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"TRADE MARK.

No. 1532.

( Black & White Drawings & Letterpress Printed in Englan> )
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T was evening. The fire burned brightly in the inn parlour. We
had been that day to see Shakespeare’s house, and I had told the
children all that I could about him and his work. Now they were
sitting by the table, poring over a big volume of the Master's plays,
lent them by the landlord. And I, with eyes fixed on the fire, was
wandering happily in the immortal dreamland peopled by Rosalind
and Imogen, Lear and Hamlet. <A small sigh roused me—

““T can’t understand a word of it,” said Iris.

“And you said it was so beautiful,” Rosamund added, reproachfully.
“ What does it all mean?”

“Yes,” Iris went on, “ you said it was a fairy-tale, and we've read
three pages, and there’s nothing about fairies, not even a dwarf, or a
fairy god-mother.”

“ And what does ‘ miseratted’ mean ?”

“ And ‘vantage,’ and ‘austerity, and ‘belike,’ and ‘edict,’ and—”

“Stop, stop,” I cried ; “I will tell you the story.”

In a moment they were nestling beside me, cooing with the pleasure
that the promise of a story always brings them.

“But you must be quiet a moment, and let me think.”
6 THE CHILDREN’S SHAKESPEARE.

In truth it was not easy to arrange the story simply. Even with
the recollection of Lamb’s tales to help me I found it hard to tell the
“Midsummer Night’s Dream” in words that these little ones could
understand. But presently I began the tale, and then the words came
fast enough. When the story was ended, Iris drew a long breath.

“Tt is a lovely story,” she said ; “but it doesn’t look at all like that
in the book.”

“Tt is only put differently,” I answered. “You will understand
when you grow up that the stories are the least part of Shakespeare.”

“ But it’s the stories we like,” said Rosamund.

“You see he did not write for children.”

“No, but you might,” cried Iris, flushed with a sudden idea.
“Why don’t you write the stories for'us so that we can understand
them, just as you told us that, and then, when we are grown up, we
shall understand the plays so much better. Do! do!”

‘Ah, do! You will, won’t you? You must!”

“Oh, well, if I must, I must,” I said.

And so they settled it for me, and for them these tales were written.

 

 
          

  

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IX

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M em\iey”
INE WINTERS ALE,

EONTES was the King of Sicily, and his dearest friend was Polixenes,
King of Bohemia. They had been brought up together and only
separated when they reached man’s estate and each had to go and rule
over his kingdom. After many years, when each was married and had
a son, Polixenes came to stay with Leontes in Sicily.

Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather silly, and he took
it into his stupid head that his wife, Hermione, liked Polixenes better
than she did him, her own husband. When once he had got this into
his head, nothing could put it out; and he ordered one of his lords,
Camillo, to put a poison in Polixenes’ wine. Camillo tried to dissuade
him from this wicked action, but finding he was not to be moved,
pretended to consent. He then told Polixenes what was proposed
8 THE WINTER'S TALE.

against him, and they fled from the Court of Sicily that night, and
returned to Bohemia where Camillo lived on as Polixenes’ friend and
counsellor.

Leontes threw the Queen into prison ; and her son, the heir to the
throne, died of sorrow to see his mother so unjustly and cruelly treated.

While the Queen was in prison she had a little baby, and a friend
of hers, named Paulina, had the baby dressed in its best, and took it
to show the King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little daughter
would soften his heart towards his dear Queen, who had never done
him any wrong, and who loved him a great deal more than he deserved ;
but the King would not look at the baby, and ordered Paulina’s
husband to take it away in a ship, and leave it in the most desert
and dreadful place he could find, which Paulina’s husband, very
much against his will, was obliged to do.

Then the poor Queen was brought up to
be tried for treason in preferring Polixenes to
her King ; but really she had never thought
of anyone except Leontes, her husband.
Leontes had sent some messengers to ask the
god, Apollo, whether he was not right in his
cruel thoughts of the Queen. But he had
not patience to wait till they came back, and
so it happened that
they arrived in the
middle of the trial.
The Oracle said—

“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.”

Then a man came

   
 
 
 
 
  
THE WINTER’S TALE. 2 9

and told them that the
little prince was dead.
The poor Queen, hearing
this, fell down in a fit; and
then the King saw how
wicked and wrong he had
been. He ordered Paulina
and the ladies who were
with the Queen to take
her away, and try to re-
store her. But Paulina
came back in a few mo-
ments, and told the King
that Hermione was dead.

Now Leontes’ eyes
were at last opened to his folly. His Queen was dead, and the little
daughter who might have been a comfort to him he had sent away
to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life had nothing left for him
now. He gave himself up to his grief, and passed many sad years in
prayer and remorse.

The baby Princess was left on the sea-coast of Bohemia, the very
kingdom where Polixenes reigned. Paulina’s husband never went home
to tell Leontes where he had left the baby; for, as he was going back
to the ship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. So there was
an end of him.

But the poor, deserted little baby was found by a shepherd. She
was richly dressed, and had with her some jewels, and a paper was
pinned to her cloak, saying that her name was Perdita, and that she
came of noble parents.

The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took home the little
baby to his wife, and they brought it up as their own child. She had
no more teaching than a shepherd’s child generally has, but she inherited
from her royal mother many graces and charms, so that she was quite
different from the other maidens in the village where she lived.

One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King of Bohemia,
was hunting near the shepherd’s house and saw Perdita, now grown up

 
10 THE WINTER'S TALE.

to a charming woman. He made friends with the shepherd, not telling
him that he was the Prince, but saying that his name was Doricles,
and that he was a private gentleman; and then, being deeply in
love with the pretty Perdita, he came almost daily to see her.

The King could not understand what it was that took his son
nearly every day from home; so he set people to watch him, and
then found out that the heir of the King of Bohemia was in love
with Perdita, the pretty shepherd girl. Polixenes, wishing to see
whether this was true, disguised himself, and went with the faithful
Camillo, in disguise too, to the old shepherd’s house. They arrived
at the feast of sheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they were mace
very welcome. There was dancing going on, and a pedlar was selling
ribbons and laces and gloves, which the young men bought for their
sweethearts.

Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no part in this gay scene,
but sat quietly together, talking. The King noticed the charming
manners and great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that she was the
daughter of his old friend, Leontes. He said to Camillo—

“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green
sward. Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater
than herself—too noble for this place.”

And Camillo answered, ‘In truth she is the Queen of curds and
cream.”

But when Florizel, who did not recognise his father, called upon
the strangers to witness his betrothal with the pretty shepherdess,
the King made himself known and forbade the marriage, adding,
that if she ever saw Florizel again, he would kill her and her old
father, the shepherd; and with that he left them. But Camillo
remained behind, for he was charmed with Perdita, and wished to
befriend her.

Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was for that foolish mad-
ness of his, and he longed to go back to Sicily to see his old master. He
now proposed that the young people should go there and claim the
protection of Leontes. So they went, and the shepherd went with them,

taking Perdita’s jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper he had found
pinned to her cloak.
THE WINTER'S TALE. 1L

 

Leontes received them with great kindness. He was very polite to
Prince Florizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how much
she was like the Queen Hermione, and said again and again—

“Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not
cruelly sent her from me.”

When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter,
who had been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita,
the child he had reared, must be the King’s daughter, and when he told
his tale and showed the jewels and the paper, the Kine perceived that
Perdita was indeed his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, and
rewarded the good shepherd.

Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage with
Perdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old friend,
he was only too glad to give his consent.

Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair queen,
who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter’s happi-
ness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say nothing for a

long time but—
“ Oh, thy mother! thy mother! ” and ask forgiveness of the King of
12 THE WINTER'S TALE.

Bohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince F lorizel,
and then thank the old Alene for all his goodness.

Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the ane s favour
because of her kindness to the Aeal Queen Hermione, said-——‘‘ I have a
statue made in the likeness of the dead queen, a piece many years
in doing, and performed by the rare Italian Master, Giulio Romano. I
keep it in a private house apart, and there, ever since you lost your
queen, I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it please your
Majesty to go and see the statue ?”

So Leontes, and Polixenes, and Florizel, and Perdita, with Camillo
and thei attendants, went to Paulina’s house, and there was a heavy
purple curtain screening off an alcove ; and Paulina, with her hand on
the curtain, said—

“She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her
dead likeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that the hand
of man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here it is,—
Behold, and say, ’tis well.”

And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the
statue. The King gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead
wife, but said nothing.

“T like your silence,” said Paulina, “it the more shows off your
wonder ; but speak, is it not like her ?”

“It is almost herself,” said the King, “and yet, Paulina, Hermione
was not so much wrinkled, nothing like so old as this seems.”

“Qh, not by much,” said Polixenes.

“Ah,” said Paulina, “that is the cleverness of the carver, who
shows her to us as she would have been, had she lived till now.”

And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes
away.

“Tf I had known,” said Paulina, “ that this poor image would so
have stirred your grief, and love, I would not have shown it to you.”

But he only ICEL ‘: Do not draw the curtain.”

“No, you must not look any longer,” said Paulina, “ or you will think
it moves.”

“Let be, let be!” said the King. “Would you not think it
breathed ?”
THE WINTER'S TALE,

13

“I will draw the curtain,” said Paulina, “ you will think it lives

presently.” “ Ah, sweet Paulina,” said Leontes,
so twenty years together.”

hand. Only
think it was by see
“Whatever MG & s

make her do,
to look on,”
And then, all
admiring and |
statue moved ,,.
pedestal, and, |
steps and put.
the King’s
held her face
many times,
no statue, but
ing Queen
self. She had
by  Paulina’s
these years, ;
not have
herself to
though she
had repented,
could not quite
she knew what
of her little
that | Perdita
she forgave

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      

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“make me to think
“If you can bear it,” said Paulina, “I

can make the statue move, make it come down and take you by the

you would
wicked magic.”
you Grae
I am content
said the King.
folks there
beholding, the
feTounie Meletes
came down the
its.arms round
neck, and he
and kissed her
for this was
the real liv-
Hermione her-
lived, hidden
kindness, all
and would
discovered
her husband,
knew he
because she
forgive him till
had become
baby. Now
was found,
her husband

everything, and it was like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be
together once more. Florizel and Perdita were married, and lived long
and happily. To Leontes his long years of suffering were well paid for,
in the moment, when, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his
true love round him once again.
     

   
 

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7

NCE upon a time there lived in Verona two great families named
Montagu and Capulet. They were both rich, and I suppose they
were as sensible, in most things, as other rich people. But in one thing
they were extremely silly. There was an old, old quarrel between the
two families, and instead of making it up like reasonable folks, they
made a sort of pet of their quarrel, and would not let it die out. So
that a Montagu wouldn’t speak to a Capulet if he met one in the street
—nor a Capulet to a Montagu—or if they did speak, it was to say rude
and unpleasant things, which often ended in a fight. And their
relations and servants were just as foolish, so that street fights and duels
and uncomfortablenesses of that kind, were always growing out of the
Montagu-and-Capulet quarrel.
Now Lord Capulet, the head of that family, gave a party—a grand
supper and a dance—and he was so hospitable that he said anyone might
come to it—eacept (of course) the Montagues. But there was a young
Montagu named Romeo, who very much wanted to be there, because
Rosaline, the lady he loved, had been asked. ‘This lady had never been
at all kind to him, and he had no reason to love her; but the fact was
that he wanted to love somebody, and as he hadn’t seen the right lady,
he was obliged to love the wrong one. So to the Capulets’ grand party
he came, with his friends Mercutio and Benvolio.

 

      
     
ROMEO AND JULIET. 15

Old Capulet welcomed him and his two friends very kindly—and
young Romeo moved about among the crowd of courtly folk dressed in
their velvets and satins, the men with jewelled sword bilts and collars,
and the ladies with brilliant gems on breast and arms, and stones of price

 

 

set in their bright girdles. Romeo was in his best too, and though he
wore a black mask over his eyes and nose, every one could see by his
mouth and his hair, and the way he held his head, that he was twelve
times handsomer than any one else in the room.
16 ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

Presently amid the dancers he saw a lady so beautiful and so
lovable, that from that moment he never again gave one thought to
that Rosaline whom he had thought he loved. And he looked at this
other fair lady, as she moved in the dance in her white satin and pearls,
and all the world seemed vain and worthless to him compared with her.
And he was saying this— or something like it—to his friend, when
Tybalt, Lady Capulet’s nephew, hearing his voice, knew him to be
Romeo. Tybalt, being very angry, went at once to his uncle, and told
him how a Montagu had come uninvited to the feast; but old Capulet
was too fine a gentleman to be discourteous to any man under his own
roof, and he bade Tybalt be quiet. But this young man only waited
for a chance to quarrel with Romeo.

In the meantime Romeo made his way to the fam lady, and told
her in sweet words that he loved her, and kissed her. Just then her
mother sent for her, and then Romeo found out that the lady on whom
he had set his heart’s hopes was Juhet, the daughter of Lord Capulet, his
sworn foe. So he went away, sorrowing indeed, but loving her none
the less.

Then Juliet said to her nurse :

“Who is that gentleman that would not dance?”
ROMEO AND JULIET. 17

“His name is Romeo, and a Montagu, the only son of your great
enemy, answered the nurse.

