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[Illustration]

BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

BY

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB


EDITED BY

E.V. LUCAS


WITH A FRONTISPIECE




INTRODUCTION


The present volume contains all the stories and verses for children
which we know Charles and Mary Lamb to have written. The text is that
of the first or second editions, as explained in the Notes. _The
Poetry for Children_ and _Prince Dorus_ have been set up from the late
Andrew W. Tuer's facsimiles. The large edition of this volume contains
all the original pictures, together with the apochryphal _Beauty and
the Beast_.

In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian
symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's
Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner
Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the
bells are those which once stood out from the façade of St. Dunstan's
Church in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in
Regent's Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy
sprite and the candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of
mine.

E.V.L.




CONTENTS


TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR

                                                              PAGE
Preface                                                          1
The Tempest                                                      3
A Midsummer Night's Dream                                       13
The Winter's Tale                                               23
Much Ado About Nothing                                          33
As You Like It                                                  44
The Two Gentlemen of Verona                                     58
The Merchant of Venice                                          69
Cymbeline                                                       81
King Lear                                                       92
Macbeth                                                        106
All's Well that Ends Well                                      115
The Taming of the Shrew                                        126
The Comedy of Errors                                           136
Measure for Measure                                            148
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will                               161
Timon of Athens                                                173
Romeo and Juliet                                               184
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark                                      199
Othello                                                        213
Pericles, Prince of Tyre                                       225


THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES

Preface                                                        240
CHAPTER I. The Cicons--The fruit of the lotos tree--Polyphemus
  and the Cyclops--The kingdom of the winds, and god
  Æolus's fatal present--The Læstrygonian man-eaters           241
CHAPTER II. The House of Circe--Men changed into beasts--The
  voyage to hell--The banquet of the dead                      250
CHAPTER III. The song of the Sirens--Scylla and Charybdis--The
  oxen of the Sun--The judgment--The crew killed by lightning  262
CHAPTER IV. The Island of Calypso--Immortality refused         269
CHAPTER V. The tempest--The sea-bird's gift--The escape by
  swimming--The sleep in the woods                             273
CHAPTER VI. The Princess Nausicaa--The washing--The game
  with the ball--The Court of Phæacia and king Alcinous.       277
CHAPTER VII. The songs of Demodocus--The convoy home--The
  mariners transformed to stone--The young shepherd.           283
CHAPTER VIII. The change from a king to a beggar--Eumæus
  and the herdsmen--Telemachus                                 290
CHAPTER IX. The queen's suitors--The battle of the beggars--The
  armour taken down--The meeting with Penelope                 301
CHAPTER X. The madness from above--The bow of Ulysses--The
  slaughter--The conclusion                                    308


MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL

Dedication                                                     316
Elizabeth Villiers: The Sailor Uncle                           319
Louisa Manners: The Farm House                                 328
Ann Withers: The Changeling                                    334
Elinor Forester: The Father's Wedding Day                      350
Margaret Green: The Young Mahometan                            354
Emily Barton: Visit to the Cousins                             360
Maria Howe: The Witch Aunt                                     368
Charlotte Wilmot: The Merchant's Daughter                      375
Susan Yates: First Going to Church                             378
Arabella Hardy: The Sea Voyage                                 384


THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS                                   389


POETRY FOR CHILDREN

Envy                                                           404
The Reaper's Child                                             404
The Ride                                                       405
The Butterfly                                                  406
The Peach                                                      407
Chusing a Name                                                 408
Crumbs to the Birds                                            408
The Rook and the Sparrows                                      409
Discontent and Quarrelling                                     410
Repentance and Reconciliation                                  411
Neatness in Apparel                                            412
The New-born Infant                                            412
Motes in the Sun-beams                                         413
The Boy and the Snake                                          413
The First Tooth                                                415
To a River in which a Child was Drowned                        416
The First of April                                             416
Cleanliness                                                    417
The Lame Brother                                               418
Going into Breeches                                            419
Nursing                                                        420
The Text                                                       421
The End of May                                                 422
Feigned Courage                                                424
The Broken Doll                                                425
The Duty of a Brother                                          426
Wasps in a Garden                                              427
What is Fancy?                                                 428
Anger                                                          429
Blindness                                                      429
The Mimic Harlequin                                            430
Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum Book         430
Memory                                                         431
The Reproof                                                    432
The Two Bees                                                   432
The Journey from School and to School                          434
The Orange                                                     435
The Young Letter-Writer                                        436
The Three Friends                                              437
On the Lord's Prayer                                           442
"Suffer little Children, and Forbid them not, to come unto Me" 443
The Magpye's Nest; or, A Lesson of Docility                    445
The Boy and the Sky-lark                                       447
The Men and Women, and the Monkeys                             449
Love, Death, and Reputation                                    449
The Sparrow and the Hen                                        450
Which is the Favourite?                                        451
The Beggar-Man                                                 451
Choosing a Profession                                          452
Breakfast                                                      453
Weeding                                                        454
Parental Recollections                                         455
The Two Boys                                                   455
The Offer                                                      456
The Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's learning Latin     456
The Brother's Reply                                            457
Nurse Green                                                    459
Good Temper                                                    460
Moderation in Diet                                             460
Incorrect Speaking                                             462
Charity                                                        462
My Birthday                                                    463
The Beasts in the Tower                                        464
The Confidant                                                  466
Thoughtless Cruelty                                            466
Eyes                                                           467
Penny Pieces                                                   468
The Rainbow                                                    469
The Force of Habit                                             470
Clock Striking                                                 470
Why not do it, Sir, To-day?                                    471
Home Delights                                                  471
The Coffee Slips                                               472
The Dessert                                                    473
To a Young Lady, on being too Fond of Music                    474
Time Spent in Dress                                            475
The Fairy                                                      476
Conquest of Prejudice                                          476
The Great-Grandfather                                          478
The Spartan Boy                                                479
Queen Oriana's Dream                                           480
On a Picture of the Finding of Moses by Pharaoh's Daughter     481
David                                                          483
David in the Cave of Adullam                                   486


THREE POEMS NOT IN "POETRY FOR CHILDREN"

Summer Friends                                                 488
A Birthday Thought                                             488
The Boy, the Mother, and the Butterfly                         489


PRINCE DORUS                                                   490

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTES                                                          499
INDEX                                                          523
INDEX OF FIRST LINES                                           529




FRONTISPIECE

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

From the Painting by F.S. Cary, in 1834, now in the National Portrait
Gallery.




TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR

(_Written 1805-1806. First Edition 1807. Text of Second Edition 1809_)




PREFACE


The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as
an introduction to the study of Shakespear, for which purpose, his
words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in
whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected
story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might
least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which
he wrote: therefore words introduced into our language since his time
have been as far as possible avoided.

In those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, as my young
readers will perceive when they come to see the source from which
these stories are derived, Shakespear's own words, with little
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies I found myself scarcely
ever able to turn his words into the narrative form; therefore I fear
in them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people
not used to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be as
I fear a fault, has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much of
Shakespear's own words as possible: and if the "_He said_" and "_She
said_" the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to
their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way I
knew of, in which I could give them a few hints and little foretastes
of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when
they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless
coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and
imperfect stamps of Shakespear's matchless image. Faint and imperfect
images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is
too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his
excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense,
to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places,
where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple
plainness to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are
reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own
natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native
beauty.

I have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young
children. To the utmost of my ability I have constantly kept this in
my mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult
task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in
terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For young
ladies too it has been my intention chiefly to write, because boys
are generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are, they frequently having the best scenes of
Shakespear by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into
this manly book; and therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to
the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the
originals, I must rather beg their kind assistance in explaining to
their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand; and
when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps
they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young
sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these
stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and I
trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages,
they may chuse to give their sisters in this way, will be much better
relished and understood from their having some notion of the general
story from one of these imperfect abridgments:--which if they be
fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of you, my young
readers, I hope will have no worse effect upon you, than to make
you wish yourselves a little older, that you may be allowed to read
the Plays at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish nor
irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put
them into your hands, you will discover in such of them as are here
abridged (not to mention almost as many more which are left untouched)
many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite
variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of
sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour of
which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to reduce the length of
them.

What these Tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it
is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespear may prove to you in older
years--enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing
from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and
honourable thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity,
generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these virtues, his
pages are full.




THE TEMPEST

(_By Mary Lamb_)


There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which
were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a
very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she
had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's.

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock: it was divided into
several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he
kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this art he
found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon
this island, which had been inchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who
died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his
art, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked
commands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of
Prospero. Of these Ariel was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature,
except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly
monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the
son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban Prospero found in the
woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape:
he took him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero
would have been very kind to him, but the bad nature, which Caliban
inherited from his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn any thing
good or useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch
wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of
compelling him to these services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible
to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slyly and pinch him, and
sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness
of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape,
in the likeness of a hedgehog he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way,
who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With
a variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,
whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to
do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by
their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders
they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling
with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up,
he shewed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full
of living beings like themselves. "O my dear father," said she, "if by
your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad
distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they
will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the
earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the
precious souls within her."

"Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; "there is no harm
done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive
any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You
are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no more
of me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you
remember a time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot, for
you were not then three years of age."

"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.

"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? Tell me what
you can remember, my child."

Miranda said, "It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But
had I not once four or five women who attended upon me?"

Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is it that this still lives
in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?"

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

"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, "I was duke of Milan,
and you were a princess and my only heir. I had a younger brother,
whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted every thing; and as I was
fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the management of
my state affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed he
proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did
dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio
being thus in possession of my power, began to think himself the duke
indeed. The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my
subjects, awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of
my dukedom; this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples,
a powerful prince, who was my enemy."

"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that hour destroy us?"

"My child," answered her father, "they durst not, so dear was the love
that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when
we were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat,
without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us as he thought
to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some
books which I prize above my dukedom."

"O my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble must I have been to you
then!"

"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did
preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me to bear up against my
misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,
since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and
well have you profited by my instructions."

"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me,
sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm." "Know then," said her
father, "that by means of this storm my enemies, the king of Naples,
and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island."

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

"Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you
performed your task?"

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

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

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

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: bur there
is more work yet."

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master, you
have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthy
service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge
or grumbling." "How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a
torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax,
who with age and envy was almost bent double? Where was she born?
Speak; tell me."

"Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel.

"O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you have been,
which I find you do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, for her
witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from
Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit
too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a
tree, where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free
you from."

"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; "I
will obey your commands."

"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." He then gave orders
what farther he would have him do, and away went Ariel, first to where
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.

"O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move
you. You must be brought, I find, for the lady Miranda to have a sight
of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing,

  "Full fathom five thy father lies:
    Of his bones are coral made;
  Those are pearls that were his eyes:
    Nothing of him that doth fade,
  But doth suffer a sea-change
  Into something rich and strange.
  Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
  Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong--bell."

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the
stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the
sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who
were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never
seen a man before, except her own father.

"Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder."

"O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that is a
spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful
creature. It is not a spirit?"

"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has senses
such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is
somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He
has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find them."

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

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was
going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted
her. He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he
plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first
sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some
difficulties in their way: therefore advancing forward, he addressed
the prince with a stern air, telling him, he came to the island as a
spy, to take it from him who was the lord of it. "Follow me," said he,
"I will tie you, neck and feet together. You shall drink sea-water;
shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns, shall be your food."
"No," said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertainment, till I see
a more powerful enemy," and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his
magic wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no
power to move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so ungentle? Have
pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw,
and to me he seems a true one."

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

"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, "you have no power
to disobey me."

"I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was
by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished
to find himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero; looking
back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after
Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in
a dream; but this man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, would
seem light to me, if from my prison I might once a day behold this
fair maid."

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon
brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking
care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him,
and then pretending to go into his study he secretly watched them
both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood.
Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, "do not
work so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these three
hours: pray, rest yourself."

"O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task
before I take my rest."

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

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

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

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's
disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall
in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she shewed her love by
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a
long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above
all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all
the women in the world, she replied, "I do not remember the face of
any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and
my dear father. How features are abroad, I know not; but believe me,
sir, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my
imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I
fear I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget."

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head as much as to say, "This
goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples."

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes
speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to
the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen.

"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will
answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will
marry me."

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

"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and approve
of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used
you, I will make you rich amends by giving you my daughter. All
your vexations were but my trials of your love, and you have nobly
stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily
purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is
above all praise." He then, telling them that he had business which
required his presence, desired they would sit down and talk together,
till he returned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed
to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly
appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's
brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost
out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused
them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished
for want of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet,
and then, just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before
them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the
feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming
harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving
Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving him and his infant daughter
to perish in the sea; saying, that for this cause these terrors were
suffered to afflict them.

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the
injustice they had done to Prospero: and Ariel told his master he was
certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit,
could not but pity them.

"Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who are but
a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being
like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my
dainty Ariel."

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

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that they did not know
Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling
him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the king knew
that he was the injured Prospero. Antonio with tears, and sad words of
sorrow and true repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and
the king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio
to depose his brother: and Prospero forgave them; and, upon their
engaging to restore his dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, "I
have a gift in store for you too;" and opening a door, shewed him his
son Ferdinand, playing at chess with Miranda.

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

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

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and
excellent graces of the young Miranda as his son had been. "Who is
this maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has parted us, and
brought us thus together." "No, sir," answered Ferdinand, smiling to
find his father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done when
he first saw Miranda, "she is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she
is mine; I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this
Prospero, who is the famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have
heard so much, but never saw him till now: of him I have received a
new life: he has made himself to me a second father, giving me this
dear lady."

"Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how oddly will it
sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness."

"No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our troubles
past, since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero embraced
his brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that
a wise, over-ruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven
from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the
crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island it
had happened, that the king's son had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother,
so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was
unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful
reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, and
the sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would
accompany them home the next morning. "In the meantime," says he,
"partake of such refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your
evening's entertainment I will relate the history of my life from my
first landing in this desert island." He then called for Caliban to
prepare some food, and set the cave in order; and the company were
astonished at the uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly
monster, who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to wait
upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service,
to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been
a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free
liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. "My
quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him
free, "I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you,
my dear master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend your ship
home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewel to the assistance
of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily
I shall live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song:

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

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books, and
wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art.
And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his
brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his
happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession of his
dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda and
prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated
with great splendour on their return to Naples. At which place, under
the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage
soon arrived.




A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

(_By Mary Lamb_)


There was a law in the city of Athens, which gave to its citizens the
power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased:
for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen
to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her
to be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of
their own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little
refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though
perhaps the young ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened
by their parents with the terrors of it.

There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus,
who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning
duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had
commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family,
refused to obey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named
Lysander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this
cruel law might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had
formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena
loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason which
Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command moved not the
stern Egeus.

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

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

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but
recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from
Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not
be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the
boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she should steal
out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's
house, where he would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in
the wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood, where
we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen
replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I
have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not
I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little
changeling boy to be my page."

"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy
kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great
anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I
will torment you for this injury."

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy counsellor.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a
shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in
the neighbouring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and
skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into
the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the
vessel, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream into
butter: nor had the village swains any better success; whenever Puck
chose to play his freaks in the brewing-copper, the ale was sure to be
spoiled. When a few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable
ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of
a roasted crab, and when some old goody was going to drink, he would
bob against her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and
presently after, when the same old dame was gravely seating herself
to tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip
her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the poor old
woman, and then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at
her, and swear they never wasted a merrier hour.

"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the
night; "fetch me the flower which maids call _Love in Idleness_; the
juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who
sleep, will make them, when they awake, doat on the first thing they
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my
Titania, when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when
she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a
lion, or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape: and before I will
take this charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm
I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my page."

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this
intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and
Helena enter the woods: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for
following him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle
expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and
professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the
mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she
could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great
compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk
by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in
those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that
might be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon
said to his favourite, "Take a part of this flower: there has been a
sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if
you find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but
contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees
when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will know the man by the
Athenian garments which he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter
very dextrously; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her
bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a
bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a
canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always
slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a
snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy
in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ
themselves while she slept. "Some of you," said her majesty, "must
kill cankers in the musk-rose-buds, and some wage war with the bats
for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of
you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not
near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this
song:--

  You spotted snakes with double tongue,
  Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
  Newts and blind-worms do no wrong,
  Come not near our Fairy Queen.
  Philomel, with melody,
  Sing in our sweet lullaby,
  Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
  Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
  Come our lovely lady nigh;
  So good night with lullaby.

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby,
they left her, to perform the important services she had enjoined
them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropt some of the
love-juice on her eye-lids, saying,

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

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house
that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry
Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander
waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they
had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, that had proved her
affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded
her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down
himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast
asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who seeing a handsome young man
asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian
fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that
this must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon
had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as
they were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see
when he awoke: so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out,
that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first
object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes: and strange to relate,
so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,
and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

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

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,
endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely
from her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men
being always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon
lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about dejected
and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping.
"Ah!" said she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or
asleep?" Then gently touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are
alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm
beginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant
love and admiration; telling her, she as much excelled Hermia in
beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire
for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena,
knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was
solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard
herself addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might)
that Lysander was making a jest of her. "Oh!" said she, "why was I
born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it
not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind
word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful
manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true
gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and
Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was
still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone.
She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander,
or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius not
being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with
his fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had
learnt by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied
the love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now, having found
the person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping
Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first
thing he saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began
to address love-speeches to her: and just at that moment Lysander,
followed by Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now
become Hermia's turn to run after her lover), made his appearance;
and then Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to
Helena, they being each one under the influence of the same potent
charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once
dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not why Lysander and
Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

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

"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on, to vex
me with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost
to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess,
Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me
whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind
Hermia, to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgot
our school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting
on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the
same flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in
fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not
friendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your
poor friend."

"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you
not; it seems you scorn me." "Aye, do," returned Helena, "persevere;
counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back;
then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any
pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other,
Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for
the love of Helena.

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

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck
had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your
negligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of
shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake: did not you tell me I
should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry
this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport."
"You heard," said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to
seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the
night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in
the dark, that they shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit
each of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them
to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear.
See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and
when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower
into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love
for Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two
fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they
will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly,
Puck; and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found."

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who
had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow,"
said he, "shall be my Titania's truelove;" and clapping an ass's head
over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon
his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently,
it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to
him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and
the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect; "Are
you as wise as you are beautiful?"

"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find
the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."

"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured queen. "I am
a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give
you fairies to attend upon you."

She then called four of her fairies; their names were, Pease-blossom,
Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.

"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his
walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and
steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said
she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my
beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!"

"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown; not much
regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new
attendants.

"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom.

"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"

"Here, sir," said Cobweb.

"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humble-bee
on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the
honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you
overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"

"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; "what is your will?"

"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.
Pease-blossom to scratch: I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed,
for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face."

"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a
venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some
new nuts."

"I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with
his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of
your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."

"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how
I love you! how I doat upon you!"

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

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

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

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for
to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which,
by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some
of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen
immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage,
saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him
to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.

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

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no
great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck,
to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other;
and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander
with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,
was looking at him, and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander
presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his
reason which the fairy-charm had before clouded, and with his reason
his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had
both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.

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

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

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

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

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty
harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.




THE WINTER'S TALE

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous
Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wish
ungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to
present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from
their infancy, but being by the death of their fathers called to
reign over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many
years, though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and
loving embassies.

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

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He
recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular
attention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old
companion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old
times; their school-days and their youthful pranks were remembered,
and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in these
conversations.

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

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to
stay at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and
persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon
this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourable
principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent
disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable
jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her
husband's particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the
unfortunate king's malady; and from being a loving and a true friend,
and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage
and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his
court, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded
him to poison Polixenes.

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

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he
went to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with
her little son Mamillus, who was just beginning to tell one of his
best stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking
the child away, sent Hermione to prison.

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

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes
and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of
the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful
to him.

When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed
of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight
of her pretty baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am
as innocent as you are."

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the
wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the Lady Paulina heard
her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where
Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended
upon Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her
majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the
king its father; we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his
innocent child." "Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, "I will acquaint
the queen with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had
any friend who would venture to present the child to the king." "And
tell her," said Paulina, "that I will speak boldly to Leontes in
her defence." "May you be for ever blessed," said Emilia, "for your
kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who
joyfully gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared
that no one would dare venture to present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's
presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,
endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet,
and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione,
and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him
to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited
remonstrances only aggravated Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered
her husband Antigonus to take her from his presence.

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet,
thinking, when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have
pity on its helpless innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner was she gone than the
merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the
child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to
perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of
Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and put
out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could
find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that he
would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent
to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was
recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her
precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all the
lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the
judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled together to
try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before
her subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the
assembly, and presented to the king the answer of the oracle sealed
up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of
the oracle to be read aloud, and these were the words:--"_Hermione
is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a
jealous tyrant, and the king shall live without an heir if that which
is lost be not found_." The king would give no credit to the words
of the oracle: he said it was a falsehood invented by the queen's
friends, and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the
queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that
the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to be tried for her life,
struck with grief and shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child,
who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and
Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his
unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her
attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina
soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty
to her; and now that he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's
heart, he believed her innocent; and he now thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost was not found,"
which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young prince Mamillus being dead; and he would give his
kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up
to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant
grief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea
was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of
the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the
little baby.

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

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had
made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had
pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name of _Perdita_ written
thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward
fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man,
and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it
tenderly: but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize
he had found; therefore he left that part of the country, that no one
might know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels
he bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up
Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a
shepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no
better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the
natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her
untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she
had not been brought up in her father's court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was
Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's
dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty,
modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the
disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old
shepherd's house.

Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting
people to watch his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's
fair daughter.

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had
preserved his life from the fury of Leontes; and desired that he would
accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of
Perdita.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's
dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and
though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest
being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the
general festivity.

Nothing but mirth and jolity was going forward. Tables were spread,
and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and
lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the
young men were buying ribbands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at
the door.

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

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know
him; he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The
simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did
not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, "This is the
prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks
like something greater than herself, too noble for this place."

Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream."

"Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old shepherd, "what fair
swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They call him Doricles,"
replied the shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to speak
truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If
young Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreams
of:" meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up
for her marriage-portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young man!" said he: "your
heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have
let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy."

The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his
father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts
which Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then turning
to Perdita, he said to her, "O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what I
profess." Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness
to a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to
Polixenes, "I pray you, mark our contract."

"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering himself.
Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to
this low-born maiden, calling Perdita "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook,"
and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered
his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her
father, to a cruel death.

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

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by
Polixenes's reproaches, said, "Though we are all undone, I was not
much afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him
plainly that the self-same sun which shines upon his palace, hides not
his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then sorrowfully
she said, "But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no
farther. Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes, and weep."

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety
of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal
father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same
time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.

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

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted
every thing relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go
along with them.

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

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old
shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who
still mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo
with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel.
But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to
engross all Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her
and his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said,
such a lovely creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not
so cruelly destroyed her. "And then too," said he to Florizel, "I lost
the society and friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire
more than my life once again to look upon."

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

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present
when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had
found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus's death,
he having seen the bear seize upon him. He shewed the rich mantle
in which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and
he produced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about
Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be
the writing of her husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was
Leontes' own daughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between
sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled,
in the king's heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes
heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt
that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he
could say nothing for a long time, but "O thy mother, thy mother!"

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to
Leontes, that she had a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the
queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look
upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself.
Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of
his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never
saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue,
so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was
renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or
move.

"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it the more shews your
wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen?" At length the king
said, "O, thus she stood, even with such majesty, when I first wooed
her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks."
Paulina replied, "So much the more the carver's excellence, who has
made the statue as Hermione would have looked had she been living now.
But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves."

The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! Would I were dead! See,
Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion
in it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. "You are so
transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives." "O, sweet
Paulina," said Leontes, "make me think so twenty years together! Still
methinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever
yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her." "Good, my
lord, forbear!" said Paulina. "The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you
will stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?"
"No, not these twenty years," said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent
admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, "And so long
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother."

"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me
draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make
the statue move indeed; aye, and descend from off the pedestal, and
take you by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am
not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." "What you can make her
do," said the astonished king, "I am content to look upon. What you
can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make
her speak as move."

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

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her
husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione
herself, the real, the living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione,
thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress's life;
and with the good Paulina Hermione had lived ever since, never
choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita
was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes
had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant
daughter.

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

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on
all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for
loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old
shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina
rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an end of all their
faithful services.

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

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

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

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




MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

(_By Mary Lamb_)


There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were
Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of
Leonato, the governor of Messina.

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero,
who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies.
Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the
light-hearted Beatrice.

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

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

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation
with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, "I wonder that you
will still be talking, signior Benedick; nobody marks you." Benedick
was just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased
at this free salutation: he thought it did not become a well-bred lady
to be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was last
at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests
upon. And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of
as those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was
with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former
times but a perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they
always parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when
Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling him
nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have
observed before that she was present, said, "What, my dear lady
Disdain, are you yet living?" And now war broke out afresh between
them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which Beatrice,
although she knew he had so well approved his valour in the late war,
said that she would eat all he had killed there: and observing the
prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she called him "the
prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick
than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him that he was a
coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard,
knowing himself to be a brave man: but there is nothing that great
wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge
comes sometimes a little too near the truth; therefore Benedick
perfectly hated Beatrice, when she called him "the prince's jester."

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and while
Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had made
in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highly
amused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick
and Beatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is a
pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for
Benedick." Leonato replied to this suggestion, "O my lord, my lord,
if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad." But
though Leonato thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince
did not give up the idea of matching these two keen wits together.

When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found that
the marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the
only one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such
terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in his
heart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio, "Do you affect
Hero?" To this question Claudio replied, "O my lord, when I was last
at Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but
had no leisure for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace,
thoughts of war have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their
room come thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how
fair young Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the
wars." Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the
prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to
accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal,
and the prince found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero
herself to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of
rare endowments, and highly accomplished; and Claudio, assisted by his
kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for the
celebration of his marriage with Hero.

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

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

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio, began their operations first, and
watching an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading in
an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station among the
trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose but
hear all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said,
"Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day,--that
your niece Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never
think that lady would have loved any man." "No, nor I neither, my
lord," answered Leonato. "It is most wonderful that she should so
doat on Benedick, whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to
dislike." Claudio confirmed all this, with saying that Hero had told
him Beatrice was so in love with Benedick that she would certainly die
of grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and
Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been such a
railer against all fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for
Beatrice, and he said, "It were good that Benedick were told of this."
"To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and
torment the poor lady worse." "And if he should," said the prince, "it
were a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady,
and exceeding wise in every thing but in loving Benedick." Then the
prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave
Benedick to meditate upon what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation;
and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it
possible? Sits the wind in that corner?" And when they were gone, he
began to reason in this manner with himself. "This can be no trick!
they were very serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and seem to
pity the lady. Love me! Why, it must be requited! I did never think
to marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She
is so. And wise in every thing but in loving me. Why that is no great
argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she
is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now
approached him, and said with her usual tartness, "Against my will
I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who never felt
himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, replied, "Fair
Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" and when Beatrice after two
or three more rude speeches left him, Benedick thought he observed a
concealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she uttered, and
he said aloud, "If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do
not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture."

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him,
it was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for
this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who
attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, "Good Margaret, run to
the parlour; there you will find my cousin Beatrice talking with the
prince and Claudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking
in the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal
into that pleasant arbour, where honey-suckles, ripened by the sun,
like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter." This arbour,
into which Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very
same pleasant arbour where Benedick had so lately been an attentive
listener. "I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret.

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, "Now,
Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be
your part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you
must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look
where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear
our conference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to
something which Ursula had said, "No truly, Ursula. She is too
disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock."
"But are you sure," said Ursula, "that Benedick loves Beatrice so
entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and
they intreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded them, if
they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice know of it." "Certainly,"
replied Ursula, "it were not good she knew his love, lest she made
sport of it." "Why to say truth," said Hero, "I never yet saw a man,
how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely featured, but she would
dispraise him." "Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable," said
Ursula. "No," replied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? if I should
speak, she would mock me into air." "O you wrong your cousin," said
Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment, as to refuse
so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." "He hath an excellent
good name," said Hero: "indeed he is the first man in Italy, always
excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attendant a hint
that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, "And when are
you to be married, madam?" Hero then told her, that she was to be
married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would go in with her,
and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult with her on what
she should wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening with
breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed,
"What fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Farewel, contempt, and
scorn and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on! I will requite you,
taming my wild heart to your loving hand."

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies converted
into new and loving friends; and to behold their first meeting
after being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero must
now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her wedding day,
brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato.

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him
to Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,
discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving
of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,
because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent
Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of
making Claudio and the prince unhappy: for he knew the prince had set
his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself: and
to effect this wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad
as himself, whom he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This
Borachio paid his court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John,
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with
him from her lady's chamber-window that night, after Hero was asleep,
and also to dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive
Claudio into the belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he
meant to compass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that
Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her
chamber-window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the
wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where they should
themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her window; and they
consented to go along with him, and Claudio said, "If I see any thing
to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation,
where I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." The prince also
said, "And as I assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to
disgrace her."

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

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

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage,
and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the
priest, or friar as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce
the marriage-ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language,
proclaimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange
words he uttered, said meekly, "Is my lord well, that he does speak
so wide?"

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, "My lord, why
speak not you?" "What should I speak?" said the prince; "I stand
dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend to an
unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this
grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with
a man at her chamber-window."

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like
a nuptial."

"True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless
lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince
and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would
recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown
Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her
swoon, saying, "How does the lady?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice
in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous
principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against
her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of his child's
shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay
like one dead before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes.

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human
nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she
heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start
into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away
those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error
that the prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to
the sorrowing father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my
observation; trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling; if this
sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some biting error."

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

"There is," said the friar, "some strange misunderstanding in the
prince and Claudio;" and then he counselled Leonato, that he should
report that Hero was dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon in
which they had left Hero, would make this easy of belief; and he also
advised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for
her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. "What shall become
of this?" said Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar replied, "This
report of her death shall change slander into pity; that is some good,
but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she
died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep
into his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest
in his heart, and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though he
thought his accusation true."

Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you
know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will
not reveal this secret to them."

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

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, "Lady Beatrice, have
you wept all this while?" "Yea, and I will weep a while longer," said
Beatrice. "Surely," said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged." "Ah!" said Beatrice, "how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!" Benedick then said, "Is there any way to show
such friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you; is not
that strange?" "It were as possible," said Beatrice, "for me to say I
loved nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet
I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my
cousin." "By my sword," said Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I
love you. Come, bid me do any thing for you." "Kill Claudio," said
Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick: for he loved
his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. "Is not
Claudio a villain that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my
cousin?" said Beatrice: "O that I were a man!" "Hear me, Beatrice!"
said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio's defence;
and she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs:
and she said, "Talk with a man out of the window; a proper saying!
Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. O that
I were a man for Claudio's sake! or that I had any friend, who would
be a man for my sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and
compliments. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a
woman with grieving." "Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: "by this
hand, I love you." "Use it for my love some other way than swearing by
it," said Beatrice. "Think you on your soul, that Claudio has wronged
Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as I have a
thought, or a soul." "Enough," said Benedick; "I am engaged; I will
challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand,
Claudio shall render me a dear account! As you hear from me, so think
of me. Go, comfort your cousin."

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working
his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the
cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato
was challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief.
But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said, "Nay, do not
quarrel with us, good old man." And now came Benedick, and he also
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to
Hero: and Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Beatrice has
set him on to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this
challenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the
uncertain fortune of a duel.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of
Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the
prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companions
of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing,
that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked
with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero
herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince
of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained, it must have
been removed by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies
were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his
brother.

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

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

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

When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,
where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial: and Leonato presented to
Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might
not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask,
"Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you
will marry me." "And when I lived, I was your other wife," said this
unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as
was pretended), but Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself. We
may be sure that this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who
thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes:
and the prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed
"Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, "She died,
my lord, but while her slander lived." The friar promised them an
explanation of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and
was proceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who
desired to be married at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making
some demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her love
for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took
place; and they found they had both been tricked into a belief of
love, which had never existed, and had become lovers in truth by the
power of a false jest: but the affection, which a merry invention had
cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious
explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to
think nothing to the purpose that the world could say against it; and
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her
but for pity, and because he heard she was dying of love for him; and
Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great persuasion, and
partly to save his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So
these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, after
Claudio and Hero were married; and to complete the history, Don John,
the contriver of the villany, was taken in his flight, and brought
back to Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy,
discontented man, to see the joy and feastings which, by the
disappointment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina.




AS YOU LIKE IT

(_By Mary Lamb_)


During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as
they were called), there reigned in one of these provinces an usurper,
who, had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few
faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke
lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary
exile for his sake, while their lands and revenues enriched the false
usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here
more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's
life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this
forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet
the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the
summer they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees,
marking the playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of
these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of
the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply
themselves with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter
made the duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure
it patiently, and say, "These chilling winds which blow upon my body,
are true counsellors, they do not flatter, but represent truly to me
my condition; and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing
like so keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that,
howsoever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be
extracted from it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is
taken from the head of the venomous and despised toad." In this manner
did the patient duke draw an useful moral from everything that he saw;
and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote
from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the
running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the
usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained
in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict
friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement
between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving
by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the
injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind;
and whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own
dependance on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's
whole care was to comfort and console her.

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind,
saying, "I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger
entered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a
wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come
instantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it would
amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country
clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and
before fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling-match therefore
Celia and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a
very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had long been
practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests
of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who,
from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all
thought would certainly be killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, "How now, daughter and
niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little
delight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young
roan, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him,
ladies, and see if you can move him."

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first
Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the
attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such
feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that
instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose,
all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in
this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind
in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concern
for him; he concluded his refusal with saying, "I am sorry to deny
such fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and
gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered, there
is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one
dead that is willing to die: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I
have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing;
for I only fill up a place in the world which may be better supplied
when I have made it empty."

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

The kindness shewn this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies
gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in
the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt,
that for a while he was unable to speak or move.

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shewn
by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage,
meaning to take him under his protection.

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest
son of sir Rowland de Boys.

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years;
but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of
the banished duke: therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son
of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young
man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,
and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went
out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.

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

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden
displeasure shewn by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words
to him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak
some more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old
friend; and taking a chain from off her neck, she said, "Gentleman,
wear this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you
a more valuable present."

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando,
Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the
handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, "Is it possible
you should fall in love so suddenly?" Rosalind replied, "The duke,
my father, loved his father dearly." "But," said Celia, "does it
therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? for then I
ought to hate him, for my father hated his father; yet I do not hate
Orlando."

Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland de Boys' son,
which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the
nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,
because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her
good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and
while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered
the room, and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly
to leave the palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling
Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind
to stay upon her account. "I did not then," said Celia, "entreat you
to let her stay; for I was too young at that time to value her; but
now that I know her worth, and that we so long have slept together,
rose at the same instant, learned, played and eat together, I cannot
live out of her company." Frederick replied, "She is too subtle for
you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience, speak to the
people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you
will seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open
not your lips in her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her
is irrevocable."

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

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for
two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she
therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing
themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still
greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man; and
so it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the
tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celia
should be habited like a country lass, and that they should say
they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be called
Ganimed, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

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

The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must now be called) with her
manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful
friendship Celia had shewn in accompanying Rosalind so many weary
miles, made the new brother, in recompence for this true love, exert
a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, the rustic and
stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found
the convenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the
road; and being in want of food and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily
cheered his sister with pleasant speeches, and happy remarks, all the
way, now owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in his
heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena
declared she could go no farther; and then again Ganimed tried to
recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as
the weaker vessel: and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said,
"Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of
our travel, in the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced
courage would no longer support them; for though they were in the
forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and here the
travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for
they might have lost themselves, and have perished for want of food;
but providentially, as they were sitting on the grass almost dying
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass
that way, and Ganimed once more tried to speak with a manly boldness,
saying, "Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure
us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves;
for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling,
and faints for want of food."

The man replied, that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that
his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would
find but poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they
should be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near
prospect of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house
and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to
the shepherd's house, to wait on them; and being by this means so
fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and well supplied with
provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could learn in what
part of the forest the duke dwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began
to like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves the
shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes Ganimed
remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind who had so dearly
loved the brave Orlando, because he was the son of old sir Rowland,
her father's friend; and though Ganimed thought that Orlando was many
miles distant, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in
this manner this strange event came to pass.

Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys, who when he died
left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest
brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother
a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the
commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school, but
kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature
and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his
excellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver so
envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother,
that at last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set on
people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as
has been before related, had killed so many men. Now it was this cruel
brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die,
being so friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother proved
victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he would
burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vow
by one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father, and
that loved Orlando because he resembled sir Rowland. This old man went
out to meet him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when he
saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him break
out into these passionate exclamations: "O my gentle master, my sweet
master, O you memory of old sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why
are you gentle, strong and valiant? and why would you be so fond to
overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly home
before you." Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what
was the matter? and then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing the fame he had
gained by his victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy him,
by setting fire to his chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised
him to escape the danger he was in by instant flight: and knowing
Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had
brought out with him his own little hoard, and he said, "I have five
hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid
by to be provision for me when my old limbs should become unfit for
service; take that, and he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my
age! Here is the gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant;
though I look old, I will do the service of a younger man in all your
business and necessities." "O good old man!" said Orlando, "how well
appears in you the constant service of the old world? You are not for
the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and before your
youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for both our
maintenance."

