ; and 
 when they repeatedly knocked, and said they 
 were Antipholis and Dromio, the maids laughed 
 at them, and said that Antipholis was at dinner 
 with their mistress, and Dromio was in the 
 
142 TALES FROM SHA KS PE A RE. 
 
 kitchen ; and though they almost knocked the 
 door down, they could not gain admittance, 
 and at last Antipholis went away very angry, 
 and strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman 
 was dining with his wife. 
 
 When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished 
 his dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady’s 
 still persisting in calling him husband, and at 
 hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by 
 the cook-maid, that he left the house, as soon 
 as he could find any pretense to get away ; for 
 though he was very much pleased with Luciana 
 the sister, yet the jealous-tempered Adriana 
 he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all 
 better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen ; 
 therefore both master and man were glad to 
 get away from their new wives as fast as they 
 could. 
 
 The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left 
 the house, he was met by a goldsmith, who 
 mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antiph- 
 olis of Epheus, gave him a gold chain, call- 
 ing him by his name ; and when Antipholis 
 would have refused the chain, saying it did 
 not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he 
 made it by his own orders ; and went away, 
 leaving the chain in the hand of Antipholis, 
 who ordered his man Dromio to get his things 
 on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place 
 any longer where he met with such strange 
 adventures that he surely thought himself be 
 witched. 
 
 The goldsmith who had given the chain to 
 
THE CO MED Y OF ERRORS . 
 
 J 43 
 
 the wrong Antipholis was arrested immediately 
 after for a sum of money he owed ; and Antiph- 
 olis the married brother, to whom the gold- 
 smith thought he had given the chain, happened 
 to come to the place where the officer was 
 arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw 
 Antipholis, asked him to pay for the gold chain 
 he had just delivered to him, the price amount- 
 ing to nearly the same sum as that for which 
 he had been arrested. Antipholis denying the 
 having received the chain, and the goldsmith 
 persisting to declare that he had but a few 
 minutes before given it to him, they disputed 
 the matter a longtime, both thinking they were 
 right, for Antipholis knew the goldsmith never 
 gave him the chain, and, so like were the two 
 brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had 
 delivered the chain into his hands, till at last 
 the officer took the goldsmith away to prison 
 for the debt he owed, and at the same time 
 the goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipholis 
 for the pric^ of the chain ; zo that, at the con- 
 clusion of thj dispu Antipholis and the mer- 
 chant were bo tak n away .o prison together. 
 
 As Antipholis was going to prison, he met 
 Dromio f S racuse, h brother’s slave, and 
 mistaking him for ‘s 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 
 
144 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEA RE. 
 
 he came to tell his master the ship was ready 
 to sail ; for he saw Antipholis was in no humor 
 to be jested with. Therefore he went away, 
 grumbling within himself that he must return 
 to Adriana’s house, “ Where,” said he, “ Dow- 
 sabel 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 Antipholis of Syracuse, 
 who was still in amaze at the surprising adven- 
 tures 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. 
 
 Antipholis began to think he was among a 
 nation of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio 
 did not at all relieve his master from his be- 
 wildered thoughts, by asking him how he got 
 free from the officer who was carrying him to 
 prison, and giving him the purse of gold which 
 Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This 
 talk of Dromio’s of the arrest, and of a prison, 
 and of the money he had brought from Adriana, 
 perfectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, 
 “ This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, 
 
THE CO MED Y OF ERRORS. 
 
 !45 
 
 and we wander here in illusions ; ” and quite 
 terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried 
 out, “ Some blessed power deliver us from this 
 strange place ! ” 
 
 And now another stranger came up to him, 
 and she was a lady, and she too called him 
 Antipholis, and told him he had dined with her 
 that day, and asked him for a gold chain which 
 she said he had promised to give her. Antiph- 
 olis 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 ever seen 
 her face before that moment. The lady per- 
 sisted in affirming he had dined with her, and 
 had promised her a chain, which Antipholis 
 still denying, she farther said, that she had given 
 him a valuable ring, and if he would not give 
 her the gold chain, she insisted upon having 
 her own ring again. On this Antipholis 
 became quite frantic, and again calling her 
 sorceress and witch, and denying all knowl- 
 edge of her and her ring, ran away from her, 
 leaving her astonished at his words and his 
 wild looks, tor nothing to her appeared more 
 certain than that he had dined with her, and 
 that she had given him a ring, in consequence 
 of his promising to make her a present of a 
 gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the 
 same mistake the others had done, for she 
 had taken him for his brother : the married 
 Antipholis had done all the things she taxed 
 this Antipholis with. 
 
 When the married Antipholis was denied 
 
 io 
 
146 tales from shakspeare . 
 
 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 he was very 
 subject, and remembering that she had often 
 falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he 
 to be revenged on her for shutting him out of 
 his own house, determined to go and dine with 
 this lady, and she receiving him with great 
 civility, and his wife having so highly offended 
 him, Antipholis. promised to give her a gold 
 chain, which he had intended as a present for 
 his wife ; it was the same chain which the 
 goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. 
 The lady liked so well the thoughts of having 
 a fine gold chain, that she gave the married 
 Antipholis a ring ; which when, as she sup- 
 posed (taking his brother for him), he denied, 
 and said he did not know her, and left her in 
 such a wild passion, she began to think he was 
 certainly out of his senses ; and presently she 
 resolved to go and tell Adriana that her 
 husband was mad. And while she was telling 
 it to Adriana, he came attended by the jailor 
 (who allowed him to come home to get the 
 money to pay the debt), for the purse of 
 money which Adriana had sent by Dromio, 
 and he had delivered to the other Antipholis. 
 
 Adriana believed the story the lady told her 
 of her husband’s madness must be true when 
 he reproached her for shutting him out of his 
 own house ; and remembering how he had 
 protested all dinner-time that he was not her 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 147 
 
 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 mad- 
 ness : Antipholis all the while hotly exclaiming 
 against this false accusation, which the exact 
 likeness he bore to his brother had brought 
 upon him. But his rage only the more con- 
 firmed them in the belief that he was mad ; and 
 Dromio persisting in the same story, they bound 
 him also, and took him away along with his 
 master. 
 
 Soon after Adriana had put her husband 
 into confinement, a servant came to tell her 
 that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken 
 loose from their keepers, for that they were 
 both walking at liberty in the next street. On 
 hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him 
 home, taking some people with her to secure 
 her husband again ; and her sister went along 
 with her. When they came to the gates of a 
 convent in their neighborhood, there they 
 saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they thought, 
 being again deceived by the likeness of the 
 twin-brothers. 
 
 Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with 
 the perplexities this likeness had brought 
 upon him. The chain which the goldsmith 
 had given him was about his neck, and the 
 goldsmith was reproaching him for denying 
 
148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and 
 Antipholis was protesting that the goldsmith 
 freely gave him the chain in the morning, and 
 that from that hour he had never seen the 
 goldsmith again. 
 
 And now Adriana came up to him, and 
 claimed him as her lunatic husband, who had 
 escaped from his keepers ; and the men she 
 brought with her were going to lay violent 
 hands on Antipholis and Dromio ; but they 
 ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged 
 the abbess to give him shelter in her house. 
 
 And now came out the lady abbess herself 
 to 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 men who had sought 
 protection in her house ; so she strictly ques- 
 tioned the wife about the story she told of her 
 husband’s madness, and she said, “ What is 
 the cause of this sudden distemper of your 
 husband’s ? Has he lost his wealth at sea ? 
 Or is it the death of some dear friend that 
 has disturbed his mind?” Adriana .replied 
 that no such things as these had been the 
 cause. “ Perhaps,” said the abbess, “he has 
 fixed his affections on some other lady than 
 you his wife ; and that has driven him into 
 this state.” Adriana said she had long 
 thought the love of some other lady was the 
 cause of his frequent absences from home. 
 Now it was not his love for another, but the 
 teasing jealousy of his wife’s temper, that 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . 149 
 
 often obliged Antipholis to leave his home; 
 and (the abbess suspecting this from the 
 vehemence of Adriana’s manner) to learn 
 the truth, she said, “ You should have repre- 
 hended him for this.” “ Why, so I did,” 
 replied Adriana. “Ay,” said the abbess, 
 “ but perhaps not enough.” Adriana, willing 
 to convince the abbess that she had said 
 enough to Antipholis on this subject replied, 
 “ It was the constant subject of our conversa- 
 tion : 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 con- 
 fession from the jealous Adriana, now said, 
 “ And therefore comes it that your husband is 
 mad. The venomous clamor of a jealous woman 
 is a more deadly poison than a mad dog’s tooth. 
 It seems his sleep was hindered by your rail- 
 ing ; no wonder that his head is light : and his 
 meat was sauced with your upbraidings ; 
 unquiet meals make ill dig :tions, and that has 
 thrown him into thk f^ver. You say his 
 sports were disturbed by your brawl ; being 
 debarred from the enjoymen' of society and 
 recreation, what could ensue but dull melan- 
 choly and comfortless despair ? The con 
 sequence is, then, that your jealous fits have 
 made your husband mad.” 
 
150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 Luciana would have excused her sister, 
 saying, she always reprehended her husband 
 mildly ; and she said to her sister, “ Why do 
 you hear these rebukes without answering 
 them ? ” But the abbess had made her so 
 plainly perceive her fault, that she could only 
 answer, “ She has betrayed me to my own 
 reproof.” 
 
 Adriana, though ashamed of her own con- 
 duct, 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 ^Egeon’s day of grace was passing away, 
 it being now near sunset ; and at sunset he 
 was doomed to die if he could not pay the 
 money. 
 
 The place of his execution was near this 
 convent, and here he arrived just as the abbess 
 retired into the convent ; the duke attending 
 in person, that if any offered to pay the money 
 he might be present to pardon him. 
 
 Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, 
 and cried out to the duke for justice, telling 
 him that the abbess had refused to deliver up 
 her lunatic husband to her care. While she 
 
THE CO MED Y OF ERR ORS. 1 5 1 
 
 was speaking her real husband and his servant 
 Dromio, who had got loose, came before 
 the duke to demand justice, complaining that 
 his wife had confined him on a false charge of 
 lunacy ; and telling in what manner he had 
 broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of 
 his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised 
 to see her husband, when she thought he had 
 been within the convent. 
 
 ^Egeon, seeing his son, concluded this was 
 the son who had left him to go in search of 
 his mother and his brother ; and he felt secure 
 that this dear son would readily pay the money 
 demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke 
 to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection, 
 with joyful hope that he should now be released. 
 But to the utter astonishment of Higeon his 
 son denied all knowledge of him, as well he 
 might, for this Antipholis had never seen his 
 father since they were separated in the storm 
 in his infancy ; but while the poor old ^Egeon 
 was in vain endeavoring to make his son 
 acknowledge him, thinking surely that either 
 his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered 
 had so strangely altered him that his son did 
 not know him, or else that he was ashamed to 
 acknowledge his father in his misery in the 
 midst of this perplexity the lady abbess and 
 the other Antipholis and Dromio came out, 
 and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands 
 and two Dromios standing before her. 
 
 And now these riddling errors, which had 
 so perplexed them all, were clearly made out. 
 
1 5 2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 When the duke saw the two Antipholises and 
 the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at 
 once conjectured aright of these seeming mys- 
 teries, for he remembered the story Egeon 
 had told him in the morning ; and he said, 
 these men must be the two sons of Egeon and 
 their twin slaves. 
 
 But now an unlooked-for joy indeed com- 
 pleted the history of Egeon ; 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 Egeon, and the fond 
 mother of the .two Antipholises. 
 
 When the fishermen took the eldest 
 Antipholis and Dromio away from her, she 
 entered a nunnery, and by her wise and 
 virtuous conduct she was at length made lady 
 abbess of this convent, and in discharging the 
 rights of hospitality to an unhappy stranger 
 she had unknowingly protected her own son. 
 
 Joyful congratulations and affectionate 
 greetings between these long-separated parents 
 and their children made them for a while forget 
 that Egeon was yet under sentence of death ; 
 but when they were become a little calm, 
 Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke the 
 ransom money for his father’s life ; but the 
 duke freely pardoned Egeon, 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 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS, . 153 
 
 family discourse at leisure of the blessed end- 
 ing of their adverse fortunes. And the two 
 Dromios’ humble joy must not be forgotten ; 
 they had their congratulations and greetings 
 too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented 
 his brother on his good looks, being well 
 pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) 
 show so handsome in his brother. 
 
 Adriana had so well profited by the good 
 counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never 
 after cherished unjust suspicions, or was 
 jealous f her husband. 
 
 Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair 
 Luciana, the sister of his brother’s wife ; and 
 the good old JEgeon, with his wife and sons, 
 lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the 
 unraveling of these perplexities so entirely 
 remove every ground of mistake for the future, 
 but that sometimes, to remind them of advent- 
 ures past, comical blunders would happen, 
 and the one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, 
 be mistaken for the other, making altogether a 
 pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors. 
 
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 in- 
 discretion, or unfeelingness, or worse : for this 
 Claudius did noways 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 sus- 
 picions 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 Den- 
 mark, 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 honor, and a 
 most exquisite practicer of propriety himself, 
 did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct 
 of his mother Gertrude : insomuch that be- 
 tween grief for his father’s death and shame for 
 his mother’s marriage, this young prince was 
 154 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 155 
 
 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 ex- 
 clusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, 
 weighed so much upon his spirits, though that 
 to a young and high-minded prince was a bit- 
 ter wound and a sore indignity ; but what so 
 galled him, and took away all his cheerful 
 spirits, was, that his mother had shown herself 
 so forgetful to his father’s memory : and such a 
 father ! who had been to her soloving and gentle 
 a husband ! and then she always appeared as 
 loving and obedient a wife to him, and would 
 hang upon him as if her affection grew to 
 him : and now within two months, or, as it 
 seemed to young Hamlet, less than two 
 months, she had married again, married his 
 uncle, her dead husband’s brother, in itself a 
 highly improper and unlawful marriage, from 
 the nearness of relationship, but made much 
 more so by the indecent haste with which it was 
 concluded, and the unkingly character of the 
 man whom she had chosen to be the partner 
 of her throne and bed. This it was, which 
 more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed 
 the spirits, and brought a cloud over the mind 
 of this honorable young prince. 
 
156 TARES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 In vain was all that his mother* Gertrude 01 
 the king could do or 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 
 on the day she was married, nor could he be 
 brought to join in any of the festivities or re- 
 joicings of that (as appeared to him) disgrace- 
 ful day. 
 
 What mostly troubled him was an uncer- 
 tainty 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 ser- 
 pent ; in plain English, that he had murdered 
 him for his crown, and that the serpent who 
 stung his father did now, sit on his 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 con- 
 tinually harassed and distracted him. 
 
 A rumor had reached the ear of young 
 Hamlet, that an apparition exactly resembling 
 the dead king his father, had been seen by the 
 soldiers upon watch, on the platform before 
 the palace at midnight, for two or three nights 
 successively. The figure came constantly 
 clad in the same suit of armor, from head to 
 foot, which the dead king was known to have 
 worn : and they who saw it (Hamlet’s bosom- 
 
HAMLET , i PRINCE OF DENMARK, 157 
 
 friend Horatio was one) agreed in their testi- 
 mony as to the manner and time of its appear- 
 ance : 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 color a sable silvered, as 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 agree- 
 ing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it 
 was his father’s ghost which they had seen, 
 and determined to take his watch with the sol- 
 diers that night, that he might have a chance 
 of seeing it : for he reasoned with himself, that 
 such an appearance did not come for nothing, 
 but that the ghost had something to impart, 
 and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it 
 would speak to him. And he waited with im- 
 patience 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 accus- 
 tomed 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, 
 
158 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 which was suddenly broken off by Horatio 
 announcing that the ghost was coming. 
 
 At the sight of his father’s spirit, Hamlet 
 was struck with a sudden 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 for evil : but he gradually 
 assumed more courage : and his father (as it 
 seemed to him) looked upon him so piteously, 
 and as it were desiring to have conversation 
 with him, and did in all respects appear so 
 like himself as he was when he lived, that 
 Hamlet could not help addressing him : he 
 called him by his name Hamlet, King, Father ! 
 and conjured him that he would tell the rea- 
 son why he had left his grave, where they had 
 seen him quietly bestowed, to come again a ad 
 visit the earth and the moonlight : and be- 
 sought him that he would let them know if 
 there was anything which they could do to 
 give peace to his spirit. And the ghost beck- 
 oned 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 
 neighboring sea, or to the top of some dread- 
 ful 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 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, 159 
 
 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 Claud- 
 ius, Hamlet’s uncle, as Hamlet had already 
 but too much suspected, for the hope of suc- 
 ceeding to his bed and crown. That as he 
 was sleeping in his garden, his custom always 
 in the afternoon, this treasonous brother stole 
 upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice 
 of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has 
 such an antipathy to the life of man, that 
 swift as quicksilver it courses through all the 
 veins of the body, baking up the blood, and 
 spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the 
 skin : thus sleeping, by a brother’s hand he 
 was cut off at once, from his crown, his queen, 
 and his life : and he adjured Hamlet, if he 
 did ever his dear father love, that he would 
 revenge his foul murder. And the ghost 
 lamented to his son, that his mother should so 
 fall off from virtue as to prove false to the 
 wedded love of her first husband, and to 
 marry his murderer : but he cautioned Ham- 
 let, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge 
 against his wicked uncle, by no means to act 
 
160 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 any violence against the person of his mother 
 but to leave her to Heaven, and to the stings 
 and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet prom- 
 ised to observe the ghost’s direction in all 
 things, and the ghost vanished. 
 
 And when Hamlet was left alone, he took 
 up a solemn resolution, that all he had in his 
 memory, all that he had ever learned by books 
 or observation, should be instantly forgotten 
 by him, and nothing live in his brain but the 
 memory of what the ghost had told him, and 
 enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the 
 particulars of the conversation which had 
 passed to none but his dear friend Horatio ; 
 and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus 
 the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen 
 that night. 
 
 The terror which the sight of the ghost had 
 left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak 
 and dispirited before, almost unhinged his 
 mind, and drove him beside his reason. And 
 he, fearing that it would continue to have this 
 effect, which might subject him to observation, 
 and set his uncle upon his guard, if he sus- 
 pected 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 resolution, from that time to counter- 
 feit as if he were really and truly mad ; think- 
 ing that he would be less an object of suspicion 
 when his uncle should believe him incapable 
 of any serious project, and that his real per- 
 turbation of mind would be best covered and 
 
HA ML E T, PRINCE OF DENMA RK. 1 6 1 
 
 pass concealed under a disguise of pretended 
 lunacy. 
 
 From this time Hamlet affected a certain 
 wildness and strangeness in his apparel, his 
 speech, and behavior, and did so excellently 
 counterfeit the madman, that the king and 
 queen were both deceived, and not thinking 
 his grief for his father’s death a sufficient cause 
 to produce such a distemper, for they knew 
 not of the appearance of the ghost, they con- 
 cluded that his malady was love, and they 
 thought they had found out the object. 
 
 Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way 
 which has been related, he had dearly loved a 
 fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polo- 
 nius, the king’s chief councilor in affairs of state. 
 He had sent her letters and rings, and made 
 many tenders of his affection to her, and im- 
 portuned her with love in honorable fashion : 
 and she had given belief to his vows and im- 
 portunities. But the melancholy which he fell 
 into latterly had made him neglect her, and 
 from the time he conceived the project of 
 counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat 
 her with unkindness, and a sort of rudeness; 
 but she, good lady, rather than reproach him 
 with being false to her, persuaded herself that 
 it was npthing 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 
 ii 
 
162 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 him, to sweet bells which in themselves are 
 capable of most excellent music, but when 
 jangled out of tune, or rudely handled, produce 
 only a harsh and unpleasing sound. 
 
 Though the rough business which Hamlet 
 had in hand, the revenging of his father’s death 
 upon his murderer, did not suit with the play- 
 ful 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 extravagant terms, 
 such as agreed with his supposed madness, 
 but mixed with some gentle touches of affection, 
 which could not but show to this honored 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 wild 
 ness, for so she hoped that her virtues might 
 happily restore him to his accustomed way 
 again, to both their honors. 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 163 
 
 But Hamlet’s malady lay deeper than she 
 supposed, or than could be so cured. His 
 father’s ghost, which he had seen, still haunted 
 his imagination, and the sacred injunction to 
 revenge his murder gave him no rest till it 
 was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed 
 to him a sin, and a violation of his father’s 
 commands. Yet how to compass the death of 
 the king, surrounded as he constantly was with 
 his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had 
 been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet’s 
 mother, who was generally with the king, was 
 a restraint upon his purpose, which he could 
 not break through. Besides, the very circum- 
 stance that the usurper was his mother’s hus- 
 band, 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 irresolute- 
 ness 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 
 
164 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 would have more certain grounds to go upon 
 than a vision, or apparition, which might be a 
 delusion. 
 
 While he was in this irresolute mind, there 
 came to the court certain players, in whom 
 Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and 
 particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical 
 speech, describing the death of old Priam, king 
 of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba, his queen. 
 Hamlet welcomed his old friends the players, 
 and remembering how that speech had formerly 
 given him pleasure, requested the player to 
 repeat it ; which he did in so lively a manner, 
 setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble 
 old king, with the destruction of his people 
 and city by fire, and the mad grief of the old 
 queen, running barefoot up and down the 
 palace, with a poor clout upon that head where 
 a crown had been, and with nothing but a 
 blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, 
 where she had worn a royal robe: that not only 
 it drew tears from all that stood by, who thought 
 they saw the real scene, so lively was it repre- 
 sented, 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 ficti- 
 tious 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 
 
HAMLET ; PRINCE OF DENMARK, 165 
 
 seemed to have slept in dull and muddy for- 
 getfulness ! And while he meditated on actors 
 and acting, and the powerful effects which a 
 good play, represented to the life, has upon 
 the spectator, he remembered the instance of 
 some murderer, who seeing a murder on the 
 stage, was by the mere force of the scene and 
 resemblance of circumstances so affected, that 
 on the spot he confessed the crime which he 
 had committed. And he determined that 
 these players should play something like the 
 murder of his father before his uncle, and he 
 would watch narrowly what effect it might have 
 upon him, and from his looks he would be able 
 to gather with more certainty if he were the 
 murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a 
 play to be prepared, to the representation of 
 which he invited the king and queen. 
 
 The story of the play was of a murder done 
 in Vienna upon a duke. The duke’s name was 
 Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play 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, in which the lady made many protesta- 
 tions of love, and of never marrying a second 
 
i66 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 husband, if she should outlive Gonzago ; wish- 
 ing she might be accursed if ever she took a 
 second husband, and adding that no woman 
 ever did so but those wicked women who kill 
 their first husbands. Hamlet observed the king, 
 his uncle, change color at this expression, and 
 that it was as bad as wormwood both to him 
 and to the queen. But when Lucianus, accord- 
 ing to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleep- 
 ing 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 
 theater. The king being departed, the play 
 was given over. Now Hamlet had seen 
 enough to feel satisfied that the words of the 
 ghost were true, and no illusion ; and in a fit 
 of gayety, like that which comes over a man 
 who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple 
 resolved, he swore to Horatio, that he would 
 take the ghost’s word for a thousand pounds. 
 But before he could make up his resolution as 
 to what measures of revenge he should take, 
 now he was certainly informed that his uncle 
 was his father’s murderer, he was sent for by 
 the queen, his mother, to a private conference 
 in her closet. 
 
 It was by desire of the king that the queen 
 sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to her 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 167 
 
 son how much his late behavior had displeased 
 them both ; and the king, wishing to know all 
 that passed at that conference, and thinking 
 that the too partial report of a mother might 
 let slip some part of Hamlet’s words, which it 
 might much import the king to know, Polonius, 
 the old councilor of state, was ordered to plant 
 himself behind the hangings in the queen’s 
 closet, where he might unseen hear all that 
 passed. This artifice was particularly adapted 
 to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man 
 grown old in crooked maxims and policies of 
 state, and delighted to get at the knowledge 
 of matters in an indirect and cunning way. 
 
 Hamlet being come to his mother, she began 
 to tax him in the roundest way with his actions 
 and behavior, and she told him that he had 
 given great offense 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 honored a name as father seemed to him, 
 to a wretch who was indeed no better than the 
 murderer of his true father, with some sharp- 
 ness replied, “ Mother, you have much offended 
 my father.” The queen said that was but an 
 idle answer. “ As good as the question 
 deserved,” said Hamlet. The queen asked 
 him if he had forgotten who it was he was 
 speaking to? “ Alas ! ” replied Hamlet, “I 
 wish I could forget. You are the queen, your 
 husband’s brother’s wife ; and you are my 
 mother ; I wish you were not what you are.” 
 
168 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 “ Nay, then/’ said the queen, “ if you show me 
 so little respect, I will send those to you that 
 can speak,” and was going to send the king or 
 Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let 
 her go, now he had her alone, till he had tried 
 if his words could not bring her to some sense 
 of her wicked life ; and, taking her by the wrist, 
 he held her fast, and made her sit down. She, 
 affrighted at his earnest manner, and fearful 
 lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief, 
 cried out : and a voice was heard from behind 
 the hangings, “ Help, help the queen ! ” which 
 Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking 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 councilor, that 
 had planted himself as a spy behind the hang- 
 ings. “ O me ! ” exclaimed the queen, “ what 
 a rash and bloody deed you have done ! ” 
 A bloody deed, mother,” replied Hamlet; 
 “ but not so bad as yours, who killed a king 
 and married his brother. ” Hamlet had gone 
 too far to leave off here. He was now in the 
 humor to speak plainly to his mother, and he 
 pursued it. And though the faults of parents 
 are to be tenderly treated by their children, 
 yet in the case of great crimes the son may 
 have leave to speak even to his own mother 
 with some harshness, so as that harshness is 
 
HAMLET ; PRINCE OF DENMARK. 169 
 
 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 offense, in being so forget- 
 ful of the dead king, his father, as in so short 
 a space of time to marry with his brother and 
 reputed murderer : such an act as, after the 
 vows which she had sworn to her first husband, 
 was enough to make all vows of women sus- 
 pected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, 
 wedding contracts to be less than gamesters’ 
 oaths, and religion to be a mockery and a 
 mere form of words. He said she had done 
 such a deed that the heavens blushed at it, 
 and the earth was sick of her because of it. 
 And he 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 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 
 
170 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 Ham- 
 let, 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 Ham- 
 let 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 per- 
 ceive it, who was terribly 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 offenses, 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 com- 
 pany 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 di- 
 rections, the conference ended. 
 
 And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 171 
 
 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 a little quieter, 
 he wept for what he had done. 
 
 This unfortunate death of Polonius gave 
 the king a pretense for sending Hamlet out of 
 the kingdom. He would willingly have put 
 him to death, fearing him as dangerous ; but 
 he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet ; 
 and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted 
 upon the prince her son. So this subtle king, 
 under pretense of providing for Hamlet’ s safety, 
 that he might not be called to account for Polo- 
 nius’s death, caused him to be conveyed on 
 board a ship bound for England, under the 
 care of two courtiers, by whom he dispatched 
 letters to the English court, which at that time 
 was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, 
 requiring, for special reasons there pretended, 
 that Hamlet should be put to death as soon as 
 he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspect- 
 ing some treachery, in the night-time secretly 
 got at the letters, and skillfully erasing his own 
 name, he in the stead of it put in the names of 
 those two courtiers who had the charge of him 
 to be put to death : then sealing up the letters, 
 he put them into their place again. Soon after 
 the ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea- 
 fight commenced : in the course of which Ham- 
 let, desirous to show his valor, with sword in 
 hand singly boarded the enemy’s vessel, while 
 
172 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 recompense for any favor 
 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 per- 
 fectly 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 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 173 
 
 a brook, and reflected its leaves in the stream. 
 To this brook she came one day when she was 
 unwatched, with garlands she had been making, 
 mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and 
 weeds together, and clambering up to hang her 
 garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough 
 broke and precipitated this fair young maid, 
 garland, and all that she had gathered, into 
 the water, where her clothes bore her up for a 
 while, during which she 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 gar- 
 ments heavy with the wet, pulled her in from 
 her melodious singing to a muddy and miser- 
 able death. It was the funeral of this fair 
 maid which her brother Laertes was celebrat- 
 ing, 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 attend- 
 ants pile mountains of earth upon him, that 
 he might be buried with her. And Hamlet’s 
 
174 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 
 brothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped 
 into the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic 
 or more frantic than he, and Laertes, knowing 
 him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause 
 of his father’s and his sister’s death, grap- 
 pled 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 those two noble youths seemed rec- 
 onciled. 
 
 But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for 
 the death of his father and Ophelia, the king, 
 Hamlet’s wicked uncle, contrived destruction 
 for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover 
 of peace and reconciliation, to challenge Ham- 
 let to a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which 
 Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try 
 the match. At this match all the court was 
 present, and Laertes, by direction of the king 
 prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match 
 great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both 
 Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at 
 this sword-play ; and Hamlet taking up the foils 
 chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery 
 of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes’ 
 
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK , i 175 
 
 weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted 
 sword, which the laws of fencing require, 
 made use of one with a point, and poisoned. 
 At first Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and 
 suffered him to gain some advantages, which 
 the dissembling king magnified and extolled 
 beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet’s success, 
 and wagering rich bets upon the issue : but 
 after a few passes, Laertes, growing warm, 
 made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poi- 
 soned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. 
 Hamlet, incensed, but not knowing the whole 
 of the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his 
 own innocent weapon for Laertes’ deadly one, 
 and with a thrust of Laertes’ own sword repaid 
 Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in 
 his own treachery. In this instatit the queen 
 shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had 
 inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the 
 king had prepared for Hamlet, in case that 
 being warm in fencing he should call for drink ; 
 into this the treacherous king had infused a 
 deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet if 
 Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn 
 the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, 
 and immediately died, exclaiming with her last 
 breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, sus- 
 pecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be 
 shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told him 
 to seek no further, for he was the traitor ; and 
 feeling his life go away with the wound which 
 Hamlet had given him, he made confession of 
 the treachery he had used, and how he had 
 
176 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE , 
 
 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 mur- 
 derer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail 
 and life departing, turned to his dear friend 
 Horatio, who had been spectator of this fatal 
 tragedy ; and with his dying breath requested 
 him that he would live to tell his story to the 
 world (for Horatio had made a motion as if he 
 would slay himself to accompany the prince 
 in death) ; and Horatio promised that he 
 would make a true report as one that was privy 
 to all the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, 
 the noble heart of Hamlet cracked : and Ho- 
 ratio and the bystanders with many tears com- 
 mended the spirit of their sweet prince to the 
 guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a lov- 
 ing and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for 
 his many noble and prince-like qualities ; and 
 if he had lived would no doubt have proved 
 a most royal and complete king to Danmark. 
 
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 fathers. 
 
 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 
 12 177 
 
178 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 ene- 
 my 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 inher- 
 ited from his mother Sycorax would not let 
 him learn anything good or useful : therefore 
 he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, 
 and do the most laborious offices ; and Ariel 
 had the charge of compelling him to these 
 services. 
 
 When Caliban was lazy and neglected his 
 work, Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but 
 Prospero’s) would come slyly and pinch him, 
 and sometimes tumble him down in the mire ; 
 and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, 
 would make mouths at him. Then swiftly 
 changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedge- 
 hog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban’s way, 
 who feared the hedgehog’s sharp quills would 
 prick his bare feet. With a variety of such- 
 like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment 
 him, whenever Caliban neglected the work 
 which Prospero commanded him to do. 
 
 Having these powerful spirits obedient to 
 his will, Prospero could by their means com- 
 mand 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 
 
THE TEMPEST 
 
 179 
 
 wild sea-waves that every moment threatened 
 to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a 
 line large ship, which he told her was full of 
 living beings like themselves. “ O my dear 
 father,” said she, “ if by your art you have 
 raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their 
 sad distress. See ! the vessel will be dashed 
 to pieces. Poor souls ! they will all perish. 
 If I had power I would sink the sea beneath 
 the earth, rather than the good ship should be 
 destroyed, with all the precious souls within 
 her.” 
 
 “ Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” 
 said Prospero ; “ there is no harm done. I 
 have so ordered it that no person in the ship 
 shall receive any hurt. What I have done has 
 been in care of you, my dear child. You are 
 ignorant who you are, or where you came 
 from, and you know no more of me but that I 
 am your father, and live in this poor cave. 
 Can you remember a time before you came to 
 this cell ? I think you cannot, for you were 
 not then three years of age.” 
 
 “ Certainly I can, sir,” replied Miranda. 
 
 “ By what ? ” asked Prospero : “ by any 
 other house or person ? Tell me what you 
 can remember, my child.” 
 
 Miranda said, “ It seems to me lilse 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 ? ” 
 
i8o 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEA RE. 
 
 “ No, sir,” said Miranda, “ I remember 
 nothing more.” 
 
 “ Twelve years ago, Miranda,” continued 
 Prospero, “ I was duke of Milan, and you 
 were a princess, and my only heir. I had a 
 younger brother whose name was Antonio, 
 to whom I trusted everything ; and as I was 
 fond of retirement and deep study, I com- 
 monly left the management of my state affairs 
 to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed 
 he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, 
 buried among my books, did dedicate my 
 whole time to the bettering of my mind. My 
 brother Antonio being thus in possession of 
 my power, began to think himself the duke 
 indeed. The opportunity I gave him of 
 making himself popular among my subjects 
 awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition 
 to deprive me of my dukedom ; this he soon 
 effected with the aid of the King of Naples, a 
 powerful prince, who was my enemy.” 
 