Then Juliet went to her room, and looked out of her window over
the beautiful green-grey garden, where the moon was shining. And
Romeo was hidden in that garden among the trees—because he could
not bear to go right away without trying to see her again. So she—not
knowing him to be there—spoke her secret thought aloud, and told the
quiet garden how she loved Romeo.

And Romeo heard and was glad beyond measure; hidden below,
he looked up and saw her fair face in the moonlight, framed in the
blossoming creepers that grew round her window, and as he looked
and listened, he felt as though he had been carried away in a dream,
and set down by some magician in that beautiful and enchanted
garden.

“‘ Ah—why are you called Romeo?” said Juliet. ‘‘ Since I love you,
what does it matter what you are called?”

“Call me but love, and TIl be new baptised—henceforth I never
will be Romeo,” he cried, stepping into the full white moonlight from
the shade of the cypresses and oleanders that had hidden him. She was
frightened at first, but when she saw that it was Romeo himself, and no
stranger, she too was glad, and, he standing in the garden below and
she leaning from the window, they spoke lone together, each one
trying to find the sweetest words in the world, to make that pleasant
talk that lovers use. And the tale of all they said, and the sweet music
their voices made together, is all set down in a golden book, where you
children may read it for yourselves some day.

And the time passed so quickly, as it does for folk who love each
other and are together, that when the time came to part, it seemed as
though they had met but that moment—and indeed they hardly knew

 

‘how to part.

‘“‘T will send to you to-morrow,” said Juliet.
And so at last, with lingering and longing, they said good-bye.
Juliet went into her room, and a dark curtain hid her bright window.
Romeo went away through the still and dewy garden like a man ina
dream.
The next morning very early Romeo went to Friar Laurence, a priest,
B
18 ROMEO AND JULIET.

and, telling him all the story, begged him to marry him to Juliet without
delay. And this, after some talk, the priest consented to do.

So when Juliet sent her old nurse to Romeo that day to know what
he purposed to do, the old woman took back a message that all was
well, and all things ready for the marriage of Juliet and Romeo on the
next morning.

The young lovers were afraid to ask their parents’ consent to their
marriage, as young people should do, because of this foolish old quarrel
between the Capulets and the Montacues.

And Friar Laurence was willing to help the young lovers secretly,
because he thought that when they were once married their parents
might soon be told, and that the match might put a happy end to the
old quarrel.

So the next morning early, Romeo and Juliet were married at Friar
Laurence’s cell, and parted with tears and kisses. And Romeo promised
to come into the garden that evening, and the nurse got ready a rope-
ladder to let down from the window, so that Romeo could climb up and
talk to his dear wife quietly and alone.

But that very day a dreadful thing happened.

Tybalt, the young man who had been so vexed at Romeo’s going to
the Capulets’ feast, met him and his two friends, Mercutio and Benvolio,
in the street, called Romeo a villain, and asked him to fight. Romeo had
no wish to fight with Juliet’s cousin, but Mercutio drew his sword, and he
and Tybalt fought. And Mercutio was killed. When Romeo saw that
his friend was dead he forgot everything, except anger at the man who
had killed him, and he and Tybalt fought, till Tybalt fell dead. So, on
the very day of his wedding, Romeo killed his dear Juliet’s cousin, and
was sentenced to be banished. Poor Juliet and her young husband met
that night indeed ; he climbed the rope-ladder among the flowers, and
found her window, but their meeting was a sad one, and they parted with
bitter tears and hearts heavy, because they could not know when they
should meet again.

Now Juliet’s father, who, of course, had no idea that she was married,
wished her to wed a gentleman named Paris, and was so angry when she
refused, that she hurried away to ask Friar Laurence what she should do.
He advised her to pretend to consent, and then he said -

 

 
 

eS

Romeo and Juliet.
 

 

ROMEO AND JULIET. 19

“Twill give you a draught that will make you seem to be dead for
two days, and then when they take you to church it will be to bury you,
and not to marry you. They will put you in the vault thinking you are
dead, and before you wake up Romeo and I will be there to take care of
you. Will you do this, or are you afraid ?”

‘“*T will do it; talk not to me of fear!” said Juliet. And she went
home and told her father she would marry Paris. If she had spoken out
and told her father the truth . . . well, then this would have been a
different story.

Lord Capulet was very much pleased to get his own way, and set
about inviting his friends and getting the wedding feast ready. Every one
stayed up all night, for there was a great deal to do, and very little
time to do it in. Lord Capulet was anxious to get Juliet married,
because he saw she was very unhappy. Of course she was really fretting
about her husband Romeo, but her father thought she was grieving for
the death of her cousin Tybalt, and he thought marriage would give
her something else to
think about.

Early in the morn-
ing the nurse came to
call Juliet, and to dress
her for her wedding ; |
but she would not
wake, and at last the |

   
  

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“Alas! alas! help! |
help! my lady’s dead.
Oh, well-a-day that ever
IT was born!”

Lady Capulet came N s ZZ :
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Lord Capulet, and Lord : Yj 5
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20 ROMEO AND JULIET.

and all their weeping could not wake her. So it was a burying that
day instead of a marrying. Meantime Friar Laurence had sent a
messenger to Mantua with a letter to Romeo telling him of all these
things ; and all would have been well, only the messenger was delayed,
and could not go.

But ill news travels fast. Romeo’s servant, who knew the secret
of the marriage but not of Juliet’s pretended death, heard of her funeral,
and hurried to Mantua to tell Romeo how his young wife was dead
and lying in the grave.

‘Ts it so!” cried Romeo, heart-broken. “Then I will lie by Juliet’s
side to-night.”

And he bought himself a poison, and went straight back to Verona.
He hastened to the tomb where Juliet was lying. It was not a grave,
but a vault. He broke open the door, and was just going down the
stone steps that led to the vault where all the dead Capulets lay, when
he heard a voice behind him calling on him to stop.

It was the Count Paris, who was to have married Juliet that very
day.
“How dare you come here and disturb the dead bodies of the
Capulets, you vile Montagu!” cried Paris.

Poor Romeo, half mad with sorrow, yet tried to answer gently.

“You were told,” said Paris, “that if you returned to Verona you
must die.”

“ T must indeed,” said Romeo. “I came here for nothing else. Good,
gentle youth—leave me—Oh, go—before [ do you any harm—TI love you
better than myself—go—leave me here—”

Then Paris said, “I defy you—and I arrest you as a felon.” Then
Romeo, in his anger and despair, drew his sword.—They fought, and Paris
was killed.

As Romeo’s sword pierced him, Paris cried,

“Oh, Tam slain! If thou be merciful, open the tomb, lay me with
Juliet !”

And Romeo said, “In faith I will.”

And he carried the dead man into the tomb and laid him by the dear
Juliet’s side. Then he kneeled by Juliet and spoke to her, and held her
in his arms, and kissed her cold lips, believing that she was dead, while

 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 21

 

all the while she was coming nearer and nearer to the time of her
awakening. Then he drank the poison, and died beside his sweetheart
and wife.

Now came Friar Laurence when it was too late, and saw all that had
happened—and then poor Juliet woke out of her sleep to find her
husband and her friend both dead beside her.

The noise of the fight had brought other folks to the place too, and
Friar Laurence hearing them ran away, and Juliet was left alone. She
saw the cup that had held the poison, and knew how all had happened,
and since no poison was left for her, she drew her Romeo’s dagger and
22 ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

thrust it through her heart—and so, falling with her head on her Romeo’s
breast, she died. And here ends the story of these faithful and most,

unhappy lovers.

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And when the old folks knew from Friar Laurence of all that had
befallen, they sorrowed exceedingly, and now, seeing all the mischief
their wicked quarrel had wrought, they repented them of it, and over
the bodies of their dead children they clasped hands at last, in friendship
and forgiveness.

 
 

ee the Duke of Milan, was a learned and studious man,
who lived among his books, leaving the management of his duke-
dom to his brother Antonio, in whom indced he had complete
trust. But that trust was ill-rewarded, for Antonio wanted to wear the
duke’s crown himself, and, to gain his ends, would have killed his brother
but for the love the people bore him. However, with the help of
Prospero’s great enemy, Alonso, King of Naples, he managed to get into
his hands the dukedom with all its honour, power, and riches. For they
took Prospero to sea, and when they were far away from land, forced him
into a little boat with no tackle, mast, or sail. In their cruelty and hatred
they put his little daughter, Miranda (not yet three years old), into the
boat with him, and sailed away, leaving them to their fate.

But one among the courtiers with Antonio was true to his rightful
master, Prospero. To save the duke from his enemies was impossible,
but much could be done to remind him of a subject’s love. So this
worthy lord, whose name was Gonzalo, secretly placed in the boat some
fresh water, provisions and clothes, and what Prospero valued most of
all, some of his precious books.

The boat was cast on an island, and Prospero and his little one
landed in safety. Now this island was enchanted, and for years had lain
24 , THE TEMPEST.

under the spell of a fell witch, Sycorax, who had imprisoned in the
trunks of trees all the good spirits she found there. She died shortly
before Prospero was cast on those shores, but the spirits, of whom Ariel
was the chief, still remained in their prisons.

Prospero wags a great magician, for he had devoted himself almost
entirely to the study of magic during the years in which he allowed his
brother to manage the affairs of Milan. By his art he set free the im-
prisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his will, and they were more
truly his subjects than his people in Milan had been. For he treated
them kindly as long as they did his bidding, and he exercised his power
over them wisely and well. One creature alone he found it necessary to
treat with harshness: this was Caliban, the son of the wicked old witch,
a hideous, deformed monster, horrible to look on, and vicious and brutal
in all his habits.

When Miranda was grown up into a maiden, sweet and fair to sce,
it chanced that Antonio, and Alonso with Sebastian, his brother, and
Ferdinand, his son, were at sea together with old Gonzalo, and their ship
came near Prospero’s island. Prospero, knowing they were there, raised
by his art a great storm, so that even the sailors on board gave them-
selves up for lost; and first among them all Prince Ferdinand leaped
into the sea, and, as as his father thought in his grief, was drowned. But

Se Aviel brought him safe ashore ;
and all a rest of the crew,
although they were washed
overboard, were landed unhurt
in different parts of the island,
and the good ship herself, which
they all thought had been
wrecked, lay at anchor in
the harbour whither Ariel
had brought her. Such
wonders could Prospero

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

  

Miranda —
charmed ”

  

) fo sleep P and his spirits perform.
WY i While yet the tem-
t My, pest was raging, Prospero
Lae: i < showed his daughter the
es
THE TEMPEST. 25

brave ship labouring in the
trough of the sea, and told
her that it was filled with
living human beings like
themselves. She, in pity of
their lives, prayed him who
had raised this storm to
quell it. Then her father
bade her to have no fear, for
he intended to save every
one of them.

Then, for the first time, ,
he told her the story of his |
life and hers, and that he
had caused this storm to rise
in order that his enemies,
Antonio and Alonso, who
were on board, might be delivered into his hands.

When he had made an end of his story he charmed her into sleep,
for Ariel was at hand, and he had work for him to do. Ariel, who
longed for his complete freedom, grumbled to be kept in drudgery,
but on being threateninely reminded of all the sufferings he had under-
gone when Sycorax ruled in the land, and of the debt of gratitude he
owed to the master who had made those sufferings to end, he ceased to
complain, and promised faithfully to do whatever Prospero might com-
mand.

‘““Do so,” said Prospero, “and in two days I will discharge thee.”

Then he bade Ariel take the form of a water nymph and sent him
in search of the young prince. And Ariel, invisible to Ferdinand,
hovered near him, singing the while—

 

 

“Come unto these yellow sands
And then take hands :
Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,
(The wild waves whist),
Foot it featly here and there ;
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear !”
 

 

26 THE TEMPEST.

And Ferdinand followed the magic singing, as the song changed to a
solemn air, and the words brought grief to his heart, and tears to his
eyes, for thus they ran—

“ 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 !”

And so singing, Ariel led the spell-bound prince into the presence of
Prospero and Miranda. Then, behold! all happened as Prospero
desired. For Miranda, who had never, since she could first remember,
seen any human being save her father, looked on the youthful prince
with reverence in her eyes, and love in her secret heart.

“T might call him,” she said, “a thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble!”

And Ferdinand, beholding her beauty with wonder and delight,
exclaimed—

“ Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend!”

Nor did he attempt to hide the passion which she inspired in him,
for scarcely had they exchanged half a dozen sentences, before he vowed
to make her his queen if she were willing. But Prospero, though
secretly delighted, pretended wrath.

“You come here as a spy,” he said to Ferdinand. “I will manacle
your neck and feet together, and you shall feed on fresh water mussels,
withered roots and husks, and have’sea-water to drink. Follow.”

“No,” said Ferdinand, and drew his sword. But on the instant
Prospero charmed him so that he stood there like a statue, still as
stone ; and Miranda in terror prayed her father to have merey on her
lover. But he harshly refused her, and made Ferdinand follow him to
his cell. There he set the prince to work, making him remove thousands
of heavy logs of timber and pile them up; and Ferdinand patiently

obeyed, and thought his toil all too well repaid by the sympathy of the
sweet Miranda.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

THE TEMPEST. 27

She in
very pity
would have
helped him in
his hard work,
but he would
not let*her, yet s<
he could not
keep from her
the secret of
his love, and
she, hearing it,
rejoiced and
promised to be
his wife.