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and
Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till
they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in
the same distress for want of food, that Ganimed and Aliena had been.
They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost
spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "O my dear master,
I die for want of food, I can go no farther!" He then laid himself
down, thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master
farewel. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant
up in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant
trees, and he said to him, "Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs
here a while, and do not talk of dying!"

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

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to
take their meat by force, and said, "Forbear, and eat no more; I must
have your food!" The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold,
or if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this Orlando said,
he was dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to
sit down and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him speak so gently, put
up his sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he
had demanded their food. "Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought
that all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the
countenance of stern command; but whatever men you are, that in this
desert, under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the
creeping hours of time; if ever you have looked on better days; if
ever you have been where bells have knolled to church; if you have
ever sate at any good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have
wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle
speeches now move you to do me human courtesy!" The duke replied,
"True it is that we are men (as you say) who have seen better days,
and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have
lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to
church, have sate at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped
the drops which sacred pity has engendered: therefore sit you down,
and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your wants."
"There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, "who has limped after
me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad
infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I must not touch
a bit." "Go, find him out, and bring him hither," said the duke; "we
will forbear to eat till you return." Then Orlando went like a doe to
find its fawn and give it food; and presently returned, bringing Adam
in his arms; and the duke said, "Set down your venerable burthen; you
are both welcome:" and they fed the old man, and cheered his heart,
and he revived, and recovered his health and strength again.

The duke enquired who Orlando was, and when he found that he was the
son of his old friend, sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his
protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the
forest.

Orlando had not been in the forest many days before Ganimed and Aliena
arrived there, and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's
cottage.

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of
Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all
addressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could
be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had
given him about his neck.

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

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and
asked Ganimed to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy
Ganimed proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should
come every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt:
"And then," said Ganimed, "I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and
you shall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I
was Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical
ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and
this is the way I propose to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in
the remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganimed's cottage, and
feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed and
Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganimed his Rosalind, and
every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments,
which young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It
does not appear however that Ganimed made any progress in curing
Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming
that Ganimed was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him
of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy
almost as well as it did Ganimed's, who enjoyed the secret jest in
knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right
person.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;
and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, let him
have his own way, and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not
care to remind Ganimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet made herself
known to the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they
had learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke one day, and had some
talk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came: Ganimed
answered, that he came of as good parentage as he did; which made the
duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of
royal lineage. Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganimed was
content to put off all further explanation for a few days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, he saw a man lying
asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about
his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the
bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie
couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting
till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on
nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent
by Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and the
lioness: but when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that
the sleeper, who was exposed to this double peril, was his own brother
Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him
by fire; and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry
lioness: but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon
overcame his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword,
and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his
brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furious
lioness: but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn
one of his arms with her sharp claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and
perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated,
was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own
life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his
unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's pardon
for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so
penitent, and readily forgave him: they embraced each other, and from
that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though
he had come to the forest bent on his destruction.

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too
weak to go to visit Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to
go, and tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do call my
Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him.

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

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a
lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly
fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the
distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in
love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of
Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing
of the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the
lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pretended that he had
counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind,
and Ganimed said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how well
I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness of his
complexion that he did really faint, and much wondering at the
weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, if you did counterfeit,
take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." "So I do," replied
Ganimed (truly), "but I should have been a woman by right."

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned
back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the
account of Ganimed's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,
Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even in
this their first interview; and he talked to his brother, as of a
thing almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so
well loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his
estate and house at home upon Orlando.

"You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow,
and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your
shepherdess to agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes
her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had
perceived approaching, came to enquire after the health of his wounded
friend.

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over the sudden love which had
taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his
brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow,
and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day
to his Rosalind.

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement, said, that if Orlando
really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have
his wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear
in her own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry
Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed was the lady
Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to
pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who
was a famous magician.

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

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

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as
yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and
conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganimed was making a jest of
Orlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought
in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy
could really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering
that he knew not what to think, Ganimed entered, and asked the duke,
if he brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage
with Orlando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had kingdoms to
give with her." Ganimed then said to Orlando, "And you say you will
marry her if I bring her here." "That I would," said Orlando, "if I
were king of many kingdoms."

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

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

They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and
Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it
was by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself
on her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so
wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it
might well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle
with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her
dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as
her sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage;
and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same
time. And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild
forest with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions,
yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating
their venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if
nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke
and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke
the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing
that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden
to join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his brother
should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the
head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intending to
seize his brother, and put him, with all his faithful followers, to
the sword; but, by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad
brother was converted from his evil intention: for just as he entered
the skirts of the wild forest he was met by an old religious man, a
hermit, with whom he had much talk, and who in the end completely
turned his heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a
true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to
spend the remainder of his days in a religious house. The first act of
his newly-conceived penitence was to send a messenger to his brother
(as has been related), to offer to restore to him his dukedom, which
he had usurped so long, and with it the lands and revenues of his
friends, the faithful followers of his adversity.

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

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




THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

(_By Mary Lamb_)


There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names
were Valentine and Protheus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted
friendship had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together,
and their hours of leisure were always passed in each other's company,
except when Protheus visited a lady he was in love with; and these
visits to his mistress, and this passion of Protheus for the fair
Julia, were the only topics on which these two friends disagreed: for
Valentine, not being himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of
hearing his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would
laugh at Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love,
and declare that no such idle fancies should ever enter his head,
greatly preferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the
anxious hopes and fears of the lover Protheus.

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell him that they must
for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Protheus,
unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon
Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said, "Cease to persuade me,
my loving Protheus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in
idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your
affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured
Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the
world abroad: but since you are a lover, love on still, and may your
love be prosperous!"

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. "Sweet
Valentine, adieu!" said Protheus; "think on me, when you see some rare
object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness."

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

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a
noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity
too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his
passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive
it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Protheus, and ordered
her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written
in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again, and when
Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who knew
her mistress more desired to see the letter than to know the time
of day, without answering her question, again offered the rejected
letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of
seeming to know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and
threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room.
As Lucetta was retiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments of the
torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said, in
pretended anger, "Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would
be fingering them to anger me."

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words, "Love-wounded Protheus;"
and lamenting over these and such-like loving words, which she made
out though they were all torn asunder, or, she said, _wounded_ (the
expression "Love-wounded Protheus," giving her that idea), she talked
to these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as
in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each
several piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like
childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and
vext at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words,
as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than
she had ever done before.

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer
to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet
love, sweet lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was
interrupted by his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what
letter are you reading there?"

"My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine,
at Milan."

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

"There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, greatly alarmed, "but
that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily
graces him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of
his fortune."

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

"As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on his
friendly wish," said Protheus.

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

Protheus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good,
and upon Protheus telling him that Valentine "wished him with him,
the partner of his fortune," he at once determined to send his son
to Milan; and without giving Protheus any reason for this sudden
resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, "My will is the same
as Valentine's wish:" and seeing his son looked astonished, he added,
"Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time
in the duke of Milan's court; for what I will I will, and there is
an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am
peremptory."

Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who
never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for
telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.

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

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

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine, was the lady
Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but
they concealed their love from the duke, because although he shewed
much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace,
yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name
was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine
sense and excellent qualities of Valentine.

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

"Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke: "Silvia, I
speak to you, and you, sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him
do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and
Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him
to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship."

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, and were alone
together, Valentine said, "Now tell me how all does from whence
you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" Protheus
replied, "My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a
love-discourse."

"Aye, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but that life is altered now. I
have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt
of Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle
Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I
confess there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth
as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I
can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love."

This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the
disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Protheus.
But _friend_ Protheus must be called no longer, for the same
all-powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea even while
they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine) was working
in the heart of Protheus; and he, who had till this time been a
pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short
interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover;
for at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away
like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him
from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and although, as
it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally good become
unjust, he had many scruples, before he determined to forsake Julia,
and become the rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense
of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his new
unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,
and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent,
he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night,
and go with him to Mantua; then he shewed Protheus a ladder of ropes,
by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the
windows of the palace, after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets,
it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Protheus
resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.

This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the
duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what
he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had
shewn him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that,
which else no worldly good should draw from him: he then told all he
had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the
manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he
preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal
an unjust action; highly commended him, and promised him not to let
Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some
artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon
saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither away so fast,
Valentine?" "May it please your grace," said Valentine, "there is a
messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going
to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better
success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his father.

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

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

"Nay, then," said the duke, "no matter: stay with me a while. I wish
your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." He then told
Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him,
saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with
Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands,
"neither regarding," said he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me
as if I were her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers
has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age should have been
cherished by her childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife,
and turn her out to whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her
wedding-dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not."

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, "And what
would your grace have me to do in all this?"

"Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,
and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of
courtship is much changed since I was young: now I would willingly
have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo."

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then
practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love,
such as presents, frequent visits, and the like.

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he
sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man
might have access to her by day.

"Why then," said Valentine, "you must visit her by night."

"But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift
of his discourse, "her doors are fast locked."

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the duke should get into
the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying,
he would procure him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion
advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as
that which he now wore. "Lend me your cloak," said the duke, who had
feigned this long story on purpose to have a pretence to get off the
cloak: so, upon saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's
cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of
ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly opened, and
read; and this letter contained a full account of their intended
elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in
thus returning the favour he had shewn him, by endeavouring to steal
away his daughter, banished him from the court and city of Milan for
ever; and Valentine was forced to depart that night, without even
seeing Silvia.

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona
was regretting the absence of Protheus; and her regard for him at last
so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave
Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from
danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in men's
clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, soon
after Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of
Protheus.

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

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as
he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high
rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was
sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest he
offered to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a
gentleman that evening was going to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well
know what Protheus would think of the imprudent step she had taken;
for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden-pride and dignity
of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem:
and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the
music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very
different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for
there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia
from a window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his
own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine: and
then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music
and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished
Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend
Protheus.

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

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find
that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Protheus; and Julia, or the
page Sebastian, as she was called, entered into conversation with
Silvia about Protheus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She
putting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew
Julia; as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke:
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his unkind
neglect would grieve her: and then she with a pretty equivocation went
on: "Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the colour of
her eyes and hair the same as mine;" and indeed Julia looked a most
beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this
lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved; and
when Julia offered her the ring which Protheus had sent, refused it,
saying, "The more shame for him that he sends me that ring; I will not
take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia gave it to him. I
love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse;
I give it you for Julia's sake." These comfortable words coming from
her kind rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the disguised
lady.

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

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

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck
with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him, if he would live
with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves
under his command: but that if he refused to accept their offer, they
would kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said, he would
consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no
outrage on women or poor passengers.

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

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

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in
company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom
she took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass
through the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of
these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour,
but he escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid
her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave
where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their
captain had an honourable mind, and always shewed humanity to women.
Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as
a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. "O Valentine,"
she cried, "this I endure for thee!"

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was
stopped by Protheus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of
a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to
this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands of the robber;
but scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her,
before he began to distress her afresh with his love-suit: and while
he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the
forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind,
fearing lest the great service which Protheus had just done to Silvia
should win her to shew him some favour, they were all strangely
surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who having heard
his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve
her.

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being
caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence
and remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries
he had done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and
generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored
him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of
heroism he said, "I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have
in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her
master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Protheus
would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia,
fainted, and they were all employed in recovering her: else would
Silvia have been offended at being thus made over to Protheus, though
she could scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this
overstrained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered
from the fainting fit, she said, "I had forgot, my master ordered me
to deliver this ring to Silvia." Protheus, looking upon the ring,
saw that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return for that which
he received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to
Silvia. "How is this?" said he, "this is Julia's ring: how came you
by it, boy?" Julia answered, "Julia herself did give it me, and Julia
herself hath brought it hither."

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the
page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself: and the proof
she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that
his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own
dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Silvia to
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they
were surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who
came there in pursuit of Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying,
"Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited
manner, "Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is
yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but
possession of her with a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon my
love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back,
and said he cared not for her, and that none but a fool would fight
for a girl who loved him not.

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger,
"The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you
have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to
Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think
you worthy of an empress's love. You shall have Silvia, for you have
well deserved her." Valentine then with great humility kissed the
duke's hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him
of his daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this
joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves
with whom he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when
reformed and restored to society, there would be found among them
many good, and fit for great employment; for the most of them had
been banished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather than for
any black crimes they had been guilty of. To this the duke readily
consented: and now nothing remained but that Protheus, the false
friend, was ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted faults,
to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves and
falsehoods before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his
awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment: which being
done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Milan, and their nuptials
were solemnised in presence of the duke, with high triumphs and
feasting.




THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed
an immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian
merchants. Shylock being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of
the money he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by all
good men, and particularly by Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice;
and Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend money to
people in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he
lent; therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and
the generous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met Shylock on the
Rialto (or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and
hard dealings; which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while
he secretly meditated revenge.

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

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told him that he wished to
repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly
loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress
to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit
at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes
from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would
be no unwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with
an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought
Anthonio to add to the many favours he had shewn him, by lending him
three thousand ducats.

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

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Anthonio asked
the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should
require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at
sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself: "If I can once catch him
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him: he hates
our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and among the merchants
he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest.
Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him!" Anthonio finding he was musing
within himself and did not answer, and being impatient for the money,
said, "Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the money?" To this
question the Jew replied, "Signior Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time
and often you have railed at me about my monies, and my usuries, and I
have borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all
our tribe; and then you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and
spit upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if
I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my help; and you come
to me, and say, _Shylock, lend me monies_. Has a dog money? Is it
possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low
and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another time
you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you monies."
Anthonio replied, "I am as like to call you so again, to spit on you
again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not
to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that,
if I break, you may with better face exact the penalty."--"Why, look
you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I would be friends with you, and
have your love. I will forget the shames you have put upon me. I will
supply your wants, and take no interest for my money." This seemingly
kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio; and then Shylock still
pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain Anthonio's love,
again said he would lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no
interest for his money; only Anthonio should go with him to a lawyer,
and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the
money by a certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut
off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.

"Content," said Anthonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say there is
much kindness in the Jew."

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

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O father Abraham, what
suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach
them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,
Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by the
exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,
is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or
of beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will
take it, so; if not, adieu."

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

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

Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Anthonio
at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train,
and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.

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

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his
high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she,
who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to
regard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she
would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times
more rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portia
prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl,
unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and
that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed
by him in all things; and she said, "Myself, and what is mine, to you
and yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of
this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants;
and now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I
give them with this ring:" presenting a ring to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious
manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his
humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to
the dear lady who so honoured him by any thing but broken words of
love and thankfulness: and taking the ring, he vowed never to part
with it.

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon
their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the
obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time.

"With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife."

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting
gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her
lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa
replied, "Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly
consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast shall be
much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano."

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the
entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio containing
fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Anthonio's letter, Portia feared
it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so
pale; and enquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he
said, "O sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that
ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should
have told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio
then told Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the
money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew,
and of the bond by which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of
flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day; and then Bassanio read
Anthonio's letter, the words of which were, "_Sweet Bassanio, my ships
are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it,
it is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death;
notwithstanding use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter._" "O my dear love," said Portia,
"dispatch all business and be gone; you shall have gold to pay the
money twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by
my Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly
love you." Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before
he set out, to give him a legal right to her money; and that same
day they were married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and
Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great
haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the
money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound
of Anthonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause
before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspence
the event of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him,
and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned;
yet she feared it would go hard with Anthonio, and when she was left
alone, she began to think and consider within herself, if she could by
any means be instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's
friend; and notwithstanding, when she wished to honour her Bassanio,
she had said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she
would submit in all things to be governed by his superior wisdom,
yet being now called forth into action by the peril of her honoured
husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers, and by the
sole guidance of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved
to go herself to Venice, and speak in Anthonio's defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this
gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to
him desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send
her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he
brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also every
thing necessary for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and
putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her
as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on
the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia
entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from
Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying,
he would have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was
prevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor
Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in
his stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful
appearance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her
counsellor's robes and her large wig.

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

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this
tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had
undertaken to perform; and first of all she addressed herself to
Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to have
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble
quality of _mercy_, as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling
Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon
the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it; and how it became monarchs better
than their crowns, being an attribute of God himself; and that earthly
power came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice:
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that
same prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered
her by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he
not able to pay the money?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the
Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats, as many times over as
he should desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon
having a pound of Anthonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned
young counsellor would endeavour to wrest the law a little, to
save Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely answered, that laws once
established must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the
law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in
his favour, and he said, "A Daniel has come to judgment! O wise young
judge, how I do honour you! How much elder are you than your looks!"

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she
had read it, she said, "This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew
may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest
Anthonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful; take the
money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would the cruel Shylock
shew; and he said, "By my soul I swear, there is no power in the
tongue of man to alter me."--"Why then, Anthonio," said Portia,
"you must prepare your bosom for the knife:" and while Shylock was
sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the pound of
flesh, Portia said to Anthonio, "Have you any thing to say?" Anthonio
with a calm resignation replied, that he had but little to say, for
that he had prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio,
"Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare you well! Grieve not that I am
fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your honourable
wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" Bassanio in the deepest
affliction replied, "Anthonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear
to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the world,
are not esteemed with me above your life: I would lose all, I would
sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you."

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all
offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so
true a friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet could not help
answering, "Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were
present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to
copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's,
and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's
dress by the side of Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love;
I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat some power there
to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." "It is well you wish
this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house," said
Nerissa.

Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pronounce
the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and
every heart was full of grief for Anthonio.

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said
to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to
death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should bleed to
death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied, "It is
not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so
much for charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I
cannot find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound
of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards
it. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it,
and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright
judge! A Daniel has come to judgment!" And then he sharpened his
long knife again, and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, "Come,
prepare!"

"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something else. This
bond here gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are, a
pound of flesh. If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one
drop of Christian blood, your land and goods are by the law to be
confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly impossible
for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of
Anthonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh
and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of Anthonio;
and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who
had so happily thought of this expedient, plaudits resounded from
every part of the senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words
which Shylock had used, "O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel
is come to judgment!"

Shylock finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with
a disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio,
rejoiced beyond measure at Anthonio's unexpected deliverance, cried
out, "Here is the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly;
there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty:
therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no
blood; nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; be it more
or less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight
of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and
all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." "Give me my money, and
let me go," said Shylock. "I have it ready," said Bassanio: "Here it
is."

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him,
saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of
Venice your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the
mercy of the duke; therefore down on your knees, and ask him to pardon
you."

The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may see the difference of our
Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half your
wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other half comes to the state."

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

The Jew agreed to this; and being thus disappointed in his revenge,
and despoiled of his riches, he said, "I am ill. Let me go home;
send the deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches to my
daughter." "Get thee gone, then," said the duke, "and sign it; and if
you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you
the fine of the other half of your riches."

The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the court. He then
highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and
invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont
before her husband, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must
away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay
and dine with him; and turning to Anthonio, he added, "Reward this
gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him."

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said to
Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by your
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you
will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." "And we
shall stand indebted to you over and above," said Anthonio, "in love
and service evermore."

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

"Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, "let him have the ring; let my love
and the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's
displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded,
and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the _clerk_
Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and
Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave
it to her. And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when
they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away
their rings, and swear that they had given them as a present to some
woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which
never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good
action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: the moon
never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon
was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at
Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa,
"That light we see is burning in my hall; how far that little candle
throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world:" and
hearing the sound of music from her house, she said, "Methinks that
music sounds much sweeter than by day."

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves
in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who
soon followed them with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that
lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband
quarrelling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia.
"What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry
gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on
a cutler's knife; _Love me, and leave me not_."

"What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify?" said Nerissa.
"You swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till
the hour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk.
I know you gave it to a woman." "By this hand," replied Gratiano, "I
gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher
than yourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise
pleading saved Anthonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee,
and I could not for my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to
blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord
Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all the
world." Gratiano in excuse for his fault now said, "My lord Bassanio
gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk,
that took some pains in writing, he begged my ring."

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for
giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to
believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very
unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great
earnestness, "No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,
who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which
when I denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet
Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I
was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you
been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the
worthy doctor."

"Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels."

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome
notwithstanding; and then Anthonio said, "I once did lend my body for
Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring
I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you." "Then
you shall be his surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid
him keep it better than the other."

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

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave him letters which by
some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of
Anthonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the
harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story
were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and
there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings,
and the husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily
swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that

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




CYMBELINE

(_By Mary Lamb_)


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

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

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

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son of
her own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): for
by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown
of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if the
king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen must be the king's
heir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married
without the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best
scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his
mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband.

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus
(Cymbeline having given him that name because he was born after his
father's death), and educated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were
play-fellows from their infancy: they loved each other tenderly when
they were children, and their affection continuing to increase with
their years, when they grew up they privately married.

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

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

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

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each other.
Imogen gave her husband a diamond ring which had been her mother's,
and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a
bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve
with great care, as a token of his love: they then bid each other
farewel with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court,
and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place of his banishment.

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

One of these gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended that
a lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his
countrywomen, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of
his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much altercation,
Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that he (Iachimo)
should go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love of the married
Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in
this wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if
he could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him the
bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as
a token of his love, then the wager was to terminate with Posthumus
giving to Iachimo the ring, which was Imogen's love-present when she
parted with her husband. Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity
of Imogen, that he thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her
honour.

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance and a courteous
welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began to
make professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and
he soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his
dishonourable design.

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to
a stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed
some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her
bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till
Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting
out of the trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and
wrote down every thing he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole
which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the
bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired
into the chest again; and the next day he set off for Rome with great
expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the
bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber:
and in this manner Iachimo told his false tale; "Her bed-chamber,"
said he, "was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was
_the proud Cleopatra when she met her Anthony_, a piece of work most
bravely wrought."

"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you might have heard spoken
of without seeing."

"Then the chimney," said Iachimo, "is south of the chamber, and
the chimney-piece is _Diana bathing_; never saw I figures livelier
expressed."

"This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthumus; "for
it is much talked of."

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber, and added, "I
had almost forgot her andirons, they were _two winking Cupids_ made of
silver, each on one foot standing." He then took out the bracelet, and
said, "Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She took it from
her arm. I see her yet; her pretty action did out-sell her gift, and
yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, _she prized it once_."
He last of all described the mole he had observed upon her neck.

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

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

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

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found
herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond
measure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient fortitude
for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his injustice:
in the mean time, as she refused in her distress to return to her
father's court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes for
more security in travelling; to which advice she agreed, and thought
in that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom,
though he had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love.
When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left her to her
uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but before he
departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen had
given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.

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

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her
two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius,
who stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, and having
been falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished from the
court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought
them up in a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them
through revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had
been his own children, educated them carefully, and they grew up
fine youths, their princely spirits leading them to bold and daring
actions; and as they subsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy,
and were always pressing their supposed father to let them seek their
fortune in the wars.

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to
arrive. She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her road
lay to Milford-Haven (from whence she meant to embark for Rome); and
being unable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was
with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not merely putting
on a man's apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought
up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man.
Seeing this cave she entered, hoping to find some one within of whom
she could procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about
she discovered some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing, that
she could not wait for an invitation, but sat down, and began to eat.
"Ah!" said she, talking to herself; "I see a man's life is a tedious
one: how tired am I! for two nights together I have made the ground my
bed: my resolution helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio shewed
me Milford-Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seemed!" Then the
thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across her, and she
said, "My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one!"

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputed
father Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bellarius had given
them the names of Polidore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but
supposed that Bellarius was their father: but the real names of these
princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them,
saying, "Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it
was a fairy."

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

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and
addressed them in these words: "Good masters, do not harm me; before
I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I
have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had
found gold strewn on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I
would have left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted
with prayers for the provider." They refused her money with great
earnestness. "I see you are angry with me," said the timid Imogen:
"but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know that I should have died
if I had not made it."

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

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

"Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do not think us churls,
nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well
encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before
you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome."

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave
with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as they
said, _him_) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they
having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them
with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper;
for though it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to
understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful
art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their
roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick,
and Fidele were her dieter. "And then," said Polidore to his brother,
"how angel-like he sings!"

They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so
sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if
grief and patience had together taken possession of him.

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near
relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called
her, _Fidele_) became the doating-piece of her brothers, and she
scarcely less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her
dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild
forest-youths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she
was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way
to Milford-Haven. When the venison they had taken was all eaten, and
they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them
because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel
usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the
cause of her illness.

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

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial
Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a
sound and death-like sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Polidore went
first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy
shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so did true
gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters: but
he soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, and
concluded her to be dead, and Polidore lamented over her with dear and
brotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy been parted.

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

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and there
laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her departed
spirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Polidore said,
"While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy
sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; the
blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, which is
not sweeter than was thy breath; all these I will strew over thee.
Yea, and the furred moss in winter, when there are no flowers to cover
thy sweet corse."

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they departed very
sorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepy
drug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight
covering of leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose,
and imagining she had been dreaming, she said, "I thought I was a
cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how came I here, covered
with flowers?" Not being able to find her way back to the cave, and
seeing nothing of her new companions, she concluded it was certainly
all a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage,
hoping at last she should find her way to Milford-Haven, and thence
get a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for all her thoughts were
still with her husband Posthumus, whom she intended to seek in the
disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew
nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman emperor
Augustus Cæsar, and Cymbeline the king of Britain: and a Roman army
had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forest
over which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, he did not
mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but intended
to join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who
had banished him. He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death
of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio
having written him a letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that
Imogen was dead) sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to
Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death
by Cymbeline for returning home from banishment.

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

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they entered
this forest, Polidore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young men
were eager to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought
they were going to fight for their own royal father; and old Bellarius
went with them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury
he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been a
warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king
he had so injured.

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

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

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

Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but with
very different hopes and fears) Posthumus, and Imogen, with her new
master the Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false
friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, with
Bellarius who had stolen them away.

The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest stood silent
before the king, though there was many a beating heart amongst them.

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though he was in the disguise of
a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: and she knew
Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be
her own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of
all her troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of
war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of
a boy. "It is my mistress," thought he; "since she is living, let the
time run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew her too, and softly said
to Cadwal, "Is not this boy revived from death?" "One sand," replied
Cadwal, "does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is
like the dead Fidele." "The same dead thing alive," said Polidore.
"Peace, peace," said Bellarius; "if it were he, I am sure he would
have spoken to us." "But we saw him dead," again whispered Polidore.
"Be silent," replied Bellarius.

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

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

"I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all to
death; I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer death. But
there is one thing for which I would intreat." Then bringing Imogen
before the king, he said, "This boy is a Briton born. Let him be
ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous,
so diligent on all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath done no
Briton wrong, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no
one beside."

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not in
that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his
heart, for he said, "I have surely seen him, his face appears familiar
to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy: but I give you
your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you.
Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have."

"I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise to give
any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom that
favour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear
what thing the page would ask for, and Lucius her master said to her,
"I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is what you will ask
for." "No, no, alas!" said Imogen, "I have other work in hand, good
master; your life I cannot ask for."

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman
general.

Imogen then fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon than
this, that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring he
wore on his finger.

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

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villainy, telling,
as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with
Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of his
lady cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and confessed to
Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute
upon the princess: exclaiming wildly, "O Imogen, my queen, my life, my
wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!"

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without
discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus
relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good
graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

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

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his
confession. He presented Polidore and Cadwal to the king, telling him
they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments at
a season of such universal happiness: to find his daughter living, and
his lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen
so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed!

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late
master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father
readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the same
Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which
was kept inviolate many years.

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




KING LEAR

(_By Charles Lamb_)


Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Gonerill, wife to the duke
of Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young
maid, for whose love the king of France and duke of Burgundy were
joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for that purpose in
the court of Lear.

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

Gonerill, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than
words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her
own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing
stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only
a few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case.
The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her
love, and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a fit of
fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one third of his
ample kingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she had to
say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister, was
not a whit behind in her professions, but rather declared that what
her sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to
bear for his highness: insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in
comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear
king and father.

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

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his
joy, he asked what she had to say; thinking no doubt that she would
glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had
uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than
theirs, as she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above
either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her
sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing
that all their coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old
king out of his dominions, that they and their husbands might reign
in his life-time, made no other reply but this, that she loved his
majesty according to her duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favourite
child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest
it should mar her fortunes.

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had
given her breeding, and loved her, that she returned those duties back
as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him.
But that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her
sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why
had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for any
thing but their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord
to whom she gave her hand would want half her love, half of her care
and duty; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her father
all.

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father, even almost as
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told
him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms,
and without these qualifications which did indeed sound a little
ungracious: but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,
which she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she thought the
handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put her
affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and shewed that
she loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the less
ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity
than her sisters.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the old
monarch--who in his best of times always shewed much of spleen and
rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded
over his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor
a gay painted speech from words that came from the heart--that in a
fury of resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom which
yet remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it
away from her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their
husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall: whom he now called to him,
and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing a coronet between
them, invested them jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution
of government, only retaining to himself the name of king; all the
rest of royalty he resigned: with this reservation, that himself, with
a hundred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly
course in each of his daughter's palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by reason,
and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonishment
and sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose between
this incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was
beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear
on pain of death commanded him to desist: but the good Kent was not so
to be repelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured
as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master: and had never
esteemed his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal
master's enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was the
motive: nor now that Lear was most his own enemy did this faithful
servant of the king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed
Lear, to do Lear good; and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad.
He had been a most faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and
he besought him now, that he would see with his eyes (as he had done
in many weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best
consideration recall this hideous rashness: for he would answer with
his life his judgment, that Lear's youngest daughter did not love him
least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token
of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was bound to
plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, whose life was
already at his service? that should not hinder duty from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up the
king's wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his
physician, and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true
servant, and allotted him but five days to make his preparations for
departure; but if on the sixth his hated person was found within the
realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent bade
farewel to the king, and said, that since he chose to shew himself in
such fashion, it was but banishment to stay there: and before he went,
he recommended Cordelia to the protection of the gods, the maid who
had so rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken; and only wished that
her sisters' large speeches might be answered with deeds of love: and
then he went, as he said, to shape his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear the
determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know whether
they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was
under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own person
to recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the match, and
would not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the king of
France, understanding what the nature of the fault had been which
had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of
speech, and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like
her sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and saying that her
virtues were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewel
of her sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind, and she
should go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign
over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of
Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young
maid had in a moment run all away like water.

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

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of her
sister began to shew themselves in their true colours. Even before the
expiration of the first month which Lear was to spend by agreement
with his eldest daughter Gonerill, the old king began to find out the
difference between promises and performances. This wretch having got
from her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away of
the crown from off his head, began to grudge even those small remnants
of royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to please his
fancy with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, she put on
a frowning countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her,
she would feign sickness or any thing to be rid of the sight of him;
for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and
his attendants an unnecessary expence: not only she herself slackened
in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and (it is
to be feared) not without her private instructions, her very servants
affected to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse to obey
his orders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them.
Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his
daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as
people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant consequences
which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by _ill_, than
falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by _good usage_.
This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of Kent, who,
though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in
Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as there
was a chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what
mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes;
yet it counts nothing base or unworthy so as it can but do service
where it owes an obligation! In the disguise of a serving-man, all his
greatness and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services
to the king, who not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but
pleased with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers
which the earl put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery
which he had so much reason to be sick of, having found the effects
not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and
Lear took Kent into his service by the name of Caius, as he called
himself, never suspecting him to be his once great favourite, the high
and mighty earl of Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to shew his fidelity and love to his
royal master: for Gonerill's steward that same day behaving in a
disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language,
as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius
not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made no more
ado but presently tript up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave
in the kennel: for which friendly service Lear became more and more
attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as far as
so insignificant a personage could shew his love, the poor fool, or
jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was
the custom of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool
(as he was called) to make them sport after serious business:--this
poor fool clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by
his witty sayings would keep up his good humour; though he could not
refrain sometimes from jeering at his master for his imprudence, in
uncrowning himself, and giving all away to his daughters: at which
time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these daughters

  For sudden joy did weep,
    And he for sorrow sung,
  That such a king should play bo-peep,
    And go the fools among.

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had plenty,
this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the presence
of Gonerill herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the
quick; such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the
young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head
bit off for its pains: and saying, that an ass may know when the cart
draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go
behind, now ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longer
Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once or
twice threatened to be whipt.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to
perceive, were not all which this foolish-fond father was to suffer
from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his staying
in her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up
an establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was
useless and expensive, and only served to fill her court with riot and
feasting; and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, and
keep none but old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his
daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she who
had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and
grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in her
undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he called
her a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth: and so indeed
she did, for the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour
and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not
given to rioting or feasting as she said. And he bid his horses to
be prepared, for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and
his hundred knights: and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a
marble-hearted devil, and shewed more hideous in a child than the
sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Gonerill so as was
terrible to hear: praying that she might never have a child, or if she
had, that it might live to return that scorn and contempt upon her,
which she had shewn to him: that she might feel how sharper than a
serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Gonerill's
husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any share
which Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear would not hear
him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out
with his followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. And
Lear thought to himself, how small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a
fault) now appeared, in comparison with her sister's, and he wept; and
then he was ashamed that such a creature as Gonerill should have so
much power over his manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and state
at their palace: and Lear dispatched his servant Caius with letters
to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception, while
he and his train followed after. But it seems that Gonerill had been
beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her
father of waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to receive
so great a train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived
at the same time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should it
be but Caius' old enemy the steward, whom he had formerly tript up
by the heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the
fellow's look, and suspecting what he came for, began to revile him,
and challenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a
fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and
carrier of wicked messages deserved: which coming to the ears of Regan
and her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though
he was a messenger from the king her father, and in that character
demanded the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw
when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in
that disgraceful situation.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect; but
a worse followed, when upon enquiry for his daughter and her husband,
he was told they were weary with travelling all night, and could not
see him: and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry
manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in
their company but the hated Gonerill, who had come to tell her own
story, and set her sister against the king her father!

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan take
her by the hand: and he asked Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look
upon his old white beard? And Regan advised him to go home again
with Gonerill, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his
attendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanted
discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that had more
discretion than himself. And Lear shewed how preposterous that would
sound, if he were to down on his knees, and beg of his own daughter
for food and raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural
dependence; declaring his resolution never to return with her, but to
stay where he was with Regan, he and his hundred knights: for he said
that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which he had endowed
her with, and that her eyes were not fierce like Gonerill's, but mild
and kind. And he said that rather than return to Gonerill, with half
his train cut off, he would go over to France, and beg a wretched
pension of the king there, who had married his youngest daughter
without a portion.

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than he
had experienced from her sister Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her
sister in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty
knights too many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough.
Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Gonerill, and said that he
would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and so
her love was twice as much as Regan's. But Gonerill excused herself,
and said, what need of so many as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or
five? when he might be waited upon by her servants, or her sister's
servants? So these two wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed
each other in cruelty to their old father who had been so good to
them, by little and little would have abated him of all his train, all
respect (little enough for him that once commanded a kingdom) which
was left him to shew that he had once been a king! Not that a splendid
train is essential to happiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard
change, from commanding millions to be without one attendant; and
it was the ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than what
he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to
the heart: insomuch that with this double ill usage, and vexation
for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be
unsettled, and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge
against those unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should
be a terror to the earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could never
execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning
with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not
to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather
to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under
the same roof with these ungrateful daughters: and they saying that
the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are their just
punishment, suffered him to go in that condition, and shut their doors
upon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old
man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his
daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush;
and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark
night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder:
and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the
waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might
remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left
with no other companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him,
with his merry conceits striving to out-jest misfortune, saying, it
was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go
in and ask his daughter's blessing:

  But he that has a little tiny wit,
  With heigh ho, the wind and the rain!
  Must make content with his fortunes fit,
  Though the rain it raineth every day:

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride.

Thus poorly accompanied this once great monarch was found by his ever
faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius, who
ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know him to
be the earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that
love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm has
driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's nature cannot endure
the affliction or the fear." And Lear rebuked him and said, these
lesser evils were not felt, where a greater malady was fixed. When the
mind is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate; but the tempest
in his mind did take all feeling else from his senses, but of that
which beat at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said
it was all one as if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food
to it; for parents were hands and food and everything to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his intreaties that the king
would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter
a little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool
first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen
a spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more
than a poor Bedlam-beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel for
shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of
those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better
to extort charity from the compassionate country-people; who go about
the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying,
"Who gives any thing to poor Tom?" sticking pins and nails and sprigs
of rosemary into their arms to make them bleed; and with such horrible
actions, partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they move
or terrify the ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. This
poor fellow was such a one; and the king seeing him in so wretched
a plight, with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover his
nakedness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow was some father
who had given all away to his daughters, and brought himself to that
pass: for nothing he thought could bring a man to such wretchedness
but the having unkind daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the good
Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but that
his daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad. And now the
loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent shewed itself in more essential
services than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with
the assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he
had the person of his royal master removed at day-break to the castle
of Dover, where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent,
chiefly lay: and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court
of Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitiful
condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours the
inhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child with many
tears besought the king her husband, that he would give her leave
to embark for England with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel
daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father to
his throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal army
landed at Dover.

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the good
earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy,
was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields
near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad and singing aloud
to himself, with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw,
and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the
corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, though
earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was prevailed upon to put off
the meeting, till, by sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave
him, he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid of these
skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels
for the recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to see
his daughter.

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

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

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their old
father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their own
husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty
and affection, and in an open way shewed they had fixed their loves
upon another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was
the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of Gloucester,
who by his treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his brother
Edgar the lawful heir from his earldom, and by his wicked practices
was now earl himself: a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of
such wicked creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling out about
this time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan
immediately declared her intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester,
which rousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan
this wicked earl had at sundry times professed love, Gonerill found
means to make away with her sister by poison: but being detected in
her practices, and imprisoned by her husband the duke of Albany, for
this deed, and for her guilty passion for the earl which had come to
his ears, she in a fit of disappointed love and rage shortly put an
end to her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these
wicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the justice
displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken
off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power
in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady
Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate
conclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not
always successful in this world. The forces which Gonerill and Regan
had sent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were
victorious, and Cordelia by the practices of this wicked earl, who did
not like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended her
life in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her
young years, after shewing her to the world an illustrious example of
filial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.