 “Wherefore,” said Miranda, “did they not 
 that hour destroy us ? ” 
 
 “ My child,” answered her father, “ they 
 durst not r 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.” 
 
THE TEMPEST . 
 
 181 
 
 “ O my father,” said Miranda, “ what a 
 trouble must I have been to you then ! ” 
 
 “ No, my love,” said Prospero, “ you were 
 a little cherub that did preserve me. Your 
 innocent smiles made me to bear up against 
 my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we 
 landed on this desert island, since when my 
 chief delight has been in teaching you, Mi- 
 randa, and well have you profited by my in- 
 structions.” 
 
 “ Heaven thank you, my dear father,” said 
 Miranda. “ Now pray tell me, sir, your reason 
 for raising this sea-storm.” . 
 
 u 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 terror of the mariners ; and how 
 the king’s son, Ferdinand, was the first who 
 leaped into the sea, and his father thought he 
 saw this dear son swallowed up by the waves 
 
182 tales from shakspeare. 
 
 and lost. “ But he is safe/’ said Ariel, “ in a 
 corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded 
 sadly, lamenting the loss of the king his father, 
 whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of 
 his head is injured, and his princely garments, 
 though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher 
 than before.” 
 
 “ That’s my delicate Ariel,” said Prospero. 
 “ Bring him hither : my daughter must see 
 this young prince. Where is the king, and 
 my brother ? ” 
 
 “ I left them,” answered Ariel, “ searching 
 for Ferdinand, whom they have little hopes 
 of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of 
 the ship’s crew not one is missing ; though 
 each one thinks himself the only one saved : 
 and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe 
 in the harbor.” 
 
 “Ariel,” said Prospero, “ thy charge is faith- 
 fully performed ; but there is more work yet.” 
 
 “ Is there more work ? ” said Ariel. “ Let 
 me remind you, master, you have promised me 
 my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done 
 you worthy service, told you no lies, made no 
 mistakes, served you without grudge or grum- 
 bling.” 
 
 “ How now,” said Prospero. “ You do not 
 recollect what a torment I freed you from. 
 Have you forgotten 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. 
 
 “ Oh, was she so ? ” said Prospero. “ I must 
 
THE TEMPEST 
 
 183 
 
 recount what you have been, which I find you 
 do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, 
 for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human 
 hearing, was banished from Algiers, and here 
 left by the sailors ; and because you were a 
 spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
 mands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found 
 you howling. This torment, remember, I did 
 free you from.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, dear master,” said Ariel, 
 ashamed to seem ungrateful ; “ I will obey 
 your commands.” 
 
 “ Do so,” said Prospero, “ and I will set you 
 free.” He then gave orders what farther he 
 would have him do, and away went Ariel, first 
 to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him 
 still sitting on the grass in the same melan- 
 choly posture. 
 
 “ O my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when 
 he saw him, “ I will soon move you. You 
 must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda 
 to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, 
 sir, follow me.” fie 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 
 
184 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 he had fallen. He followed in amazement the 
 sound of Ariel’s voice, till it led him to Prospero 
 and Miranda, who were seated 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 sur- 
 prise, “ surely that is a spirit. Lord ! how it 
 looks about ! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful 
 creature. Is it not a spirit ? ” 
 
 “ No, girl,” answered her father; “ it eats, 
 and sleeps, and has senses such as we have. 
 This young man you see was in the ship. He 
 is somewhat altered by grief, or you might 
 call him a handsome person. He has lost his 
 companions, and is wandering about to find 
 them.” 
 
 Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces 
 and gray beards like her father, was delighted 
 with the appearance of this beautiful young 
 prince ; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely 
 lady in this desert place, and from the strange 
 sounds he had heard, expected 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 an 
 account of herself, when Prospero interrupted 
 her. He was well pleased to find they admired 
 each other, for he plainly perceived they had 
 
THE TEMPEST 
 
 *8 S 
 
 (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 advanc- 
 ing forward, he addressed the prince with a 
 stern air, telling him, he came to the island as 
 a spy, to take it from him who was the lord of 
 it. “ Follow me,” said he, “ I will tie your neck 
 and feet together. You shall drink sea-water : 
 shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns 
 shall be your food.” “ No,” said Ferdinand, 
 “ I will resist such entertainment till I see a 
 more powerful enemy,” and drew his sword : 
 but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him 
 to the spot where he stood, so that he had no 
 power to move. 
 
 Miranda hung upon her father, saying, “ Why 
 are you so ungentle ? Have pity, sir ; I will 
 be his surety. This is the second man I ever 
 saw, and to me he seems a true one.” 
 
 “ Silence,” said her father, “ one word more 
 will make me chide you, girl ! What ! an advo- 
 cate for an impostor ! You think there are no 
 more such fine men, having seen only him and 
 Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men as 
 far excel this as he does Caliban.” This he 
 said to prove his daughter’s constancy ; and 
 she replied, “ My affections are most humble. 
 I have no wish to see a goodlier man.” 
 
 u 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 it was by magic he was de- 
 
i86 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 prived of all power of resistance, he was aston- 
 ished to find he was so strangely compelled to 
 follow Prospero : looking back on Miranda as 
 long as he could see her, he said, as he went 
 after Prospero into the cave, “ My spirits are 
 all bound up, as if I were in a dream ; but this 
 man’s threats, and the weakness which I feel, 
 would seem light to me if from my prison I 
 might once a day behold this fair maid.” 
 
 Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined 
 within the cell : he soon brought out his pris- 
 oner, and set him a severe task to perform, tak- 
 ing care to let his daughter know the hard labor 
 he had imposed on him, and then pretending 
 to go into his study, he secretly watched them 
 both. 
 
 Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile 
 up some heavy logs of wood. King’s 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 Ferdi 
 nand would by no means agree to. Instead of 
 a help, Miranda became a hindrance, for they 
 began a long conversation, so that the business 
 of log-carrying went on very slowly. 
 
 Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 1 87 
 
 task merely as a trial of his love, was not at his 
 books as his daughter supposed, but was stand- 
 ing by them invisible, to overhear what they 
 said. 
 
 Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told 
 him, saying it was against her father’s express 
 command she did so. 
 
 Prospero only smiled at this first instance of 
 his daughter’s disobedience, for having by his 
 magic art caused his daughter to fall in love so 
 suddenly he was not angry that she showed her 
 love by forgetting to obey his commands. And 
 he listened well pleased to a long speech of 
 Ferdinand’s, in which he professed to love her 
 above all the ladies he ever saw. 
 
 In answer to his praises of her beauty, which 
 he said exceeded all the women in the world, 
 she replied, “ I do not remember the face of 
 any woman, nor have I seen any more men 
 than you, my good friend, and my dear father. 
 How features are abroad I know not ; but 
 believe me, sir, I would not wish any compan- 
 ion in the world but you, nor can my imagina- 
 tion form any shape but y urs 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 
 
i88 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 heir to the crown of Naples, and that she should 
 be his queen. 
 
 “ Ah ! sir,” said she, “ I am a fool to weep 
 at what I am glad of. I will answer you in 
 plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if 
 you will marry me.” 
 
 Prospero prevented Ferdinand’s thanks by 
 appearing visible before them. 
 
 “ Fear nothing, my child,” said he ; I have 
 overheard, and approve of all you have said. 
 And Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, 
 I will make you rich amends, by giving you my 
 daughter. All your vexations were but my 
 trials of your love, and you have nobly stood 
 the test. Then as my gift, which your true 
 love has worthily purchased, take my daughter, 
 and do not smile that I boast she is above all 
 praise.” He then, telling them that he had 
 business which required his presence, desired 
 they would sit down and talk together, till he 
 returned ; and this command Miranda seemed 
 not at all disposed to disobey. 
 
 When Prospero left them, he called his 
 spirit An^\ 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 wanaering 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 
 
THE TEMPEST 
 
 189 
 
 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 Pros- 
 pero : “ 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 theip quickly, my dainty Ariel.” 
 
 Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, 
 and old Gonzalo in their train, who had fol- 
 lowed him wondering at the wild music he 
 played in the air to draw them on to his 
 master’s presence. This Gonzalo was the 
 same who had so kindly provided Prospero 
 formerly with books and provisions, when his 
 wicked brother left him, as he thought, to 
 perish in an open boat in the sea. 
 
 Grief and terror had so stupefied their 
 senses, that they did not know Prospero. He 
 first discovered himself to the good old Gon- 
 zalo, calling him the preserver of his life ; and 
 then his brother and the king knew that he 
 was the injured Prospero. 
 
I go TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow 
 and true repentance, implored his brother’s 
 forgiveness ; and the king expressed his sin- 
 cere remorse for having assisted Antonio to 
 depose his brother : and Prospero forgave 
 them ; and, upon their engaging to restore his 
 dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, “I 
 have a gift in store for you too ; ” and opening 
 a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing 
 at chess with Miranda. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the joy of the father 
 and the son at this unexpected meeting, for 
 they each thought the other drowned in the 
 storm. 
 
 “ O wonder ! ” said Miranda, “what noble 
 creatures these are ; it must surely be a brave 
 world that has such people in it.” 
 
 The king of Naples was ajmost as much as- 
 tonished at the beauty and excellent grace 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 fa- 
 mous 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 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 i 9 i 
 
 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’s forgiveness.” 
 
 “ No more of that,” said Prospero : let us 
 not remember our troubles past, since they so 
 happily have ended.” And then Prospero 
 embraced his brother, and again assured him 
 of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise, over- 
 ruling Providence had permitted that he should 
 be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, 
 that his daughter might inherit the crown of 
 Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert 
 island, it had happened that the king’s son had 
 loved Miranda. 
 
 These kind words which Prospero spoke, 
 meaning to comfort his brother, so filled An- 
 tonio with shame and remorse, that he wept 
 and was unable to speak; and the kind old 
 Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, 
 and prayed for blessings on the young couple. 
 
 Prospero now told them that their ship was 
 safe in the harbor, and the sailors all on board 
 her, and that he and his daughter would ac- 
 company them home the next morning. “ In 
 the meantime,” said he, “ partake of such re- 
 freshments as my poor cave affords ; and for 
 your evening’s entertainment I will relate the 
 history of my life from my first landing in this 
 desert island.” He then called for Caliban to 
 prepare some food, and set the cave in order ; 
 and the company were astonished at the un- 
 
1 9 2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 couth 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 dis- 
 missed Ariel from his service, to the great joy 
 of that lively little spirit, who though he had 
 been a faithful servant to his master, was 
 always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to 
 wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, 
 under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and 
 sweet-smelling flowers. u 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 : 
 
 “ Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 
 In a cowslip’s bell I lie : 
 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 
 On the bat’s back I do fly 
 After summer merrily. 
 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.” 
 
 Prospero then buried deep in the earth his 
 magical books and wand, for he was resolved 
 never more to make use of the magic art. And 
 having thus overcome his enemies, and being 
 reconciled to his brother and the king of 
 Naples, nothing now remained to complete his 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 *93 
 
 happiness, but to revisit his native land, to 
 take possession of his dukedom, and to wit- 
 ness the happy nuptials of his daughter 
 Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the 
 king said should be instantly celebrated with 
 great splendor on their return to Naples. At 
 which place, under the safe convoy of the 
 spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage soon 
 arrived. 
 
 !3 
 
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 banished his 
 elder brother, the lawful duke. 
 
 The duke, who was thus driven from his 
 dominions, retired with a few faithful followers 
 to the forest of Arden : and here the good 
 duke lived with his loving friends, who had 
 put themselves into a voluntary exile for his 
 sake, while their land and revenues enriched 
 the false usurper; and custom soon made the 
 life of careless ease they led here more sweet 
 to them than the pomp and uneasy splendor 
 of a courtier’s life. Here they lived like the 
 old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest 
 many noble youths daily resorte‘d 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 sup- 
 ply themselves with venison for their food. 
 When the cold winds of winter made the duke 
 194 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 195 
 
 feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would 
 endure it patiently and say, “ These chilling 
 winds which blow upon my body are true 
 counselors : they do not flatter, but represent 
 truly to me my condition : and though they 
 bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen 
 as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find 
 that, howsoever men speak against adversity, 
 yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from 
 it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which 
 is taken from the head of the venomous and 
 despised toad.” In this manner did the 
 patient duke draw a useful moral from every- 
 thing that he saw ; and by the help of this 
 moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from 
 public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, 
 books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, 
 and good in everything. 
 
 The banished duke had an only daughter, 
 named Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke 
 Frederick, when he banished her father, still 
 retained in his court as a companion for his 
 own daughter Celia. A strict friendship sub- 
 sisted'between these ladies, which the disagree- 
 ment between their fathers did not in the least 
 interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in 
 her power to make amends to Rosalind for the 
 injustice of her own father in deposing the 
 father of Rosalind, and whenever the thoughts 
 of her father’s banishment and her own 
 dependence on the false usurper made Rosa- 
 lind melancholy, Celia’s whole care was to 
 comfort and console her. 
 
196 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 One day, when Celia was talking in her 
 usual kind manner to Rosalind, saying, “ I pray 
 you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry,” a 
 messenger entered from the duke, to tell them 
 that if they wished to see a wrestling match, 
 which was just going to begin, they must come 
 instantly to the court before the palace ; and 
 Celia, thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed 
 to go and see it. 
 
 In those times wrestling, which is only 
 practiced now by country clowns, was a favor- 
 ite sport even in the courts of princes, and 
 before fair ladies and princesses. To this 
 wrestling match therefore Celia and Rosalind 
 went They found that it was likely to prove 
 a very tragical sight ; for a large and powerful 
 man, who had long been practiced in the art 
 of wrestling, and had slain many men in con- 
 tests 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 the 
 attempt ; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 1 97 
 
 to him, and with such feeling consideration for 
 the danger he was about to undergo, that in- 
 stead 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 re- 
 quest of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful 
 and modest words, that they felt still more con- 
 cern for him ; he concluded his refusal with 
 saying, “ I am sorry to deny such fair and ex- 
 cellent 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 noth- 
 ing ; 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 friend- 
 less >state which he said he was in, and that he 
 wished to die, made Rosalind think that he 
 was, like herself, unfortunate ; and she pitied 
 him so much, and so deep an interest she took 
 in his danger while he was wrestling, that she 
 might almost be said at that moment to have 
 fallen in love with him. 
 
 The kindness shown this unknown youth by 
 these fair and noble ladies gave him courage 
 and strength, so that he performed wonders ; 
 
jgS TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 and in the end completely conquered his antag- 
 onist, 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 pro- 
 tection. 
 
 The stranger said his name was Orlando, and 
 that he was the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
 de Boys. 
 
 Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, 
 had been dead some years ; but when he was 
 living he had been a true subject and dear friend 
 of the banished duke: therefore when Frederick 
 heard Orlando was the son of his banished 
 brother’s friend, all his liking for this brave 
 young man was changed into displeasure, and 
 he left the place in very ill humor. Hating 
 to hear the very name of any of his brother's 
 friends, and yet still admiring the valor of the 
 youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished 
 Orlando had been the son of any other man. 
 
 Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new 
 favorite was the son of her father’s old friend ; 
 and she said to Celia, “ My father loved Sir Row- 
 land de Boys, and if I had known this young 
 man was his son, I would have added tears to 
 my entreaties before he should have ventured.” 
 
 The ladies then went up to him ; and seeing 
 him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown 
 by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging 
 words to him ; and Rosalind, when they 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT \ 
 
 199 
 
 were going away, turned back to speak some 
 more civil things to the brave young son of 
 her father’s old friend ; and taking a chain 
 from off her neck, she said, “ Gentleman, wear 
 this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, 
 or I would give you a more valuable present.” 
 
 When the ladies were alone, Rosalind’s talk 
 being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive 
 her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome 
 young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, “ Is 
 it possible you should fall in love so suddenly ? ” 
 Rosalind replied, “ The duke, my father, loved 
 his father dearly.” “ But,” said Celia, “ does 
 it therefore follow that you should love his son 
 dearly ? for then I ought to hate him, -for my 
 father hated his father ; yet I do not hate 
 Orlando.” 
 
 Frederick being enraged at the sight of 
 sir Rowland de Boys’ son, which reminded 
 him of the many friends the banished duke had 
 among the nobility, and having been for some 
 time displeased with his niece, because the 
 people praised her for her virtues and pitied her 
 for her good father’s sake, his malice suddenly 
 broke out against her ; and while Celia and 
 Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick 
 entered the room, and with looks full of anger 
 ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, 
 and follow her father into banishment ; telling 
 Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had 
 only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her ac- 
 count. “ I did not then,” said Celia, “ entreat 
 you to let her stay : for I was too young at 
 
200 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 that time to value her ; but now that I know 
 her worth, and that we so long have slept to- 
 gether, rose at the same instant, learned, 
 played, and eat together, I cannot live out of 
 her company.” Frederick replied, “ She is too 
 subtle for you ; her smoothness, her very 
 silence, and her patience, speak to the people, 
 and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for 
 her, for you will seem more bright and virtuous 
 when she is gone ; therefore open not your lips 
 in her favor, for the doom which I have passed 
 upon her is irrevocable.” 
 
 When Celia found she could not prevail upon 
 her father to let Rosalind remain with her, she 
 generously resolved to accompany her ; and, 
 leaving her father's palace that night, she went 
 along with her friend to seek Rosalind’s father, 
 the banished duke, in the forest of Arden. 
 
 Before they set out, Celia considered that 
 it would be unsafe for two young ladies to 
 travel in the rich clothes they then wore : she 
 therefore proposed that they should disguise 
 their rank by dressing themselves like country 
 maids. Rosalind said it would be a still greater 
 protection if one of them was to be dressed 
 like a man ; and so it was quickly agreed on 
 between them, that as Rosalind was the 
 tallest, she should wear the dress of a young 
 countryman, and Celia should be habited 
 like a country lass, and that they should say 
 they were brother and sister, and Rosalind 
 said she would be called Ganimed, and Celia 
 chose the name of Aliena. 
 
AS you LIKE IT : 
 
 201 
 
 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 Ganimed 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 accom- 
 panying Rosalind so many weary miles made 
 the new brother, in recompense for this true 
 love, exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were 
 indeed Ganimed, the rustic and stout-hearted 
 brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena. 
 
 When at last they came to the forest of 
 Arden, they no longer found the convenient 
 inns and good accommodations they had met 
 with on the road ; and being in want of food 
 and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily cheered 
 his sister with pleasant speeches and happy 
 remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena 
 that he was so weary, he could find in his 
 heiart to disgrace his man’s apparel, and cry 
 like a woman'; and Aliena declared she could 
 go no farther ; and then again Ganimed tried 
 to recollect that it was a man’s duty to comfort 
 and console a woman, as the weaker vessel : 
 and to seem courageous to his new sister, he 
 said, “ Come, have a good heart, my sister 
 Aliena; we are now at the end of our travel, 
 in the forest of Arden.” But feigned manli- 
 ness and forced courage would no longer sup- 
 port them ; for though they were in the forest 
 
202 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 of Arden, they knew not where to find the 
 duke : and here the travel of these weary ladies 
 might have come to a sad conclusion, for 
 they might have lost themselves, and have 
 perished for want of food ; but, providentially, 
 as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying 
 with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a 
 countryman chanced to pass that way, and 
 Ganimed once more tried to speak with a 
 manly boldness, saying, “ Shepherd, if love or 
 gold can in this desert place procure us enter- 
 tainment, I pray you bring us where we may 
 rest ourselves ; for this young maid, my sister, 
 is much fatigued with traveling, and faints 
 for want of food.” 
 
 The man replied, that he was only servant 
 to a shepherd, and that his master’s house was 
 just going to be sold, and therefore they would 
 find but poor entertainment ; but that if they 
 would go with him, they should be welcome 
 to what there was. They followed the man, 
 the near prospect of relief giving them fresh 
 strength ; and bought the house and sheep 
 of the shepherd, and took the man who con- 
 ducted them to the shepherd’s house, to wait 
 on them ; and being by this means so fortu- 
 nately provided with a neat cottage, and well 
 supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay 
 here till they could learn in what part of the 
 forest the duke dwelt. 
 
 When they were rested after the fatigue of 
 their journey, they began to like their new 
 way of life, and almost fancied themselves the 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT, 
 
 203 
 
 shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be ; 
 yet sometimes Ganimed remembered he had 
 once been the same lady Rosalind who had so 
 dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was 
 the son of old Sir Rowland, her father’s friend ; 
 and though Ganimed though that Orlando 
 was many miles distant, even so many weary 
 miles as they had traveled, yet it soon ap- 
 peared 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 bless- 
 ing, to give his brother a good education, and 
 provide for him as became the dignity of their 
 ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy 
 brother ; and disregarding the commands of 
 his dying father, he never put his brother to 
 school, but kept him at home untaught and 
 entirely neglected. But in his nature and in 
 the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so 
 much resembled his excellent father, that 
 without any advantages of education he 
 seemed like a youth who had been bred with 
 the utmost care ; and Oliver so envied the fine 
 person and dignified manners of his untutored 
 brother, that at last he wished to destroy him ; 
 and to effect this he set on people to persuade 
 him to wrestle with the famous wrestler who, 
 as has been before related, had killed so many 
 men. Now it was this cruel brother’s neglect 
 
204 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 of him which made Orlando say he wished to 
 die, being so friendless. 
 
 When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had 
 formed, his brother proved victorious, his 
 envy and malice knew no bounds, and he 
 swore he would burn the chamber where 
 Orlando slept. He was overheard making 
 this vow by one that had been an old and 
 faithful servant to their father, and that loved 
 Orlando because he resembled Sir Rowland. 
 This old man went out to meet him when he 
 returned from the duke’s palace, and when he 
 saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master 
 was in made him break out into these passion- 
 ate exclamations : “ O my gentle master, 
 
 my sweet master, O you memory of old 
 Sir Rowland ! why are you virtuous ? why 
 are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? and 
 why would you be so fond to overcome the 
 famous wrestler ? Your phrase 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 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 205 
 
 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 neces- 
 sities. “ O good old man ! ” said Orlando, 
 44 how well appears in you the constant service 
 of the old world ! You are not for the fashion 
 of these times. We will go along together, 
 and before your youthful wages are spent I 
 shall light upon some means for both our 
 maintenance.” 
 
 Together then this faithful servant and his 
 loved master set out ; and Orlando and Adam 
 traveled on, uncertain what course to pursue, 
 till they came to the forest of Arden, and there 
 they found themselves in the same distress for 
 want of food that Ganimed and Aliena had 
 been. They wandered on, seeking some 
 human habitation, till they were almost spent 
 with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, 
 “ O my dear master, I die for want of food — I 
 can go no farther ! ” He then laid himself 
 down, thinking to make that place his grave, 
 and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, 
 seeing him in this weak state, took his old 
 servant up in his arms, and carried him under 
 the shelter of some pleasant trees ; and he 
 said to him, “ Cheerly, old Adam, rest your 
 weary limbs here a while, and do not talk of 
 dying ! ” 
 
206 tales from shakspeare . 
 
 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 cover 
 of some large trees. 
 
 Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, 
 drew his sword, intending to take their meat 
 by force, and said, “ Forbear, and eat no more ; 
 I must have your food ! ” The duke asked 
 him if distress had made him so bold, or if he 
 were a rude despiser of good manners ? On 
 this Orlando said he was dying with hunger ; 
 and then the duke told him he was welcome 
 to sit down and eat with them. Orlando, 
 hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword, 
 and blushed with shame at the rude manner 
 in which he had demanded their food. 
 “ Pardon me, I pray you,” said he : “ I thought 
 that all things had been savage here, and 
 therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
 command ; but whatever men you are, that in 
 this desert, under the shade of melancholy 
 boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of 
 time : if ever you have looked on better days ; 
 if ever you have been where bells have knolled 
 to church ; if you have ever sat at any good 
 man’s feast ; if ever from your eyelids you 
 have wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity 
 or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move 
 you to do me human courtesy!” The duke 
 replied, “ True it is that we are men (as you 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 207 
 
 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 ye down, and take 
 of our refreshment as much as will minister to 
 your wants.” “ There is an old poor man,” 
 answered Orlando, “ who has limped after me 
 many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at 
 once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger ; 
 till he be satisfied, I must not touch a bit.” 
 “ Go, find him out, and bring him hither,” said 
 the duke ; “ we will forbear to eat till you 
 return.” Then Orlando went like a doe to 
 find its fawn and give it food ; and presently 
 returned, bringing Adam in his arms ; and the 
 duke said, “ Set down your venerable burthen ; 
 you are both welcome : ” and they fed the old 
 man and cheered his heart, and he revived, 
 and recovered his health and strength again. 
 
 The duke 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 Ganimed and Aliena came there, and (as 
 has been before related) bought the shepherd’s 
 cottage. 
 
 Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised 
 to find the name of Rosalind carved on the 
 
208 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all 
 addressed to Rosalind : and while they were 
 wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, 
 and they perceived the chain which Rosalind 
 had given him about his neck. 
 
 Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the 
 fair princess Rosalind, who, by her noble con- 
 descension and favor, had so won his heart 
 that he passed his whole time in carving her 
 name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in 
 praise of her beauty : but being much pleased 
 with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd- 
 youth, he entered into conversation with him, 
 and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed 
 to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none 
 of the dignified deportment of that noble lady ; 
 for Ganimed assumed the forward manners 
 often seen in youths when they are between 
 boys and men, and with much archness and 
 humor talked to Orlando of a certain lover, 
 “who,” said he, “haunts our forest, and spoils 
 our young trees with carving Rosalind upon 
 their barks ; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, 
 and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 
 Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would 
 give him some good counsel that would soon 
 cure him of his love.” 
 
 Orlando confessed that he was the fond 
 lover of whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed 
 to give him the good counsel he talked of. 
 The remedy Ganimed proposed, and the 
 counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should 
 come every day to the cottage where he and 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 209 
 
 his sister Aliena dwelt. “ And then,” said 
 Ganimed, “ I will feign myself to be Rosalind, 
 and you shall feign to court me in the same 
 manner as you would do if I were Rosalind, and 
 then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim- 
 sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you 
 ashamed of your love ; and this is the way I 
 propose to cure you.” Orlando had no great 
 faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come 
 every day to Ganimed’s cottage, and feign 
 a playful courtship ; and every day Orlando 
 visited Ganimed and Aliena, and Orlando 
 called the shepherd Ganimed his Rosalind, and 
 every day talked over all the fine words and 
 flattering compliments which young men de- 
 light to use when they court their mistresses. 
 It does not appear, however, that Ganimed 
 made any progress in curing Orlando of his 
 love for Rosalind. 
 
 Though Orlando thought all this was but a 
 sportive play (not dreaming that Ganimed was 
 his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave 
 him of saying all the fond things he had in his 
 heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it 
 did Ganimed’s, who enjoyed the secret jest in 
 knowing these fine love-speeches were all 
 addressed to the right person. 
 
 In this manner many days passed pleasantly 
 on with these young people ; and the good- 
 natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, 
 let him have his own way, and was diverted at 
 the mock courtship, and did not care to remind 
 Ganimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet 
 14 
 
210 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 made herself known to the duke her father, 
 whose place of resort in the forest they had 
 learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke 
 one day, and had some talk with him, and the 
 duke asked of what parentage he came. Gani- 
 med answered that he came of as good a paren- 
 tage as he did ; which made the duke smile, for 
 he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy 
 came of royal lineage. Then seeing the duke 
 look well and happy, Ganimed was content to 
 put off all further explanation for a few days 
 longer. 
 
 One morning, as Orlando was going to visit 
 Ganimed, he saw a man lying asleep on the 
 ground, and a large green snake had twisted 
 itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Or- 
 lando approach, glided away among the bushes. 
 Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered 
 a lioness lie couching, with her head on the 
 ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting till the 
 sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions 
 will prey on nothing that is dead or sleeping). 
 It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Provi- 
 dence 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 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 21 1 
 
 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 : and 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 
 Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother 
 to go and tell Ganimed, “ whom,” said Orlando, 
 “ I in sport do call my Rosalind,” the accident 
 which had befallen him. 
 
 Thither then Oliver went, and told to Gani- 
 med 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. 
 
212 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed 
 for his offenses made such a lively impression 
 on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly 
 fell in love with him ; and Oliver observing 
 how much she pitied the distress he told her 
 he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love 
 with her. But while love was thus stealing 
 into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was 
 no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing of 
 the danger Orlando had been in, and that he 
 was wounded by the lioness, fainted : and when 
 he recovered, he pretended he had counter- 
 feited the swoon in the imaginary character of 
 Rosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, “ Tell 
 your brother Orlando how w.ell I counterfeited 
 a swoon. ” But Oliver saw by the paleness of 
 his complexion that he did really faint, and 
 much wondering at the weakness of the young 
 man, he said, “ Well, if you did counterfeit, 
 take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.” 
 “ So I do,” replied Ganimed, truly, “ but I 
 should have been a woman by right.” 
 
 Oliver made this visit a very long one, and 
 when at last he returned back to his brother, 
 he had much news to tell him ; for besides the 
 account of Ganimed’s fainting at the hearing 
 that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told him 
 how he had fallen in love with the fair shep- 
 herdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favor- 
 able 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 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 213 
 
 he would live here as a shepherd, and settle 
 his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 
 
 “ You have my consent,” said Orlando. 
 “ Let your wedding be to-morrow, and I will 
 invite the duke and his friends. Go and per- 
 suade your shepherdess to agree to this : she is 
 now alone ; for look, here comes her brother.” 
 Oliver went to Aliena ; and Ganimed, whom 
 Orlando had seen approaching, came to inquire 
 after the health of his wounded friend. 
 
 When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk 
 over the sudden love which had taken place 
 between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he 
 had advised his brother to persuade his fair 
 shepherdess to be married on the morrow, and 
 then he added how much he could wish to be 
 married on the same day to his Rosalind. 
 
 Ganimed, who well approved of this arrange- 
 ment, said that if Orlando really loved Rosa- 
 lind 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 will- 
 ing to marry Orlando. 
 
 This seemingly wonderful event, which, as 
 Ganimed was the lady Rosalind, he could so 
 easily perform, he pretended he would bring 
 to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he 
 had learnt of an uncle who was a famous 
 magician. 
 
 The fond lover Orlando, half believing and 
 half doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed 
 if he spoke in sober meaning. “ By my life I 
 
2 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 do,” said Ganimed ; “ therefore put on your 
 best clothes, and bid the duke and your friends 
 to your wedding ; for if you desire to be mar- 
 ried to-morrow to Rosalind she shall be here.” 
 
 The next morning, Oliver having obtained 
 the consent of Aliena, they came into the pres- 
 ence 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 Ganimed was making a jest of Orlando. 
 
 The Duke, hearing it was his own daughter 
 that was to be brought in this strange way, 
 asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy 
 could really do what he had promised ; and 
 while Orlando was answering that he knew 
 not what to think, Ganimed entered and asked 
 the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether 
 he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. 
 “That I would,” said the duke, “if I had king- 
 doms to give with her. Ganimed then said to 
 Orlando, “ And you say you will marry her if I 
 bring her here ? ” That I would, said Orlando, 
 “ if I were king of many kingdoms.” 
 
 Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, 
 and Ganimed throwing off his male attire, and 
 being once more dressed in woman’s apparel, 
 quickly became Rosalind without the power of 
 magic ; and Aliena, changing her country garb 
 for her own rich clothes, was with as little 
 trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 2I 5 
 
 While they were gone, the duke said to 
 Orlando, that he thought the shepherd Gam- 
 med very like his daughter Rosalind ; and 
 Orlando said, he also had observed the resem- 
 blance. 
 
 They had no time to wonder how all this 
 would end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own 
 clothes entered ; and no longer pretending that 
 it was by the power of magic that she came 
 there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees be- 
 fore 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 dwell- 
 ing in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin 
 Celia passing as her sister. 
 
 The duke ratified the consent he had already 
 given to the marriage ; and Orlando and Rosa- 
 lind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the 
 same time. And though their wedding could 
 not be celebrated in this wild forest with any 
 of the parade or splendor usual on such occa- 
 sions, yet a happier wedding-day was never 
 passed : and while they were eating their veni- 
 son under the cool shade of the trees, as if 
 nothing should be wanting to complete the 
 felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, 
 an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the 
 duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was 
 restored to him. 
 
 The usurper, enraged at the flight of his 
 
2 1 6 TALES FROM SU A KS PE A RE. 
 
 daughter Celia, and hearing that every day 
 men of great worth resorted to the forest of 
 Arden to join the lawful duke in his exile, 
 much envying that his brother should be so 
 highly respected in his adversity, put himself 
 at the head of a large force, and advanced to 
 the forest, intending to seize his brother, and 
 put him, with all his faithful followers, to the 
 sword ; but by a wonderful interposition of 
 Providence, this bad brother was converted 
 from his evil intention : for just as he entered 
 tfre skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an 
 old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had 
 much talk, and who in the end completely 
 turned his heart from his wicked design. 
 Thenceforward he became a true penitent, 
 and resolved, relinquishing his unjust domin- 
 ion, to spend the remainder of his days in a 
 religious house. The first act of his newly- 
 conceived penitence was to send a messenger 
 to his brother (as has been related), to offer to 
 restore to him his dukedom, which he had 
 usurped so long, and with it the lands and 
 revenues of his friends, the faithful followers 
 of his adversity. 
 
 This joyful news, as unexpected as it was 
 welcome, came opportunely to heighten the 
 festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the 
 princesses. Celia complimented her cousin 
 on this good fortune which had happened to 
 the duke, Rosalind’s father, and wished her 
 joy very sincerely, though she herself was no 
 longer heir to the dukedom, but by this resto- 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 21 7 
 
 ration which her father had made, Rosalind 
 was now the heir : so completely was the love 
 of these two cousins unmixed with anything 
 of jealousy or envy. 
 