Then Pros-
pero released
him from his
servitude, and glad at heart, he gave his consent to thei marriage.

“Take her,” he said, “ she is thine own.”

In the meantime, Antonio and Sebastian in another part of the island
were plotting the murder of Alonso, the King of Naples, for Ferdinand
being dead, as they thought, Sebastian would succeed to the throne on
Alonso’s death. And they would have carried out their wicked purpose
while their victim was asleep, but that Ariel woke him in good time.

Many tricks did Ariel play them. Once he set a banquet before them,
and just as they were going to fall to, he appeared to them amid thunder
and lightning in the form of a harpy, and immediately the banquet dis-
appeared. Then Ariel upbraided them with their sins and vanished too.

Prospero by his enchantments drew them all to the grove without his
cell, where they waited, trembling and afraid, and now at last bitterly
repenting them of their sins.

Prospero determined to make one last use of his magic power, “ and
then,” said he, “I'll break my staff and deeper than did ever plummet
sound I’ll drown my book.”

So he made heavenly music to sound in the air, and appeared to them

x

 

 

 
28 THE TEMPEST.

 

in his proper shape as the Duke of Milan. Because they repented, he
forgave them and told them the story of his life since they had cruelly
committed him and his baby daughter to the mercy of wind and waves.
Alonso, who seemed sorriest of them all for his past crimes, lamented the
loss of his heir. But Prospero drew back a curtain and showed them
Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. Great was Alonso’s joy to
greet his loved son again, and when he heard that the fair maid with
whom Ferdinand was playing was Prospero’s daughter, and that the young
folks had plighted their troth, he said—

“Give me your hands, let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
that doth not wish you joy.”

So all ended happily. The ship was safe in the harbour, and next day
they all set sail for Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda were to be
married. Ariel gave them calm seas and auspicious gales; and many
were the rejoicings at the wedding.

Then Decent! after many years of absence, went back to his own
dukedom, where he was welcomed with great joy by his faithful subjects.
THE TEMPEST. 29

He practised the arts of magic no more, but his life was happy, and not
only because he had found his own again, but chiefly because, when his
bitterest foes who had done him deadly wrong lay at his mercy, he took
no vengeance on them, but nobl;- forgave them.

As for Ariel, Prospero made him free as air, so that he could wander
where he would, and sing with a lght heart his sweet song.

“« Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie ;
There I couch when owls do ery.
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.”

     

 
  

  
  
 

4

UYU LL PO go E
We =
Nhs " (pie

te

7

   
   

} L
 

ERMIA and Lysander were lovers; but

Hermia’s father wished her to marry
another man, named De-
metrius.

Now in Athens, where
they lived, there was a
wicked law, by which any
girl who refused to marry
according to her father’s
wishes, might be put to
death. Hermia’s father
was so angry with her
for refusing to do as he
wished, that he actually
brought her before the
Duke of Athens to ask
that she might be
killed, if she still
refused to obey
him. Yhe Duke
gave her four
days to think
about it, and, at
the end of that

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 31

time, if she still refused to marry Demetrius, she would have
to die.

Lysander of course was nearly mad with grief, and the best thing
to do seemed to him for Hermia to run away to his aunt’s house at a
place beyond the reach of that cruel law; and there he would come to
her and marry her. But before she started, she told her friend, Helena,
what she was going to do.

Helena had been Demetrius’ sweetheart long before his marriage
with Hermia had been thought of, and being very silly, like all
jealous people, she could not see that it was not poor Hermia’s fault
that Demetrius wished to marry her instead of his own lady, Helena.
She knew that if she told Demetrius that Hermia was going, as she was,
to the wood outside Athens, he would follow her, “and I can follow him,
and at least I shall see him,” she said to herself. So she went to him,
and betrayed her friend’s secret.

Now this wood where Lysander was to meet Hermia, and where
the other two had decided to follow them, was full of fairies, as most
woods are, if one only had the eyes to see them, and in this wood on
this night were the Kine and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania.
Now fairies are very wise people, but now and then they can be quite as
foolish as mortal folk. Oberon and Titania, who might have been as
happy as the days were lone, had thrown away all their joy in a foolish
quarrel. They never met without saying disagreeable things to each
other, and scolded each other so dreadfully that all their little fairy
followers, for fear, would creep into acorn cups and hide them there.

So, instead of keeping one happy Court, and dancing all night
through in the moonlight, as is fairies’ use, the King with his attend-
ants wandered through one part of the wood, while the Queen with hers
kept state m another. And the cause of all this trouble was a little
Indian boy whom Titania had taken to be one of her followers. Oberon
wanted the child to follow him and be one of his fairy knights; but the
Queen would not give him up.

On this night, in a mossy moonlight glade, the King and Queen of
the fairies met.

Tl] met by moonlight, proud Titania,” said the King.

“What! jealous, Oberon?” answered the Queen. ‘You spoil
32 A.MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.

everything with your quarrelling. Come, fairies, let us leave him. I
am not friends with him now.”

“Tt rests with you to make up the quarrel,” said the King. “Give me
that little Indian boy, and I will again be your humble servant and suitor.”

“Set your mind at rest,” said the Queen. “Your whole fairy
kingdom buys not that boy from me. Come, fairies.”

And she and her train rode off down the moonbeams.

“Well, go your ways,” said Oberon. “ But Pll be even with you
before you leave this wood.” .

Then Oberon called his favourite fairy, Puck. Puck was the spirit
of mischief. He used to slip into the dairies and take the cream away,
and get into the churn so that the butter would not come, and turn the
beer gour, and lead people out of their way on dark nights and then laugh
at them, and tumble people’s stools from under them when they were going
to sit down, and upset their hot ale over their chins when they were
going to drink.

“Now,” said Oberon to this little sprite, “fetch me the flower called
Love-in-idleness. The juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyes of
those who sleep will make them when they wake to love the first thing
they see. I will put some of the juice of that flower on my Titania’s
eyes, and when she wakes, she will love the first thing she sees, were it
lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, or meddling monkey, or a busy ape.”

While Puck was gone, Demetrius passed through the glade followed
by poor Helena, and still she told him how she loved him and reminded
him of all his promises, and still he told her that he did not and could not
love her, and that his promises were nothing. Oberon was sorry for
poor Helena, and when Puck returned with the flower, he bade him
follow Demetrius and put some of the juice on his eyes, so that he might
love Helena when he woke and looked on her, as much as she loved him.
So Puck set off, and wandering through the wood found, not Demetrius,
but Lysander, on whose eyes he put the juice; but when Lysander woke,
he saw not his own Hermia, but Helena, who was walking through the
wood looking for the cruel Demetrius ; and directly he saw her he loved
her and left his own lady, under the spell of the crimson flower.

When Hermia woke she found Lysander gone, and wandered about
the wood trying to find him. Puck went back and told Oberon what he
 

a

litania and the Clown.
 

 

 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 33

had done, and Oberon soon found that he
had made a mistake, and set about looking Ww
for Demetrius, and having found him, put BL
some of the juice on his eyes. And the
first thing Demetrius saw when he woke

was also Helena.’ So now Demetrius and ex.

Lysander were both following her through

    
 
  
  
  
    

   

~ Xl ee
. . 22
the -wood, and it was Hermia’s turn to Nh SZ
follow her lover as Helena had done before. = ww
Bt As

The end of it was that Helena and Hermia
began to quarrel, and Demetrius and
Lysander went off to fight. Oberon was '
very sorry to see his kind scheme to help ; |
these lovers turn out so badly. So he
said to Puck—

“These two young men are going to.
fight. You must overhang the night with "
drooping fog, and lead them so astray, that i
one will never find the other. When they
are tired out, they will fall asleep.
Then drop this other herb on ,
Lysander’s eyes. That will give
him his old sight and hig old
love. Then each man will have

a ‘ ae ey ‘ Mh

7 hy

they will all think that this has” 9
been only a Midsummer Night’s
Dream. Then when this is done, all will be well with them.”

. So Puck went and did as he was told; and when the two had fallen
asleep without meeting each other, Puck poured the juice on Lysander’s
eyes, and said :—

“ When thou wakest,
Thou takest
True delight
In the sight
“Of thy former lady’s eye :
Jack shall have Jill;
Cc
34 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

Nought shall go ill ;
The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.”

Meanwhile Oberon found Titania asleep on a bank where grew wild
thyme, oxlips, and violets, and woodbine, musk roses and eglantine.
There Titania always slept a part of the night, wrapped in the enamelled
skin of a snake. Oberon stooped over her and laid the juice;on her eyes,
saying :—

‘What thou seest when thou wake,
Do it for thy true love take.”

Now, it happened that when Titania woke the first thing she saw
was a stupid clown, one of a party of players who had come out into the
wood to rehearse their play. This clown had met with Puck, who had
clapped an ass’s head on his shoulders so that it looked as if it grew
there. Directly Titania woke and saw this dreadful monster, she said,
“What angel is this? Are you as wise as you are beautiful ?”

“Tf I am wise enough to find my way out of this wood, that’s
enough for me,” said the foolish clown.

“Do not desire to go out of the wood,” said Titania. The spell of
the love-juice was on her, and to her the clown seemed the most beautiful
and delightful creature on all the earth. “J love you,” she went on.
“Come with me, and I will give you fairies to attend on you.”

So she called four fairies, whose names were Peaseblossom, Cobweb,
Moth, and Mustardseed.

“You must attend this gentleman,” said the Queen. “Feed him with
apricots and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries. Steal
honey-bags for him from the humble-bees, and with the wings of painted
butterflies fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.”

“T will,” said one of the fairies, and all the others said, ‘I will.”

“ Now, sit down with me,” said the Queen to the clown, ‘and let
me stroke your dear cheeks, and stick musk-roses in your smooth, sleek
head, and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy.”

‘““Where’s Peaseblossom ?” asked the clown with the ass’s head. He
did not care much about the Queen’s affection, but he was very proud of .
having fairies to wait on him. “ Ready,” said Peaseblossom.

“Scratch my head, Peaseblossom,” said the clown. ‘“ Where’s
Cobweb?” “ Ready,” said Cobweb.
Ww
ve

: A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM.

© hytong?

 

“Kill me,” said the clown, “the red humble-bee on the top of the
thistle yonder, and bring me the honey-bag. Where’s Mustardseed 2?”

“Ready,” said Mustardseed.

“Oh, I want nothing,” said the clown. “Only just help Cobweb
to scratch. I must go to the barber’s, for methinks I am marvellous
hairy about the face.”

“Would you like any thing to eat ?” said the fairy Queen.

“I should like some good dry oats,” said the clown—for his donkey’s
head made him desire donkey’s food —“ and some hay to follow.”

“Shall some of my fairies fetch you new nuts from the squirrel’s
36 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.

house?” asked the Queen. ‘“I’d rather have a handful or two of good
dried peas,” said the clown. ‘But please don’t let any of your people
«listurb me, I am going to sleep.”

Then said the Queen, “ And I will wind thee in my arms.”

And so when Oberon came along he found his beautiful Queen
lavishing kisses and endearments on a clown with a donkey’s head.
And before he released her from the enchantment, he persuaded her to
give him the little Indian boy he so much desired to have. Then he
took pity on her, and threw some juice of the disenchanting flower on
her pretty eyes; and then in a moment she saw plainly the donkey-
headed clown she had been loving, and knew how foolish she had been.

Oberon took off the ass’s head from the clown, and left him to
finish his sleep with his own silly head lying on the thyme and violets.

Thus all was made plain and straight again. Oberon and Titania
loved each other more than ever. Demetrius thought of no one but
Helena, and Helena had never had any thought of anyone but Demetrius.
As for Hermia and Lysander, they were as loving a couple as you could
meet in a day’s march, even through a fairy-wood. So the four mortal
lovers went back to Athens and were married; and the fairy King and
(Queen live happily together in that. very wood at this very day.

 
 

King Lear

ING LEAR was old and tired. He was aweary of the business of

his kingdom, and wished only to end his days quietly near his three

daughters, whom he loved dearly. Two of his daughters were married

to the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; and the Duke of Burgundy and

the King of France were both staying at Lear’s Court as suitors for the
hand of Cordelia, his youngest daughter.

Lear called his three daughters together, and told them that he pro-
posed to divide his kingdom between them. “ But first,” said he, “I
should like to know how much you love me.”

Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her
father at all, said she loved him more than words could say ; she loved
him dearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, health,
beauty, and honour.
38 KING LEAR.

“Tf you love meas much as this,” said the King, “ I give you a third
part of my kingdom. And how much does Regan love me?”

“TJ love you as much as my sister and more,” professed Regan, “since
I care for nothing but my father’s love.”

Lear was very much pleased with Regan’s professions, and gave her
another third part of his fair kingdom. Then he turned to his youngest
daughter, Cordelia. ‘‘ Now, our joy, though last not least,” he said,
“the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you. What can you
say 2”

“Nothing, my lord,” answered Cordelia.

“ Nothing ?”

“ Nothing,” said Cordelia,

‘Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again,” said the King.

And Cordelia answerel—*I love your Ma esty according to my
<dluty,— no more, no legs.”