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

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of Gloucester, whose
treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single combat with
his brother, the lawful earl; and how Gonerill's husband, the duke
of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never
encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father,
ascended the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless
here to narrate; Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whose
adventures alone concern our story.




MACBETH

(_By Charles Lamb_)


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

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning victorious
from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where they
were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures, like women,
except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attire
made them look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed
them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy finger
upon her skinny lips, in token of silence: and the first of them
saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The general was
not a little startled to find himself known by such creatures; but
how much more, when the second of them followed up that salute by
giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no
pretensions! and again the third bid him "All hail! king that shall be
hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew
that while the king's sons lived he could not hope to succeed to the
throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of
riddling terms, to be _lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy,
but much happier!_ and prophesied that though he should never reign,
yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned
into air, and vanished: by which the generals knew them to be the
weird sisters, or witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adventure,
there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by
him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event
so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches
astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapt in amazement, unable to make
reply to the messengers: and in that point of time swelling hopes
arose in his mind, that the prediction of the third witch might in
like manner have its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign
king in Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope that your children shall
be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so wonderfully come
to pass?" "That hope," answered the general, "might enkindle you to
aim at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell
us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds of greatest
consequence."

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into the
mind of Macbeth, to allow him to attend to the warnings of the good
Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the
crown of Scotland.

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

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal
condescension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon
gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two sons,
Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants,
the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about
it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the
martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and
buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage:
for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to
be delicate. The king entered, well pleased with the place, and not
less so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady
Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles;
and could look like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the
serpent under it.

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

Now was the middle of the night, when over half the world nature seems
dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none but the
wolf and the murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady Macbeth
waked to plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken
a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband's
nature, that it was too full of the milk of human kindness, to do
a contrived murder. She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be
scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that height of crime which
commonly in the end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had won him
to consent to the murder, but she doubted his resolution: and she
feared that the natural tenderness of his disposition (more humane
than her own) would come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her
own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having
taken care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that they
slept intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, in
a sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed
him earnestly, there was something in his face, as he slept, which
resembled her own father; and she had not the courage to proceed.

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

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband,
inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But
she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to
pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit
into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should not shrink
from what he had undertaken; how easy the deed was; how soon it would
be over; and how the action of one short night would give to all their
nights and days to come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw
contempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and
cowardice; and declared that she had given suck, and knew how tender
it was to love the babe that milked her, but she would, while it was
smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its
brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform
that murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt
of the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her
tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once more
summoned up courage to the bloody business.

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to
the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another
dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the blade and
at the point of it drops of blood: but when he tried to grasp at it,
it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot
and oppressed brain and the business he had in hand.

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

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, "Sleep no more: Macbeth
doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." Still it
cried, "Sleep no more," to all the house. "Glamis hath murdered sleep,
and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no
more."

With such horrible imaginations, Macbeth returned to his listening
wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the
deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that
she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his
hands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with
purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem
their guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could
not be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made great show of
grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced
against them and their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently
strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements
to such a deed were so much more forcible than such poor silly grooms
could be supposed to have; and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the
eldest, sought for refuge in the English court; and the youngest,
Donalbain, made his escape to Ireland.

The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated
the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the
prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished.

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the
prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king,
yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings
after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands
with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of
Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined
to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions
of the weird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably
brought to pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited
all the chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of particular
respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by which
Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers
appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance
escaped. From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards
filled the Scottish throne, ending with James the sixth of Scotland
and the first of England, under whom the two crowns of England and
Scotland were united.

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable
and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which
conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his
thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the country
was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present,
whom yet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to
lament for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo,
whom he had caused to be murdered, entered the room, and placed
himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth
was a bold man, and one that could have faced the devil without
trembling, at this horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear,
and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him
gazing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, took it for a fit of
distraction; and she reproached him, whispering that it was but the
same fancy which had made him see the dagger in the air, when he was
about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave
no heed to all they could say, while he addressed it with distracted
words, yet so significant, that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret
would be disclosed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the
infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with.

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

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by
foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful
charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the
eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the
wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the
maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root
of the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in the
dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the
yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child:
all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which,
as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these
they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they
threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer's
gibbet. By these charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer
their questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts resolved
by them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the
dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, "Where are they?
let me see them." And they called the spirits, which were three.
And the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called
Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which
caution Macbeth thanked him: for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of
Macduff, the thane of Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, and he
called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn
the power of man, for none of woman born should have power to hurt
him: and he advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. "Then live,
Macduff!" cried the king; "what need I fear of thee? but yet I will
make assurance doubly sure. Thou shall not live; that I may tell
pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder."

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child
crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, and
comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should never be
vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane-Hill should come
against him. "Sweet bodements! good!" cried Macbeth; "who can unfix
the forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live
the usual period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death.
But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell
so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?" Here
the cauldron sank into the ground, and a noise of music was heard,
and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last,
who bore a glass which shewed the figures of many more, and Banquo
all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth
knew, that these were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after
him in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with
dancing, making a shew of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And
from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful.

The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches' cave, was,
that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the army
which was forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the
late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right
heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle
of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom the thane had left
behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed
the least relationship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief
nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and
Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army which they
had raised in England; and the rest secretly wished success to their
arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His
recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant, nobody loved
or honoured him, but all suspected him, and he began to envy the
condition of Duncan whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in his
grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison,
domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole
partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a
momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both
nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the
remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left alone,
without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could
confide his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near approach
of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage,
and he determined to die (as he expressed it) "with armour on his
back." Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him
with false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits,
that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be
vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought
could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited the
approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him,
pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had
seen: for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he
looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to move!
"Liar and slave," cried Macbeth; "if thou speakest false, thou shalt
hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale
be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me:" for Macbeth now
began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches
of the spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood should come to
Dunsinane: and now a wood did move! "However," said he, "if this which
he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence,
nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life
at an end." With these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the
besiegers, who had now come up to the castle.

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

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though
feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but in
reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and
Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to
pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was
fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit
who had counselled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have
turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,
opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving him
many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth,
whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, would
still have declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it,
calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman
born should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said to Macduff,
"Thou losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the
air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life,
which must not yield to one of woman born."

"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that lying spirit whom
thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of woman,
never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely
taken from his mother."

"Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the trembling
Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give way; "and let never
man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling
spirits, who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while
they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a
different meaning. I will not fight with thee."

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

"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; "I will
not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be
baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to
Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me who wast never born of woman, yet
will I try the last." With these frantic words he threw himself upon
Macduff, who, after a severe struggle in the end overcame him, and
cutting off his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful
king, Malcolm; who took upon him the government which by the
machinations of the usurper he had so long been deprived of, and
ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek amid the acclamations of the
nobles and the people.




ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly come to his title and estate,
by the death of his father. The king of France loved the father of
Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come
immediately to his royal court in Paris; intending, for the friendship
he bore the late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial
favour and protection.

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

Bertram now bade his mother farewel. The countess parted with this
dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care
of Lafeu, saying, "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned
courtier."

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of
mere civility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short
farewel to her with saying, "Be comfortable to my mother your
mistress, and make much of her."

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

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he
was the count of Rossilion, descended from the most ancient family
in France. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His
ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-born
Bertram, as to her master and to her dear lord, and dared not form
any wish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. So
great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her
lowly fortunes, that she would say, "It were all one that I should
love a bright peculiar star and think to wed it, Bertram is so far
above me."

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with
sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort
to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his
dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she
seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too
capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that
loved face.

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some
prescriptions of rare and well proved virtue, which by deep study and
long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost
infallible remedies. Among the rest there was one set down as an
approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at
that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king's complaint,
she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an
ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake
the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this
choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his
physicians were of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they
would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer
to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if
she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her
father's skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of
his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was
sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven, to be the legacy that
should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being count
Rossilion's wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her
steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he
understood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,
and had thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed
the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished
to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the
remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess, those
days probably when her love for Bertram's father first began; and she
said to herself, "Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a
thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth,
if ever we are nature's children, these faults are ours, though then
we think not they are faults." While the countess was thus meditating
on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said
to her, "Helena, you know I am a mother to you." Helena replied, "You
are my honourable mistress." "You are my daughter," said the countess
again: "I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at
my words?" With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the
countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, "Pardon me, madam,
you are not my mother; the count Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor
I your daughter." "Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you might be my
daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the
words _mother_ and _daughter_ so disturb you. Helena, do you love my
son?" "Good madam, pardon me," said the affrighted Helena. Again the
countess repeated her question, "Do you love my son?" "Do not you
love him, madam?" said Helena. The countess replied, "Give me not
this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your
affections, for your love has to the full appeared." Helena on her
knees now owned her love, and with shame and terror implored the
pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense
she had of the inequality between their fortunes, she protested
Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring
love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun, that looks upon his
worshipper but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if
she had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design
she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's
illness. "This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the
countess, "was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord
your son made me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and
the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then."
The countess heard the whole of this confession without saying a word
either of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as
to the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found
that it was the most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed,
and that he had given it to his daughter on his death-bed; and
remembering the solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in
regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king
himself, seemed to depend on the execution of a project (which though
conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the
countess knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to
bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of
the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave she
gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her
with ample means and suitable attendants, and Helena set out for
Paris with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest wishes for
her success.

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the old
lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still many
difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to
try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she told
him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose fame the king
was well acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the
darling treasure which contained the essence of all her father's long
experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if
it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of two
days. The king at length consented to try it, and in two days time
Helena was to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if she
succeeded, he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout
all France (the princes only excepted) whom she could like for an
husband; the choice of an husband being the fee Helena demanded, if
she cured the king of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the
efficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, the
king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the young
noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the promised reward
of an husband upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena to look
round on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her
husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among these young
lords she saw the count Rossilion, and turning to Bertram, she said,
"This is the man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give
me and my service ever whilst I live into your guiding power." "Why
then," said the king, "young Bertram, take her; she is your wife."
Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of
the king's of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor
physician's daughter, bred at his father's charge, and now living a
dependent on his mother's bounty. Helena heard him speak these words
of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, "That you are
well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go." But the king would not
suffer his royal command to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing
their nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of the kings
of France; and that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced
and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor
lady, who, though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her
life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her husband's
love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram to apply
to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and when she
brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told her
that as he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much
unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he
should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved, when she found
it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his
mother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, "Sir, I
can nothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, and
shall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein
my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes." But this
humble speech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to
pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common
civility of a kind farewel.

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

The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she
had been her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she
spoke kind words, to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram
in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious
reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said,
"Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone." She then read these words out
of Bertram's letter: _When you can get the ring from my finger which
never shall come off, then call me husband, but in such a Then I write
a Never_. "This is a dreadful sentence!" said Helena. The countess
begged her to have patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she
should be her child, and that she deserved a lord, that twenty such
rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress.
But in vain by respectful condescension and kind flattery this
matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law.
Helena still kept her eyes fixt upon the letter, and cried out in an
agony of grief, _Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France_. The
countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? "Yes,
madam," was all poor Helena could answer.

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

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

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their
way to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city, she
heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into
her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine
of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this
good lady therefore Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous
welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous
city, and told her that if she would like to see the duke's army,
she would take her where she might have a full view of it. "And you
will see a countryman of yours," said the widow; "his name is count
Rossilion, who has done worthy service in the duke's wars." Helena
wanted no second invitation, when she found Bertram was to make part
of the show. She accompanied her hostess; and a sad and mournful
pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear husband's face.
"Is he not a handsome man?" said the widow. "I like him well," replied
Helena, with great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative
widow's discourse was all of Bertram: she told Helena the story of
Bertram's marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife,
and entered into the duke's army to avoid living with her. To this
account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when it
was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the widow
began another tale, every word of which sunk deep into the mind of
Helena; for the story she now told was of Bertram's love for her
daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it
seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed
with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair
young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena's
hostess; and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed
in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under her window, and
solicit her love: and all his suit to her was that she would permit
him to visit her by stealth after the family were retired to rest; but
Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request,
nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married
man; for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent
mother, who, though she was now in reduced circumstances, was
well-born, and descended from the noble family of the Capulets.

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

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow's
daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a
project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one)
to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow, that she was
Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind
hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to take
place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling
them, her chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with
her husband, was to get a ring from him, which he had said if ever she
was in possession of, he would acknowledge her as his wife.

The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair,
partly moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won
over to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena made them,
giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future favour. In the
course of that day Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram,
that she was dead, hoping that when he thought himself free to make a
second choice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her
in her feigned character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring
and this promise too, she doubted not she should make some future good
come of it.

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's
chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering
compliments and love-discourse he addressed to Helena were precious
sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram
was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to
be her husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped would be
prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own
wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he
would not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he
had entirely overlooked her beauty, a face we are accustomed to see
constantly losing the effect which is caused by the first sight either
of beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it was impossible
he should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her love
for him, that she was always silent in his presence; but now that her
future fate, and the happy ending of all her love-projects, seemed to
depend on her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of Bertram
from this night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please him;
and the simple graces of her lively conversation and the endearing
sweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should
be his wife. Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of
his regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which
it was of such importance to her to possess, she gave him another
ring, which was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was
light in the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set
out on his journey towards his mother's house.

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

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had
been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the
moment he saw the countess of Rossilion, he began to talk of Helena,
calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son;
but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented
the death of Helena, he said, "My good lady, I have forgiven and
forgotten all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, and
could not bear that the memory of his favourite Helena should be so
lightly passed over, said, "This I must say, the young lord did great
offence to his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself he
did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty
astonished all eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose deep
perfection made all hearts wish to serve her." The king said,
"Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. Well--call him
hither;" meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before the king:
and, on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to
Helena, the king, for his dead father's and his admirable mother's
sake, pardoned him, and restored him once more to his favour. But the
gracious countenance of the king was soon changed towards him, for he
perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had
given to Helena; and he well remembered that Helena had called all
the saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring,
unless she sent it to the king himself upon some great disaster
befalling her; and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he came
by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him out
of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of their
marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared he
had destroyed her; and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying,
"I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was
foully snatched." At this moment Diana and her mother entered, and
presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to
exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made
her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger,
denied he had made any such promise, and then Diana produced the ring
(which Helena had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her
words; and she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore,
in exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing
this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account
of the ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were
confirmed; and he said, if they did not confess how they came by this
ring of Helena's, they should be both put to death. Diana requested
her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweller of whom she bought
the ring, which being granted, the widow went out, and presently
returned leading in Helena herself.

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's danger,
and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his
wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved
with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she
was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy
that it was Helena, said, "Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I
see?" Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied,
"No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name
and not the thing." Bertram cried out, "Both, both! O pardon!" "O my
lord," said Helena, "when I personated this fair maid, I found you
wondrous kind; and look, here is your letter!" reading to him in a
joyful tone those words, which she had once repeated so sorrowfully,
_When from my finger you can get this ring_--"This is done, it was
to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?"
Bertram replied, "If you can make it plain that you were the lady I
talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly."
This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena
purposely to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with
Diana, for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he
so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her
also a noble husband: Helena's history giving him a hint that it was a
suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform
notable services.

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




THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Katherine, the shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich
gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and
fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua
by no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely,
indeed impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would
venture to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed
for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to
her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this
excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they
should have free leave to address young Bianca.

It happened however that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came to Padua,
purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these
reports of Katherine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome,
resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into
a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about
this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as
Katherine's, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and
withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how
to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were
so calm that he himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry
feigning, for his natural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous
airs he assumed when he became the husband of Katherine being but
in sport, or, more properly speaking, affected by his excellent
discernment, as the only means to overcome in her own way the
passionate ways of the furious Katherine.

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the shrew, and first of
all he applied to Baptista, her father, for leave to woo his _gentle
daughter_ Katherine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that
having heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had
come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished
her married, was forced to confess Katherine would ill answer this
character, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she
was composed, for her music-master rushed into the room to complain
that the gentle Katherine, his pupil, had broken his head with her
lute, for presuming to find fault with her performance; which, when
Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her more than
ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and hurrying the old
gentleman for a positive answer, he said, "My business is in haste,
signior Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my father.
He is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and goods. Then tell
me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you will give with her."
Baptista thought his manner was somewhat blunt for a lover; but being
glad to get Katherine married, he answered that he would give her
twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate at his
death: so this odd match was quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to
apprise his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent her
in to Petruchio to listen to his suit.

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with himself the mode of
courtship he should pursue: and he said, "I will woo her with some
spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her
she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I will say
she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not
speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she
bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with
her a week." Now the stately Katherine entered, and Petruchio first
addressed her with "Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear."
Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, "They
call me Katherine who do speak to me." "You lie," replied the lover;
"for you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate
the Shrew; but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and
therefore, Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am
come to woo you for my wife."

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry terms
shewing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he
still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing
her father coming, he said, (intending to make as quick a wooing as
possible) "Sweet Katherine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your
father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed
on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you."

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had
received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next
Sunday. This Katherine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged
on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such
a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to
regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant
before him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fond
and loving; and he said, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice
to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the feast,
father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings,
fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katherine may be fine; and kiss
me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday."

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waited
long before Petruchio came, and Katherine wept for vexation to think
that Petruchio had only been making a jest of her. At last however he
appeared, but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised
Katherine, nor was he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in
strange disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the
serious business he came about; and his servant and the very horses
on which they rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion
habited.

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said
Katherine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and
finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went,
he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked
Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud that
she should, that all amazed the priest let fall his book, and as he
stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a
cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again. And all the while
they were being married he stampt and swore so, that the high-spirited
Katherine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over,
while they were yet in the church he called for wine, and drank a loud
health to the company, and threw a sop which was at the bottom of
the glass full in the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this
strange act, than that the sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and
seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was there such a
mad marriage; but Petruchio did but put this wildness on, the better
to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife.

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage-feast, but when they
returned from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared
his intention of carrying his wife home instantly; and no remonstrance
of his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katherine, could
make him change his purpose; he claimed a husband's right to dispose
of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katherine off: he
seeming so daring and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him.

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank,
which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant
no better mounted, they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and
ever when this horse of Katherine's stumbled, he would storm and swear
at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as
if he had been the most passionate man alive.

At length, after a weary journey, during which Katherine had heard
nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the
horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to
her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that
night. The tables were spread, and supper soon served; but Petruchio,
pretending to find fault with every dish, threw the meat about the
floor, and ordered the servants to remove it away, and all this
he did, as he said, in love for his Katherine, that she might not
eat meat that was not well dressed. And when Katherine weary and
supperless retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed,
throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she was
forced to sit down in a chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep,
she was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband, storming
at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed.

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking kind
words to Katherine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with
every thing that was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the
floor as he had done the supper; and Katherine, the haughty Katherine,
was fain to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of
food, but they being instructed by Petruchio replied, they dared not
give her any thing unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, "did he
marry me to famish me? Beggars that come to my father's door have
food given them. But I, who never knew what it was to intreat for any
thing, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with
oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed, and that which vexes me more
than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that
if I sleep or eat it were present death to me." Here her soliloquy was
interrupted by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should
be quite starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said
to her, "How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I
am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits
thanks. What not a word? Nay then you love not the meat, and all the
pains I have taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the servant to
take the dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of
Katherine, made her say, though angered to the heart, "I pray you, let
it stand." But this was not all Petruchio intended to bring her to,
and he replied, "The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so
shall mine before you touch the meat." On this Katherine brought out
a reluctant "I thank you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a
slender meal, saying, "Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate;
eat apace! And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's
house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps
and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of
finery;" and to make her believe he really intended to give her these
gay things, he called in a taylor and a haberdasher, who brought some
new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the
servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he
said, "What? have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a cap, saying,
"Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which Petruchio began to
storm afresh, saying, the cap was moulded in a porringer, and that
it was no bigger than a cockle or a walnut shell, desiring the
haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. Katherine said, "I will
have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these." "When you are
gentle," replied Petruchio, "you shall have one too, and not till
then." The meat Katherine had eaten had a little revived her fallen
spirits, and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak,
and speak I will. I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured
to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop you
ears." Petruchio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily
discovered a better way of managing his wife than keeping up a
jangling argument with her; therefore his answer was, "Why, you say
true, it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." "Love me,
or love me not," said Katherine, "I like the cap, and I will have this
cap or none." "You say you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio,
still affecting to misunderstand her. The taylor then came forward,
and shewed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, whose
intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much
fault with that. "O mercy, Heaven!" said he, "what stuff is here!
What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a demy-cannon, carved up
and down like an apple-tart." The taylor said, "You bid me make it
according to the fashion of the times;" and Katherine said she never
saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio, and
privately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, and
excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed
upon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the taylor
and the haberdasher out of the room: and then, turning to Katherine,
he said, "Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's even in
these mean garments we now wear." And then he ordered his horses,
affirming they should reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that
it was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very
middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katherine ventured
to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of
his manner, "I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be
supper-time before we get there." But Petruchio meant that she should
be so completely subdued, that she should assent to every thing he
said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he
were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it
should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set forward;
"For," said he, "whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I
will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it
is." Another day Katherine was forced to practise her newly-found
obedience, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a
perfect subjection, that she dared not remember there was such a word
as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to her father's
house; and even while they were upon their journey thither, she was in
danger of being turned back again, only because she happened to hint
it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday.
"Now, by my mother's son," said he, "and that is myself, it shall be
the moon, or stars, or what I list, before I journey to your father's
house." He then made as if he were going back again; but Katherine, no
longer Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, "Let us go
forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, or
moon, or what you please, and if you please to call it a rush candle
henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to
prove, therefore he said again, "I say, it is the moon." "I know it is
the moon," replied Katherine. "You lie, it is the blessed sun," said
Petruchio. "Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katherine; "but sun
it is not, when you say it is not. What you will have it named even so
it is, and so it ever shall be for Katherine." Now then he suffered
her to proceed on her journey; but further to try if this yielding
humour would last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road
as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, "Good morrow, gentle
mistress;" and asked Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer
gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, and
comparing his eyes to two bright stars; and again he addressed him,
saying, "Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you!" and said to
his wife, "Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake." The now
completely vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her husband's opinion,
and made her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying to him,
"Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: whither are
you going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents of so
fair a child." "Why, how now, Kate," said Petruchio; "I hope you are
not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not
a maiden, as you say he is." On this Katherine said, "Pardon me, old
gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that every thing I look on
seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you
will pardon me for my sad mistake."--"Do, good old grandsire," said
Petruchio, "and tell us which way you are travelling. We shall be glad
of your good company, if you are going our way." The old gentleman
replied, "Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, your strange encounter
has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a
son of mine who lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman
to be the father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married
to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very
happy by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make; and
they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to Baptista's
house, where there was a large company assembled to celebrate the
wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to
the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katherine off his hands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and
there was present also another newly-married pair.

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new-married man,
could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish
disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed
highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen,
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took
little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after
dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh
against him; for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove
more obedient than theirs, the father of Katherine said, "Now, in good
sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all."
"Well," said Petruchio, "I say no, and therefore for assurance that I
speak the truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife
is most obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a
wager which we will propose." To this the other two husbands willingly
consented, for they were quite confident that their gentle wives would
prove more obedient than the headstrong Katherine; and they proposed
a wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said he would lay as
much as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his
wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to an hundred crowns,
and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to
him. But the servant returned, and said, "Sir, my mistress sends you
word she is busy and cannot come." "How," said Petruchio, "does she
say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?" Then
they laughed at him, and said, it would be well if Katherine did not
send him a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for
his wife; and he said to his servant, "Go, and intreat my wife to come
to me." "Oh ho! intreat her!" said Petruchio. "Nay, then, she needs
must come." "I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, "your wife will not be
intreated." But presently this civil husband looked a little blank,
when the servant returned without his mistress; and he said to him,
"How now! Where is my wife?" "Sir," said the servant, "my mistress
says you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not
come. She bids you come to her." "Worse and worse!" said Petruchio;
and then he sent his servant, saying, "Sirrah, go to your mistress,
and tell her I command her to come to me." The company had scarcely
time to think she would not obey this summons, when Baptista, all in
amaze, exclaimed, "Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katherine!" and she
entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is your will, sir, that you
send for me?"--"Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he.
Katherine replied, "They sit conferring by the parlour-fire." "Go,
fetch them hither!" said Petruchio. Away went Katherine without reply
to perform her husband's command. "Here is a wonder," said Lucentio,
"if you talk of a wonder." "And so it is," said Hortensio; "I marvel
what it bodes." "Marry, peace it bodes," said Petruchio, "and love,
and quiet life, and right supremacy; and to be short, every thing
that is sweet and happy." Katherine's father, overjoyed to see this
reformation in his daughter, said, "Now, fair befall thee, son
Petruchio! you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty
thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for
she is changed as if she had never been." "Nay," said Petruchio, "I
will win the wager better yet, and shew more signs of her new-built
virtue and obedience." Katherine now entering with the two ladies,
he continued, "See where she comes, and brings your froward wives as
prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katherine, that cap of yours
does not become you; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot."
Katherine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. "Lord!" said
Hortensio's wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought
to such a silly pass!" And Bianca, she too said, "Fie, what foolish
duty call you this!" On this Bianca's husband said to her, "I wish
your duty were as foolish too! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,
has cost me an hundred crowns since dinner-time." "The more fool you,"
said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." "Katherine," said Petruchio,
"I charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their
lords and husbands." And to the wonder of all present, the reformed
shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife-like duty of
obedience, as she had practised it implicitly in a ready submission
to Petruchio's will. And Katherine once more became famous in Padua,
not as heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine the most
obedient and duteous wife in Padua.




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

(_By Mary Lamb_)


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

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

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

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

"I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a
merchant. I married a lady with whom I lived very happily, but being
obliged to go to Epidamnium, I was detained there by my business
six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to stay some time
longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was brought
to bed of two sons, and what was very strange, they were both so
exactly alike, that it was impossible to distinguish the one from
the other. At the same time that my wife was brought to bed of these
twin-boys, a poor woman in the inn where my wife lodged was brought to
bed of two sons, and these twins were as much like each other as my
two sons were. The parents of these children being exceedingly poor, I
bought the two boys, and brought them up to attend upon my sons.

"My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud
of two such boys: and she daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly
agreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for we had not sailed
above a league from Epidamnium before a dreadful storm arose, which
continued with such violence, that the sailors, seeing no chance
of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives,
leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment expected would be
destroyed by the fury of the storm.

"The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints of the
pretty babes, who not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because
they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though
I did not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent to
contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the end
of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms;
at the other end I bound the youngest of the twin-slaves, and at the
same time I directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like
manner to another mast. She thus having the care of the two eldest
children, and I of the two younger, we bound ourselves separately to
these masts with the children; and but for this contrivance we had
all been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in
pieces, and we clinging to these slender masts were supported above
the water, where I, having the care of two children, was unable to
assist my wife, who with the other children were soon separated from
me; but while they were yet in my sight, they were taken up by a boat
of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), and seeing them in safety,
I had no care but to struggle with the wild sea waves, to preserve my
dear son and the youngest slave. At length we in our turn were taken
up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me, gave us kind welcome and
assistance, and landed us in safety at Syracuse; but from that sad
hour I have never known what became of my wife and eldest child.

"My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years of
age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, and
often importuned me that he might take his attendant, the young slave,
who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them: at length
I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously desired to hear
tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to
find them I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven years since
my son left me; five years have I past in travelling through the world
in search of him: I have been in farthest Greece, and through the
bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards I landed here in Ephesus, being
unwilling to leave any place unsought that harbours men; but this day
must end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself in my
death, if I were assured my wife and sons were living."

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

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

Ægeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time he
was in danger of losing his life through the careful search he was
making after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were
both in the city of Ephesus.

Ægeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were
both named alike, being both called Antipholis, and the two twin
slaves were also both named Dromio. Ægeon's youngest son, Antipholis
of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened
to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same day that
Ægeon did; and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have
been in the same danger that his father was, but by good fortune
he met a friend who told him the peril an old merchant of Syracuse
was in, and advised him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnium; this
Antipholis agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear one of his own
countrymen was in this danger, but he little thought this old merchant
was his own father.

The eldest son of Ægeon (who must be called Antipholis of Ephesus, to
distinguish him from his brother Antipholis of Syracuse) had lived at
Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have
paid the money for the ransom of his father's life; but Antipholis
knew nothing of his father, being so young when he was taken out of
the sea with his mother by the fishermen, that he only remembered he
had been so preserved, but he had no recollection of either his father
or his mother; the fishermen who took up this Antipholis and his
mother and the young slave Dromio having carried the two children away
from her (to the great grief of that unhappy lady), intending to sell
them.

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a famous
warrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys
to Ephesus, when he went to visit the duke his nephew.

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholis, when he grew
up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himself
by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his
patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a
rich lady of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave Dromio still
attending him) at the time his father came there.

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised
him to say he came from Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some money
to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the mean time he
said he would walk about and view the city, and observe the manners of
the people.

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

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood a while
thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and his
brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear the least
tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, "I am like a drop of
water in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow-drop, loses
itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a
brother, do lose myself."

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

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was very angry, when she
heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous
temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another lady
better than herself; and she began to fret, and say unkind words of
jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her sister Luciana, who
lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless
suspicions.

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with the
money in safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again
to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not
doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach him for
looking strange upon her (as well he might, never having seen this
angry lady before); and then she told him how well he loved her before
they were married, and that now he loved some other lady instead
of her. "How comes it now, my husband," said she, "O how comes it
that I have lost your love?" "Plead you to me, fair dame?" said the
astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he told her he was not her
husband, and that he had been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted
on his going home with her, and Antipholis at last, being unable to
get away, went with her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana
and her sister, the one calling him husband and the other brother, he,
all amazed, thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or
that he was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less
surprised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also claimed
him for her husband.

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his
brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave
Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because their
mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and when they
repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholis and Dromio, the
maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholis was at dinner with
their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost
knocked the door down, they could not gain admittance, and at last
Antipholis went away very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a
gentleman was dining with his wife.

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so
perplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and
at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that
he left the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get away;
for though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the
jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all
better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore both
master and man were glad to get away from their new wives as fast as
they could.

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

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholis, was
arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholis,
the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had given the
chain, happened to come to the place where the officer was arresting
the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholis, asked him to pay for
the gold chain he had just delivered to him, the price amounting to
nearly the same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antipholis
denying the having received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting
to declare that he had but a few minutes before given it to him, they
disputed this matter a long time, both thinking they were right, for
Antipholis knew the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, so like
were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered
the chain into his hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith
away to prison for the debt he owed, and at the same time the
goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipholis for the price of the
chain; so that at the conclusion of their dispute, Antipholis and the
merchant were both taken away to prison together.

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his
brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go
to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which he was
arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send him back to the
strange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been
in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell
his master the ship was ready to sail; for he saw Antipholis was in
no humour to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within
himself that he must return to Adriana's house, "Where," said he,
"Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, for servants must
obey their masters' commands."

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he met
Antipholis of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising
adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in Ephesus,
there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted him as an
old acquaintance: some offered him money which they said was owing to
him, some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks
for kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his
brother. A taylor shewed him some silks he had bought for him, and
insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes.

Antipholis began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and
witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his
bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer
who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold which
Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's of the
arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana,
perfectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, "This fellow Dromio is
certainly distracted, and we wander here in illusions;" and quite
terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed
power deliver us from this strange place!"

And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she
too called him Antipholis, and told him he had dined with her that
day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised
to give her. Antipholis now lost all patience, and calling her a
sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, or dined
with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. The lady
persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised her
a chain, which Antipholis still denying, she farther said, that she
had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her the gold
chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. On this Antipholis
became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress and witch, and
denying all knowledge of her or her ring, ran away from her, leaving
her astonished at his words and his wild looks, for nothing to her
appeared more certain than that he had dined with her, and that she
had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising to make her
a present of a gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the same
mistake the others had done, for she had taken him for his brother;
the married Antipholis had done all the things she taxed this
Antipholis with.

When the married Antipholis was denied entrance into his own house
(those within supposing him to be already there), he had gone away
very angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to
which she was very subject, and remembering that she had often falsely
accused him of visiting other ladies, he to be revenged on her for
shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and dine with this
lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his wife having
so highly offended him, Antipholis promised to give her a gold chain,
which he had intended as a present for his wife; it was the same chain
which the goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady
liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that she gave
the married Antipholis a ring; which when, as she supposed (taking his
brother for him), he denied, and said he did not know her, and left
her in such a wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out
of his senses; and presently she resolved to go and tell Adriana that
her husband was mad. And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came,
attended by the jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the money
to pay the debt), for the purse of money, which Adriana had sent by
Dromio, and he had delivered to the other Antipholis.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness
must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own
house; and remembering how he had protested all dinner-time that he
was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day,
she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailor the
money, and having discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her
husband with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent
for a doctor to come and cure him of his madness: Antipholis all the
while hotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which the exact
likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his rage
only the more confirmed them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio
persisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him away
along with his master.

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant
came to tell her that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken loose
from their keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in
the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home,
taking some people with her to secure her husband again; and her
sister went along with her. When they came to the gates of a convent
in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they
thought, being again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this
likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given
him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for
denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholis
was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain in the
morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith
again.

And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as her lunatic
husband, who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she brought
with her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but
they ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged the abbess to give
him shelter in her house.

And now came out the lady abbess herself to enquire into the cause
of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to
judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man
who had sought protection in her house; so she strictly questioned the
wife about the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said,
"What is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he
lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that
has disturbed his mind?" Adriana replied, that no such things as these
had been the cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his
affections on some other lady than you his wife; and that has driven
him to this state." Adriana said she had long thought the love of some
other lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it
was not his love for another, but the teazing jealousy of his wife's
temper, that often obliged Antipholis to leave his home; and (the
abbess suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to
learn the truth, she said, "You should have reprehended him for this."
"Why, so I did," replied Adriana. "Aye," said the abbess, "but perhaps
not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had said
enough to Antipholis on this subject, replied, "It was the constant
subject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for
speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking of it.
When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing else; and in company I
gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad
it was in him to love any lady better than me."

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jealous
Adriana, now said, "And therefore comes it that your husband is mad.
The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than
a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing;
no wonder that his head is light; and his meat was sauced with your
upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown
him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your
brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recreation,
what could ensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The
consequence is then, that your jealous fits have made your husband
mad."

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehended
her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, "Why do you hear
these rebukes without answering them?" But the abbess had made her
so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only answer, "She has
betrayed me to my own reproof."

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

During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had
happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, old
Ægeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sunset: and
at sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the money.

The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he arrived
just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending in
person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present to
pardon him.

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

Ægeon seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to
go in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure that
this dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom.
He therefore spoke to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection,
with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utter
astonishment of Ægeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he
might, for this Antipholis had never seen his father since they were
separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the poor old Ægeon
was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking
surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had so
strangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that he
was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the midst of
this perplexity, the lady abbess and the other Antipholis and Dromio
came out, and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios
standing before her.

And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, were
clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholises and the two
Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of these
seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Ægeon had told him in
the morning; and he said, these men must be the two sons of Ægeon and
their twin slaves.

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Ægeon;
and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence
of death, before the setting sun went down was brought to a happy
conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the
long-lost wife of Ægeon, and the fond mother of the two Antipholises.

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

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long
separated parents and their children, made them for a while forget
that Ægeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they were become
a little calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom-money
for his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned Ægeon, and would
not take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her newly
found husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family
discourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes.
And the two Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they had
their congratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly
complimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see
his own person (as in a glass) shew so handsome in his brother.

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

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his
brother's wife; and the good old Ægeon, with his wife and sons, lived
at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities
so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but that
sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders would
happen, and the one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for
the other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of
Errors.




MEASURE FOR MEASURE

(_By Mary Lamb_)


In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild and
gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with
impunity; and there was in particular one law, the existence of which
was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during
his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to the punishment of
death, who should live with a woman that was not his wife; and this
law through the lenity of the duke being utterly disregarded, the holy
institution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every
day made to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna,
that their daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were
living as the companions of single men.

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his
subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the
indulgence he had hitherto shewn, to the strict severity requisite to
check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him)
consider him as a tyrant: therefore he determined to absent himself a
while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his
power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put
in effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own
person.

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for his
strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to
undertake this important charge; and when the duke imparted his design
to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, "If any man in
Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is lord
Angelo." And now the duke departed from Vienna under pretence of
making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy
in his absence; but the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for he
privately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to
watch unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo.