 The duke had now an opportunity of reward- 
 ing those true friends who had stayed with 
 him in his banishment ; and these worthy fol- 
 lowers, though they had patiently shared his 
 adverse fortune, were very well pleased to 
 return in peace and prosperity to the palace 
 of their lawful duke. 
 
TALES 
 
 FROM 
 
 SHAKSPEARE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES and MARY LAMB 
 
 < 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO. 
 407 Dearborn Street 
 

 I 
 
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 There lived at 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 com- 
 mences, some young men of high rank in the 
 army, as they were passing through Messina 
 on their return from a war that was just ended, 
 in which they had distinguished themselves 
 by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. 
 Among these were Don Pedro, the prince of 
 Arragon, and his friend Claudio, who was a 
 lord of Florence ; and with them came the 
 wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of 
 Padua. 
 
 These strangers had been at Messina before, 
 and the hospitable governor introduced them 
 
6 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 to his daughter and his niece as their old 
 friends and acquaintance. 
 
 Benedick, the moment he entered the room, 
 began a lively conversation with Leonato and 
 the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left 
 out of any discourse, interrupted Benedick 
 with saying, “ I wonder that you will still be 
 talking, signior Benedick ; nobody marks you.” 
 Benedick was just such another rattle-brain as 
 Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free 
 salutation : he thought it did not become a 
 well-bred lady to be so flippant with her tongue : 
 and he remembered, when he was last at Mes- 
 sian, 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 Bea- 
 trice ; these two sharp wits never met in for- 
 mer times, but a perfect war of raillery was kept 
 up between them, and they always parted mu- 
 tually 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 valor in the 
 late war, said that she would eat all he had 
 killed there : and observing the prince take 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . 
 
 7 
 
 delight in Benedick’s conversation, she called 
 him “ the prince’s jester.” This sarcasm sank 
 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 atten- 
 tively observing the improvements which time 
 had made in her beauty, and was contemplat- 
 ing the exquisite graces of her fine figure (for 
 she was an admirable young lady), the prince 
 was highly amused with listening to the humor- 
 ous dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice ; 
 and he said in a whisper to Leonato, “ This is 
 a pleasant spirited young lady. She were an 
 excellent wife for Benedick.” Leonato replied 
 to this suggestion, “ O my lord, my lord, if 
 they were but a week married, they would talk 
 themselves mad.” But though Leonato thought 
 they would make a discordant pair, the prince 
 did not give up the idea of matching these 
 two keen wits together. 
 
 When the prince returned with Claudio from 
 the palace, he found that the marriage he had 
 devised between Benedick and Beatrice was 
 
8 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 not the only one projected in that good com- 
 pany, for Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, 
 as made the prince guess at what was passing 
 in his heart ; and he liked it well, and he said 
 to Claudio, “ Do you affect Hero ? ” To this 
 question Claudio replied, “ O my lord, when I 
 was last at Messina, I looked upon her with 
 a soldier’s eye, that liked, but had no leisure 
 for loving; but now, in this happy time of 
 peace, thoughts of war have left their places 
 vacant in my mind, and in their room come 
 thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all 
 prompting me how fair young Hero is, remind- 
 ing 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 Leonatoto 
 accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato 
 agreed to this proposal, and the prince found 
 no great difficulty in persuading the gentle 
 Hero herself to listen to the suit of the noble 
 Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments, 
 and highly accomplished ; and Claudio, assisted 
 by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leo- 
 nato to fix an early day for the celebration of 
 his marriage with Hero. 
 
 Claudio was to wait but a few days before 
 he was to be married to his fair lady ; yet he 
 complained of the interval being tedious, as 
 indeed most young men are impatient, when 
 they are waiting for the accomplishment of any 
 event they have set their hearts upon : the 
 prince, therefore, to make the time seem short 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 9 
 
 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 satis- 
 faction into this whim of the prince, and Leo- 
 nato 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 Ben- 
 edick was in love with her. 
 
 The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began 
 their operations first ; and, watching an op- 
 portunity when Benedick was quietly seated 
 reading in an arbor, the prince and his assist- 
 ants took their station among the trees behind 
 the arbor, 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 behavior 
 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 
 
IO 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 and Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, 
 he having always been such a railer against all 
 fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice. 
 
 The prince affected to hearken to all this 
 with great compassion for Beatrice, and he 
 said, “ It were good that Benedick were told 
 of this.” “ To what end ? ” said Claudio ; “ he 
 would but make sport of it, and torment the 
 poor lady worse.” “ And if he should,” said 
 the prince, “ it were a good deed to hang him ; 
 for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and 
 exceeding wise in everything but in loving 
 Benedick.” Then the prince motioned to his 
 companions that they should walk on, and 
 leave Benedick to meditate upon what he had 
 overheard. 
 
 Benedick had been listening with great 
 eagerness to this conversation ; and he said to 
 himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, “ Is 
 it possible ? Sits the wind in that corner ? ” 
 And when they were gone, he began to reason 
 in this manner with himself. “ This can be 
 no trick ! they were very serious, and they 
 have the truth from Hero, and seem to pity the 
 lady. Love me ! Why, it must be requited ! 
 I did never think to marry. But when I said 
 I should die a bachelor, I did not think I 
 should live to be married. They say the lady 
 is virtuous and fair. She is so. And wise in 
 everything but in loving me. Why, that is 
 no great argument of her folly. But here comes 
 Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I 
 do spy some marks of love in her.” Beatrice 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . 
 
 II 
 
 now approached him, and said with her usual 
 tartness, “ Against my will I am sent to 
 bid you come in to dinner.” Benedick, who 
 never felt himself disposed to speak so politely 
 to her before, replied, “ Fair Beatrice, I thank 
 you for your pains : ” and when Beatrice, after 
 two or three more rude speeches, left him, 
 Benedick thought he observed a concealed 
 meaning of kindness, under the uncivil words 
 she uttered, and he said aloud, “ If I do not 
 take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not 
 love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her pict- 
 ure.” 
 
 The gentleman being thus caught in the net 
 they had spread for him, it was now Hero’s 
 turn to play her part with Beatrice ; and for 
 this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, 
 two gentlewomen who attended upon her, and 
 she said to Margaret, “ Good Margaret, run to 
 the parlor ; there you will find my cousin Bea- 
 trice 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 
 arbor, where honeysuckles, ripened by the 
 sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to 
 enter.” This arbor, into which Hero desired 
 Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same 
 pleasant arbor 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 
 
12 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 some- 
 thing which Ursula had said, “ No, truly, 
 Ursula. She is too disdainful ; her spirits are 
 as coy as wild birds of the rock.” “ But are 
 you sure,” said Ursula, “ that Benedick loves 
 Beatrice so entirely ? ” Hero replied, “ So says 
 the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they en- 
 treated me to acquaint her with it ; but I per- 
 suaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to 
 let Beatrice know of it.” “ Certainly,” replied 
 Ursula, “ it were not good she knew his love, 
 lest she made sport of it.” “ Why, to say 
 truth,” said Hero, “ I never yet saw a man, 
 how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely 
 featured, but she would dispraise him.” “ Sure 
 sure, such carping is not commendable,” said 
 Ursula. “ No,” replied Hero, “ but who dare 
 tell her so ? if I should speak, she would mock 
 me into air.” “ O you wrong your cousin,” 
 said Ursula : “ she cannot be so much without 
 true judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman 
 assignor Benedick.” “ He hath an excellent 
 good name,” said Hero: “ indeed he is the 
 first man in Italy, always excepting my dear 
 Claudio.” And now, Hero giving her attend 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 *3 
 
 ant a hint that it was time to change the dis- 
 course, Ursula said, “ And when are you to be 
 married, madam ?” Hero then told her, that 
 she was to be married to Claudio the next day, 
 and desired she would go in with her, and 
 look at some new attire, as she wished 
 to consult with her on what she would wear on 
 the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening 
 with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, 
 when they went away, exclaimed, “ What fire 
 is in my ears ? Can this be true ? Farewell, 
 contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 Benedick, love on ; I will requite you, taming 
 my wild heart to your loving hand.” 
 
 It must have been a pleasant sight to see 
 these old enemies converted into new and lov- 
 ing friends ; and to behold their first meeting 
 after being cheated into mutual liking by the 
 merry artifice of the good-humored 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 spirit 
 seemed to labor in the contriving of villainies. 
 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 
 
14 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE , 
 
 making Claudio and the prince unhappy ; for 
 he knew the prince had set his heart upon 
 this marriage, almost as much as Claudio him- 
 self : and to effect this wicked purpose, he 
 employed one Borachio, a man as bad as him- 
 self, whom he encouraged with the offer of a 
 great reward. Thus Borachio paid his court 
 to Margaret, Hero’s attendant ; and Don John, 
 knowing this, prevailed upon him to make 
 Margaret promise to talk with him from her 
 lady’s chamber-window, that night, after Hero 
 was asleep, and also to dress herself in Hero’s 
 clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into 
 the belief that it was Hero, for that was the 
 end he meant to compass by this wicked plot. 
 
 Don John then went to the prince and 
 Claudio, and told them that Hero was an 
 imprudent lady, and that she talked with men 
 from her chamber window at midnight. Now 
 this was the evening before the wedding, and 
 he offered to take them that night, where they 
 should themselves hear Hero discoursing with 
 a man from her window ; and they consented 
 to go along with him, and Claudio said, “ If I 
 see 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 stand- 
 ing under the window, and they saw Margaret 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . 
 
 looking out of Hero’s window, and heard her 
 talking with Borachio ; and Margaret being 
 dressed in the same clothes they had seen 
 Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed 
 it was the lady Hero herself. 
 
 Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, 
 when he had made (as he thought) this 
 discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero 
 was at once converted into hatred, and he 
 resolved to expose her in the church, as he 
 had said he would, the next day ; and the 
 prince agreed to this, thinking no punishment 
 could be too severe for the naughty lady, who 
 talked with a man from her window the very 
 night before she was going to be married to 
 the noble Claudio. 
 
 The next day 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 pro- 
 nounce the marriage ceremony, when Claudio, 
 in the most passionate language, proclaimed 
 the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at 
 the strange words he uttered, said meekly, 
 
 “ Is my lord well, that he does speak so 
 wide ? ” 
 
 Leonato in the utmost horror, said to the 
 prince, 
 
 “ My lord, why speak not you ? ” “ What 
 
 should I speak?” said the prince; “I stand 
 dishonored, that have gone about to link my 
 dear friend to an unworthy woman. Leonato, 
 upon my honor, myself, my brother, and this 
 
1 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last 
 night at midnight talk with a man at her charm 
 ber-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 sank 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 ? ” “ Bead I think,” replied 
 
 Beatrice in great agony, for she loved her cou- 
 sin ; and knowing her virtuous principles, she 
 believed nothing of what she had heard spoken 
 against her. Not so the poor old father; he 
 believed the story of his child’s shame, and it 
 was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, 
 as she lay like one dead before him, wishing 
 she might never more open her eyes. 
 
 But the ancient friar was a wise man, and 
 full of observation on human nature, and he 
 had attentively marked the lady’s countenance 
 when she heard herself accused, and noted a 
 thousand blushing shames to start into her 
 face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness 
 bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw 
 a fire that did belie the error that the prince 
 did speak against her maiden truth, and he 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 17 
 
 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 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 counseled Leoriato, 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 mourn- 
 ing, and erect a monument for her, and do all 
 rites that appertain to a burial. “ What will 
 this do ? ” The friar replied, “ This report of 
 her death shall change slander into pity : that 
 is some good ; but that is not all the good I 
 hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died 
 upon hearing his words, the idea of her life 
 shall sweetly creep into his imagination. Then 
 shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his 
 heart, and wish he had not so accused her: 
 yea, though he thought his accusation truer.” 
 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 Benedick now said, “ Leonato, let the friar 
 advise you ; and though you know how well I 
 love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honor 
 I will not reveal this secret to them.” 
 
 Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded ; and he 
 said sorrowfully, “ I am so grieved, that the 
 smallest twine may lead me.” The kind friar 
 then led Leonato and Hero away to comfort 
 and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick 
 remained alone ; and this was the meeting from 
 which their friends, who contrived the merry 
 plot against them, expected so much diversion ; 
 those friends who were now overwhelmed with 
 affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts 
 of merriment seemed forever 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 word 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 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 J 9 
 
 the wide world,” said Benedick ; for he loved 
 his friend Claudio, and he believed he had 
 been imposed upon. 44 Is not Claudio a vil- 
 lain, that has slandered, scorned, and dis- 
 honored my cousin ? ” said Beatrice : 44 O that 
 I were a man ! ” “ Hear me, Beatrice ! ” said 
 
 Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing 
 in Claudio’s defense ; and she continued to 
 urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin’s 
 wrongs : and she said, 44 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 Hero’s 
 sake ! or that I had any friend, who would be 
 a man for my sake ! but valor 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: 44 by this hand, I love you.” 44 Use it 
 for my love some other way than by swearing by 
 it,” said Beatrice. 44 Think you, on your soul, 
 that Claudio has wronged Hero ? ” asked Bene- 
 dick. 44 Yea,” answered Beatrice ; 44 as sure 
 as I have a thought or a soul.” 44 Enough,” 
 said Benedick ; 44 1 am engaged ; I will chal- 
 lenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave 
 you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a 
 dear account ! As you hear from me, so think 
 of me. Go comfort your cousin.” 
 
 While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading 
 with Benedick, and working his gallant temper 
 by the spirit of her angry words to engage in 
 the cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear 
 
20 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging the 
 prince and Claudio to answer with their swords 
 the injury they had done his child, who, he af- 
 firmed, had died for grief. But they respected 
 his age and his sorrow, and they said, “ Nay, 
 do not quarrel with us, good old man.” And 
 now came Benedick, and he also challenged 
 Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he 
 had done to Hero ; and Claudio and the prince 
 said to each other, “ Beatrice has set him on 
 to do this.” Claudio nevertheless must have 
 accepted this challenge of Benedick, had not 
 the justice of Heaven at that 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 talk- 
 ing of the challenge of Benedick, a magistrate 
 brought Borachio as a prisoner before the 
 prince. Borachio had been overheard talking 
 with one of his companions of the mischief he 
 had been employed by Don John to do. 
 
 Borachio made a full confession to the prince 
 in Claudio’s hearing, that it was Margaret 
 dressed in her lady’s clothes that he had talked 
 with from the window, whom they had mis- 
 taken for the lady Hero herself ; and no doubt 
 continued on the minds of Claudio and the 
 prince of the innocence of Hero. If a sus- 
 picion had remained it must have been re- 
 moved by the flight of Don John, who, finding 
 his villainies were detected, fled from Messina 
 to avoid the just anger of his brother. 
 
 The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING , 
 
 21 
 
 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 at first ; and the prince asking 
 him if what he heard did not run like iron 
 through his soul, he answered, that he felt as 
 if he had taken poison while Borachio was 
 speaking. 
 
 And the repentant Claudio implored forgive- 
 ness of the old man Leonato for the injury he 
 had done his child ; and promised that what- 
 ever penance Leonato would lay upon him for 
 his fault in believing the false accusation 
 against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he 
 would endure it. 
 
 The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to 
 marry the next morning a cousin of Hero’s 
 who, he said, was now his heir, and in person 
 very like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn 
 promise he made to Leonato, said he would 
 marry this unknown lady, even though she 
 were an Ethiop : but his heart was very sor- 
 rowful, 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 accom- 
 panied Claudio to the church, where the good 
 friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already 
 assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial ; and 
 Leonato presented to Claudio his promised 
 bride : and she wore a mask, that Claudio 
 might not discover her face. And Claudio 
 
22 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 said to the lady in the mask, “ Give me your 
 hand, before this holy friar ; I am your hus- 
 band, if you will marry me.” “ And when I 
 lived I was your other wife,” said this un- 
 known lady ; and, taking off her mask, she 
 proved to be no niece (as was pretended), but 
 Leonato’s very daughter, the lady Hero her- 
 self. 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 Ben- 
 edick, who desired to be married at the same 
 time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some de- 
 mur to this match, and Benedick challenging 
 her with her love for him, which he had learnt 
 from Hero, a pleasant explanation took place ; 
 and they found thabthey had both been tricked 
 into a belief of love, which had never existed, 
 and had become lovers in truth by the power 
 of a false jest : but the affection, which a merry 
 invention had cheated them into was grown too 
 powerful to be shaken by a serious explana- 
 tion ; and since Benedick preposed to marry, 
 he was resolved to think nothing to the pur- 
 pose that the world could say against it ; and 
 he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Bea- 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . 
 
 2 3 
 
 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 villany, was taken in 
 his flight and brought back to Messina ; and a 
 brave punishment it was to this gloomy and 
 discontented man, to see the joy and feastings 
 which, by the disappointment of his plots, took 
 place at the palace in Messina. 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 
 
 There was a law in the city of Athens 
 which gave to its citizens the power of coni' 
 pelling their daughters to marry whomsoever 
 they pleased : for upon a daughter’s refusing 
 to marry the man her father had chosen to be 
 her husband, the father was empowered by 
 this law to cause her to be put to death ; but 
 as fathers do not often desire the death of 
 their own daughters, even though they do 
 happen to prove a little refractory, this law 
 was seldom or never put in execution, though 
 perhaps the young ladies of that city were not 
 unfrequently threatened by their parents with 
 the terrors of it. 
 
 • There was one instance, however, of an old 
 man, whose name was Egeus, who actually did 
 come before Theseus (at that time the reign- 
 ing duke of Athens), to complain that his 
 daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded 
 to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble 
 Athenian family, refused to obey him, because 
 she loved another young Athenian, named Ly- 
 sander. 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 dis- 
 
 24 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 25 
 
 obedience, that Demetrius had formerly pro- 
 fessed love for her dear friend Helena, and 
 that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ; 
 but this honorable reason which Hermia gave 
 for not obeying her father’s command moved 
 not the stern Egeus. 
 
 Theseus, though a great and merciful 
 prince, had no power to alter the laws of his 
 country ; therefore he could only give Hermia 
 four days to consider of it : and at the end of 
 that time, if she still refused to marry De- 
 metrius, she was to be put to death. 
 
 When Hermia was dismissed from the 
 presence of the duke, she went to her lover 
 Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, 
 and that she must either give up him 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 be- 
 yond 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 ; 
 
26 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 be- 
 traying 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 favorite 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 quarreling, till all their fairy elves 
 would creep into acorn cups and hide them- 
 selves for fear. 
 
 The cause of this unhappy disagreement 
 was Titania’s refusing to give Oberon a little 
 changeling boy, whose mother had been 
 Titania’s friend ; and upon her death the fairy 
 queen stole the child from its nurse, and 
 brought him up in the woods. 
 
 The night on which the lovers were to meet 
 in this wood, as Titania was walking with 
 some of her maids of honor, she met Oberon 
 attended by his train of fairy courtiers. 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 27 
 
 v ' 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 favor- 
 ite and privy councilor. 
 
 Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, F.obin 
 Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, 
 and used to play comical pranks in the neighbor- 
 ing 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 dairymaid would 
 labor 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 neighbors 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 
 
a 8 
 
 TALES FROM SHA KS PE A RE. 
 
 lips, and spill the ale over her withered 
 chin ; and presently after, when the same old 
 dame was gravely seating herself to tell her 
 neighbors 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 fheir sides 
 and laugh at her, and swear they never wasted 
 a merrier hour. 
 
 “ Come hither, Puck,” said Oberon to this 
 little merry wanderer of the night ; “ fetch me 
 the flower which maids call Love in Idleness ; 
 the juice of that little purple flower laid on 
 the eyelids of those who sleep, will make them, 
 when they awake, 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 Demetrius and Helena enter the 
 wood : he overheard Demetrius reproaching 
 Helena for following him, an'd after many 
 unkind words on his part, and gentle expostu* 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 29 
 
 lations 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. How- 
 ever that might be, when Puck returned with 
 the little purple flower, Oberon said to his 
 favorite, “ 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 dexterously; and then Oberon 
 went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, 
 where she was preparing to go to rest. Her 
 fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild 
 thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets under a 
 canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. 
 There Titania always slept some part of the 
 night; her coverlet the enameled 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. 
 
3 ° 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 how they were to employ themselves white 
 she slept. “ Some of you,” said her majesty, 
 “ must kill cankers in the musk-rosebuds, 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 en- 
 joined 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 sake.” 
 
 But to return to Hermia, who made her 
 escape out of her father’s house that night, to 
 avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing 
 to marry Demetrius, When she entered the 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 31 
 
 wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting 
 for her, to conduct her to his aunt’s house : 
 but before they had passed half through the 
 wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that 
 Lysander, who was very careful of this dear 
 lady, who had proved her affection for him 
 even by hazarding her life for his sake, per- 
 suaded her to rest till morning on a bank of soft 
 moss, and lying down himself on the ground 
 at some little distance, they soon fell fast 
 asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who 
 seeing a handsome young man asleep, and 
 perceiving that his clothes were made in the 
 Athenian fashion, and that a pretty lady was 
 sleeping near him, concluded that this must 
 be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover 
 whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he 
 naturally enough conjectured that as they were 
 alone together, she must be the first thing he 
 would see when he awoke ; so without more 
 ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice 
 of the little purple flower into his eyes. But 
 it so fell out, that Helena came that way, and, 
 instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysan- 
 der beheld when he opened his eyes : and 
 strange to relate, so powerful was the love- 
 charm, that all his love for Hermia vanished 
 away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 
 
 Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, 
 the blunder Puck committed would have been 
 of no consequence, for he could not love that 
 faithful lady too well ; but for poor Lysander 
 to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget 
 
3 2 
 
 TALES EROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 his own true Hermia, and to run after another 
 lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in 
 a wood at midnight, was a sad chance indeed. 
 
 Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, 
 as has been before related, endeavored to 
 keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away 
 so rudely from her ; but she could not con- 
 tinue this unequal race long, men being always 
 better runners in a long race than ladies. 
 Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius ; and as 
 she was wandering about dejected and forlorn, 
 she arrived at the place where Lysander was 
 sleeping. 44 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 ad- 
 dressed her in terms of extravagant love and 
 admiration telling her, she as much excelled 
 Hermia in beauty as a dove does a raven, and 
 that he would run through fire for her sweet 
 sake ; and many more such lover-like speeches. 
 Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend 
 Hermia’s lover, and that he was solemnly 
 engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage 
 when she heard herself addressed in this 
 manner; for she thought (as well she might) 
 that Lysander was making a jest of her. 
 44 Oh ! ” said she, 44 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 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 33 
 
 Demetrius ; but you, sir, must pretend in this 
 disdainful manner to court me ? I thought, 
 Lysander, you were a lord of more true gen- 
 tleness.” 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 fa- 
 tigued 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-specches to her : and 
 just at that moment Lysander, followed by 
 Hermia (for through Puck, s unlucky mistake it 
 w r as now become Hermia’s turn to run after 
 her lover), made his appearance ; and then 
 Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking to- 
 gether, made love to Helena, they being each 
 one under the influence of the same potent 
 charm. 
 
 The astonished Helena thought that Deme- 
 trius, Lysander, and her once dear friend Her- 
 3 
 
34 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 mia, were all in a plot together to make a jest 
 of her. 
 
 Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she 
 knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who 
 both before loved her, were now become the 
 lovers of Helena ; and to Hermia the matter 
 seemed to be no jest. 
 
 The ladies, who before had always been the 
 dearest of friends, now fell to high words 
 together. 
 
 “ Unkind Hermia,” said Helena, “it is you 
 have set Lysander on, to vex me with mock 
 praises ; and your other lover Demetrius, who 
 used almost to spurn me with his foot, have 
 you not bid him call me Goddess, Nymph, rare, 
 precious, and celestial ? He would not speak 
 thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not set 
 him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, 
 to join with men in scorning your poor friend. 
 Have you forgot our school-day friendship ? 
 How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on 
 one cushion, both singing one song, with our 
 needles working the same flower, both on the 
 same sampler wrought ; growing up together 
 in fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming 
 parted ? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it is 
 not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your 
 poor friend.” 
 
 “ I am amazed at your passionate words, ” 
 said Hermia : “ I scorn you not ; it seems 
 you scorn me.” “ Ay, do,” returned Helena, 
 “persevere, counterfeit serious looks, and make 
 mouths at me when I turn my back ; then wink 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 35 
 
 at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If 
 you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would 
 not use me thus.” 
 
 While Helena and Hermia were speaking 
 these angry words to each other, Demetrius 
 and Lysander left them, to fight together in the 
 wood for the love of Helena. 
 
 When they found the gentlemen had left 
 them, they departed, and once more wandered 
 weary in the wood in search of their lovers. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, 
 who with little Puck had been listening to their 
 quarrels, said to him, “ This is your negligence, 
 Puck ; or did you do this willfully ? ” “ 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 me excellent 
 sport.” “ You heard,” said Oberon, “ that De- 
 metrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con- 
 venient 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 
 that 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, 
 
36 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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, see- 
 ing 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 : 
 46 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 enamored queen. “ I am a spirit of no 
 common rate. I love you. Go with me, and 
 I will give you fairies to attend upon you.” 
 
 She then called four of her fairies : their 
 names were Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, 
 and Mustard-seed. 
 
 “ Attend,” said the queen, “ upon this sweet 
 gentleman ; hop in his walks, and gambol in 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 37 
 
 his sight ; feed him with grapes and apricots,, 
 and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. 
 Come, sit with me,” said she to the clown, 
 “ and let me play with your amiable hairy 
 cheeks, my beautiful ass ! and kiss your fair 
 large ears, my gentle joy! ” 
 
 “ Where is Pease-blossom ? ” said the ass- 
 headed clown ; not much regarding the fairy- 
 queen’s courtship, but very proud of his new 
 attendants. 
 
 “ Here, sir,” said little Pease-blossom. 
 
 “ Scratch my head,” said the clown. 
 “ Where is Cobweb ? ” 
 
 “ Plere, sir,” said Cobweb. 
 
 “ Good Mr. Cobweb,” said the foolish clown, 
 “kill me the red humble-bee on the top of that 
 thistle yonder ; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring 
 me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too 
 much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take 
 care the honey-bag break not ; I should be 
 sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. 
 Where is Mustard-seed ? ” 
 
 “ Here, sir,” said Mustard-seed ; “ what is 
 your will ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing,” said the clown, “ good Mr. 
 Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom 
 to scratch : I must go to a barber’s, Mr. Mus- 
 tard-seed, for methinks I am marvelous 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.” 
 
38 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 “ 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. 0 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 having 
 lavished her favors upon an ass. 
 
 This she could not deny, as the clown was 
 then sleeping within her arms, with his ass’s 
 head crowned by her with flowers. 
 
 When Oberon had teased her for some time, 
 he again demanded the changeling-boy ; which 
 she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord 
 with her new favorite, 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 won- 
 dered at her late dotage, saying how she now 
 loathed the sight of the strange monster. 
 
 Oberon likewise took the ass’s head from 
 off the clown, and left him to finish his nap 
 with his own fool’s head upon his shoulders. 
 
 Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 39 
 
 reconciled, he related to her the history of the 
 lovers, and their midnight quarrels ; and she 
 agreed to go with him, and see the end of 
 their adventures. 
 
 The fairy king and queen found the lovers 
 and their fair ladies, at no great distance 
 from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot ; 
 for Puck, to make amends for his former 
 mistake, had contrived with the utmost dili- 
 gence 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 see- 
 ing 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 w r ere by this time 
 awake ; and a sweet sleep having quieted 
 Helena’s disturbed and angry spirits, she lis- 
 tened with delight to the professions of love 
 which Demetrius still made to her, and which, 
 to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began 
 to perceive were sincere. 
 
 These fair night-wandering ladies, now no 
 
40 
 
 TALES FROM SHA ICS PE A RE. 
 
 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 situa- 
 tion. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius 
 had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he 
 should endeavor to prevail upon her father to 
 revoke the cruel sentence of death which had 
 been passed against her. Demetrius was pre- 
 paring to return to Athens for this friendly 
 purpose, when they were surprised with the 
 sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to 
 the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 
 
 When Egeus understood that Demetrius 
 would not now marry his daughter, he no longer 
 opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave 
 his consent that they should be wedded on the 
 fourth day from that time, being the same day 
 on which Hermia had been condemned to lose 
 her life ; and on that same day Helena joyfully 
 agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful 
 Demetrius. 
 
 The fairy king and queen, who were invisible 
 spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw 
 the happy ending of the lovers’ history brought 
 about through the good offices of Oberon, 
 received so much pleasure, that these kind 
 spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching 
 nuptials with sports and revels throughout their 
 fairy kingdom. 
 
 And now, if any are offended with this story 
 of fairies and their pranks, as judging it in- 
 credible and strange, they have only to think 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 41 
 
 that they have been asleep and dreaming, and 
 that all these adventures were visions which 
 they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of 
 my readers will be so unreasonable as to be 
 offended with a pretty, harmless Midsummer 
 Night’s Dream. 
 
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 existence of which was almost forgotten, 
 the duke never having put it in force during 
 his whole reign. This was a law dooming any 
 man to the punishment of death, who should 
 live with a woman that was not his wife ; and 
 this law through the lenity of the duke being 
 utterly disregarded, the holy institution of mar- 
 riage became neglected, and complaints were 
 every day made to the duke by the parents of the 
 young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters 
 had been seduced from their protection, and 
 were living as the companions of single men. 
 
 The good duke perceived with sorrow this 
 growing evil among his subjects ; but he thought 
 that a sudden change in himself from the in- 
 dulgence 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 deter- 
 mined to absent himself a while from his duke- 
 dom and depute another to the full exercise of 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 43 
 
 his power, that the law against these dishonor- 
 able lovers might be put in effect, without 
 giving offense 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 under- 
 take this important charge ; and when the duke 
 imparted his design to lord Escalus, his chief 
 councilor, Escalus said, “ If any man in Vienna 
 be of worth to undergo such ample grace and 
 honor, it is lord Angelo.” And now the duke 
 departed from Vienna under pretense of mak- 
 ing a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to 
 act as the lord deputy in his absence ; but the 
 duke’s absence was only a feigned one, for he 
 privately returned to Vienna, habited like a 
 friar, with the intent to watch unseen the 
 conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo. 
 
 It happened just about the time that Angelo 
 was invested with his new dignity, that a gen- 
 tleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced 
 a young lady from her parents ; and for this 
 offense, by command of the new lord deputy, 
 Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, 
 and by virtue of the old law which had so long 
 been 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 honorable father, for whose 
 sake I pray you pardon the young man’s trans- 
 
44 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 gression.” But Angelo replied, “ We must 
 not make a scarecrow 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 novitiate in the 
 convent, and it was her intent, after passing 
 through her probation as a novice, to take the 
 veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concern- 
 ing the rules of the convent when they heard 
 the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that re- 
 ligious house, said, “ Peace be in this place ! ” 
 “ Who is it that speaks ? ” said Isabel. “ It 
 is a man’s voice,” replied the nun : “ Gentle 
 Isabel, go to him and learn his business ; you 
 may, I may not. When you have taken the 
 veil you must not speak with men but in the 
 presence of the prioress ; then if you speak 
 you must not show your face, or if you show 
 your face you must not speak.” “ And have 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 45 
 
 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 saluta- 
 tion said, “ Peace and prosperity. Who is it 
 that calls ? ” Then Lucio, approaching her 
 with reverence, said, “ Hail, virgin, if such you 
 be, as the roses in your cheeks proclaim you 
 are no less ! can you bring me to the sight of 
 Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sis- 
 ter 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 bro- 
 ther kindly greets you by me ; he is in prison.” 
 “ Woe is me ! for what ? ” said Isabel. Lucio 
 then told her Claudio was imprisoned for se- 
 ducing 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 
 
46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 die for his offense; “ unless/’ said he, “you 
 have the grace by your fair prayer to soften 
 Angelo, and that is my business between you 
 and your poor brother.’’ “ Alas,” said Isabel, 
 “ what poor ability is there in me to do him 
 good ? I doubt I have no power to move An- 
 gelo.” “ Our doubts are traitors,” said Lucio, 
 “ and make us lose the good we might often 
 win by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord An- 
 gelo ! When maidens sue, and kneel, and 
 weep, men give like gods.” “ I will see what 
 I can do,” said Isabel : “ I will but stay to 
 give the prioress notice of the affair, and then 
 I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my 
 brother : soon at night I will send him word 
 of my success.” 
 
 Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw her- 
 self on her knees before Angelo, saying, “ I am 
 a woful suitor to your honor, if it will please 
 your honor to hear me.” “ Well, what is your 
 suit ? ” said Angelo. She then made her peti- 
 tion 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 honor ! ” and she was about to depart. 
 But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, 
 “ Give it not over so ; return to him again, en- 
 treat 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 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 
 
 47 
 
 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 be gone,” said An- 
 gelo. 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 Isa- 
 bel. Should it then be thus ? No, I would tell 
 you what it were to be a judge, and what a pris- 
 oner.” “ Be content, fair maid ! ” said i\ngelo : 
 “ 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 
 offense, though many have committed it. So 
 you would be the first that gives this sentence, 
 and he the first that suffers it. Go to your 
 own bosom, my lord ; knock there, and ask 
 your heart what it does know that is like my 
 brother’s fault : if it confess a natural guild- 
 
48 TALES FROM SH A KS PE ARE. 
 
 ness such as his is, let it not sound a thought 
 against my brother’s life J ” 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 dishonorable love, such as 
 Claudio’s crime had been ; and the conflict in 
 his mind made him 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 treas- 
 ures, or those glittering stones, whose price is 
 either rich or poor as fancy values them, but 
 with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven 
 before sunrise — prayers from preserved souls, 
 from fasting maids whose minds are dedicated 
 to nothing temporal.” “ Well, come to me to- 
 morrow,” said Angelo. And for this short 
 respite of her brother’s life, and for this per- 
 mission that she might be heard again, she left 
 him with the joyful hope that she should at 
 last prevail over his stern nature : and as she 
 went away she said, “ Heaven keep your honor 
 safe ! Heaven save your honor ! ” Which, 
 when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, 
 “ Amen, I would be saved from thee and from 
 thy virtues : ” and then, affrighted at his own 
 evil thoughts, he said, “What is this? What 
 is this ? Do I love her, that I desire to hear 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 49 
 
 her speak again, and feast upon her eyes ? 
 What is it I dream on ? The cunning enemy 
 of mankind, to catch a saint, with saints does 
 bait the hook. Never could an immodest 
 woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous 
 woman subdues me quite. Even till now, when 
 men were fond, I smiled and wondered at 
 them/’ 
 
 In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo 
 suffered more that night than the prisoner he 
 had so severely sentenced ; for in the prison 
 Claudio was visited by the good duke, who in 
 his friar’s habit taught the young man the way 
 to heaven, preaching to him the words of pen- 
 itence and peace. But Angelo felt all the 
 pangs of irresolute guilt : now wishing to se- 
 duce Isabel from the paths of innocence and 
 honor, 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, re- 
 solved 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 honor, 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 
 4 
 
TALES FROM SHAKSPEAR 
 
 
 tell me he shall die for it,” “ But/’ said 
 Angelo, “ Claudio shall not die, if you will con- 
 sent to visit me by stealth at night, even as 
 Juliet left her father's house at night to come 
 to Claudio.” Isabel in amazement at his 
 words, that he should tempt her to the same 
 fault for which he passed sentence of death 
 upon her brother, said, “ I would do as much 
 for my poor brother as for myself; that is, 
 were I under sentence of death, the impression 
 of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go 
 to my death as to a bed that longing I had 
 been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to 
 this shame.” And then she told him she 
 hoped he only spoke these words to try her 
 virtue. But he said, “ Believe me, on my 
 honor, my words express my purpose.” Isabel, 
 angered to the heart to hear him use the word 
 honor to express such dishonorable purposes, 
 said, “ Ha ! little honor, 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 be- 
 
 lieve you, Isabel ? ” said Angelo ; “ my unsoiled 
 name, the austereness of my life, my word 
 vouched against yours, will outweigh your 
 accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding 
 to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for 
 you, say what you can, my false will 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 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 51 
 
 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 re- 
 morse confessed, that she was more to blame 
 than Claudio, in that she willingly consented 
 to his dishonorable 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 de- 
 serves a welcome.” “ My business is a word 
 or two with Claudio,” said Isabel. Then the 
 duke left them together, and desired the pro- 
 vost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to 
 place him where he might overhear their con- 
 versation. 
 
 “ 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 honor 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 tri- 
 fling term of six or seven winters added to your 
 life, than your perpetual honor ! Do you 
 dare to die ? The sense of death is most in 
 
52 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 res- 
 olution 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 honor, would grant your life. O, 
 were it but my life, I would lay it down for 
 your deliverance as frankly as a pin ! ” 
 
 “ Thanks, dear Isabel,” said Claudio. “ Be 
 ready to die to-morrow,” said Isabel. “ Death 
 is a fearful thing,” said Claudio. “ And 
 shamed life a hateful,” replied his sister. But 
 the thoughts of death overcame the constancy 
 of Claudio’s temper, and terrors, such as the 
 guilty only at their deaths do know, assailing 
 him, he cried out, 66 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 honor, 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 dishonor.” “Nay, 
 hear me, Isabel ! ” said Claudio. But what he 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 
 
 S3 
 
 would have said in defense of his weakness, 
 in desiring to live by the dishonor of his 
 virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance 
 of the duke ; who said, “ Claudio, I have over- 
 heard what has passed between you and your 
 sister. Angelo had never the purpose to cor- 
 rupt her ; what he said has only been to make 
 trial of her virtue. She having the truth of 
 honor 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, com- 
 mended her virtuous resolution saying, “ The 
 hand that made you fair, has made you good.” 
 “ O,” said Isabel, “ how much is the good duke 
 deceived in Angelo ! if ever he return, and I 
 can speak to him, I will discover his govern- 
 ment.” Isabel knew not that she was even now 
 making the discovery she threatened. The 
 duke replied, “That shall not be much amiss; 
 yet, as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel 
 your accusation ; therefore lend an attentive 
 ear to my advisings. I believe that you may 
 most righteously do a poor wronged lady a 
 merited benefit, redeem your brother from the 
 angry law, do no stain to your own most gra- 
 
54 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 cious 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 Isa- 
 bel, “ 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 gentle- 
 woman ! for, besides the loss of a most noble 
 and renowned brother, who in his love towards 
 her was the most kind and natural, in the wreck 
 of her fortune she lost the affections of her hus- 
 band, the well-seeming Angelo ; who pretend- 
 ing to discover some dishonor in this honor- 
 able lady (though the true cause was the loss 
 of her dowry), left her in her tears, and dried 
 not one of them with his comfort. His unjust 
 unkindness, that in all reason should have 
 quenched her love, has, like an impediment in 
 the current, made it more unruly, and Mariana 
 loves her cruel husband with the full continu- 
 ance 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 mid- 
 night; that by this means she would obtain the 
 promised pardon ; and that Mariana should go 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 
 
 55 
 
 in her stead to the appointment, and pass her- 
 self 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 
 \o 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 friendly consolation, at which 
 limes he had learned her sad story from her 
 cwn lips ; and now she, looking upon him as a 
 holy man, readily consented to be directed by 
 him in his undertaking. 
 
 When Isabel returned from her interview 
 with Angelo, to the house of Mariana, where the 
 duke had appointed her to meet him, he said, 
 “ Well met, and in good time ; what is the news 
 from this good deputy ? ” Isabel related the 
 manner in which she had settled the affair. 
 “ Angelo,” said she, “ has a garden surrounded 
 with a brick wall, on the western side of which 
 is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate.” 
 And then she 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 
 
56 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 td 
 say to Angelo, when you depart from him, but* 
 soft and low, Remember now my brother ! ” 
 Mariana was that night conducted to the ap- 
 pointed place by Isabel who rejoiced that she 
 had, as she supposed, by this devise preserved 
 both her brother’s life and her own honor. 
 But that her brother’s life was safe the duke 
 was not well satisfied, and therefore at mid- 
 night 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, command- 
 ing that Claudio should be beheaded, and his 
 head sent to him by five o’clock in the morn 
 ing. But the duke persuaded the provost to 
 put off the execution of Claudio, and to de- 
 ceive 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 suspect- 
 ed not to be anything more or greater than 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 
 
 57 
 
 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 An- 
 gelo a letter, saying that certain acccidents had 
 put a stop to his journey, and that he should be 
 in Vienna by the following morning, requiring 
 Angelo to meet him at the entrance of the 
 city, there to deliver up his authority; and 
 the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, 
 that if any of his subjects craved redress for 
 injustice they should exhibit their petitions in 
 the street on his first entrance into the city. 
 
 Early in the morning Isabel came to the 
 prison, and the duke, who there awaited her 
 coming, for secret reasons thought it good 
 to tell her that Claudio was beheaded ; there- 
 fore 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 1 ” The seeming friar bade her 
 take comfort, and when she was become a little 
 calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect 
 of the duke’s return, and told her in what 
 manner she should proceed in preferring her 
 complaint against Angelo ; and he bade her 
 
58 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 not to fear if the cause should seem to go 
 against her for a while. Leaving Isabel 
 sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, 
 and gave her counsel in what manner she also 
 should act. 
 
 Then the duke laid aside his friar’s habit, 
 and in his own royal robes, amidst a joyful 
 crowd of his faithful subjects assembled to 
 greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, 
 where he was met by Angelo, who delivered 
 up his authority in the proper form. And 
 there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner 
 for redress, and said, “ Justice, most royal 
 duke ! I am the sister of one Claudio, who 
 for the seducing a young maid was condemned 
 to lose his head. I made my suit to lord 
 Angelo for my brother’s pardon. It were need- 
 less 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 dishonorable love release my 
 brother ; and after much debate within myself, 
 my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and 
 I did yield to him. But the next morning 
 betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a 
 warrant for my poor brother’s head ! *’ The 
 duke affected to disbelieve her story ; and 
 Angelo said that grief for 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 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . 
 
 59 
 
 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 forever 
 be fixed here a marble monument.” Then did 
 Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had 
 said to friar Lodowick, that being the name 
 the duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel 
 and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions 
 in what they said, the duke intending that the 
 innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved 
 in that public manner before the whole city of 
 Vienna : but Angelo little thought that it was 
 from such a cause that they thus differed in 
 their story, and he hoped from their con- 
 tradictory evidence to be able to clear himself 
 from the accusation of Isabel ; and he said, 
 assuming the look of offended innocence, “ I 
 did but smile till now ; but, good my lord, my 
 patience here is touched, and I perceive these 
 poor distracted women are but the instruments 
 of some greater one, who sets them on. Let 
 me have way, my lord, to find this practice 
 out.” “ 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 
 
6o 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 may seem best in any chastisement. I for a 
 while will leave you, but stir not you, lord 
 Angelo, till you have well determined upon 
 this slander.” The duke then went away, 
 leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed 
 judge and umpire in his own cause. But the 
 duke was absent only while he threw off his 
 royal robes and put on his friar’s habit ; and 
 in that disguise again he presented himself 
 before Angelo and Escalus : and the good old 
 Escalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely 
 accused, said to the supposed friar, “ Come, 
 sir, did you set these women on to slander 
 lord Angelo ? ” He replied, “ Where is the 
 duke? It is he should hear me speak.” 
 Escalus said, “ The duke is in us, and we will 
 hear you. Speak justly.” “ Boldly at least,” 
 retorted the friar : and then he blamed the 
 duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in the 
 hands of him she had accused, and spoke 
 so freely of many corrupt practices he had 
 observed, while, as he said, he had been a look- 
 er-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him 
 with the torture for speaking words against the 
 state, and for censuring the conduct of the 
 duke, and ordered him to be taken away to 
 prison. Then, to the amazement of all 
 present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, 
 the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and 
 they saw it was the duke himself. 
 
 The duke first addressed Isabel. He said 
 to her, “ Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is 
 now your prince, but with my habit I have 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 61 
 
 not changed my heart. I am still devoted to 
 your service.’’ “ 0 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 wouid he tell her 
 that Claudio was living ; meaning first to 
 make a farther trial of her goodness. Angelo 
 now knew the duke had been a secret witness 
 of his bad deeds, and he said, “ O my dread 
 lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 
 to think I can be undiscernible, when I 
 perceive your grace, like power divine, has 
 looked upon my actions. Then, good prince, 
 no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial 
 be my own confession. Immediate sentence 
 and death is all the grace I beg.” The duke 
 replied, “ Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We 
 do condemn thee to the very block where 
 Claudio stooped to death ; and with like haste 
 away with him ; and for his possessions, 
 Mariana, we do 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 
 husband beg the life of Angelo ; and she said, 
 “ Gentle my liege, O good my lord ! Sweet 
 Isabel, take my part ! Lend me your knees, 
 and, all my life to come, I will lend you all my 
 life to do you service 1 ” The duke said, 
 
62 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 4,1 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 molded out of 
 faults, and for the most part become much the 
 better for being a little bad. So may my hus- 
 band. 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 honorable acts, kneeled down before him, 
 and said, “ Most bounteous sir, look, if it please 
 you, on this man condemned, as if my brother 
 lived. I partly think a due sincerity governed 
 his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it is 
 so, let him not die ! My brother had but 
 justice, in that he did the thing for which he 
 died.” 
 
 The duke, as the best reply he could make to 
 this noble petitioner for her enemy’s life, send- 
 ing for Claudio from his prison-house, where 
 he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her 
 this lamented brother living ; and he said to 
 Isabel, “Give me your hand, Isabel; for your 
 lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be 
 mine, and he shall be my brother too.” By 
 this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe ; 
 and the duke, observing his eye to brighten up 
 a little, said, “ Well, Angelo, look that you love 
 your wife ; her worth has obtained your pardon . 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 63 
 
 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 himself again to the accept- 
 ance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble con- 
 duct had won her prince’s heart. Isabel, not 
 having taken the veil, was free to marry ; and 
 the friendly offices, while hid under the dis- 
 guise of a humble friar, which the noble duke 
 had done for her, made her with grateful joy 
 accept the honor he offered her; and when 
 she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent 
 example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a 
 complete reformation among the young ladies of 
 that city, that from that time none ever fell into 
 the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife 
 of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving 
 duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the 
 happiest of husbands and of princes. 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 Katherine, the Shrew, was the eldest daugh- 
 ter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. 
 She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit 
 and fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, 
 that she was known in Padua by no other name 
 than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very 
 unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman 
 would ever be found who would venture to 
 marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was 
 much blamed for deferring his consent to many 
 excellent offers that were made to her gentle 
 sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca’s suitors 
 with this excuse, that when the eldest sister 
 was fairly off his hands they should have free 
 leave to address young Bianca. 
 
 It happened, however, that a gentleman 
 named Petruchio came to Padua, purposely to 
 look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged 
 by these reports of Katherine’s temper, and 
 hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved 
 upon marrying this famous termagant, and 
 taming her into a meek and manageable wife. 
 And truly none was so fit to set about this 
 herculean labor as Petruchio, whose spirit 
 was as high as Katherine’s, and he was a 
 witty and most happy-tempered humorist ; and 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 65 
 
 withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, 
 that he well knew how to feign a passionate 
 and furious deportment, when his spirits were 
 so calm that himself could have laughed mer- 
 rily at his own angry feigning, for his natural 
 temper was careless and easy ; the boisterous 
 airs he assumed when he became the husband 
 of Katherine being but in sport, or more prop- 
 erly speaking, affected by his excellent dis- 
 cernment, as the only means to overcome in 
 in her own way the passionate ways of the 
 furious Katherine. 
 
 A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine 
 the Shrew, and first of all he applied to Bap- 
 tista, her father, for leave to woo his gentle 
 daughter Katherine, as Petruchio called her, 
 saying archly that having heard of her bashful 
 modesty and mild behavior, he had come 
 from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, 
 though he wished her married, was forced to 
 confess Katherine would ill answer this 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 Katherine, his pupil, had broken 
 his head with her lute, for presuming to find 
 fault with her performance ; which, when 
 Petruchio heard, he said, “ It is a brave wench ; 
 I love her more than ever, and long to have 
 some chat with her ; ” and hurrying the old 
 gentleman for a positive answer, he said, “ My 
 business is in haste, signor Baptista, I cannot 
 come every day to woo. You knew my father. 
 5 
 
66 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 some- 
 what blunt for a lover ; but being glad to get 
 Katherine married, he answered that he would 
 give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, 
 and half his estate at his death : so this odd 
 match was quickly agreed on, and Baptista 
 went to apprise his shrewish daughter of her 
 lover’s addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio 
 to listen to his suit. 
 
 In the meantime Petruchio was settling 
 with himself the mode of courtship he should 
 pursue : and he said, “ I will woo her with 
 some spirit when she comes. If she rails at 
 me, why, then I will tell her she sings as 
 sweetly as a nightingale ; and if she frowns, I 
 will say she looks as clear as roses newly 
 washed with dew. If she will not speak a 
 word, I will praise the eloquence of her 
 language ; and if she bids me leave her, I will 
 give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her 
 a week.” Now the stately Katherine entered, 
 and Petruchio first addressed her with “ Good 
 morrow, Kate, for that is your name I hear.” 
 Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said 
 disdainfully, “ They call me Katherine who do 
 speak to me.” “You lie,” replied the lover; 
 “ for you are called plain Kate, and bonny 
 Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew ; but, 
 Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christen- 
 dom, and therefore, Kate, hearing your mild- 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHE E W. 67 
 
 ness 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 Katherine, let us set this 
 idle chat aside, for your father has consented 
 that you shall be my wife, your dowry is 
 agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will 
 marry you.” 
 
 And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told 
 him that his daughter had received him 
 kindly, and that she had promised to be 
 married the next Sunday. This Katherine 
 denied, saying she would rather see him 
 hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father 
 for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap 
 ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her 
 father not to regard her angry words, for they 
 had agreed she should seem reluctant before 
 him, but that when they were alone he had 
 found her very fond and loving ; and he said 
 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 Katherine may be fine ; and kiss me, 
 Kate, for we will be married on Sunday.” 
 
 On the Sunday all the wedding guests were 
 
68 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 assembled, but they waited long before Pe- 
 truchio came, and Katherine wept for vexation 
 to think that Petruchio had only been making 
 a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, 
 but he brought none of the bridal finery he 
 had promised Katherine, nor was he dressed 
 himself like a bridegroom, but in strange dis- 
 ordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport 
 of the serious business he came about ; and 
 his servants and the very horses on which they 
 rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic 
 fashion habited. 
 
 Petruchio could not be persuaded to change 
 his dress ; he said Katherine was to be married 
 to him, and not to his clothes ; and finding it 
 was in vain to argue with him, to the church 
 they went, he still behaving in the same mad 
 way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if 
 Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud 
 that she should, that, all-amazed, the priest let 
 fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, 
 this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such 
 a cuff, that down fell the priest and his book 
 again. And all the while they were being 
 married he stamped and swore so, that the 
 high-spirited Katherine trembled and shook 
 with fear. After the ceremony was over, 
 while they were yet in the church, he called for 
 wine, and drank a loud health to the com- 
 pany, and threw a sop which was at the 
 bottom of the glass full in the sexton’s face, 
 giving no other reason for this strange act 
 than that the sexton’s beard grew thin and 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 69 
 
 hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he 
 was drinking. Never sure was there such a 
 mad marriage ; but Petruchio did but put this 
 wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot 
 he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 
 
 Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage 
 feast, but when they returned from church, 
 Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared 
 his intention of carrying his wife home 
 instantly; and no remonstrance of his father- 
 in-law, or angry words of the enraged 
 Katherine, could make him change his pur- 
 pose ; he claimed a husband’s right to dispose 
 of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried 
 Katherine off : he seemed so daring and reso- 
 lute that no one dared attempt to stop him. 
 
 Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable 
 horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out 
 for the purpose, and himself and his servant 
 no better mounted ; they journeyed on through 
 rough and miry ways, and ever when this 
 horse of Katherine’s stumbled, he would 
 storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who 
 could scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he 
 had been the most passionate man alive. 
 
 At length, after a weary journey, during 
 which Katherine had heard nothing but the 
 wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and 
 the horses, they arrived at his house. Petru- 
 chio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he 
 resolved that she should have neither rest nor 
 food that night. The tables were spread, and 
 supper soon served ; but Petruchio, pretending 
 
7 ° 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 to find fault with every dish, threw the meat 
 about the floor, and ordered the servants to 
 remove it away, and all this he did, as he 
 said, in love for his Katherine, that she might 
 not eat meat that was not well-dressed. And 
 when Katherine, weary and supperless, retired 
 to rest, he found the same fault with the bed, 
 throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the 
 room, so that she was forced to sit down in a 
 chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she 
 was presently awakened by the loud voice of 
 her husband, storming at the servants for the 
 ill-making of his wife’s bridal-bed. 
 
 The next day Petruchio pursued the same 
 course, still speaking kind words to Katherine, 
 but when she attempted to eat, finding fault 
 with everything that was set before her, throw- 
 ing the breakfast on the floor as he had done 
 the supper ; and Katherine, the haughty Kath- 
 erine, was fain to beg the servants to 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 her soliloquy was interrupted by 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 71 
 
 the entrance of Petruchio : he, not meaning 
 she should be quite starved, had brought her 
 a small portion of meat, and he said to her, 
 “ How fares my sweet Kate ? Here, love, you 
 see how diligent I am, I have dressed your 
 meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits 
 thanks. What, not a word ! Nay, then, you 
 love not the meat, and all the pains I have 
 taken is to no purpose.” He then ordered the 
 servant to take the dish away. Extreme hun- 
 ger, which had abated the pride of Katherine, 
 made her say, though angered to the heart, 
 “ I pray you let it stand.” But this was not 
 all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he 
 replied, “ The poorest service is repaid with 
 thanks, and so shall mine before you touch 
 the meat.” On this Katherine brought out a 
 reluctant “ I thank you, sir.” And now he 
 suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, 
 “ Much good may it do your gentle heart, 
 Kate ; eat apace ! And now, my honey love, 
 we will return to your father’s house, and revel 
 it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and 
 caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs 
 and fans and double change of finery ; ” and 
 to make her believe he really intended to give 
 her these gay things, he called in a 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 present- 
 ed a cap, saying, “ Here is the cap your wor- 
 
7 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ship bespoke ; ” on which Petruchio began to 
 storm afresh, saying, the cap was molded in 
 a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a 
 cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haber- 
 dasher to take it away and make a bigger. 
 Katherine said, “ I will have this ; all gentle- 
 women wear such caps as these. ” “ When 
 
 you are gentle,” replied Petruchio, “ you shall 
 have one too, and not till then.” The meat 
 Katherine had eaten had a little revived her 
 fallen spirits, and she said, “ Why, sir, I trust I 
 may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I 
 am no child, no babe ; your betters have en- 
 dured to hear me say my mind ; and if you 
 cannot, you had better stop your ears.” Pe- 
 truchio would not hear these angry words, for 
 he had happily discovered a better way of man- 
 aging his wife than keeping up a jangling 
 argument with her ; therefore his answer was, 
 “ Why, you say true, it is a paltry cap, and I 
 love you for not liking it.” “ Love me, or love 
 me not,” said Katherine, “ I like the cap, and 
 I will have this cap, or none.” “You say you 
 wish to see the gown,” said Petruchio, still 
 affecting to misunderstand her. The 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 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 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 73 
 
 make it according to the fashion of the times ; ” 
 and Katherine said, she never saw a better 
 fashioned gown. This was enough for Petru- 
 chio, and privately desiring these people might 
 be paid for their goods, had 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, turn- 
 ing to Katherine, he said, “ Well, come, my 
 Kate, we will go to your father’s even in these 
 mean garments we now wear.” And then he 
 ordered his horses, affirming they should 
 reach Baptista’s house by dinner-time, for 
 that it was but seven o’clock. Now it 
 was not early morning, but the very middle 
 of the day, when he spoke this ; therefore 
 Katherine ventured to say, though modestly, 
 being almost overcome by the vehemence of 
 his manner, “ I dare assure you, sir, it is two 
 o’clock, and will be supper-time before we get 
 there.” But Petruchio meant that she should 
 be so completely subdued, that she should 
 assent to 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,” said he, “ whatever I say or do, you 
 still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and 
 when I go, it shall be what o’clock I say it is.” 
 Another day Katherine was forced to practice 
 her newly-found obedience, and not till he had 
 
74 TALES FROM SH A KSPEA RE, 
 
 brought her proud spirit to such a perfect 
 subjection that she dared not remember there 
 was such a word as contradiction, would 
 Petruchio allow her to go to her father’s 
 house ; and even while they were upon their 
 journey thither, she was in danger of being 
 turned back again, only because she happened 
 to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the 
 moon shone brightly at noonday. “ Now, by 
 my mother’s son,” said he, “ and that is myself, 
 it shall be the moon, or stars, or- what I list, 
 before I journey to your father’s house.” He 
 then made as if he were going back again ; 
 but Katherine, no longer Katherine the Shrew, 
 but the obedient wife, said, “ Let us go foward, 
 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 hence- 
 forth, I vow it shall be so for me.” This he 
 was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, 
 “ I say it is the moon.” “ I know it is the 
 moon,” replied Katherine. “ You lie, it is the 
 blessed sun,” said Petruchio. “ Then it is the 
 blessed sun,” replied Katherine ; “ but sun it 
 is not, when you say it is not. What you will 
 have it named even so it is, and so it ever shall 
 be for Katherine.” Now then he suffered her 
 to proceed on her journey ; but further to try 
 if this yielding humor would last, he addressed 
 an old gentleman they met on the road as if 
 he had been a young woman, saying to him, 
 “ Good morrow, gentle mistress : ” and asked 
 Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 75 
 
 gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the 
 old man’s cheeks, and comparing his eyes to 
 two bright stars ; and again he addressed him, 
 saying, “ Fair lovely maid, once more good 
 day to you ! ” and said to his wife, “ Sweet 
 Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.” 
 The now completely vanquished Katherine 
 quickly adopted her husband’s opinion, and 
 made her speech in like sort to the old gentle- 
 man, saying to him, “ Young budding virgin, 
 you are fair, and fresh, and sweet : whither 
 are you going, and where is your dwelling ? 
 Happy are the parents of so fair a child.” 
 “ Why, how now, Kate,” said Petruchio ; “ I 
 hope you are not mad. This is a man, old 
 and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a 
 maiden, as you say he is.” On this Katherine 
 said, “ Pardon me, old gentleman ; the sun 
 has so dazzled my eyes, that 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 grand- 
 sire,” said Petruchio, “ and tell us which way 
 you are traveling. We shall be glad of your 
 good company, if you are going our way.” 
 The old gentleman replied, Fair sir, and you 
 my merry mistress, your strange encounter has 
 much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, 
 and I am going to visit a son of mine who 
 lives at Padua.” Then Petruchio knew the 
 old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a 
 young gentleman who was to be married to Bap- 
 tista’s younger daughter, Bianca, and he made 
 
76 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Vincentio very happy, by telling him the rich 
 marriage his son was about to make ; and they 
 all journeyed on pleasantly together till they 
 came to Baptista’s house, where there was 
 a large company assembled to celebrate the 
 wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista 
 having willingly consented to the marriage of 
 Bianca when he had got Katherine off his 
 hands. 
 
 When they entered, Baptista welcomed them 
 to the wedding feast, and there was present 
 also another newly married pair. 
 
 Lucentio, Bianca’s husband, and Hortensio, 
 the other new married man, could not forbear 
 sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish 
 disposition of Petruchio’s wife, and these fond 
 bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the 
 mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, 
 laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate 
 choice. Petruchio took little notice of their 
 jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, 
 and then he perceived Baptista himself joined 
 in the laugh against him : for when Petruchio 
 affirmed that his wife would prove more 
 obedient than theirs, the father of Katherine 
 said, “ Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 
 I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all.” 
 “ Well,” said Petruchio, “ I say no, and there- 
 fore 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 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 77 
 
 willingly consented, for they were quite confi- 
 dent that their gentle wives would prove more 
 obedient than the headstrong Katherine ; and 
 they proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but 
 Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much 
 as that upon his hawk or hounds, 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 Petruchio, “ does she say she is 
 busy and cannot come ? Is that an answer for 
 a wife ? ” Then they laughed at him, and said 
 it would be well if Katherine did not send him 
 a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio’s 
 turn to send for his wife ; and he said to his 
 servant, “ Go, and 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 entreated.” 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 there- 
 fore she will not come. She bids you come 
 to her.” “Worse and worse!” said Petru- 
 chio ; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
 “ Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I 
 command her to come to me.” The company 
 
78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 had scarcely time to think she would not obey 
 this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze 
 exclaimed, “ Now, by myhollidam, here comes 
 Katherine ! ” and she entered, saying meekly 
 to Petruchio, “ What is your will, sir, that you 
 send for me ? ” “ Where is your sister and 
 
 Hortensio’s wife ? ” said he. Katherine 
 replied, “They sit conferring by the parlor 
 fire.” “ Go, fetch them hither,” said Petru- 
 chio. Away went Katherine without reply to 
 perform her husband’s command. “ Here is 
 a wonder,” said Lucentio, “ if you talk of a 
 wonder.” “ And so it is,” said Hortensio ; 
 “ I marvel what it bodes.” “ Marry, peace it 
 bodes,” said Petruchio, “ and love, and quiet 
 life, and right supremacy ; and to be short, 
 everything that is sweet and happy.” Kath- 
 erine’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.” Katherine now enter 
 ing with the two ladies, he continued, “ See 
 where she comes, and brings your froward 
 wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. 
 Katherine, that cap of yours does not become 
 you ; off with that bauble, and throw it under 
 foot.” Katherine instantly took off her cap 
 and threw it down. “ Lord ! ” $aid Horten- 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 79 
 
 sio’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.” “ Katherine,” said Petruchio, 
 “ I charge you tefl these headstrong women 
 what duty they owe their lords and husbands.” 
 And, to the wonder of all present, the reformed 
 shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise 
 of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had 
 practiced it implicitly in a ready submission 
 to Petruchio’s will. And Katherine once 
 more became famous in Padua, not as hereto- 
 fore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine 
 the most obedient and duteous wife in Padua* 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU 
 WILL. 
 
 Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young 
 gentleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, 
 and (which was accounted a great wonder) from 
 their birth they so much resembled each other, 
 that, but for the difference in their dress, they 
 could not be known apart. They were both 
 born in one hour, and in one hour they were 
 both in danger of perishing, for they were 
 shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they 
 were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, 
 on. board of which they were, split on a rock 
 in a violent storm, and a very small number 
 of the ship’s company escaped with their lives. 
 The captain of the vessel, with a few of the 
 sailors that were saved, got to land in a small 
 boat, and with them they brought Viola safe 
 on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of 
 rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to 
 lament her brother’s loss ; but the captain 
 comforted her with the assurance that he had 
 seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten 
 himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as 
 he could see anything of him for the distance, 
 he perceived him borne up above the waves. 
 Viola was much consoled by the hope this 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Si 
 
 ‘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 bom not three hours’ travel from this 
 place.” “ Who governs here ? ” said Viola. 
 The captain told her, Illyria was governed by 
 Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as 
 dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father 
 speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried 
 then. “ And he is so now,” said the captain ; 
 “or was so very lately, for but a month ago I 
 went from here, and then it was the general 
 talk (as you know what great ones do the 
 people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the 
 love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter 
 of a count who died twelve months ago, leav- 
 ing Olivia to the protection of her brother, 
 who shortly after died also ; and for the love 
 of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured 
 the sight and company of men.” Viola, who 
 was herself in such a sad affliction for her 
 brother’s loss, wished she could live with this 
 lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother’s 
 death. She asked the captain if he could 
 introduce her to Olivia, saying she would will- 
 ingly 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 
 6 
 
8 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 for- 
 lorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was 
 young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in 
 a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 
 
 She having observed a fair behavior in the 
 captain, and that he showed a friendly con- 
 cern 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 color and in 
 the same fashion her brother Sebastian used 
 to wear ; and when she was dressed in her 
 manly garb, she looked so exactly like her 
 brother, that some strange errors happened by 
 means of their being mistaken for each other ; 
 for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was 
 also saved. 
 
 Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he 
 had transformed this pretty lady into a gentle- 
 man, having some interest at court, got her 
 presented to Orsino undar the feigned name 
 of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased 
 with the address and graceful deportment of 
 this handsome youth, and made Cesario one 
 of his pages, that being the office Viola wished 
 to obtain : and she so well fulfilled the duties 
 of her new station, and showed such a ready 
 observance and faithful attachment to her 
 lord, that she soon became his most favored 
 attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 83 
 
 whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. 
 To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful 
 suit he had made to one who, rejecting his 
 long services, and despising his person, refused 
 to admit him to her presence : and for the 
 love of this lady who had so unkindly treated 
 him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of 
 the field and all manly exercises in which he 
 used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble 
 sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of 
 soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love- 
 songs ; and neglecting the company of the 
 wise and learned lords with whom he used to 
 associate, he was now all day long conversing 
 with young Cesario. Unmeet companion, no 
 doubt, his grave courtiers thought Cesario was 
 for their once noble master, the great duke 
 Orsino. 
 
 It is a dangerous matter for young maidens 
 to be the confidants of handsome young dukes : 
 which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for 
 all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, 
 she presently perceived she suffered for the 
 love of him : and much it moved her wonder, 
 that Olivia could be so regardless of this her 
 peerless lord and master, whom she thought 
 no one should behold without the deepest 
 admiration, and she ventured gently to hint 
 to Orsino, that it was pity he should affect a 
 lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities ; 
 and she said, “ If a lady were to love you, my 
 lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there 
 may be one who does), if you could not love 
 
84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 her in return, would you not tell her that you 
 could not love, and must not she be content 
 with this answer ? ” But Orsino would not 
 admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it 
 was possible for any woman to love as he did. 
 He said, no woman’s heart was big enough to 
 hold so much love, and therefore it was unfair 
 to compare the love of any lady for him to his 
 love for Olivia. Now, though Viola had the 
 utmost deference for the duke’s opinions, she 
 could not help thinking this was not quite 
 true, for she thought her heart had full as 
 much love in it as Orsino’shad ; and she said, 
 
 “ Ah, but I know, my lord.” “ What do 
 
 you know, Cesario ? ” said Orsino. u Too well 
 I know,” replied Viola, “ what love women 
 may owe to men. They are as true of heart 
 as we are. My father had a daughter loved a 
 man, as I perhaps, were I a woman, should 
 love your lordship.” “And what is her his- 
 tory?” said Orsino. “A blank, my lord,” 
 replied Viola : “ she never told her love, but 
 let concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey 
 on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, 
 and with a green and yellow melancholy, she 
 sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at 
 grief.” The duke 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 en- 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Sc 
 
 tered whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and 
 he said, “ So please you, my lord, I might not 
 be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid 
 she returned you this answer : Until seven 
 years hence, the element itself shall not behold 
 her face ; but like a cloistress she will walk 
 veiled, watering her chamber with her tears 
 for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.” 
 On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “ O she 
 that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this 
 debt of love to a dead brother, how will she 
 love when the rich golden shaft has touched 
 her heart ! ” And then he said to Viola, 
 “ You know, Cesario, I have told you all the 
 secrets of my heart ; therefore, good youth, 
 go to Olivia’s house. Be not denied access ! 
 stand at the 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. “ Oh then,” replied 
 Orsino, “ unfold to her the passion of my love. 
 Make a long discourse to her of my dear faith. 
 It will well become you to act my woes, for 
 she will attend more to you than to one of 
 graver aspect.” 
 