And this she said, because she knew her sisters’ wicked hearts, and
was disgusted with the way in which they professed unbounded and
impossible love, when really they had not even a right sense of duty to
their old father.

“Tam your daughter,” she went on, “and you have brought me up
and loved me, and [ return you those duties back as are right fit, obey
you, love you, and most honour you.”

Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more ex-
travagant professions of love than her sisters; and what seemed to him
her coldness so angered him that he bade her begone from his sight.
““Go,” he said, ‘ be for ever a stranger to my heart and me.”

The Earl of Kent, one of Lear’s favourite courtiers and captains,
tried to say a word for Cordelia’s sake, but Lear would not listen. He
divided the remaining part of his kingdom between Goneril and Regan,
who had pleased him with their foolish flattery, and told them that he
should only keep a hundred knights at arms for his following, and would
live with his daughters by turns.

When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no
share of the kingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King
of France was wiser, and said to her— Fairest Cordelia, thou art most
rich, being poor—most choice, forsaken ; and most loved, despised. Thee
 
 

 

KING LEAR. 39

 

and thy virtues here I seize upon. Thy dowerless daughter, King, is
(Queen of us—of ours, and our fair France.”

“Take her, take her,” said the King ; ‘‘for [ have no such daughter,
and will never see that face of hers again.” .

So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for
having ventured to take her part, was banished from the Kine’s Court
and from the kingdom. The King now went to stay with his daughter
Goneril, and very soon began to find out how much fair words were
worth. She had got everything from her father that he had to give,
aud she began to grudge even the hundred knights that he had reserved
for himself. She frowned at him whenever she met him; she herself
was harsh and undutiful to him, and her servants treated him with neglect,
and either refused to obey his orders or pretended that they did not hear

them.
Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though

he would go into another country, but instead he came back in the
disguise of a serving-man and took service with the King, who never
suspected him to be that Earl of Kent whom he himself had banished.
The very same day that Lear engaged him as. his servant, Goneril’s

 
40 KING LEAR.

steward insulted the King, and the Earl of Kent showed his respect for
the King’s Majesty by tripping up the caitiff into the gutter. The King
had now two friends—the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his
servant, and his Fool, who was faithful to him although he had given
away his kingdom. Goneril was not contented with letting her father
suffer insults at the hands of her servants. She told him plainly that
his train of one hundred knights only served to fill her Court with riot
and feasting; and so she begged him to dismiss them, and only keep
a few old men about him such as himself.

“My train are men who know all parts of duty,” said Lear.
“Saddle my horses, call my train together. Goneril, I will not trouble
you further—yet I have left another daughter.”

And he cursed his daughter, Goneril, praying that she might never
have a child, or that if she had, it might treat her as cruelly as she had
treated him. And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers
for the castle of Regan, his other daughter. Lear sent on his servant
Caius, who was really the Earl of Kent, with letters to his daughter to
say he was coming. But Caius fell in with a messenger of Goneril—in
fact that very steward whom he had tripped into the gutter—and beat
him soundly for the mischief-maker
that he was; and Regan, when she
heard it, put Caius in the stocks,
not respecting him as a messenger
coming from her father. And
she who had formerly
outdone her sister in
professions of attach-
ment to the King,
now seemed to outdo
= ' her in undutiful con-
duct, saying that fifty
knights were too many
to wait on him, that
five and twenty were
enough, and Goneril
(who had hurried

   
  
KING LEAR. 41

thither to prevent Regan
showing any kindness to
the old King), said five
and twenty were too
many, or even ten, or
even five, since her ser-
vants could wait on him.

“What need one?”
said Regan.

Then when 4 3)
Lear saw that eZ tr: \ ey
what theyreally 4b i we
wanted was o Yn BES
drive himaway ~ aN
from them, he -
cursed them
both and left them. It was a wild and stormy night, yet these cruel
daughters did not care what became of their father in the cold and the
rain, but they shut the castle doors and went in out of the storm. All
night he wandered about the heath half mad with misery, and with no
companion but the poor Fool. But presently his servant Caius, the
good Earl of Kent, met him, and at last persuaded him to lie down ina
wretched little hovel which stood upon the heath. At daybreak the Karl
of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, where his own friends were,
and then hurried to the Court of France and told Cordelia what had
happened.

Her husband gave her an army to go to the assistance of her father,
and with it she landed at Dover. Here she found poor King Lear, now
quite mad, wandering about the fields, singing aloud to himself and
wearing a crown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed
and clothed him, and the doctors gave him such medicines as they
thought might bring him back to his right mind, and by and by he woke
better, but still not quite himself .Then Cordelia came to him and kissed
him, to make up, as she said, for the cruelty of her sisters. At first he

hardly knew her.
“Pray do not mock me,” he said. “I am a very foolish, fond old

   
42 KING LEAR.

man, four-score and upward, and to deal plainly, I fear [am not in my
perfect mind. I think I should know you, though I do not know these
garments, nor do I know where I lodged last night. Do not laugh at
me, though, as I am a man, | think this lady must be my daughter,
Cordelia.”

“ And so I am—I am,” cried Cordelia. “Come with me.”

“ You must bear with me,” said Lear ; “forget and forgive. Iam old
and foolish.”

And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved
him best, and who was worthy of his love ; and from that time they were
not parted.

Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia’s army, and
were successful: and Cordelia and her father were thrown into prison.
Then Goneril’s hus-
band, the Duke of
Albany, who was a
good man, and had
not known how
wicked his wife was,
heard the truth of
the whole story ; and
when Goneril found
that her husband
knew her for the
wicked woman she
was, she killed her-
self, having a little
time before given a
deadly poison to her
sister, Regan, out of
a spirit of jealousy.

But they had ar-
ranged that Cordelia
should be hanged in
prison, and though

the Duke of Albany

 
KING LEAR. 43

sent messengers at once, it was too late. The old King came staggering
into the tent of the Duke of Albany, carrying the hody of his dear
daughter Cordelia in his arms.

“Oh, she is gone for ever,” he said. “ I know when one is dead, and
when one lives. She’s dead as earth.”

They crowded round in horror.

“Oh, if she lives,” said the King, “it is a chance that does redeem
all sorrows that ever I have felt.”

The Earl of Kent spoke a word to him, but Lear was too mad to
listen.

“A plague upon you, murderous traitors all! I might have saved her.
Now she is gone for ever. Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Her voice
was ever lo gentle, and soft—an excellent thing in woman. I killed
the slave that was a-hanging thee.”

“Tis true, my lords, he did,” said one of the ofticers from the
eastle. ;
“Oh, thou wilt come no more,” cried the poor old man. “Do you
see this? Look on her—look, her lips) Look there, look there.”

And with that he fell with her still in his arms, and died.

And this was the end of Lear and Cordelia.

 
 

YMBELINE was the King of Britain. He had three children.
The two sons were stolen away from him when they were quite
little children, and he was left with only one daughter, Imogen.

The King married a second time, and brought up Leonatus, the son of a
dead friend, as Imogen’s playfellow ; and when Leonatus was old enough,
Imogen secretly married him. This made the King and Queen very
angry, and the King, to punish Leonatus, banished him from Britain.

Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting from Leonatus,

and he was not less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and
husband and wife, but they had been friends and comrades ever since
they were quite little children. With many tears and kisses they said
“Good-bye.” They promised never to forget each other, and that they
would never care for any one else as long as they lived.

“This diamond was my mother’s, love,” said Imogen ; ‘take it, my

heart, and keep it as long as you love me.”

‘Sweetest, fairest,” answered Leonatus, “wear this bracelet for my

sake.”

“Ah!” cried Imogen, weeping, “when shall we meet again?”

And while they were still in each other’s arms, the King came in,

and Leonatus had to leave without more farewell.

When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an

old friend of his father’s, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear
Imogen, and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some
CYMBELINE. 45

 

Italian and French noblemen were talking of their swecthearts, and
swearing that they were the most faithful and honourable and beautiful
ladies in the world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how he had
said many times that his wife Imogen was more fair, wise, and constant
than any of the rest of the ladies in France.

“T say so still,” said Leonatus.

“She is not so good but that she would deceive,” said Iachimo, one
of the Italian nobles.

‘She never would deceive,” said Leonatus.

“T wager,” said Iachimo, “ that, if I go to Britain, I can persuade your
wife to do whatever I wish, even if it should be against your wishes.”

“That you will never do,” said Leonatus. “1 wager this ring upon
46 CYMBELINE.

my finger,” which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting,
“that my wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will never
persuade her to do otherwise.”

So Jachimo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonatus’
finger, and started forthwith to Britain with a letter of introduction to
Leonatus’s wife. When he reached there he was received with all kind-
ness ; but he was still determined to win his wager.

He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went
on to tell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but
presently perceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and ordered him
to leave her. Then he said—

“Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told
you this to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as
much to be trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me?”

“T forgive you freely,” said Imogen.

“Then,” went on Iachimo, “perhaps you will prove it by taking
charge of a trunk, containmg a number of jewels which your husband
and I and some other gentlemen have bought as a present for the
Emperor of Rome.”

“T will indeed,” said Imogen, “do anything for my husband and a
friend of my husband’s. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will
take care of them.”

“Tt is only for one night,” said Iachimo, “ for I leave Britain again
to-morrow.”

So the
trunk was
carried into
Imogen’s
room, and
- that night
she went to

- bed and to
Av seep When
she was fast

asleep, the
lid of the

    
 

 
 

CYMBELINE, ~ 47

trunk opened and a man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the
jewels was as untrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only
wished to get into her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about
him and noticed the furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where
Imogen was asleep and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had
been the parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back to the trunk,
and the next morning sailed for Rome.

When he met Leonatus, he said-—

“T have been to Britain and I have won the wager, for your wife no
longer thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in
her room, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece,
and silver andirons in the shape of two winking Cupids.”

“IT do not believe she has forgotten me; I do not believe she stayed
talking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by
the servants.”

“Ah!” said Iachimo, “but she gave me this bracelet. She took it
from her arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift, and
yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said she prized it once.”

“Take the ring,” cried Leonatus, “you have won, and you might
have won my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady
has forgotten me.”

And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant,
Pisanio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murder her,
because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the same time
he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisanio, his old servant,
to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to meet her.

Now when Pisanio got this letter he was too good to carry out its
orders, and too wise to let them alone altogether. So he gave Imogen
the letter from her husband, and started with her for Milford Haven.
Before he left, the wicked Queen gave him a drink which, she said, would
be useful in sickness. She hoped he would give it to Imogen, and that
Imogen would die, and then the wicked Queen’s son could be King. For
the Queen thought this drink was a poison, but really and truly it was
only a sleeping-draught.

When Pisanio and Imogen came near to Milford Haven, he told her
what was really in the letter he had had from her husband.
48 CYMBELINE.

‘““T must go on to Rome, and see him myself,” said Imogen.

And then Pisanio helped her to dress in boy’s clothes, and sent her
on her way, and went back to the Court. Before he went, he gave her
the drink he had had from the Queen.

Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, and at last came to
acave. Some one seemed to live there, but no one was in just then.
So she went in, and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took some
food she saw there, and had just done so, when an old man and two boys
came into the cave. She was very much frightened when she saw them,
for she thought that they would be angry with her for taking their food,
though she had meant to leave money for it on the table. But to her
surprise they welcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her boy’s
clothes, and her face was good, as well as pretty.

“You shall be our brother,” said both the boys; and so she stayed
with them, and helped to cook the food, and make things comfortable.
But one day when the old man, whose name was Bellarius, was out
hunting with the two boys, Imogen felt ill, and thought she would try
the medicine Pisanio had given her. So she took it, and at once became
like a dead creature, so that when Bellarius and the boys came back from
hunting, they thought she was dead, and with many tears and funeral
songs, they carried her away, and laid her in the wood, covered with
flowers.

They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers on her, pale
primroses, and the azure harebell, and eglantine, and furred moss, and
went away sorrowful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke,
and not knowing how she came there, nor where she was, went wandering
through the wood.

Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, the Romans had
decided to attack Britain, and their army had come over, and with them
Leonatus, who had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, so
had come back, not to fight with the Romans against Britain, ee with
the Britons against Rome. So as Imogen cremilaneil alone, she met
with Lucius, the Roman general, and took service with him as his page.

When the battle was fought between the Romans and Britons,
Bellarius and his two boys fought for their own country, and Leonatus,
disguised as a British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans had
 
50 CYMBELINE.

taken Cymbeline prisoner, and old Bellarius, with his sons and Leonatus,
bravely rescued the Kine. Then the Britons won the battle, and among
the prisoners brought before the King were Lucius, with Imogen, Iachimo,
and Leonatus, who had put on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was
tired of his life since he had cruelly ordered his wife to be killed, and he
hoped that, as a Roman soldier, he would be put to death.

When they were brought before the King, Lucius spoke out—

“A Roman with a Rowen s heart can ae he said. “If I must
die, so be it. This one thing only will I entreat. My boy, a Briton
born, let him be ransomed. Never master had a page so kind, so
duteous, diligent, true. He has done no Briton harm, though he has
served a Roman. Save him, sir.”

Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his own daughter,
Imogen, in disguise, and though he did not recognise her, he felt such
a kindness that he not only spared the boy’s life, but he said—

“He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, even though he ask
a prisoner, the noblest taken.”

