The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 3
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Title: The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 3
Author: Charles Lamb
Mary Lamb
Editor: E. V. Lucas
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10130]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10130
Credits: Produced by William Flis, Keren Vergon, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB — VOLUME 3 ***
[Illustration]
BOOKS FOR CHILDREN
BY
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB
EDITED BY
E.V. LUCAS
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
INTRODUCTION
The present volume contains all the stories and verses for children
which we know Charles and Mary Lamb to have written. The text is that
of the first or second editions, as explained in the Notes. _The
Poetry for Children_ and _Prince Dorus_ have been set up from the late
Andrew W. Tuer's facsimiles. The large edition of this volume contains
all the original pictures, together with the apochryphal _Beauty and
the Beast_.
In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian
symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's
Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner
Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the
bells are those which once stood out from the façade of St. Dunstan's
Church in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in
Regent's Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy
sprite and the candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of
mine.
E.V.L.
CONTENTS
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR
PAGE
Preface 1
The Tempest 3
A Midsummer Night's Dream 13
The Winter's Tale 23
Much Ado About Nothing 33
As You Like It 44
The Two Gentlemen of Verona 58
The Merchant of Venice 69
Cymbeline 81
King Lear 92
Macbeth 106
All's Well that Ends Well 115
The Taming of the Shrew 126
The Comedy of Errors 136
Measure for Measure 148
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 161
Timon of Athens 173
Romeo and Juliet 184
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 199
Othello 213
Pericles, Prince of Tyre 225
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES
Preface 240
CHAPTER I. The Cicons--The fruit of the lotos tree--Polyphemus
and the Cyclops--The kingdom of the winds, and god
Æolus's fatal present--The Læstrygonian man-eaters 241
CHAPTER II. The House of Circe--Men changed into beasts--The
voyage to hell--The banquet of the dead 250
CHAPTER III. The song of the Sirens--Scylla and Charybdis--The
oxen of the Sun--The judgment--The crew killed by lightning 262
CHAPTER IV. The Island of Calypso--Immortality refused 269
CHAPTER V. The tempest--The sea-bird's gift--The escape by
swimming--The sleep in the woods 273
CHAPTER VI. The Princess Nausicaa--The washing--The game
with the ball--The Court of Phæacia and king Alcinous. 277
CHAPTER VII. The songs of Demodocus--The convoy home--The
mariners transformed to stone--The young shepherd. 283
CHAPTER VIII. The change from a king to a beggar--Eumæus
and the herdsmen--Telemachus 290
CHAPTER IX. The queen's suitors--The battle of the beggars--The
armour taken down--The meeting with Penelope 301
CHAPTER X. The madness from above--The bow of Ulysses--The
slaughter--The conclusion 308
MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL
Dedication 316
Elizabeth Villiers: The Sailor Uncle 319
Louisa Manners: The Farm House 328
Ann Withers: The Changeling 334
Elinor Forester: The Father's Wedding Day 350
Margaret Green: The Young Mahometan 354
Emily Barton: Visit to the Cousins 360
Maria Howe: The Witch Aunt 368
Charlotte Wilmot: The Merchant's Daughter 375
Susan Yates: First Going to Church 378
Arabella Hardy: The Sea Voyage 384
THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS 389
POETRY FOR CHILDREN
Envy 404
The Reaper's Child 404
The Ride 405
The Butterfly 406
The Peach 407
Chusing a Name 408
Crumbs to the Birds 408
The Rook and the Sparrows 409
Discontent and Quarrelling 410
Repentance and Reconciliation 411
Neatness in Apparel 412
The New-born Infant 412
Motes in the Sun-beams 413
The Boy and the Snake 413
The First Tooth 415
To a River in which a Child was Drowned 416
The First of April 416
Cleanliness 417
The Lame Brother 418
Going into Breeches 419
Nursing 420
The Text 421
The End of May 422
Feigned Courage 424
The Broken Doll 425
The Duty of a Brother 426
Wasps in a Garden 427
What is Fancy? 428
Anger 429
Blindness 429
The Mimic Harlequin 430
Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum Book 430
Memory 431
The Reproof 432
The Two Bees 432
The Journey from School and to School 434
The Orange 435
The Young Letter-Writer 436
The Three Friends 437
On the Lord's Prayer 442
"Suffer little Children, and Forbid them not, to come unto Me" 443
The Magpye's Nest; or, A Lesson of Docility 445
The Boy and the Sky-lark 447
The Men and Women, and the Monkeys 449
Love, Death, and Reputation 449
The Sparrow and the Hen 450
Which is the Favourite? 451
The Beggar-Man 451
Choosing a Profession 452
Breakfast 453
Weeding 454
Parental Recollections 455
The Two Boys 455
The Offer 456
The Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's learning Latin 456
The Brother's Reply 457
Nurse Green 459
Good Temper 460
Moderation in Diet 460
Incorrect Speaking 462
Charity 462
My Birthday 463
The Beasts in the Tower 464
The Confidant 466
Thoughtless Cruelty 466
Eyes 467
Penny Pieces 468
The Rainbow 469
The Force of Habit 470
Clock Striking 470
Why not do it, Sir, To-day? 471
Home Delights 471
The Coffee Slips 472
The Dessert 473
To a Young Lady, on being too Fond of Music 474
Time Spent in Dress 475
The Fairy 476
Conquest of Prejudice 476
The Great-Grandfather 478
The Spartan Boy 479
Queen Oriana's Dream 480
On a Picture of the Finding of Moses by Pharaoh's Daughter 481
David 483
David in the Cave of Adullam 486
THREE POEMS NOT IN "POETRY FOR CHILDREN"
Summer Friends 488
A Birthday Thought 488
The Boy, the Mother, and the Butterfly 489
PRINCE DORUS 490
* * * * *
NOTES 499
INDEX 523
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 529
FRONTISPIECE
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB
From the Painting by F.S. Cary, in 1834, now in the National Portrait
Gallery.
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR
(_Written 1805-1806. First Edition 1807. Text of Second Edition 1809_)
PREFACE
The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as
an introduction to the study of Shakespear, for which purpose, his
words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in
whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected
story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might
least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which
he wrote: therefore words introduced into our language since his time
have been as far as possible avoided.
In those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, as my young
readers will perceive when they come to see the source from which
these stories are derived, Shakespear's own words, with little
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies I found myself scarcely
ever able to turn his words into the narrative form; therefore I fear
in them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people
not used to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be as
I fear a fault, has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much of
Shakespear's own words as possible: and if the "_He said_" and "_She
said_" the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to
their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way I
knew of, in which I could give them a few hints and little foretastes
of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when
they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless
coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and
imperfect stamps of Shakespear's matchless image. Faint and imperfect
images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is
too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his
excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense,
to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places,
where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple
plainness to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are
reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own
natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native
beauty.
I have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young
children. To the utmost of my ability I have constantly kept this in
my mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult
task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in
terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For young
ladies too it has been my intention chiefly to write, because boys
are generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are, they frequently having the best scenes of
Shakespear by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into
this manly book; and therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to
the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the
originals, I must rather beg their kind assistance in explaining to
their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand; and
when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps
they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young
sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these
stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and I
trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages,
they may chuse to give their sisters in this way, will be much better
relished and understood from their having some notion of the general
story from one of these imperfect abridgments:--which if they be
fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of you, my young
readers, I hope will have no worse effect upon you, than to make
you wish yourselves a little older, that you may be allowed to read
the Plays at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish nor
irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put
them into your hands, you will discover in such of them as are here
abridged (not to mention almost as many more which are left untouched)
many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite
variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of
sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour of
which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to reduce the length of
them.
What these Tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it
is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespear may prove to you in older
years--enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing
from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and
honourable thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity,
generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these virtues, his
pages are full.
THE TEMPEST
(_By Mary Lamb_)
There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which
were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a
very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she
had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's.
They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock: it was divided into
several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he
kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this art he
found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon
this island, which had been inchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who
died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his
art, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked
commands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of
Prospero. Of these Ariel was the chief.
The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature,
except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly
monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the
son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban Prospero found in the
woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape:
he took him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero
would have been very kind to him, but the bad nature, which Caliban
inherited from his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn any thing
good or useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch
wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of
compelling him to these services.
When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible
to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slyly and pinch him, and
sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness
of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape,
in the likeness of a hedgehog he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way,
who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With
a variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,
whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to
do.
Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by
their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders
they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling
with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up,
he shewed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full
of living beings like themselves. "O my dear father," said she, "if by
your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad
distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they
will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the
earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the
precious souls within her."
"Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; "there is no harm
done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive
any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You
are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no more
of me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you
remember a time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot, for
you were not then three years of age."