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

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

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered upon
her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent after passing
through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was
enquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they
heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house,
said, "Peace be in this place!" "Who is it that speaks?" said Isabel.
"It is a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, and
learn his business; you may, I may not. When you have taken the veil,
you must not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress; then
if you speak, you must not shew your face, or if you shew your face,
you must not speak." "And have you nuns no farther privileges?" said
Isabel. "Are not these large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly,"
said Isabel: "I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more
strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare."
Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, "He calls
again. I pray you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and
in answer to his salutation, said, "Peace and prosperity! Who is it
that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, "Hail,
virgin, if such you be, as the roses in your cheeks proclaim you are
no less! can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this
place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio?" "Why her
unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let me ask: for I am that Isabel, and
his sister." "Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your brother kindly
greets you by me; he is in prison." "Woe is me! for what?" said
Isabel. Lucio then told her, Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a
young maiden. "Ah," said she, "I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet
and Isabel were not related, but they called each other cousin in
remembrance of their school-days friendship; and as Isabel knew that
Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for
him into this transgression. "She it is," replied Lucio. "Why then let
my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio replied, that Claudio
would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced him
to die for his offence; "Unless," said he, "you have the grace by your
fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business between you and
your poor brother." "Alas," said Isabel, "what poor ability is there
in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move Angelo." "Our
doubts are traitors," said Lucio, "and make us lose the good we might
often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens
sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods." "I will see what I can
do," said Isabel: "I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the
affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon
at night I will send him word of my success."

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees before
Angelo, saying, "I am a woeful suitor to your honour, if it will
please your honour to hear me." "Well, what is your suit?" said
Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving terms for her
brother's life. But Angelo said, "Maiden, there is no remedy: your
brother is sentenced, and he must die." "O just, but severe law," said
Isabel: "I had a brother then--Heaven keep your honour!" and she was
about to depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, "Give it
not over so; return to him again, intreat him, kneel down before him,
hang upon his gown. You are too cold; if you should need a pin, you
could not with a more tame tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on
her knees implored for mercy. "He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is
too late." "Too late!" said Isabel: "Why, no; I that do speak a word
may call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to
great ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, the
marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with one half
so good a grace as mercy does." "Pray you begone," said Angelo. But
still Isabel intreated; and she said, "If my brother had been as you,
and you as he, you might have slipt like him, but he like you would
not have been so stern. I would to Heaven I had your power, and you
were Isabel. Should it then be thus? No, I would tell you what it
were to be a judge, and what a prisoner." "Be content, fair maid!"
said Angelo: "it is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my
kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should be thus with him. He must
die to-morrow." "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh that is sudden: spare
him, spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we
kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than
we minister to our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you, none
have died for my brother's offence, though many have committed it. So
you would be the first that gives this sentence, and he the first that
suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock there, and ask your
heart what it does know that is like my brother's fault; if it confess
a natural guiltiness, as such as his is, let it not sound a thought
against my brother's life!" Her last words more moved Angelo than all
she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty
passion in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable
love, such as Claudio's crime had been; and the conflict in his mind
made him to turn away from Isabel: but she called him back, saying,
"Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my lord,
turn back!" "How, bribe me!" said Angelo, astonished that she should
think of offering him a bribe. "Aye," said Isabel, "with such gifts
that Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden treasures, or
those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy
values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven before
sunrise--prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids whose minds
are dedicated to nothing temporal." "Well, come to me to-morrow," said
Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother's life, and for this
permission that she might be heard again, she left him with the joyful
hope that she should at last prevail over his stern nature: and as she
went away, she said, "Heaven keep your honour safe! Heaven save your
honour!" Which when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, "Amen, I
would be saved from thee and from thy virtues:" and then, affrighted
at his own evil thoughts, he said, "What is this! What is this? Do I
love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her
eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a
saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman
once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman subdues me quite. Even
till now, when men were fond, I smiled, and wondered at them."

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

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted
alone to his presence; and being there, he said to her, if she would
yield to him her virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had done
with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life: "for," said he,
"I love you, Isabel." "My brother," said Isabel, "did so love Juliet,
and yet you tell me he shall die for it." "But," said Angelo, "Claudio
shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night,
even as Juliet left her father's house at night to come to Claudio."
Isabel in amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same
fault for which he passed sentence of death upon her brother, said,
"I would do as much for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were
I under sentence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear
as rubies, and go to my death as to a bed that longing I had been sick
for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame." And then she told
him, she hoped he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he
said, "Believe me on my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel,
angered to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such
dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha! little honour, to be much believed;
and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for
it! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world
aloud what man thou art!" "Who will believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo:
"my unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched against
yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding
to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can,
my false will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow."

"To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?"
said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison where her brother
was confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in pious
conversation with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited
Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense
of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse
confessed, that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she
willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said,
"Peace be here, Grace, and good company!" "Who is there?" said the
disguised duke: "come in; the wish deserves a welcome." "My business
is a word or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then the duke left
them together, and desired the provost, who had the charge of the
prisoners, to place him where he might overhear their conversation.

"Now, sister, what is the comfort?" said Claudio. Isabel told him
he must prepare for death on the morrow. "Is there no remedy?" said
Claudio. "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there is; but such a one,
as if you consented to it would strip your honour from you, and leave
you naked." "Let me know the point," said Claudio. "O, I do fear you,
Claudio!" replied his sister; "and I quake, lest you should wish to
live, and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added
to your life, than your perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The
sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we
tread upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies." "Why do you
give me this shame?" said Claudio. "Think you I can fetch a resolution
from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a
bride, and hug it in my arms." "There spoke my brother," said Isabel;
"there my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die;
yet, would you think it, Claudio! this outward-sainted deputy, if I
would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your life. O, were
it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly
as a pin!" "Thanks, dear Isabel!" said Claudio. "Be ready to die
to-morrow," said Isabel. "Death is a fearful thing," said Claudio.
"And shamed life a hateful," replied his sister. But the thoughts of
death now overcame the constancy of Claudio's temper, and terrors,
such as the guilty only at their deaths do know, assailing him, he
cried out, "Sweet sister, let me live! The sin you do to save a
brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes
a virtue." "O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!" said Isabel:
"would you preserve your life by your sister's shame? O fie, fie, fie!
I thought, my brother, you had in you such a mind of honour, that had
you twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded
them up all, before your sister should stoop to such dishonour." "Nay,
hear me, Isabel!" said Claudio. But what he would have said in defence
of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of his virtuous
sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the duke; who said,
"Claudio, I have overheard what has past between you and your sister.
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he said, has only
been to make trial of her virtue. She having the truth of honour in
her, has given him that gracious denial which he is most glad to
receive. There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass your
hours in prayer, and make ready for death." Then Claudio repented of
his weakness, and said, "Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out of
love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio retired,
overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuous
resolution, saying, "The hand that made you fair, has made you good."
"O," said Isabel, "how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo!
if ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will discover his
government." Isabel knew not that she was even now making the
discovery she threatened. The duke replied, "That shall not be
much amiss; yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your
accusation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my advisings. I believe
that you may most righteously do a poor wronged lady a merited
benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, do no stain to
your own most gracious person, and much please the absent duke, if
peradventure he shall ever return to have notice of this business."
Isabel said, She had a spirit to do anything he desired, provided it
was nothing wrong. "Virtue is bold, and never fearful," said the duke:
and then he asked her, if she had ever heard of Mariana, the sister
of Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned at sea. "I have heard
of the lady," said Isabel, "and good words went with her name." "This
lady," said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; but her marriage dowry
was on board the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark how
heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman! for, beside the loss of
a most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards her was
ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune she lost the
affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who pretending to
discover some dishonour in this honourable lady (though the true cause
was the loss of her dowry) left her in her tears, and dried not one
of them with his comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason
should have quenched her love, has, like an impediment in the current,
made it more unruly, and Mariana loves her cruel husband with the
full continuance of her first affection." The duke then more plainly
unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and
seemingly consent to come to him as he desired, at midnight; that by
this means she would obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana
should go in her stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon
Angelo in the dark for Isabel. "Nor, gentle daughter," said the
feigned friar, "fear you to do this thing; Angelo is her husband,
and to bring them thus together is no sin." Isabel being pleased
with this project, departed to do as he directed her; and he went to
apprize Mariana of their intention. He had before this time visited
this unhappy lady in his assumed character, giving her religious
instruction and friendly consolation, at which times he had learned
her sad story from her own lips; and now she, looking upon him as a
holy man, readily consented to be directed by him in this undertaking.

When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the house of
Mariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, he said, "Well
met, and in good time; what is the news from this good deputy?" Isabel
related the manner in which she had settled the affair. "Angelo," said
she, "has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side
of which is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." And then she
shewed to the duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her;
and she said, "This bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a
little door which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have
made my promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have
got from him his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken
a due and wary note of the place; and with whispering and most guilty
diligence he shewed me the way twice over." "Are there no other tokens
agreed upon between you, that Mariana must observe?" said the duke.
"No, none," said Isabel, "only to go when it is dark. I have told him
my time can be but short; for I have made him think a servant comes
along with me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about my
brother." The duke commended her discreet management, and she turning
to Mariana, said, "Little have you to say to Angelo, when you depart
from him, but soft and low _Remember now my brother!_"

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by Isabel, who
rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device preserved both
her brother's life and her own honour. But that her brother's life was
safe the duke was not so well satisfied, and therefore at midnight he
again repaired to the prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did
so, else would Claudio have that night been beheaded; for soon after
the duke entered the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy
commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him
by five o'clock in the morning. But the duke persuaded the provost to
put off the execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo by sending him
the head of a man who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail
upon the provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost
suspected not to be any thing more or greater than he seemed, shewed
the provost a letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his
seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have
some secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented to
spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it to
Angelo.

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

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who
there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell
her that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel enquired if
Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, "Angelo has
released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and sent to the
deputy." The much-grieved sister cried out, "O unhappy Claudio,
wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo!" The seeming
friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he
acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's return, and told
her in what manner she should proceed in preferring her complaint
against Angelo; and he bade her not to fear if the cause should seem
to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed,
he next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what manner she also
should act.

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal
robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects assembled to
greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by
Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the proper form. And there
came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said,
"Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, who for the
seducing a young maid was condemned to lose his head. I made my suit
to lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tell your
grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied;
for this was of much length. The vile conclusion I now begin with
grief and shame to utter. Angelo would not but by my yielding to his
dishonourable love release my brother; and after much debate within
myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and I did yield to
him. But the next morning betimes Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent
a warrant for my poor brother's head!" The duke affected to disbelieve
her story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who had
suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. And
now another suitor approached, which was Mariana; and Mariana said,
"Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, and truth from
breath, as there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue, I am this
man's wife, and, my good lord, the words of Isabel are false, for the
night she says she was with Angelo, I passed that night with him in
the garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, or else for
ever be fixed here a marble monument." Then did Isabel appeal for the
truth of what she had said to friar Lodowick, that being the name the
duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed
his instructions in what they said, the duke intending that the
innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved in that public manner
before the whole city of Vienna; but Angelo little thought that it was
from such a cause that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped
from their contradictory evidence to be able to clear himself from
the accusation of Isabel; and he said, assuming a look of offended
innocence, "I did but smile till now; but, good my lord, my patience
here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are but
the instruments of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me have
way, my lord, to find this practice out." "Aye, with all my heart,"
said the duke, "and punish them to the height of your pleasure. You,
lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover
this abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, and when he comes,
do with your injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. I for a
while will leave you, but stir not you, lord Angelo, till you have
well determined upon this slander." The duke then went away, leaving
Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire in his own cause.
But the duke was absent only while he threw off his royal robes and
put on his friar's habit; and in that disguise again he presented
himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the good old Escalus, who
thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to the supposed friar,
"Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander lord Angelo?" He
replied, "Where is the duke? It is he should hear me speak." Escalus
said, "The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak justly." "Boldly
at least," retorted the friar; and then he blamed the duke for leaving
the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so
freely of many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he said,
he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him with
the torture for speaking words against the state, and for censuring
the conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be taken away to prison.
Then, to the amazement of all present, and to the utter confusion of
Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and they saw it was
the duke himself.

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, "Come hither, Isabel.
Your friar is now your prince, but with my habit I have not changed my
heart. I am still devoted to your service." "O give me pardon," said
Isabel, "that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknown
sovereignty." He answered that he had most need of forgiveness from
her, for not having prevented the death of her brother--for not yet
would he tell her that Claudio was living; meaning first to make
a farther trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew the duke had
been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and he said, "O my dread
lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I can be
undiscernible, when I perceive your grace, like power divine, has
looked upon my actions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong my shame,
but let my trial be my own confession. Immediate sentence and death
is all the grace I beg." The duke replied, "Angelo, thy faults are
manifest. We do condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped
to death; and with like haste away with him; and for his possessions,
Mariana, we do enstate and widow you withal, to buy you a better
husband." "O my dear lord," said Mariana, "I crave no other, nor no
better man;" and then on her knees, even as Isabel had begged the
life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband beg the
life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my liege, O good my lord! Sweet
Isabel, take my part! Lend me your knees, and all my life to come
I will lend you, all my life, to do you service!" The duke said,
"Against all sense you importune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg
for mercy, her brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and take her
hence in horror." Still Mariana said, "Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but
kneel by me, hold up your hand, say nothing! I will speak all. They
say, best men are moulded out of faults, and for the most part become
much the better for being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel,
will you not lend a knee?" The duke then said, "He dies for Claudio."
But much pleased was the good duke, when his own Isabel, from whom he
expected all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down before him,
and said, "Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, on this man
condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity
governed his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it is so, let him
not die! My brother had but justice, in that he did the thing for
which he died."

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

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself again
to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had won
her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to
marry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a
humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, made her with
grateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and when she became
duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked
such a complete reformation among the young ladies of that city, that
from that time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the
repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke
long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of
princes.




TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of
Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from
their birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for the
difference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They were
both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of
perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they
were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, on board of which they
were, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number
of the ship's company escaped with their lives. The captain of the
vessel, with a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a
small boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where
she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began
to lament her brother's loss; but the captain comforted her with the
assurance, that he had seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten
himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could see any thing
of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above the waves.
Viola was much consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now
considered how she was to dispose of herself in a strange country,
so far from home; and she asked the captain if he knew any thing of
Illyria. "Aye, very well, madam," replied the captain, "for I was born
not three hours' travel from this place." "Who governs here?" said
Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke
noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her
father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. "And he is so
now," said the captain; "or was so very lately, for but a month ago
I went from here, and then it was the general talk (as you know what
great ones do the people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love
of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died
twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother,
who shortly after died also; and for the love of this dear brother,
they say, she has abjured the sight and company of men." Viola, who
was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished
she could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's
death. She asked the captain if he could introduce her to Olivia,
saying she would willingly serve this lady. But he replied, this would
be a hard thing to accomplish, because the lady Olivia would admit no
person into her house since her brother's death, not even the duke
himself. Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which was, in
a man's habit to serve the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange
fancy in a young lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy;
but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of
uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse.

She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he
shewed a friendly concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her
design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money,
and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her
clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same fashion her
brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly
garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, that some strange errors
happened by means of their being mistaken for each other; for, as will
afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this
pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her
presented to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was
wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this
handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the
office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties
of her new station, and shewed such a ready observance and faithful
attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most favoured
attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love
for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit
he had made to one, who, rejecting his long services, and despising
his person, refused to admit him to her presence; and for the love
of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino,
forsaking the sports of the field, and all manly exercises in which
he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to
the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate
love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and learned lords
with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long conversing
with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers
thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the great duke
Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of
handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow,
for all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently
perceived she suffered for the love of him: and much it moved her
wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord
and master, whom she thought no one should behold without the deepest
admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was pity
he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and
she said, "If a lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia
(and perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not love her in
return, would you not tell her that you could not love, and must not
she be content with this answer?" But Orsino would not admit of this
reasoning, for he denied that it was possible for any woman to love as
he did. He said, no woman's heart was big enough to hold so much love,
and therefore it was unfair to compare the love of any lady for him,
to his love for Olivia. Now though Viola had the utmost deference for
the duke's opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite
true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as
Orsino's had; and she said, "Ah, but I know, my lord."--"What do you
know, Cesario?" said Orsino. "Too well I know," replied Viola, "what
love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. My
father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a woman,
should love your lordship." "And what is her history?" said Orsino.
"A blank, my lord," replied Viola: "she never told her love, but let
concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek. She
pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat
like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief." The duke enquired if
this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola returned an
evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak words
expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for
Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to
Olivia, and he said, "So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted
to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: Until
seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but
like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her
tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother." On hearing this,
the duke exclaimed, "O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay
this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich
golden shaft has touched her heart!" And then he said to Viola, "You
know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore,
good youth, go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access; stand at her
doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have
audience." "And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then?" said Viola.
"O then," replied Orsino, "unfold to her the passion of my love. Make
a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well become you to
act my woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of graver
aspect."

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this
courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she
wished to marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed it
with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who
insisted upon being admitted to her presence. "I told him," said the
servant, "that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore
he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep; he seemed
to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he
must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems
fortified against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you
will or no." Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger
might be, desired he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her
face, she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting
but that he came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering,
put on the most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine
courtier's language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady,
"Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if
you are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my
speech upon another; for besides that it is excellently well penned,
I have taken great pains to learn it." "Whence come you, sir?" said
Olivia. "I can say little more than I have studied," replied Viola;
"and that question is out of my part." "Are you a comedian?" said
Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and yet I am not that which I play;"
meaning, that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And
again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said
she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival's
features than haste to deliver her master's message, said, "Good
madam, let me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was not
averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had
loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the
supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, "Have you any
commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?" And
then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years,
she drew aside her veil, saying, "But I will draw the curtain and shew
the picture. Is it not well done?" Viola replied, "It is beauty truly
mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunning
hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead
these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy." "O sir,"
replied Olivia, "I will not be so cruel. The world may have an
inventory of my beauty. As, _item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_,
two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth.
Were you sent here to praise me?" Viola replied, "I see you what you
are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves
you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned
the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with
tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire." "Your lord,"
said Olivia, "knows well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not
he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh
and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and
valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his answer long
ago." "If I did love you as my master does," said Viola, "I would make
me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would
write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the
night; your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo,
the babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you should not
rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me."
"You might do much," said Olivia: "what is your parentage?" Viola
replied, "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman."
Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, "Go to your master,
and tell him, I cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless
perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola
departed, bidding the lady farewel by the name of Fair Cruelty. When
she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, _Above my fortunes, yet my
state is well. I am a gentleman_. And she said aloud, "I will be sworn
he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly
shew he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and
perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed
herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay
upon their own faults has no deep root: and presently the noble lady
Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of
this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief
ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of
young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under
the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino.
She hoped, by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she
should give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make
Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she
began to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of
admiration, and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen
in love with her. "Alas," said she, "the poor lady might as well love
a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe
as fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino."

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill
success of the negociation, repeating the command of Olivia, that
the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in
hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her
to shew some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again
the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval,
he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; and he said, "My good
Cesario, when I heard that song last night, methought it did relieve
my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters
and the knitters when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that
weave their thread with bone, chaunt this song. It is silly, yet I
love it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old times."

SONG

  Come away, come away, Death,
    And in sad cypress let me be laid;
  Fly away, fly away, breath,
    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
  My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it,
  My part of death no one so true did share it.

  Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
    On my black coffin let there be strown:
  Not a friend, not a friend greet
    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
  A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
  Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such
true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore
testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her
sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face
that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your leave," replied
Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino.
"Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made
the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older
than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant
Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty
in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies
delight to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant
Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page
was shewn into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola
told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf,
this lady said, "I desired you never to speak of him again; but if
you would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than
music from the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia
soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her
love; and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in
Viola's face, she said, "O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the
contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by
maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your
pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion." But in
vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening
never more to come to plead Orsino's love; and all the reply she made
to Olivia's fond solicitation was, a declaration of a resolution
_Never to love any woman_.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her
valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how
that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight
a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike
outside, had a true woman's heart, and feared to look on her own
sword!

When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with his sword
drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but
she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a
discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and
as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said
to her opponent, "If this young gentleman has done offence, I will
take the fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy
you." Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to
enquire the reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with
an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of
justice coming up in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the
duke's name to answer for an offence he had committed some years
before; and he said to Viola, "This comes with seeking you:" and then
he asked her for a purse, saying, "Now my necessity makes me ask for
my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you,
than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort."
His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not,
nor had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness he had
just shewn her, she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly
the whole she possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things,
charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said, "This youth,
whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his
sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger." But
the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints of their
prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, "What is that to us?" And
as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian,
reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long
as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian,
though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an
explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise
from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish
hopes that it was her brother whose life this man said he had
preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was
Anthonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship,
when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast
to which he had fastened himself in the storm. Anthonio conceived
such a friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him
whithersoever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to
visit Orsino's court, Anthonio, rather than part from him, came to
Illyria, though he knew, if his person should be known there, his life
would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously
wounded the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for which he
was now made a prisoner.

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before
Anthonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him
to use it freely if he saw any thing he wished to purchase, telling
him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town:
but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, Anthonio had
ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in
face so exactly resembling her brother, Anthonio drew his sword (as he
thought) in defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as
he supposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he
accused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight,
slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone, when her
adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian
who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, "Now, sir, have I
met with you again? There's for you;" and struck him a blow. Sebastian
was no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house,
and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into
her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.
Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as
at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into
the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought
him) become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features
were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be
seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love
to Cesario.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on
him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it
had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not
in her right senses; but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine
house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her
family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she
appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the
courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing
he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the
house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this
proposal; and when the marriage-ceremony was over, he left his lady
for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Anthonio the
good fortune that he had met with. In the mean time Orsino came to
visit Olivia; and at the moment he arrived before Olivia's house, the
officers of justice brought their prisoner, Anthonio, before the duke.
Viola was with Orsino, her master; and when Anthonio saw Viola, whom
he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he
had rescued this youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully
relating all the kindness he had really shewn to Sebastian, he ended
his complaint by saying, that for three months, both day and night,
this ungrateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia
coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to
Anthonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess: now Heaven
walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three
months has this youth attended on me:" and then he ordered Anthonio
to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke
cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Anthonio had done,
for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness
to Cesario: and when he found his page had obtained this high place
in Olivia's favour, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just
revenge; and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow
him, saying, "Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief."
Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to
instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said
she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But
Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, "Where goes my
Cesario?" Viola replied, "After him I love more than my life." Olivia
however prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario
was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two
hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this young
man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the
evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page
had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking
that it was past recall, he was bidding farewel to his faithless
mistress, and the _young dissembler_, her husband, as he called Viola,
warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to
them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, and addressed
Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband
of Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeing two
persons with the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the
brother and sister began to question each other; for Viola could
scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew
not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned being found in
the habit of a young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she
was indeed Viola and his sister, under that disguise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between
this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady
Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with
a woman; and Olivia shewed no dislike to her exchange, when she found
she had wedded the brother instead of the sister.

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of
Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish
away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite,
young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with
great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always
thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in
a woman's attire; and then he remembered how often she had said _she
loved him_, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expression of a
faithful page, but now he guessed that something more was meant, for
many of her pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him, came now
into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he
resolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could
not help calling her _Cesario_ and _boy_), "Boy, you have said to me a
thousand times that you should never love a woman like to me, and for
the faithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft
and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you
shall now be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess."

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had
so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house,
and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her
to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the
remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother
and sister were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck,
which had separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their
high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of
Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the
lady Olivia.




TIMON OF ATHENS

(_By Charles Lamb_)


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

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory
introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to
lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse
from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a painter
had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord Timon, and
pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was
wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller
had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their
costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a ready mart
always open, where they might get off their wares or their jewellery
at any price, and the good natured lord would thank them into the
bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting him
have the refusal of such precious commodities. So that by this means
his house was thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but to
swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and his person was still more
inconveniently beset with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets,
painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and
expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome
flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation
as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his
horse, and seeming as though they drank the free air but through his
permission and bounty.

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

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were
more conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It
was fortunate for these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog, or a
horse, or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing
so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning
with the compliments of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, and
apologies for the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or
whatever it might be, did not fail to produce, from Timon's bounty,
who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses,
certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew
well enough, and that their false presents were but the putting out of
so much money at large and speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius
had lately sent to Timon a present of four milk-white horses trapped
in silver, which this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some
occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, had bestowed upon him
in the same pretended way of free gift a brace of greyhounds, whose
make and fleetness Timon had been heard to admire; these presents the
easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion of the dishonest views of
the presenters: and the givers of course were rewarded with some rich
return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty times the value of their
false and mercenary donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, and
with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was
too blind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that
Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase,
which was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift
of the thing commended, for no service in the world done for it but
the easy expence of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way
Timon but the other day had given to one of these mean lords the bay
courser which he himself rode upon, because his lordship had been
pleased to say that it was a handsome beast and went well; and Timon
knew that no man ever justly praised what he did not wish to possess.
For lord Timon weighed his friends' affection with his own, and so
fond was he of bestowing, that he could have dealt kingdoms to these
supposed friends, and never have been weary.

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers;
he could do noble and praise-worthy actions; and when a servant of
his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope
to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so far
above him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian
talents, to make his fortune equal with the dowry which the father of
the young maid demanded of him who should be her husband. But for the
most part, knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune, false
friends whom he did not know to be such, but, because they flocked
around his person, he thought they must needs love him; and because
they smiled, and flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was
approved by all the wise and good. And when he was feasting in the
midst of all these flatterers and mock friends, when they were eating
him up, and draining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest
wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could not perceive the
difference of a friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made
proud with the sight) it seemed a precious comfort to have so many,
like brothers commanding one another's fortunes (though it was his own
fortune which paid all the cost), and with joy they would run over
at the spectacle of such, as it appeared to him, truly festive and
fraternal meeting.

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured out
his bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his steward;
while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expence
that he would neither enquire how he could maintain it, nor cease his
wild flow of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must needs
melt away before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should
tell him so? his flatterers? they had an interest in shutting his
eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him
his condition, laying his accounts before him, begging of him, praying
of him, with an importunity that on any other occasion would have been
unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him with tears, to look into the
state of his affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the
discourse to something else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance
as riches turned to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its
situation, nothing so incredulous to its own true state, and hard to
give credit to a reverse. Often had this good steward, this honest
creature, when all the rooms of Timon's great house have been choked
up with riotous feeders at his master's cost, when the floors have
wept with drunken spilling of wine, and every apartment has blazed
with lights and resounded with music and feasting, often had he
retired by himself to some solitary spot, and wept faster than the
wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the mad bounty of his
lord, and to think, when the means were gone which bought him praises
from all sorts of people, how quickly the breath would be gone of
which the praise was made; praises won in feasting would be lost
in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers these flies would
disappear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer to
the representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had; and
when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,
Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several times
before to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold
or forfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough
to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this
presentation, Timon hastily replied, "My lands extended from Athens to
Lacedemon." "O my good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a world,
and has bounds; were it all yours to give in a breath, how quickly
were it gone!" Timon consoled himself that no villainous bounty had
yet come from him, that if he had given his wealth away unwisely it
had not been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends;
and he bade the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort
in the assurance that his master could never lack means, while he had
so many noble friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded himself
that he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every man's
fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely
as his own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident of the trial,
he severally dispatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus
and Sempronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past times
without measure or moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately
released out of prison by paying his debts, and who by the death of
his father was now come into the possession of an ample fortune, and
well enabled to requite Timon's courtesy; to request of Ventidius the
return of those five talents which he had paid for him, and of each
of those noble lords the loan of fifty talents: nothing doubting that
their gratitude would supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount
of five hundred times fifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreaming
over-night of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's servant was
announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present:
but when he understood the truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted
money, the quality of his faint and watery friendship shewed itself,
for with many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had long
foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he come
to dinner, to tell him of it, and had come again to supper, to try to
persuade him to spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning
by his coming: and true it was that he had been a constant attender
(as he said) at Timon's feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his
bounty, but that he ever came with that intent, or gave good counsel
or reproof to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably
followed up with meanly offering the servant a bribe, to go home to
his master and tell him that he had not found Lucullus at home.

As little success had the messenger who was sent to lord Lucius. This
lying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to
bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind changed,
and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopt, at first could
hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected great
regret that he should not have it in his power to serve lord Timon,
for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a great
purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished him of the means
at present; the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his
power to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of his greatest
afflictions that his ability should fail him to pleasure such an
honourable gentleman.

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

Sempronius and every one of these mercenary lords to whom Timon
applied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or direct
denial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused
to assist him with those five talents which Timon had not lent but
generously given him in his distress.

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty, as he had been courted
and resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which had been
loudest in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and
open-handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly,
that liberality as profuseness, though it had shewn itself folly in
nothing so truly as in the selection of such unworthy creatures as
themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken,
and become a shunned and hated place, a place for men to pass by,
not a place as formerly where every passenger must stop and taste of
his wine and good cheer; now instead of being thronged with feasting
and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and clamorous
creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in their
demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages, iron-hearted men that
would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon's house was now
his jail, where he could not pass, nor go in nor out for them; one
demanding his due of fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five
thousand crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by drops, and
pay them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge, drop by drop.

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of his
affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and
incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more lord
Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests,
lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lords
Lucius and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who
more sorry now than these fawning wretches, when they found (as they
thought) that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had been
only put on to make trial of their loves, to think that they should
not have seen through the artifice at the time, and have had the
cheap credit of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to find the
fountain of that noble bounty, which they had thought dried up, still
fresh and running? They came dissembling, protesting, expressing
deepest sorrow and shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they
should have been so unfortunate as to want the present means to oblige
so honourable a friend. But Timon begged them not to give such trifles
a thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. And these base fawning
lords, though they had denied him money in his adversity, yet
could not refuse their presence at this new blaze of his returning
prosperity. For the swallow follows not summer more willingly than men
of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the great, nor more
willingly leaves winter than these shrink from the first appearance
of a reverse; such summer-birds are men. But now with music and state
the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and when the guests had
a little done admiring whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to
furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene which they
saw was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes; at a signal given,
the dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead of
those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected, that
Timon's epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented, now
appeared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable
to Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and luke-warm water,
fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were
indeed smoke, and their hearts luke-warm and slippery as the water,
with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them,
"Uncover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover their
surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they might have enough,
and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out,
lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid
confusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were,
"Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy,
affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends,
time-flies." They, crowding out to avoid him, left the house more
willingly than they had entered it; some losing their gowns and caps,
and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the
presence of such a mad lord, and the ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he took
farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, he betook
himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon
all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and
the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infest
humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its
inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all Athenians, both
young and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to the woods, where
he said he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than those of
his own species. He stripped himself naked, that he might retain no
fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived solitary in the
manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drinking water, flying
from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild
beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man.

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the delight of
mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the manhater! Where were his
flatterers now? Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleak
air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on
warm? Would those stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young
and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Would
the cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him his
warm broths and caudles when sick of an over-night's surfeit? Or would
the creatures that lived in those wild woods, come and lick his hand,
and flatter him?

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

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had retained his old mind,
was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers again; but
Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous
to his eyes; and he would have restored it to the earth, but that,
thinking of the infinite calamities which by means of gold happen to
mankind, how the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice,
briberies, violence and murder, among men, he had a pleasure in
imagining (such a rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out
of this heap which in digging he had discovered, might arise some
mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing through the
woods near to his cave at that instant, which proved to be a part of
the troops of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust
taken against the senators of Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to
be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their generals
and best friends), was marching at the head of the same triumphant
army which he had formerly headed in their defence, to war against
them; Timon, who liked their business well, bestowed upon their
captain the gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from
him, than that he should with his conquering army lay Athens level
with the ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing
the old men for their white beards, for (he said) they were usurers,
nor the young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but to steel
his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds that might awaken
compassion; and not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers,
hinder him from making one universal massacre of the city, but to
confound them all in his conquest; and when he had conquered, he
prayed that the gods would confound him also, the conqueror: so
thoroughly did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind.

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal than
human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance of a
man standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was
Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to his
master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and to offer
his services! and the first sight of his master, the once noble Timon,
in that abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the manner
of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and a monument
of decay, so affected this good servant, that he stood speechless,
wrapt up in horror, and confounded. And when he found utterance at
last to his words, they were so choaked with tears, that Timon had
much ado to know him again, or to make out who it was that had come
(so contrary to the experience he had had of mankind) to offer him
service in extremity. And being in the form and shape of a man, he
suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for false; but the good
servant by so many tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and
made it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his once dear
master had brought him there, that Timon was forced to confess that
the world contained one honest man; yet, being in the shape and form
of a man, he could not look upon his man's face without abhorrence,
or hear words uttered from his man's lips without loathing; and this
singly honest man was forced to depart, because he was a man, and
because, with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is usual to
man, he bore man's detested form and outward feature.

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

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

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

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

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which Timon
shewed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his countrymen
had: for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing by the
sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods which Timon
frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscription
upon it, purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who
"While he lived, did hate all living men, and dying, wished a plague
might consume all caitiffs left!"

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste
of life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his
conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his
epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a
hater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in the
very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of
burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as
in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and
deceitful mankind.




ROMEO AND JULIET

(_By Charles Lamb_)

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

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies and
many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona
were present, and all comers were made welcome if they were not of the
house of Mountague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of
Romeo, son to the old lord Mountague, was present; and though it was
dangerous for a Mountague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio,
a friend of Romeo, persuaded the young lord to go to this assembly in
the disguise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her
compare her with some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would
make him think his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's
words; nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go.
For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his
sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline,
who disdained him, and never requited his love with the least show of
courtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this
love by shewing him diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of
Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio went
masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that ladies who
had their toes unplagued with corns would dance with them. And the old
man was light-hearted and merry, and said that he had worn a mask when
he was young, and could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's
ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the
exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to
teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to shew by night like
a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor: beauty too rich for use, too dear
for earth! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly
did her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her companions.
While he uttered these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew
of lord Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And this
Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, could not endure that
a Mountague should come under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as
he said) at their solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceedingly,
and would have struck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord
Capulet, would not suffer him to do any injury at that time, both out
of respect to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself like a
gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous
and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his
will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile Mountague should at
another time dearly pay for his intrusion.

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady stood;
and under favour of his masking habit, which might seem to excuse in
part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by
the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he prophaned by touching it,
he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement. "Good
pilgrim," answered the lady, "your devotion shews by far too mannerly
and too courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss
not." "Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?" said Romeo. "Aye,"
said the lady, "lips which they must use in prayer." "O then, my dear
saint," said Romeo, "hear my prayer and grant it, lest I despair." In
such like allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the
lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo enquiring who her mother
was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much
struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet,
the great enemy of the Mountagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged
his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade
him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, when she found that the
gentleman that she had been talking with was Romeo and a Mountague,
for she had been suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate
passion for Romeo, which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious
birth of love it seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that
her affections should settle there, where family considerations should
induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they soon
missed him, for unable to stay away from the house where he had left
his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back of
Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, ruminating on his new love,
when Juliet appeared above at a window, through which her exceeding
beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east; and the
moon, which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeo
as if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new
sun. And she leaning her hand upon her cheek, he passionately wished
himself a glove upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all
this while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed,
"Ah me!" Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard
by her, "O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over
my head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back to
gaze upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the new
passion which that night's adventure had given birth to, called upon
her lover by name (whom she supposed absent): "O Romeo, Romeo!" said
she, "wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name,
for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I no
longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, having this encouragement, would
fain have spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more; and the lady
continued her passionate discourse with herself (as she thought),
still chiding Romeo for being Romeo and a Mountague, and wishing him
some other name, or that he would put away that hated name, and for
that name, which was no part of himself, he should take all herself.
At this loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the
dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him personally, and not
merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or by whatever other name
she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing
to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man's voice in the garden, did not
at first know who it was, that by favour of the night and darkness
had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret; but when he
spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of
that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, that she
immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she expostulated with him
on the danger to which he had exposed himself by climbing the orchard
walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him there, it would be
death to him, being a Mountague. "Alack," said Romeo, "there is more
peril in your eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you but look
kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against their enmity. Better my
life should be ended by their hate, than that hated life should be
prolonged, to live without your love." "How came you into this place,"
said Juliet, "and by whose direction?" "Love directed me," answered
Romeo: "I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that
vast shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I should adventure
for such merchandize." A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet
unseen by Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the
discovery which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her
love to Romeo. She would fain have recalled her words, but that was
impossible: fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and
be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand
off, and affect a coyness or indifference, where they most love, that
their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily won: for the
difficulty of attainment increases the value of the object. But there
was no room in her case for denials, or puttings off, or any of the
customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeo had heard
from her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was near her, a
confession of her love. So with an honest frankness, which the novelty
of her situation excused, she confirmed the truth of what he had
before heard, and addressing him by the name of _fair Mountague_
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to impute her easy
yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the fault
of it (if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night which had
so strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added, that though her
behaviour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by the
custom of her sex, yet that she would prove more true than many whose
prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial cunning.

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing was
farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such
an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear;
for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night's
contract; it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he being
urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him that night, she
said that she already had given him hers before he requested it;
meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she would retract what
she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty
was as infinite as the sea, and her love as deep. From this loving
conference she was called away by her nurse, who slept with her, and
thought it time for her to be in bed, for it was near to day-break;
but hastily returning, she said three or four words more to Romeo,
the purport of which was, that if his love was indeed honourable, and
his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger to him to-morrow, to
appoint a time for their marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes
at his feet, and follow him as her lord through the world. While they
were settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her
nurse, and went in and returned, and went and returned again, for she
seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her, as a young girl of her
bird, which she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it
back with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loth to part as she: for
the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at
night. But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest
for that night. The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who
was too full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting
to allow him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a
monastery hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was already
up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he
conjectured rightly that he had not been a-bed that night, but that
some distemper of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was right
in imputing the cause of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he made a
wrong guess at the object, for he thought that his love for Rosaline
had kept him waking. But when Romeo revealed his new passion for
Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to marry them that
day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at
the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had been privy to all
Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many complaints of her disdain; and
he said, that young men's love lay not truly in their hearts, but in
their eyes. But Romeo replying that he himself had often chidden him
for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again, whereas Juliet
both loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in some measure
to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance between young
Juliet and Romeo might happily be a means of making up the long breach
between the Capulets and the Mountagues; which no one more lamented
than this good friar, who was a friend to both the families, and had
often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel without effect;
partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, to
whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their hands
in marriage.