Then Imogen said, “The boon I ask is that this gentleman shall
say from whom he got the ring he has on his finger,’ and she pointed
to Iachimo.

“Speak,” said Cymbeline, “how did you get that diamond ?”

Then Iachimo told the whole truth of his villainy. At this, Leonatus
was unable to contain himself, and casting aside all thought of disguise,
he came forward, cursing himself for his folly in having believed Iachimo’s
lying story, and calling again and again on his wife whom he believed
dead.

 
CYMBELINE. 51

“Oh, Imogen, my love,
my life!” he eried. “Oh,
Imogen !”

Then Imogen, forgetting
she was disguised, cried out,
“Peace, my lord—here, here!”

Leonatus turned to strike
the forward page who thus
interfered in his great trouble,
and then he saw that it was
his wife, Imogen, and they fell
into each other’s arms.

The King was so glad to
see his dear daughter again,
and so grateful to the man who
had rescued him (whom he now
found to be Leonatus), that
he gave his blessing on their
marriage, and then he turned
to Bellarius, and the two boys.
Now Bellarius spoke—

“T am your old servant,
Bellarius. You accused me of
treason when I had only been
loyal to you, and to be doubted,
made me disloyal. So I stole
your two sons, and see,—they
are here!” And he brought
forward the two boys, who had sworn to be brothers to Imogen when
they thought she was a boy like themselves,

The wicked Queen was dead of some of her own poisons, and the
King, with his three children about him, lived to a happy old age.

So the wicked were punished, and the good and true lived happy
ever after. So may the wicked suffer, and honest folk prosper till the
world’s end !

 
   
  

    

Wh

ai

ay

(iy, \

ry ero

  

I

   
 

LaF

a —

Ed

  
 

HERE lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fair
daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross, and ill-
tempered, and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying
her, while her sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-
spoken, that more than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But
Baptista said the elder daughter must marry first.

So Bianca’s suitors decided among themselves to try and get some
one to marry Katharine-—and then the father could at least be got to
listen to their suit for Bianca.

A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they
thought of, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine,
the disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was
just the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich,
he himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered.

Petruchio began by asking Baptista’s permission to pay court to his
gentle daughter Katharine—and Baptista was obliged to own that she
was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in,
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 53

complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head,
because he told her she was not playing correctly.

‘Never mind,” said Petruchio, “I love her better than ever, and
long to have some chat with her.”

_ When Katharine came, he said ‘‘ Good-morrow, Kate—for that, I hear,
is your name.”

“You've only heard half,” said Katharine, rudely.

“Oh, no,” said Petruchio, “they call you plain Kate, and bonny
Kate, and sometimes Kate the shrew, and so, hearing your mildness
praised in every town, and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife.”

“ Your wife!” cried Kate. ‘“ Never!” She said some extremely dis-
agreeable things to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his
ears.

“Tf you do that again, Pll cuff you,” he said quietly; and still
protested, with many compliments, that he would marry none but her.

When Baptista came back, he asked at once—

“How speed you with my daughter?”

“How should I speed but well,” replied
Petruchio—‘‘ how, but well?”

“How now, daughter Katharine?” the
father went on.

“T don’t think,” said Katharine, anerily,
“you are acting a father’s part in wishing me
to marry this mad-cap rufhan.”

“A!” said Petruchio, “you
and all the world would talk
amiss of her. You should see
how kind she is to me when we
are alone. In short, I will go
off to Venice to buy fine things
for our weddine—for—kiss me,
Kate! we will be married on
Sunday.”

And with that, Catharine
flounced out of the room by one
door in a violent temper, and he,

  
  
   
54 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell in love with
Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who was not
afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that, in spite of her rough
words and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife—she did indeed
marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should.

To vex and humble Katharine’s naughty, proud spirit, he was late
at the wedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes
that she was ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in
the same shabby way, and the horses they rode were the sport of every
one they passed.

And, after the marriage, when should have been the wedding
breakfast, Petruchio carried his wife away, not
allowing her to eat or drink—saying that she
was his now, and he could do as he liked with
her.

And his manner was so violent, and he
behaved all through his wedding in so mad and
dreadful a manner, that Katharine trembled
and went with
him. He
mounted her
on a _ stum-
bling, lean, old
horse, andthey
journeyed by
rough muddy
ways to Pet-
ruchio’s house,
he — seolding
and snarling
all the way.

She was
terribly tired
when she
reached her
new home, but

 
  
 
 
  
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 5S

Petruchio was determined that she should neither eat nor sleep that
night, for he had made up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a
lesson she would never forget.

So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was
served he found fault with everythinge—the meat was burnt, he said,
and ill served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything
but the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supper-
less to bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and
how anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces,
throwing pillows and bedclothes on the floor, so that she could not go to
bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servants so that
Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was.

The next day, too, Katharine’s food was all found fault with, and
caught away before she could touch a. mouthful, and she was sick and
giddy for want of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants—

“[ pray thee go and get me some repast. I care not what.”

“What say you to a neat’s foot?” said the servant.

Katharine said ‘“ Yes,” eagerly ; but the servant, who was in his
master’s secret, said he feared it was not good for hasty-tempered people.
Would she like tripe?

‘“‘ Bring it me,” said Katharine.

“T don’t think that is good for hasty-tempered people,” said the
servant. ‘‘ What do you say to a dish of beef and mustard ?”

“T love it,” said Kate.

“ But mustard is too hot.”

“Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go,” cried Katharine, who
was getting hungrier and hungrier.

“No,” said the servant, “you must have the mustard, or you get
no beef from me.”

“Then,” cried Katharine, losing patience, “let it be both, or one, or
anything thou wilt.”

“Why, then,” said the servant, ‘‘ the mustard without the beef

Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, and boxed his ears.

Just then Petruchio brought her some food—but she had scarcely
begun to satisfy her hunger, before he called for the tailor to bring
her new clothes, and the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry.

|?
56 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

Katharine was pleased with the pretty new dress and cap that the
tailor had made for her, but Petruchio found fault with everything,
flung the cap and gown on the floor, vowing his dear wife should not
wear any such foolish things.

“T will have them,” cried Katharine. “ All gentlewomen wear such
caps as these—”

‘“When you are gentle you shall have one too,” he answered, “ and
not till then.” When he had driven away the tailor with angry words—
but privately asking his friend to see him paid—Petruchio said—

‘““Come, Kate, let’s go to your father’s, shabby as we are, for, as the
sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honour peereth in the meanest
habit. It is about seven o'clock now. We shall easily get there by
dinner-time.” .

“It’s nearly two,” said Kate, but civilly enough, for she had grown
to see that she could not bully her husband, as she had done her father
and her sister; “it’s nearly two, and it will be supper-time hefore we get
there.”

“Tt shall be seven,” said Petruchio, obstinately, “before I start.
Why, whatever I say or de, or think, you do nothing but contradict.
I won't go to-day, and before I do go, it shall be what o’clock I say it is.”

At last they started for her father’s house. “Look at the moon,”
said he.

“Tt’s the sun,” said Katharine, and indeed it was.

“Tsay it is the moon. Contradicting again! It shall be sun or
moon, or whatever I choose, or I won’t take you to your father’s.”

Then Katharine gave in, once and for all. ‘“ What you will have it
named,” she said, ‘it is, and so it shall be so for Katharine.” And so it
was, for from that moment Katharine felt that she had met her master,
and never again showed her naughty tempers to him, or anyone else.

So they journeyed on to Baptista’s house, and arriving there, they
found all folks keeping Bianca’s wedding feast, and that of another newly
married couple, Hortensio and his wife. They were made welcome, and
sat down to the feast, and all was merry, save that Hortensio’s wife,
seeing Katharine subdued to her husband, thought she could safely say
many disagreeable things, that in the old days, when Katharine was free
and froward, she would not have dared to say. But Katharine answered

 
 
 

 

   

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. . 57

with such spirit and such moderation, that she turmmed the laugh against
the new bride. :

After dinner, when the ladies were retired, Baptista joined in a
laugh against Petruchio, saying—

“Now in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the
veriest shrew of all.” .

“You are wrong,” said Petruchio, “let me prove it to you. Each
of us shall send a message to his wife, desiring her to come to him, and
the one whose wife comes most readily shall win a wager which we will
agree on.”

The others said yes readily enough, for each thought his own wife
the most dutiful, and each thought he was quite sure to win the wager.

They proposed a wager of twenty crowns. :

“Twenty crowns,” said Petruchio, “Tll venture so much on my
hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon my wife.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
58 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

“A hundred then,” cried Lucentio, Bianca’s
husband.

“Content,” cried the others.
a Then Lucentio sent a message to the fair
Be fn Bianca bidding her to come to him. And
Baptista said he was certain his daughter
would come. But the servant coming back,
said—

“Sir, my mistress is busy, and she cannot
come.”

“There’s an answer for you,” said Pet-
ruchio.
is “You may think yourself fortunate if your
i wife does not send you a worse.”

 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
    
                
  

   
  
 

N
x

wt

a

Z My cole hope, better,” Petruchio answered.
eZ Then Hortensio said—

  

\

i ww ‘
w
iv

i

A

“Go and entreat my wife
to come.to me at once.”

“ Oh—if you entreat her,”
said Petruchio.

“T am afraid,” answered
Hortensio, sharply, “do what

  
 

you can, yours will not be entreated.”

But now the servant came in, and said—

“She says you are playing some jest, she will not come.”

“ Better and better,” cried Petruchio ; ‘‘ now go to your mistress and
say I command her to come to me.” ;

They all began to laugh, saying they knew what her answer would
be, and that she would not come.

Then suddenly Baptista cried—

‘Here comes Katharine!” And sure enough—there she was.

“What do you wish, sir?” she asked her husband.

“ Where are your sister and Hortensio’s wife?”

-“ Talking by the parlour fire.”

“Fetch them here.”

When she was gone to fetch them, Lucentio said—
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 59

‘Here is a wonder !”

‘“T wonder what it means,” said Hortensio.

“It means peace,” said Petruchio, “ and love, and quiet life.”

“Well,” said Baptista, “ you have won the wager, and I will add
another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry—another dowry for
another daughter—for she is as changed as if she were some one else.”

So Petruchio won his wager, and had in Katharine always a loving
wife and a true, and now he had broken her proud and-angry spirit he
loved her well, and there was nothing ever but love between those two.
And so they lived happy ever afterwards.

 

 
 

fo was the only son of the King of Denmark. He loved his
father and mother dearly—and was happy in the love of a sweet
lady named Ophelia. Her father, Polonius, was the King’s Chamberlain.

While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, his father died.
Young Hamlet hastened home in great grief to hear that a serpent had
stung the King, and that he was dead. The young prince had loved his
father tenderly—so you may judge what he felt when he found that the
Queen, before yet the King had been laid in the ground a month, had
determined to marry again—and to marry the dead King’s brother.

Hamlet refused to put off his mourning for the wedding.

“It is not only the black I wear on my body,” he said, “that proves
my loss. I wear mourning in my heart for my dead father. His gon at
least remembers him, and grieves still.”

Then said Claudius, the King’s brother, “This erief is unreasonable.
Of course you must sorrow at the loss of your father, but—”

“Ah,” said Hamlet, bitterly, “I cannot in one little month forget
those J love.”

With that the Queen and Claudius left him, to make meiry over their
wedding, forgetting the poor good King who had been so kind to them both.

And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and to question as to what

he ought to do. For he could not believe the story about the snake-bite.
It seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius had killed the
King, so as to get the crown and marry the Queen. Yet he had no proof,
and could not accuse Claudius.

And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a fellow student of his,
from Wittenberg.
HAMLET. 61

“What brought you here?” asked Hamlet, when he had greeted his
friend kindly.

“T came, my lord, to see your father’s funeral.”

“T think it was to see my mother’s wedding,” said Hamlet, bitterly.
“My father! We shall not look upon his like again.”

“My lord,” answered Horatio, “1 think I saw him yesternight.”

Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio told how he, with

 

two gentlemen of the guard, had seen ‘the King’s ghost on the battlements.
Hamlet went that ene and true enough, at nidniaht the ghost of the
King, in the armour he had been wont to wear, appeared on the battle-
ments in the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. Instead of
running away from the ghost he spoke to it—and when it beckoned him

 
62 HAMLET.

he followed it to a quiet place, and there the ghost told him that what
he had suspected was true. The wicked Claudius had indeed killed his
good brother the King, by dropping poison into his ear as he slept in
his orchard in the afternoon.

“ And you,” said the ghost, “must avenge this cruel murder—on
my wicked brother. But do nothing against the Queen—for I have
loved her, and she is thy mother. Remember me.”

Then seeing the morning approach, the ghost vanished.

‘Now,’ said Hamlet, ‘ there is nothing left but revenge. Remember
thee—I will remember nothing else—books, pleasure, youth—let all go—
and your commands alone live in my brain.”

So when his friends came back he made them swear to keep the
secret of the ghost, and then went in from the battlements, now grey
with mingled dawn and moonlight, to think how he might best avenge
his murdered father.

The shock of seeing and hearing his father’s ghost made him feel
almost mad, and for fear that his uncle might notice that he was not
himself, he determined to hide his mad longing for revenge under a
pretended madness in other matters.