"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.
"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? Tell me what
you can remember, my child."
Miranda said, "It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But
had I not once four or five women who attended upon me?"
Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is it that this still lives
in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?"
"No, sir," said Miranda, "I remember nothing more."
"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, "I was duke of Milan,
and you were a princess and my only heir. I had a younger brother,
whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted every thing; and as I was
fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the management of
my state affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed he
proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did
dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio
being thus in possession of my power, began to think himself the duke
indeed. The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my
subjects, awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of
my dukedom; this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples,
a powerful prince, who was my enemy."
"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that hour destroy us?"
"My child," answered her father, "they durst not, so dear was the love
that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when
we were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat,
without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us as he thought
to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some
books which I prize above my dukedom."
"O my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble must I have been to you
then!"
"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did
preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me to bear up against my
misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,
since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and
well have you profited by my instructions."
"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me,
sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm." "Know then," said her
father, "that by means of this storm my enemies, the king of Naples,
and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island."
Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic
wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then
presented himself before his master, to give an account of the
tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company; and, though
the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose
she should hear him holding converse (as would seem to her) with the
empty air.
"Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you
performed your task?"
Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors of
the mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who
leaped into the sea; and his father thought he saw this dear son
swallowed up by the waves, and lost. "But he is safe," said Ariel, "in
a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded sadly, lamenting
the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair
of his head is injured, and his princely garments, though drenched in
the sea-waves, look fresher than before."
"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him hither: my
daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my
brother?"
"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdinand, whom they
have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the
ship's crew not one is missing; though each one thinks himself the
only one saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the
harbour."
"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: bur there
is more work yet."
"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master, you
have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthy
service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge
or grumbling." "How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a
torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax,
who with age and envy was almost bent double? Where was she born?
Speak; tell me."
"Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel.
"O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you have been,
which I find you do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, for her
witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from
Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit
too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a
tree, where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free
you from."
"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; "I
will obey your commands."
"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." He then gave orders
what farther he would have him do, and away went Ariel, first to where
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.
"O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move
you. You must be brought, I find, for the lady Miranda to have a sight
of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing,
"Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong--bell."
This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the
stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the
sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who
were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never
seen a man before, except her own father.
"Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder."
"O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that is a
spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful
creature. It is not a spirit?"
"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has senses
such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is
somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He
has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find them."
Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards like her
father, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful young
prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert
place, and from the strange sounds he had heard expecting nothing but
wonders, thought he was upon an inchanted island, and that Miranda was
the goddess of the place, and as such he began to address her.
She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was
going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted
her. He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he
plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first
sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some
difficulties in their way: therefore advancing forward, he addressed
the prince with a stern air, telling him, he came to the island as a
spy, to take it from him who was the lord of it. "Follow me," said he,
"I will tie you, neck and feet together. You shall drink sea-water;
shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns, shall be your food."
"No," said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertainment, till I see
a more powerful enemy," and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his
magic wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no
power to move.
Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so ungentle? Have
pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw,
and to me he seems a true one."
"Silence," said her father, "one word more will make me chide you,
girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more
such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish
girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban." This he said to
prove his daughter's constancy; and she replied, "My affections are
most humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man."
"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, "you have no power
to disobey me."
"I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was
by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished
to find himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero; looking
back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after
Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in
a dream; but this man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, would
seem light to me, if from my prison I might once a day behold this
fair maid."
Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon
brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking
care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him,
and then pretending to go into his study he secretly watched them
both.
Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood.
Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, "do not
work so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these three
hours: pray, rest yourself."
"O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task
before I take my rest."
"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry your logs the
while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of a
help, Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation,
so that the business of log-carrying went on very slowly.
Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of
his love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was
standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said.
Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against her
father's express command she did so.
Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's
disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall
in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she shewed her love by
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a
long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above
all the ladies he ever saw.
In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all
the women in the world, she replied, "I do not remember the face of
any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and
my dear father. How features are abroad, I know not; but believe me,
sir, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my
imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I
fear I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget."
At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head as much as to say, "This
goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples."
And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes
speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to
the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen.
"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will
answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will
marry me."
Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before
them.
"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and approve
of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used
you, I will make you rich amends by giving you my daughter. All
your vexations were but my trials of your love, and you have nobly
stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily
purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is
above all praise." He then, telling them that he had business which
required his presence, desired they would sit down and talk together,
till he returned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed
to disobey.
When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly
appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's
brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost
out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused
them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished
for want of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet,
and then, just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before
them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the
feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming
harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving
Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving him and his infant daughter
to perish in the sea; saying, that for this cause these terrors were
suffered to afflict them.
The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the
injustice they had done to Prospero: and Ariel told his master he was
certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit,
could not but pity them.
"Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who are but
a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being
like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my
dainty Ariel."
Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their
train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played in
the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was
the same who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books and
provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish
in an open boat in the sea.
Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that they did not know
Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling
him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the king knew
that he was the injured Prospero. Antonio with tears, and sad words of
sorrow and true repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and
the king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio
to depose his brother: and Prospero forgave them; and, upon their
engaging to restore his dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, "I
have a gift in store for you too;" and opening a door, shewed him his
son Ferdinand, playing at chess with Miranda.
Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this
unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in the
storm.
"O wonder!" said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are! It must
surely be a brave world that has such people in it."
The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and
excellent graces of the young Miranda as his son had been. "Who is
this maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has parted us, and
brought us thus together." "No, sir," answered Ferdinand, smiling to
find his father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done when
he first saw Miranda, "she is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she
is mine; I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this
Prospero, who is the famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have
heard so much, but never saw him till now: of him I have received a
new life: he has made himself to me a second father, giving me this
dear lady."
"Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how oddly will it
sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness."
"No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our troubles
past, since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero embraced
his brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that
a wise, over-ruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven
from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the
crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island it
had happened, that the king's son had loved Miranda.
These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother,
so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was
unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful
reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young couple.
Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, and
the sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would
accompany them home the next morning. "In the meantime," says he,
"partake of such refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your
evening's entertainment I will relate the history of my life from my
first landing in this desert island." He then called for Caliban to
prepare some food, and set the cave in order; and the company were
astonished at the uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly
monster, who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to wait
upon him.
Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service,
to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been
a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free
liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. "My
quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him
free, "I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you,
my dear master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend your ship
home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewel to the assistance
of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily
I shall live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song:
"Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie:
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."
Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books, and
wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art.
And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his
brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his
happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession of his
dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda and
prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated
with great splendour on their return to Naples. At which place, under
the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage
soon arrived.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
(_By Mary Lamb_)
There was a law in the city of Athens, which gave to its citizens the
power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased:
for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen
to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her
to be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of
their own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little
refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though
perhaps the young ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened
by their parents with the terrors of it.
There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus,
who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning
duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had
commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family,
refused to obey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named
Lysander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this
cruel law might be put in force against his daughter.
Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had
formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena
loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason which
Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command moved not the
stern Egeus.
Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the
laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to
consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still refused to
marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.
When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to
her lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that she
must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four
days.
Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but
recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from
Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not
be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the
boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she should steal
out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's
house, where he would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in
the wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood, where
we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May."
To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her
intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do
foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell
this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying
her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following her faithless
lover to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither
in pursuit of Hermia.
The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet, was the
favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of _Fairies_.
Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the Fairies, with all their
tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels.
Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this
time, a sad disagreement: they never met by moonlight in the shady
walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their
fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.
The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to
give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's
friend: and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its
nurse, and brought him up in the woods.
The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania
was walking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended
by his train of fairy courtiers.
"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen
replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I
have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not
I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little
changeling boy to be my page."
"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy
kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great
anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I
will torment you for this injury."
Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy counsellor.
Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a
shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in
the neighbouring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and
skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into
the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the
vessel, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream into
butter: nor had the village swains any better success; whenever Puck
chose to play his freaks in the brewing-copper, the ale was sure to be
spoiled. When a few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable
ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of
a roasted crab, and when some old goody was going to drink, he would
bob against her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and
presently after, when the same old dame was gravely seating herself
to tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip
her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the poor old
woman, and then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at
her, and swear they never wasted a merrier hour.
"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the
night; "fetch me the flower which maids call _Love in Idleness_; the
juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who
sleep, will make them, when they awake, doat on the first thing they
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my
Titania, when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when
she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a
lion, or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape: and before I will
take this charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm
I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my page."
Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this
intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and
Helena enter the woods: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for
following him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle
expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and
professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the
mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she
could.