 Away then went Viola ; but not willingly 
 did she undertake this courtship, for she was 
 to woo a lady to become a wife to him she 
 wished to marry : but having undertaken the 
 affair, she performed it with fidelity; and 
 Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door 
 who insisted upon being admitted to her 
 presence. “ I told him,” said the servant, 
 
io 
 
 TALES FROM SHA KSPE ARE. 
 
 “ that you were sick : he said he knew you 
 were, and therefore he came to speak with 
 you. I told him that you were asleep : he 
 seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, 
 and said, that therefore he must speak with 
 you. What is to be said to him, lady ? for he 
 seems fortified against all denial, and will 
 speak with you, whether you will or no.” 
 Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory 
 messenger might be, desired he might be 
 admitted ; and throwing her veil over her 
 face she said she would once more hear 
 Orsino’s embassy, not doubting but that he 
 came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola 
 entering, put on the most manly air she could 
 assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s lan- 
 guage 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 speach upon another ; 
 for besides that it is excellently well penned, 
 I have taken great pains to learn it.” “ Whence 
 come you, sir ? ” said Olivia. “ I can say 
 little more than I have studied,” replied 
 Viola ; “ and that question is out of my part.” 
 “ Are you a comedian ? ” said Olivia. “ No,” 
 replied Viola ; “ and yet I am not that which 
 I play ; ” meaning, that she being a woman, 
 feigned herself to be a man. And again she 
 asked Olivia if she were the lady of the 
 house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola, 
 having more curiosity to see her rival’s fea* 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 87 
 
 tures than haste to deliver her master’s mes- 
 sage, said, “Good madam, let me see your 
 face.” With this bold request Olivia was not 
 averse to comply : for this haughty beauty, 
 whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in 
 vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the 
 supposed page, the humble Cesario. 
 
 When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia 
 said, “ Have you any commission from your 
 lord and master to negotiate with my face ? ” 
 And then, forgetting her determination to go 
 veiled for seven long years, she drew aside 
 her veil, saying, “ But I will draw the curtain 
 and 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 world no copy.” 
 “ ( 3 , 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 gray 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 
 
88 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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, cour- 
 teous, 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 1 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, 
 u Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
 I am a gentleman.” Olivia now reluctantly 
 dismissed Viola, saying, “ Go to your master, 
 and tell him I cannot love him. Let him send 
 no more, unless perchance you come again to 
 tell me how he takes it.” And Viola departed, 
 bidding the lady farewell by the name of 
 Fair Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia 
 repeated the words, “ Above my fortune, yet my 
 state is well. Iam 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 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 89 
 
 faults has no deep root : and presently the 
 noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality 
 between her fortunes and those of this seem- 
 ing page, as well as the maidenly reserve 
 which is the chief ornament of a lady’s char- 
 acter, that she resolved to court the love of 
 young Cesario, and sent a servant after him 
 with a diamond ring, under the pretense 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 expres- 
 sive 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 re- 
 lated to her lord the ill success of the negotia- 
 tion, repeating the command of Olivia, that 
 the duke should trouble her no more. Yet 
 still the duke persisted in hoping that the 
 gentle Cesario would in time be able to per- 
 suade her to show some pity, and therefore 
 he bade him he should go to her again the 
 next day. In the meantime, to pass away 
 the tedious intervals, he commanded a song 
 which he loved to be sung ; and he said, “ My 
 good Cesario, when I heard that song last 
 
90 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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, 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 
 On my black coffin let there be strown : 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
 thrown, 
 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. 
 
 Viola did not fail to mark the words of the 
 old song, which in such true simplicity de- 
 scribed the pangs of unrequited love, and she 
 bore testimony in her countenance of feeling 
 what the song expressed. Her sad looks were 
 observed by Orsino, who said to her, “ My 
 life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young 
 your eye has looked upon some face that it 
 loves ; has it not, boy ? ” “A little, with your 
 leave,” replied Viola. “ And what kind of 
 woman, and of what age is she ?” said Orsino. 
 “ Of your age, and of your complexion, my 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 9 l 
 
 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 mes- 
 sengers ; 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 desire you never to 
 speak of him again ; but if you would under- 
 take 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, honor, 
 arid by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of 
 your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to 
 conceal my passion.” But in vain the lady 
 wooed ; Viola hastened from her presence, 
 threatening never more to come to plead 
 Orsino’s love ; and all the reply she made to 
 Olivia’s fond solicitations was a declaration of 
 a resolution Never to love any woman . 
 
9 2 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 No sooner had Viola left the lady than a 
 claim was made upon her valor. A gentleman, 
 a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned 
 how that lady had favored the duke’s mes- 
 senger, challenged him to fight a duel. What 
 should poor Viola do, who, though she carried 
 a manlike outside, had a true woman’s heart, 
 and feared to look on her own sword ! 
 
 When she saw her formidable rival advanc- 
 ing 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 
 offense, 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 his kind 
 interference, her new friend met with an enemy 
 where his bravery was of no use to him ; for 
 the officers of justice coming up in that instant, 
 apprehended the stranger in the duke’s name 
 to answer for an offense 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 neces- 
 sity 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 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 93 
 
 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 jaws of death, and for his 
 sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen 
 into this danger.” But the officers cared little 
 for hearkening to the complaints of their 
 prisoner and they hurried him off, saying, 
 “ What is that to us ? ” And as he was carried 
 away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, 
 reproaching the supposed Sebastian for dis- 
 owning his friend as long as he was within 
 hearing. When Viola heard herself called 
 Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away 
 too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she 
 conjectured that this seeming mystery might 
 arise from her being mistaken for her brother : 
 and she began to cherish hopes that it was her 
 brother whose life this man said he had pre- 
 served. And so indeed it was. The stranger 
 whose name was Anthonio, was a sea-captain. 
 He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, 
 almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating 
 on the mast to which he had fastened himself 
 in the storm. Anthonio conceived such a 
 friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to 
 accompany him whithersoever he went ; and 
 when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit 
 
94 
 
 TALES FROM SI/A KS PE A RE. 
 
 Orsino’s court, Anthonio, rather than part from 
 him, came to Illyria, though he knew, if his 
 person should be known there, his life would 
 be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had 
 once dangerously wounded the duke Orsino’s 
 nephew. This was the offense for which he 
 was now made a prisoner. 
 
 Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together 
 but a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. 
 He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring 
 him to use it freely if he saw anything he 
 wished to purchase, telling him he would wait 
 at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the 
 town ; but Sebastian not returning at the time 
 appointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look 
 for him, and Viola being dressed the same, 
 and in face so exactly resembling her brother, 
 Anthonio drew his sword (as he thought) in 
 defense of the youth he had saved, and when 
 Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
 denied him his own purse, no wonder he ac- 
 cused him of ingratitude. 
 
 Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a 
 second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast 
 as she could. She had not long gone, when her 
 adversary thought he saw her return ; but it 
 was her brother Sebastian who happened to 
 arrive at this place, and he said, “ Now, sir, 
 have I met 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 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 95 
 
 Olivia came out of the house, and she too 
 mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him 
 to come into her house, expressing much 
 sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. 
 Though Sebastian was as much surprised at 
 the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of 
 his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly 
 into the house, and Olivia was delighted to 
 find Cesario (as she thought him) become 
 more sensible of her attentions ; for though 
 their features were exactly the same, there 
 was none of the contempt and anger to be seen 
 in his face which she had complained of when 
 she told her love to Cesario. 
 
 Sebastian did not at all object to the fond- 
 ness 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 humor and fearing he 
 might change his mind, proposed that, as she 
 had a priest in the house, they should be in- 
 stantly married. Sebastian assented to this 
 proposal ; and when the marriage ceremony 
 was over he left his lady for a short time, in- 
 tending to go and tell his friend Anthonio the 
 good fortune that he had met with. In the 
 
9 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the 
 moment he arrived before Olivia’s house the 
 officers of justice brought their prisoner, 
 Anthonio, before the duke. Viola was with 
 Orsino, her master ; and when Anthonio saw 
 Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, 
 he told the duke in what manner he had 
 rescued this youth from the perils of the sea ; 
 and after fully relating all the kindness he had 
 really shown to Sebastian, he ended his com- 
 plaint with saying, that for three months, both 
 day and night, this ungrateful youth had been 
 with him. But now the lady Olivia coming 
 forth from her house, the duke could no 
 longer attend to Anthonio’s story ; and he 
 said, “ Here comes the countess : now Heaven 
 walks on earth ! but for thee, fellow, thy words 
 are madness. Three months has this youth 
 attended on me : and then he ordered 
 
 Anthonio to be taken aside. But Orsino’s 
 heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause 
 to accuse Cesario as much, of ingratitude as 
 Anthonio had done, for all the words he 
 could hear Olivia speak were words of kind- 
 ness to Cesario : and when he found his 
 
 page had obtained this high place in Olivia’s 
 favor 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 
 j:or mischief.” Though it seemed in his 
 jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to 
 instant death, yet her love made her no longer 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 97 
 
 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 lif e. ?> 
 Olivia, however, prevented their departure by 
 loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her hus- 
 band, and sent for the priest, who declared 
 that not two hours had passed since he had 
 married the lady Olivia to this young man. 
 In vain Viola protested she was not married 
 to Olivia ; the evidence of that lady and the 
 priest made Orsino believe that his page had 
 robbed him of the treasure he prized above 
 his life. But thinking that it was past recall, 
 he was bidding farewell 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 en- 
 tered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This 
 new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband 
 of Olivia ; and when their wonder had a little 
 ceased at seeing two persons with the same 
 face, the same voice, and the same habit, the 
 brother and sister began to question each 
 other, for Viola could scarce be persuaded that 
 her brother was living, and Sebastian knew 
 not how to account for the sister he supposed 
 drowned being found in the habit of a young 
 man. But Viola presently acknowledged that 
 she was indeed Viola and his sister under that 
 disguise. 
 
 7 
 
98 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 exchange, when 
 she found she had wedded the brother instead 
 of the sister. 
 
 The hopes of Orsino were forever 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 favorite, 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 hoy), “ Boy, you have said to me a 
 thousand times that you should never love a 
 woman like to me, and for the faithful service 
 you have done for me, so much beneath your 
 soft and tender breeding, and since you have 
 called me master so long you shall now 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 99 
 
 be your master’s mistress, and Orsino’s true 
 duchess.” 
 
 Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over 
 that heart, which she had so ungraciously 
 rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her 
 house, and offered the assistance of the good 
 priest, who had married her to Sebastian in 
 the morning, to perform the same ceremony in 
 the remaining part of the day for Orsino and 
 Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were 
 both wedded on the same day ; the storm and 
 shipwreck which had separated them being the 
 means of bringing to pass their high and mighty 
 fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the 
 duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of 
 the rich and noble countess, the lady Olivia. 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 
 
 Pericles, Prince of Tyre, became a volun- 
 tary 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, Hellicanus, Pericles set sail from 
 Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath 
 of Antiochus, who was mighty, should be 
 appeased. 
 
 The first place which the prince directed 
 his course to was Tharsus ; and hearing that 
 the city of Tharsus 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 this unhoped-for succor, Cleon, the gover- 
 nor of Tharsus, welcomed him with boundless 
 thanks. Pericles had not been here many days, 
 before letters came from his faithful minister, 
 
 IOO 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE. 
 
 i or 
 
 warning him that it was not safe for him 
 to stay at Tharsus, 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 dreadful 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 pro- 
 visions. The fishermen told Pericles the name 
 of their country was Pentapolis, and that 
 their king was Symonides, commonly called 
 the good Symonides, because of his peaceable 
 reign and good government. From them he 
 also learned that king Symonides 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 armor, which disabled him from 
 making one among these valiant knights, 
 another fisherman brought in a complete suit 
 of armor that he had taken out of the sea 
 with his fishing net, which proved to be the 
 
102 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 very armor he had lost. When Pericles 
 beheld his own armor he said, “ Thanks, 
 Fortune ; after all my crosses you give me 
 somewhat to repair myself. This armor was 
 bequeathed to me by my dead father, for 
 whose sake I have 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 armor, repaired to the royal court of 
 Symonides, where he performed wonders at 
 the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the 
 brave knights and valiant princes who con- 
 tended with him in arms for the honor of 
 Thaisa’s love. When brave warriors con- 
 tended at court-tournaments for the love of 
 kings’ daughters, if one proved sole victor 
 over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady 
 for whose sake these deeds of valor 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 Pericles had 
 vanquished, and distinguished him by her 
 especial favor 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. 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE . 103 
 
 The good Symonides so well approved of 
 the valor and noble qualities of Pericles, who 
 was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, 
 and well learned in all excellent arts, that 
 though he knew not the rank of this royal 
 stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus 
 gave out that he was a private gentleman of 
 Tyre), yet did not Symonides 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 
 Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This news 
 came from Hellicanus himself, who being a 
 loyal subject 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 Symonides, 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 confinement, but the poor 
 
104 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 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 dreadful sufferings of Pericles 
 when he heard his wife was dead. As 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 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE . 105 
 
 herald you from the womb ! Even at the first 
 your loss/ 5 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 recom- 
 pense.’ 5 
 
 The storm still continued to rage furiously, 
 and the sailors having 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 over- 
 board ; 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 
 sea-farer, I wish the storm was over.” “ Sir,” 
 said the sailors, “ Your queen must overboard. 
 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 overboard, most 
 wretched queen ! ” And now this unhappy 
 prince went to take a last view of his dear 
 wife, and as he looked upon his Thaisa, he 
 said, “ A terrible childbed hast thou had, my 
 dear : no light, no fire — the unfriendly elements 
 forgot 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 
 
io6 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with 
 simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor 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 written 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 Tharsus. 
 “ For,” said Pericles, “ the babe cannot hold 
 out till we come to Tyre. At Tharsus 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 skillful 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 
 
PERICLES ; PRINCE OF TYRE. 107 
 
 spices, and rich casket of jewels, made him 
 conclude it was some great person who was 
 thus strangely entombed : searching further, 
 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 strange- 
 ness 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 cor- 
 dials to be brought, and soft music to be played, 
 which might help to calm her amazed spirits 
 if she should revive ; and he said to those who 
 crowded around her, wondering 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 eye- 
 lids 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 gentleman 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 
 
io8 
 
 ALES FROM SHAKSPEARJB . 
 
 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 can- 
 not 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 ac- 
 cepted 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 sup- 
 posed 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 Tharsus, 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 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE . 
 
 ioo 
 
 Heaven 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 remember 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 be- 
 ing thus assured that his child would be care- 
 fully 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 Peri- 
 cles ; “ no tears ; look to your little mistress, 
 on whose grace you may depend hereafter.” 
 Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was 
 
TIO 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 once more settled in the quiet possession of 
 his throne, while his woful 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 sung like one immortal, and 
 danced as goddess-like, and with her needle 
 she was so skillful that she seemed to compose 
 nature’s own shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, 
 the natural roses being scarcely more like to 
 each other than they were to Marina’s silken 
 flowers. But when she had gained from educa- 
 tion all these graces, which made her the gen- 
 eral wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, be- 
 came her mortal enemy from jealousy, by 
 reason that her own daughter, from the slow- 
 ness of her mind, was not able to attain to 
 that perfection 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 
 imagining 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 
 
PERICLES , , PRINCE OF TYRE . 
 
 Ill 
 
 wicked design, when Lychorida, the faithful 
 nurse, had just died. Dionysia was discours- 
 ing with the man she had commanded to com- 
 mit this murder, when the young Marina was 
 weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leoline, 
 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 i ” “ 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 ? ” Leoline, 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 marigold 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 
 sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. 
 Your beauty is quite changed with this unprof- 
 itable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the 
 sea-air will spoil them ; and walk with Leoline : 
 
I 12 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 the air is fine, and will enliven you. Come, 
 Leoline, 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 Leoline was one of Dionysia’s attendants. 
 “ Come, come,” said this artful woman, who 
 wished for a pretense to leave her alone with 
 Leoline, “ 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 excel- 
 lent complexion, 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 
 Leoline, “ Remember what I have said !” — 
 shocking words, for their meaning was that he 
 should remember to kill Marina. 
 
 Marina looked towards the sea, her birth- 
 place, and said, “ Is the wind westerly that 
 blows ? ” “ Southwest,” replied Leoline. 
 
 “ 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 sea7nen , 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?” 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE. 113 
 
 said Leoline. “ When I was born,” replied 
 Marina : “ never were waves nor wind 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 recounted 
 to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that 
 these things seemed ever present to her 
 imagination. But here Leoline interrupted 
 her with desiring her to say her prayers. 
 “ What mean you ? ” said Marina, who began 
 to fear, she knew not why. “If you require a 
 little space for prayer, I grant it,” said Leo- 
 line ; “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 Leo- 
 line. “ Why would she have me killed ? ” said 
 Marina : “ now, as I can remember, 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 murderer 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 Metaline, and sold her for a 
 8 
 
1 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 slave, where, though in that humble condition 
 Marina soon became known throughout the 
 whole city of Metaline 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 needlework, 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 knowledge 
 of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was 
 the governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus 
 went himself to the house where Marina 
 dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom 
 all the city praised so highly. Her conversa- 
 tion delighted Lysimachus beyond measure, 
 for though he had heard much of this admired 
 maiden, he did not expect to find her so sensi- 
 ble a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as he 
 perceived Marina to be ; and he left her, say- 
 ing 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 outward 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 Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the 
 anger of Dionysia, told her he had killed 
 
PERICLES , , PRINCE OF TYRE . 115 
 
 Marina ; and that wicked woman gave out 
 that she was dead, and made a pretended 
 funeral for her, and erected a stately monu- 
 ment, and shortly after Pericles, accompanied 
 by his loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voy- 
 age from Tyre to Tharsus, 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 thoughts of seeing this dear child of his 
 buried queen ! but when they told him Marina 
 was dead, and showed the monument they 
 had erected for her, great was the 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 Tharsus. From the 
 day he entered the ship a dull and heavy 
 melancholy seized him. He never spoke, 
 and seemed totally insensible to everything 
 around him. 
 
 Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in 
 its course passed by Metaline, where Marina 
 dwelt ; the governor of which place, Lysim- 
 achus, observing this royal vessel from the 
 shore, and desirous of knowing who was on 
 board, went in a barge to the side of the ship, 
 to satisfy his curiosity. Hellicanus received 
 him very courteously, and told him that the 
 ship came from Tyre, and that they. were con- 
 ducting thither, Pericles their prince ; “ A 
 
1 1 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 man, sir,” said Hellicanus, “ 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.” Lysimachus 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 pre- 
 serve you, hail, royal sir ! ” But in vain 
 Lysimachus spoke to him. Pericles made no 
 answer, nor did he appear to perceive any 
 stranger approached. And then Lysimachus 
 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 Hellicanus 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.” Lysimachus 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 washed 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 ; 
 
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 117 
 
 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 lyietaline had so carefully con- 
 cealed 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 beloved 
 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 might my daughter have been. 
 My queen’s square brows, her stature to an 
 inch, as wandlike 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 
 
n8 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 in- 
 censed 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 Pericles, “ 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 weep- 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE . 1 19 
 
 ing. The king my father left me at Tharsus, 
 till the cruel wife of Cleon sought to murder 
 me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me, 
 and brought me here to Metaline. 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 it 
 seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if 
 this could be real, loudly called for his attend- 
 ants, who rejoiced at the sound of their be- 
 loved king’s voice ; and he said to Hellicanus, 
 “ O Hellicanus, 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 mor- 
 tality. O, come hither, thou that was born at 
 sea, buried at Tharsus, and found at sea again. 
 O Hellicanus, down on your knees, thank the 
 holy gods ! This is Marina. Now blessings 
 on thee, my child ! Give me fresh garments, 
 mine own Hellicanus ! She is not dead at 
 Tharsus, as she should have been by the sav- 
 age Dionysia. She shall tell you all, when 
 you shall kneel to her, and call her your very 
 princess. Who is this ? ” (observing Lysi- 
 machus for the first time). “ Sir,” said Hel- 
 licanus, “ it is the governor of Metaline, who, 
 hearing of your melancholy, came to see you.” 
 “ I embrace you, sir,” said Pericles. “ 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 deceived* 
 
120 
 
 TALES FROM, SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 he seemed to hear soft music. “ My lord, I 
 hear none,” replied Hellicanus. “ None,” said 
 Pericles : “ why, it is the music of the spheres.” 
 As there was no music to be heard, Lysi- 
 machus concluded that the sudden joy had 
 unsettled the prince’s understanding ; and he 
 said, “ It is not good to cross him ; let him 
 Pave his way : ” and then they told him they 
 heard the music ; and he now complaining of 
 a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysimachus 
 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 resolve to go to Ephesus. 
 His dream was, that Diana, the goddess of 
 the Ephesians, appeared to him, and com- 
 manded 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 in- 
 junction, he should meet with some rare felic- 
 ity. When he awoke, being miraculously re- 
 freshed, he told his dream, and that his resolu- 
 tion was to obey the bidding of the goddess. 
 
 Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come 
 on shore, and refresh himself with such enter- 
 tainment as he should find at Metaline, 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 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE . 
 
 1 2 I 
 
 f eastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows 
 and entertainments the governor made in Met- 
 aline, 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 honored his child in the days of her 
 low estate, and that Marina showed herself not 
 averse to his proposals ; only he made it a con- 
 dition, before he gave his consent, that they 
 should visit with him the shrine of the Ephe- 
 sian Diana : to whose temple they shortly after 
 all three undertook a voyage ; and, the god- 
 dess 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 husband’s fea- 
 tures, 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, 
 frightened from my county, at Pentapolis 
 
122 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 wedded the fair Thaisa : she died at sea in 
 child-bed, but brought forth a maid-child called 
 Marina. She at Tharsus was nursed with 
 Dionysia, who at fourteen years thought to kill 
 her, but her better stars brought her to Metaline, 
 by whose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes 
 brought 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.” Cerimon 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 a 
 death ? ” He, astonished, said, “ The voice of 
 dead Thaisa!” “ That Thaisa am I, ”she re- 
 plied, “ supposed 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 
 
PERICLES , PRINCE OF TYRE . 123 
 
 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 present kindness makes my 
 past miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, be buried 
 a second time within these arms.” 
 
 And Marina said, “ My heart leaps to be gone 
 into my mother’s bosom.” Then did Pericles 
 show his daughter to her mother, saying, “ Look 
 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 con- 
 sent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daugh- 
 ter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving 
 Lysimachus in marriage. 
 
 Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen and 
 daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed 
 by calamity (through the suffrance of Heaven, 
 to teach patience and constancy to men), under 
 the same guidance becoming finally successful, 
 and triumphing over chance and change. In 
 Hellicanus 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 goodness 
 
124 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 
 proportionable to her deserts ; the inhabitants 
 of Tharsus, 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 
 seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, 
 though but intentional, and never carried into 
 act, should be punished in a way befitting its 
 enormity. 
 
THE WINTER’S TALE. 
 
 Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the 
 beautiful and virtuous Hermione, once lived 
 in the greatest harmony together. So happy 
 was Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, 
 that he had no wish ungratified, except that 
 he sometimes desired to see again, and to 
 present to his queen, his old companion and 
 school-fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. 
 Leontes and Polixenes were brought up to- 
 gether 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, Polix- 
 enes came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court 
 to make his friend Leontes a visit. 
 
 At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure 
 to Leontes. He recommended the friend of 
 his youth to the queen’s particular attention, 
 and seemed in the presence of his dear friend 
 and old companion to have his felicity quite 
 completed. They talked over old times : 
 their school-days and their youthful pranks were 
 remembered, and recounted to Hermione, who 
 always took a cheerful part in these conversa- 
 tions. 
 
 I2 5 
 
126 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 When, after a long stay, Polixenes was pre- 
 paring 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 refusing to stay at the request of 
 Leontes, was won over by Hermione’s gentle 
 and persuasive words to put off his departure 
 for some weeks longer. Upon this, although 
 Leontes had so long known the integrity and 
 honorable principles of his friend Polixenes, 
 as well as the excellent disposition of his 
 virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungov- 
 ernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione 
 showed to 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 true friend and 
 the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes be- 
 came suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. 
 Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his 
 court, and telling him of the suspicion he en- 
 tertained, he commanded him to poison Polix- 
 enes. 
 
 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, ar- 
 rived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia, 
 where Camillo lived from that time in the 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 127 
 
 king s court, and became the chief friend and 
 favorite of Polixenes. 
 
 The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous 
 Leontes still more ; he went to the queen’s 
 apartment, where the good lady was sitting 
 with her little son Mamillus, who was just be- 
 ginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse 
 his mother, when the king entered, and taking 
 the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 
 
 Mamillus, though but a very young child, 
 loved his mother tenderly ; and when he saw 
 her so dishonored, 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 in- 
 quire of the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if 
 his queen had been unfaithful to him. 
 
 When Hermione had been a short time in 
 prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter ; 
 and the poor lady received much comfort from 
 the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to 
 it, “ My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as 
 you are.” 
 
 Hermione had a kind friend in the noble- 
 spirited Paulina, who was the wife of Anti- 
 gonus, a Sicilian lord : and when the lady 
 Paulina heard her royal mistress was brought 
 to bed, she went to the prison where Hermi- 
 
128 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 one was confined ; and she said to Emilia, a 
 lady who attended upon Hermione, 44 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.” 44 Most worthy madam,” replied 
 Emilia, 44 1 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.” 44 And tell her,” said 
 Paulina, 44 that I will speak boldly to Leontes 
 in her defense.” 44 May you be for ever 
 blessed,” said Emilia, 44 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 forc- 
 ing herself into the king’s presence, notwith- 
 standing her husband, fearing the king’s anger, 
 endeavored to prevent her, she laid the babe 
 at its father’s feet, and Paulina made a noble 
 speech to the king in defense of Hermione, 
 and she reproached him severely for his in- 
 humanity, and implored him to have mercy on 
 his innocent wife and child. But Paulina’s 
 spirited remonstrances only aggravated 
 Leontes’s displeasure, and he ordered her 
 husband Antigonus to take her from his pres- 
 ence. 
 
 When Paulina went away, she left the little 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE . 
 
 129 
 
 baby at its father’s feet, thinking, when he was 
 alone with it, he would look upon it and have 
 pity on its helpless innocence. 
 
 The good Paulina was mistaken : for no 
 sooner was she gone than the merciless father 
 ordered Antigonus, Paulina’s husband, to take 
 the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it 
 upon some desert shore to perish. 
 
 Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too 
 well obeyed the orders of Leontes ; for he 
 immediately carried the child on ship-board, 
 and put out to sea, intending to leave it on 
 the first desert coast he could find. 
 
 So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt 
 of Hermione, that he would not wait for the 
 return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had 
 sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos ; 
 but before the queen was recovered from her 
 lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her 
 precious baby, he had her brought to a public 
 trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. 
 And when all the great lords, the judges, and 
 all the nobility of the land, were assembled 
 together to try Hermione, and that unhappy 
 queen was standing as a prisoner before her 
 subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes 
 and Dion entered the assembly, and presented 
 to the king the answer of the oracle sealed up ; 
 and Leontes commanded the seal to be bro- 
 ken, and the words of the oracle to be read 
 aloud, and these were the words : — “ Hermi- 
 one is innocent, ' Polixenes blameless, Camillo a 
 true subject , Leontes a jealous tyrant , and the 
 9 
 
130 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 Ma- 
 millus, hearing his mother was to be tried for 
 her life, struck with grief and shame, had 
 suddenly died. 
 
 Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this 
 dear affectionate child who had lost his life in 
 sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted ; and 
 Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began 
 to feel pity for his unhappy queen, and he 
 ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her 
 attendants, to take her away, and use means 
 for her recovery. Paulina soon returned, and 
 told the king that Hermione was dead. 
 
 When Leontes heard that the queen was 
 dead, he repented of his cruelty to her ; and 
 now that he thought his ill-usage had broken 
 Hermione’s heart, he believed her innocent ; 
 and he now thought the words of the oracle 
 were true, as he knew “ if that which was lost 
 was not found,” which he concluded was his 
 young daughter, he should be without an heir, 
 the young prince Mamillus being dead ; and 
 he would give his kingdom now to recover his 
 lost daughter ; and Leontes gave himself up 
 to remorse, and passed many years in mourn- 
 ful thoughts and repentant grief. 
 
 The ship in which Antigonus carried the 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 13 1 
 
 infant princess out to sea was driven by a storm 
 upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom 
 of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus 
 landed, and here he left the little baby. 
 
 Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell 
 Leontes where he had left his daughter, for as 
 he was going back to the ship, a bear came out 
 of the woods, and tore him to pieces : a just 
 punishment on him for obeying the wicked 
 order of Leontes. 
 
 The child was dressed in rich clothes and 
 jewels ; for Hermione had made it very fine 
 when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus 
 Had pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name 
 of Perdita written thereon, and words obscurely 
 intimating its high birth and untoward fate. 
 
 This poor deserted baby was found by a 
 shepherd. He was a humane man, and so he 
 carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who 
 nursed it tenderly ; but poverty tempted the 
 shepherd to conceal the rich prize he had 
 found ; therefore he left that part of the country 
 that no one might know where he got his 
 riches, and with part of Perdita’s jewels he 
 bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy 
 shepherd. He brought up Perdita as his own 
 child, and she knew not she was any other 
 than a shepherd’s daughter. 
 
 The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden, 
 and though she had no better education than 
 that of a shepherd’s daughter, yet so did the 
 natural graces she inherited from her royal 
 mother shine forth in her untutored mind, that 
 
132 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 no one from her behavior would have known 
 she had not been brought up in her father’s 
 court. 
 
 Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only 
 son, whose name was Florizel. As this young 
 prince was hunting near the shepherd’s dwell- 
 ing, he saw the old man’s supposed daughter ; 
 and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like de- 
 portment of Perdita caused him instantly to 
 fall in love with her. He soon, under the 
 name of Doricles, and in the disguise of a 
 private gentleman, became a constant visitor 
 at the old shepherd’s house. 
 
 Florizel’s frequent absence from court alarm- 
 ed Polixenes ; and setting people to watch his 
 son, he discovered his love for the shepherd’s 
 fair daughter. 
 
 Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faith- 
 ful Camiilo, who had preserved his life from 
 the fury of Leontes ; and desired that he 
 would accompany him to the house of the 
 shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita. 
 
 Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, 
 arrived at the old shepherd’s dwelling while 
 they were celebrating the feast of sheep-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 w r as going 
 forward. Tables were spread, and great prep- 
 arations were making for the rustic feast. 
 Some lads and lasses were dancing on the 
 
A WINTER'S TALE . * 133 
 
 green before the house, while others of the 
 young men were buying ribbons, gloves, and 
 such toys, of a peddler 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 engag- 
 ing in the sports and silly amusments of those 
 around them. 
 
 The king was so disguised that it was im- 
 possible 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 some- 
 thing greater than herself, too noble for this 
 place.” 
 
 Camillo replied, “ Indeed she is the very 
 queen of curds and cream.” 
 
 “ Pray, my good friend,” said the king to 
 the old shepherd, “ what fair swain is that 
 talking with your daughter ? ” “ They call him 
 
 Doricles,” replied the shepherd. “ Pie 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. 
 
134 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Polixenes then addressed his son. “ How 
 now, young man ! ” said he : “ your heart 
 
 seems full of something that takes off your 
 mind from feasting. When I was young, I 
 used to load my love with presents ; but you 
 have let the peddler 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, “ Oh 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 wit- 
 ness to a solemn promise of marriage which he 
 made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, “ I pray 
 you, mark our contract.” 
 
 u Mark your divorce, young sir,” said the 
 king, discovering himself. 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 dis- 
 respectful 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’ re- 
 
A WINTER'S TALE . 
 
 i3S 
 
 proaches, 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, I 
 will queen it no farther. Leave me, sir ; I 
 will go milk my ewes, and weep.” 
 
 The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with 
 the spirit and propriety of Perdita’s behavior ; 
 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 favorable 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 favored 
 friend of king Polixenes, he could not help 
 wishing once more to see his late royal master 
 and his native home. He therefore proposed 
 to Florizel and Perdita, that they should ac- 
 company him to the Sicilian court, where he 
 would engage Leontes should protect them, 
 till, through his mediation, they could obtain 
 pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to 
 their marriage. 
 
 To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and 
 Camillo, who conducted everything relative to 
 their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go 
 along with them. 
 
13 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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’ atten- 
 tion : perceiving a resemblance between her 
 and his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke 
 out afresh, and he said, such a lovely creature 
 might his own daughter have been, if he had 
 not so cruelly destroyed her. 44 And then 
 too,” said he to Florizel, 44 1 lost the society 
 and friendship of your brave father, whom I 
 now desire more than my life once again to 
 look upon.” 
 