And when he met Ophelia, who loved him—and to whom he had
given gifts, and letters, and many loving words—he behaved so wildly
to her, that she could not but think him mad. For she loved him so
that she could not believe he would be so cruel as this, unless he were
quite mad. So she told her father, and shewed him a pretty letter
from Hamlet. And in the letter was much folly, and this pretty verse—

“ Doubt that the stars are fire ;
Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar ;
But never doubt I love.”

 

And from that time everyone believed that the cause of Hamlet’s sup-
posed madness was love.

Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to obey his father’s
ghost—and yet he was too gentle and kindly to wish to kill another —
man, even his father’s murderer. And sometimes he wondered whether,
after all, the ghost spoke truly.

Just at this time some actors came to the Court, and Hamlet

 
 
 

.

HAMLET. 63

 

ordered them to perform a certain play before the King and Queen.
Now, this play was the story of a man who had been murdered in his
garden by a near relation, who afterwards married the dead man’s wife.

You may imagine the feelings of the wicked King, as he sat on his
throne, with the Queen beside him and all his Court around, and saw,
acted on the stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done. And .
when, in the play, the wicked relation poured poison into the ear of the
sleeping man, the wicked Claudius suddenly rose, and staggered from
the room—the Queen and others following.

Then said-Hamlet to his friends—

“Now I am sure the ghost spoke true. For if Claudius had not done
this murder, he could not have been so distressed to see it in a play.”

Now the Queen sent for Hamlet, by the King’s desire, to scold him
for his conduct during the play, and for other matters; and Claudius,
wishing to know exactly what happened,
told old Polonius to hide himself behind
the hangings in the Queen’s room. And
as they talked, the
Queen got frightened
at Hamlet’s rough,
strange words, and
cried for help, and
Polonius, behind the
curtain, cried out too.
Hamlet, thinking it
was the King who
was hidden there,
thrust with his sword
at the hangings, and —
killed, not the King,
but poor old Polonius.

So now Hamlet
had offended his uncle
and his mother, and = <##
by, bad hap killed his
true love’s father.

 

Bef

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
 
 
w

64 j HAMLET.

~ “Oh, what a rash and bloody deed is this,” cried the Queen.

And Hamlet answered bitterly, “Almost as bad as to kill a king,
and marry his brother.” Then Hamiet told the Queen plainly all his
thoughts, and how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at least, to
have no more friendship or kindness of the base Claudius, who had killed
the good King. And as they spoke the King’s ghost again appeared
before Hamlet, but the Queen could not see it. So when the ghost was
gone, they parted. tee

When the Queen told Claudius what had passed, and how Polonius
was dead, he said, ‘This shows plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since
che has killed the chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must carry
out our plan, and send him away to England.”

So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two courtiers who served the
King, and these bore letters to the English Court, requiring that Hamlet
should be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense to get at these
letters, and put in others instead, with the names of the two courtiers
who were so ready to betray him. Then, as the vessel went to England,
Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the two wicked courtiers left
him to his fate, and went on, to meet theirs.

Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a dreadful thing had
happened. Poor pretty Ophelia, having lost her lover and her father,
lost her wits too, and went in sad madness about the Court, with straws,
and weeds, and flowers in her hair, singing strange scraps of song, and
talking poor, foolish, pretty talk with no heart of meaning to it. And
one day, coming to a stream where willows grew, she tried to hang a
flowery garland on a willow, and fell in the water with all her flowers,
and so died.

And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of seeming madness
had made him hide it; and when he came back, he found the King and
Queen, and the Court, weeping at the funeral of his dear love and lady.

Ophelia’s brother, Laertes, had also just come to Court to ask justice
for the death of his father, old Polonius; and now, wild with erief, he
leaped into his sister’s grave, to clasp her in his arms once more.

“T loved ‘her more than forty thousand brothers,” cried Hamlet,
and leaped into the grave after him, and they fought till they were
parted.
 

HAMLET. 65

Afterwards Hamlet
begged Laertes to forgive
him.

“T could not bear,” he
said, “that any, even a
‘ brother, should seem to love
her more than I.”

But the wicked Claudius
would not let them be
friends. He told Laertes
how Hamlet had killed old
Polonius, and between them
they made a plot to slay
Hamlet by treachery.

Laertes challenged him
to a fencing match, and
all the Court were present.
Hamlet had the blunt foil
always used in fencing, but
Laertes had prepared for
himself a sword, sharp, and
tipped with poison. And
the wicked King had made
ready a bowl of poisoned
wine, which he meant to
give poor Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword play, and
should call for drink. :

So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, after some fencing, gave
Hamlet a sharp sword thrust. Hamlet, angry at this treachery—for
they had been fencing, not as men fight, but as they play-—closed with
Laertes in a struggle ; both dropped their swords, and when they picked
them up again, Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own blunt
sword for Laertes’ sharp and poisoned one. And with one thrust of it
he pierced Laertes, who fell dead by his own treachery.

At this moment the Queen cried out, “The drink, the drink!
Oh, my dear Hamlet! I[ am poisoned!”

E

 
- HAMLET,

She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the King had prepared for
Hamlet, and the King saw the Queen, whom, wicked as he was, he really
loved, fall dead by his means.

Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius, and the Queen, and Laertes,
besides the two courtiers who had been sent to England, Hamlet at last
got him courage to do the ghost’s bidding and avenge his father’s murder
—which, if he had found the heart to do long before, all these lives had
heen spared, and none suffered but the wicked King, who well deserved
to die.

Hamlet, his heart at last being great enough to do the deed he
ought, turned the poisoned sword on the false King.

“'Then—venom—do thy work!” he cried, and the King died.

So Hamlet in the end kept the promise he had made his father.
And ‘all being now accomplished, he himself died. And those who stood
by saw him die, with prayers and tears for his friends, and his people
who loved him with their whole hearts. Thus ends the tragic tale of
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

G

Ta ) ~

= <=. LBL =

eae

 

 
 

RSINO, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in love with a beautiful
Countess, named Olivia. Yet was all his love in vain, for she
disdained his suit ; and when her brother died, she sent back a messenger
from the Duke, bidding him tell his master that for seven years she
would not let the very air behold her face, but that, like a nun, she
would walk veiled; and all this for the sake of a dead brother’s love,
which she would keep fresh and lasting in her sad remembrance.

The Duke longed for someone to whom he could tell his sorrow, and
repeat over and over again the story of his love. And chance brought
him such a companion. For about this time a goodly ship was wrecked
on the Illyrian coast, and among those who reached land in safety were
the Captain and a fair young maid, named Viola. But she was little
 
 
 
 
  

68 TWELFTH NIGHT.

evateful for being rescued from the perils of the sea, since she feared that
her twin brother was drowned, Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in
her bosom, and so like her that, but for the difference in their manner of
dress, oné could hardly be told from the other. The Captain, for her
comfort, told her that he had seen her brother bind himself to a strong
mast that lived wpon the sea, and that thus there was hope that he might
be saved.

Viola now asked in whose country she was, and learning that the
young Duke Orsino ruled there, and was as noble in his nature as in his
name, she decided to disguise herself in male attire, and seek for employ-
ment with him as a page.

In this she succeeded, and now from day to day she had to listen to
the story of Ovsino’s love. At first she sympathised very truly with him,
but soon her sympathy grew to love. At last it oceurred to Orsino that
his hopeless love-suit might prosper better if he sent this pretty lad to
woo Olivia for him. Viola unwillingly went on this errand, but when she
came to the house, Malvolio, Olivia’s steward, a vain, officious man, sick,
as his mistress told him, of self-love,
forbade the messenger admittance.
Viola, however, (who was now called
Cesario,) refused to take any denial,
and vowed to have speech with the
Countess. Olivia,
hearing how her in-
structions were defied
and curious to see
this daring youth,
said, ‘We'll once
more hear Orsino’s
embassy.”

When Viola was
admitted to her pre-
sence and the ser-
vants had been sent
away, she listened
patiently to the re-

 

 

 

 

 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 69

 

proaches which this bold messenger from the Duke poured upon her, and
listening she fell in love with the supposed Cesario; and when Cesario
had gone, Olivia longed to send some love-token after him. So, calling
Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy.

“ He left this rg behind him,” she said, taking one from her finger.
“Tell him I will none of it.”

Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew
perfectly well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a
woman’s quickness that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to
the Duke, very sad at heart’ for her lover, and for Olivia, and for
herself.

It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to
ease the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesario
stood by his side.
 

 

70 TWELFTH NIGHT.

“ Ah,” said the Duke to his page that night, “you too have been in
love.”

“A little,” answered Viola.

‘What kind of woman is it?” he asked.

“Of your complexion,” she answered.

“What years, 1’ faith?” was his next question.

To this came the pretty answer, ‘‘ About your years, my lord.”

“Too old, by Heaven!” cried the Duke. “Let still the woman
take an elder than herself.”

And Viola very meekly said, “I think it well, my lord.”

By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and ‘to
plead his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said—

“Tf some lady loved you as you love.Olivia?”

“Ah! that cannot be,” said the Duke.

“But I know,” Viola went on, “what love woman may have for a
man. My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be,” she added
blushing, “ perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship.”

‘And what is her history ?” he asked.

“A blank, my lord,’ Viola answered. ‘She never told her love, -
but let concealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek :
she pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat,
like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love
indeed ?” :

“But died thy sister of her love, my boy?” the Duke asked; and
Viola, who had all the time been telling her own love for him in this
pretty fashion, said—

‘“T am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers—Sir,
shall I go to the lady ?”

‘To her in haste,” said the Duke, at once forgetting all about the
story, “and give her this jewel.”

So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her
love, and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that Viola left
her hastily, sayinge—

“ Nevermore will I deplore my master’s tears to you.”

But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would
feel for other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of her love, sent

 
  

 

races prandage-

 

Olivia and Malvolio.

 
 

 

TWELFTH NIGHT. 7

 

a messenger praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had no heart
to refuse the request.

But the favours which Olivia bestowed upon this mere page aroused
the jealousy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover of hers,
who at that time was staying at her house with her merry old uncle Sir
Toby. This same Sir Toby dearly loved a practical joke, and knowing
Sir Andrew to be an arrant coward, he thought that if he could bring off
a duel between him and Cesario, there would be brave sport indeed. So
he induced Sir Andrew to send a challenge, which he himself took to
Cesario. The poor page, in great terror, said— ;

“T will return again to the house, I am no fighter.”

“ Back you shall not to the house,” said Sir Toby, “unless you fight
me first.” .

And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, Viola thought it best
to await Sir Andrew’s coming ; and when he at last made his appearance,
in a great fright, if the truth had been known, she tremblingly drew
her sword, and Sir Andrew in like fear followed her example. Happily
for them both, at this moment some officers of the Court came on the
scene, and stopped the intended duel. Viola gladly made off with what
speed she might, while Sir Toby called after her—

“ A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare !”

 
72 : TWELFTH NIGHT.

Now, while these things were happening, Sebastian had escaped all
the dangers of the deep, and had landed safely in Illyria, where he
determined to make his way to the Duke’s Court. On his way thither
‘he passed Olivia’s house just as Viola had left it in such a hurry, and
whom should he meet but Sir Andrew and Sir Toby? Sir Andrew, mis-
taking Sebastian for the cowardly Cesario, took his courage in both hands,
and walking up to him struck him, saying, “ There’s for you.”

“Why, there’s for you ; and there, and there !” said Sebastian, hitting
back a great deal harder, and again and again, till Sir Toby came to the
rescue of his friend. Sebastian, however, tore himself free from Sir Toby’s
clutches, and drawing his sword would have fought them both, but that
Olivia herself, having heard of the quarrel, came running in, and with
many reproaches sent Sir Toby and his friend away. Then turning to
Sebastian, whom she too thought to be Cesario, she besought him with
many a pretty speech to come into the house with her.

Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her beauty and grace,
readily consented, and that very day, so great was Olivia’s haste, they
were married before she had discovered that he was not Cesario, or
Sebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in a dream.

Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped with Olivia, visited
her himself, taking Cesario with him. Olivia met them before her door,
and seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached him for leaving
her, while to the Duke she said that his suit was as fat and wholesome
to her as howling after music.

“Still so cruel?” said Orsino.

“ Still so constant,” she answered.

Then Orsino’s anger growing to cruelty, he vowed that, to be re-
venged on her, he would kill Cesario, whom he knew she loved.
“Come boy,” he said to the page.

And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, “I, to do you rest,
a thousand deaths would die.”

A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried aloud, “ Cesario,
husband, stay !”

“Her husband?” asked the Duke, angrily.

“No, my lord, not I,” said Viola.

‘Call forth the holy father,” cried Olivia.
TWELFTH NIGHT. 73

And the priest who had married Sebastian and Olivia, coming in,
declared Cesario to be the bridegroom.

“OQ thou dissembling cub!” the Duke exclaimed. “Farewell, and
take her, but go where thou and I henceforth may never meet.”

At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleeding crown, com-
plaining that Cesario had broken his head, and Sir Toby's as well.

“T never hurt you,” said Viola, very positively ; “ you drew your
sword on me, but 1 bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.”

Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed her; but all their
thoughts were on a sudden changed to wonder, when Sebastian came in.