The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great
compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk
by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in
those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that
might be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon
said to his favourite, "Take a part of this flower: there has been a
sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if
you find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but
contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees
when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will know the man by the
Athenian garments which he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter
very dextrously; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her
bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a
bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a
canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always
slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a
snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy
in.
He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ
themselves while she slept. "Some of you," said her majesty, "must
kill cankers in the musk-rose-buds, and some wage war with the bats
for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of
you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not
near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this
song:--
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong,
Come not near our Fairy Queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So good night with lullaby.
When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby,
they left her, to perform the important services she had enjoined
them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropt some of the
love-juice on her eye-lids, saying,
What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take.
But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house
that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry
Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander
waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they
had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, that had proved her
affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded
her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down
himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast
asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who seeing a handsome young man
asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian
fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that
this must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon
had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as
they were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see
when he awoke: so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out,
that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first
object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes: and strange to relate,
so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,
and Lysander fell in love with Helena.
Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed
would have been of no consequence, for he could not love that
faithful lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy
love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another
lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a
sad chance indeed.
Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,
endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely
from her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men
being always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon
lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about dejected
and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping.
"Ah!" said she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or
asleep?" Then gently touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are
alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm
beginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant
love and admiration; telling her, she as much excelled Hermia in
beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire
for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena,
knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was
solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard
herself addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might)
that Lysander was making a jest of her. "Oh!" said she, "why was I
born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it
not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind
word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful
manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true
gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and
Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was
still asleep.
When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone.
She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander,
or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius not
being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with
his fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had
learnt by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied
the love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now, having found
the person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping
Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first
thing he saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began
to address love-speeches to her: and just at that moment Lysander,
followed by Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now
become Hermia's turn to run after her lover), made his appearance;
and then Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to
Helena, they being each one under the influence of the same potent
charm.
The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once
dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.
Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not why Lysander and
Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.
The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now
fell to high words together.
"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on, to vex
me with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost
to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess,
Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me
whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind
Hermia, to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgot
our school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting
on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the
same flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in
fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not
friendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your
poor friend."
"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you
not; it seems you scorn me." "Aye, do," returned Helena, "persevere;
counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back;
then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any
pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."
While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other,
Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for
the love of Helena.
When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and once
more wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.
As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck
had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your
negligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of
shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake: did not you tell me I
should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry
this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport."
"You heard," said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to
seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the
night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in
the dark, that they shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit
each of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them
to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear.
See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and
when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower
into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love
for Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two
fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they
will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly,
Puck; and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found."
Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who
had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow,"
said he, "shall be my Titania's truelove;" and clapping an ass's head
over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon
his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently,
it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to
him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.
"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and
the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect; "Are
you as wise as you are beautiful?"
"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find
the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."
"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured queen. "I am
a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give
you fairies to attend upon you."
She then called four of her fairies; their names were, Pease-blossom,
Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.
"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his
walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and
steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said
she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my
beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!"
"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown; not much
regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new
attendants.
"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom.
"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"
"Here, sir," said Cobweb.
"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humble-bee
on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the
honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you
overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"
"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; "what is your will?"
"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.
Pease-blossom to scratch: I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed,
for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face."
"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a
venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some
new nuts."
"I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with
his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of
your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."
"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how
I love you! how I doat upon you!"
When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen,
he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished
her favours upon an ass.
This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her
arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.
When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the
changeling-boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord
with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.
Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for
to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which,
by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some
of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen
immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage,
saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.
Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him
to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.
Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to
her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she
agreed to go with him, and see the end of their adventures.
The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no
great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck,
to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other;
and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander
with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.
Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,
was looking at him, and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander
presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his
reason which the fairy-charm had before clouded, and with his reason
his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had
both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.
Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having
quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with
delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her,
and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure she began to perceive
were sincere.
These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became
once more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were
forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done
in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had
given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail
upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been
passed against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for
this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of
Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway
daughter.
When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,
he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent
that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the
same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on
that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now
faithful Demetrius.
The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this
reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history
brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so
much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the
approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy
kingdom.
And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty
harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.
THE WINTER'S TALE
(_By Mary Lamb_)
Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous
Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wish
ungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to
present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from
their infancy, but being by the death of their fathers called to
reign over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many
years, though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and
loving embassies.
At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to
the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit.
At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He
recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular
attention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old
companion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old
times; their school-days and their youthful pranks were remembered,
and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in these
conversations.
When after a long stay Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione, at
the desire of her husband, joined her intreaties to his that Polixenes
would prolong his visit.
And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to
stay at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and
persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon
this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourable
principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent
disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable
jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her
husband's particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the
unfortunate king's malady; and from being a loving and a true friend,
and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage
and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his
court, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded
him to poison Polixenes.
Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy
of Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of
poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders,
and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and
Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own
kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in the king's
court, and became the chief friend and favourite of Polixenes.
The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he
went to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with
her little son Mamillus, who was just beginning to tell one of his
best stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking
the child away, sent Hermione to prison.
Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly;
and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him
to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and
pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it
was thought his grief would kill him.
The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes
and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of
the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful
to him.
When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed
of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight
of her pretty baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am
as innocent as you are."
Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the
wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the Lady Paulina heard
her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where
Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended
upon Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her
majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the
king its father; we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his
innocent child." "Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, "I will acquaint
the queen with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had
any friend who would venture to present the child to the king." "And
tell her," said Paulina, "that I will speak boldly to Leontes in
her defence." "May you be for ever blessed," said Emilia, "for your
kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who
joyfully gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared
that no one would dare venture to present the child to its father.
Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's
presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,
endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet,
and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione,
and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him
to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited
remonstrances only aggravated Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered
her husband Antigonus to take her from his presence.
When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet,
thinking, when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have
pity on its helpless innocence.
The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner was she gone than the
merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the
child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to
perish.
Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of
Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and put
out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could
find.
So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that he
would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent
to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was
recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her
precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all the
lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the
judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled together to
try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before
her subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the
assembly, and presented to the king the answer of the oracle sealed
up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of
the oracle to be read aloud, and these were the words:--"_Hermione
is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a
jealous tyrant, and the king shall live without an heir if that which
is lost be not found_." The king would give no credit to the words
of the oracle: he said it was a falsehood invented by the queen's
friends, and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the
queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that
the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to be tried for her life,
struck with grief and shame, had suddenly died.
Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child,
who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and
Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his
unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her
attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina
soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead.
When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty
to her; and now that he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's
heart, he believed her innocent; and he now thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost was not found,"
which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young prince Mamillus being dead; and he would give his
kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up
to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant
grief.
The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea
was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of
the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the
little baby.
Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left
his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out
of the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for
obeying the wicked order of Leontes.
The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had
made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had
pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name of _Perdita_ written
thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward
fate.
This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man,
and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it
tenderly: but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize
he had found; therefore he left that part of the country, that no one
might know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels
he bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up
Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a
shepherd's daughter.
The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no
better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the
natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her
untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she
had not been brought up in her father's court.
Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was
Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's
dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty,
modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the
disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old
shepherd's house.
Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting
people to watch his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's
fair daughter.
Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had
preserved his life from the fury of Leontes; and desired that he would
accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of
Perdita.
Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's
dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and
though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest
being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the
general festivity.
Nothing but mirth and jolity was going forward. Tables were spread,
and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and
lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the
young men were buying ribbands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at
the door.
While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita
sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the
conversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports
and silly amusements of those around them.
The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know
him; he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The
simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did
not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, "This is the
prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks
like something greater than herself, too noble for this place."
Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream."
"Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old shepherd, "what fair
swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They call him Doricles,"
replied the shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to speak
truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If
young Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreams
of:" meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up
for her marriage-portion.
Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young man!" said he: "your
heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have
let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy."
The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his
father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts
which Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then turning
to Perdita, he said to her, "O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what I
profess." Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness
to a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to
Polixenes, "I pray you, mark our contract."
"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering himself.
Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to
this low-born maiden, calling Perdita "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook,"
and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered
his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her
father, to a cruel death.
The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow
him with prince Florizel.
When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by
Polixenes's reproaches, said, "Though we are all undone, I was not
much afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him
plainly that the self-same sun which shines upon his palace, hides not
his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then sorrowfully
she said, "But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no
farther. Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes, and weep."
The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety
of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal
father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same
time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.
Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was become
a true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured friend of
king Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to see his late
royal master and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel
and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court,
where he would engage Leontes should protect them, till through his
mediation they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to
their marriage.
To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted
every thing relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go
along with them.
The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her baby
clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle.
After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old
shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who
still mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo
with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel.