 When the old shepherd heard how much 
 notice the king had taken of Perdita, and that 
 he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in 
 infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he 
 found the little Perdita, with flie 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 faith- 
 ful Paulina, were present when the old shep- 
 herd related to the king the manner in which 
 
A WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 137 
 
 he had found the child, and also the circum- 
 stance of Antigonus’ death, he having seen 
 the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich 
 mantle in which Paulina remembered Her- 
 mione had wrapped the child ; and he pro- 
 duced a jewel which she remembered Her- 
 mione 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 daugh- 
 ter : 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 distress- 
 ful scene, with saying to Leontes, that she had 
 a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian 
 master, Julio Romano, which was such a per- 
 fect resemblance of the queen, that would his 
 majesty be pleased to go to her house and 
 look upon it, he would almost be ready to 
 think it was Hermione herself. Thither then 
 they all went ; the king anxious to see the 
 semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita long- 
 ing 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 
 
138 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 it resemble Hermione, that all the king’s sor- 
 row was renewed at the sight : for a long time 
 he had no power to speak or move. 
 
 “ I like your silence, my liege,” said Paulina ; 
 “ it the more 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 cur- 
 tain ! 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 to- 
 gether ! 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 lips 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 
 
A WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 *39 
 
 of her matchless mother, said now, “ And so 
 long could I stay here, looking upon my dear 
 mother.’' 
 
 “ Either forbear this transport,” said Pauline 
 to Leontes, “ and let me draw the curtain ; or 
 prepare yourself for more amazement. I can 
 make the statue move indeed ; ay, and de- 
 scend from off the pedestal, and take you by 
 the hand. But then you will think, which I 
 protest I am not, that I am assisted by some 
 wicked powers.” 
 
 “ What you can make her do,” said the 
 astonished king, “ I am content to look upon. 
 What you can make her speak, I am content 
 to hear ; for it is as easy to make her speak as 
 move.” 
 
 Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn 
 music, which she had prepared for the purpose, 
 to strike up ; and to the amazement of all the 
 beholders, the statue came down from off the 
 pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes’ 
 neck. The statue then began to speak, pray- 
 ing 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 and living 
 queen. 
 
 Paulina had falsely reported to the king the 
 death of Hermione, thinking that the only 
 means to preserve her royal mistress’s life ; 
 and with the good Paulina, Hermione had 
 
140 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should 
 know she was living, till she heard Perdita was 
 found ; for though she had long forgiven the in- 
 juries 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 preserv- 
 ing their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paul- 
 ina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good 
 an end of all their faithful services. 
 
 And as if nothing should be wanting to com- 
 plete 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 longed 
 wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he 
 should find the fugitives here ; and, following 
 them with all speed, he happened to arrive 
 just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes* 
 life. 
 
 Polixenes took a part in the general joy ; 
 he forgave his friend Leontes the unjust jeal- 
 ousy he had conceived against him, and they 
 once more loved each other with all the warmth 
 of their first boyish friendship. And there was 
 
A WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 141 
 
 no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his 
 son’s marriage with Perdita. She was no 
 “ sheep-hook ” now, but the heiress of the 
 crown of Sicily. 
 
 Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the 
 long-suffering Hermione rewarded. That ex- 
 cellent lady lived many years with her Leontes 
 and her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and 
 of queens. 
 
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly 
 come to his title and estate by the death of his 
 father. The king of France loved the father 
 of Bertram, and when he heard of his death 
 he sent for his son to come immediately to his 
 royal court in Paris ; intending, for the friend- 
 ship he bore the late count, to grace young 
 Bertram with his especial favor and protec- 
 tion. 
 
 Bertram was living with his mother, the 
 widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of 
 the French court, came to conduct Bertram to 
 the king. The king of France was an absolute 
 monarch, and the invitation to court was in 
 the form of a royal mandate, or positive com- 
 mand, which no subject, of what high dignity 
 soever, might disobey ; therefore though the 
 countess in parting with this dear son seemed 
 a second time to bury her husband, whose loss 
 she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not 
 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 absence ; and he 
 said, in a courtier’s flattering manner, that the 
 king was so kind a prince she would find in 
 142 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT EJVBS WELL . 143 
 
 his majesty a husband, and that he would be 
 a father to her son ; meaning only, that the 
 good king would befriend the fortunes of 
 Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the 
 king had fallen into a sad malady, which 
 was pronounced by his physicans to be in- 
 curable. 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 attend- 
 ance upon her) were living, for that she doubted 
 not he could have cured his majesty of his 
 disease. And she told Lafeu something of the 
 history of Helena, saying she was the only 
 daughter of the famous physician Gerard de 
 Narbon, and that he had recommended his 
 daughter to her care when he was dying, so 
 that, since his death, she had taken Helena 
 under her protection ; then the countess praised 
 the virtuous disposition and excellent qualities 
 of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues 
 from her worthy father. While she was speak- 
 ing, 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, ad- 
 vise 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 
 
144 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 al- 
 ways remembered that he was the count of 
 Rossilion, descended from the most ancient 
 family in Paris. She of humble birth. Her 
 parents of no note at all. His ancestors all 
 noble. And therefore she looked up to the 
 highborn Bertram as to her master and to her 
 dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to 
 live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. 
 So great the distance seemed to her between 
 his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, 
 that she would say, “ It were all one that I 
 should love a bright peculiar star, and think 
 to wed it, Bertram is so far above me.” 
 
 Bertram’s absence filled her eyes with tears, 
 and her heart with sorrow ; for though she 
 loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort 
 to her to see him every hour, and Helena would 
 sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched 
 brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she 
 seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 145 
 
 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 cob 
 lected as sovereign and almost infallible reme- 
 dies. Among the rest, there was one set down 
 as an improved medicine for the disease under 
 which Lafeu said the king at that time lan- 
 guished ; and when Helena heard of the king’s 
 complaint she, who till now had been so hum- 
 ble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious pro- 
 ject in her mind to go herself to Paris, and un- 
 dertake the cure of the king. But though 
 Helena was the possessor of this choice pre- 
 scription, it was unlikely, as the king as well 
 as his physicians were of opinion that his dis- 
 ease 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 medi- 
 cine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in 
 heaven to be the legacy that should advance 
 her fortune, even to the high dignity of being 
 count Rossilion’s wife. 
 
 Bertram had not been long gone, when the 
 countess was informed by her steward that he 
 10 
 
146 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 had overheard Helena talking to herself, and 
 that he understood, from some words she 
 uttered, she was in love with Bertram, and 
 had thought of following him to Paris. The 
 countess dismissed the steward with thanks, 
 and desired him to tell Helena she wished to 
 speak with her. What she had just heard of 
 Helena brought the remembrance of days long 
 past into the mind of the countess ; those days 
 probably when her love for Bertram’s father 
 first began ■ and she said to herself, “ Even so 
 it was with me when I was young. Love is a 
 thorn that belongs to the rose of youth ; for 
 in the season of youth, if ever we are nature’s 
 children, these faults are ours, though then we 
 think not they are faults.” While the coun- 
 tess 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 honor- 
 able mistress.” “You are my daughter,” said 
 the countess again : “ I say I am your mother. 
 Why do you start and look pale at my words ? ” 
 With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, 
 fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena 
 still replied, “ Pardon me, madam, you are not 
 my mother ; the count Rossilion cannot be 
 my brother, nor I your daughter.” “ Yet, 
 Helena,” said the countess, “ you might be 
 my daughter-in-law ; and I am afraid that is 
 what you mean to be, the words mother and 
 daughter so disturb you. Helena, do you love 
 my son ? ” “ Good madam, pardon me,” said 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . 147 
 
 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 worshiper, but 
 knows of him no more. The countess asked 
 Helena if she had not lately an intent to go to 
 Paris ? Helena owned the design she had 
 formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu 
 speak of the king’s illness. “ This was your 
 motive for wishing to go to Paris,” said the 
 countess, “ was it ? Speak truly.” Helena 
 honestly answered, “ My lord your son made 
 me think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, 
 and the king, had from the conversation of my 
 thoughts been absent then.” The countess 
 heard the whole of this confession without 
 saying a word either of approval or of blame, 
 but she strictly questioned Helena as to the 
 probability of the medicine being useful to the 
 king. She found that it was the most prized 
 by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and 
 that he had given it to his daughter on his 
 
148 tales from shakspeare . 
 
 death-bed ; and remembering the solemn 
 promise she had made at that awful hour in 
 regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and 
 the life of the king himself, seemed to depend 
 on the execution of a project (which though 
 conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving 
 maiden’s thoughts, the countess knew not but 
 it might be the unseen workings of Providence 
 to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and 
 to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of 
 Gerard de Narbon’s daughter), free leave she 
 gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and 
 generously furnished her with ample means 
 and suitable attendants ; and Helena set out 
 for Paris with the blessings of the countess, 
 and her kindest wishes for her success. 
 
 Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assist- 
 ance of her friend, the old Lord Lafeu, ob- 
 tained an audience of the king. She had 
 still many difficulties to encounter, for the 
 king was not easily prevailed on to try the 
 medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. 
 But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon’s 
 daughter (with whose fame the king was well 
 acquainted), and she offered the precious 
 medicine as the darling treasure which con- 
 tained the essence of all her father’s long ex- 
 perience 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, 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . 149 
 
 he promised to give her the choice of any man 
 throughout all France (the princes only ex- 
 cepted) 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 promised 
 reward of a husband on his fair physician ; 
 and he desired Helena to look round on this 
 youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose 
 her husband. Helena was not slow to make 
 her choice, for among these young lords she 
 saw the count Rossilion, and turning to Ber- 
 tram 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.” Ber- 
 tram 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 re- 
 jection 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 
 
150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAR 
 
 was one of the many privileges of the kings 
 of France ; and that same day Bertram was 
 married to Helena, a forced and uneasy mar- 
 riage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to 
 the poor lady, who, though she gained the 
 noble husband she had hazarded her life to 
 obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid 
 blank, her husband’s love not being a gift in 
 the power of the king of France to bestow. 
 
 Helena was no sooner married, than she 
 was desired by Bertram to apply to the king 
 for him for leave of absence from court ; and 
 when she brought him the king’s^permission for 
 his departure, Bertram told her that as he was 
 not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had 
 much unsettled him, and therefore she must 
 not wonder at the course he should pursue. 
 If Helena wondered not, she grieved when 
 she found it was his intention to leave her. 
 He ordered her to go home to his mother. 
 When Helena heard this unkind command, 
 she replied, “ Sir, I can say nothing 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 the 
 common civility of a kind farewell. 
 
 Back to the countess then Helena returned. 
 She had accomplished the purport of her 
 journey, she had preserved the life of the 
 
ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 15 1 
 
 king, and she had wedded her heart’s dear 
 lord, the count Rossilion ; but she returned 
 back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in- 
 law, and as soon as she entered the house she 
 received a letter from Bertram which almost 
 broke her heart. 
 
 The good countess received her with a cordial 
 welcome, as if she had been her son’s own 
 choice, and a lady of 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 Hel- 
 ena, and she said, “ Madam, my lord is gone, 
 forever gone.” She then read these words 
 out of Bertram’s letter : When you can get the 
 
 ring from my finger which never shall come off, 
 then call me husband , but in such a Then I write 
 a Never . “ This is a dreadful sentence,” said 
 
 Helena. The countess begged her to have 
 patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she 
 should be her child, and that she deserved a 
 lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram 
 might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. 
 But in vain by respectful condescension and 
 kind flattery this matchless mother tried to 
 soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law. 
 Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter 
 and cried out in an agony of grief, Till I have 
 no wife, I have nothing in France. The coun- 
 tess asked her if she found those words in the 
 letter? “ Yes, madam,” was all poor Helena 
 could answer. 
 
152 TALES FROM SHARSPEARE. 
 
 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 har 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 con- 
 cluded with requesting the countess to inform 
 her son, that the wife he so hated had left his 
 house forever. 
 
 Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Flor- 
 ence, and there became an officer in the Duke 
 of Florence’s army, and after a successful war, 
 in which he distinguished himself by many 
 brave actions, Bertram received letters from 
 his mother, containing the acceptable tidings 
 that Helena would no more disturb him ; and 
 he was preparing to return home when Helena 
 herself, clad in pilgrim’s weeds, arrived at the 
 city of Florence. 
 
 Florence was a city through which the pil- 
 grims 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 there- 
 fore Helena went, and the widow gave her a 
 courteous welcome, and invited her to see 
 whatever was curious in that famous city, and 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . 153 
 
 told her that if she would like to see the duke’s 
 army, she would take her where she might 
 have a full view of it. “ And you will see a 
 countryman of yours,” said the widow ; “ his 
 name is count Rossilion, who has done worthy 
 service in the duke’s wars.” Helena wanted 
 no second invitation, when she found Bertram 
 was to make a part of the show. She accom- 
 panied 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 hand- 
 some man ? ” said the widow. “ I like him 
 well,” replied Helena with great truth. All 
 the way they walked, the talkative widow’s 
 discourse was all of Bertram ; she told Helena 
 the story of Bertram’s marriage, and how he 
 had deserted the poor lady his wife, and en- 
 tered 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 Diana, a fair young gentle- 
 woman, the daughter of this widow who was 
 Helena’s hostess ; and every night, with music 
 of all sorts, and songs composed in praise of 
 
154 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 per- 
 suaded to grant this improper request, nor give 
 any encouragement to his suit, knowing him 
 to be a married man ; for Diana had been 
 brought up under the counsels of a prudent 
 mother, who though she was now in reduced 
 circumstances, was well-born, and descended 
 from the noble family of the Capulets. 
 
 All this the good lady related to Helena, 
 highly praising the virtuous principles of her 
 discreet daughter, which she said were entirely 
 owing to the excellent education and good ad- 
 vice she had given her ; and she farther said, that 
 Bertram had been particularly importunate 
 with Diana to admit him to the visit he so 
 much desired that night, because he was going 
 to leave Florence early next morning. 
 
 Though it grieved Helena to hear of Ber- 
 tram’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 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . 155 
 
 with her husband, was to get a ring from him, 
 which he had said, if ever she was in posses- 
 sion 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 favor. In 
 the course of that day Helena caused informa- 
 tion to be sent to Bertram that she was dead 
 hoping that when he thought himself free to 
 make a second choice by the news of her 
 death, he would offer marriage to her in her 
 feigned character of Diana. And if she could 
 obtain the ring and this promise too, she 
 doubted not she should make some future good 
 come of it. 
 
 In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram 
 was admitted into Diana’s chamber, and Hel- 
 ena 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 forever ; which 
 she hoped would be prophetic of a real 
 affection, when he should know it was his own 
 wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation 
 had so delighted him. 
 
 Bertram never knew how sensible a lady 
 Helena was, else perhaps he would not have 
 
156 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 been so regardless of her ; and seeing her 
 every day, he had entirely overlooked her 
 beauty ; a face we are accustomed to see con- 
 stantly, losing the effect which is caused by the 
 first sight either of beauty or of plainness ; and 
 of her understanding it was impossible he 
 should judge, because she felt such reverence, 
 mixed with her love for him, that she was 
 always silent in his presence ; but now that 
 her future fate, and the happy ending of all 
 her love-projects, seemed to depend on her 
 leaving a favorable impression on the mind of 
 Bertram from this night’s interview, she exerted 
 all her wit to please him ; and the simple 
 graces of her lively conversation and the en- 
 dearing sweetness of her manner so charmed 
 Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. 
 Helena begged the ring from off his finger as 
 a token of his regard, and he gave it to her ; 
 and in return for this ring, which it was of 
 such importance to her to possess, she gave 
 him another ring, which was one the king had 
 made her a present of. Before it was light in 
 the morning, she sent Bertram away ; and he 
 immediately set out on his journey towards 
 his mother’s house. 
 
 Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana 
 to accompany her to Paris, their farther assist- 
 ance 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 Rossilion, and 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 157 
 
 Helena followed the king with all the speed 
 she could make. 
 
 The king was still in perfect health, and his 
 gratitude to her who had been the means of 
 his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the 
 moment he saw the countess of Rossilion he 
 began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious 
 jewel that was lost by the folly of her son ; but 
 seeing the subject distressed the countess, who 
 sincerely lamented the death of Helena, he 
 said, “ My good lady, I have forgiven and for- 
 gotten all.” But the good-natured old Lafeu, 
 who was present, and could not bear that the 
 memory of his favorite 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 per- 
 fection made all hearts wish to serve her.” 
 The king said, “ Praising what is lost makes the 
 remembrance dear. Well — call him hither ; ” 
 meaning Bertram, who now presented himself 
 before the king : and, on his expressing deep 
 sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, 
 the king, for his dead father’s and his admira- 
 ble mother’s sake, pardoned him and restored 
 him once more to his favor. But the gracious 
 countenance of the king was soon changed 
 towards him, for he perceived that Bertram 
 wore the very ring upon his finger which he had 
 given to Helena ; and he well remembered that 
 
158 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Helena had called all the saints in heaven to 
 witness she would never part with that ring, 
 unless she sent it to the king himself upon 
 some great disaster befalling her ; and 
 Bertram, on the king’s questioning him how 
 he came by the ring, told an improbable story 
 of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, 
 and denied ever having seen Helena since the 
 day of their marriage. The king, knowing 
 Bertram’s dislike to his wife, feared he had de- 
 stroyed her ; and he ordered his guards to seize 
 Bertram, saying, 44 1 am wrapped in dismal 
 thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was 
 foully snatched.” At this moment Diana and 
 her mother entered, and presented a petition 
 to the king, wherein they begged his majesty 
 to exert his royal power to compel Bertram to 
 marry Diana, he having made her a solemn 
 promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the 
 king’s anger, denied he had made any such 
 promise ; and then Diana produced the ring 
 (which Helena had put into her hands) to 
 confirm the truth of her words ; and she said 
 that she had given Bertram the ring he then 
 wore, in exchange for that, at the time he 
 vowed to marry her. On hearing this the king 
 ordered the guards to seize her also ; and her 
 account of the ring differing from Bertram’s 
 the king’s suspicions were confirmed, and he 
 said, if they did not confess how they came 
 by this ring of Helena’s, they should be both 
 put to death. Diana requested her mother 
 might be permitted to fetch the jeweler of 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 159 
 
 whom she bought the ring, which, being 
 granted, the widow went out, and presently 
 returned leading in Helena herself. 
 
 The good countess, who in silent grief had 
 beheld her son’s danger, and had even dreaded 
 that the suspicion of his having destroyed his 
 wife might possibly be true, finding her dear 
 Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal 
 affection, was still living, felt a delight she was 
 hardly able to support ; and the king, scarce 
 believing for joy that it was Helena, said, “ Is 
 this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see ? ” 
 Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged 
 wife, replied, “ No, my good lord, it is but the 
 shadow of a wife you see, the name and not the 
 thing.” Bertram cried out, “ Both, both ! O 
 pardon ! ” “ O my lord,” said Helena, “ when 
 
 I personated this fair maid, I found you 
 wondrous kind ; and look, here is your 
 letter ! ” reading to him in a joyful tone those 
 words which she had once repeated so sorrow- 
 fully, When fro7n my finger you can get this 
 ring — “ This is none, it was to me you gave 
 the ring. Will you be mine, now you are 
 doubly won ? ” Bertram replied, “ If you can 
 make it plain that you were the lady I talked 
 with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever 
 dearly.” This was no difficult task, for the 
 widow and Diana came with Helena purposely 
 to prove this fact ; and the king was so well 
 pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance 
 she had rendered the dear lady he so truly 
 valued for the service she had done him, that 
 
160 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 he promised her also a noble husband : Hel- 
 ena’s history giving him a hint, that it was a 
 suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair 
 ladies when they perform notable services. 
 
 Thus Helena at last found that her father’s 
 legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest 
 stars in heaven ; for she was now the beloved 
 wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law 
 of her noble mistress, and herself the countess 
 of Rossilion. 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 There lived in the city of Verona two 
 young gentlemen, whose names were Valentine 
 and Protheus, between whom a firm and unin- 
 terrupted friendship had long subsisted. They 
 pursued their studies together, and their hours 
 of leisure were always passed in each other’s 
 company, except when Protheus visited a lady 
 he was in love with ; and these visits to his 
 mistress, and this passion of Protheus for the 
 fair Julia, were the only topics on which these 
 two friends disagreed : for Valentine, not 
 being himself a lover, was sometimes a little 
 weary of hearing his friend forever talking of 
 his Julia, and then he would laugh at Protheus, 
 and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of 
 love, and declare that no such idle fancies 
 should ever enter his head, greatly preferring 
 (as he said) the free and happy life that he 
 led, to the anxious hopes and fears of the 
 lover Protheus. 
 
 One morning Valentine came to Protheus 
 to tell him that they must for a time be sepa- 
 rated, for that he was going to Milan. Pro- 
 theus, unwilling to part with his friend, used 
 many arguments to prevail upon Valentine 
 not to leave him ; but Valentine said, “ Cease 
 to persuade me, my loving Protheus. I will 
 ii 161 
 
162 tales from shakspeare. 
 
 not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in 
 idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have 
 ever homely wits. If your affection were not 
 chained to the sweet glances of your honored 
 Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, 
 to see the wonders of the world abroad , but 
 since you are a lover, love on still, and may 
 your love be prosperous ! ” 
 
 They parted with mutual expressions of 
 unalterable friendship. “ Sweet Valentine, 
 adieu ! ” said Protheus ; “ think on me, when 
 you see some rare object worthy of notice in 
 your travels, and wish me partaker of your 
 happiness.” 
 
 Valentine began his journey that same day 
 towards Milan : and when his friend had left 
 him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to 
 Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to 
 deliver to her mistress, 
 
 Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, 
 but she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she 
 thought it did not become her maiden dignity 
 too easily to be won ; therefore she affected 
 to be insensible of his passion, and gave him 
 much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. 
 
 And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia 
 she would not receive it, and chid her maid for 
 taking letters from Protheus, and ordered her 
 to leave the room. But she so much wished 
 to see what was written in the letter, that she 
 soon called in her maid again, and when Lu- 
 cetta returned, she said, What o’clock is it ? ” 
 Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 163 
 
 to see the letter than to know the time of day, 
 without answering her question, again offered 
 the rejected letter, Julia, angry that her maid 
 should thus take the liberty of seeming to know 
 what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, 
 and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid 
 once more out of the room. As Lucetta was 
 retiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments 
 of the torn letter ; but Julia, who meant not so 
 to part with them, said in pretended anger, 
 
 “ Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie ; you 
 would be fingering them to anger me.” 
 
 Julia then began to piece together as well 
 as she could the torn fragments. She first 
 made out these words, “ Love-wounded Pro- 
 theus;” 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 Pro- 
 theus,” giving her that idea), she talked to 
 these kind words, telling them she would lodge 
 them in her bosom as in a bed, till their ^ 
 wounds were healed, and that she would kiss 
 each several piece, to make amends. 
 
 In this manner she went on talking with a 
 pretty lady-like childishness, till, finding her- 
 self unable to make out the whole, and vexed 
 at her own ingratitude in destroying such 
 sweet and loving words, as she called them, 
 she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus 
 than she had ever done before. 
 
 Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving 
 this favorable answer to his letter ; and while 
 
1 64 TALES FROM SHA KS PE ARE, 
 
 he was reading it, he exclaimed, “ Sweet love, 
 sweet lines, sweet life ! ” In the midst of his 
 raptures he was interrupted by his father. 
 u How now ! ” said the old gentleman ; “ what 
 letter are you reading there ? ” 
 
 “ My lord,” replied Protheus, “ it is a letter 
 from my friend Valentine, at Milan.” 
 
 “ Lend me the letter,” said his father : “ let 
 me see what news.” 
 
 “ There are no news, my lord,” said Pro- 
 theus, greatly alarmed, “ but that he writes 
 how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, 
 who daily graces him with favors ; and how he 
 wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune.” 
 “ And how stand you affected to his wish ? ” 
 asked the father. 
 
 “ As one relying on your lordshipis will, 
 and not depending on his friendly wish,” said 
 Protheus. 
 
 Now it had happened that Protheus’ father 
 had just been talking with a friend on this 
 very subject : his friend had said, he wondered 
 his lordship suffered his son to spend his 
 youth at home, while most men were sending 
 their sons to seek preferment abroad : “ some ” 
 said he, “ to the wars, to try their fortunes 
 there, and some to discover islands far away, 
 and some to study in foreign universities ; and 
 there is his companion Valentine, he is gone 
 to the Duke of Milan’s court. Your son is fit 
 for any of these things, and it will be a great 
 disadvantage to him in his riper age not to 
 have traveled in his youth.” 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 165 
 
 Protheus’ father thought the advice of his 
 friend was very good, and upon Protheus tell- 
 ing him that Valentine “ wished him with him, 
 the partner of his fortune/’ he at once deter- 
 mined to send his son to Milan ; and without 
 giving Protheus any reason for this sudden 
 resolution, it being the usual habit of this 
 positive old gentleman to command his son, 
 not reason with him, he said, “ My will is the 
 same as Valentine’s wish:” and seeing his 
 son look astonished, he added, “ Look not 
 amazed, that I so suddenly resolve' you shall 
 spend some time in the duke of Milan’s court ; 
 for what I will, I will, and there is an end. 
 To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no 
 excuses ; for I am peremptory.” 
 
 Protheus knew it was of no use to make ob- 
 jections to his father, who never suffered him 
 to dispute his will ; and he blamed himself for 
 telling his father an untruth about Julia’s letter, 
 which had brought upon him the sad necessity 
 of leaving her. 
 
 Now that Julia found she was going to lose 
 Protheus for so long a time, she no longer pre- 
 tended indifference ; and they bade each other 
 a mournful farewell, with many vows of love 
 and constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged 
 rings, which they both promised to keep for- 
 ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, 
 taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on 
 his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend 
 Valentine. 
 
 Valentine was in reality what Protheus had 
 
1 66 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 feigned to his father, in high favor with the 
 duke of Milan ; and another event had hap- 
 pened to him of which Protheus did not even 
 dream, for Valentine had given up the freedom 
 of which he used so much to boast, and was 
 become as passionate a lover as Protheus. 
 
 She who had wrought this wondrous change 
 in Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of 
 the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; 
 but they concealed their love from the duke, 
 because although he showed much kindness 
 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 everything 
 Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke him- 
 self entered the room, and told Valentine the 
 welcome news of his friend Protheus’ arrival. 
 Valentine said, “ If I had wished a thing, it 
 would have been to have seen him here ! ” and 
 then he highly praised Protheus to the duke, 
 saying, “ My lord, though I have been a truant 
 of my time, yet hath my friend made use and 
 fair advantage of his days, and is complete in 
 person as 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 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 167 
 
 you, sir Thurio ; for Valentine, I need not bid 
 him do so.” They were here interrupted by 
 the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine intro- 
 duced him to Silvia, saying, “ Sweet lady, 
 entertain him to be my fellow servant to your 
 ladyship.” 
 
 When Valentine and Protheus had ended 
 their visit, and were alone together, Valentine 
 said, “ Now tell me how all does from whence 
 you came ? How does your lady, and how 
 thrives your love ? ” Protheus replied, “ My 
 tales of love used to weary you. I know you 
 joy not in a love discourse.” 
 
 “Ay, Protheus,” returned Valentine, “but 
 that life is altered now. I have done penance 
 for condemning love. For in revenge of my 
 contempt of Love, Love has chased sleep 
 from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Protheus, 
 Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled 
 me, that I confess there is no woe like his cor- 
 rection, nor no such joy on earth as in his 
 service. I now like no discourse except it be 
 of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, 
 and sleep, upon the very name of love.” 
 
 This acknowledgment of the change which 
 love had made in the disposition of Valentine 
 was a great triumph to his friend Protheus. 
 But “friend,” Protheus must be called no 
 longer, for the same all powerful deity Love, of 
 whom they were speaking (yea, even while they 
 were talking of the change he had made in 
 Valentine), was working in the heart of Pro- 
 theus ; and he, who had till this time been a 
 
i68 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 en- 
 deavoring to supplant him in her affection ; 
 and although, as it will always be, when people 
 whose dispositions are naturally good become 
 unjust, he had many scruples before he deter- 
 mined to forsake Julia, and become the rival 
 of Valentine : yet he at length overcame his 
 sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost 
 without remorse, to his new unhappy passion. 
 
 Valentine imparted to him in confidence the 
 whole history of his love, and how carefully 
 they had concealed it from the duke her father, 
 and told him, that, despairing of ever being 
 able to obtain his consent, he had prevailed 
 upon Silvia to leave her father’s palace that 
 night, and go with him to Mantua ; then he 
 showed Protheus a ladder of ropes, by help 
 of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out 
 of one of the windows of the palace after it 
 was dark. 
 
 Upon hearing this faithful recital of his 
 friend’s dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to 
 be believed, but so it was, that Protheus 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 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 169 
 
 what he was going to reveal, but that the 
 gracious favor the duke had shown him, and 
 the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell 
 that which else no worldly good should draw 
 from him. He then told all he had heard 
 from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of 
 ropes, and the manner in which Valentine 
 meant to conceal them under a long cloak. 
 
 The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle 
 of integrity, in that he preferred telling his 
 friend’s intention rather than he would con- 
 ceal 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 perceived something was 
 wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded 
 was the rope-ladder. 
 
 The duke upon this stopped him, saying, 
 “ Whither away so fast Valentine?” “ May 
 it please your grace,” said Valentine, “ there is 
 a messenger that stays to bear my letters to 
 my friends, and I am going to deliver them.” 
 Now this falsehood of Valentine’s had no 
 better success in the event than the untruth 
 Protheus told his father. 
 
 “ Be they of much import ? ” said the duke. 
 
 “No more, my lord,” said Valentine, “than 
 to tell my father I am well and happy at your 
 grace’s court.” 
 
1 7 o TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 “ 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 stub- 
 born 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 child- 
 like 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 practiced by young 
 men, when they wished to win a fair lady’s love, 
 such as presents, frequent visits, and the 
 like. 
 
 The duke replied to this, that the lady did 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . 17 1 
 
 refuse a present which he sent her, and that 
 she was so strictly kept by her father, that no 
 man might have access to her by day. 
 
 “Why, then,” said Valentine, “you must 
 visit her by night.” 
 
 “ But at night,” said the artful duke, who 
 was now coming to the drift of his discourse, 
 “ her doors are fast locked.” 
 
 Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that 
 the duke should get into the lady’s chamber at 
 night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying, 
 he would procure him one fitting for that pur- 
 pose ; and in conclusion advised him to con- 
 ceal 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 pretense to 
 get off the cloak : so, upon saying these words, 
 he caught hold of Valentine’s cloak, and throw- 
 ing it back, he discovered not only the ladder 
 of ropes, but also a letter of Silvia’s, which he 
 instantly opened and read ; and this letter con- 
 tained a full account of their intended elope- 
 ment. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine 
 for his ingratitude in thus returning the favor 
 he had shown him, by endeavoring to steal 
 away his daughter, banished him from the 
 court and city of Milan forever; and Valen 
 tine was forced to depart that night without 
 even seeing Silvia. 
 
 While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring 
 Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the 
 absence of Protheus ; and her regard for him 
 
1J2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, 
 that she resolved to leave Verona and seek 
 her lover at Milan ; and to secure herself from 
 danger on the road, she dressed her maid 
 Lucetta and herself in men’s clothes, and they 
 set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, 
 soon after Valentine was banished from that 
 city through the treachery of Protheus. 
 
 Julia entered Milan about noon, and she 
 took up her abode at an inn ; and her thoughts 
 being all on her dear Protheus, she entered 
 into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, 
 as he was called, thinking by that means to 
 learn some news of Protheus. 
 
 The host was greatly pleased that this hand- 
 some young gentleman (as he took her to be), 
 who, from his appearance, he concluded was 
 of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him ; and 
 being a good-natured man, he was sorry to 
 see him look so melancholy ; and to amuse his 
 young guest he offered to take him to hear 
 some fine music, with which he said, a gentle- 
 man that evening was going to serenade his 
 mistress. 
 
 The reason Julia looked so very melancholy 
 was, that she did not well know what Protheus 
 would think of the imprudent step she had 
 taken ; for she knew he had loved her for her 
 noble maiden pride and dignity of character, 
 and she feared she should lower herself in his 
 esteem : and this it was that made her wear 
 a sad and thoughtful countenance. 
 
 She gladly accepted the offer of the host to 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 173 
 
 go with him, and hear the music ; for she 
 secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the 
 way. 
 
 But when she came to the palace whither the 
 host conducted her, a very different effect was 
 produced to what the kind host intended ; for 
 there, to her heart’s sorrow, she beheld her 
 lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the 
 lady Silvia with music, and addressing dis- 
 course of love and admiration to her. And 
 Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk 
 with Protheus, and reproach him for forsak- 
 ing his own true lady, and for his ingratitude 
 to his friend Valentine : and then Silvia left 
 the window not choosing to listen to his music 
 and his fine speeches ; for she was a faithful 
 lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred 
 the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
 Protheus. 
 
 Though Julia was in despair at what she had 
 just witnessed, yet did she still love the truant 
 Protheus ; and hearing that he had lately 
 parted with a servant, she contrived with the 
 assistance of her host, the friendly innkeeper, 
 to hire herself to Protheus as a page, and 
 Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he 
 sent her with letters and presents to her rival 
 Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring 
 she gave him as a parting gift at Verona. 
 
 When she went to that lady with the ring, 
 she was most glad to find that Silvia utterly 
 rejected the suit of Protheus; and Julia, or 
 the page Sebastian, as she was called, entered 
 
174 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 into conversation with Silvia about Protheus* 
 first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She, put- 
 ting in (as one may say) a good word for her- 
 self, said she knew Julia ; as well she might, 
 being herself the Julia of whom she spoke : tell- 
 ing how fondly Julia loved her master Pro- 
 theus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve 
 her ; and then she with a pretty equivocation 
 went on ; u Julia is about my height and of my 
 complexion, the color of her eyes and hair 
 the same as mine : ” and indeed Julia looked a 
 most beautiful youth in her boy’s attire. Silvia 
 was moved to pity this lovely lady, who was so 
 sadly forsaken by the man she loved ; and 
 when Julia offered the ring which Protheus had 
 sent, refused it, saying, “ The more shame for 
 him that he sends me that ring ; I will not 
 take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia 
 gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for 
 pitying her, poor lady ! Here is a purse ; I 
 gave it you for Julia’s sake.” These com- 
 fortable words coming from her kind rival’? 
 tongue cheered the drooping heart of the dis- 
 guised 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 wan- 
 dering over a lonely forest not far distant from 
 Milan, where he had left his heart ’s dear treas- 
 ure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by rob- 
 bers, who demanded his money. 
 