“Tam sorry, madam,” he said to his wife, “I have hurt your kins-
man. Pardon me, sweet, even for the vows we made each other so late
ago.”

“One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!” cried the Duke,
looking first at Viola, and then at Sebastian.

“ An apple cleft in two,” said one who knew Sebastian, ‘‘is not more
twin than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian ?”

“T never had
a brother,’ said
Sebastian. “I had
a sister, whom the
‘blind waves and
surges have de-
voured.”  “ Were
you a woman,” he
said to Viola, “I
should let my tears
fall upon your
cheek, and say,
‘Thrice welcome,
drowned Viola!’”

Then Viola, re-
joicing to see her
dear brother alive,
confessed that she
was indeed his

 
74 TWELFTH NIGHT.

sister, Viola. As she spoke, Orsino felt the pity that is akin to
love.

* Boy,” he said, “thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never
shouldst love woman like to me.”

‘And all those sayings will I over-swear,” Viola replied, ‘‘and all
those swearings keep true.”

“Give me thy hand,” Orsino cried in gladness. ‘Thou shalt be my
wife, and my fancy’s queen.”

Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while Olivia found in
Sebastian a constant lover, and a good husband, and he in her a true
and loving wife.

 
 

AS YOU LIKE IT.

HERE was once a wicked Duke, named Frederick, who took the

dukedom that should have belonged to his brother, and kept it

for himself, sending his brother into exile. His brother went into the

Forest of Arden, where he lived the life of a bold forester, as Robin Hood
did in Sherwood Forest in our England.

The banished Duke’s daughter, Rosalind, remained with Celia,
Frederick’s daughter, and the two loved each other more than most
sisters. One day there was a wrestling match at Court, and Rosalind
and Celia went to see it. Charles, a celebrated wrestler, was there, who
had killed many men in contests of this kind. The young man he was
to wrestle with was so slender and youthful, that Rosalind and Celia
thought he would surely be killed, as others had been; so they spoke
to him, and asked him not to attempt so dangerous an adventure ; but
76 AS YOU LIKE IT.

the only etiect of their words was to m-ke him wish to come off well in
the encounter, so as to win praise from such sweet ladies.

Orlando, like Rosalind’s father, was being kept out of his inheritance
by his brother, and was so sad at his brother's unkindness that, until he
saw Rosalind, he did not care much whether he lived or died. But now
the sight of the fair Rosalind gave him strength and courage, so that he
did marvellously, and at last, threw Charles to such a tune, that the
wrestler had to be carried off the ground. Duke Frederick was pleased
with his courage, and asked his name.

“My name is Orlando, and I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland
de Boys,” said the young man. . .

Now Sir Rowland de Boys, when he was alive, had been a good
friend to the banished Duke, so that Frederick heard with regret whose
son Orlando was, and would not befriend him, and went away in a very
bad temper. But Rosalind was delighted to héar that this handsome
young stranger was the son of her father’s old friend, and as they were
going away, she turned back more than once to say another kind word
to the brave young man.

“Gentleman,” she said, giving him a chain from her neck, “ wear
this for me. I could give more, but that my hand lacks means.”

Then when she was going, Orlando could not speak, so much was
he overcome by the magic of her beauty ; but when she was gone, he said,
“I wrestled with Charles, and overthrew him, and now I myself am
conquered. Oh, heavenly Rosalind !”

Rosalind and Celia, when they were alone, began to talk about the
handsome wrestler, and Rosalind confessed that she loved him at first
sight.

“Come, come,” said Celia, “ wrestle with thy affections.”

“Oh,” answered Rosalind, “they take the part of a better wrestler
than myself. Look, here comes the Duke.”

“With his eyes full of anger,” said Celia.

“You must leave the Court at once,” he said to Rosalind.

“Why ?” she asked.”

“Never mind why,” answered the Duke, “ you are banished.”

“Pronounce that sentence then on me, my lord,” said Celia. “I
cannot live out of her company.”
 

2ROSALIND GIVES ORLANDO THE CHAIN,
78 AS YOU LIKE IT.

“You are a foolish girl,” answered her father. ‘ You, Rosalind, if
within ten days you are found within twenty miles of my Court, you die.”

So Rosalind set out to seek her father, the banished Duke, in the
Forest of Arden. Celia loved her too much to let her go alone, and as it
was rather a dangerous journey, Rosalind, being the taller, dressed up as
a young countryman, and her cousin as a country girl, and Rosalind said
that she would be called Ganymede, and Celia, Aliena. They were very
tired when at. last they came to the Forest of Arden, and as they were
sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue, a countryman passed that
way, and Ganymede asked him if he could get them food. He did so,
and told them that a shepherd’s flocks and house were to be sold. They
bought these with the money they had brought with them, and settled
down as shepherd and shepherdess in the forest.

(Ga In the meantime,
| GAEL S Orlando’s brother,
| Ae ; “s \S ‘ .

 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 

pet
ai

We Oliver, having sought
MWe OFX ae
ps as to take his life, Orlando

   

Lv Sf also wandered into the
WX N d for
/ Nara orest, and there met
ss / \Y x ne fee ee eee
US WKS and being kindly re-
Lge orn tie SS ceived, stayed with

    
 

him. Now, Orlando
could think of nothing
but Rosalind, and he
went about the forest,
carving her name on
trees, and writing love
sonnets and hanging
them on the bushes,
and there Rosalind
and Celia found them.
e=One day Orlando met
them, but he did not
know Rosalind in her
boy’s clothes, though

 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 79

he liked the pretty shepherd youth, because he fancied a likeness in him
to her he loved. i

‘‘There is a foolish lover,” said Rosalind, “who haunts these woods
and hangs sonnets on the trees. If I could find him, I would soon cure
him of his folly.”

Orlando confessed that he was this foolish lover, and Rosalind said—
“Tf you will come and see me every day, I will pretend to be Rosalind,
and you shall come and court me, as you would if I were really your
lady ; and I will take her part, and be wayward and contrary, as is the
way of women, till I make you ashamed of your folly in loving her.”

And go every day he went to her house, and took a pleasure in
saying to her all the pretty things he would have said to Rosalind ; and
she had the fine and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words came
to the right ears. Thus many days passed pleasantly away.

Rosalind met the Duke one day, and the Duke asked her what
family “he came from.” And Rosalind, forgetting that she was dressed
as a peasant boy, answered that she came of as good parentage as the
Duke did, which made him smile.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a
man asleep on the ground, and a large serpent had wound itself round
his neck. Orlando came nearer, and the serpent glided away. Then he
saw that there was a lioness crouching near, waiting for the man who was
asleep, to wake: for they say that lions will not prey on anything that is
dead or sleeping. Then Orlando looked at the man, and saw that it was
his wicked brother, Oliver, who had tried to take his life. At first he
thought to leave him to his fate, but the faith and honour of a gentleman
withheld him from this wickedness. He fought with the lioness and
killed her, and saved his brother’s life.

While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver woke to see his
brother, whom he had treated so badly, saving him from a wild beast at
the risk of his own life. This made him repent of his wickedness, and he
begged Orlando's pardon with many tears, and from thenceforth they
were dear brothers. The lioness had wounded Orlando’s arm so much,
that he could not go on to see the shepherd, so he sent his brother to ask
Ganymede (“ whom I do call my Rosalind,” he added) to come to him.

Oliver went and told the whole story to Ganymede and Aliena, and

2

 

 
80 AS YOU LIKE IT.

Aliena was so charmed with his manly way of confessing his faults, that
she fell in love with him at once. But when Ganymede heard of the
danger Orlando had been in, she fainted; and when she came to herself,
said truly enough, “I should have been a woman by right.” Oliver went
back to his brother and told him all this, saying, “I love Aliena so well,
that I will give up my estates to you and marry her, and live here as a
shepherd.”

“Let your wedding be to-morrow,” said Orlando, “and I will ask
the Duke and his friends. Go to the shepherdess—she is alone, for here
comes her brother.”

And sure enough Ganymede was coming through the wood towards
them. When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother was to be married
on the morrow, he added: “Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into
happiness through another man’s eyes.”

Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede’s dress and speaking
with his voice—‘“‘ If you do love Rosalind so near the heart, then when
your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her. I will set her before
your eyes, human as she is, and without any danger.”

‘Do you mean it?” cried Orlando.

“ By my life I do,” answered Rosalind. “Therefore, put on your
best array and bid your friends to come, for if you will be married to-
morrow, you shall,—and to Rosalind, if you will.”

Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and Orlando, and
Oliver, and Aliena, were all gathered together for the wedding.

“Do you believe, Orlando,” said the Duke, “that the boy can do all
that he has promised ?”

““T sometimes do believe and sometimes do not,” said Orlando.

Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, “If I bring in
your daughter Rosalind, will you give her to Orlando here ?”

“That I would,” said the Duke, “if I had all kingdoms to give
with her.”

“And you say you-will have her when I bring her?” she said to
Orlando.

“That would I,” he answered, “were I king of all kingdoms.”

- Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind put on her pretty
women’s clothes again, and after a while came back.
 
 

 

AS YOU LIKE IT. | 81

She turned to her father—‘‘I give eye to you, for I am yours.”

“Tf there be truth in sight,” he said, “ you are my daughter.”

Then she said to Orlando, “I give myself to you, for I am yours.”

“Tf there be truth in sight,” he said, “ you are my Rosalind.”

‘“T will have no father if you be not he,” she said to the Duke, and
to Orlando, ‘“‘ I will have no husband if you be not he.”

So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oliver and Celia, and
they lived happy ever after, returning with the Duke to the dukedom.
For Frederick had been
shown by a holy her-
mit the wickedness of
his ways, and so gave
back the dukedom of
his brother, and himself
went into a monastery
to pray for forgiveness.

The wedding: was
& merry one, in the
mossy glades of the
forest, where the green
leaves danced in the
sun, and the birds
sang their sweetest
wedding hymns for the
new - married .
folk. A shep-
herd and shep-
herdess who
had been
friends with
Rosalind,
when she was
herself dis-
guised as a
shepherd,

were married

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
82 AS YOU LIKE IT.

on the same day, and all with such pretty feastings and merry-
makings as could be nowhere within four walls, but only in the beautiful
green-wood.

This is one of the songs which Orlando made about his Rosalind—

From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
And all the pictures, fairest lined,

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no fair be kept in mind,

But the fair of Rosalind.

 

 

 

 
 

ERICLES, the Prince of Tyre, was unfortunate enough to make an
enemy of Antiochus, the powerful and wicked King of Antioch ;
and so great was the danger in which he stood that, on the advice of his
trusty counsellor, Lord Helicanus, he determined to travel about the
world for atime. He came to this decision despite the fact that, by the
death of his father, he was now King of Tyre. So he set sail for Tarsus,
appointing Helicanus Regent during his absence. That he did wisely in
thus leaving his kingdom was soon made clear.

Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord Thaliard arrived from
Antioch with instructions from his royal master to kill Pericles. The
faithful Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of this wicked
lord, and at once sent messengers to Tarsus to warn the king of the
danger which threatened him.

The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and distress that Pericles,
feeling that he could find no safe refuge there, put to sea again. But a
dreadful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and the good vessel
was wrecked and split to pieces, while of all on board only Pericles was
saved, and he in sorry plight indeed. Bruised and wet and faint, he was
flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast of Pentapolis, the country of the
84 PERICLES.

good King Simonides. Worn out as he was, he looked for nothing but
death, and that speedily. But some fishermen, coming down to the
beach, found him there, and gave him clothes and bade him be of good
cheer.

“Thou shalt come home with me,” said one of them, “ and we will
have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreo’er, puddings and
flapjacks, and thou shalt be welcome.”

Pericles, touched by their kindness, took heart of grace, and
the love of life came back to him. They told him that on the morrow
many princes and knights were going to the King’s Court, there to
joust and tourney for the love of his daughter, the beautiful Princess
Thaisa.

“Did but my fortunes equal my desires,” said Pericles, “I'd wish
to make one there.”

As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, drawing their net, and
it dragged heavily, resisting all their efforts, but at last they hauled it in
to find that it contained a suit of rusty armour; and looking at it, he
blessed Fortune for her kindness, for he saw that it was his own, which
had been given to him by his dead father. He begged the fishermen to
let him have it, that he might go to Court and take part in the tourna-
ment, promising that if ever his ill fortunes bettered, he would reward
them well. The fishermen readily consented, and being thus fully
equipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armour to the King’s Court.
The device on his shield was a withered branch that was only green
on the top, and the motto “In hac spe vivo” (In this hope I
live).

‘““A pretty moral,” said Simonides to his daughter. “From the
dejected state wherein he is, he hopes by you his fortunes yet may
flourish.”

In the tournament none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won
the wreath of victory, which the fair Princess herself placed on his brows.
Then at her father’s command she asked him who he was, and whence he
came ; and he answered that he was a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles,
but he did not tell her that he was the King of that country, for he
knew that if once his whereabouts became known to Antiochus, his life
would not be worth a pin’s purchase. Nevertheless Thaisa loved him
 

 

 

Gilipdige

PERICLES.

THE TOURNAMENT.

 

 

 
86 PERICLES.

dearly, and the King was so pleased with his courage and graceful
bearing that he gladly permitted his daughter to have her own
way, when she told him she would marry the stranger knight
or die.