But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to
engross all Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her
and his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said,
such a lovely creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not
so cruelly destroyed her. "And then too," said he to Florizel, "I lost
the society and friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire
more than my life once again to look upon."
When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of
Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy,
he fell to comparing the time when he found the little Perdita with
the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high
birth; from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude, that
Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the same.
Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present
when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had
found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus's death,
he having seen the bear seize upon him. He shewed the rich mantle
in which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and
he produced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about
Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be
the writing of her husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was
Leontes' own daughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between
sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled,
in the king's heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes
heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt
that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he
could say nothing for a long time, but "O thy mother, thy mother!"
Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to
Leontes, that she had a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the
queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look
upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself.
Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of
his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never
saw did look like.
When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue,
so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was
renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or
move.
"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it the more shews your
wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen?" At length the king
said, "O, thus she stood, even with such majesty, when I first wooed
her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks."
Paulina replied, "So much the more the carver's excellence, who has
made the statue as Hermione would have looked had she been living now.
But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves."
The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! Would I were dead! See,
Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion
in it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. "You are so
transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives." "O, sweet
Paulina," said Leontes, "make me think so twenty years together! Still
methinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever
yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her." "Good, my
lord, forbear!" said Paulina. "The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you
will stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?"
"No, not these twenty years," said Leontes.
Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent
admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, "And so long
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother."
"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me
draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make
the statue move indeed; aye, and descend from off the pedestal, and
take you by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am
not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." "What you can make her
do," said the astonished king, "I am content to look upon. What you
can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make
her speak as move."
Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had
prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and to the amazement of all
the beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw
its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying
for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly found
Perdita.
No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her
husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione
herself, the real, the living queen.
Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione,
thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress's life;
and with the good Paulina Hermione had lived ever since, never
choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita
was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes
had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant
daughter.
His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the
long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own
happiness.
Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on
all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for
loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old
shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina
rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an end of all their
faithful services.
And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and
unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the palace.
When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillo
had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should find
the fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he happened
to arrive just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.
Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend
Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they
once more loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish
friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose
his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no "sheep-hook" now, but
the heiress of the crown of Sicily.
Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermione
rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and
her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
(_By Mary Lamb_)
There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were
Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of
Leonato, the governor of Messina.
Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero,
who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies.
Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the
light-hearted Beatrice.
At the time the history of these ladies commences, some young men of
high rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their
return from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguished
themselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among these
were Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who was
a lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick,
and he was a lord of Padua.
These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable
governor introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old
friends and acquaintance.
Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation
with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, "I wonder that you
will still be talking, signior Benedick; nobody marks you." Benedick
was just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased
at this free salutation: he thought it did not become a well-bred lady
to be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was last
at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests
upon. And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of
as those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was
with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former
times but a perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they
always parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when
Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling him
nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have
observed before that she was present, said, "What, my dear lady
Disdain, are you yet living?" And now war broke out afresh between
them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which Beatrice,
although she knew he had so well approved his valour in the late war,
said that she would eat all he had killed there: and observing the
prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she called him "the
prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick
than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him that he was a
coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard,
knowing himself to be a brave man: but there is nothing that great
wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge
comes sometimes a little too near the truth; therefore Benedick
perfectly hated Beatrice, when she called him "the prince's jester."
The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and while
Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had made
in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highly
amused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick
and Beatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is a
pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for
Benedick." Leonato replied to this suggestion, "O my lord, my lord,
if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad." But
though Leonato thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince
did not give up the idea of matching these two keen wits together.
When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found that
the marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the
only one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such
terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in his
heart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio, "Do you affect
Hero?" To this question Claudio replied, "O my lord, when I was last
at Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but
had no leisure for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace,
thoughts of war have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their
room come thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how
fair young Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the
wars." Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the
prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to
accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal,
and the prince found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero
herself to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of
rare endowments, and highly accomplished; and Claudio, assisted by his
kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for the
celebration of his marriage with Hero.
Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to
his fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as
indeed most young men are impatient, when they are waiting for the
accomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the
prince therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as a
kind of merry pastime, that they should invent some artful scheme
to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio
entered with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and
Leonato promised them his assistance, and even Hero said she would do
any modest office to help her cousin to a good husband.
The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make
Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero
should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with her.
The prince, Leonato, and Claudio, began their operations first, and
watching an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading in
an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station among the
trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose but
hear all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said,
"Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day,--that
your niece Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never
think that lady would have loved any man." "No, nor I neither, my
lord," answered Leonato. "It is most wonderful that she should so
doat on Benedick, whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to
dislike." Claudio confirmed all this, with saying that Hero had told
him Beatrice was so in love with Benedick that she would certainly die
of grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and
Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been such a
railer against all fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.
The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for
Beatrice, and he said, "It were good that Benedick were told of this."
"To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and
torment the poor lady worse." "And if he should," said the prince, "it
were a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady,
and exceeding wise in every thing but in loving Benedick." Then the
prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave
Benedick to meditate upon what he had overheard.
Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation;
and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it
possible? Sits the wind in that corner?" And when they were gone, he
began to reason in this manner with himself. "This can be no trick!
they were very serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and seem to
pity the lady. Love me! Why, it must be requited! I did never think
to marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She
is so. And wise in every thing but in loving me. Why that is no great
argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she
is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now
approached him, and said with her usual tartness, "Against my will
I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who never felt
himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, replied, "Fair
Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" and when Beatrice after two
or three more rude speeches left him, Benedick thought he observed a
concealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she uttered, and
he said aloud, "If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do
not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture."
The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him,
it was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for
this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who
attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, "Good Margaret, run to
the parlour; there you will find my cousin Beatrice talking with the
prince and Claudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking
in the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal
into that pleasant arbour, where honey-suckles, ripened by the sun,
like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter." This arbour,
into which Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very
same pleasant arbour where Benedick had so lately been an attentive
listener. "I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret.
Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, "Now,
Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be
your part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you
must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look
where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear
our conference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to
something which Ursula had said, "No truly, Ursula. She is too
disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock."
"But are you sure," said Ursula, "that Benedick loves Beatrice so
entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and
they intreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded them, if
they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice know of it." "Certainly,"
replied Ursula, "it were not good she knew his love, lest she made
sport of it." "Why to say truth," said Hero, "I never yet saw a man,
how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely featured, but she would
dispraise him." "Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable," said
Ursula. "No," replied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? if I should
speak, she would mock me into air." "O you wrong your cousin," said
Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment, as to refuse
so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." "He hath an excellent
good name," said Hero: "indeed he is the first man in Italy, always
excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attendant a hint
that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, "And when are
you to be married, madam?" Hero then told her, that she was to be
married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would go in with her,
and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult with her on what
she should wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening with
breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed,
"What fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Farewel, contempt, and
scorn and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on! I will requite you,
taming my wild heart to your loving hand."
It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies converted
into new and loving friends; and to behold their first meeting
after being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero must
now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her wedding day,
brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato.
The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him
to Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,
discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving
of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,
because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent
Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of
making Claudio and the prince unhappy: for he knew the prince had set
his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself: and
to effect this wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad
as himself, whom he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This
Borachio paid his court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John,
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with
him from her lady's chamber-window that night, after Hero was asleep,
and also to dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive
Claudio into the belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he
meant to compass by this wicked plot.
Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that
Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her
chamber-window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the
wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where they should
themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her window; and they
consented to go along with him, and Claudio said, "If I see any thing
to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation,
where I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." The prince also
said, "And as I assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to
disgrace her."
When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw
Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out
of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio; and Margaret
being dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince
and Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself.
Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as he
thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at
once converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the
church, as he had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed
to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for the naughty
lady, who talked with a man from her window the very night before she
was going to be married to the noble Claudio.
The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage,
and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the
priest, or friar as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce
the marriage-ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language,
proclaimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange
words he uttered, said meekly, "Is my lord well, that he does speak
so wide?"
Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, "My lord, why
speak not you?" "What should I speak?" said the prince; "I stand
dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend to an
unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this
grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with
a man at her chamber-window."
Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like
a nuptial."
"True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless
lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince
and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would
recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown
Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.
Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her
swoon, saying, "How does the lady?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice
in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous
principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against
her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of his child's
shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay
like one dead before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes.
But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human
nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she
heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start
into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away
those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error
that the prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to
the sorrowing father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my
observation; trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling; if this
sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some biting error."
When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, the
friar said to her, "Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" Hero
replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning
to Leonato, she said, "O my father, if you can prove that any man has
ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed
words with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death."