Now was Romeo blest indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from a
messenger which she had dispatched according to promise, did not fail
to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands were
joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the heavens to smile
upon that act, and in the union of this young Mountague and young
Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she staid
impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to
come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before;
and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night before
some great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got new
finery which it may not put on till the morning.

That same day about noon, Romeo's friends, Benvolio and Mercutio,
walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a party of the
Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same
angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at old lord Capulet's
feast. He seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating with
Romeo, a Mountague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood
in him as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some sharpness; and
in spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel
was beginning, when Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce
Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful
appellation of villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt
above all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved
by her; besides, this young Mountague had never thoroughly entered
into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the name
of a Capulet, which was his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm
to allay resentment, than a watch-word to excite fury. So he tried
to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the name of _good
Capulet_, as if he, though a Mountague, had some secret pleasure in
uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all Mountagues as he hated
hell, would hear no reason, but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, who
knew not of Romeo's secret motive for desiring peace with Tybalt, but
looked upon his present forbearance as a sort of calm dishonourable
submission, with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the
prosecution of his first quarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mercutio
fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his death's wound while Romeo
and Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio
being dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned the scornful
appellation of villain which Tybalt had given him; and they fought
till Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the
midst of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought a crowd
of citizens to the spot, and among them the old lords Capulet and
Mountague, with their wives; and soon after arrived the prince
himself, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and
having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these
brawls of Mountagues and Capulets, came determined to put the law in
strictest force against those who should be found to be offenders.
Benvolio, who had been eye-witness to the fray, was commanded by the
prince to relate the origin of it, which he did, keeping as near the
truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the
part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief
for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her
revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his murderer,
and to pay no attention to Benvolio's representation, who being
Romeo's friend, and a Mountague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded
against her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her
son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On the other hand was to be seen Lady
Mountague pleading for her child's life, and arguing with some justice
that Romeo had done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life
of Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by his having slain
Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these
women, on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence,
and by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona.

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a bride,
and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced! When the
tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo,
who had slain her dear cousin: she called him a beautiful tyrant,
a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's nature, a
serpent-heart hid with a flowering face, and other like contradictory
names, which denoted the struggles in her mind between her love and
her resentment: but in the end love got the mastery, and the tears
which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain her cousin, turned to
drops of joy that her husband lived whom Tybalt would have slain.
Then came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief for Romeo's
banishment. That word was more terrible to her than the death of many
Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar Lawrence's cell,
where he was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which
seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared there
was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of
Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was
purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have applied the
consolation of philosophy to his griefs; but this frantic young man
would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his hair, and threw
himself all along upon the ground, as he said, to take the measure of
his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused by a message from
his dear lady, which a little revived him, and then the friar took the
advantage to expostulate with him on the unmanly weakness which he had
shown. He had slain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his
dear lady who lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he said,
was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage which should keep
it firm. The law had been lenient to him, that instead of death which
he had incurred, had pronounced by the prince's mouth only banishment.
He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there was a sort
of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) had
become his dear wife, therein he was most happy. All these blessings,
as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from him like a sullen
misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him beware, for such as despaired
(he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he
counselled him that he should go that night and secretly take his
leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straitways to Mantua, at which
place he should sojourn, till the friar found a fit occasion to
publish his marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling
their families; and then he did not doubt but the prince would be
moved to pardon him, and he would return with twenty times more joy
than he went forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise
counsels of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady,
proposing to stay with her that night, and by day-break pursue his
journey alone to Mantua; to which place the good friar promised to
send him letters from time to time, acquainting him with the state of
affairs at home.

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret admission
to her chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard her confession
of love the night before. That had been a night of unmixed joy and
rapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the delight which these
lovers took in each other's society, were sadly allayed with the
prospect of parting, and the fatal adventures of the past day. The
unwelcome day-break seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the
morning-song of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it was
the nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too truly the lark
which sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and
the streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was
time for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wife
with a heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour
in the day, and when he had descended from her chamber-window, as he
stood below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in
which she was he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a
tomb. Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced
hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the
walls of Verona after day-break.

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

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

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always her
counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to
undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go into
the grave alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband living,
he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and give her consent to
marry Paris, according to her father's desire, and on the next night,
which was the night before the marriage, to drink of the contents of
a phial which he then gave her, the effect of which would be, that
for two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold and
lifeless; that when the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning,
he would find her to appearance dead; that then she would be borne, as
the manner in that country was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried in
the family vault; that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent
to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid
(such was its certain operation) she would be sure to awake, as from
a dream; and before she should awake, he would let her husband know
their drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her thence
to Mantua. Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet
strength to undertake this horrible adventure; and she took the phial
of the friar, promising to observe his directions.

Going from the monastery, she met the young count Paris, and, modestly
dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to the
lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man:
and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by her refusal of the
count, was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. All
things in the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials.
No cost was spared to prepare such festival rejoicings, as Verona had
never before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had many
misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed
to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he
was always known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before the
time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place,
a vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody,
lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her
distracted: again she thought of all the stories she had heard of
spirits haunting the places where their bodies are bestowed. But then
her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, and she
desperately swallowed the draught, and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with music, to awaken his
bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary
spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes! What confusion
then reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris lamenting his bride,
whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him
even before their hands were joined. But still more piteous it was to
hear the mournings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having but
this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death
had snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents were
on the point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promising
and advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for the
festival, were turned from their properties to do the office of a
black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the
bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments
to melancholy bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in
the bride's path, now served but to strew her corse. Now instead of
a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was
borne to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the
living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the
dismal story of his Juliet's death to Romeo at Mantua, before the
messenger could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprize
him that these were mock funerals only and but the shadow and
representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but
for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release her from
that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and
light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was dead (a strange
dream, that gave a dead man leave to think), and that his lady came
and found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in his lips,
that he revived, and was an emperor! And now that a messenger came
from Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm some good news which
his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this flattering
vision appeared, and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom
he could not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready,
for he determined that night to visit Verona, and to see his lady
in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of
desperate men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in
Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of
the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched show in his shop of
empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme
wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps having some misgivings
that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a conclusion so
desperate), "If a man were to need poison, which by the law of Mantua
it is death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it him."
These words of his now came into his mind, and he sought out the
apothecary, who, after some pretended scruples, Romeo offering him
gold which his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison, which, if
he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength of twenty men, would
quickly dispatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his dear
lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow
the poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight,
and found the church-yard, in the midst of which was situated the
ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a spade,
and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open the monument,
when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the name of _vile
Mountague_ bade him desist from his unlawful business. It was the
young count Paris, who had come to the tomb of Juliet at that
unseasonable time of night, to strew flowers and to weep over the
grave of her that should have been his bride. He knew not what an
interest Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him to be a Mountague,
and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he judged that
he was come by night to do some villanous shame to the dead bodies;
therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist; and as a criminal,
condemned by the laws of Verona to die if he were found within the
walls of the city, he would have apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to
leave him, and warned him by the fate of Tybalt who lay buried there,
not to provoke his anger, or draw down another sin upon his head, by
forcing him to kill him. But the count in scorn refused his warning,
and laid hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they fought,
and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see who it
was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his way
from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth by the
hand, as one whom misfortune had made a companion, and said that he
would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which
he now opened: and there lay his lady, as one whom death had no power
upon to change a feature or complexion in her matchless beauty, or as
if Death were amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept her there
for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as she had fallen
to sleep when she swallowed that benumbing potion: and near her lay
Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his
lifeless corse, and for Juliet's sake called him _cousin_, and said
that he was about to do him a favour by putting his enemy to death.
Here Romeo took his last leave of his lady's lips, kissing them; and
here he shook the burden of his cross stars from his weary body,
swallowing that poison which the apothecary had sold him, whose
operation was fatal and real, not like that dissembling potion which
Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which was now nearly expiring, and
she about to awake to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or
that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that she
should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which he had
sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had never
reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pick-axe and lantern, to
deliver the lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find a
light already burning in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords and
blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument.

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal
accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing
the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and the
occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo: but the friar,
hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and of
unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had
thwarted their intents; and being frighted by the noise of people
coming, he fled; but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's
hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, and she
would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed
his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them: then
hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a
dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo's
side.

The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging to
count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo,
had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went
up and down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, A Paris, a
Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the
uproar brought lord Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds,
with the prince, to enquire into the causes of the disturbance. The
friar had been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the
church-yard, trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner.
A great multitude being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar
was commanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these strange
and disastrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old lords Mountague and Capulet, he
faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the part
he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union to end
the long quarrels between their families; how Romeo, there dead, was
husband to Juliet, and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's faithful wife:
how before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their marriage,
another match was projected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime of a
second marriage swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised), and
all thought her dead: how meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and take
her thence when the force of the potion should cease, and by what
unfortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo: further than this the friar could not follow the story, nor
knew more than that coming himself to deliver Juliet from that place
of death, he found the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of
the transactions was supplied by the narration of the page who had
seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo
from Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be
delivered to his father in the event of his death which made good the
friar's words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the
forgiveness of his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of
the poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, to die,
and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear
the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have had in these
complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended consequences of
his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Mountague and Capulet,
rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and shewed
them what a scourge heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had
found means even through the love of their children to punish their
unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to
bury their long strife in their children's graves; and lord Capulet
requested lord Mountague to give him his hand, calling him by the name
of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union of their families by
the marriage of the young Capulet and Mountague; and saying that lord
Mountague's hand (in token of reconcilement) was all he demanded for
his daughter's jointure: but lord Mountague said he would give him
more, for he would raise her statue of pure gold, that while Verona
kept its name, no figure should be so esteemed for its richness and
workmanship as that of the true and faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet
in return said that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did
these poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other
in mutual courtesies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity
in past times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their
children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions) could
remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the noble families.




HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

(_By Charles Lamb_)


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

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make such
impression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated the
memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice
sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety himself,
did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude:
insomuch that, between grief for his father's death and shame for
his mother's marriage, this young prince was overclouded with a deep
melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all his good looks; all his
customary pleasure in books forsook him, his princely exercises and
sports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable; he grew weary
of the world, which seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all
the wholesome flowers were choaked up, and nothing but weeds could
thrive. Not that the prospect of exclusion from the throne, his lawful
inheritance, weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to a young
and high-minded prince was a bitter wound and a sore indignity; but
what so galled him, and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that
his mother had shewn herself so forgetful to his father's memory: and
such a father! who had been to her so loving and so gentle a husband!
and then she always appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him, and
would hang upon him as if her affection grew to him: and now within
two months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two months, she
had married again, married his uncle, her dead husband's brother, in
itself a highly improper and unlawful marriage, from the nearness of
relationship, but made much more so by the indecent haste with which
it was concluded, and the unkingly character of the man whom she had
chosen to be the partner of her throne and bed. This it was which,
more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits, and brought a
cloud over the mind of this honourable young prince.

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

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of his
father's death. It was given out by Claudius, that a serpent had stung
him: but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was
the serpent; in plain English, that he had murdered him for his crown,
and that the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the throne.

How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to think of
his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by her
consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubts
which continually harassed and distracted him.

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that an apparition,
exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by the
soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at midnight,
for two or three nights successively. The figure came constantly clad
in the same suit of armour, from head to foot, which the dead king was
known to have worn: and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom-friend Horatio
was one) agreed in their testimony as to the time and manner of its
appearance: that it came just as the clock struck twelve; that it
looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of anger; that its beard
was grisly, and the colour a _sable silvered_, as they had seen it in
his life-time: that it made no answer when they spoke to it, yet once
they thought it lifted up its head, and addressed itself to motion, as
if it were about to speak; but in that moment the morning cock crew,
and it shrunk in haste away, and vanished out of their sight.

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was too
consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it
was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his
watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of
seeing it: for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance did
not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, and
though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. And he
waited with impatience for the coming of night.

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

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sudden
surprize and fear. He at first called upon the angels and heavenly
ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were a good
spirit or bad; whether it came for good or for evil: but he gradually
assumed more courage; and his father (as it seemed to him) looked upon
him so piteously, and, as it were desiring to have conversation with
him, and did in all respects appear so like himself as he was when he
lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing him: he called him by
his name, Hamlet, King, Father! and conjured him that he would tell
the reason why he had left his grave, where they had seen him quietly
bestowed, to come again and visit the earth and the moonlight: and
besought him that he would let them know if there was any thing which
they could do to give peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to
Hamlet, that he should go with him to some more removed place, where
they might be alone: and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded
the young prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be
some evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neighbouring sea, or to
the top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape
which might deprive the prince of his reason. But their counsels and
intreaties could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared too
little about life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he
said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as
itself? and he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting from them who did
all they could to hold him, he followed whithersoever the spirit led
him.

And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and told
him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly
murdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done by his own
brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already but too much
suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he
was sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the afternoon, his
treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice
of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy to
the life of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all the
veins of the body, baking up the blood, and spreading a crust-like
leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he
was cut off at once from his crown, his queen, and his life: and he
adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that he would
revenge his foul murder. And the ghost lamented to his son, that his
mother should so fall off from virtue, as to prove false to the wedded
love of her first husband, and to marry his murderer: but he cautioned
Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge against his wicked
uncle, by no means to act any violence against the person of his
mother, but to leave her to heaven, and to the stings and thorns of
conscience. And Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direction in
all things, and the ghost vanished.

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

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

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strangeness
in his apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently
counterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both deceived,
and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause
to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of
the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they thought
they had found out the object.

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been related, he
had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius,
the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent her
letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affection to her, and
importuned her with love in honourable fashion: and she had given
belief to his vows and importunities. But the melancholy which he fell
into latterly had made him neglect her, and from the time he conceived
the project of counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her with
unkindness, and a sort of rudeness; but she, good lady, rather than
reproach him with being false to her, persuaded herself that it was
nothing but the disease in his mind, and no settled unkindness, which
had made him less observant of her than formerly; and she compared the
faculties of his once noble mind and excellent understanding, impaired
as they were with the deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet
bells which in themselves are capable of most exquisite music, but
when jangled out of tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and
unpleasing sound.

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the revenging of
his father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playful
state of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as
love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts
of his Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments,
when he thought that his treatment of this gentle lady had been
unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts of
passion, and in extravagant terms, such as agreed with his supposed
madness, but mixed with some gentle touches of affection, which could
not but shew to this honoured lady that a deep love for her yet lay at
the bottom of his heart. He bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and
to doubt that the sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never
to doubt that he loved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This
letter Ophelia dutifully shewed to her father, and the old man thought
himself bound to communicate it to the king and queen, who from that
time supposed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And
the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy
cause of his wildness, for so she hoped that her virtues might happily
restore him to his accustomed way again, to both their honours.

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be
so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his
imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him
no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a
sin, and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the
death of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards,
was no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen,
Hamlet's mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint
upon his purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very
circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with
some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere
act of putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and
terrible to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His
very melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in,
produced an irresoluteness and wavering of purpose, which kept him
from proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having
some scruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen
was indeed his father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he
had heard has power to take any form he pleases, and who might have
assumed his father's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and
his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as
murder. And he determined that he would have more certain grounds to
go upon than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion.

While he was in this irresolute mind, there came to the court
certain players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and
particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing
the death of old Priam, king of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba, his
queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the players, and remembering
how that speech had formerly given him pleasure, requested the player
to repeat it; which he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the
cruel murder of the feeble old king, with the destruction of his
people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the old queen, running
barefoot up and down the palace, with a poor clout upon that head
where a crown had been, and with nothing but a blanket upon her loins,
snatched up in haste, where she had worn a royal robe: that not only
it drew tears from all that stood by, who thought they saw the real
scene, so livelily was it represented, but even the player himself
delivered it with a broken voice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon
thinking, if that player could so work himself up to passion by a mere
fictitious speech, to weep for one that he had never seen, for Hecuba,
that had been dead so many hundred years, how dull was he, who having
a real motive and cue for passion, a real king and a dear father
murdered, was yet so little moved, that his revenge all this while had
seemed to have slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness! And while he
meditated on actors and acting, and the powerful effects which a good
play, represented to the life, has upon the spectator, he remembered
the instance of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage,
was by the mere force of the scene and resemblance of circumstances
so affected, that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had
committed. And he determined that these players should play something
like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would watch
narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his looks he
would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the murderer
or not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to the
representation of which he invited the king and queen.

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

At the representation of this play the king, who did not know the trap
which was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the whole
court: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. The
play began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, in which
the lady made many protestations of love, and of never marrying a
second husband, if she should outlive Gonzago; wishing she might be
accursed if she ever took a second husband, and adding that no woman
ever did so but those wicked women who kill their first husbands.
Hamlet observed the king, his uncle, change colour at this expression,
and that it was as bad as wormwood both to him and to the queen. But
when Lucianus, according to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping
in the garden, the strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked
act upon the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned in his
garden, so struck upon the conscience of this usurper, that he was
unable to sit out the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for
lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly feeling a sudden
sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The king being departed the
play was given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that
the words of the ghost were true, and no illusion; and in a fit of
gaiety, like that which comes over a man who suddenly has some great
doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio that he would take the
ghost's word for a thousand pounds. But before he could make up his
resolution as to what measures of revenge he should take, now he was
certainly informed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was
sent for by the queen, his mother, to a private conference in her
closet.

It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that she
might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had displeased
them both; and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that
conference, and thinking that the too partial report of a mother might
let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might much import the
king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered to
plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he
might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly
adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in
crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted to get at the
knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way.

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the roundest
way with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that he had given
great offence to _his father_, meaning the king, his uncle, whom,
because he had married her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely
indignant that she should give so dear and honoured a name as father
seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no better than the murderer
of his true father, with some sharpness replied, "Mother, _you_ have
much offended _my father_." The queen said that was but an idle
answer. "As good as the question deserved," said Hamlet. The queen
asked him if he had forgotten who it was he was speaking to? "Alas!"
replied Hamlet, "I wish I could forget. You are the queen, your
husband's brother's wife; and you are my mother: I wish you were not
what you are." "Nay, then," said the queen, "if you shew me so little
respect, I will set those to you that can speak," and was going to
send the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her go, now
he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could not bring her
to some sense of her wicked life; and, taking her by the wrist, he
held her fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted at his earnest
manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief,
cried out: and a voice was heard from behind the hangings, "Help, help
the queen;" which Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking that it was the
king himself there concealed, he drew his sword, and stabbed at the
place where the voice came from, as he would have stabbed a rat that
ran there, till the voice ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead.
But when he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, but Polonius,
the old officious counsellor, that had planted himself as a spy behind
the hangings. "Oh me!" exclaimed the queen, "what a rash and bloody
deed have you done!" "A bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, "but not
so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married his brother." Hamlet
had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in the humour to speak
plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though the faults of
parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet in the case
of great crimes the son may have leave to speak even to his own mother
with some harshness, so as that harshness is meant for her good, and
to turn her from her wicked ways, and not done for the purpose of
upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince did in moving terms represent
to the queen the heinousness of her offence, in being so forgetful of
the dead king, his father, as in so short a space of time to marry
with his brother and reputed murderer: such an act as, after the vows
which she had sworn to her first husband, was enough to make all vows
of women suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding
contracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a
mockery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a deed,
that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her because
of it. And he shewed her two pictures, the one of the late king, her
first husband, and the other of the present king, her second husband,
and he bade her mark the difference: what a grace was on the brow
of his father, how like a god he looked! the curls of Apollo, the
forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury
newly alighted on some heaven-kissing hill! this man, he said, _had
been_ her husband. And then he shewed her whom she had got in his
stead: how like a blight or a mildew he looked, for so he had blasted
his wholesome brother. And the queen was sore ashamed that he should
so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, which she now saw so black and
deformed. And he asked her how she could continue to live with this
man, and be a wife to him, who had murdered her first husband, and
got the crown by as false means as a thief--And just as he spoke, the
ghost of his father, such as he was in his lifetime, and such as he
had lately seen it, entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror,
asked what it would have; and the ghost said that it came to remind
him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed to have
forgot: and the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and
terror she was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen
by none but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where it stood,
or by any description, make his mother perceive it; who was terribly
frighted all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her,
with nothing: and she imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But
Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner as
to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences, which had
brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel
his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he begged
of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was past,
and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be no more
as a wife to him: and when she should shew herself a mother to him,
by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a blessing of her as
a son. And she promising to observe his directions, the conference
ended.

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his
unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it
was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved,
he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a little
quieter, he wept for what he had done.

The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretence for sending
Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have put him to death,
fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet;
and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted upon the prince, her
son. So this subtle king, under pretence of providing for Hamlet's
safety, that he might not be called to account for Polonius' death,
caused him to be conveyed on board a ship bound for England, under the
care of two courtiers, by whom he dispatched letters to the English
court, which at that time was in subjection and paid tribute to
Denmark, requiring for special reasons there pretended, that Hamlet
should be put to death as soon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet,
suspecting some treachery, in the night-time secretly got at the
letters, and skilfully erasing his own name, he in the stead of it
put in the names of those two courtiers, who had the charge of him,
to be put to death: then sealing up the letters, he put them into
their place again. Soon after the ship was attacked by pirates, and a
sea-fight commenced; in the course of which Hamlet, desirous to shew
his valour, with sword in hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel;
while his own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him
to his fate, the two courtiers made the best of their way to England,
charged with those letters the sense of which Hamlet had altered to
their own deserved destruction.

The pirates, who had the prince in their power, shewed themselves
gentle enemies; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the hope
that the prince might do them a good turn at court in recompence
for any favour they might shew him, they set Hamlet on shore at the
nearest port in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the king,
acquainting him with the strange chance which had brought him back to
his own country, and saying that on the next day he should present
himself before his majesty. When he got home, a sad spectacle offered
itself the first thing to his eyes.

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once dear
mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever since
her poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, and by
the hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this tender young
maid, that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and would
go about giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and saying
that they were for her father's burial, singing songs about love and
about death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as if she
had no memory of what had happened to her. There was a willow which
grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves in the stream. To
this brook she came one day when she was unwatched, with garlands she
had been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds
together, and clambering up to hang her garland upon the boughs of the
willow, a bow broke and precipitated this fair young maid, garland,
and all that she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes bore
her up for a while, during which she chaunted scraps of old tunes,
like one insensible to her own distress, or as if she were a creature
natural to that element: but long it was not before her garments,
heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her melodious singing to a
muddy and miserable death. It was the funeral of this fair maid which
her brother Laertes was celebrating, the king and queen and whole
court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this
shew imported, but stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the
ceremony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was
in maiden burials, which the queen herself threw in; and as she threw
them, she said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought to have decked thy
bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst
have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother wish that
violets might spring from her grave: and he saw him leap into the
grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains
of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And Hamlet's love
for this fair maid came back to him, and he could not bear that a
brother should shew so much transport of grief, for he thought that he
loved Ophelia better than forty thousand brothers. Then discovering
himself, he leaped into the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic or
more frantic than he, and Laertes knowing him to be Hamlet, who had
been the cause of his father's and his sister's death, grappled him by
the throat as an enemy, till the attendants parted them: and Hamlet,
after the funeral, excused his hasty act in throwing himself into
the grave as if to brave Laertes; but he said he could not bear that
any one should seem to outgo him in grief for the death of the fair
Ophelia. And for the time these two noble youths seemed reconciled.

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his
father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived
destruction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and
reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at
fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try the match.
At this match all the court was present, and Laertes, by direction of
the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers
were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and Laertes were known to
excel at this sword-play; and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one,
not at all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being careful to
examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted sword,
which the laws of fencing require, made use of one with a point, and
poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him
to gain some advantages, which the dissembling king magnified and
extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's success, and wagering
rich bets upon the issue: but after a few passes, Laertes growing
warm made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, and
gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed, but not knowing the whole of
the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent weapon for
Laertes' deadly one, and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid
Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in his own treachery. In
this instant the queen shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had
inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the king had prepared for
Hamlet, in case that being warm in fencing he should call for drink:
into this the treacherous king had infused a deadly poison, to make
sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn
the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, and immediately died,
exclaiming with her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet,
suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be shut, while he
sought it out. Laertes told him to seek no further, for he was the
traitor; and feeling his life go away with the wound which Hamlet had
given him, he made confession of the treachery he had used, and how he
had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the envenomed point,
and said that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine
could cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet he died, with his
last words accusing the king of being the contriver of the mischief.
When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being yet some venom left
upon the sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle, and thrust
the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the promise which he had made
to his father's spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, and
his foul murder revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his
breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, who
had been spectator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath
requested him that he would live to tell his story to the world (for
Horatio had made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany
the prince in death), and Horatio promised that he would make a true
report, as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And, thus
satisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet cracked: and Horatio and the
bystanders with many tears commended the spirit of their sweet prince
to the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle
prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and prince-like
qualities; and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most
royal and complete king to Denmark.




OTHELLO

(_By Charles Lamb_)


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

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

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the manner of ladies)
loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures, which he would
run through from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, and
encounters, which he had past through; the perils he had been exposed
to by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he has entered
a breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had
been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to slavery: how
he demeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped: all these
accounts, added to the narration of the strange things he had seen in
foreign countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns, the
quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; of
the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of
people in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders: these
travellers' stories would so enchain the attention of Desdemona, that
if she were called off at any time by household affairs, she would
dispatch with all haste that business, and return, and with a greedy
ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he took advantage of a pliant
hour, and drew from her a prayer, that he would tell her the whole
story of his life at large, of which she had heard so much, but only
by parts: to which he consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when
he spoke of some distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs: she
swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful,
wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she
wished that heaven had made her such a man: and then she thanked him,
and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to teach
him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint,
delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied with a
certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not
but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden
opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady Desdemona
privately to marry him.

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such, that it could be
hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his
daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian
ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or
expectations: but in this he was deceived; Desdemona loved the Moor,
though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant
parts and qualities: so was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion
to the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, which
to all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountable
objection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear
complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors.

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

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had
immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that
the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was
bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that
strong post from the Venetians, who then held it: in this emergency
the state turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate
to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that Othello,
now summoned before the senate, stood in their presence at once as a
candidate for a great state-employment, and as a culprit, charged with
offences which by the laws of Venice were made capital.

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio commanded a most
patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed father
conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producing
likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was called
upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the course
of his love; which he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting
the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, and
delivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of
truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help
confessing, that a tale so told would have won his daughter too: and
the spells and conjurations, which Othello had used in his courtship,
plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men in
love; and the only witchcraft which he had used the faculty of telling
a soft tale to win a lady's ear.

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the lady
Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to her
father for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a
yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother
had shewn in preferring him (Brabantio) above _her_ father.

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

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

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news
arrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet,
and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of an
attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, was now beginning;
and the enemies, which malice stirred up against his innocent lady,
proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or infidels.

Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence of
Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young soldier,
a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite
qualities with women; he was handsome, and eloquent, and exactly such
a person as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced in years (as
Othello in some measure was), who had married a young and beautiful
wife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as he was noble, and as
incapable of suspecting, as of doing, a base action. He had employed
this Cassio in his love-affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a
sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello, fearing that himself had
not those soft parts of conversation which please ladies, and finding
these qualities in his friend, would often depute Cassio to go (as he
phrased it) a courting for him: such innocent simplicity being rather
an honour than a blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So that
no wonder, if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as beseems
a virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor
had the marriage of this couple made any difference in their behaviour
to Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, and his free and
rattling talk was no unpleasing variety to Othello, who was himself of
a more serious temper: for such tempers are observed often to delight
in their contraries, as a relief from the oppressive excess of their
own: and Desdemona and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the
days when he went a courting for his friend.

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

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

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

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge from
Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl
might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the
new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of
mischief; under cover of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed
Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in an
officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long
hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how to put on, but
kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied him with drink
and encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the
lady Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she
was a most exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which he put into
his mouth, stole away his brains; and upon some provocation given him
by a fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a
worthy officer, who interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in
the scuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who had set
on foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing
the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a
slight drunken quarrel had arisen): the alarm-bell ringing awakened
Othello, who, dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action,
questioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the
effect of the wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed
to reply; and Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio,
but as it were forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the
truth, gave an account of the whole matter (leaving out his own share
in it, which Cassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner,
as while he seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it
appear greater than it was. The result was, that Othello, who was a
strict observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's
place of lieutenant from him.

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; he had now
undermined his hated rival, and thrust him out of his place: but
a further use was hereafter to be made of the adventure of this
disastrous night.

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

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the lady
Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and she
promised Cassio that she would be his solicitor with her lord, and
rather die than give up his cause. This she immediately set about
in so earnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally
offended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded delay,
and that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, she would not
be beat back, but insisted that it should be the next night, or the
morning after, or the next morning to that at farthest. Then she
shewed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence
did not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello still hung back,
"What! my lord," said she, "that I should have so much to do to
plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came a courting for you, and
oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of you, has taken your
part! I count this but a little thing to ask of you. When I mean to
try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter." Othello could
deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting that Desdemona
would leave the time to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio again
into favour.

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room
where Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her
intercession, was departing at the opposite door; and Iago, who was
full of art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, "I like not that."
Othello took no great notice of what he said; indeed the conference
which immediately took place with his lady put it out of his head; but
he remembered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as
if for mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello whether
Michael Cassio, when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his love.
To this the general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that he
had gone between them very often during the courtship, Iago knitted
his brow, as if he had got fresh light of some terrible matter, and
cried, "Indeed!" This brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago
had let fall upon entering the room and seeing Cassio with Desdemona;
and he began to think there was some meaning in all this: for he
deemed Iago to be a just man, and full of love and honesty, and what
in a false knave would be tricks, in him seemed to be the natural
workings of an honest mind, big with something too great for
utterance: and Othello prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and to give
his worst thoughts words. "And what," said Iago, "if some thoughts
very vile should have intruded into my breast, as where is the palace
into which foul things do not enter?" Then Iago went on to say, what
a pity it were, if any trouble should arise to Othello out of his
imperfect observations; that it would not be for Othello's peace to
know his thoughts; that people's good names were not to be taken away
for slight suspicions; and when Othello's curiosity was raised almost
to distraction with these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in
earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to beware of
jealousy: with such art did this villain raise suspicions in the
unguarded Othello, by the very caution which he pretended to give
him against suspicion. "I know," said Othello, "that my wife is fair,
loves company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and
dances well: but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must
have proof before I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that
Othello was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he
had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, when
Cassio was by; not to be jealous, nor too secure neither, for that he
(Iago) knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his country-women,
better than Othello could do; and that in Venice the wives let heaven
see many pranks they dared not shew their husbands. Then he artfully
insinuated, that Desdemona deceived her father in marrying with
Othello, and carried it so closely, that the poor old man thought that
witchcraft had been used. Othello was much moved with this argument,
which brought the matter home to him, for if she had deceived her
father, why might she not deceive her husband?

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assuming an
indifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at Iago's
words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as
if unwilling to produce any thing against Cassio, whom he called his
friend: he then came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello how
Desdemona had refused many suitable matches of her own clime and
complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which shewed unnatural in
her, and proved her to have a headstrong will: and when her better
judgment returned, how probable it was she should fall upon comparing
Othello with the fine forms and clear white complexions of the young
Italians her countrymen. He concluded with advising Othello to put
off his reconcilement with Cassio a little longer, and in the mean
while to note with what earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his
behalf; for that much would be seen in that. So mischievously did this
artful villain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of this
innocent lady into her destruction, and make a net for her out of her
own goodness to entrap her: first setting Cassio on to intreat her
mediation, and then out of that very mediation contriving stratagems
for her ruin.

The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello to account his wife
innocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello promised to
be patient: but from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted
content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor all the
sleeping potions in the world, could ever again restore to him that
sweet rest, which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation
sickened upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. His heart,
that used to be roused at the sight of troops, and banners, and
battle-array, and would stir and leap at the sound of a drum, or a
trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride
and ambition, which are a soldier's virtue; and his military ardour
and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he thought his wife
honest, and at times he thought her not so; sometimes he thought Iago
just, and at times he thought him not so; then he would wish that he
had never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving Cassio,
so long as he knew it not: torn in pieces with these distracting
thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's throat, and demanded proof of
Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied
her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for
a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a handkerchief
spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othello answered, that
he had given her such a one, and that it was his first gift. "That
same handkerchief," said Iago, "did I see Michael Cassio this day wipe
his face with." "If it be as you say," said Othello, "I will not rest
till a wide revenge swallow them up: and first, for a token of your
fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put to death within three
days; and for that fair devil [meaning his lady], I will withdraw and
devise some swift means of death for her."

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

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a head-ach
(as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend him her
handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. "Not this," said
Othello, "but that handkerchief I gave you." Desdemona had it not
about her (for indeed it was stolen as we have related). "How!" said
Othello, "this is a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian woman
gave to my mother; the woman was a witch, and could read people's
thoughts; she told my mother, while she kept it, it would make her
amiable, and my father would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave
it away, my father's fancy would turn, and he would lothe her as much
as he had loved her. She dying gave it me, and bade me, if I ever
married, to give it to my wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it a
darling as precious as your eye." "Is it possible?" said the frighted
lady. "'Tis true:" continued Othello; "it is a magical handkerchief;
a sibyl that had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit of
prophetic fury worked it; the silk-worms that furnished the silk were
hallowed, and it was dyed in mummy of maidens' hearts conserved."
Desdemona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready
to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with
it, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello started,
and looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and still he
demanded the handkerchief, which when she could not produce, she tried
to divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and cheerfully told
him, she saw all his talk about the handkerchief was only to put her
off from her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she went on to praise (as
Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect distraction burst out of
the room, and then Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to suspect her
lord was jealous.

What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then
she accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be
sure that some untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles, had
puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And
she said, "Men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance
from them when they are married, which they shew us on the bridal
day." And she beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his
unkindness.

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly of
being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom:
and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the heavy day! why do you
weep?" And Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of evils
with fortitude--poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity
had broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that looked so fair,
and smelled so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she had
never been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so
stupefied with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a
weight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to
make her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when
people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks,
and Othello might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a
child when she was chidden. And this was all the complaint which this
gentle lady made.

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

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

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

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

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in the
by-standers, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he was
wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature
never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband.
He had loved, not wisely, but too well; and his manly eyes (when he
learned his mistake), though not used to weep on every small occasion,
dropt tears as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was
dead all his former merits and his valiant acts were remembered.
Nothing now remained for his successor, but to put the utmost censure
of the law in force against Iago, who was executed with strict
tortures; and to send word to the state of Venice of the lamentable
death of their renowned general.




PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

(_By Mary Lamb_)


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

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

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

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's armour, repaired
to the royal court of Symonides, where he performed wonders at the
tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and valiant
princes who contended with him in arms for the honour of Thaisa's
love. When brave warriors contended at court-tournaments for the love
of kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest, it
was usual for the great lady for whose sake these deeds of valour were
undertaken to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa
did not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed all the
princes and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished
him by her especial favour and regard, crowning him with the wreath of
victory, as king of that day's happiness; and Pericles became a most
passionate lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment he
beheld her.

The good Symonides so well approved of the valour and noble qualities
of Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well
learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of
this royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that
he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Symonides disdain to
accept of the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his
daughter's affections were firmly fixed upon him.

Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he
received intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his
subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt,
and talked of placing Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This news
came from Hellicanus himself, who being a loyal subject to his royal
master, would not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent
to let Pericles know their intentions, that he might return home and
resume his lawful right. It was matter of great surprise and joy to
Symonides, to find that his son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the
renowned prince of Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was not the
private gentleman he supposed him to be, seeing that he must now part
both with his admired son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he
feared to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with
child; and Pericles himself wished her to remain with her father till
after her confinement, but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go
with her husband, that at last they consented, hoping she would reach
Tyre before she was brought to-bed.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long before
they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified
Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse
Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell
the prince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little
babe was born. She held the babe towards its father, saying, "Here is
a thing too young for such a place. This is the child of your dead
queen." No tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when
he heard his wife was dead. As soon as he could speak, he said, "O
you gods, why do you make us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch
those gifts away?" "Patience, good sir," said Lychorida, "here is all
that is left alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your
child's sake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of
this precious charge." Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms,
and he said to the little babe, "Now may your life be mild, for a
more blusterous birth had never babe! May your condition be mild and
gentle, for you have had the rudest welcome that ever prince's child
did meet with! May that which follows be happy, for you have had as
chiding a nativity as fire, air, water, earth, and heaven, could make,
to herald you from the womb! Even at the first, your loss," meaning in
the death of her mother, "is more than all the joys which you shall
find upon this earth, to which you are come a new visitor, shall be
able to recompence."

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having
a superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the storm
would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queen
should be thrown overboard; and they said, "What courage, sir? God
save you!" "Courage enough," said the sorrowing prince: "I do not fear
the storm; it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this poor
infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I wish the storm was over." "Sir,"
said the sailors, "your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the
wind is loud, and the storm will not abate till the ship be cleared
of the dead." Though Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this
superstition was, yet he patiently submitted, saying, "As you think
meet. Then she must overboard, most wretched queen!" And now this
unhappy prince went to take a last view of his dear wife, and as he
looked on his Thaisa, he said, "A terrible child-bed hast thou had, my
dear; no light, no fire; the unfriendly elements forgot thee utterly,
nor have I time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast
thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy
bones the humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple
shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper, my
casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay
the babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, Lychorida, while
I say a priestly farewel to my Thaisa."