 Valentine told them that he was a man 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . 175 
 
 crossed by adversity, that he was going into 
 banishment, and that he had no money, the 
 clothes he had on being all his riches. 
 
 The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed 
 man, and being struck with his noble air and 
 manly behavior, told him if he would live with 
 them, and be their chief, or captain, they would 
 put themselves under his command ; but that, 
 if he refused to accept their offer, they would 
 kill him. 
 
 V alentine, 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- 
 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 travelers they robbed. 
 
 Silvia contrived to effect her escape from 
 her father’s palace in company with a worthy 
 
176 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 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 es- 
 caped. 
 
 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 honorable 
 mind, and always showed humanity to women. 
 Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was 
 going to be carried as a prisoner before the 
 captain of a lawless banditti. “ O V alentine,” 
 she cried, “ this I endure for thee ! ” 
 
 But as the robber was conveying her to the 
 cave of his captain he was stopped by Protheus, 
 who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of 
 a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had 
 traced her steps to this forest. Protheus now 
 rescued her from the hands of the robber ; 
 but scarce had she time to thank him for the 
 service he had done her, before he began to 
 distress her afresh with his lovesuit : 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 Pro- 
 theus had just done to Silvia should win her 
 to show him some favor, they were all strange- 
 ly surprised with the sudden appearance of 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 177 
 
 Valentine, who, having heard his robbers had 
 taken a lady prisoner, came to console and 
 relieve her. 
 
 Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so 
 much ashamed of being caught by his friend, 
 that he was all at once seized with penitence 
 and remorse ; and he expressed such a lively 
 sorrow for the injuries he had done to Valen- 
 tine, that Valentine*, whose nature was noble 
 and generous, even to a romantic degree, not 
 only forgave and restored him to his former 
 place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight 
 of heroism he said, “ I freely do forgive you ; 
 and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give it 
 up to you.” Julia, who was standing beside 
 her master as a page, hearing this strange offer, 
 and fearing Protheus would not be able, with 
 this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, 
 and they were all employed in recovering her ; 
 else would Silvia have been offended at being 
 thus made over to Protheus, though she could 
 scarcely think that Valentine would long per- 
 severe in this overstrained and too generous 
 act of friendship. When Julia recovered from 
 the fainting fit, she said, “ I had forgot, my 
 master ordered me to deliver this ring to 
 Silvia.” Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw 
 that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return 
 for that which he received from her, and which 
 he had sent by the supposed page to Silvia. 
 “ How is this ? ” said he, “ this is Julia’s ring : 
 how came you by it, boy ? ” Julia answered, 
 “ Julia herself did give it me, and Julia herself 
 hath brought it hither. 
 
178 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, 
 plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was 
 no other than the lady Julia herself : and the 
 proof she had given of her constancy and true 
 love so wrought in him, that his love for her 
 returned into his heart, and he took again his 
 own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pre- 
 tensions to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who 
 had so well deserved her. • 
 
 Protheus and Valentine were expressing • 
 their happiness in their reconciliation, and 
 in the love of their faithful ladies, when they 
 were surprised with the sight of the duke of 
 Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit 
 of Silvia. 
 
 Thurio first approached, and attempted to 
 seize Silvia, saying, “ Silvia is mine.” Upon 
 this Valentine said to him in a very spirited 
 manner, “ Thurio, keep back : if once again 
 you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace 
 your death. Here she stands, take but pos- 
 session of her with a touch ! I dare you but 
 to breathe upon my love.” Hearing this threat, 
 Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back, 
 and said he cared not for her, and that none 
 but a fool would fight for a girl who loved him 
 not. 
 
 The duke, who was a very brave man him- 
 self, 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 
 light conditions.” Then turning to Valentine 
 he said, “ I do applaud your spirit, Valentine 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . 179 
 
 and think you worthy of an empress’s love. 
 You shall have Silvia, for you have well de- 
 served her.” Valentine then with great humil- 
 ity kissed the duke’s hand, and accepted the 
 noble present which he had made him of his 
 daughter with becoming thankfulness ; taking 
 occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the 
 good-humored duke to pardon the thieves 
 with whom he had associated in the forest, as- 
 suring him, that when reformed and restored 
 to society, there would be found among them 
 many good, and fit for great employment ; for 
 the most of them had been banished, like 
 Valentine, for state offenses, rather than for 
 any black crimes they had been guilty of. To 
 this the ready duke consented ; and now 
 nothing remained but that Protheus, the false 
 friend, was ordained, by way of penance for 
 liis love-prompted faults, to be present at the 
 recital of the whole story of his loves and 
 falsehoods before the duke ; and the shame of 
 the recital to his awakened conscience was 
 judged sufficient punishment : which being 
 done, the lovers, all four, returned back to 
 Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in 
 presence of the duke, with high triumphs and 
 feasting. 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 During the time of Augustus Caesar, em- 
 peror of Rome, there reigned in England 
 (which was then called Britain) a king whose 
 name was Cymbeline. 
 
 Cymbeline’s first wife died when his three 
 children (two sons and a daughter) were very 
 young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, 
 was brought up in her father’s court ; but by 
 a strange chance the two sons of Cymbeline 
 were stolen out of their nursery, when the 
 eldest was but three years of age, and the 
 youngest quite an infant : and Cymbeline could 
 never discover what was become of them, or 
 by whom they were conveyed away. 
 
 Cymbeline was twice married ; his second 
 wife was a wicked, plotting woman, and a 
 cruel 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 Cymbeline to place the crown of 
 Britain upon the head of her son Cloten : for 
 she knew that, if the king’s sons were not 
 found, the princess Imogen must be the king’s 
 180 
 
C YMBE LINE. j8i 
 
 heir. But this design was prevented by 
 Imogen herself, who married without the con- 
 sent 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 Cym- 
 beline, and soon after his birth his mother 
 died also for grief at the loss of her husband. 
 
 Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this 
 orphan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having 
 given him that name, because he was born 
 after his father’s death) and educated him in 
 his own court. 
 
 Imogen and Posthumus were both taught 
 by the same masters, and were playfellows 
 from their infancy ; they loved each other ten- 
 derly when they were children, and their affec- 
 tion continuing to increase with their years, 
 when they grew up they privately married. 
 
 The disappointed queen soon learnt this 
 secret, for she kept spies constantly in watch 
 upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and 
 she immediately told the king of the marriage 
 of Imogen with Posthumus. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbe- 
 line, 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 forever. 
 
 The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen 
 
182 TALA'S ATOM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, 
 offered to procure them a private meeting 
 before Posthumus set out on his journey to 
 Rome, which place he had chosen for his 
 residence in his banishment : this seeming 
 kindness she 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 affec- 
 tionate 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 fidel- 
 ity 
 
 Imogen remained a solitary and dejected 
 lady in her father’s court, and Posthumus ar- 
 rived 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. Posthumus, who had ever his own 
 dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, 
 the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, 
 and constant lady in the world. 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 i8 3 
 
 One of these gentleman, whose name was 
 Iachimo, being offended that a lady of Britain 
 should be so praised above the Roman ladies, 
 his countrywomen, provoked Posthumus by 
 seeming to doubt the constancy of his so highly- 
 praised wife ; and, at length, after much alter- 
 cation, Posthumus consented to a proposal of 
 Iachimo’s, that he (Iachimo) should go to 
 Britain, and endeavor 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 favor, and pre- 
 vail upon her to give him the bracelet which 
 Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would 
 keep as a token of his love, then the wager 
 was to terminate with Posthumus giving to 
 Iachimo, the ring, which was Imogen’s love- 
 present when she parted with her husband. 
 Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity 
 of Imogen that he thought he ran no hazard in 
 this trial of her honor. 
 
 Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained ad- 
 mittance, and a courteous welcome from Im- 
 ogen, as a friend of her husband ; but when 
 he began to make professions of love to her, 
 she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon 
 found that he could have no hope of succeeding 
 in his dishonorable design. 
 
 The desire Iachimo had to win the wager 
 made him now have recourse to a stratagem 
 to impose upon Posthumus, and for this pur- 
 pose he bribed some of Imogen’s attendants, 
 
1 84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARR. 
 
 and was by them conveyed into her bedcham- 
 ber concealed in a large trunk, where he re- 
 mained shut up tiil Imogen had retired to rest, 
 and had fallen to sleep ; 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 Posthumus had given to her, he re- 
 tired into the chest again ; and the next day 
 he set off for Rome with great expedition, and 
 boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given 
 him the bracelet, and likewise permitted him 
 to pass a night in her chamber : and in this 
 manner Iachimo told his false tale : “ Her 
 bedchamber,” said he, “ was hung with tapes- 
 try of silk and silver, the story was the proud 
 Cleopatra when she met her Anthony , a piece of 
 work most bravely wrought.” 
 
 “This is true,” said Posthumus; “but this 
 you might have heard spoken of without see- 
 ing.” 
 
 “ Then the chimney,” said Iachimo, “ is 
 south of the chamber, and the chimney-piece 
 is Diana bathing ; never saw I figures livelier 
 expressed.” 
 
 “ This is a thing you might have likewise 
 heard,” said Posthumus, “for it is much talked 
 of.” 
 
 Iachimo as accurately described the roof of 
 the chamber, and added, “ I had almost forgot 
 her andirons, they were two winking Cupids 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 i8 5 
 
 made of silver, each on one foot standing.” 
 He then took out the bracelet, and said, 
 “ Know you this jewel, sir ? She gave me 
 this. She took it from her arm. I see her 
 yet ; her pretty action did outsell her gift, and 
 yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and 
 said she prized it once? He last of all de- 
 scribed 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 exclama- 
 tions against Imogen. He delivered up the 
 diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had agreed 
 to forfeit to him if he obtained the bracelet 
 from Imogen. 
 
 Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to 
 Pisanio, a gentleman of Britain, who was one 
 of Imogen’s attendants, and had long been a 
 faithful friend to Posthumus ; and after telling 
 him what proof he had of his wife’s disloyalty, 
 he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to 
 Milford Haven, a sea-port 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 for- 
 bidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, 
 he would come to Milford Haven, at which 
 place he begged she would meet him. She, 
 good unsuspecting lady, who loved her hus- 
 band above all things, and desired more than 
 her life to see him, hastened her departure 
 
1 86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 secu- 
 rity in traveling ; 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 for- 
 tune, 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 Imogem 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 
 

 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 187 
 
 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 caus- 
 ing 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 bless- 
 ings 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. Bellarius, 
 who stole them away, was a lord in the court 
 of Cymbeline, and having been falsely accused 
 to the king of treason, and banished from the 
 court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of 
 Cymbeline, and brought them up in a forest* 
 where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole 
 them through revenge, but he soon loved them 
 as tenderly as if they had been his own chil- 
 dren, educated them carefully, and they grew 
 up fine youths, their princely spirits leading 
 them to bold and daring actions ; and as they 
 subsisted by hunting, they were active and 
 hardy, and were always pressing their supposed 
 father to let them seek their fortune in the 
 wars. 
 
 At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was 
 Imogen’s fortune to arrive. She had lost her 
 way in a large forest through which her road 
 
i88 TALES FROM SHA KSPE ARE. 
 
 lay to Milford Haven (from whence she meant 
 to embark for Rome) : and being unable to 
 find any place where she could purchase food, 
 she was with weariness and hunger almost 
 dying ; for it is not merely putting on a man’s 
 apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly 
 brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering 
 about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this 
 cave, she entered, hoping to find some one 
 within of whom she could procure food. She 
 found the cave empty, but looking about she 
 discovered some cold meat, and her hunger 
 was so pressing, that she could not wait for 
 an invitation, but sat down, and began to eat. 
 “ Ah ! ” said she, talking to herself, “ I see a 
 man’s life is a tedious one ; how tired am I ! 
 for two nights together I have made the ground 
 my bed : my resolution helps me, or I should 
 be sick. When Pisanio 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. Bellarius 
 had given them the names of Polidore and 
 Cadwal, and they knew no better, but sup- 
 posed that Bellarius was their father ; but the 
 real names of these princes were Guiderius and 
 Arviragus. 
 
 Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing 
 
C YMBELINE, 
 
 189 
 
 Imogen, stopped them, saying, “ Come not in 
 yet ; it eats our victuals, or I should think 
 that it was a fairy.” 
 
 “ What is the matter, sir ? ” said the young 
 men. “ By Jupiter,” said Bellarius again, 
 “ there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an 
 earthly paragon.” So beautiful did Imogen 
 look in her boy’s apparel. 
 
 She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth 
 from the cave, and addressed them in these 
 words : “ Good masters, do not harm me •, 
 before I entered your cave I had thought to 
 have begged or bought what I have eaten. 
 Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, 
 though I had found gold 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 refused her money with great earnest- 
 ness. “ 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 bond ? ” 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 be- 
 ing going, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen 
 into this offense.” 
 
 “ 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 
 
TALES FROM SHA ICS PE A RE. 
 
 190 
 
 well encountered ; it is almost night. You 
 shall have better cheer before you depart, and 
 thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him wel- 
 come. ” 
 
 The gentle youths, her brothers, then wel- 
 comed Imogen to their cave with many kind 
 expressions, saying they would love her (or, as 
 they said, him) as a brother ; and they entered 
 the cave, where (they having killed venison 
 when they were hunting) Imogen delighted 
 them with her neat housewifery, assisting them 
 in preparing their supper ; for though it is not 
 the custom now for young women of high birth 
 to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen 
 excelled in this useful art ; and, as her brothers 
 prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in 
 characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno 
 had been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. 
 “ And then,” said Polidore to his brother, 
 “ how angel-like he sings ! ” 
 
 They also remarked to each other, that 
 though Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a 
 melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if 
 grief and patience had together taken posses- 
 sion of him. 
 
 For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it 
 was their near relationship, though they knew 
 it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called her, 
 Fidele) became the 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 
 
CYMBELINE. 191 
 
 consented to stay with them, till she was 
 enough rested from the fatigue of traveling to 
 pursue her way to Milford Haven. 
 
 When the venison they had taken was all 
 eaten, and they were going out to hunt for 
 more, Fidele could not accompany them, 
 because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, 
 for her husband’s cruel usage, as well as the 
 fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the 
 cause of her illness. 
 
 They then bid her farewell, and went to their 
 hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and 
 graceful demeanor 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 deadlike sleep. 
 
 When Bellarius and her brothers returned 
 from hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, 
 and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy 
 shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake 
 her ; so did true gentleness spring up in the 
 minds of these princely foresters : but he soon 
 discovered that she could not be awakened by 
 any noise, and concluded her to be dead, and 
 Polidore lamented over her with dear and 
 brotherly regret, as if they had never from 
 their infancy been parted. 
 
 Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into 
 the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with 
 songs and solemn dirges, as was then the 
 custom. 
 
 Imogen’s two brothers then carried her to 
 
192 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 a shady covert, and there laying her gently on 
 the grass, they sang repose to her departed 
 spirit, and covering her over with leaves and 
 flowers, Polidore said, “ While summer lasts 
 and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy 
 sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower 
 most like thy face ; the bluebell, like thy clear 
 veins ; and the leaf of eglantine, which is not 
 sweeter than was thy breath ; all these I will 
 strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in 
 winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy 
 sweet corse.” 
 
 When they had finished her funeral obse- 
 quies, they departed very sorrowful. 
 
 Imogen had not been long left alone, when, 
 the effect of the sleepy drug going off, she 
 awakened, 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 pas- 
 sage in some ship bound for Italy ; for all her 
 thoughts were still with her husband Post- 
 humus, whom she intended to seek in the dis- 
 guise of a page. 
 
 But great events were happening at this 
 
C Y MB E LINE. 
 
 193 
 
 time, of which Imogen knew nothing; for a 
 war had suddenly broken out between the 
 Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar, and Cymbe- 
 line, the King of Britain : and a Roman army 
 had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced 
 into the very forest over which Imogen was 
 journeying. With this army came Posthumus. 
 
 Though Posthumus came over to Britain 
 with the Roman army, he did not mean to fight 
 on their side against his own countrymen, but 
 intended to join the army of Britain, and fight 
 in the cause of his king who had banished 
 him. 
 
 He still believed Imogen false to him ; yet 
 the death of her he had so fondly loved, and 
 by his own orders too (Pisanio having written 
 him a letter to say he had obeyed his com- 
 mand, and that Imogen was dead), sat heavy 
 on his heart, and therefore he returned to 
 Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or 
 to be put to death by Cymbeline for returning 
 home from banishment. 
 
 Imogen, before she reached Milford Haven, 
 fell into the hands of the Roman army ; and 
 her presence and deportment recommending 
 her, she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman 
 general. 
 
 Cymbeline’s army now advanced to meet the 
 enemy, and when they entered this forest, 
 Polidore and Cadwal joined the king’s army. 
 The young men were eager to engage in acts 
 of valor, though they little thought they were 
 going to fight for their own royal father : and 
 x 3 
 
194 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 old Bellarius went with them to the battle. 
 He had long since repented of the injury he 
 had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his 
 sons ; and having been a warrior in his youth, 
 he gladly joined the army to fight for the king 
 he had so injured. 
 
 And now a great battle commenced between 
 the armies, and the Britons would have been 
 defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but 
 for the extraordinary valor 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, sur- 
 rendered himself up to one of the officers of 
 Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which 
 was to be his punishment if he returned from 
 banishment. 
 
 Imogen and the master she served were 
 taken prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, 
 as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was 
 an officer in the Roman army ; and when these 
 prisoners were before the king, Posthumus was 
 brought in to receive his sentence of death ; 
 and at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius 
 with Polidore and Cadwal were also brought 
 before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due 
 to the great services they had by their valor 
 done for the king. Pisanio, being one of the 
 king’s attendants, was likewise present. 
 
 Therefore there was now standing in the 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 *95 
 
 king’s presence (but with very different hopes 
 and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with her 
 new master the Roman general; the faithful 
 servant Pisanio, and the false friend Iachimo ; 
 and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, 
 with Bellarius, who had stolen them away. 
 
 The Roman general was the first who spoke ; 
 the rest stood silent before the king, though 
 there was many a beating heart 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 resem- 
 ble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the 
 dead Fidele.” “ The same dead thing alive,” 
 said Polidore. “ Peace, peace,” said Bellarius ; 
 “ if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken 
 to us.” “ But we saw him dead,” again whis- 
 pered Polidore. “ Be silent,” replied Bellarius. 
 
 Posthumus waited in silence to hear the 
 welcome sentence of his own death ; and he 
 resolved not to disclose to the king that he 
 
196 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 had saved his life in the battle, lest that should 
 move Cymbeline to pardon him. 
 
 Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken 
 Imogen under his protection as his page, was 
 the first (as has been before said) who spoke 
 to the king. He was a man of high courage 
 and noble dignity, and this was his speech to 
 the king : 
 
 “ I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, 
 but doom them all to death : I am a Roman, 
 and with a Roman heart will suffer death. 
 But there is one thing for which I would 
 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 dili- 
 gent 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 diguise ; 
 but it seemed that all-powerful nature speak 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, 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 x 97 
 
 whatever it might be, that the person on whom 
 the favor 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, de- 
 manded no other boon than this, that Iachmio 
 should be made to confess whence he had the 
 ring he wore on his finger. 
 
 Cymbeline granted her this boon, and 
 threatened Iachimo with the torture if he did 
 not confess how he came by the diamond ring 
 on his finger. 
 
 Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment 
 of all his villany, telling, as has been before 
 related, the whole story of his wager with 
 Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in im- 
 posing upon his credulity. 
 
 What Poshumus felt at hearing this proof of 
 the innocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. 
 He instantly came forward, and confessed to 
 Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had 
 enjoined Pisanio to execute upon the princess ; 
 exclaiming wildly, “ O Imogen, my queen, my 
 life, my wife ! 0 Imogen, Imogen, Imogen ! ” 
 
 Imogen could not see her beloved husband 
 in this distress without discovering herself, to 
 
198 TALES FROM SH A KSPE ARE. 
 
 the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was 
 thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, 
 and restored to the good graces of the dear 
 lady he had so cruelly treated. 
 
 Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as 
 he with joy at finding his lost daughter so 
 strangely recovered, received her to her former 
 place in his fatherly affection, and not only 
 gave her husband Posthumus his life, but con- 
 sented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. 
 
 Bellarius chose this time of joy and recon- 
 ciliation to make his confession. He presented 
 Polidore and Cadwal to the king, telling him 
 they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and 
 Arviragus. 
 
 Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius ; for who 
 could think of punishment at a season of such 
 universal happiness ? To find his daughter 
 living, and his lost sons in the persons of his 
 young deliverers, that he had seen so bravely 
 fight in his defense, was unlooked-for joy 
 indeed ! 
 
 Imogen was now at leisure to perform good 
 services for her late master, the Roman general 
 Lucius, whose life the king her father readily 
 granted at her request ; and by the meditation 
 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, a»d 
 touched with remorse of conscience, sickened 
 and died, having first lived to see her foolish 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 1 99 
 
 son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had 
 provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt 
 this happy conclusion by more than merely 
 touching upon. It is sufficient that all were 
 made happy, who were deserving ; and even 
 the treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of 
 his villany having missed its final aim, was 
 dismissed without punishment. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 After all the laborious research which has 
 been expended on the subject of Shakspeare’s 
 biography, few particulars are known on those 
 points which would be most gratifying to the 
 curiosity of his rational admirers. We may 
 trace his ancestors to the doomsday book, and 
 his posterity till they dwindle into tongueless 
 obscurity ; but of his own habits and domestic 
 character we know comparatively nothing. 
 During his early days, his path of life was so 
 humble, that all our inquiries necessarily 
 terminate in disappointment ; and of the more 
 busy periods of his existence, when he wrote 
 for the stage, and was the public favorite, 
 his remarkable humility of mind and manners 
 induced him to avoid the eye of notoriety; 
 and, unfortunately, there was no Boswell or 
 Medwin to make memoranda of his conversa- 
 tions, or transmit to our times a facsimile of 
 the great dramatist in the familiar moments of 
 relaxation and friendly intercourse. Such 
 hiatuses in the life of Shakspeare cannot be 
 now supplied ; now about two hundred years 
 have elapsed since his mortal remains were 
 left to molder beneath a tomb, over which 
 Time has shaken the dust of his wings too 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 often to allow of our recovering details, local 
 and fugitive, however interesting. Rowe was 
 the first whose researches elicited anything 
 like a satisfactory memoir of our great bard. 
 Poets and critics have laboriously retrodden 
 his steps ; the genius of Pope and the acumen 
 of Johnson have been employed on the same 
 subject, but the sun of their adoration had 
 gone down before their intellectual telescopes 
 were levelled to discover its perfections. 
 Malone has done the most, and appears 
 indeed to have exhausted the subject; but, 
 from inadvertency or carelessness, he has 
 overlooked many particulars which deserve 
 preservation . 1 Having turned over a variety 
 of books, and consulted every accessible 
 authority, we shall attempt to condense, under 
 one head, such recollections of Shakspeare as 
 are at present scattered over many volumes, 
 as well as the more obvious and familiar 
 portions of his history. 
 
 It appears a family designated indifferently 
 Shaxper, Shakespeare , Shakspere and Shaks- 
 peare , were well-known in Warwickshire during 
 the sixteenth century. Rowe says : “ It seems 
 by the register and other public writings of 
 Stratford, that the poet’s family were of good 
 figure and fashion there, and are mentioned 
 as gentlemen.” 
 
 1 Since the above was written, some forty years ago, 
 a much abler critic and investigator has come forward 
 to illustrate the somewhat dim knowledge hitherto 
 existing of Shakspeare’s family, — Charles Knight. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 203 
 
 This account turns out to be very incorrect ; 
 for on reference to the authorities cited, we 
 find that the Shakspeares, though their property 
 was respectable, never rose above the rank of 
 tradesmen or husbandmen. Nothing is known 
 of the immediate ancestors of John Shakspeare, 
 the poet’s father, who was originally a glover, 
 afterwards a butcher , and in the last place, a 
 wool-stapler , in the town of Stratford. Being 
 very industrious, his wealth gave him impor- 
 tance among his neighbors, and having served 
 various offices in the borough with credit, 
 he ultimately obtained its supreme municipal 
 honors, being elected high-bailiff, at Michael- 
 mas, 1568. His town-folks no doubt consid- 
 ered this thje summit of earthly felicity ; but 
 however reverend the corporation of Stratford 
 in its own estimation, we cannot but smile at 
 these erudite sages, out of nmeteejt of whom, 
 as we find from their signatures, attached to a 
 public document, 1564, only seven were able to 
 write their names. While chief magistrate of 
 the borough, and on his marriage with Mary 
 Arden, he obtained a grant of arms from the 
 Herald’s College, and was allowed to impale 
 his own achievement with that of the ancient 
 family of the Ardens. 
 
 In the deed respecting John Shakspeare, his 
 property is declared to be worth five hundred 
 pounds, a sum by no means inconsiderable in 
 those days ; and, on the whole, we have suffi- 
 cient evidence of his worldly prosperity. 
 From some unexplained causes, however, his 
 
204 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 affairs began to alter for the worse about 1574, 
 and after employing such expedients to relieve 
 his growing necessities as in the end served 
 only to aggravate them, he at length fell into 
 such extreme poverty that he was obliged to 
 give security for a debt of five pounds ; and a 
 distress issuing for the seizure of his goods, it 
 was returned : “ Joh’es Shakspere nihil habet 
 unde distr. potest levari.” (John Shakspere 
 has no effects on which a distraint can be 
 levied.) During the last ten years of his life 
 we have no particular account of his circum- 
 stances ; but, as in 1597 he describes himself 
 as “of very small wealth and very few friends,” 
 we may justly suppose that he remained in 
 great indigence. He seems indeed to have 
 fallen into decay with his native town, the trade 
 of which was almost ruined ; as we may learn 
 from the application of the burgesses in 1590* 
 The town had then “ fallen into much decay, 
 for want of such trade as heretofore they had by 
 clothing, and making of yarn, employing and 
 maintaining a number of poor people by the 
 same, which now live in great penury and 
 misery, by reason they are not set to work as 
 before they have been.” 
 
 John Shakspeare died in 1601. His family 
 consisted of eight children , Jane, Margaret, 
 William, Gilbert, Lorie, Anne, Richard, and 
 Edmund. Lorie and Margaret died when but 
 a few months old. Of Gilbert nothing is known 
 but the register of his baptism. Jane married 
 one Hart, a hatter of Stratford, and died in 
 
LIFE OF S HA KS PE A RE. 
 
 205 
 
 1646, leaving three sons. She is mentioned 
 with much kindness in her illustrious brother’s 
 will ; and the descendants of her children 
 were to be found in Stratford within these few 
 years. In 1749, a house of Shakspeare’s, in 
 Henly Street, belonged to Thomas Hart, a 
 butcher, and the sixth in descent from Jane. 
 Anne Shakspeare, died an infant ; Richard, 
 according to the parish register, was buried in 
 1612. Edmund Shakspeare, actuated probably 
 by his brother’s reputation at the theater, be- 
 came an actor ; he performed at the Globe, 
 lived in St. Saviour’s, Southwark, and was in- 
 terred in the churchyard of that parish, on the 
 31st of December, 1606. 
 
 William Shakspeare was born April 23d, 
 1564, at Stratford-upon-Avon. The house in 
 which the poet first saw the light was bought, 
 in 1597, from a family of the name of Under- 
 hill. It had been called the great house , not 
 because it is really large, but on account of its 
 having been at that time the best in the town. 
 In its present dilapidated state, the ablest 
 artists have exerted their skill to preserve the 
 outline of so remarkable a building for the 
 gratification of posterity, and the most minute 
 particulars concerning it have been collected 
 with the utmost avidity. 
 
 The chamber , in which our unrivalled dram- 
 atist is said to have drawn his first breath, is 
 penciled over with the names of innumer- 
 able visitors in every grade of life. Royalty 
 has been proud to pay this simple tribute to 
 
206 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 exalted intellect ; and Genius has paused in 
 its triumphs, to inscribe these hallowed walls 
 with the brief sentences which record its love 
 and veneration for the wonderful man who 
 once recognized this lowly tenement as his 
 home . The following lines are ascribed to 
 Lucien Buonaparte, who during his stay in 
 England made an excursion into Warwickshire, 
 expressly to gratify his curiosity respecting 
 our all-praised Shakspeare : 
 
 “ The eye of Genius glistens to admire 
 
 How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare’ s lyre. 
 One tear I’ll shed to form a crystal shrine 
 Of all that’s grand, immortal, and divine. 
 
 Let princes o’er their subject kingdoms rule; 
 
 ’Tis Shakspeare’s province to command the soul ! 
 
 To add one leaf, oh, Shakspeare ! to thy bays, 
 
 How vain the effort, and how mean my lays ! 
 Immortal Shakspeare ! o’er thy hallow’d page, 
 
 Age becomes taught, and youth is e’en made sage.” 
 
 This house, so venerable on account of its 
 former inmate, is now divided, one part being 
 a butcher’s shop, and the other a public-house. 
 
 Of Shakspeare’s infancy we know nothing, 
 except that he narrowly escaped falling a 
 victim to the plague, which at that time almost 
 depopulated his native town. We next find 
 him at the free grammar-school of Stratford, 
 where we may suppose he acquired the 
 “ small Latin and less Greek” for which Ben 
 Jonson gives him credit. But even this im- 
 perfect species of education was soon inter- 
 rupted, the poverty of his father presenting an 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 207 
 
 insurmountable obstacle to his further prog- 
 ress. There can be little doubt, however, 
 that his quick and apprehensive mind would 
 profit materially even by this limited supply 
 of instruction. In after life, he seems to have 
 been acquainted with Italian and French, but 
 these languages he probably acquired through 
 his own unassisted industry. He now for a 
 considerable period remained at home, and at- 
 tended to his father’s occupation, that of a 
 butcher ; and Aubrey, an author in whom we 
 should not put implicit confidence, relates that 
 young Shakspeare killed a calf “ in high style,” 
 and graced the slaughter with an oration. 
 The same writer informs us, that growing dis- 
 gusted with this employment, he commenced 
 schoolmaster, but this, from his juvenility at 
 the time mentioned, is highly improbable. 
 
 Shakspeare’s eighteenth year was scarcely 
 passed when, relinquishing his school, or his 
 office (for Malone makes him an attorney’s 
 clerk), he ventured to contract that important 
 engagement on which the happiness or misery 
 of life generally turns. He selected for his 
 wife Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a repu- 
 table yeoman in the vicinity of Stratford. At 
 her marriage, she was eight years older than 
 her husband, and Shakspeare’s domestic felic- 
 ity does not appear to have been advanced 
 by the connection. In the year following, 
 1583, his daughter Susanna was born : and in 
 eighteen months afterwards his wife bore him 
 twins, a boy and a girl, baptized by the name 
 
208 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 of Hamnet and Judith. This was the whole 
 of the poet’s family ; from which we are per- 
 haps justified in concluding, as there are other 
 circumstances to strengthen the opinion, that 
 his connubial lot was not enviable ; indeed, 
 his wife’s years were so ill-assorted to his own, 
 that little congeniality of sentiment was to be 
 expected. Hamnet, Shakespeare’s only son, 
 died at the early age of twelve years, an event 
 long and deeply regretted : the daughters, 
 Susanna and Judith, were married, and had 
 children. Shakspeare’s last lineal descendant 
 was Lady Barnard, buried, in 1670, at Abing- 
 don, in Berkshire. Some branches of the 
 family still exist, and are resident at Tewkes- 
 bury and Stratford ; they are in great indi- 
 gence, and it reflects disgrace on the age, that 
 a proposal for their benefit, recently made, re- 
 ceived hardly any attention. Surely, when our 
 nobility patronize the refuse of society, in the 
 shape of pedestrians and pugilists, their gen- 
 erosity might be exercised in succoring those 
 who claim kindred with him who was the glory 
 of his country and of human nature. 
 
 The inhabitants of Shakspeare’s native town 
 were passionately fond of dramatic entertain- 
 ments. Traveling companies of players ap- 
 pear to have visited Stratford on more than 
 twenty occasions between 1569 (when the poet 
 was under six years of age) and 1587. Bur- 
 bage and Green, two celebrated actors, were 
 his townsmen, and even from childhood his 
 attention must have been attracted to the 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 209 
 
 stage, by the powerful influence of novelty, 
 and in all probability, by his personal acquaint- 
 ance with some of the comedians. When, 
 therefore, his views in life were unavoidably 
 altered, it was natural that the theater should 
 present itself to his mind as his best asylum ; 
 and directing his fugitive steps to the metro- 
 polis, he became a player, and, in the end, a 
 writer for the stage. The tale of Shakspeare’s 
 attending at the Globe, on his first arrival at 
 London, to take the charge of gentlemen’s 
 horses during the performance, is much 
 doubted at present ; but it seems likely that 
 the first office he held in the theater was that 
 of call-boy , or prompter’s attendant. He did 
 not long continue in that capacity, being soon 
 admitted to perform minor parts in the popular 
 plays of that period. 
 