"There is," said the friar, "some strange misunderstanding in the
prince and Claudio;" and then he counselled Leonato, that he should
report that Hero was dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon in
which they had left Hero, would make this easy of belief; and he also
advised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for
her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. "What shall become
of this?" said Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar replied, "This
report of her death shall change slander into pity; that is some good,
but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she
died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep
into his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest
in his heart, and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though he
thought his accusation true."
Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you
know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will
not reveal this secret to them."
Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, "I am so
grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar then led
Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and
Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so much
diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and
from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.
Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, "Lady Beatrice, have
you wept all this while?" "Yea, and I will weep a while longer," said
Beatrice. "Surely," said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged." "Ah!" said Beatrice, "how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!" Benedick then said, "Is there any way to show
such friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you; is not
that strange?" "It were as possible," said Beatrice, "for me to say I
loved nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet
I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my
cousin." "By my sword," said Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I
love you. Come, bid me do any thing for you." "Kill Claudio," said
Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick: for he loved
his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. "Is not
Claudio a villain that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my
cousin?" said Beatrice: "O that I were a man!" "Hear me, Beatrice!"
said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio's defence;
and she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs:
and she said, "Talk with a man out of the window; a proper saying!
Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. O that
I were a man for Claudio's sake! or that I had any friend, who would
be a man for my sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and
compliments. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a
woman with grieving." "Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: "by this
hand, I love you." "Use it for my love some other way than swearing by
it," said Beatrice. "Think you on your soul, that Claudio has wronged
Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as I have a
thought, or a soul." "Enough," said Benedick; "I am engaged; I will
challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand,
Claudio shall render me a dear account! As you hear from me, so think
of me. Go, comfort your cousin."
While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working
his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the
cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato
was challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief.
But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said, "Nay, do not
quarrel with us, good old man." And now came Benedick, and he also
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to
Hero: and Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Beatrice has
set him on to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this
challenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the
uncertain fortune of a duel.
While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of
Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the
prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companions
of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.
Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing,
that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked
with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero
herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince
of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained, it must have
been removed by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies
were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his
brother.
The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved, when he found he had falsely
accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and
the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare
semblance that he loved it first: and the prince asking him if what
he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered, that he
felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.
And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato
for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whatever
penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the
false accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he
would endure it.
The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a
cousin of Hero's who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very
like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he had made to
Leonato, said, he would marry this unknown lady, even though she were
an Ethiop: but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed that night
in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had
erected for Hero.
When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,
where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial: and Leonato presented to
Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might
not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask,
"Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you
will marry me." "And when I lived, I was your other wife," said this
unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as
was pretended), but Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself. We
may be sure that this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who
thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes:
and the prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed
"Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, "She died,
my lord, but while her slander lived." The friar promised them an
explanation of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and
was proceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who
desired to be married at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making
some demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her love
for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took
place; and they found they had both been tricked into a belief of
love, which had never existed, and had become lovers in truth by the
power of a false jest: but the affection, which a merry invention had
cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious
explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to
think nothing to the purpose that the world could say against it; and
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her
but for pity, and because he heard she was dying of love for him; and
Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great persuasion, and
partly to save his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So
these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, after
Claudio and Hero were married; and to complete the history, Don John,
the contriver of the villany, was taken in his flight, and brought
back to Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy,
discontented man, to see the joy and feastings which, by the
disappointment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina.
AS YOU LIKE IT
(_By Mary Lamb_)
During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as
they were called), there reigned in one of these provinces an usurper,
who, had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.
The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few
faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke
lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary
exile for his sake, while their lands and revenues enriched the false
usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here
more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's
life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this
forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet
the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the
summer they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees,
marking the playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of
these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of
the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply
themselves with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter
made the duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure
it patiently, and say, "These chilling winds which blow upon my body,
are true counsellors, they do not flatter, but represent truly to me
my condition; and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing
like so keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that,
howsoever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be
extracted from it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is
taken from the head of the venomous and despised toad." In this manner
did the patient duke draw an useful moral from everything that he saw;
and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote
from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the
running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the
usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained
in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict
friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement
between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving
by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the
injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind;
and whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own
dependance on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's
whole care was to comfort and console her.
One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind,
saying, "I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger
entered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a
wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come
instantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it would
amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.
In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country
clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and
before fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling-match therefore
Celia and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a
very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had long been
practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests
of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who,
from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all
thought would certainly be killed.
When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, "How now, daughter and
niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little
delight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young
roan, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him,
ladies, and see if you can move him."
The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first
Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the
attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such
feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that
instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose,
all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in
this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind
in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concern
for him; he concluded his refusal with saying, "I am sorry to deny
such fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and
gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered, there
is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one
dead that is willing to die: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I
have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing;
for I only fill up a place in the world which may be better supplied
when I have made it empty."
And now the wrestling-match began. Celia wished the young stranger
might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless
state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made
Rosalind think that he was like herself unfortunate; and she pitied
him so much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger while he
was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that moment to have
fallen in love with him.
The kindness shewn this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies
gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in
the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt,
that for a while he was unable to speak or move.
The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shewn
by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage,
meaning to take him under his protection.
The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest
son of sir Rowland de Boys.
Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years;
but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of
the banished duke: therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son
of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young
man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,
and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went
out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.
Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son
of her father's old friend; and she said to Celia, "My father loved
sir Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son,
I would have added tears to my entreaties before he should have
ventured."
The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden
displeasure shewn by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words
to him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak
some more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old
friend; and taking a chain from off her neck, she said, "Gentleman,
wear this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you
a more valuable present."
When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando,
Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the
handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, "Is it possible
you should fall in love so suddenly?" Rosalind replied, "The duke,
my father, loved his father dearly." "But," said Celia, "does it
therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? for then I
ought to hate him, for my father hated his father; yet I do not hate
Orlando."
Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland de Boys' son,
which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the
nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,
because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her
good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and
while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered
the room, and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly
to leave the palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling
Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind
to stay upon her account. "I did not then," said Celia, "entreat you
to let her stay; for I was too young at that time to value her; but
now that I know her worth, and that we so long have slept together,
rose at the same instant, learned, played and eat together, I cannot
live out of her company." Frederick replied, "She is too subtle for
you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience, speak to the
people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you
will seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open
not your lips in her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her
is irrevocable."
When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind
remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and,
leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend
to seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.
Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for
two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she
therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing
themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still
greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man; and
so it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the
tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celia
should be habited like a country lass, and that they should say
they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be called
Ganimed, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.
In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their
expences, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for
the forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the
duke's dominions.
The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must now be called) with her
manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful
friendship Celia had shewn in accompanying Rosalind so many weary
miles, made the new brother, in recompence for this true love, exert
a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, the rustic and
stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena.
When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found
the convenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the
road; and being in want of food and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily
cheered his sister with pleasant speeches, and happy remarks, all the
way, now owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in his
heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena
declared she could go no farther; and then again Ganimed tried to
recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as
the weaker vessel: and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said,
"Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of
our travel, in the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced
courage would no longer support them; for though they were in the
forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and here the
travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for
they might have lost themselves, and have perished for want of food;
but providentially, as they were sitting on the grass almost dying
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass
that way, and Ganimed once more tried to speak with a manly boldness,
saying, "Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure
us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves;
for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling,
and faints for want of food."
The man replied, that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that
his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would
find but poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they
should be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near
prospect of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house
and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to
the shepherd's house, to wait on them; and being by this means so
fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and well supplied with
provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could learn in what
part of the forest the duke dwelt.
When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began
to like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves the
shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes Ganimed
remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind who had so dearly
loved the brave Orlando, because he was the son of old sir Rowland,
her father's friend; and though Ganimed thought that Orlando was many
miles distant, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in
this manner this strange event came to pass.
Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys, who when he died
left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest
brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother
a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the
commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school, but
kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature
and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his
excellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver so
envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother,
that at last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set on
people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as
has been before related, had killed so many men. Now it was this cruel
brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die,
being so friendless.
When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother proved
victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he would
burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vow
by one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father, and
that loved Orlando because he resembled sir Rowland. This old man went
out to meet him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when he
saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him break
out into these passionate exclamations: "O my gentle master, my sweet
master, O you memory of old sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why
are you gentle, strong and valiant? and why would you be so fond to
overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly home
before you." Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what
was the matter? and then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing the fame he had
gained by his victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy him,
by setting fire to his chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised
him to escape the danger he was in by instant flight: and knowing
Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had
brought out with him his own little hoard, and he said, "I have five
hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid
by to be provision for me when my old limbs should become unfit for
service; take that, and he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my
age! Here is the gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant;
though I look old, I will do the service of a younger man in all your
business and necessities." "O good old man!" said Orlando, "how well
appears in you the constant service of the old world? You are not for
the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and before your
youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for both our
maintenance."
Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and
Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till
they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in
the same distress for want of food, that Ganimed and Aliena had been.
They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost
spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "O my dear master,
I die for want of food, I can go no farther!" He then laid himself
down, thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master
farewel. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant
up in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant
trees, and he said to him, "Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs
here a while, and do not talk of dying!"
Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to
arrive at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and his
friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being
seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of
some large trees.
Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to
take their meat by force, and said, "Forbear, and eat no more; I must
have your food!" The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold,
or if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this Orlando said,
he was dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to
sit down and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him speak so gently, put
up his sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he
had demanded their food. "Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought
that all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the
countenance of stern command; but whatever men you are, that in this
desert, under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the
creeping hours of time; if ever you have looked on better days; if
ever you have been where bells have knolled to church; if you have
ever sate at any good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have
wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle
speeches now move you to do me human courtesy!" The duke replied,
"True it is that we are men (as you say) who have seen better days,
and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have
lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to
church, have sate at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped
the drops which sacred pity has engendered: therefore sit you down,
and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your wants."
"There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, "who has limped after
me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad
infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I must not touch
a bit." "Go, find him out, and bring him hither," said the duke; "we
will forbear to eat till you return." Then Orlando went like a doe to
find its fawn and give it food; and presently returned, bringing Adam
in his arms; and the duke said, "Set down your venerable burthen; you
are both welcome:" and they fed the old man, and cheered his heart,
and he revived, and recovered his health and strength again.
The duke enquired who Orlando was, and when he found that he was the
son of his old friend, sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his
protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the
forest.
Orlando had not been in the forest many days before Ganimed and Aliena
arrived there, and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's
cottage.
Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of
Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all
addressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could
be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had
given him about his neck.
Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the fair princess Rosalind,
who by her noble condescension and favour had so won his heart, that
he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and
writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased with
the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into
conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to
his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment
of that noble lady; for Ganimed assumed the forward manners often seen
in youths when they are between boys and men, and with much archness
and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, "who," said he,
"haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind
upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on
brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover,
I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his
love."
Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and
asked Ganimed to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy
Ganimed proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should
come every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt:
"And then," said Ganimed, "I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and
you shall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I
was Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical
ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and
this is the way I propose to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in
the remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganimed's cottage, and
feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed and
Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganimed his Rosalind, and
every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments,
which young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It
does not appear however that Ganimed made any progress in curing
Orlando of his love for Rosalind.
Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming
that Ganimed was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him
of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy
almost as well as it did Ganimed's, who enjoyed the secret jest in
knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right
person.
In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;
and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, let him
have his own way, and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not
care to remind Ganimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet made herself
known to the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they
had learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke one day, and had some
talk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came: Ganimed
answered, that he came of as good parentage as he did; which made the
duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of
royal lineage. Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganimed was
content to put off all further explanation for a few days longer.
One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, he saw a man lying
asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about
his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the
bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie
couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting
till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on
nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent
by Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and the
lioness: but when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that
the sleeper, who was exposed to this double peril, was his own brother
Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him
by fire; and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry
lioness: but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon
overcame his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword,
and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his
brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furious
lioness: but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn
one of his arms with her sharp claws.
While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and
perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated,
was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own
life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his
unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's pardon
for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so
penitent, and readily forgave him: they embraced each other, and from
that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though
he had come to the forest bent on his destruction.
The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too
weak to go to visit Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to
go, and tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do call my
Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him.
Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed and Aliena how Orlando
had saved his life: and when he had finished the story of Orlando's
bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he was
Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; and then he told them
of their reconciliation.
The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a
lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly
fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the
distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in
love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of
Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing
of the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the
lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pretended that he had
counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind,
and Ganimed said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how well
I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness of his
complexion that he did really faint, and much wondering at the
weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, if you did counterfeit,
take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." "So I do," replied
Ganimed (truly), "but I should have been a woman by right."
Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned
back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the
account of Ganimed's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,
Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even in
this their first interview; and he talked to his brother, as of a
thing almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so
well loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his
estate and house at home upon Orlando.
"You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow,
and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your
shepherdess to agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes
her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had
perceived approaching, came to enquire after the health of his wounded
friend.
When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over the sudden love which had
taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his
brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow,
and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day
to his Rosalind.
Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement, said, that if Orlando
really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have
his wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear
in her own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry
Orlando.
This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed was the lady
Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to
pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who
was a famous magician.
The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he
heard, asked Ganimed if he spoke in sober meaning. "By my life I do,"
said Ganimed; "therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke
and your friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married
to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here."
The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they
came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando.
They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as
yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and
conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganimed was making a jest of
Orlando.
The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought
in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy
could really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering
that he knew not what to think, Ganimed entered, and asked the duke,
if he brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage
with Orlando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had kingdoms to
give with her." Ganimed then said to Orlando, "And you say you will
marry her if I bring her here." "That I would," said Orlando, "if I
were king of many kingdoms."
Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, and Ganimed throwing off
his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's apparel,
quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and Aliena,
changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little
trouble transformed into the lady Celia.
While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought the
shepherd Ganimed very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he
also had observed the resemblance.
They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and
Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it
was by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself
on her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so
wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it
might well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle
with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her
dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as
her sister.
The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage;
and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same
time. And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild
forest with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions,
yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating
their venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if
nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke
and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke
the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him.
The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing
that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden
to join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his brother
should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the
head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intending to
seize his brother, and put him, with all his faithful followers, to
the sword; but, by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad
brother was converted from his evil intention: for just as he entered
the skirts of the wild forest he was met by an old religious man, a
hermit, with whom he had much talk, and who in the end completely
turned his heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a
true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to
spend the remainder of his days in a religious house. The first act of
his newly-conceived penitence was to send a messenger to his brother
(as has been related), to offer to restore to him his dukedom, which
he had usurped so long, and with it the lands and revenues of his
friends, the faithful followers of his adversity.
This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely
to heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the
princesses. Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which
had happened to the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her joy very
sincerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, but
by this restoration which her father had made, Rosalind was now the
heir: so completely was the love of these two cousins unmixed with any
thing of jealousy or envy.
The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who
had staid with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers,
though they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well
pleased to return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their
lawful duke.
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
(_By Mary Lamb_)
There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names
were Valentine and Protheus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted
friendship had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together,
and their hours of leisure were always passed in each other's company,
except when Protheus visited a lady he was in love with; and these
visits to his mistress, and this passion of Protheus for the fair
Julia, were the only topics on which these two friends disagreed: for
Valentine, not being himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of
hearing his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would
laugh at Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love,
and declare that no such idle fancies should ever enter his head,
greatly preferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the
anxious hopes and fears of the lover Protheus.
One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell him that they must
for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Protheus,
unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon
Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said, "Cease to persuade me,
my loving Protheus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in
idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your
affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured
Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the
world abroad: but since you are a lover, love on still, and may your
love be prosperous!"
They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. "Sweet
Valentine, adieu!" said Protheus; "think on me, when you see some rare
object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness."
Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his
friend had left him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to Julia,
which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.
Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a
noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity
too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his
passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.
And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive
it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Protheus, and ordered
her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written
in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again, and when
Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who knew
her mistress more desired to see the letter than to know the time
of day, without answering her question, again offered the rejected
letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of
seeming to know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and
threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room.
As Lucetta was retiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments of the
torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said, in
pretended anger, "Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would
be fingering them to anger me."
Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words, "Love-wounded Protheus;"
and lamenting over these and such-like loving words, which she made
out though they were all torn asunder, or, she said, _wounded_ (the
expression "Love-wounded Protheus," giving her that idea), she talked
to these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as
in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each
several piece, to make amends.
In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like
childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and
vext at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words,
as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than
she had ever done before.
Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer
to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet
love, sweet lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was
interrupted by his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what
letter are you reading there?"
"My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine,
at Milan."
"Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see what news."
"There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, greatly alarmed, "but
that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily
graces him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of
his fortune."
"And how stand you affected to his wish?" asked the father.
"As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on his
friendly wish," said Protheus.
Now it had happened that Protheus' father had just been talking with
a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his
lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most
men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; "some," said
he, "to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover
islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there
is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court.
Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great
disadvantage to him in his riper age, not to have travelled in his
youth."
Protheus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good,
and upon Protheus telling him that Valentine "wished him with him,
the partner of his fortune," he at once determined to send his son
to Milan; and without giving Protheus any reason for this sudden
resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, "My will is the same
as Valentine's wish:" and seeing his son looked astonished, he added,
"Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time
in the duke of Milan's court; for what I will I will, and there is
an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am
peremptory."
Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who
never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for
telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheus for so long a
time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other
a mournful farewell with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus
and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever
in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave,
Protheus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend
Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned to his father, in
high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to
him, of which Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given
up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as
passionate a lover as Protheus.
She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine, was the lady
Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but
they concealed their love from the duke, because although he shewed
much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace,
yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name
was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine
sense and excellent qualities of Valentine.
These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to
Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning every thing
Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room,
and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Protheus' arrival.
Valentine said, "If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here!" and then he highly praised Protheus to the duke,
saying, "My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my
friend made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in
person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman."
"Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke: "Silvia, I
speak to you, and you, sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him
do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and
Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him
to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship."
When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, and were alone
together, Valentine said, "Now tell me how all does from whence
you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" Protheus
replied, "My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a
love-discourse."
"Aye, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but that life is altered now. I
have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt
of Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle
Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I
confess there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth
as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I
can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love."
This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the
disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Protheus.
But _friend_ Protheus must be called no longer, for the same
all-powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea even while
they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine) was working
in the heart of Protheus; and he, who had till this time been a
pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short
interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover;
for at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away
like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him
from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and although, as
it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally good become
unjust, he had many scruples, before he determined to forsake Julia,
and become the rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense
of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his new
unhappy passion.
Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,
and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent,
he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night,
and go with him to Mantua; then he shewed Protheus a ladder of ropes,
by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the
windows of the palace, after it was dark.
Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets,
it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Protheus
resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.
This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the
duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what
he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had
shewn him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that,
which else no worldly good should draw from him: he then told all he
had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the
manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.
The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he
preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal
an unjust action; highly commended him, and promised him not to let
Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some
artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon
saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.
The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither away so fast,
Valentine?" "May it please your grace," said Valentine, "there is a
messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going
to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better
success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his father.
"Be they of much import?" said the duke.
"No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to tell my father I am well
and happy at your grace's court."
"Nay, then," said the duke, "no matter: stay with me a while. I wish
your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." He then told
Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him,
saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with
Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands,
"neither regarding," said he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me
as if I were her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers
has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age should have been
cherished by her childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife,
and turn her out to whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her
wedding-dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not."
Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, "And what
would your grace have me to do in all this?"
"Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,
and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of
courtship is much changed since I was young: now I would willingly
have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo."
Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then
practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love,
such as presents, frequent visits, and the like.
The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he
sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man
might have access to her by day.
"Why then," said Valentine, "you must visit her by night."
"But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift
of his discourse, "her doors are fast locked."
Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the duke should get into
the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying,
he would procure him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion
advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as
that which he now wore. "Lend me your cloak," said the duke, who had
feigned this long story on purpose to have a pretence to get off the
cloak: so, upon saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's
cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of
ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly opened, and
read; and this letter contained a full account of their intended
elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in
thus returning the favour he had shewn him, by endeavouring to steal
away his daughter, banished him from the court and city of Milan for
ever; and Valentine was forced to depart that night, without even
seeing Silvia.
While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona
was regretting the absence of Protheus; and her regard for him at last
so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave
Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from
danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in men's
clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, soon
after Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of
Protheus.
Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn;
and her thoughts being all on her dear Protheus, she entered into
conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking
by that means to learn some news of Protheus.
The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as
he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high
rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was
sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest he
offered to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a
gentleman that evening was going to serenade his mistress.
The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well
know what Protheus would think of the imprudent step she had taken;
for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden-pride and dignity
of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem:
and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.
She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the
music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the way.
But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very
different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for
there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia
from a window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his
own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine: and
then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music
and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished
Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend
Protheus.
Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did
she still love the truant Protheus; and hearing that he had lately
parted with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host,
the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and
Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and
presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring
she gave him as a parting gift at Verona.
When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find
that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Protheus; and Julia, or the
page Sebastian, as she was called, entered into conversation with
Silvia about Protheus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She
putting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew
Julia; as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke:
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his unkind
neglect would grieve her: and then she with a pretty equivocation went
on: "Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the colour of
her eyes and hair the same as mine;" and indeed Julia looked a most
beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this
lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved; and
when Julia offered her the ring which Protheus had sent, refused it,
saying, "The more shame for him that he sends me that ring; I will not
take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia gave it to him. I
love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse;
I give it you for Julia's sake." These comfortable words coming from
her kind rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the disguised
lady.
But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way
to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father a
disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest,
not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear
treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded
his money.
Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he
was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he
had on being all his riches.
The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck
with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him, if he would live
with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves
under his command: but that if he refused to accept their offer, they
would kill him.
Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said, he would
consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no
outrage on women or poor passengers.
Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read
in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti: and in this
situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.
Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon
her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following
Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken
refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in
the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but
taking no part in their depredations, and using the authority which
they had imposed upon him in no other way, than to compel them to shew
compassion to the travellers they robbed.
Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in
company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom
she took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass
through the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of
these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour,
but he escaped.
The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid
her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave
where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their
captain had an honourable mind, and always shewed humanity to women.
Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as
a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. "O Valentine,"
she cried, "this I endure for thee!"
But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was
stopped by Protheus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of
a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to
this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands of the robber;
but scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her,
before he began to distress her afresh with his love-suit: and while
he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the
forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind,
fearing lest the great service which Protheus had just done to Silvia
should win her to shew him some favour, they were all strangely
surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who having heard
his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve
her.
Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being
caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence
and remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries
he had done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and
generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored
him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of
heroism he said, "I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have
in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her
master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Protheus
would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia,
fainted, and they were all employed in recovering her: else would
Silvia have been offended at being thus made over to Protheus, though
she could scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this
overstrained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered
from the fainting fit, she said, "I had forgot, my master ordered me
to deliver this ring to Silvia." Protheus, looking upon the ring,
saw that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return for that which
he received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to
Silvia. "How is this?" said he, "this is Julia's ring: how came you
by it, boy?" Julia answered, "Julia herself did give it me, and Julia
herself hath brought it hither."
Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the
page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself: and the proof
she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that
his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own
dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Silvia to
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.
Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they
were surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who
came there in pursuit of Silvia.
Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying,
"Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited
manner, "Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is
yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but
possession of her with a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon my
love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back,
and said he cared not for her, and that none but a fool would fight
for a girl who loved him not.
The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger,
"The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you
have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to
Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think
you worthy of an empress's love. You shall have Silvia, for you have
well deserved her." Valentine then with great humility kissed the
duke's hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him
of his daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this
joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves
with whom he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when
reformed and restored to society, there would be found among them
many good, and fit for great employment; for the most of them had
been banished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather than for
any black crimes they had been guilty of. To this the duke readily
consented: and now nothing remained but that Protheus, the false
friend, was ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted faults,
to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves and
falsehoods before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his
awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment: which being
done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Milan, and their nuptials
were solemnised in presence of the duke, with high triumphs and
feasting.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
(_By Mary Lamb_)
Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed
an immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian
merchants. Shylock being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of
the money he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by all
good men, and particularly by Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice;
and Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend money to
people in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he
lent; therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and
the generous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met Shylock on the
Rialto (or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and
hard dealings; which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while
he secretly meditated revenge.
Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and had
the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed he was one in
whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew
breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens;
but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio,
a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly
exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for
his slender means, as young men of high rank with small fortunes are
too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted him;
and it seemed as if they had but one heart and one purse between them.
One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told him that he wished to
repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly
loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress
to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit
at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes
from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would
be no unwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with
an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought
Anthonio to add to the many favours he had shewn him, by lending him
three thousand ducats.
Anthonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but
expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise,
he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the
money upon the credit of those ships.
Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Anthonio asked
the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should
require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at
sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself: "If I can once catch him
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him: he hates
our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and among the merchants
he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest.
Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him!" Anthonio finding he was musing
within himself and did not answer, and being impatient for the money,
said, "Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the money?" To this
question the Jew replied, "Signior Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time
and often you have railed at me about my monies, and my usuries, and I
have borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all
our tribe; and then you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and
spit upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if
I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my help; and you come
to me, and say, _Shylock, lend me monies_. Has a dog money? Is it
possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low
and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another time
you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you monies."
Anthonio replied, "I am as like to call you so again, to spit on you
again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not
to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that,
if I break, you may with better face exact the penalty."--"Why, look
you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I would be friends with you, and
have your love. I will forget the shames you have put upon me. I will
supply your wants, and take no interest for my money." This seemingly
kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio; and then Shylock still
pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain Anthonio's love,
again said he would lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no
interest for his money; only Anthonio should go with him to a lawyer,
and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the
money by a certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut
off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.