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapt in a satin
shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed
over her, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written paper,
telling who she was, and praying, if haply any one should find the
chest which contained the body of his wife, they would give her
burial: and then with his own hands he cast the chest into the sea.
When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for
Tharsus. "For," said Pericles, "the babe cannot hold out till we come
to Tyre. At Tharsus I will leave it at careful nursing."

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was thrown into the sea, and
while it was yet early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of
Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side,
his servants brought to him a chest, which they said the sea-waves had
thrown on the land. "I never saw," said one of them, "so huge a billow
as cast it on our shore." Cerimon ordered the chest to be conveyed to
his own house, and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body
of a young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling spices, and rich
casket of jewels, made him conclude it was some great person who was
thus strangely entombed: searching further, he discovered a paper from
which he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been
a queen, and wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring at
the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband who
had lost this sweet lady, he said, "If you are living, Pericles, you
have a heart that even cracks with woe." Then observing attentively
Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were; and
he said, "They were too hasty that threw you into the sea:" for he did
not believe her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and proper
cordials to be brought, and soft music to be played, which might
help to calm her amazed spirits if she should revive; and he said
to those who crowded round her, wondering at what they saw, "I pray
you, gentlemen, give her air; this queen will live; she has not been
entranced above five hours; and see, she begins to blow into life
again; she is alive; behold, her eyelids move; this fair creature will
live to make us weep to hear her fate." Thaisa had never died, but
after the birth of her little baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which
made all that saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by the care
of this kind gentleman she once more revived to light and life; and
opening her eyes, she said, "Where am I? Where is my lord? What world
is this?" By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what had
befallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to bear the
sight, he shewed her the paper written by her husband, and the jewels;
and she looked on the paper, and said, "It is my lord's writing. That
I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but whether there delivered of
my babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say; but since my wedded
lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery, and never
more have joy." "Madam," said Cerimon, "if you purpose as you speak,
the temple of Diana is not far distant from hence, there you may abide
as a vestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there
attend you." This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and
when she was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of
Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and
passed her days in sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and in
the most devout exercises of those times.

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, because she
was born at sea) to Tharsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the
governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the good
he had done to them at the time of their famine, they would be kind to
his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw prince Pericles, and
heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he said, "O your sweet
queen, that it had pleased heaven you could have brought her hither
to have blessed my eyes with the sight of her!" Pericles replied, "We
must obey the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does
in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe,
Marina here, I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the
infant of your care, beseeching you to give her princely training."
And then turning to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, "Good madam, make
me blessed in your care in bringing up my child:" and she answered,
"I have a child myself who shall not be more dear to my respect than
yours, my lord;" and Cleon made the like promise, saying, "Your noble
services, prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people with your corn
(for which in their prayers they daily remember you) must in your
child be thought on. If I should neglect your child, my whole people
that were by you relieved would force me to my duty; but if to that
I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me and mine to the end of
generation." Pericles being thus assured that his child would be
carefully attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon and his
wife Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse Lychorida. When he went
away, the little Marina knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly
at parting with her royal master. "O, no tears, Lychorida," said
Pericles; "no tears; look to your little mistress, on whose grace you
may depend hereafter."

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more settled in
the quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he
thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom this
hapless mother had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner
suitable to her high birth. He gave her the most careful education, so
that by the time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, the most
deeply-learned men were not more studied in the learning of those
times than was Marina. She sung like one immortal, and danced as
goddess-like, and with her needle she was so skilful that she seemed
to compose nature's own shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, the
natural roses being scarcely more like to each other than they were to
Marina's silken flowers. But when she had gained from education all
these graces, which made her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of
Cleon, became her mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own
daughter, from the slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to
that perfection wherein Marina excelled: and finding that all praise
was bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter, who was of the same age
and had been educated with the same care as Marina, though not with
the same success, was in comparison disregarded, she formed a project
to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagining that her untoward
daughter would be more respected when Marina was no more seen. To
encompass this she employed a man to murder Marina, and she well timed
her wicked design, when Lychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died.
Dionysia was discoursing with the man she had commanded to commit this
murder, when the young Marina was weeping over the dead Lychorida.
Leoline, the man she employed to do this bad deed, though he was
a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to undertake it, so
had Marina won all hearts to love her. He said, "She is a goodly
creature!" "The fitter then the gods should have her," replied her
merciless enemy: "here she comes weeping for the death of her nurse
Lychorida: are you resolved to obey me?" Leoline, fearing to disobey
her, replied, "I am resolved." And so, in that one short sentence, was
the matchless Marina doomed to an untimely death. She now approached,
with a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily
strew over the grave of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the
marigold should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days did
last. "Alas, for me!" she said, "poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest,
when my mother died. This world to me is like a lasting storm,
hurrying me from my friends." "How now, Marina," said the dissembling
Dionysia, "do you weep alone? How does it chance my daughter is not
with you? Do not sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. Your
beauty is quite changed with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me your
flowers, the sea-air will spoil them; and walk with Leoline: the air
is fine, and will enliven you. Come, Leoline, take her by the arm,
and walk with her." "No, madam," said Marina, "I pray you let me
not deprive you of your servant:" for Leoline was one of Dionysia's
attendants. "Come, come," said this artful woman, who wished for a
pretence to leave her alone with Leoline, "I love the prince, your
father, and I love you. We every day expect your father here; and when
he comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty
we reported you, he will think we have taken no care of you. Go,
I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that
excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young."
Marina, being thus importuned, said, "Well, I will go, but yet I
have no desire to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leoline,
"_Remember what I have said!_"--shocking words, for their meaning was
that he should remember to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, "Is the wind
westerly that blows?" "South-west," replied Leoline. "When I was born
the wind was north," said she: and then the storm and tempest, and all
her father's sorrows, and her mother's death, came full into her mind;
and she said, "My father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, but
cried, _Courage, good seamen_, to the sailors, galling his princely
hands with the ropes, and, clasping to the mast, he endured a sea
that almost split the deck." "When was this?" said Leoline. "When I
was born," replied Marina: "never were waves nor wind more violent."
And then she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the
boatswain's whistle, and the loud call of the master, "Which," said
she, "trebled the confusion of the ship." Lychorida had so often
recounted to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that these things
seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leoline interrupted
her with desiring her to say her prayers. "What mean you?" said
Marina, who began to fear, she knew not why. "If you require a little
space for prayer, I grant it," said Leoline; "but be not tedious, the
gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste." "Will
you kill me?" said Marina: "alas! why?" "To satisfy my lady," replied
Leoline. "Why would she have me killed?" said Marina: "now, as I can
remember, I never hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word,
nor did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe me now, I never
killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against my
will, but I wept for it. How have I offended?" The murderer replied,
"My commission is not to reason on the deed, but do it." And he was
just going to kill her, when certain pirates happened to land at that
very moment, who seeing Marina, bore her off as a prize to their ship.

The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Metaline, and
sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marina
soon became known throughout the whole city of Metaline for her beauty
and her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold became rich by
the money she earned for him. She taught music, dancing, and fine
needle works, and the money she got by her scholars she gave to her
master and mistress; and the fame of her learning and her great
industry came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was
the governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus went himself to the house
where Marina dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the
city praised so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond
measure, for though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he did
not expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good,
as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he hoped she
would persevere in her industrious and virtuous course, and that if
ever she heard from him again, it should be for her good. Lysimachus
thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellent
qualities, as well as for beauty and all outward graces, that he
wished to marry her, and notwithstanding her humble situation, he
hoped to find that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked her
parentage, she would sit still and weep.

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the anger of Dionysia, told
her he had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out that she was
dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately
monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his loyal
minister Hellicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tharsus, on purpose to
see his daughter, intending to take her home with him; and, he never
having beheld her since he left her an infant in the care of Cleon and
his wife, how did this good prince rejoice at the thoughts of seeing
this dear child of his buried queen! but when they told him Marina was
dead, and showed the monument they had erected for her, great was the
misery this most wretched father endured, and not being able to bear
the sight of that country where his last hope and only memory of his
dear Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from
Tharsus. From the day he entered the ship, a dull and heavy melancholy
seized him. He never spoke, and seemed totally insensible to every
thing around him.

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by
Metaline, where Marina dwelt; the governor of which place, Lysimachus,
observing this royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing
who was on board, went in a barge to the side of the ship, to satisfy
his curiosity. Hellicanus received him very courteously, and told him
that the ship came from Tyre, and that they were conducting thither
Pericles, their prince; "A man, sir," said Hellicanus, "who has not
spoken to any one these three months, nor taken any sustenance, but
just to prolong his grief; it would be tedious to repeat the whole
ground of his distemper, but the main springs from the loss of a
beloved daughter and a wife." Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted
prince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly
person, and he said to him, "Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve
you, hail, royal sir!" But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him; Pericles
made no answer, nor did he appear to perceive any stranger approached.
And then Lysimachus bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, that
haply with her sweet tongue she might win some answer from the silent
prince: and with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for Marina, and
when she entered the ship in which her own father sat motionless with
grief, they welcomed her on board as if they had known she was their
princess; and they cried, "She is a gallant lady." Lysimachus was
well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said, "She is such
an one that were I well assured she came of noble birth, I would wish
no better choice, and think me rarely blest in a wife." And then he
addressed her in courtly terms, as if the lowly-seeming maid had
been the high-born lady he wished to find her, calling _her Fair and
beautiful Marina_, telling her a great prince on board that ship had
fallen into a sad and mournful silence; and, as if Marina had the
power of conferring health and felicity, he begged she would undertake
to cure the royal stranger of his melancholy. "Sir," said Marina, "I
will use my utmost skill in his recovery, provided none but I and my
maid be suffered to come near him."

She, who at Metaline had so carefully concealed her birth, ashamed to
tell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to speak
to Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him from
what a high estate herself had fallen. As if she had known it was her
royal father she stood before, all the words she spoke were of her own
sorrows; but her reason for so doing was, that she knew nothing more
wins the attention of the unfortunate than the recital of some sad
calamity to match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the
drooping prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixed
and motionless; and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother,
presented to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. The
long-silent prince was once more heard to speak. "My dearest wife,"
said the awakened Pericles, "was like this maid, and such a one might
my daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her stature to an
inch, as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as jewel-like.
Where do you live, young maid? Report your parentage. I think you said
you had been tossed from wrong to injury, and that you thought your
griefs would equal mine, if both were opened." "Some such thing I
said," replied Marina, "and said no more than what my thoughts did
warrant me as likely." "Tell me your story," answered Pericles; "if
I find you have known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have
borne your sorrows like a man, and I have suffered like a girl;
yet you do look like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling
Extremity out of act. Tell me your name, my most kind virgin? Recount
your story, I beseech you. Come, sit by me." How was Pericles
surprised when she said her name was _Marina_, for he knew it was
no usual name, but had been invented by himself for his own child
to signify _sea-born_: "O, I am mocked," said he, "and you are sent
hither by some incensed god to make the world laugh at me." "Patience,
good sir," said Marina, "or I must cease here." "Nay," said Pericles,
"I will be patient; you little know how you do startle me, to call
yourself Marina." "The name," she replied, "was given me by one that
had some power, my father, and a king." "How, a king's daughter!" said
Pericles, "and called Marina! But are you flesh and blood? Are you no
fairy? Speak on; where were you born? and wherefore called Marina?"
She replied, "I was called Marina, because I was born at sea. My
mother was the daughter of a king; she died the minute I was born, as
my good nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping. The king my father
left me at Tharsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon sought to murder
me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me, and brought me here to
Metaline. But, good sir, why do you weep? It may be, you think me an
impostor. But indeed, sir, I am the daughter to king Pericles, if good
king Pericles be living." Then Pericles, terrified as it seemed at
his own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, loudly called
for his attendants, who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king's
voice; and he said to Hellicanus, "O Hellicanus, strike me, give me a
gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing upon
me overbear the shores of my mortality. O, come hither, thou that wast
born at sea, buried at Tharsus, and found at sea again. O Hellicanus,
down on your knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. Now blessings
on thee, my child! Give me fresh garments, mine own Hellicanus! She is
not dead at Tharsus, as she should have been by the savage Dionysia.
She shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to her, and call her
your very princess. Who is this?" (observing Lysimachus for the first
time). "Sir," said Hellicanus, "it is the governor of Metaline, who,
hearing of your melancholy, came to see you." "I embrace you, sir,"
said Pericles. "Give me my robes! I am well with beholding--O heaven
bless my girl! But hark! what music is that?"--for now, either sent by
some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, he seemed to
hear soft music. "My lord, I hear none," replied Hellicanus. "None,"
said Pericles; "why it is the music of the spheres." As there was
no music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden joy had
unsettled the prince's understanding; and he said, "It is not good to
cross him; let him have his way:" and then they told him they heard
the music; and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him,
Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow
under his head, he, quite overpowered with excess of joy, sunk into
a sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the couch of her
sleeping parent.

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

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, and refresh himself
with such entertainment as he should find at Metaline, which courteous
offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the space of a
day or two. During which time we may well suppose what feastings, what
rejoicings, what costly shews and entertainments the governor made in
Metaline, to greet the royal father of his dear Marina, whom in her
obscure fortunes he had so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon
Lysimachus's suit, when he understood how he had honoured his child in
the days of her low estate, and that Marina shewed herself not averse
to his proposals; only he made it a condition, before he gave his
consent, that they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian
Diana: to whose temple they, shortly after, all three undertook a
voyage; and, the goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous
winds, after a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus.

There was standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles with
his train entered the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged)
who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; and Thaisa,
now a priestess of the temple, was standing before the altar; and
though the many years he had passed in sorrow for her loss had much
altered Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her husband's features, and
when he approached the altar and began to speak, she remembered his
voice, and listened to his words with wonder and a joyful amazement.
And these were the words that Pericles spoke before the altar: "Hail,
Diana! to perform thy just commands, I here confess myself the prince
of Tyre, who, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair
Thaisa: she died at sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child
called Marina. The maid at Tharsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at
fourteen years thought to kill her; but her better stars brought her
to Metaline, by whose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes brought
this child on board, where by her most clear remembrance she made
herself known to be my daughter."

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

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

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famous
example of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance of
Heaven, to teach patience and constancy to men), under the same
guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over chance and
change. In Hellicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of
faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded to a throne,
chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his possession, than to
become great by another's wrong. In the worthy Cerimon, who restored
Thaisa to life, we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge,
in bestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the
gods. It only remains to be told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of
Cleon, met with an end proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants
of Tharsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was known, rising
in a body to revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and setting
fire to the palace of Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole
household: the gods seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder,
though but intentional, and never carried into act, should be punished
in a way befitting its enormity.




THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES

(_By Charles Lamb. Written 1807-8. 1st Edition, 1808. Text of 2nd
Edition, 1819_)




PREFACE


This work is designed as a supplement to the Adventures of Telemachus.
It treats of the conduct and sufferings of Ulysses, the father of
Telemachus. The picture which it exhibits is that of a brave man
struggling with adversity; by a wise use of events, and with an
inimitable presence of mind under difficulties, forcing out a way
for himself through the severest trials to which human life can be
exposed; with enemies natural and preternatural surrounding him on all
sides. The agents in this tale, besides men and women, are giants,
enchanters, sirens: things which denote external force or internal
temptations, the twofold danger which a wise fortitude must expect to
encounter in its course through this world. The fictions contained in
it will be found to comprehend some of the most admired inventions of
Grecian mythology.

The ground-work of the story is as old as the Odyssey, but the moral
and the colouring are comparatively modern. By avoiding the prolixity
which marks the speeches and the descriptions in Homer, I have gained
a rapidity to the narration, which I hope will make it more attractive
and give it more the air of a romance to young readers, though I am
sensible that by the curtailment I have sacrificed in many places
the manners to the passion, the subordinate characteristics to the
essential interest of the story. The attempt is not to be considered
as seeking a comparison with any of the direct translations of the
Odyssey, either in prose or verse, though if I were to state the
obligations which I have had to one obsolete version,[1] I should
run the hazard of depriving myself of the very slender degree of
reputation which I could hope to acquire from a trifle like the
present undertaking.

[Footnote 1: The translation of Homer by Chapman in the reign of James
I. III.--16]




CHAPTER I


_The Cicons.--The fruit of the lotos tree.--Polyphemus and
the Cyclops.--The kingdom of the winds, and god Æolus's fatal
present.--The Læstrygonian man-eaters._


This history tells of the wanderings of Ulysses and his followers in
their return from Troy, after the destruction of that famous city of
Asia by the Grecians. He was inflamed with a desire of seeing again
after a ten years absence, his wife and native country Ithaca. He
was king of a barren spot, and a poor country, in comparison of the
fruitful plains of Asia which he was leaving, or the wealthy kingdoms
which he touched upon in his return; yet wherever he came, he could
never see a soil which appeared in his eyes half so sweet or desirable
as his country earth. This made him refuse the offers of the goddess
Calypso to stay with her, and partake of her immortality, in the
delightful island; and this gave him strength to break from the
enchantments of Circe, the daughter of the Sun.

From Troy ill winds cast Ulysses and his fleet upon the coast of the
Cicons, a people hostile to the Grecians. Landing his forces, he laid
siege to their chief city Ismarus, which he took, and with it much
spoil, and slew many people. But success proved fatal to him; for his
soldiers elated with the spoil, and the good store of provisions which
they found in that place, fell to eating and drinking, forgetful of
their safety, till the Cicons, who inhabited the coast, had time to
assemble their friends and allies from the interior, who mustering
in prodigious force, set upon the Grecians, while they negligently
revelled and feasted, and slew many of them, and recovered the spoil.
They, dispirited and thinned in their numbers, with difficulty made
their retreat good to the ships. Thence they set sail, sad at heart,
yet something cheered that with such fearful odds against them they
had not all been utterly destroyed. A dreadful tempest ensued, which
for two nights and two days tossed them about, but the third day the
weather cleared, and they had hopes of a favourable gale to carry them
to Ithaca; but as they doubled the Cape of Malea, suddenly a north
wind arising, drove them back as far as Cythera. After that, for the
space of nine days, contrary winds continued to drive them in an
opposite direction to the point to which they were bound, and the
tenth day they put in at a shore where a race of men dwell that are
sustained by the fruit of the lotos tree. Here Ulysses sent some
of his men to land for fresh water, who were met by certain of the
inhabitants, that gave them some of their country food to eat; not
with any ill intention towards them, though in the event it proved
pernicious; for, having eaten of this fruit, so pleasant it proved to
their appetite, that they in a minute quite forgot all thoughts of
home, or of their countrymen, or of ever returning back to the ships
to give an account of what sort of inhabitants dwelt there, but they
would needs stay and live there among them, and eat of that precious
food for ever; and when Ulysses sent other of his men to look for
them, and to bring them back by force, they strove, and wept, and
would not leave their food for heaven itself, so much the pleasure of
that enchanting fruit had bewitched them. But Ulysses caused them to
be bound hand and foot, and cast under the hatches; and set sail with
all possible speed from that baneful coast, lest others after them
might taste the lotos, which had such strange qualities to make men
forget their native country, and the thoughts of home.

Coasting on all that night by unknown and out of the way shores, they
came by day-break to the land where the Cyclops dwell, a sort of giant
shepherds that neither sow nor plough, but the earth unfilled produces
for them rich wheat and barley and grapes, yet they have neither bread
nor wine, nor know the arts of cultivation, nor care to know them:
for they live each man to himself, without laws or government, or any
thing like a state or kingdom, but their dwellings are in caves, on
the steep heads of mountains, every man's household governed by his
own caprice, or not governed at all, their wives and children as
lawless as themselves, none caring for others, but each doing as he or
she thinks good. Ships or boats they have none, nor artificers to make
them, no trade or commerce, or wish to visit other shores; yet they
have convenient places for harbours and for shipping. Here Ulysses
with a chosen party of twelve followers landed, to explore what sort
of men dwelt there, whether hospitable and friendly to strangers, or
altogether wild and savage, for as yet no dwellers appeared in sight.

The first sign of habitation which they came to was a giant's cave
rudely fashioned, but of a size which betokened the vast proportions
of its owner, the pillars which supported it being the bodies of huge
oaks or pines, in the natural state of the tree, and all about showed
more marks of strength than skill in whoever built it. Ulysses,
entering in, admired the savage contrivances and artless structure of
the place, and longed to see the tenant of so outlandish a mansion;
but well conjecturing that gifts would have more avail in extracting
courtesy, than strength could succeed in forcing it, from such a one
as he expected to find the inhabitant, he resolved to flatter his
hospitality with a present of Greek wine, of which he had store in
twelve great vessels; so strong that no one ever drank it without an
infusion of twenty parts of water to one of wine, yet the fragrance of
it even then so delicious, that it would have vexed a man who smelled
it to abstain from tasting it; but whoever tasted it, it was able to
raise his courage to the height of heroic deeds. Taking with them a
goat-skin flaggon full of this precious liquor, they ventured into the
recesses of the cave. Here they pleased themselves a whole day with
beholding the giant's kitchen, where the flesh of sheep and goats lay
strewed, his dairy where goat-milk stood ranged in troughs and pails,
his pens where he kept his live animals; but those he had driven forth
to pasture with him when he went out in the morning. While they were
feasting their eyes with a sight of these curiosities, their ears were
suddenly deafened with a noise like the falling of a house. It was
the owner of the cave who had been abroad all day feeding his flock,
as his custom was, in the mountains, and now drove them home in the
evening from pasture. He threw down a pile of firewood, which he had
been gathering against supper-time, before the mouth of the cave,
which occasioned the crash they heard. The Grecians hid themselves
in the remote parts of the cave, at sight of the uncouth monster. It
was Polyphemus, the largest and savagest of the Cyclops, who boasted
himself to be the son of Neptune. He looked more like a mountain crag
than a man, and to his brutal body he had a brutish mind answerable.
He drove his flock, all that gave milk, to the interior of the cave,
but left the rams and the he-goats without Then taking up a stone so
massy that twenty oxen could not have drawn it, he placed it at the
mouth of the cave, to defend the entrance, and sat him down to milk
his ewes and his goats; which done, he lastly kindled a fire, and
throwing his great eye round the cave (for the Cyclops have no more
than one eye, and that placed in the midst of their forehead), by the
glimmering light he discerned some of Ulysses's men.

"Ho! guests, what are you? merchants or wandering thieves?" he
bellowed out in a voice which took from them all power of reply, it
was so astounding.

Only Ulysses summoned resolution to answer, that they came neither
for plunder nor traffick, but were Grecians who had lost their
way, returning from Troy; which famous city, under the conduct of
Agamemnon, the renowned son of Atreus, they had sacked, and laid level
with the ground. Yet now they prostrated themselves humbly before his
feet, whom they acknowledged to be mightier than they, and besought
him that he would bestow the rites of hospitality upon them, for that
Jove was the avenger of wrongs done to strangers, and would fiercely
resent any injury which they might suffer.

"Fool," said the Cyclop, "to come so far to preach to me the fear of
the gods. We Cyclops care not for your Jove, whom you fable to be
nursed by a goat, nor any of your blessed ones. We are stronger than
they, and dare bid open battle to Jove himself, though you and all
your fellows of the earth join with him." And he bade them tell him
where their ship was, in which they came, and whether they had any
companions. But Ulysses, with a wise caution made answer, that they
had no ship or companions, but were unfortunate men whom the sea,
splitting their ship in pieces, had dashed upon his coast, and
they alone had escaped. He replied nothing, but griping two of the
nearest of them, as if they had been no more than children, he dashed
their brains out against the earth, and (shocking to relate) tore
in pieces their limbs, and devoured them, yet warm and trembling,
making a lion's meal of them, lapping the blood: for the Cyclops are
_man-eaters_, and esteem human flesh to be a delicacy far above goat's
or kid's; though by reason of their abhorred customs few men approach
their coast, except some stragglers, or now and then a ship-wrecked
mariner. At a sight so horrid Ulysses and his men were like distracted
people. He, when he had made an end of his wicked supper, drained a
draught of goat's milk down his prodigious throat, and lay down and
slept among his goats. Then Ulysses drew his sword, and half resolved
to thrust it with all his might in at the bosom of the sleeping
monster; but wiser thoughts restrained him, else they had there
without help all perished, for none but Polyphemus himself could have
removed that mass of stone which he had placed to guard the entrance.
So they were constrained to abide all that night in fear.

When day came the Cyclop awoke, and kindling a fire, made his
breakfast of two other of his unfortunate prisoners, then milked his
goats as he was accustomed, and pushing aside the vast stone, and
shutting it again when he had done, upon the prisoners, with as much
ease as a man opens and shuts a quiver's lid, he let out his flock,
and drove them before him with whistlings (as sharp as winds in
storms) to the mountains. Then Ulysses, of whose strength or cunning
the Cyclop seems to have had as little heed as of an infant's, being
left alone, with the remnant of his men which the Cyclop had not
devoured, gave manifest proof how far manly wisdom excels brutish
force. He chose a stake from among the wood which the Cyclop had piled
up for firing, in length and thickness like a mast, which he sharpened
and hardened in the fire, and selected four men, and instructed them
what they should do with this stake, and made them perfect in their
parts.

When the evening was come, the Cyclop drove home his sheep; and
as fortune directed it, either of purpose, or that his memory was
overruled by the gods to his hurt (as in the issue it proved), he
drove the males of his flock, contrary to his custom, along with the
dams into the pens. Then shutting-to the stone of the cave, he fell to
his horrible supper. When he had dispatched two more of the Grecians,
Ulysses waxed bold with the contemplation of his project, and took a
bowl of Greek wine and merrily dared the Cyclop to drink.

"Cyclop," he said, "take a bowl of wine from the hand of your guest:
it may serve to digest the man's flesh that you have eaten, and shew
what drink our ship held before it went down. All I ask in recompence,
if you find it good, is to be dismissed in a whole skin. Truly you
must look to have few visitors, if you observe this new custom of
eating your guests."

The brute took and drank, and vehemently enjoyed the taste of wine,
which was new to him, and swilled again at the flaggon, and entreated
for more, and prayed Ulysses to tell him his name, that he might
bestow a gift upon the man who had given him such brave liquor. The
Cyclops (he said) had grapes, but this rich juice (he swore) was
simply divine. Again Ulysses plied him with the wine, and the fool
drank it as fast as he poured out, and again he asked the name of
his benefactor, which Ulysses cunningly dissembling, said, "My name
is Noman: my kindred and friends in my own country call me Noman."
"Then," said the Cyclop, "this is the kindness I will show thee,
Noman: I will eat thee last of all thy friends." He had scarce
expressed his savage kindness, when the fumes of the strong wine
overcame him, and he reeled down upon the floor and sank into a dead
sleep.

Ulysses watched his time, while the monster lay insensible, and
heartening up his men, they placed the sharp end of the stake in the
fire till it was heated red-hot, and some god gave them a courage
beyond that which they were used to have, and the four men with
difficulty bored the sharp end of the huge stake, which they had
heated red-hot, right into the eye of the drunken cannibal, and
Ulysses helped to thrust it in with all his might, still further and
further, with effort, as men bore with an auger, till the scalded
blood gushed out, and the eye-ball smoked, and the strings of the eye
cracked, as the burning rafter broke in it, and the eye hissed, as hot
iron hisses when it is plunged into water.

He waking, roared with the pain so loud that all the cavern broke into
claps like thunder. They fled, and dispersed into corners. He plucked
the burning stake from his eye, and hurled the wood madly about the
cave. Then he cried out with a mighty voice for his brethren the
Cyclops, that dwelt hard by in caverns upon hills; they hearing the
terrible shout came flocking from all parts to inquire what ailed
Polyphemus? and what cause he had for making such horrid clamours in
the night-time to break their sleeps? if his fright proceeded from any
mortal? if strength or craft had given him his death's blow? He made
answer from within that Noman had hurt him, Noman had killed him,
Noman was with him in the cave. They replied, "If no man has hurt
thee, and no man is with thee, then thou art alone, and the evil that
afflicts thee is from the hand of heaven, which none can resist or
help." So they left him and went their way, thinking that some disease
troubled him. He, blind and ready to split with the anguish of the
pain, went groaning up and down in the dark, to find the door-way,
which when he found, he removed the stone, and sat in the threshold,
feeling if he could lay hold on any man going out with the sheep,
which (the day now breaking) were beginning to issue forth to their
accustomed pastures. But Ulysses, whose first artifice in giving
himself that ambiguous name, had succeeded so well with the Cyclop,
was not of a wit so gross to be caught by that palpable device. But
casting about in his mind all the ways which he could contrive for
escape (no less than all their lives depending on the success), at
last he thought of this expedient. He made knots of the osier twigs
upon which the Cyclop commonly slept, with which he tied the fattest
and fleeciest of the rams together, three in a rank, and under the
belly of the middle ram he tied a man, and himself last, wrapping
himself fast with both his hands in the rich wool of one, the fairest
of the flock.

And now the sheep began to issue forth very fast, the males went
first, the females unmilked stood by, bleating and requiring the hand
of their shepherd in vain to milk them, their full bags sore with
being unemptied, but he much sorer with the loss of sight. Still as
the males passed, he felt the backs of those fleecy fools, never
dreaming, that they carried his enemies under their bellies: so they
passed on till the last ram came loaded with his wool and Ulysses
together. He stopped that ram and felt him, and had his hand once in
the hair of Ulysses, yet knew it not, and he chid the ram for being
last, and spoke to it as if it understood him, and asked it whether it
did not wish that its master had his eye again, which that abominable
Noman with his execrable rout had put out, when they had got him down
with wine; and he willed the ram to tell him whereabouts in the cave
his enemy lurked, that he might dash his brains and strew them about,
to ease his heart of that tormenting revenge which rankled in it.
After a deal of such foolish talk to the beast he let it go. When
Ulysses found himself free, he let go his hold, and assisted in
disengaging his friends. The rams which had befriended them they
carried off with them to the ships, where their companions with tears
in their eyes received them, as men escaped from death. They plied
their oars, and set their sails, and when they were got as far off
from shore as a voice would reach, Ulysses cried out to the Cyclop:
"Cyclop, thou should'st not have so much abused thy monstrous
strength, as to devour thy guests. Jove by my hand sends thee requital
to pay thy savage inhumanity." The Cyclop heard, and came forth
enraged, and in his anger he plucked a fragment of a rock, and threw
it with blind fury at the ships. It narrowly escaped lighting upon the
bark in which Ulysses sat, but with the fall it raised so fierce an
ebb, as bore back the ship till it almost touched the shore. "Cyclop,"
said Ulysses, "if any ask thee who imposed on thee that unsightly
blemish in thine eye, say it was Ulysses, son of Laertes: the king of
Ithaca am I called, the waster of cities." Then they crowded sail, and
beat the old sea, and forth they went with a forward gale; sad for
fore-past losses, yet glad to have escaped at any rate; till they came
to the isle where Æolus reigned, who is god of the winds.

Here Ulysses and his men were courteously received by the monarch, who
shewed him his twelve children which have rule over the twelve winds.
A month they staid and feasted with him, and at the end of the month
he dismissed them with many presents, and gave to Ulysses at parting
an ox's hide, in which were inclosed _all the winds_: only he left
abroad the western wind, to play upon their sails and waft them
gently home to Ithaca. This bag bound in a glittering silver band, so
close that no breath could escape, Ulysses hung up at the mast. His
companions did not know its contents, but guessed that the monarch had
given to him some treasures of gold or silver.

Nine days they sailed smoothly, favoured by the western wind, and by
the tenth they approached so nigh as to discern lights kindled on the
shores of their country earth: when by ill fortune, Ulysses, overcome
with fatigue of watching the helm, fell asleep. The mariners seized
the opportunity, and one of them said to the rest: "A fine time has
this leader of ours: wherever he goes he is sure of presents, when we
come away empty-handed; and see, what king Æolus has given him, store
no doubt of gold and silver." A word was enough to those covetous
wretches, who quick as thought untied the bag, and instead of gold,
out rushed with mighty noise _all the winds_. Ulysses with the noise
awoke and saw their mistake, but too late, for the ship was driving
with all the winds back far from Ithaca, far as to the island of Æolus
from which they had parted, in one hour measuring back what in nine
days they had scarcely tracked, and in sight of home too! up he flew
amazed, and raving doubted whether he should not fling himself into
the sea for grief of his bitter disappointment. At last he hid himself
under the hatches for shame. And scarce could he be prevailed upon,
when he was told he was arrived again in the harbour of king Æolus, to
go himself or send to that monarch for a second succour; so much the
disgrace of having misused his royal bounty (though it was the crime
of his followers and not his own) weighed upon him: and when at last
he went, and took a herald with him, and came where the god sat on
his throne, feasting with his children, he would not thrust in among
them at their meat, but set himself down like one unworthy in the
threshold.

Indignation seized Æolus to behold him in that manner returned; and
he said, "Ulysses, what has brought you back? are you so soon tired
of your country? or did not our present please you? we thought we had
given you a kingly passport." Ulysses made answer; "My men have done
this ill mischief to me: they did it while I slept." "Wretch," said
Æolus, "avaunt, and quit our shores: it fits not us to convoy men whom
the gods hate, and will have perish."

Forth they sailed, but with far different hopes than when they left
the same harbour the first time with all the winds confined, only the
west-wind suffered to play upon their sails to waft them in gentle
murmurs to Ithaca. They were now the sport of every gale that blew,
and despaired of ever seeing home more. Now those covetous mariners
were cured of their surfeit for gold, and would not have touched it if
it had lain in untold heaps before them.

Six days and nights they drove along, and on the seventh day they put
in to Lamos, a port of the Læstrygonians. So spacious this harbour
was, that it held with ease all their fleet, which rode at anchor,
safe from any storms, all but the ship in which Ulysses was embarked.
He, as if prophetic of the mischance which followed, kept still
without the harbour, making fast his bark to a rock at the land's
point, which he climbed with purpose to survey the country. He saw a
city with smoke ascending from the roofs, but neither ploughs going,
nor oxen yoked, nor any sign of agricultural works. Making choice of
two men, he sent them to the city to explore what sort of inhabitants
dwelt there. His messengers had not gone far before they met a damsel,
of stature surpassing human, who was coming to draw water from a
spring. They asked her who dwelt in that land. She made no reply, but
led them in silence to her father's palace. He was a monarch and named
Antiphas. He and all his people were giants. When they entered the
palace, a woman, the mother of the damsel, but far taller than she,
rushed abroad and called for Antiphas. He came, and snatching up
one of the two men, made as if he would devour him. The other fled.
Antiphas raised a mighty shout, and instantly, this way and that,
multitudes of gigantic people issued out at the gates, and making for
the harbour, tore up huge pieces of the rocks, and flung them at the
ships which lay there, all which they utterly overwhelmed and sank;
and the unfortunate bodies of men which floated, and which the sea did
not devour, these cannibals thrust through with harpoons, like fishes,
and bore them off to their dire feast. Ulysses with his single bark
that had never entered the harbour escaped; that bark which was now
the only vessel left of all the gallant navy that had set sail with
him from Troy. He pushed off from the shore, cheering the sad remnant
of his men, whom horror at the sight of their countrymen's fate had
almost turned to marble.




CHAPTER II


_The house of Circe.--Men changed into beasts.--The voyage to
hell.--The banquet of the dead._


On went the single ship till it came to the island of Ææa, where Circe
the dreadful daughter of the Sun dwelt. She was deeply skilled in
magic, a haughty beauty, and had hair like the Sun. The Sun was her
parent, and begot her and her brother Æastes (such another as herself)
upon Perse, daughter to Oceanus.

Here a dispute arose among Ulysses's men, which of them should go
ashore and explore the country; for there was a necessity that some
should go to procure water and provisions, their stock of both being
nigh spent: but their hearts failed them when they called to mind the
shocking fate of their fellows whom the Læstrygonians had eaten, and
those which the foul Cyclop Polyphemus had crushed between his jaws;
which moved them so tenderly in the recollection that they wept. But
tears never yet supplied any man's wants; this Ulysses knew full well,
and dividing his men (all that were left) into two companies, at
the head of one of which was himself, and at the head of the other
Eurylochus, a man of tried courage, he cast lots which of them should
go up into the country; and the lot fell upon Eurylochus and his
company, two and twenty in number; who took their leave, with tears,
of Ulysses and his men that staid, whose eyes wore the same wet badges
of weak humanity, for they surely thought never to see these their
companions again, but that on every coast where they should come, they
should find nothing but savages and cannibals.

Eurylochus and his party proceeded up the country, till in a dale they
descried the house of Circe, built of bright stone, by the road's
side. Before her gate lay many beasts, as wolves, lions, leopards,
which, by her art, of wild, she had rendered tame. These arose when
they saw strangers, and ramped upon their hinder paws, and fawned upon
Eurylochus and his men, who dreaded the effects of such monstrous
kindness; and staying at the gate they heard the enchantress within,
sitting at her loom, singing such strains as suspended all mortal
faculties, while she wove a web, subtle and glorious, and of texture
inimitable on earth, as all the housewiferies of the deities are.
Strains so ravishingly sweet, provoked even the sagest and prudentest
heads among the party to knock and call at the gate. The shining gate
the enchantress opened, and bad them come in and feast. They unwise
followed, all but Eurylochus, who staid without the gate, suspicious
that some train was laid for them. Being entered, she placed them
in chairs of state, and set before them meal and honey, and Smyrna
wine; but mixed with baneful drugs of powerful enchantment. When they
had eaten of these, and drunk of her cup, she touched them with her
charming-rod, and straight they were transformed into swine, having
the bodies of swine, the bristles, and snout, and grunting noise of
that animal; only they still retained the minds of men, which made
them the more to lament their brutish transformation. Having changed
them, she shut them up in her sty with many more whom her wicked
sorceries had formerly changed, and gave them swine's food, mast, and
acorns, and chestnuts, to eat.