 Shakspeare followed the profession of an 
 actor upwards of seventeen years, and till 
 within about thirteen years of his death ; but 
 we have good reason to suppose that six shill- 
 ings and eightpencea week was the highest reward 
 of his dramatic efforts. Of his merit as a 
 player, we have no positive data on which to 
 found an estimate, and accordingly there is 
 great difference of opinion among the critics. 
 Tragedians and dramatists were not then so 
 jealously watched as at present : diurnal re- 
 viewers were unknown, and an actor’s fame 
 depended entirely on the caprice of judges, 
 who were too frequently very incompetent to 
 form a correct decision. From some satirical 
 14 
 
210 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 passages in the writings of his contemporaries, 
 we may fairly suppose that he was not a favo- 
 rite performer with the public. His instruc- 
 tions to the players in Hamlet, however, be- 
 speak such mastery in their art, and are in 
 themselves so excellent, that we are strongly 
 inclined to believe that his unpopularity must 
 be attributed more to the bad taste of his au- 
 ditors than to the deficiency of his own powers. 
 Acting, considered as a science, was then in 
 its infancy ; he that “ strutted and bellowed ” 
 most would be esteemed the best actor. 
 Shakspeare’s adherence to nature would be 
 misunderstood, and his gentleness would be 
 censured as tameness. 
 
 The only characters which we know with 
 certainty to have been personated by Shak- 
 speare are the Ghost in Hamlet , and Adam in 
 As You Like It : his name appears in the list 
 of players attached to Ben Jonson’s Sejanus , 
 and Every man in his Humor ; but it is suffi- 
 ciently evident that he never sustained any 
 very important part, and, but for his genius as 
 a poet, which neither indigence nor obscurity 
 could repress, that name, which we now repeat 
 with reverence and love, would have been lost 
 in the darkness of oblivion. That Shakspeare 
 was not more successful on the stage might 
 arise from the injustice and false taste of his 
 audience : but this is hardly to be lamented, 
 since, had he been eminent as an actor, he 
 would probably have neglected composition. 
 “ It may indeed be considered (says Dr. Drake) 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 2 1 1 
 
 as a most fortunate circumstance for the lovers 
 of dramatic poetry, that our author, in point 
 of execution, did not attain to the loftiest sum- 
 mit of his profession. He would in that case, 
 it is very probable, have either sat down con- 
 tented with the high reputation accruing to 
 him from this source, or would have found lit- 
 tle time for the labors of composition, and 
 consequently we should have been in a great 
 degree, if not altogether, deprived of what 
 now constitutes the noblest efforts of human 
 genius.” 
 
 Despised as an actor, Shakspeare aspired to 
 distinction as an author ; and notwithstanding 
 his mighty capacity, he was for a long time con- 
 tent with altering and revising the productions 
 of others. Of the dramas produced previous 
 to 1 600, there were some which abounded with 
 felicitous ideas and effective situations ; but 
 the writers had used their materials with little 
 skill, and the touch of a master was required 
 to reduce them to order and consistency. The 
 noblest geniuses of the age did not refuse such 
 employment. Decker, Rowley, Heywood, and 
 Jonson, were often occupied in conferring 
 value on such productions ; and to this un- 
 thankful labor the early efforts of our bard 
 were modestly confined. 
 
 Dramatists were, generally speaking, abjectly 
 poor ; they were enthralled by managers, either 
 for past favors, exisiting debts, or the well- 
 founded apprehension of needing their assist- 
 ance. What can be more affecting, than to 
 
212 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 find the illustrious Ben Jonson supplicating 
 from Henslowe the advance of a sum so paltry 
 as “ five shillings ? ” The calling Shakspeare 
 embraced was, in a majority of instances, any- 
 thing rather than profitable : his mighty mind 
 could scarcely have selected any sphere of 
 action more barren of reward : but the camp, 
 the senate, and the bar, were then almost ex- 
 clusively filled by the young scions of nobility ; 
 and preferring to be first among his brother 
 authors, however humble their prospects, he 
 poured out ail the wealth of his intellect on 
 the stage, and laid the foundation of a renown, 
 which is perpetually increasing, and is never 
 likely to be equalled. 
 
 No potion of Shakspeare’s history. is more 
 obscure than the period at which he first ven- 
 tured to rely on the resources of his own mind, 
 and produce an original drama on the stage 
 which he had so often trod unnoticed. Every 
 attempt to select from the long list of his 
 wonderful productions the one which had 
 paved the way for his future eminence, his 
 maiden effort in the arepa of his coming glories, 
 has ended in uncertainty and disappointment. 
 The two Gentlemen of Verona and the Comedy 
 of Errors have been pitched upon, but almost 
 any of his other plays might have been chosen 
 with an equal approximation to truth. Our 
 bard, however, was well known as a dramatic 
 writer in 1592, and there is reason to suppose 
 that all his compositions for the stage were 
 written between 1590 and 1613, a period of 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 213 
 
 about twenty-three years. And when it is con- 
 sidered that we possess thirty of his plays, 
 which are indisputably genuine, besides several, 
 the authenticity of which is doubtful, the mar- 
 vellous power and range of his intellect will 
 be sufficiently evident. According to the 
 chronological order in which the critics have 
 placed his dramas, his genius appears in full 
 vigor from its first flight to the moment when its 
 eagle pinions became quiescent forever. A 
 Midsummer Night's Dream is the second in- 
 scription on the luminous column of his re- 
 nown. Othello , The Tempest , and Twelfth 
 Night , are engraven in characters of light on 
 its base. Other minds have had their infancy, 
 their maturity, and their decline. In other 
 intellects, even the most resplendent, we 
 observe the unfoldings of genius, as of the 
 gradual unfolding of the morning’s light, its 
 maturity as of the full blaze of noon, and its 
 decline and decay as the twilight of evening 
 and the darkness of night. Milton wrote 
 Samson Agonistes before Paradise Lost , and 
 Paradise Regained after it ; but the rise, prog- 
 ress, and termination of Shakspeare’s brilliant 
 career were equally glorious. In combining 
 author and actor in his own person, the dram- 
 atist might in some degree alleviate his pecu- 
 niary difficulties, but it could scarcely have 
 redeemed him from the indigence under which 
 his brother writers were suffering ; yet his 
 superlative merit as a poet soon advanced 
 him in the regard of the great and the noble. 
 
2 14 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 The players in his time were constantly denom- 
 inated and treated as servants ; and when the 
 actor’s duty made his presence necessary at 
 his patron’s mansion, the buttery was the only 
 place to which he expected admittance. On 
 the contrary, the friendship of the dramatist 
 was frequently sought by the opulent ; even 
 noblemen made him their companion, and 
 chose him at once as the object of bounty and 
 esteem. In this manner, Shakspeare became 
 the bosom associate of the all-accomplished 
 Lord Southampton. That nobleman’s father- 
 in-law, Sir Thomas Heminge, was treasurer of 
 the queen’s chamber, in which capacity it was 
 his duty to reward the actors employed at 
 court : thus plays and players were almost 
 forced upon the notice of Lord Southampton, 
 and the hold theatrical amusements had on 
 his mind is evident, even at a late period of 
 his life, from his shunning the court for a 
 diurnal attendance at the Globe ; his entertain- 
 ment of Cecil with “ plaies,” and his ordering 
 Richard II. to be performed on the night 
 previous to the rebellion of the Earl of Essex. 
 Shakspeare’s intimacy with Southampton com- 
 menced when the latter was about twenty 
 years of age, and from the dedications prefixed 
 to Venus and Adonis in 1593, and the Rape of 
 Lucrece in 1594, it is apparent that their 
 friendship was cemented by great liberality in 
 the patron and lively gratitude in the poet. 
 
 Rowe, on the authority of Davenant, relates, 
 that in order to enable Shakspeare to complete 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 2I 5 
 
 a purchase, Southampton at once presented 
 him with a thousand pounds, a gift truly 
 princely. The tradition deserves credit from 
 the wealth which the dramatist is known to 
 have possessed a few years subsequently to 
 his arrival in London; for it is contrary to 
 probability that his opulence could have arisen 
 from his emoluments, either as actor or author. 
 All his original productions were sold abso- 
 lutely to the theater, and the gain accruing from 
 them could not have been large, as he neither 
 published his plays, nor received advantage 
 from their dedication to the wealthy. Some 
 of his dramas were printed in his lifetime ; 
 but this was done surreptitiously, and was at 
 once a fraud on author, proprietor, and reader. 
 
 Of Shakspeare’s comparative opulence there 
 can be no doubt; in 1597, he purchased New 
 Place, the most respectable mansion in his 
 native Stratford, and went to considerable ex- 
 pense in alterations and repairs. 
 
 In the succeeding year, we find Richard 
 Quyney, a townsman, applying to him as a 
 person of substance, for the loan of thirty 
 pounds ; and shortly after, we find him express- 
 ing his readiness to lend, on proper security, 
 a sum of money for the use of the town of 
 Stratford. His continued advance in worldly 
 consideration is indicated by his further pur- 
 chases. In 1602, according to Wheeler, he. 
 gave 320/. for one hundred and seventy acres, 
 of land, which he added to his estate in New 
 Place. In 1605, he bought for 440/. a moiety 
 
2x6 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 of the great and small tithes of Stratford ; and 
 in 1613, a tenement in Blackfriars for 140/. 
 It is remarkable in this latter purchase, that 
 only 80/. of the money was paid down, the 
 residue being left as a mortgage on the 
 premises. Malone is of opinion that his annual 
 income could not have been less than 200/., 
 which, at the age when he lived, was equal to 
 800/. at present. 
 
 Several of the nobility, particularly the earls 
 of Pembroke and Montgomery, vied with 
 Southampton in conferring benefits on Shaks- 
 peare, and he was distinguished in a most 
 flattering manner by the favor of two succes- 
 sive sovereigns. We are told that the Merry 
 Wives of Windsor (the first draught of which 
 was finished in a fortnight) was written ex- 
 pressly at command of the Virgin Quee 7 i , who 
 being highly delighted with Falstaff’s humor 
 in He?iry IV . , wished him to be exhibited 
 under the influence of lov r e. The character of 
 Falstaff, one of the happiest and most original 
 of all the author’s efforts, was, according to 
 Bowman the player, who cited Sir William 
 Bishop as his authority, drawn from a towns- 
 man of Stratford, who either faithlessly broke 
 a contract, or spitefully refused to part with 
 some land, for a valuable consideration, ad- 
 joining to Shakspeare’s, in or near the town. 
 
 The author’s reputation was no doubt in- 
 creased by the approbation of his royal mis- 
 tress, which in all likelihood was the only solid 
 advantage he obtained from her notice. Rowe 
 
LIFE OF SH A KS PE A RE. 
 
 217 
 
 celebrates the “ many gracious marks of her 
 favor ” which Shakspeare received ; but no 
 traces of any pecuniary reward from her mu- 
 nificence are to be found, and the almost in- 
 variable parsimony of Elizabeth towards literary 
 men may fairly induce us to question whether 
 her generosity was exhibted in anything more 
 substantial than praise, notwithstanding all 
 the elegant flattery which the poet offered on 
 the shrine of her vanity. Elizabeth was cer- 
 tainly a very highly-gifted woman, but she was 
 too selfish to pay for applause, which she was 
 sure of obtaining at an easier rate. 
 
 In James I. the stage found a warm and 
 generous patron. In 1599 he gave protection 
 to a company of English comedians in his 
 Scottish capital ; and he had no sooner 
 ascended the British throne than he effected 
 an absolute change in the theatrical world. In 
 the first year of his reign, an act of parliament 
 passed which took from the nobility the 
 privilege of liscensing comedians, and all the 
 skeleton companies then existing were im- 
 mediately united into three regular establish- 
 ments patronized by the royal family. Henry, 
 prince of Wales, became the patron of lord 
 Nottingham’s company, which performed at 
 the Curtain ; the Earl of Worcester’s servants, 
 who commonly acted at the Red Bull, were 
 turned over to the queen, and ultimately 
 designated Children of the Revels ; while the 
 king declared the lord Chamberlain’s com- 
 pany under his own special care. The license 
 
21 8 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 which James granted to Laurence Fletcher, 
 William Shakspeare, Richard Burbage, and 
 others, dated May 19, 1603, constituted them 
 his servants, gave them legal possession of 
 their usual house, the Globe, and allowed 
 them to exhibit every kind of dramatic repre- 
 sentation, in all suitable places in his domin- 
 ions. From this document we learn that the 
 Globe was the theater generally occupied by 
 the lord chamberlain’s servants ; but they had 
 some interest in the house at Blackfriars, 
 which, in the end, they purchased. At these 
 theaters all Shakspeare’s plays were origin- 
 ally acted ; the Globe was the summer , the 
 Blackfriars the winter house of the company 
 with which he was connected. 
 
 Though Elizabeth and James were particu- 
 larly fond of dramatic representations, it does 
 not appear that they ever visited the public 
 theaters ; they gratified their taste by com- 
 manding the comedians to perform plays at 
 court. These entertainments were usually 
 given at night, which arrangement suited the 
 actors, as the theaters were generally open in 
 the morning. The ordinary fee for such a 
 performance in London was 61 . 13s. 4 d., and 
 an additional 3/. 6s. &d. was sometimes be- 
 stowed by the bounty of royalty. 
 
 Shakspeare soon became important in the 
 management of the theater, and participated 
 in all the emoluments of the company. It is 
 impossible to estimate his income from this 
 source ; we are ignorant into how many shares 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 219 
 
 this theatrical property was divided ; nor can 
 we tell what proportion of them was enjoyed 
 by our poet. If, however, he was equal with 
 Heminges, who is joined with him in the 
 license, we are authorized by his partner to 
 assert that it produced, “ a good yearly in- 
 come. ^ ” This worldly elevation induced him 
 to quit the drudgery of an actor, which em- 
 ployment he speaks of in his Sonnets with 
 disgust, and thenceforth he seems to have 
 yielded all the powers of his comprehensive 
 mind to the improvement of dramatic litera- 
 ture. The affectionate wish which Shak- 
 speare formed in early life, to return, after his 
 brilliant career, to his native Stratford, and 
 die at home, induced him to purchase New 
 Place, in 1597. In the pleasure ground of 
 that unassuming mansion, he planted with his 
 own hand a mulberry tree, which flourished 
 for many years, and was regarded with rever- 
 ence. To this favorite spot, in 1613 or 1614, 
 he retired from the applauses of his contem- 
 poraries and the bustle of the world, to the 
 genuine repose and unsophisticated pleasures 
 of a country life. Aubrey informs us, that it 
 was our bard’s custom to visit Stratford 
 yearly : but previous to 1596, the place of his 
 residence in London has not been discovered. 
 He then lodged near the Bear Garden in 
 Southwark, and it is not improbable that he 
 remained there till his final retirement from 
 the metropolis. 
 
 Much has been said of the rivalship and 
 
220 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 dissension between Ben Jonson and Shaks- 
 peare : we shall give a few particulars, from 
 which we think it will appear that they both 
 were entirely free from personal ill-will. 
 Pope says, that Jonson “ loved Shakspeare 
 as well as honored his memory, celebrates the 
 honesty, openness, and frankness of his tem- 
 per, and only distinguishes, as he reasonably 
 ought, between the real merit of the author, 
 and the silly and derogatory applauses of the 
 players.” Gilchrist, a very clever critic, pub- 
 lished a pamphlet to prove that Jonson was 
 never a harsh or envious rival of Shakspeare, 
 and that the popular opinion on the subject 
 is altogether erroneous. Rowe gives us the 
 subjoined anecdote, which has been thought 
 worthy of credit : “ Mr. Jonson, who was at 
 that time altogether unknown to the world, 
 had offered one of his plays to the players in 
 order to have it acted ; and the persons into 
 whose hands it was put, after having turned 
 it carelessly and superciliously over, were just 
 upon returning it to him with an ill-natured 
 answer, that it would be of no service to their 
 company, when Shakspeare luckily cast his 
 eye upon it, and found something so well in 
 it as to engage him first to read it through, 
 and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson 
 and his writings to the public.” It is not a 
 little remarkable, that Jonson seems to have 
 held a higher place in public estimation than 
 our poet, for more than a century after the 
 death of the latter. Within that period, Ben’s 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 221 
 
 works went through numerous editions, and 
 were read with eagerness, while Shakspeare’s 
 remained in comparative neglect till the time 
 of Rowe : of this fact, abundant evidence 
 might be given ; not only was Jonson pre- 
 ferred, but even Beaumont and Fletcher, with 
 many dramatic writers infinitely below them 
 in merit, were exalted above him. 
 
 Fuller’s comparative view of these illustrious 
 writers is highly interesting : “ Shakspeare 
 
 was an eminent instance of the truth of that 
 rule : Poeia non fit , sed nascitur (one is not 
 made, but born a poet). Indeed his learning 
 was but very little ; so that as Cornish 
 Diamonds are not polished by any lapidary, 
 but are pointed and smooth even as they are 
 taken out of the earth, so nature itself was all 
 the art which was used upon him. Many were 
 the wit combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson, 
 which two I beheld, like a Spanish great gal 
 leon , and an English man of war ! Master 
 Jonson, like the former, was built far higher 
 in learning, solid but slow in his performances. 
 Shakspeare, with the English man of war y 
 lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn 
 with all tides, and take advantage of all winds, 
 by the quickness of his wit and invention.” 
 
 The following anecdote, preserved by 
 Malone, will serve to show the habits of close 
 intimacy in which these great and amiable 
 men lived. In the serious business of life, 
 rivals, and even enemies, are often obliged to 
 associate ; but when we find men seeking each 
 
222 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 other in the season of relaxation, and mingling 
 thoughts in their sportive humors, we may 
 safely pronounce them to be friends. An 
 amicable dispute arose concerning the motto 
 of the Globe theater, “ Totus mundus agit his - 
 trionem ; ” (all the world acts a play ;) some 
 condemed it as unmeaning, others declared 
 it to be a fine piece of sententious wisdom ; 
 Jonson, being asked for his opinion, wrote on 
 a scrap of paper, 
 
 “ If but stage actors all the world displays, 
 
 Where shall we find spectators of their plays ? ” 
 
 Shakspeare smiled, and taking the pen, set 
 down these lines under Ben’s couplet : 
 
 “ Little or much of what we see we do, 
 
 We’re all both actors and spectators too.” 
 
 All this may be called trifling, but even trifles 
 become interesting when connected with a Jon- 
 son and a Shakspeare. 
 
 Mr. Gifford has triumphantly proved, that 
 the once generally received opinion of Jonson’s 
 malignant feelings towards his friend and bene- 
 factor, is void of the slightest foundations in 
 fact ; on the contrary, we are justified in believ- 
 ing that the author of Sejanus was, on all occa- 
 sions, ready to admit the wonderful merit of 
 his less learned, but more highly-gifted contem- 
 porary. His lines under Shakspeare’s effigy 
 breathe the warmest spirit of reverence and 
 love ; 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 223 
 
 “ The figure that thou here seest put, 
 
 It was for gentle Shakspeare cut ; 
 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With nature to outdo the life. 
 
 O, could he but have drawne his wit 
 As well in brass as he hath hit 
 His face, the print would then surpass 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 
 But since he cannot, reader, looke 
 Not on his picture but his booke.” 
 
 Queen Elizabeth used sometimes to sit be- 
 hind the scenes, while her favorite plays were 
 performing : one evening, Shakspeare enacted 
 the part of a monarch (probably, in Henry IV.). 
 The audience knew that her majesty was pres- 
 ent. She crossed the stage while Shakspeare 
 was acting, and being loudly greeted by the 
 spectators, curtsied politely to the poet, who 
 took no notice of her condescension. When 
 behind the scenes, she caught his eye and 
 moved again, but still he would not throw off 
 his character to pay her any attention. This 
 made her majesty think of some means to 
 know whether she could induce him to forget 
 the dignity of his character while on the stage. 
 Accordingly, as he was about to make his exit, 
 she stepped before him, dropped her glove, 
 and re-crossed the stage, which Shakspeare 
 noticing, took it up with these words, so im- 
 mediately after finishing his speech that they 
 seemed to belong to it : 
 
 And though now bent on this high embassy, 
 Yet stoop we to take up our cousin’s glove.” 
 
224 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 He then withdrew from the stage, and pre- 
 sented the glove to the queen, who was much 
 pleased with his behavior, and complimented 
 him on its propriety. 
 
 One evening, Burbage performed Richard 
 III., and while behind the scenes, Shakspeare 
 overheard him making an assignation with a 
 lady of considerable beauty. Burgage was to 
 knock at her chamber-door : she was to say, 
 “ Who comes there ? ” and on receiving for 
 answer, “ ’Tis I, Richard the Third,” the 
 favored tragedian was to be admitted. Shaks- 
 peare instantly determined to keep the ap- 
 pointment himself. Tapping at the lady’s 
 door, he made the expected response to her 
 interrogatary, and gained admittance. The 
 poet’s eloquence soon converted the fair one’s 
 anger into satisfaction ; but the real 'Simon 
 Pure quickly arrived ; he rapped loudly, and 
 to the expected query replied, “ ’Tis I, Richard 
 the Third.” “ Then,” quoth Shakspeare, 44 go 
 thy ways, Burby, for thou knowest that Will- 
 iam the Conqueror reigned before Richard the 
 Third.” 
 
 Rowe says : “ The latter part of his life was 
 spent, as all men of good sense would wish 
 theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the con- 
 versation of his friends. His pleasurable wit 
 .and good nature engaged him in the acquaint- 
 ance, and entitled him to the friendship, of 
 the gentlemen of the neighborhood.” And in 
 the words of Dr. Drake, 44 He was high in rep- 
 utation as a poet, favored by the great and 
 
LIFE OF S HA KSPE A RE. 225 
 
 accomplished, and beloved by all who knew 
 him.” Nothing can be more delightful than 
 to contemplate this wonderful man, in the 
 vigor of his age, and in the full possession of 
 his amazing faculties, retiring from the scene 
 of his well-earned triumphs, to find, in the com- 
 parative exclusion of his native town, that re- 
 pose and quietude, both in mind and body, 
 which is not to be looked for in the bustle of 
 the world. And if he, whose glory was to fill 
 the universe, and whose pursuits (if anything 
 connected with time can be) were worthy of an 
 immortal soul, could pant for retirement in the 
 meridian of his days, what excuse have they 
 who, in senectude and feebleness, continue to 
 toil among the mole-hills of earth for a little 
 perishable gold, for which they have no use 
 when they have obtained it ? 
 
 Shakspeare retired from the metropolis at a 
 period little past the prime of life. We meet 
 with no hint of any failure in his constitution ; 
 and the execution of his will, in “ perfect health 
 and memory,” on the 25th of March, 1616, 
 warrants no immediate expectation of his de- 
 cease. The curtain was now to fall, however, 
 on this earthly stage of existence. He died 
 on the 23d of April, the anniversary of his 
 birth , having exactly completed his fifty-second 
 year. On the 25th, two days after his death, 
 his body was laid in its original dust, being 
 buried under the north side of the chancel of 
 the great church of Stratford ; a flat stone, 
 protecting all that was perishable of the 
 
226 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 remains of Shakspeare, bears this inscrip- 
 tion : 
 
 “ Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbeare 
 To digg the dust enclosed here : 
 
 Bless’d be the man that spares these stones, 
 
 And curst be he that moves my bones.” 
 
 The common opinion is that these lines were 
 written by the poet himself ; but this notion 
 has, perhaps, originated solely from the use of 
 the word “ my ” in the closing line. “ The 
 imprecation,” says Malone, was probably sug- 
 gested by an apprehension “ that our author’s 
 remains might share the same fate with those 
 of the rest of his countrymen, and be added to 
 the immense pile of human bones deposited in 
 Stratford charnel-house.” 
 
 We shall now give a brief abstract of Shaks- 
 peare’s will, which is yet extant in the Pre- 
 rogative Office. It bears the date, March 25, 
 1616, and commences with the following para- 
 graphs : 
 
 “ In the name of God, amen. I, William 
 Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the 
 county of Warwick, gent., in perfect health and 
 memory, (God be praised !) do make and or- 
 dain this my last will and testament in manner 
 and form following : that is to say : 
 
 u First, I commend my soul into the hands 
 of God my creator, hoping, and assuredly be- 
 lieving, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, 
 my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlast- 
 ing ; and my body to the earth whereof it is 
 made.” 
 
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 227 
 
 It then proceeds to make the bequests 
 enumerated below : 
 
 To his daughter Judith he gave 1*50/. of law- 
 ful English money ; 100/. to be paid in dis- 
 charge of her marriage-portion within one year 
 after his decease, and the remaining 50/. upon 
 her giving up to her elder sister, Susanna 
 Hall, all her right in a copyhold tenement 
 and appurtenances, parcel of the manor of 
 Rowington. To the said Judith he also be- 
 queathed 150/. more, if she or any of her issue 
 were living three years from the date of his 
 will ; but, in the contrary event, then he di- 
 rected that 100 L of the sum should be paid to 
 his niece, Elizabeth Hall, and the proceeds of 
 the 50/. to his sister Joan, or Jone Hart, for 
 life, with residue to her children. He further 
 gave to the said Judith abroad silver-gilt bowl. 
 To his sister Joan, besides the contingent be- 
 quest above mentioned, he gave 20/. and all 
 his wearing apparel ; also the house in Strat- 
 ford, in which she was to reside for her 
 natural life, under the yearly rent of twelve- 
 
 pence. To her three sons, William Hart, 
 
 Hart, and Michael Hart, he gave 5/. apiece, to 
 be paid within one year after his decease. 
 To his grand-daughter, Elizabeth Hall, he be- 
 queathed all his plate, the silver bowl above 
 excepted. To the poor of Stratford he be- 
 queathed 10/. ; to Mr. Thomas Cole, his 
 sword ; to Thomas Russel, 5/. ; to Francis 
 Collins, Esq., 13/. 6^. Sd. ; to Hamlet (Ham- 
 net), saddler, 1 /. 6 s. Sd. to buy a ring; and a 
 
228 
 
 LIFE OF SHAHS PE ARE. 
 
 like sum, for the same purpose, to William 
 Renolds, gent., Anthony Nash, gent., John 
 Heminge, Richard Burbage, and Henry 
 Cundell, his “ fellows ” ; also twenty shillings 
 in gold to his godson, William Walker. To 
 his daughter, Susanna Hall, he bequeathed 
 New Place, with the appurtenances, situated 
 in Henley ‘Street ; also, all his “ barns, stables, 
 orchards, gardens, lands, tenements and hered- 
 itaments whatsoever, situate, lying, and being, 
 or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, 
 within the towns, hamlets, villages, fields, and 
 ground of Stratford-upon-Avon, Old Stratford, 
 Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them 
 in the said county of Warwick ; and also all 
 that messuage or tenement, with the appur- 
 tenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, 
 situated, lying, and being in the Blackfriars, 
 London, near the Wardrobe : and all my other 
 lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatso- 
 ever, to have and to hold all and singular the 
 said premises, with their appurtenances, unto 
 the said Susanna Hall, for and during the 
 term of her natural life : and, after her decease, 
 to the first son of her body, lawfully issuing; 
 and to the heirs male of her said first son, 
 lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, 
 to the second son of her body, lawfully issuing, 
 and to the heirs male of the said second son, law- 
 fully issuing ; ” and so forth as to third, fourth, 
 fifth, sixth, and seventh sons of her body, and 
 their heirs male : “ and for default of such 
 issue, the said premises to be and remain to 
 
(f r p i v, 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 229 
 
 my niece Hall, and the heirs male of her body, 
 lawfully issuing ; and for default of such issue, 
 to her daughter Judith, and the heirs male of 
 her body lawfully issuing ; and for default of 
 such issue, to the right heirs of me the said 
 William Shakspeare.” To the said Susanna 
 Hall and her husband, whom he appointed 
 executors of his will, under the direction of 
 Francis Collins and Thomas Russel, Esqs., he 
 further bequeathed all the rest of his “ goods, 
 chatties, leases, plate, jewels, and household 
 stuff whatsoever,” after the payment of his 
 debts, legacies, and funeral expenses ; with 
 the exception of his “ second-best bed , with the 
 furniture” which constituted the only bequest 
 he made to his wife , and that by insertion after 
 the will was written out. 
 
 A few additional facts respecting Shaks- 
 peare’s family may be acceptable. His wife 
 survived him seven years, and was buried be- 
 tween his grave and the north wall of the 
 chancel, under a stone inlaid with brass, and 
 inscribed thus : 
 
 “ Heere lyeth interred the bodye of Anne, 
 wife of Mr. William Shakspeare, who departed 
 this life the sixth day of August, 1623, being 
 at the age of sixty-seven yeares.” 
 
 We have thus, as briefly as the importance 
 of such a memoir would permit, gone over the 
 meager biographical remains of the noblest 
 dramatic poet the world has ever produced. 
 Without attempting to draw the character of 
 this matchless writer, we have occasionally, in 
 
t. \\ f n fi (i ; 
 
 230 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . 
 
 the course of our narrative, endeavored to 
 mark the feeling of respect and admiration by 
 which we are influenced while contemplating 
 the mighty performances of a mind which, with 
 little assistance from education, surpassed all 
 the efforts of ancient and modern genius. 
 
u 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKS- 
 PEARE’S DRAMAS. 
 
 ON THE AUTHORITY OF MALONE, CHALMERS, 
 AND KNIGHT. 
 
 The ensuing enumeration of Shakspeare’s 
 dramas, with the dates assigned by the most 
 generally received authorities, is merely given 
 as a matter of curiosity ; for the learned com- 
 mentators are so much at variance in their 
 chronology, that it deserves little or no atten- 
 tion. Indeed, when we reflect that the first edi- 
 tion of our author did not appear till several 
 years after his death, and was then published by 
 the players, who, it can scarcely be supposed, 
 would pay any regard to the order of time in 
 their arrangement of the dramas, it must be 
 obvious that, with a very few exceptions, the 
 dates given to those compositions are purely 
 conjectural. A cloud rests over Shakspeare’s 
 career as an author, which is not now likely 
 to be dispersed ; those who were most familiar 
 with the operations of his extraordinary genius 
 seem to have been hardly aW*are c< that he was 
 not for a day, but for all time ; ” they paid 
 their shillings and applauded his productions 
 on the stage, perhaps, but they had little taste 
 
 231 
 
/. \\ 
 
 232 ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 
 
 or inclination to do them justice in the closet. 
 Shakspeare himself appears to have been re- 
 markably careless of his own fame : he pro- 
 duced his great works without effort, and be- 
 queathed them to his country, unconscious of 
 their merit, and reckless of their fate. 
 
 Malone . Chalmers. Knight. 
 
 Pericles Not acknowledged. 
 
 First Part of King Henry 
 
 1609 
 
 VI 
 
 z 5 8 9 
 
 x 5 8 9 
 
 z 59 2 
 
 Second ditto 
 
 * 59 ° 
 
 
 *594 
 
 Third ditto 
 
 A Midsummer Night’s 
 
 I S9 I 
 
 I S9S 
 
 1 595 
 
 Dream 
 
 z 59 2 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 1 598 
 
 Comedy of Errors 
 
 z 593 
 
 159 1 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 Taming of the Shrew 
 
 J 594 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 1607 
 
 Love’s Labor’s Lost 
 
 *594 
 
 J 59 2 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona 
 
 1595 
 
 1 595 
 
 Z S9 8 
 
 Romeo and Juliet 
 
 J 595 
 
 z 59 2 
 
 1 597 
 
 Hamlet 
 
 1596 
 
 1 597 
 
 1603 
 
 King John 
 
 z 59 6 
 
 I 59 8 
 
 Z S9 8 
 
 King Richard II 
 
 1 597 
 
 1 595 
 
 Z S9 6 
 
 King Richard III 
 
 First Part of King Henry 
 
 *597 
 
 1 595 
 
 1 597 
 
 IV 
 
 1 597 
 
 iS96 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 Second ditto 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 1 597 
 
 l600 
 
 Merchant of Venice 
 
 T 59 8 
 
 iS97 
 
 J 59 8 
 
 All’s Well that Ends Well 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 z 599 
 
 z 59 8 
 
 King Henry V 
 
 J 599 
 
 1597 
 
 1600 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing 
 
 l600 
 
 J 599 
 
 l600 
 
 As You Like It 
 
 1600 
 
 z 599 
 
 l600 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor... 
 
 l60I 
 
 z 59 6 
 
 l602 
 
)) u 't IU 
 
 ORDER OF SHAKSPEA RE'S DRAMAS . 233 
 
 Malone . Chalmers. Knight. 
 
 King Henry VIII 
 
 1601 
 
 1613 
 
 1613 
 
 Troilus and Cressida 
 
 1602 
 
 1600 
 
 1609 
 
 Measure for Measure. . . . 
 
 1603 
 
 1604 
 
 1604 
 
 The Winter’s Tale 
 
 1604 
 
 1601 
 
 161 1 
 
 King Lear 
 
 1605 
 
 1605 
 
 1607 
 
 Cymbeline 
 
 1605 
 
 1606 
 
 — 
 
 Macbeth 
 
 1606 
 
 1606 
 
 — 
 
 Julius Csesar 
 
 1607 
 
 1607 
 
 — 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra.... 
 
 1608 
 
 1608 
 
 — 
 
 Timon of Athens 
 
 1609 
 
 1601 
 
 - — 
 
 Coriolanus 
 
 1610 
 
 1609 
 
 - — 
 
 Othello 
 
 161 1 
 
 1614 
 
 1602 
 
 The Tempest 
 
 1612 
 
 1613 
 
 161 1 
 
 Twelfth Night 
 
 1614 
 
 1608 
 
 1602 
 
 Titus Andronicus not 
 
 acknowledged by 
 
 these critics, nor indeed 
 
 by any author of 
 
 credit, but originally published about 1589. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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