Thus Fortune was kind and gracious to Pericles, and he became
the husband of the fair lady for whose sake he had striven with the
knights who came in all their bravery to joust and tourney for
her love.

Meanwhile the wicked King Antiochus had died, and the people in
Tyre, hearing no news of their King; urged Lord Helicanus to ascend
the vacant throne.- But Helicanus was loyal to his sovereign, and for
all their urging they could only get him to promise that he would
become their King, if at the end of a year Pericles did not come
back. Moreover, he sent forth messengers far and wide in search of the
missing Pericles.

Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and finding their King
there, told him how discontented his people were at his long absence, and
that, Antiochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder him from
returning to his kingdom. Then Pericles told his wife and father-in-law
who he really was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides greatly
rejoiced to know that the gallant husband of Thaisa was a King in
his own right. So Pericles set sail with his dear wife for his native
land.

But once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a dreadful storm
broke out, and while it was at its height, a servant came to tell him that
a little daughter was born to him. This news would have made his heart
glad indeed, but that the servant went on to add that his wife—his dear,
dear Thaisa—was dead.

While he was praying the gods to be good to his little baby girl, the
sailors came to him, declaring that the dead Queen must be thrown
overboard, for they believed that the storm would never cease so long as
a dead body remained in the vessel.

Pericles, though he despised their superstitious fears, was obliged
to yield to them. So Thaisa was laid in a big chest with spices
and jewels, and a scroll on which the sorrowful King wrote these
lines :—

 
PERICLES. 87

“ Here I give to understand, za 2 st
(If e’er this coffin drive a-land) Re EEE eZ Ze Se
I, King Pericles, have lost BA WY
This Queen worth all our mundane cost. Be va é i =
Who finds her, give her burying ; ea ) 7 (Ag,
She was the daughter of a king ; ze a WEEN. by
Besides this treasure for a fee, i Wy ff i
The gods requite his charity ! ” F

Then the chest was cast into the fs t

 

sea, and the waves taking it, by and by
washed it ashore at Ephesus, where it

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was found by the servants of a lord | ===

named Cerimon. He at once ordered it ==> 7 4B A
to be opened, and when he saw what it SSE J se i
held, and how lovely Thaisa looked, he = Ail éf i
doubted if she were dead, and took ] | i
immediate steps to restore her. Then a great wonder | | I
happened, for she, who had been thrown into the i | | i

i; I

sea as dead, came back to life. But feeling sure
that she would never see her husband again, Thaisa
retired from the world, and became a priestess of the goddess
Diana.

While these things were happening, Pericles went on to Tarsus with
his little daughter, whom he called Marina, because she had been born at.
sea. Leaving her in the hands of his old friend, the Governor of Tarsus,
the King sailed for his own dominions, where his people received him
with hearty welcome.

Now Dionyza, the wife of the Governor of Tarsus, was a jealous and
wicked woman, and finding that the young Princess grew up a more
accomplished and charming girl than her own daughter, she determined
to take Marina’s life. So when Marina was fourteen, Dionyza ordered
one of her servants to take her away and kill her. This villain would
have done so, but that he was interrupted by some pirates who came in
and carried Marina off to sea with them, and took her to Mitylene, where
they sold her as a slave. Yet such were her goodness, her grace, and her
beauty, that she soon became honoured there, and Lysimachus, the young
Governor, fell deep in love with her, and would have married her, but
 

 

   

88 PERICLES.

that he thought she must be of too humble parentage to become the wife
of one in his high position.

The wicked Dionyza believed, from her servant’s report, that Marina
was really dead, and so she put up a monument to her memory, and
showed it to King Pericles, when after long years of absence he came to
see his much-loved child. When he heard that she, his only joy in life,
was dead, his grief was terrible to see. He set sail once more, and
putting on sackcloth, vowed never to wash his face or cut his hair
again. There was a pavilion erected on deck and there he lay alone,
curtained from the sight of all, and for three months he spoke word
to none.

At last it chanced that his ship came into the port of Mitylene, and
Lysimachus, the Governor, went on board to enquire whence the vessel
came. When he heard the story of Pericles’ sorrow and silence, he
bethought him of Marina, and, believing that she could rouse the King
from his stupor, sent for her and bade her try her utmost to persuade the
King to speak, promising whatever reward she would, if she succeeded.
Marina gladly obeyed, and sending the rest away, she sat and sang to
her poor grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, he made no
sign. So presently she spoke to him, saying that her grief might
equal his, if both were justly weighed, and that, though she was a
slave, she came from ancestors that stood equivalent with mighty
kings.

Something in her voice and story touched the King’s heart, and
he looked up at her, and as he looked, he saw with wonder how lke she
" was to his lost wife, so with a great hope springing up in his heart, he
bade her tell her story.

Then, with many interruptions from the King, she told him who she
was and how she had escaped from the cruel Dionyza. So Pericles knew
that this was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again and again,
crying that his great seas of joy drowned him with their sweetness.
‘Give me my robes,” he said: ““O Heavens, bless my girl !”

Then there came to him, though none else could hear it, the sound
of heavenly music, and falling asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana, in a
vision.

“Go,” she said to him, “to my temple at Ephesus, and when

 
Se 2
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my maiden
priests are
met  to-
gether, re-
veal how
thou at sea
didst lose
thy wife.”
Pericles
obeyed . the
goddess and

told his
tale before
her altar.

Hardly had
he made an
end, when
the chief
priestess,
crying out,

«You are— ~

you are—O
royal Peri-
eles!” fell
fainting to
the ground,

gently recovering, she
spoke again to him, “O
my lord, are you not

Pericles 2”

 

PERICLES. : 89

   

and pre-

“The voice of dead
Thaisa!” exclaimed the King in wonder.

“That Thaisa am I,” she said, and looking at her, he saw that she
spoke. the very truth, and he called to her—

“OQ come, be buried a second time in these arms! ”

Thus Pericles and Thaisa, after long and bitter suffering, found

 

 

 

 
90 PERICLES.

happiness once more, and in the joy of their meeting they forgot
the pain of the past. To Marina great happiness was given, not
only in being restored to her dear parents; for she married Lysi-
machus, and became a princess in the land where she had been
sold as a slave.

  
   
   
   

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NTONIO was a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice. His

ships were on nearly every sea, and he traded with Portugal,

with Mexico, with England, and with India. Although proud of his

riches, he was very generous with them, and delighted to use them in

relieving the wants of his friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio,
held the first place.

Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant gentleman, was
reckless and extravagant, and finding that he had not only come to
the end of his fortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, he went
to Antonio for further help.

“To you, Antonio,” he said, “I owe the most in money and in
love: and I have thought of a plan to pay everything I owe if you
will but help me.”

“Say what I can do, and it shall be done,” answered his friend.

Then said Bassanio, “In Belmont is a lady richly left, and from »
all quarters of the globe renowned suitors come to woo her, not only
because she is rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. She
looked on me with such favour when last; we met, that I feel sure |
should win her away from all rivals for her love had I but the means
to go to Belmont, where she lives.”

“All my fortunes,” said Antonio, “are at sea, and so I have no
ready money: but luckily my credit is good in Venice, and I will
borrow for you what you need.”

There was living in Venice at this time a rich Jew and money-
lender, named Shylock. Antonio despised and disliked this man very
much, and treated him with the greatest harshness and scorn. He
would thrust him, like a cur, over his threshold, and would even spit on
 

92 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

him. Shylock submitted to all these indignities with a patient shrug ;
but deep in his heart he cherished a desire for revenge on the rich, smug
merchant. For Antonio both hurt his pride and injured his business.
“But for him,” thought Shylock, “I should be richer by half a million
ducats. On the market place, and wherever he can, he denounces the
vate of interest I charge, and—worse than that—he lends out: money
freely.”

So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand
ducats to Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning
to Antonio, said—‘ Harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends
with you and have your love. So I will lend you the money and
charge you no interest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in
which it shall be agreed that if you do not repay me in three months’
time, then I shall have the right to a pound of your flesh, to be cut
from what part of your body I choose.”

‘‘No,” cried Bassanio to his friend, “you shall run no such risk for me.”

2 ie “Why, fear not,” said Antonio, “my ships
» will be home a month before the time. I will
,, sign the bond.”
v Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means
to go to Belmont, there to woo the lovely
Portia. The very night he started, the
Jew’s pretty daughter, Jessica, ran away
from her father’s house with a Christian
lover, and she took with her from her
father’s hoards some bags of ducats and
precious stones. Shylock’s grief and
anger were terrible to see. His love
for her changed to hate. ‘I would she
were dead at my feet and the jewels
in her ear,” he cried. His only comfort
* now was in hearing of the serious losses
which had befallen Antonio, some of
whose ships were wrecked. ‘Let him
look to his bond,” said Shylock, “let
him look to his bond.”

    
  
.
-

 

Choosing the Casket.
 

 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 93

Meanwhile Bassanio had -
reached Belmont, and had
visited the fair Portia. He
found, as he had told An-
tonio, that the rumour of /
her wealth and beauty had
drawn to her suitors from /
far and near. But to all of
them Portia had but
one reply. She would
only accept that suitor
who would pledge
himself to abide by
the terms of her
father’s will. These
were conditions that
frightened away many
an ardent wooer. For
he who would win
Portia’s heart and
hand, had to guess
which of three oe
held her portrait. If he guessed aright, then Portia would be his bide!
if wrong, then he was bound by oan never to reveal which casket he
chose, never to marry, and to go away at Once.

The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore this
inscription :—‘‘ Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire”
the silver one had this :—‘‘ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he
deserves” ; while on the lead one were these words :—‘‘ Who chooseth
me must give and hazard all he hath.” The Prince of Morocco, as brave
as he was black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose’
the gold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain
her picture. So he chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness
of what many men desire—death.

After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, and saying, ‘“‘ Let
me have what I deserve—surely I deserve the lady,’ he phose the

 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 
94 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

silver one, and found inside a fool’s head. ‘Did I deserve no more
than a fool’s head?” he cried.

Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him
from making his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she
loved him dearly, even as he loved her. ‘“ But,” said Bassanio, “‘let me
choose at once, for, as I am, I live upon the rack.”

Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play while her
gallant lover made his choice. And Bassanio took the oath and walked
up to the caskets—the musicians playing softly the while. ‘Mere
outward show,” he said, “is to be despised. The world is still deceived
with ornament, and so no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose
the lead casket ; joy be the consequence!” And opening it, he found
fair Portia’s portrait inside, and he turned to her and asked if it were
true that she was his.

“Yes,” said Portia, “I am yours, and this house is yours, and

with them I give you this ring, from which you
must never part.”
And Bassanio, saying that he could
hardly speak for joy, found words to
swear that he would never part with the
ring while he lived.

Then suddenly all his happiness was
dashed with sorrow, for messengers came
from Venice to tell him that Antonio
was ruined, and that Shylock demanded
from the Duke the fulfilment of the
bond, under which he was entitled to a
pound of the merchant’s flesh. Portia
HM was as grieved as Bassanio to hear of the
% danger which threatened his friend.
iB “ Hirst,” she said, “take me to church

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  

 

to Venice at once to help your
friend. You shall take with you
money enough to pay his debt
twenty times over.”
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

  
 
 
 
 
 

_ But when her newly-
made husband had gone,
Portia went after him, and
arrived in Venice disguised
as a lawyer, and with an
introduction from a
celebrated lawyer
Bellario, whom the
Duke of Venice had
called in to decide
the legal questions
raised by Shylock’s
claim to a pound of
Antonio’s flesh.
When the Court
met, Bassanio offered
Shylock twice the
money borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the Jew’s
only answer was—

“Tf every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them,—I would have my bond.”

It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her
own husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of
the great Bellario’s introduction, and left the settlement of the case to
her. Then in noble words she bade the Jew have mercy. But he was
deaf to her entreaties. ‘I will have the pound of flesh,” was his reply.

“What have you to say?” asked Portia of the merchant.

“ But little,” he answered ; “I am armed and well prepared.”

“The Court awards you a pound of Antonio’s flesh,” said Portia to
the Jew.

“Most righteous judge!” cried the cruel Jew, “A sentence, come
prepare.”

“Stop, Jew. This bond gives you no right to Antonio’s blood, only
to his flesh. If, then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your property will
be forfeited to the State. Such is the Law.”
96 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

And Shylock, in his fear, said, “Then I will take Bassanio’s offer.”

“No,” said Portia sternly, “you shall have nothing but your bond.
Take your pound of flesh, but remember, that if you take more or less,
even by the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life.”

Shylock now grew very frightened. “Give me back my three
thousand ducats that I lent him, and let him go.”

Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia “No! He
shall have nothing but his bond.”

“You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of a
Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods are
forfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.”

Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown
to Shylock, had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the Jew forfeited
half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the other half on his
daughter’s husband, while his life was only spared on condition of his
becoming a Christian.

Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part
with the ring his wife gave him, and when on his return to Belmont, he
confessed as much to Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she
would not be friends with him until she had her ring again. But at last
she told him that it was she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had
saved his friend’s life, and got the ring from him. So Bassanio was
forgiven, and made happier than ever, to know how rich a prize he had
drawn at the lottery of the caskets.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 
 
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