Eurylochus, who beheld nothing of these sad changes from where he
was stationed without the gate, only instead of his companions that
entered (who he thought had all vanished by witchcraft) beheld a herd
of swine, hurried back to the ship, to give an account of what he had
seen: but so frightened and perplexed, that he could give no distinct
report of any thing, only he remembered a palace, and a woman singing
at her work, and gates guarded by lions. But his companions, he said,
were all vanished.

Then Ulysses suspecting some foul witchcraft, snatched his sword, and
his bow, and commanded Eurylochus instantly to lead him to the place.
But Eurylochus fell down, and embracing his knees, besought him by the
name of a man whom the gods had in their protection, not to expose his
safety, and the safety of them all, to certain destruction.

"Do thou then stay, Eurylochus?" answered Ulysses: "eat thou and
drink in the ship in safety; while I go alone upon this adventure:
necessity, from whose law is no appeal, compels me."

So saying he quitted the ship and went on shore, accompanied by none;
none had the hardihood to offer to partake that perilous adventure
with him, so much they dreaded the enchantments of the witch. Singly
he pursued his journey till he came to the shining gates which stood
before her mansion: but when he essayed to put his foot over her
threshold, he was suddenly stopt by the apparition of a young man,
bearing a golden rod in his hand, who was the god Mercury. He held
Ulysses by the wrist, to stay his entrance; and "Whither wouldest thou
go?" he said, "O thou most erring of the sons of men! knowest thou
not that this is the house of great Circe, where she keeps thy friends
in a loathsome sty, changed from the fair forms of men into the
detestable and ugly shapes of swine? art thou prepared to share their
fate, from which nothing can ransom thee?" But neither his words, nor
his coming from heaven, could stop the daring foot of Ulysses, whom
compassion for the misfortune of his friends had rendered careless
of danger: which when the god perceived, he had pity to see valour
so misplaced, and gave him the flower of the herb _moly_, which is
sovereign against enchantments. The moly is a small unsightly root,
its virtues but little known, and in low estimation; the dull shepherd
treads on it every day with his clouted shoes: but it bears a small
white flower, which is medicinal against charms, blights, mildews, and
damps.--"Take this in thy hand," said Mercury, "and with it boldly
enter her gates: when she shall strike thee with her rod, thinking to
change thee, as she has changed thy friends, boldly rush in upon her
with thy sword, and extort from her the dreadful oath of the gods,
that she will use no enchantments against thee: then force her to
restore thy abused companions." He gave Ulysses the little white
flower, and instructing him how to use it, vanished.

When the god was departed, Ulysses with loud knockings beat at the
gate of the palace. The shining gates were opened, as before, and
great Circe with hospitable cheer invited in her guest. She placed him
on a throne with more distinction than she had used to his fellows,
she mingled wine in a costly bowl, and he drank of it, mixed with
those poisonous drugs. When he had drunk, she struck him with her
charming-rod, and "To your sty," she cried, "out, swine; mingle with
your companions." But those powerful words were not proof against
the preservative which Mercury had given to Ulysses; he remained
unchanged, and as the god had directed him, boldly charged the witch
with his sword, as if he meant to take her life: which when she saw,
and perceived that her charms were weak against the antidote which
Ulysses bore about him, she cried out and bent her knees beneath his
sword, embracing his, and said, "Who or what manner of man art thou?
Never drank any man before thee of this cup, but he repented it in
some brute's form. Thy shape remains unaltered as thy mind. Thou canst
be none other than Ulysses, renowned above all the world for wisdom,
whom the fates have long since decreed that I must love. This haughty
bosom bends to thee. O Ithacan, a goddess woos thee to her bed."

"O Circe," he replied, "how canst thou treat of love or marriage with
one whose friends thou hast turned into beasts? and now offerest him
thy hand in wedlock, only that thou mightest have him in thy power, to
live the life of a beast with thee, naked, effeminate, subject to thy
will, perhaps to be advanced in time to the honour of a place in thy
sty. What pleasure canst thou promise, which may tempt the soul of a
reasonable man? thy meats, spiced with poison; or thy wines, drugged
with death? Thou must swear to me, that thou wilt never attempt
against me the treasons which thou hast practised upon my friends."
The enchantress, won by the terror of his threats, or by the violence
of that new love which she felt kindling in her veins for him, swore
by Styx, the great oath of the gods, that she meditated no injury
to him. Then Ulysses made shew of gentler treatment, which gave her
hopes of inspiring him with a passion equal to that which she felt.
She called her handmaids, four that served her in chief, who were
daughters to her silver fountains, to her sacred rivers, and to her
consecrated woods, to deck her apartments, to spread rich carpets, and
set out her silver tables with dishes of the purest gold, and meat
as precious as that which the gods eat, to entertain her guest. One
brought water to wash his feet, and one brought wine to chase away,
with a refreshing sweetness, the sorrows that had come of late so
thick upon him, and hurt his noble mind. They strewed perfumes on his
head, and after he had bathed in a bath of the choicest aromatics,
they brought him rich and costly apparel to put on. Then he was
conducted to a throne of massy silver, and a regale, fit for Jove
when he banquets, was placed before him. But the feast which Ulysses
desired was to see his friends (the partners of his voyage) once more
in the shapes of men; and the food which could give him nourishment
must be taken in at his eyes. Because he missed this sight, he sat
melancholy and thoughtful, and would taste of none of the rich
delicacies placed before him. Which when Circe noted, she easily
divined the cause of his sadness, and leaving the seat in which she
sat throned, went to her sty, and let abroad his men, who came in like
swine, and filled the ample hall, where Ulysses sat, with gruntings.
Hardly had he time to let his sad eye run over their altered forms and
brutal metamorphosis, when with an ointment which she smeared over
them, suddenly their bristles fell off, and they started up in their
own shapes men as before. They knew their leader again, and clung
about him with joy of their late restoration, and some shame for their
late change; and wept so loud, blubbering out their joy in broken
accents, that the palace was filled with a sound of pleasing mourning,
and the witch herself, great Circe, was not unmoved at the sight. To
make her atonement complete, she sent for the remnant of Ulysses's
men who staid behind at the ship, giving up their great commander for
lost; who when they came, and saw him again alive, circled with their
fellows, no expression can tell what joy they felt; they even cried
out with rapture, and to have seen their frantic expressions of mirth,
a man might have supposed that they were just in sight of their
country earth, the cliffs of rocky Ithaca. Only Eurylochus would
hardly be persuaded to enter that palace of wonders, for he remembered
with a kind of horror how his companions had vanished from his sight.

Then great Circe spake, and gave order, that there should be no more
sadness among them, nor remembering of past sufferings. For as yet
they fared like men that are exiles from their country, and if a gleam
of mirth shot among them, it was suddenly quenched with the thought of
their helpless and homeless condition. Her kind persuasions wrought
upon Ulysses and the rest, that they spent twelve months in all manner
of delight with her in her palace. For Circe was a powerful magician,
and could command the moon from her sphere, or unroot the solid oak
from its place to make it dance for their diversion, and by the help
of her illusions she could vary the taste of pleasures, and contrive
delights, recreations, and jolly pastimes, to "fetch the day about
from sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a delightful dream."

At length Ulysses awoke from the trance of the faculties into which
her charms had thrown him, and the thought of home returned with
tenfold vigour to goad and sting him; that home where he had left his
virtuous wife Penelope, and his young son Telemachus. One day when
Circe had been lavish of her caresses, and was in her kindest humour,
he moved to her subtilly, and as it were afar off, the question of his
home-return; to which she answered firmly, "O Ulysses, it is not in my
power to detain one whom the gods have destined to further trials. But
leaving me, before you pursue your journey home, you must visit the
house of Ades, or Death, to consult the shade of Tiresias the Theban
prophet; to whom alone, of all the dead, Proserpine, queen of hell,
has committed the secret of future events: it is he that must inform
you whether you shall ever see again your wife and country." "O
Circe," he cried; "that is impossible: who shall steer my course to
Pluto's kingdom? Never ship had strength to make that voyage." "Seek
no guide," she replied; "but raise you your mast, and hoist your white
sails, and sit in your ship in peace: the north wind shall waft you
through the seas, till you shall cross the expanse of the ocean, and
come to where grow the poplar groves, and willows pale, of Proserpine:
where Pyriphlegethon and Cocytus and Acheron mingle their waves.
Cocytus is an arm of Styx, the forgetful river. Here dig a pit, and
make it a cubit broad and a cubit long, and pour in milk, and honey,
and wine, and the blood of a ram, and the blood of a black ewe, and
turn away thy face while thou pourest in, and the dead shall come
flocking to taste the milk and the blood: but suffer none to approach
thy offering till thou hast enquired of Tiresias all which thou
wishest to know."

He did as great Circe had appointed. He raised his mast, and hoisted
his white sails, and sat in his ship in peace. The north wind wafted
him through the seas, till he crossed the ocean, and came to the
sacred woods of Proserpine. He stood at the confluence of the three
floods, and digged a pit, as she had given directions, and poured in
his offering; the blood of a ram, and the blood of a black ewe, milk,
and honey, and wine; and the dead came to his banquet: aged men, and
women, and youths, and children who died in infancy. But none of them
would he suffer to approach, and dip their thin lips in the offering,
till Tiresias was served, not though his own mother was among the
number, whom now for the first time he knew to be dead, for he had
left her living when he went to Troy, and she had died since his
departure, and the tidings never reached him: though it irked his soul
to use constraint upon her, yet in compliance with the injunction of
great Circe, he forced her to retire along with the other ghosts. Then
Tiresias, who bore a golden sceptre, came and lapped of the offering,
and immediately he knew Ulysses, and began to prophesy: _he denounced
woe to Ulysses, woe, woe, and many sufferings, through the anger of
Neptune for the putting out of the eye of the sea-god's son. Yet there
was safety after suffering, if they could abstain from slaughtering
the oxen of the Sun after they landed in the Triangular island. For
Ulysses, the gods had destined him from a king to become a beggar, and
to perish by his own guests, unless he slew those who knew him not._

This prophecy, ambiguously delivered, was all that Tiresias was
empowered to unfold, or else there was no longer place for him;
for now the souls of the other dead came flocking in such numbers,
tumultuously demanding the blood, that freezing horror seized the
limbs of the living Ulysses, to see so many, and all dead, and he the
only one alive in that region. Now his mother came and lapped the
blood, without restraint from her son, and now she knew him to be her
son, and enquired of him why he had come alive to their comfortless
habitations. And she said, that affliction for Ulysses's long absence
had preyed upon her spirits, and brought her to the grave.

Ulysses's soul melted at her moving narration, and forgetting the
state of the dead, and that the airy texture of disembodied spirits
does not admit of the embraces of flesh and blood, he threw his arms
about her to clasp her: the poor ghost melted from his embrace, and
looking mournfully upon him vanished away.

Then saw he other females.--Tyro, who when she lived was the paramour
of Neptune, and by him had Pelias, and Neleus. Antiope, who bore
two like sons to Jove, Amphion and Zethus, founders of Thebes.
Alcmena, the mother of Hercules, with her fair daughter, afterwards
her daughter-in-law, Megara. There also Ulysses saw Jocasta, the
unfortunate mother and wife of Oedipus; who ignorant of kin wedded
with her son, and when she had discovered the unnatural alliance, for
shame and grief hanged herself. He continued to drag a wretched life
above the earth, haunted by the dreadful Furies.--There was Leda,
the wife of Tyndarus, the mother of the beautiful Helen, and of the
two brave brothers, Castor and Pollux, who obtained this grace from
Jove, that being dead, they should enjoy life alternately, living
in pleasant places under the earth. For Pollux had prayed that his
brother Castor, who was subject to death, as the son of Tyndarus,
should partake of his own immortality, which he derived from an
immortal sire: this the Fates denied; therefore Pollux was permitted
to divide his immortality with his brother Castor, dying and living
alternately.--There was Iphimedeia, who bore two sons to Neptune
that were giants, Otus and Ephialtes: Earth in her prodigality
never nourished bodies to such portentous size and beauty as these
two children were of, except Orion. At nine years old they had
imaginations of climbing to Heaven to see what the gods were doing;
they thought to make stairs of mountains, and were for piling Ossa
upon Olympus, and setting Pelion upon that, and had perhaps performed
it, if they had lived till they were striplings; but they were cut off
by death in the infancy of their ambitious project.--Phædra was there,
and Procris, and Ariadne, mournful for Theseus's desertion, and Mæra,
and Clymene, and Eryphile, who preferred gold before wedlock faith.

But now came a mournful ghost, that late was Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
the mighty leader of all the host of Greece and their confederate
kings that warred against Troy. He came with the rest to sip a little
of the blood at that uncomfortable banquet. Ulysses was moved with
compassion to see him among them, and asked him what untimely fate had
brought him there, if storms had overwhelmed him coming from Troy, or
if he had perished in some mutiny by his own soldiers at a division of
the prey.

"By none of these," he replied, "did I come to my death; but slain at
a banquet to which I was invited by Ægisthus after my return home.
He conspiring with my adulterous wife, they laid a scheme for my
destruction, training me forth to a banquet as an ox goes to the
slaughter, and there surrounding me they slew me with all my friends
about me.

"Clytemnestra, my wicked wife, forgetting the vows which she swore to
me in wedlock, would not lend a hand to close my eyes in death. But
nothing is so heaped with impieties as such a woman, who would kill
her spouse that married her a maid. When I brought her home to my
house a bride, I hoped in my heart that she would be loving to me and
to my children. Now, her black treacheries have cast a foul aspersion
on her whole sex. Blest husbands will have their loving wives in
suspicion for her bad deeds."

"Alas!" said Ulysses, "there seems to be a fatality in your royal
house of Atreus, and that they are hated of Jove for their wives. For
Helen's sake, your brother Menelaus's wife, what multitudes fell in
the wars of Troy!"

Agamemnon replied, "For this cause be not thou more kind than wise to
any woman. Let not thy words express to her at any time all that is in
thy mind, keep still some secrets to thyself. But thou by any bloody
contrivances of thy wife never needst fear to fall. Exceeding wise
she is, and to her wisdom she has a goodness as eminent; Icarius's
daughter, Penelope the chaste: we left her a young bride when we
parted from our wives to go to the wars, her first child suckling
at her breast, the young Telemachus, whom you shall see grown up to
manhood on your return, and he shall greet his father with befitting
welcomes. My Orestes, my dear son, I shall never see again. His mother
has deprived his father of the sight of him, and perhaps will slay him
as she slew his sire. It is now no world to trust a woman in.--But
what says fame? is my son yet alive? lives he in Orchomen, or in
Pylus, or is he resident in Sparta, in his uncle's court? as yet, I
see, divine Orestes is not here with me."

To this Ulysses replied that he had received no certain tidings where
Orestes abode, only some uncertain rumours which he could not report
for truth.

While they held this sad conference, with kind tears striving to
render unkind fortunes more palatable, the soul of great Achilles
joined them. "What desperate adventure has brought Ulysses to these
regions," said Achilles, "to see the end of dead men, and their
foolish shades?"

Ulysses answered him that he had come to consult Tiresias respecting
his voyage home. "But thou, O son of Thetis," said he, "why dost thou
disparage the state of the dead? seeing that as alive thou didst
surpass all men in glory, thou must needs retain thy pre-eminence here
below: so great Achilles triumphs over death."

But Achilles made reply, that he had much rather be a peasant-slave
upon the earth, than reign over all the dead. So much did the
inactivity and slothful condition of that state displease his
unquenchable and restless spirit. Only he enquired of Ulysses if his
father Peleus were living, and how his son Neoptolemus conducted
himself.

Of Peleus Ulysses could tell him nothing; but of Neoptolemus he thus
bore witness: "From Scyros I convoyed your son by sea to the Greeks:
where I can speak of him, for I knew him. He was chief in council, and
in the field. When any question was proposed, so quick was his conceit
in the forward apprehension of any case, that he ever spoke first,
and was heard with more attention than the older heads. Only myself
and aged Nestor could compare with him in giving advice. In battle I
cannot speak his praise, unless I could count all that fell by his
sword. I will only mention one instance of his manhood. When we sat
hid in the belly of the wooden horse, in the ambush which deceived
the Trojans to their destruction, I, who had the management of that
stratagem, still shifted my place from side to side to note the
behaviour of our men. In some I marked their hearts trembling, through
all the pains which they took to appear valiant, and in others tears,
that in spite of manly courage would gush forth. And to say truth, it
was an adventure of high enterprise, and as perilous a stake as was
ever played in war's game. But in him I could not observe the least
sign of weakness, no tears nor tremblings, but his hand still on his
good sword, and ever urging me to set open the machine and let us out
before the time was come for doing it; and when we sallied out he was
still first in that fierce destruction and bloody midnight desolation
of king Priam's city."

This made the soul of Achilles to tread a swifter pace, with
high-raised feet, as he vanished away, for the joy which he took in
his son being applauded by Ulysses.

A sad shade stalked by, which Ulysses knew to be the ghost of Ajax,
his opponent, when living, in that famous dispute about the right of
succeeding to the arms of the deceased Achilles. They being adjudged
by the Greeks to Ulysses, as the prize of wisdom above bodily
strength, the noble Ajax in despite went mad, and slew himself. The
sight of his rival turned to a shade by his dispute, so subdued the
passion of emulation in Ulysses, that for his sake he wished that
judgment in that controversy had been given against himself, rather
than so illustrious a chief should have perished for the desire of
those arms, which his prowess (second only to Achilles in fight) so
eminently had deserved. "Ajax," he cried, "all the Greeks mourn for
thee as much as they lamented for Achilles. Let not thy wrath burn for
ever, great son of Telamon. Ulysses seeks peace with thee, and will
make any atonement to thee that can appease thy hurt spirit." But the
shade stalked on, and would not exchange a word with Ulysses, though
he prayed it with many tears and many earnest entreaties. "He might
have spoke to me," said Ulysses, "since I spoke to him; but I see the
resentments of the dead are eternal."

Then Ulysses saw a throne on which was placed a judge distributing
sentence. He that sat on the throne was Minos, and he was dealing out
just judgments to the dead. He it is that assigns them their place in
bliss or woe.

Then came by a thundering ghost, the large-limbed Orion, the mighty
hunter, who was hunting there the ghosts of the beasts which he had
slaughtered in desart hills upon the earth. For the dead delight in
the occupations which pleased them in the time of their living upon
the earth.

There was Tityus suffering eternal pains because he had sought to
violate the honour of Latona as she passed from Pytho into Panopeus.
Two vultures sat perpetually preying upon his liver with their crooked
beaks; which as fast as they devoured, is for ever renewed; nor can he
fray them away with his great hands.

There was Tantalus, plagued for his great sins, standing up to the
chin in water, which he can never taste, but still as he bows his
head, thinking to quench his burning thirst, instead of water he licks
up unsavoury dust. All fruits pleasant to the sight, and of delicious
flavour, hang in ripe clusters about his head, seeming as though they
offered themselves to be plucked by him; but when he reaches out his
hand, some wind carries them far out of his sight into the clouds: so
he is starved in the midst of plenty by the righteous doom of Jove, in
memory of that inhuman banquet at which the sun turned pale, when the
unnatural father served up the limbs of his little son in a dish, as
meat for his divine guests.

There was Sisyphus, that sees no end to his labours. His punishment
is, to be for ever rolling up a vast stone to the top of a mountain,
which when it gets to the top, falls down with a crushing weight, and
all his work is to be begun again. He was bathed all over in sweat,
that reeked out a smoke which covered his head like a mist. His crime
had been the revealing of state secrets.

There Ulysses saw Hercules: not that Hercules who enjoys immortal life
in heaven among the gods, and is married to Hebe or Youth; but his
shadow which remains below. About him the dead flocked as thick as
bats, hovering around, and cuffing at his head: he stands with his
dreadful bow, ever in the act to shoot.

There also might Ulysses have seen and spoken with the shades of
Theseus, and Pirithous, and the old heroes; but he had conversed
enough with horrors: therefore covering his face with his hands, that
he might see no more spectres, he resumed his seat in his ship, and
pushed off. The bark moved of itself without the help of any oar,
and soon brought him out of the regions of death into the cheerful
quarters of the living, and to the island of Ææa, whence he had set
forth.




CHAPTER III


_The song of the Sirens.--Scylla and Charybdis.--The oxen of the
Sun.--The judgment.--The crew killed by lightning._


"Unhappy man, who at thy birth wast appointed twice to die! others
shall die once; but thou, besides that death that remains for thee,
common to all men, hast in thy life-time visited the shades of death.
Thee Scylla, thee Charybdis, expect. Thee the deathful Sirens lie in
wait for, that taint the minds of whoever listen to them with their
sweet singing. Whosoever shall but hear the call of any Siren, he will
so despise both wife and children through their sorceries, that the
stream of his affection never again shall set homewards, nor shall he
take joy in wife or children thereafter, or they in him."

With these prophetic greetings great Circe met Ulysses on his return.
He besought her to instruct him in the nature of the Sirens, and by
what method their baneful allurements were to be resisted.

"They are sisters three," she replied, "that sit in a mead (by which
your ship must needs pass) circled with dead men's bones. These are
the bones of men whom they have slain, after with fawning invitements
they have enticed them into their fen. Yet such is the celestial
harmony of their voice accompanying the persuasive magic of their
words, that knowing this, you shall not be able to withstand their
enticements. Therefore when you are to sail by them, you shall stop
the ears of your companions with wax, that they may hear no note of
that dangerous music; but for yourself, that you may hear, and yet
live, give them strict command to bind you hand and foot to the mast,
and in no case to set you free, till you are out of the danger of the
temptation, though you should entreat it, and implore it ever so much,
but to bind you rather the more for your requesting to be loosed. So
shall you escape that snare."

Ulysses then prayed her that she would inform him what Scylla and
Charybdis were, which she had taught him by name to fear. She replied:
"Sailing from Ææa to Trinacria, you must pass at an equal distance
between two fatal rocks. Incline never so little either to the one
side or the other, and your ship must meet with certain destruction.
No vessel ever yet tried that pass without being lost, but the Argo,
which owed her safety to the sacred freight she bore, the fleece of
the golden-backed ram, which could not perish. The biggest of these
rocks which you shall come to, Scylla hath in charge. There in a deep
whirlpool at the foot of the rock the abhorred monster shrouds her
face; who if she were to shew her full form, no eye of man or god
could endure the sight: thence she stretches out all her six long
necks peering and diving to suck up fish, dolphins, dog-fish, and
whales, whole ships, and their men, whatever comes within her raging
gulf. The other rock is lesser, and of less ominous aspect; but there
dreadful Charybdis sits, supping the black deeps. Thrice a day she
drinks her pits dry, and thrice a day again she belches them all up:
but when she is drinking, come not nigh, for being once caught, the
force of Neptune cannot redeem you from her swallow. Better trust to
Scylla, for she will but have for her six necks six men: Charybdis in
her insatiate draught will ask all."

Then Ulysses enquired, in case he should escape Charybdis, whether
he might not assail that other monster with his sword: to which she
replied that he must not think that he had an enemy subject to death,
or wounds, to contend with: for Scylla could never die. Therefore,
his best safety was in flight, and to invoke none of the gods but
Cratis, who is Scylla's mother, and might perhaps forbid her daughter
to devour them. For his conduct after he arrived at Trinacria she
referred him to the admonitions which had been given him by Tiresias.

Ulysses having communicated her instructions, as far as related to the
Sirens, to his companions, who had not been present at that interview;
but concealing from them the rest, as he had done the terrible
predictions of Tiresias, that they might not be deterred by fear from
pursuing their voyage: the time for departure being come, they set
their sails, and took a final leave of great Circe; who by her art
calmed the heavens, and gave them smooth seas, and a right fore wind
(the seaman's friend) to bear them on their way to Ithaca.

They had not sailed past a hundred leagues before the breeze which
Circe had lent them suddenly stopped. It was stricken dead. All the
sea lay in prostrate slumber. Not a gasp of air could be felt. The
ship stood still. Ulysses guessed that the island of the Sirens was
not far off, and that they had charmed the air so with their devilish
singing. Therefore he made him cakes of wax, as Circe had instructed
him, and stopped the ears of his men with them: then causing himself
to be bound hand and foot, he commanded the rowers to ply their oars
and row as fast as speed could carry them past that fatal shore. They
soon came within sight of the Sirens, who sang in Ulysses' hearing:

  Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise,
  That dost so high the Grecian glory raise;
  Ulysses! stay thy ship; and that song hear
  That none past ever, but it bent his ear,
  But left him ravish'd, and instructed more
  By us, than any, ever heard before.
  For we know all things, whatsoever were
  In wide Troy labour'd; whatsoever there
  The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd:
  By those high issues that the gods ordain'd:
  And whatsoever all the earth can show
  To inform a knowledge of desert, we know.

These were the words, but the celestial harmony of the voices which
sang them no tongue can describe: it took the ear of Ulysses with
ravishment. He would have broke his bonds to rush after them; and
threatened, wept, sued, entreated, commanded, crying out with tears
and passionate imprecations, conjuring his men by all the ties of
perils past which they had endured in common, by fellowship and love,
and the authority which he retained among them, to let him loose; but
at no rate would they obey him. And still the Sirens sang. Ulysses
made signs, motions, gestures, promising mountains of gold if they
would set him free; but their oars only moved faster. And still the
Sirens sung. And still the more he adjured them to set him free, the
faster with cords and ropes they bound him; till they were quite out
of hearing of the Sirens' notes, whose effect great Circe had so truly
predicted. And well she might speak of them, for often she had joined
her own enchanting voice to theirs, while she has sat in the flowery
meads, mingled with the Sirens and the Water Nymphs, gathering their
potent herbs and drugs of magic quality: their singing altogether has
made the gods stoop, and "heaven drowsy with the harmony."

Escaped that peril, they had not sailed yet an hundred leagues
further, when they heard a roar afar off, which Ulysses knew to be
the barking of Scylla's dogs, which surround her waist, and bark
incessantly. Coming nearer they beheld a smoke ascend, with a horrid
murmur, which arose from that other whirlpool, to which they made
nigher approaches than to Scylla. Through the furious eddy, which is
in that place, the ship stood still as a stone, for there was no man
to lend his hand to an oar, the dismal roar of Scylla's dogs at a
distance, and the nearer clamours of Charybdis, where everything made
an echo, quite taking from them the power of exertion. Ulysses went
up and down encouraging his men, one by one, giving them good words,
telling them that they were in greater perils when they were blocked
up in the Cyclop's cave, yet, heaven assisting his counsels, he had
delivered them out of that extremity. That he could not believe but
they remembered it; and wished them to give the same trust to the same
care which he had now for their welfare. That they must exert all
the strength and wit which they had, and try if Jove would not grant
them an escape even out of this peril. In particular he cheered up
the pilot who sat at the helm, and told him that he must shew more
firmness than other men, as he had more trust committed to him, and
had the sole management by his skill of the vessel in which all their
safeties were embarked. That a rock lay hid within those boiling
whirlpools which he saw, on the outside of which he must steer, if he
would avoid his own destruction, and the destruction of them all.

They heard him, and like men took to the oars; but little knew what
opposite danger, in shunning that rock, they must be thrown upon. For
Ulysses had concealed from them the wounds, never to be healed, which
Scylla was to open: their terror would else have robbed them all of
all care to steer, or move an oar, and have made them hide under the
hatches, for fear of seeing her, where he and they must have died an
idle death. But even then he forgot the precautions which Circe had
given him to prevent harm to his person; who had willed him not to
arm, or shew himself once to Scylla: but disdaining not to venture
life for his brave companions, he could not contain, but armed in all
points, and taking a lance in either hand, he went up to the fore
deck, and looked when Scylla would appear.

She did not shew herself as yet, and still the vessel steered closer
by her rock, as it sought to shun that other more dreaded: for they
saw how horribly Charybdis's black throat drew into her all the
whirling deep, which she disgorged again, that all about her boiled
like a kettle, and the rock roared with troubled waters; which when
she supped in again, all the bottom turned up, and disclosed far
under shore the swart sands naked, whose whole stern sight frayed the
startled blood from their faces, and made Ulysses turn his to view
the wonder of whirlpools. Which when Scylla saw, from out her black
den, she darted out her six long necks, and swoopt up as many of his
friends: whose cries Ulysses heard, and saw them too late, with their
heels turned up, and their hands thrown to him for succour, who had
been their help in all extremities, but could not deliver them now;
and he heard them shriek out, as she tore them, and to the last they
continued to throw their hands out to him for sweet life. In all his
sufferings he never had beheld a sight so full of miseries.

Escaped from Scylla and Charybdis, but with a diminished crew, Ulysses
and the sad remains of his followers reached the Trinacrian shore.
Here landing, he beheld oxen grazing of such surpassing size and
beauty, that both from them, and from the shape of the island (having
three promontories jutting into the sea) he judged rightly that he
was come to the Triangular island, and the oxen of the Sun, of which
Tiresias had forewarned him.

So great was his terror lest through his own fault, or that of his
men, any violence or profanation should be offered to the holy oxen,
that even then, tired as they were with the perils and fatigues of
the day past, and unable to stir an oar, or use any exertion, and
though night was fast coming on, he would have had them re-embark
immediately, and make the best of their way from that dangerous
station; but his men with one voice resolutely opposed it, and even
the too cautious Eurylochus himself withstood the proposal; so much
did the temptation of a little ease and refreshment (ease tenfold
sweet after such labours) prevail over the sagest counsels, and the
apprehension of certain evil outweigh the prospect of contingent
danger. They expostulated, that the nerves of Ulysses seemed to be
made of steel, and his limbs not liable to lassitude like other men's;
that waking or sleeping seemed indifferent to him; but that they were
men, not gods, and felt the common appetites for food and sleep.
That in the nighttime all the winds most destructive to ships are
generated. That black night still required to be served with meat,
and sleep, and quiet havens, and ease. That the best sacrifice
to the sea was in the morning. With such sailor-like sayings and
mutinous arguments, which the majority have always ready to justify
disobedience to their betters, they forced Ulysses to comply with
their requisition, and against his will to take up his night-quarters
on shore. But he first exacted from them an oath that they would
neither maim nor kill any of the cattle which they saw grazing, but
content themselves with such food as Circe had stowed their vessel
with when they parted from Ææa. This they man by man severally
promised, imprecating the heaviest curses on whoever should break it;
and mooring their bark within a creek, they went to supper, contenting
themselves that night with such food as Circe had given them, not
without many sad thoughts of their friends whom Scylla had devoured,
the grief of which kept them great part of the night waking.

In the morning Ulysses urged them again to a religious observance of
the oath that they had sworn, not in any case to attempt the blood of
those fair herds which they saw grazing, but to content themselves
with the ship's food; for the god who owned those cattle sees and
hears all.

They faithfully obeyed, and remained in that good mind for a month,
during which they were confined to that station by contrary winds,
till all the wine and the bread was gone, which they had brought with
them. When their victuals were gone, necessity compelled them to stray
in quest of whatever fish or fowl they could snare, which that coast
did not yield in any great abundance. Then Ulysses prayed to all the
gods that dwelt in bountiful heaven, that they would be pleased to
yield them some means to stay their hunger without having recourse to
profane and forbidden violations: but the ears of heaven seemed to be
shut, or some god incensed plotted his ruin; for at mid-day, when he
should chiefly have been vigilant and watchful to prevent mischief, a
deep sleep fell upon the eyes of Ulysses, during which he lay totally
insensible of all that passed in the world, and what his friends
or what his enemies might do for his welfare or destruction. Then
Eurylochus took his advantage. He was the man of most authority with
them after Ulysses. He represented to them all the misery of their
condition; how that every death is hateful and grievous to mortality,
but that of all deaths famine is attended with the most painful,
loathsome, and humiliating circumstances; that the subsistence which
they could hope to draw from fowling or fishing was too precarious
to be depended upon; that there did not seem to be any chance of the
winds changing to favour their escape, but that they must inevitably
stay there and perish, if they let an irrational superstition deter
them from the means which nature offered to their hands; that Ulysses
might be deceived in his belief that these oxen had any sacred
qualities above other oxen; and even admitting that they were the
property of the god of the Sun, as he said they were, the Sun did
neither eat nor drink, and the gods were best served not by a
scrupulous conscience, but by a thankful heart, which took freely
what they as freely offered: with these and such like persuasions he
prevailed on his half-famished and half-mutinous companions, to begin
the impious violation of their oath by the slaughter of seven of
the fairest of these oxen which were grazing. Part they roasted and
eat, and part they offered in sacrifice to the gods, particularly
to Apollo, god of the Sun, vowing to build a temple to his godhead,
when they should arrive in Ithaca, and deck it with magnificent and
numerous gifts: Vain men! and superstition worse than that which they
so lately derided! to imagine that prospective penitence can excuse a
present violation of duty, and that the pure natures of the heavenly
powers will admit of compromise or dispensation for sin.

But to their feast they fell, dividing the roasted portions of the
flesh, savoury and pleasant meat to them, but a sad sight to the eyes,
and a savour of death in the nostrils, of the waking Ulysses; who
just woke in time to witness, but not soon enough to prevent, their
rash and sacrilegious banquet. He had scarce time to ask what great
mischief was this which they had done unto him, when behold, a
prodigy! the ox-hides which they had stripped, began to creep, as if
they had life; and the roasted flesh bellowed as the ox used to do
when he was living. The hair of Ulysses stood up on end with affright
at these omens; but his companions, like men whom the gods had
infatuated to their destruction, persisted in their horrible banquet.

The Sun from his burning chariot saw how Ulysses's men had slain his
oxen, and he cried to his father Jove, "Revenge me upon these impious
men who have slain my oxen, which it did me good to look upon when
I walked my heavenly round. In all my daily course I never saw such
bright and beautiful creatures as those my oxen were." The father
promised that ample retribution should be taken of those accursed men:
which was fulfilled shortly after, when they took their leaves of the
fatal island.

Six days they feasted in spite of the signs of heaven, and on the
seventh, the wind changing, they set their sails, and left the island;
and their hearts were cheerful with the banquets they had held; all
but the heart of Ulysses, which sank within him, as with wet eyes he
beheld his friends, and gave them for lost, as men devoted to divine
vengeance. Which soon overtook them: for they had not gone many
leagues before a dreadful tempest arose, which burst their cables;
down came their mast, crushing the scull of the pilot in its fall;
off he fell from the stern into the water, and the bark wanting his
management drove along at the wind's mercy: thunders roared, and
terrible lightnings of Jove came down; first a bolt struck Eurylochus,
then another, and then another, till all the crew were killed, and
their bodies swam about like sea-mews; and the ship was split in
pieces: only Ulysses survived; and he had no hope of safety but in
tying himself to the mast, where he sat riding upon the waves, like
one that in no extremity would yield to fortune. Nine days was he
floating about with all the motions of the sea, with no other support
than the slender mast under him, till the tenth night cast him, all
spent and weary with toil, upon the friendly shores of the island
Ogygia.




CHAPTER IV


_The Island of Calypso.--Immortality refused._


Henceforth the adventures of the single Ulysses must be pursued. Of
all those faithful partakers of his toil, who with him left Asia,
laden with the spoils of Troy, now not one remains, but all a prey to
the remorseless waves, and food for some great fish: their gallant
navy reduced to one ship, and that finally swallowed up and lost.
Where now are all their anxious thoughts of home? that perseverance
with which they went through the severest sufferings and the hardest
labours to which poor sea-farers were ever exposed, that their toils
at last might be crowned with the sight of their native shores and
wives at Ithaca!--Ulysses is now in the isle Ogygia; called the
Delightful Island. The poor ship-wrecked chief, the slave of all
the elements, is once again raised by the caprice of fortune into a
shadow of prosperity. He that was cast naked upon the shore, bereft
of all his companions, has now a goddess to attend upon him, and
his companions are the nymphs which never die.--Who has not heard
of Calypso? her grove crowned with alders and poplars? her grotto,
against which the luxuriant vine laid forth his purple grapes?
her ever new delights, crystal fountains, running brooks, meadows
flowering with sweet balm-gentle and with violet: blue violets which
like veins enameled the smooth breasts of each fragrant mead! It were
useless to describe over again what has been so well told already:
or to relate those soft arts of courtship which the goddess used to
detain Ulysses; the same in kind which she afterwards practised upon
his less wary son, whom Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, hardly
preserved from her snares, when they came to the Delightful Island
together in search of the scarce departed Ulysses.

A memorable example of married love, and a worthy instance how dear
to every good man his country is, was exhibited by Ulysses. If Circe
loved him sincerely, Calypso loves him with tenfold more warmth and
passion: she can deny him nothing, but his departure; she offers him
every thing, even to a participation of her immortality: if he will
stay and share in her pleasures, he shall never die. But death with
glory has greater charms for a mind heroic, than a life that shall
never die, with shame; and when he pledged his vows to his Penelope,
he reserved no stipulation that he would forsake her whenever a
goddess should think him worthy of her bed, but they had sworn to live
and grow old together: and he would not survive her if he could, nor
meanly share in immortality itself, from which she was excluded.

These thoughts kept him pensive and melancholy in the midst of
pleasure. His heart was on the seas, making voyages to Ithaca. Twelve
months had worn away, when Minerva from heaven saw her favourite, how
he sat still pining on the sea shores (his daily custom), wishing for
a ship to carry him home. She (who is wisdom herself) was indignant
that so wise and brave a man as Ulysses should be held in effeminate
bondage by an unworthy goddess: and at her request, her father Jove
ordered Mercury to go down to the earth to command Calypso to dismiss
her guest. The divine messenger tied fast to his feet his winged
shoes, which bear him over land and seas, and took in his hand his
golden rod, the ensign of his authority. Then wheeling in many an airy
round, he stayed not till he alighted on the firm top of the mountain
Pieria: thence he fetched a second circuit over the seas, kissing the
waves in his flight with his feet, as light as any sea-mew fishing
dips her wings, till he touched the isle Ogygia, and soared up from
the blue sea to the grotto of the goddess, to whom his errand was
ordained.