"Content," said Anthonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say there is
much kindness in the Jew."
Bassanio said Anthonio should not sign to such a bond for him; but
still Anthonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the
day of payment came, his ships would return laden with many times the
value of the money.
Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O father Abraham, what
suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach
them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,
Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by the
exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,
is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or
of beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will
take it, so; if not, adieu."
At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the
Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should
run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Anthonio signed
the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.
The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at
a place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her
person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom
we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.
Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Anthonio
at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train,
and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.
Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time
consented to accept of him for a husband.
Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his
high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she,
who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to
regard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she
would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times
more rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portia
prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl,
unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and
that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed
by him in all things; and she said, "Myself, and what is mine, to you
and yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of
this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants;
and now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I
give them with this ring:" presenting a ring to Bassanio.
Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious
manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his
humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to
the dear lady who so honoured him by any thing but broken words of
love and thankfulness: and taking the ring, he vowed never to part
with it.
Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon
their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the
obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time.
"With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife."
Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting
gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her
lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa
replied, "Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly
consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast shall be
much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano."
The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the
entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio containing
fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Anthonio's letter, Portia feared
it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so
pale; and enquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he
said, "O sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that
ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should
have told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio
then told Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the
money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew,
and of the bond by which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of
flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day; and then Bassanio read
Anthonio's letter, the words of which were, "_Sweet Bassanio, my ships
are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it,
it is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death;
notwithstanding use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter._" "O my dear love," said Portia,
"dispatch all business and be gone; you shall have gold to pay the
money twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by
my Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly
love you." Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before
he set out, to give him a legal right to her money; and that same
day they were married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and
Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great
haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison.
The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the
money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound
of Anthonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause
before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspence
the event of the trial.
When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him,
and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned;
yet she feared it would go hard with Anthonio, and when she was left
alone, she began to think and consider within herself, if she could by
any means be instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's
friend; and notwithstanding, when she wished to honour her Bassanio,
she had said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she
would submit in all things to be governed by his superior wisdom,
yet being now called forth into action by the peril of her honoured
husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers, and by the
sole guidance of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved
to go herself to Venice, and speak in Anthonio's defence.
Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this
gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to
him desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send
her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he
brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also every
thing necessary for her equipment.
Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and
putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her
as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on
the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia
entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from
Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying,
he would have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was
prevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor
Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in
his stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful
appearance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her
counsellor's robes and her large wig.
And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she
saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in
her disguise. He was standing beside Anthonio, in an agony of distress
and fear for his friend.
The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this
tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had
undertaken to perform; and first of all she addressed herself to
Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to have
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble
quality of _mercy_, as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling
Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon
the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it; and how it became monarchs better
than their crowns, being an attribute of God himself; and that earthly
power came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice:
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that
same prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered
her by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he
not able to pay the money?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the
Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats, as many times over as
he should desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon
having a pound of Anthonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned
young counsellor would endeavour to wrest the law a little, to
save Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely answered, that laws once
established must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the
law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in
his favour, and he said, "A Daniel has come to judgment! O wise young
judge, how I do honour you! How much elder are you than your looks!"
Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she
had read it, she said, "This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew
may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest
Anthonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful; take the
money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would the cruel Shylock
shew; and he said, "By my soul I swear, there is no power in the
tongue of man to alter me."--"Why then, Anthonio," said Portia,
"you must prepare your bosom for the knife:" and while Shylock was
sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the pound of
flesh, Portia said to Anthonio, "Have you any thing to say?" Anthonio
with a calm resignation replied, that he had but little to say, for
that he had prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio,
"Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare you well! Grieve not that I am
fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your honourable
wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" Bassanio in the deepest
affliction replied, "Anthonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear
to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the world,
are not esteemed with me above your life: I would lose all, I would
sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you."
Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all
offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so
true a friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet could not help
answering, "Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were
present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to
copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's,
and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's
dress by the side of Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love;
I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat some power there
to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." "It is well you wish
this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house," said
Nerissa.
Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pronounce
the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and
every heart was full of grief for Anthonio.
Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said
to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to
death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should bleed to
death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied, "It is
not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so
much for charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I
cannot find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound
of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards
it. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it,
and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright
judge! A Daniel has come to judgment!" And then he sharpened his
long knife again, and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, "Come,
prepare!"
"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something else. This
bond here gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are, a
pound of flesh. If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one
drop of Christian blood, your land and goods are by the law to be
confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly impossible
for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of
Anthonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh
and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of Anthonio;
and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who
had so happily thought of this expedient, plaudits resounded from
every part of the senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words
which Shylock had used, "O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel
is come to judgment!"
Shylock finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with
a disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio,
rejoiced beyond measure at Anthonio's unexpected deliverance, cried
out, "Here is the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly;
there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty:
therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no
blood; nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; be it more
or less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight
of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and
all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." "Give me my money, and
let me go," said Shylock. "I have it ready," said Bassanio: "Here it
is."
Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him,
saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of
Venice your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the
mercy of the duke; therefore down on your knees, and ask him to pardon
you."
The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may see the difference of our
Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half your
wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other half comes to the state."
The generous Anthonio then said, that he would give up his share of
Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his
death to his daughter and her husband; for Anthonio knew that the Jew
had an only daughter, who had lately married against his consent to a
young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Anthonio's, which had so
offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.
The Jew agreed to this; and being thus disappointed in his revenge,
and despoiled of his riches, he said, "I am ill. Let me go home;
send the deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches to my
daughter." "Get thee gone, then," said the duke, "and sign it; and if
you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you
the fine of the other half of your riches."
The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the court. He then
highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and
invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont
before her husband, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must
away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay
and dine with him; and turning to Anthonio, he added, "Reward this
gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him."
The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said to
Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by your
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you
will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." "And we
shall stand indebted to you over and above," said Anthonio, "in love
and service evermore."
Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon
Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, "Give
me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake:" and then Bassanio
taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him
upon his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from
him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made
her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, "And
for your love I will take this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly
distressed, that the counsellor should ask him for the only thing he
could not part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could
not give him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had
vowed never to part with it: but that he would give him the most
valuable ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this
Portia affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You
teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered."
"Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, "let him have the ring; let my love
and the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's
displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded,
and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the _clerk_
Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and
Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave
it to her. And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when
they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away
their rings, and swear that they had given them as a present to some
woman.
Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which
never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good
action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: the moon
never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon
was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at
Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa,
"That light we see is burning in my hall; how far that little candle
throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world:" and
hearing the sound of music from her house, she said, "Methinks that
music sounds much sweeter than by day."
And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves
in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who
soon followed them with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that
lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband
quarrelling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia.
"What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry
gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on
a cutler's knife; _Love me, and leave me not_."
"What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify?" said Nerissa.
"You swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till
the hour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk.
I know you gave it to a woman." "By this hand," replied Gratiano, "I
gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher
than yourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise
pleading saved Anthonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee,
and I could not for my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to
blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord
Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all the
world." Gratiano in excuse for his fault now said, "My lord Bassanio
gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk,
that took some pains in writing, he begged my ring."
Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for
giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to
believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very
unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great
earnestness, "No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,
who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which
when I denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet
Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I
was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you
been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the
worthy doctor."
"Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels."
Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome
notwithstanding; and then Anthonio said, "I once did lend my body for
Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring
I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you." "Then
you shall be his surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid
him keep it better than the other."
When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find
it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him, how she was
the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found to
his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage
and wisdom of his wife that Anthonio's life was saved.
And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave him letters which by
some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of
Anthonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the
harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story
were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and
there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings,
and the husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily
swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that
--while he liv'd, he'd fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
CYMBELINE
(_By Mary Lamb_)
During the time of Augustus Cæsar, emperor of Rome, there reigned
in England (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was
Cymbeline.
Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and a
daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was
brought up in her father's court; but by a strange chance the two sons
of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest was but
three years of age, and the youngest quite an infant: and Cymbeline
could never discover what was become of them, or by whom they were
conveyed away.
Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was a wicked, plotting
woman, and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his
first wife.
The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son of
her own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): for
by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown
of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if the
king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen must be the king's
heir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married
without the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.
Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best
scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his
mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband.
Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus
(Cymbeline having given him that name because he was born after his
father's death), and educated him in his own court.
Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were
play-fellows from their infancy: they loved each other tenderly when
they were children, and their affection continuing to increase with
their years, when they grew up they privately married.
The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies
constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she
immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.
Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that his
daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a
subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him
from his native country for ever.
The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at
losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting, before
Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen
for his residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she shewed,
the better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son
Cloten; for she meant to persuade Imogen
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