His message struck a horror, checked by love, through all the
faculties of Calypso. She replied to it incensed: "You gods are
insatiate past all that live, in all things which you affect; which
makes you so envious and grudging. It afflicts you to the heart, when
any goddess seeks the love of a mortal man in marriage, though you
yourselves without scruple link yourselves to women of the earth. So
it fared with you, when the delicious-fingered Morning shared Orion's
bed; you could never satisfy your hate and your jealousy, till you
had incensed the chastity-loving dame, Diana, _who leads the precise
life_, to come upon him by stealth in Ortygia, and pierce him through
with her arrows. And when rich-haired Ceres gave the reins to her
affections, and took Iasion (well worthy) to her arms, the secret
was not so cunningly kept but Jove had soon notice of it, and the
poor mortal paid for his felicity with death, struck through with
lightnings. And now you envy me the possession of a wretched man, whom
tempests have cast upon my shores, making him lawfully mine; whose
ship Jove rent in pieces with his hot thunderbolts, killing all his
friends. Him I have preserved, loved, nourished, made him mine by
protection, my creature, by every tie of gratitude, mine; have vowed
to make him deathless like myself; him you will take from me. But I
know your power, and that it is vain for me to resist. Tell your king
that I obey his mandates."

With an ill grace Calypso promised to fulfil the commands of Jove;
and, Mercury departing, she went to find Ulysses, where he sat
outside the grotto, not knowing of the heavenly message, drowned in
discontent, not seeing any human probability of his ever returning
home.

She said to him: "Unhappy man, no longer afflict yourself with pining
after your country, but build you a ship, with which you may return
home; since it is the will of the gods: who doubtless as they are
greater in power than I, are greater in skill, and best can tell what
is fittest for man. But I call the gods, and my inward conscience, to
witness, that I had no thought but what stood with thy safety, nor
would have done or counselled any thing against thy good. I persuaded
thee to nothing which I should not have followed myself in thy
extremity: for my mind is innocent and simple. O, if thou knewest what
dreadful sufferings thou must yet endure, before ever thou reachest
thy native land, thou wouldest not esteem so hardly of a goddess's
offer to share her immortality with thee; nor, for a few years
enjoyment of a perishing Penelope, refuse an imperishable and
never-dying life with Calypso."

He replied: "Ever-honoured, great Calypso, let it not displease thee,
that I a mortal man desire to see and converse again with a wife that
is mortal: human objects are best fitted to human infirmities. I well
know how far in wisdom, in feature, in stature, proportion, beauty, in
all the gifts of the mind, thou exceedest my Penelope: she a mortal,
and subject to decay; thou immortal, ever growing, yet never old: yet
in her sight all my desires terminate, all my wishes; in the sight of
her, and of my country earth. If any god, envious of my return, shall
lay his dreadful hand upon me as I pass the seas, I submit: for the
same powers have given me a mind not to sink under oppression. In wars
and waves my sufferings have not been small."

She heard his pleaded reasons, and of force she must assent; so to her
nymphs she gave in charge from her sacred woods to cut down timber,
to make Ulysses a ship. They obeyed, though in a work unsuitable to
their soft fingers, yet to obedience no sacrifice is hard: and Ulysses
busily bestirred himself, labouring far more hard than they, as was
fitting, till twenty tall trees, driest and fittest for timber, were
felled. Then like a skilful shipwright, he fell to joining the planks,
using the plane, the axe, and the auger, with such expedition, that in
four days' time a ship was made, complete with all her decks, hatches,
side-boards, yards. Calypso added linen for the sails, and tackling;
and when she was finished, she was a goodly vessel for a man to sail
in alone, or in company, over the wide seas. By the fifth morning she
was launched; and Ulysses, furnished with store of provisions, rich
garments, and gold and silver, given him by Calypso, took a last
leave of her, and of her nymphs, and of the isle Ogygia which had so
befriended him.




CHAPTER V


_The tempest.--The sea-bird's gift.--The escape by swimming.--The
sleep in the woods._


At the stern of his solitary ship Ulysses sat, and steered right
artfully. No sleep could seize his eye-lids. He beheld the Pleiads,
the Bear which is by some called the Wain, that moves round about
Orion, and keeps still above the ocean, and the slow-setting sign
Bootes, which some name the Waggoner. Seventeen days he held his
course, and on the eighteenth the coast of Phæacia was in sight. The
figure of the land, as seen from the sea, was pretty and circular, and
looked something like a shield.

Neptune returning from visiting his favourite Æthiopians, from the
mountains of the Solymi, descried Ulysses ploughing the waves, his
domain. The sight of the man he so much hated for Polyphemus's sake,
his son, whose eye Ulysses had put out, set the god's heart on fire;
and snatching into his hand his horrid sea-sceptre, the trident of his
power, he smote the air and the sea, and conjured up all his black
storms, calling down night from the cope of heaven, and taking the
earth into the sea, as it seemed, with clouds, through the darkness
and indistinctness which prevailed, the billows rolling up before the
fury of all the winds, that contended together in their mighty sport.

Then the knees of Ulysses bent with fear, and then all his spirit
was spent, and he wished that he had been among the number of his
countrymen who fell before Troy, and had their funerals celebrated by
all the Greeks, rather than to perish thus, where no man could mourn
him or know him.

As he thought these melancholy thoughts, a huge wave took him and
washed him overboard, ship and all upset amidst the billows, he
struggling afar off, clinging to her stern broken off which he yet
held, her mast cracking in two with the fury of that gust of mixed
winds that struck it, sails and sail-yards fell into the deep, and he
himself was long drowned under water, nor could get his head above,
wave so met with wave, as if they strove which should depress him
most, and the gorgeous garments given him by Calypso clung about him,
and hindered his swimming; yet neither for this, nor for the overthrow
of his ship, nor his own perilous condition, would he give up his
drenched vessel, but, wrestling with Neptune, got at length hold of
her again, and then sat in her bulk, insulting over death, which he
had escaped, and the salt waves which he gave the sea again to give to
other men: his ship, striving to live, floated at random, cuffed from
wave to wave, hurled to and fro by all the winds, now Boreas tossed it
to Notus, Notus passed it to Eurus, and Eurus to the west wind, who
kept up the horrid tennis.

Them in their mad sport Ino Leucothea beheld; Ino Leucothea, now a
sea-goddess, but once a mortal and the daughter of Cadmus; she with
pity beheld Ulysses the mark of their fierce contention, and rising
from the waves alighted on the ship, in shape like to the sea-bird
which is called a cormorant, and in her beak she held a wonderful
girdle made of sea-weeds which grow at the bottom of the ocean, which
she dropt at his feet, and the bird spake to Ulysses, and counselled
him not to trust any more to that fatal vessel against which god
Neptune had levelled his furious wrath, nor to those ill-befriending
garments which Calypso had given him, but to quit both it and them and
trust for his safety to swimming. "And here," said the seeming bird,
"take this girdle and tie about your middle, which has virtue to
protect the wearer at sea, and you shall safely reach the shore; but
when you have landed, cast it far from you back into the sea." He
did as the sea-bird instructed him, he stripped himself naked, and
fastening the wondrous girdle about his middle, cast himself into the
seas to swim. The bird dived past his sight into the fathomless abyss
of the ocean.

Two days and two nights he spent in struggling with the waves, though
sore buffeted, and almost spent, never giving up himself for lost,
such confidence he had in that charm which he wore about his middle,
and in the words of that divine bird. But the third morning the winds
grew calm and all the heavens were clear. Then he saw himself nigh
land, which he knew to be the coast of the Phæacians, a people good to
strangers, and abounding in ships, by whose favour he doubted not that
he should soon obtain a passage to his own country. And such joy he
conceived in his heart, as good sons have, that esteem their father's
life dear, when long sickness has held him down to his bed, and wasted
his body, and they see at length health return to the old man, with
restored strength and spirits, in reward of their many prayers to
the gods for his safety: so precious was the prospect of home-return
to Ulysses, that he might restore health to his country (his better
parent), that had long languished as full of distempers in his
absence. And then for his own safety's sake he had joy to see the
shores, the woods, so nigh and within his grasp as they seemed, and he
laboured with all the might of hands and feet to reach with swimming
that nigh-seeming land.

But when he approached near, a horrid sound of a huge sea beating
against rocks informed him that here was no place for landing, nor any
harbour for man's resort, but through the weeds and the foam which the
sea belched up against the land he could dimly discover the rugged
shore all bristled with flints, and all that part of the coast one
impending rock that seemed impossible to climb, and the water all
about so deep, that not a sand was there for any tired foot to rest
upon, and every moment he feared lest some wave more cruel than the
rest should crush him against a cliff, rendering worse than vain
all his landing: and should he swim to seek a more commodious haven
further on, he was fearful lest, weak and spent as he was, the winds
would force him back a long way off into the main, where the terrible
god Neptune, for wrath that he had so nearly escaped his power, having
gotten him again into his domain, would send out some great whale (of
which those seas breed a horrid number) to swallow him up alive; with
such malignity he still pursued him.

While these thoughts distracted him with diversity of dangers, one
bigger wave drove against a sharp rock his naked body, which it gashed
and tore, and wanted little of breaking all his bones, so rude was
the shock. But in this extremity she prompted him that never failed
him at need. Minerva (who is wisdom itself) put it into his thoughts
no longer to keep swimming off and on, as one dallying with danger,
but boldly to force the shore that threatened him, and to hug the
rock that had torn him so rudely; which with both hands he clasped,
wrestling with extremity, till the rage of that billow which had
driven him upon it was past; but then again the rock drove back that
wave so furiously, that it reft him of his hold, sucking him with
it in its return, and the sharp rock (his cruel friend) to which he
clinged for succour, rent the flesh so sore from his hands in parting,
that he fell off, and could sustain no longer: quite under water he
fell, and past the help of fate, there had the hapless Ulysses lost
all portion that he had in this life, if Minerva had not prompted his
wisdom in that peril to essay another course, and to explore some
other shelter, ceasing to attempt that landing-place.

She guided his wearied and nigh-exhausted limbs to the mouth of the
fair river Callicoe, which not far from thence disbursed its watery
tribute to the ocean. Here the shores were easy and accessible, and
the rocks, which rather adorned than defended its banks, so smooth,
that they seemed polished of purpose to invite the landing of our
sea-wanderer, and to atone for the uncourteous treatment which those
less hospitable cliffs had afforded him. And the god of the river, as
if in pity, stayed his current and smoothed his waters, to make his
landing more easy: for sacred to the ever-living deities of the fresh
waters, be they mountain-stream, river, or lake, is the cry of erring
mortals that seek their aid, by reason that being inland-bred they
partake more of the gentle humanities of our nature than those marine
deities, whom Neptune trains up in tempests in the unpitying recesses
of his salt abyss.

So by the favour of the river's god Ulysses crept to land
half-drowned; both his knees faltering, his strong hands falling down
through weakness from the excessive toils he had endured, his cheek
and nostrils flowing with froth of the sea-brine, much of which he had
swallowed in that conflict, voice and breath spent, down he sank as in
death. Dead weary he was. It seemed that the sea had soaked through
his heart, and the pains he felt in all his veins were little less
than those which one feels that has endured the torture of the rack.
But when his spirits came a little to themselves, and his recollection
by degrees began to return, he rose up, and unloosing from his
waist the girdle or charm which that divine bird had given him, and
remembering the charge which he had received with it, he flung it far
from him into the river. Back it swam with the course of the ebbing
stream till it reached the sea, where the fair hands of Ino Leucothea
received it to keep it as a pledge of safety to any future shipwrecked
mariner, that like Ulysses should wander in those perilous waves.

Then he kissed the humble earth in token of safety, and on he went by
the side of that pleasant river, till he came where a thicker shade of
rushes that grew on its banks seemed to point out the place where he
might rest his sea-wearied limbs. And here a fresh perplexity divided
his mind, whether he should pass the night, which was coming on, in
that place, where, though he feared no other enemies, the damps and
frosts of the chill sea-air in that exposed situation might be death
to him in his weak state; or whether he had better climb the next
hill, and pierce the depth of some shady wood, in which he might find
a warm and sheltered though insecure repose, subject to the approach
of any wild beast that roamed that way. Best did this last course
appear to him, though with some danger, as that which was more
honourable and savoured more of strife and self-exertion, than to
perish without a struggle the passive victim of cold and the elements.

So he bent his course to the nearest woods, where, entering in, he
found a thicket, mostly of wild olives and such low trees, yet growing
so intertwined and knit together, that the moist wind had not leave to
play through their branches, nor the sun's scorching beams to pierce
their recesses, nor any shower to beat through, they grew so thick
and as it were folded each in the other: here creeping in, he made
his bed of the leaves which were beginning to fall, of which was
such abundance that two or three men might have spread them ample
coverings, such as might shield them from the winter's rage, though
the air breathed steel and blew as it would burst. Here creeping in,
he heaped up store of leaves all about him, as a man would billets
upon a winter fire, and lay down in the midst. Rich seed of virtue
lying hid in poor leaves! Here Minerva soon gave him sound sleep; and
here all his long toils past seemed to be concluded and shut up within
the little sphere of his refreshed and closed eyelids.




CHAPTER VI


_The princess Nausicaa,--The washing.--The game with the ball.--The
Court of Phæacia and king Alcinous._


Meantime Minerva designing an interview between the king's daughter of
that country and Ulysses when he should awake, went by night to the
palace of king Alcinous, and stood at the bedside of the princess
Nausicaa in the shape of one of her favourite attendants, and thus
addressed the sleeping princess:

"Nausicaa, why do you lie sleeping here, and never bestow a thought
upon your bridal ornaments, of which you have many and beautiful, laid
up in your wardrobe against the day of your marriage, which cannot be
far distant; when you shall have need of all, not only to deck your
own person, but to give away in presents to the virgins that honouring
you shall attend you to the temple? Your reputation stands much upon
the timely care of these things; these things are they which fill
father and reverend mother with delight. Let us arise betimes to wash
your fair vestments of linen and silks in the river; and request your
sire to lend you mules and a coach, for your wardrobe is heavy, and
the place where we must wash is distant, and besides it fits not a
great princess like you to go so far on foot."

So saying she went away, and Nausicaa awoke, full of pleasing thoughts
of her marriage, which the dream had told her was not far distant; and
as soon as it was dawn, she arose and dressed herself, and went to
find her parents.

The queen her mother was already up, and seated among her maids,
spinning at her wheel, as the fashion was in those primitive times,
when great ladies did not disdain housewifery: and the king her father
was preparing to go abroad at that early hour to council with his
grave senate.

"My father," she said, "will you not order mules and a coach to be got
ready, that I may go and wash, I and my maids, at the cisterns that
stand without the city?"

"What washing does my daughter speak of?" said Alcinous.

"Mine and my brothers' garments," she replied, "that have contracted
soil by this time with lying by so long in the wardrobe. Five sons
have you, that are my brothers; two of them are married, and three
are bachelors; these last it concerns to have their garments neat and
unsoiled; it may advance their fortunes in marriage: and who but I
their sister should have a care of these things? You yourself, my
father, have need of the whitest apparel, when you go, as now, to the
council."

She used this plea, modestly dissembling her care of her own nuptials
to her father; who was not displeased at this instance of his
daughter's discretion: for a seasonable care about marriage may be
permitted to a young maiden, provided it be accompanied with modesty
and dutiful submission to her parents in the choice of her future
husband: and there was no fear of Nausicaa chusing wrongly or
improperly, for she was as wise as she was beautiful, and the best in
all Phæacia were suitors to her for her love. So Alcinous readily gave
consent that she should go, ordering mules and a coach to be prepared.
And Nausicaa brought from her chamber all her vestments, and laid them
up in the coach, and her mother placed bread and wine in the coach,
and oil in a golden cruse, to soften the bright skins of Nausicaa and
her maids when they came out of the river.

Nausicaa making her maids get up into the coach with her, lashed the
mules, till they brought her to the cisterns which stood a little on
the outside of the town, and were supplied with water from the river
Callicoe.

There her attendants unyoked the mules, took out the clothes, and
steeped them in the cisterns, washing them in several waters, and
afterwards treading them clean with their feet, venturing wagers who
should have done soonest and cleanest, and using many pretty pastimes
to beguile their labour as young maids use, while the princess looked
on. When they had laid their clothes to dry, they fell to playing
again, and Nausicaa joined them in a game with the ball, which is used
in that country, which is performed by tossing the ball from hand
to hand with great expedition, she who begins the pastime singing a
song. It chanced that the princess whose turn it became to toss the
ball, sent it so far from its mark, that it fell beyond into one of
the cisterns of the river: at which the whole company, in merry
consternation, set up a shriek so loud as waked the sleeping Ulysses,
who was taking his rest after his long toils, in the woods not far
distant from the place where these young maids had come to wash.

At the sound of female voices Ulysses crept forth from his retirement,
making himself a covering with boughs and leaves as well as he could
to shroud his nakedness. The sudden appearance of his weather-beaten
and almost naked form, so frighted the maidens that they scudded away
into the woods and all about to hide themselves, only Minerva (who
had brought about this interview to admirable purposes, by seemingly
accidental means) put courage into the breast of Nausicaa, and she
stayed where she was, and resolved to know what manner of man he was,
and what was the occasion of his strange coming to them.

He not venturing (for delicacy) to approach and clasp her knees, as
suppliants should, but standing far off, addressed this speech to the
young princess:

"Before I presume rudely to press my petitions, I should first ask
whether I am addressing a mortal woman, or one of the goddesses. If a
goddess, you seem to me to be likest to Diana, the chaste huntress,
the daughter of Jove. Like hers are your lineaments, your stature,
your features, and air divine."

She making answer that she was no goddess, but a mortal maid, he
continued:

"If a woman, thrice blessed are both the authors of your birth, thrice
blessed are your brothers, who even to rapture must have joy in your
perfections, to see you grown so like a young tree, and so graceful.
But most blessed of all that breathe is he that has the gift to engage
your young neck in the yoke of marriage. I never saw that man that was
worthy of you. I never saw man or woman that at all parts equalled
you. Lately at Delos (where I touched) I saw a young palm which grew
beside Apollo's temple; it exceeded all the trees which ever I beheld
for straitness and beauty: I can compare you only to that. A stupor
past admiration strikes me, joined with fear, which keeps me back from
approaching you, to embrace your knees. Nor is it strange; for one
of freshest and firmest spirit would falter, approaching near to so
bright an object: but I am one whom a cruel habit of calamity has
prepared to receive strong impressions. Twenty days the unrelenting
seas have tossed me up and down coming from Ogygia, and at length cast
me ship-wrecked last night upon your coast. I have seen no man or
woman since I landed but yourself. All that I crave is clothes, which
you may spare me, and to be shown the way to some neighbouring town.
The gods, who have care of strangers, will requite you for these
courtesies."

She admiring to hear such complimentary words proceed out of the mouth
of one whose outside looked so rough and unpromising, made answer:
"Stranger, I discern neither sloth nor folly in you, and yet I see
that you are poor and wretched: from which I gather that neither
wisdom nor industry can secure felicity; only Jove bestows it upon
whomsoever he pleases. He perhaps has reduced you to this plight.
However, since your wanderings have brought you so near to our city,
it lies in our duty to supply your wants. Clothes and what else
a human hand should give to one so suppliant, and so tamed with
calamity, you shall not want. We will shew you our city and tell you
the name of our people. This is the land of the Phæacians, of which my
father Alcinous is king."

Then calling her attendants who had dispersed on the first sight of
Ulysses, she rebuked them for their fear, and said: "This man is no
Cyclop, nor monster of sea or land, that you should fear him; but he
seems manly, staid, and discreet, and though decayed in his outward
appearance, yet he has the mind's riches, wit and fortitude, in
abundance. Show him the cisterns where he may wash him from the
sea-weeds and foam that hang about him, and let him have garments that
fit him out of those which we have brought with us to the cisterns."

Ulysses retiring a little out of sight, cleansed him in the cisterns
from the soil and impurities with which the rocks and waves had
covered all his body, and clothing himself with befitting raiment,
which the princess's attendants had given him, he presented himself
in more worthy shape to Nausicaa. She admired to see what a comely
personage he was, now he was dressed in all parts; she thought him
some king or hero: and secretly wished that the gods would be pleased
to give her such a husband.

Then causing her attendants to yoke her mules, and lay up the
vestments, which the sun's heat had sufficiently dried, in the coach,
she ascended with her maids, and drove off to the palace; bidding
Ulysses, as she departed, keep an eye upon the coach, and to follow it
on foot at some distance: which she did, because if she had suffered
him to have rode in the coach with her, it might have subjected her to
some misconstructions of the common people, who are always ready to
vilify and censure their betters, and to suspect that charity is not
always pure charity, but that love or some sinister intention lies hid
under its disguise. So discreet and attentive to appearance in all her
actions was this admirable princess.

Ulysses as he entered the city wondered to see its magnificence, its
markets, buildings, temples; its walls and rampires; its trade, and
resort of men; its harbours for shipping, which is the strength of
the Phæacian state. But when he approached the palace, and beheld its
riches, the proportion of its architecture, its avenues, gardens,
statues, fountains, he stood rapt in admiration, and almost forgot
his own condition in surveying the flourishing estate of others: but
recollecting himself he passed on boldly into the inner apartment,
where the king and queen were sitting at dinner with their peers;
Nausicaa having prepared them for his approach.

To them humbly kneeling he made it his request, that since fortune
had cast him naked upon their shores, they would take him into their
protection, and grant him a conveyance by one of the ships, of which
their great Phæacian state had such good store, to carry him to his
own country. Having delivered his request, to grace it with more
humility he went and sat himself down upon the hearth among the ashes,
as the custom was in those days when any would make a petition to the
throne.

He seemed a petitioner of so great state and of so superior a
deportment, that Alcinous himself arose to do him honour, and causing
him to leave that abject station which he had assumed, placed him next
to his throne, upon a chair of state, and thus he spake to his peers:

"Lords and counsellors of Phæacia, ye see this man, who he is we know
not, that is come to us in the guise of a petitioner: he seems no mean
one; but whoever he is, it is fit, since the gods have cast him upon
our protection, that we grant him the rites of hospitality, while he
stays with us, and at his departure, a ship well manned to convey so
worthy a personage as he seems to be, in a manner suitable to his
rank, to his own country."

This counsel the peers with one consent approved; and wine and meat
being set before Ulysses, he ate and drank, and gave the gods thanks
who had stirred up the royal bounty of Alcinous to aid him in that
extremity. But not as yet did he reveal to the king and queen who he
was, or whence he had come; only in brief terms he related his being
cast upon their shores, his sleep in the woods, and his meeting with
the princess Nausicaa: whose generosity, mingled with discretion
filled her parents with delight, as Ulysses in eloquent phrases
adorned and commended her virtues. But Alcinous, humanely considering
that the troubles which his guest had undergone required rest, as well
as refreshment by food, dismissed him early in the evening to his
chamber; where in a magnificent apartment Ulysses found a smoother
bed, but not a sounder repose, than he had enjoyed the night before,
sleeping upon leaves which he had scraped together in his necessity.




CHAPTER VII


_The songs of Demodocus.--The convoy home.--The mariners transformed
to stone.--The young shepherd._


When it was day-light, Alcinous caused it to be proclaimed by the
heralds about the town, that there was come to the palace a stranger,
shipwrecked on their coast, that in mien and person resembled a god:
and inviting all the chief people of the city to come and do honour to
the stranger.

The palace was quickly filled with guests, old and young, for whose
cheer, and to grace Ulysses more, Alcinous made a kingly feast with
banquetings and music. Then Ulysses being seated at a table next the
king and queen, in all men's view; after they had feasted, Alcinous
ordered Demodocus, the court-singer, to be called to sing some song
of the deeds of heroes, to charm the ear of his guest. Demodocus came
and reached his harp, where it hung between two pillars of silver: and
then the blind singer, to whom, in recompense of his lost sight, the
muses had given an inward discernment, a soul and a voice to excite
the hearts of men and gods to delight, began in grave and solemn
strains to sing the glories of men highliest famed. He chose a poem,
whose subject was, The stern Strife stirred up between Ulysses and
great Achilles, as at a banquet sacred to the gods in dreadful
language they expressed their difference; while Agamemnon sat rejoiced
in soul to hear those Grecians jar: for the oracle in Pytho had told
him, that the period of their wars in Troy should then be, when the
kings of Greece, anxious to arrive at the wished conclusion, should
fall to strife, and contend which must end the war, force or
stratagem.

This brave contention he expressed so to the life, in the very words
which they both used in the quarrel, as brought tears into the eyes of
Ulysses at the remembrance of past passages of his life, and he held
his large purple weed before his face to conceal it. Then craving a
cup of wine, he poured it out in secret libation to the gods, who had
put into the mind of Demodocus unknowingly to do him so much honour.
But when the moving poet began to tell of other occurrences where
Ulysses had been present, the memory of his brave followers who had
been with him in all difficulties, now swallowed up and lost in the
ocean, and of those kings that had fought with him at Troy, some of
whom were dead, some exiles like himself, forced itself so strongly
upon his mind, that forgetful where he was, he sobbed outright with
passion; which yet he restrained, but not so cunningly but Alcinous
perceived it, and without taking notice of it to Ulysses, privately
gave signs that Demodocus should cease from his singing.

Next followed dancing in the Phæacian fashion, when they would shew
respect to their guests; which was succeeded by trials of skill, games
of strength, running, racing, hurling of the quoit, mock fights,
hurling of the javelin, shooting with the bow: in some of which
Ulysses modestly challenging his entertainers, performed such feats of
strength and prowess as gave the admiring Phæacians fresh reason to
imagine that he was either some god, or hero of the race of the gods.

These solemn shows and pageants in honour of his guest, king Alcinous
continued for the space of many days, as if he could never be weary of
shewing courtesies to so worthy a stranger. In all this time he never
asked him his name, nor sought to know more of him than he of his own
accord disclosed: till on a day as they were seated feasting, after
the feast was ended, Demodocus being called, as was the custom, to
sing some grave matter, sang how Ulysses, on that night when Troy
was fired, made dreadful proof of his valour, maintaining singly a
combat against the whole household of Deiphobus, to which the divine
expresser gave both act and passion, and breathed such a fire into
Ulysses's deeds, that it inspired old death with life in the lively
expressing of slaughters, and rendered life so sweet and passionate
in the hearers, that all who heard felt it fleet from them in the
narration: which made Ulysses even pity his own slaughterous deeds,
and feel touches of remorse, to see how song can revive a dead man
from the grave, yet no way can it defend a living man from death: and
in imagination he underwent some part of death's horrors, and felt in
his living body a taste of those dying pangs which he had dealt to
others; that with the strong conceit, tears (the true interpreters of
unutterable emotion) stood in his eyes.

Which king Alcinous noting, and that this was now the second time that
he had perceived him to be moved at the mention of events touching the
Trojan wars, he took occasion to ask whether his guest had lost any
friend or kinsman at Troy, that Demodocus's singing had brought into
his mind. Then Ulysses, drying the tears with his cloak, and observing
that the eyes of all the company were upon him, desirous to give them
satisfaction in what he could, and thinking this a fit time to reveal
his true name and destination, spake as follows:

"The courtesies which ye all have shewn me, and in particular yourself
and princely daughter, O king Alcinous, demand from me that I should
no longer keep you in ignorance of what or who I am; for to reserve
any secret from you, who have with such openness of friendship
embraced my love, would argue either a pusillanimous or an ungrateful
mind in me. Know then that I am that _Ulysses_, of whom I perceive ye
have heard something; who heretofore have filled the world with the
renown of my policies. I am he by whose counsels, if Fame is to be
believed at all, more than by the united valour of all the Grecians,
Troy fell. I am that unhappy man whom the heavens and angry gods have
conspired to keep an exile on the seas, wandering to seek my home
which still flies from me. The land which I am in quest of is Ithaca;
in whose ports some ship belonging to your navigation-famed Phæacian
state may haply at some time have found a refuge from tempests. If
ever you have experienced such kindness, requite it now; by granting
to me, who am the king of that land, a passport to that land."

Admiration seized all the court of Alcinous, to behold in their
presence one of the number of those heroes who fought at Troy, whose
divine story had been made known to them by songs and poems, but of
the truth they had little known, or rather they had hitherto accounted
those heroic exploits as fictions and exaggerations of poets; but
having seen and made proof of the real Ulysses, they began to take
those supposed inventions to be real verities, and the tale of Troy to
be as true as it was delightful.

Then king Alcinous made answer: "Thrice fortunate ought we to esteem
our lot, in having seen and conversed with a man of whom report hath
spoken so loudly, but, as it seems, nothing beyond the truth. Though
we could desire no felicity greater than to have you always among
us, renowned Ulysses, yet your desire having been expressed so often
and so deeply to return home, we can deny you nothing, though to our
own loss. Our kingdom of Phæacia, as you know, is chiefly rich in
shipping. In all parts of the world, where there are navigable seas,
or ships can pass, our vessels will be found. You cannot name a coast
to which they do not resort. Every rock and every quick-sand is known
to them that lurks in the vast deep. They pass a bird in flight; and
with such unerring certainty they make to their destination, that
some have said that they have no need of pilot or rudder, but that
they move instinctively, self-directed, and know the minds of their
voyagers. Thus much, that you may not fear to trust yourself in one of
our Phæacian ships. To-morrow if you please you shall launch forth.
To-day spend with us in feasting; who never can do enough when the
gods send such visitors."

Ulysses acknowledged king Alcinous's bounty; and while these two royal
personages stood interchanging courteous expressions, the heart of the
princess Nausicaa was overcome: she had been gazing attentively upon
her father's guest, as he delivered his speech; but when he came
to that part where he declared himself to be Ulysses, she blessed
herself, and her fortune, that in relieving a poor ship-wrecked
mariner, as he seemed no better, she had conferred a kindness on so
divine a hero as he proved: and scarce waiting till her father had
done speaking, with a cheerful countenance she addressed Ulysses,
bidding him be cheerful, and when he returned home, as by her father's
means she trusted he would shortly, sometimes to remember to whom he
owed his life, and who met him in the woods by the river Callicoe.

"Fair flower of Phæacia," he replied, "so may all the gods bless me
with the strife of joys in that desired day, whenever I shall see it,
as I shall always acknowledge to be indebted to your fair hand for the
gift of life which I enjoy, and all the blessings which shall follow
upon my home-return. The gods give thee, Nausicaa, a princely husband;
and from you two spring blessings to this state." So prayed Ulysses,
his heart overflowing with admiration and grateful recollections of
king Alcinous's daughter.

Then at the king's request he gave them a brief relation of all the
adventures that had befallen him, since he launched forth from Troy:
during which the princess Nausicaa took great delight (as ladies are
commonly taken with these kind of travellers' stories) to hear of the
monster Polyphemus, of the men that devour each other in Læstrygonia,
of the enchantress Circe, of Scylla, and the rest; to which she
listened with a breathless attention, letting fall a shower of tears
from her fair eyes every now and then, when Ulysses told of some more
than usual distressful passage in his travels: and all the rest of
his auditors, if they had before entertained a high respect for their
guest, now felt their veneration increased ten-fold, when they learned
from his own mouth what perils, what sufferance, what endurance, of
evils beyond man's strength to support, this much-sustaining, almost
heavenly man, by the greatness of his mind, and by his invincible
courage, had struggled through.

The night was far spent before Ulysses had ended his narrative, and
with wishful glances he cast his eyes towards the eastern parts, which
the sun had begun to flecker with his first red: for on the morrow
Alcinous had promised that a bark should be in readiness to convoy him
to Ithaca.

In the morning a vessel well manned and appointed was waiting for him;
into which the king and queen heaped presents of gold and silver,
massy plate, apparel, armour, and whatsoever things of cost or rarity
they judged would be most acceptable to their guest: and the sails
being set, Ulysses embarking with expressions of regret took his leave
of his royal entertainers, of the fair princess (who had been his
first friend,) and of the peers of Phæacia; who crowding down to the
beach to have the last sight of their illustrious visitant, beheld the
gallant ship with all her canvas spread, bounding and curvetting over
the waves, like a horse proud of his rider; or as if she knew that in
her capacious womb's rich freightage she bore Ulysses.

He whose life past had been a series of disquiets, in seas among rude
waves, in battles amongst ruder foes, now slept securely, forgetting
all; his eye-lids bound in such deep sleep, as only yielded to death:
and when they reached the nearest Ithacan port by the next morning, he
was still asleep. The mariners not willing to awake him, landed him
softly, and laid him in a cave at the foot of an olive tree, which
made a shady recess in that narrow harbour, the haunt of almost
none but the sea-nymphs, which are called Naiads; few ships before
this Phæacian vessel having put into that haven, by reason of the
difficulty and narrowness of the entrance. Here leaving him asleep,
and disposing in safe places near him the presents with which king
Alcinous had dismissed him, they departed for Phæacia; where these
wretched mariners never again set foot; but just as they arrived,
and thought to salute their country earth; in sight of their city's
turrets, and in open view of their friends who from the harbour with
shouts greeted their return; their vessel and all the mariners which
were in her were turned to stone, and stood transformed and fixed in
sight of the whole Phæacian city, where it yet stands, by Neptune's
vindictive wrath; who resented thus highly the contempt which those
Phæacians had shown in convoying home a man whom the god had destined
to destruction. Whence it comes to pass that the Phæacians at this day
will at no price be induced to lend their ships to strangers, or to
become the carriers for other nations, so highly do they still dread
the displeasure of the sea-god, while they see that terrible monument
ever in sight.

When Ulysses awoke, which was not till some time after the mariners
had departed, he did not at first know his country again, either that
long absence had made it strange, or that Minerva (which was more
likely) had cast a cloud about his eyes, that he should have greater
pleasure hereafter in discovering his mistake: but like a man suddenly
awaking in some desart isle, to which his sea-mates have transported
him in his sleep, he looked around, and discerning no known objects,
he cast his hands to heaven for pity, and complained on those ruthless
men who had beguiled him with a promise of conveying him home to his
country, and perfidiously left him to perish in an unknown land. But
then the rich presents of gold and silver given him by Alcinous, which
he saw carefully laid up in secure places near him, staggered him:
which seemed not like the act of wrongful or unjust men, such as turn
pirates for gain, or land helpless passengers in remote coasts to
possess themselves of their goods.

While he remained in this suspence, there came up to him a young
shepherd, clad in the finer sort of apparel, such as kings' sons
wore in those days when princes did not disdain to tend sheep, who
accosting him, was saluted again by Ulysses, who asked him what
country that was, on which he had been just landed, and whether it
were part of a continent, or an island. The young shepherd made show
of wonder, to hear any one ask the name of that land; as country
people are apt to esteem those for mainly ignorant and barbarous who
do not know the names of places which are familiar to _them_, though
perhaps they who ask have had no opportunities of knowing, and may
have come from far countries.

"I had thought," said he, "that all people knew our land. It is rocky
and barren, to be sure; but well enough: it feeds a goat or an ox
well; it is not wanting neither in wine or in wheat; it has good
springs of water, some fair rivers; and wood enough, as you may see:
it is called Ithaca."

Ulysses was joyed enough to find himself in his own country; but so
prudently he carried his joy, that dissembling his true name and
quality, he pretended to the shepherd that he was only some foreigner
who by stress of weather had put into that port; and framed on the
sudden a story to make it plausible, how he had come from Crete in
a ship of Phæacia; when the young shepherd laughing, and taking
Ulysses's hand in both his, said to him: "He must be cunning, I find,
who thinks to over-reach you. What, cannot you quit your wiles and
your subtleties, now that you are in a state of security? must the
first word with which you salute your native earth be an untruth? and
think you that you are unknown?"

Ulysses looked again; and he saw, not a shepherd, but a beautiful
woman, whom he immediately knew to be the goddess Minerva, that in the
wars of Troy had frequently vouchsafed her sight to him; and had been
with him since in perils, saving him unseen.

"Let not my ignorance offend thee, great Minerva," he cried, "or move
thy displeasure, that in that shape I knew thee not; since the skill
of discerning of deities is not attainable by wit or study, but hard
to be hit by the wisest of mortals. To know thee truly through all thy
changes is only given to those whom thou art pleased to grace. To all
men thou takest all likenesses. All men in their wits think that they
know thee, and that they have thee. Thou art wisdom itself. But a
semblance of thee, which is false wisdom, often is taken for thee: so
thy counterfeit view appears to many, but thy true presence to few:
those are they which, loving thee above all, are inspired with light
from thee to know thee. But this I surely know, that all the time the
sons of Greece waged war against Troy, I was sundry times graced with
thy appearance; but since, I have never been able to set eyes upon
thee till now: but have wandered at my own discretion, to myself a
blind guide, erring up and down the world, wanting thee."

Then Minerva cleared his eyes, and he knew the ground on which he
stood to be Ithaca, and that cave to be the same which the people of
Ithaca had in former times made sacred to the sea-nymphs, and where he
himself had done sacrifices to them a thousand times; and full in his
view stood Mount Nerytus with all his woods: so that now he knew for a
certainty that he was arrived in his own country, and with the delight
which he felt he could not forbear stooping down and kissing the soil.




CHAPTER VIII


_The change from a king to a beggar.--Eumæus and the
herdsmen.--Telemachus._


Not long did Minerva suffer him to indulge vain transports, but
briefly recounting to him the events which had taken place in Ithaca
during his absence, she shewed him that his way to his wife and throne
did not lie so open, but that before he were reinstated in the secure
possession of them, he must encounter many difficulties. His palace,
wanting its king, was become the resort of insolent and imperious men,
the chief nobility of Ithaca and of the neighbouring isles, who, in
the confidence of Ulysses being dead, came as suitors to Penelope.
The queen (it was true) continued single, but was little better than
a state-prisoner in the power of these men, who under a pretence of
waiting her decision, occupied the king's house, rather as owners
than guests, lording and domineering at their pleasure, profaning the
palace, and wasting the royal substance, with their feasts and mad
riots. Moreover the goddess told him how fearing the attempts of these
lawless men upon the person of his young son Telemachus, she herself
had put it into the heart of the prince, to go and seek his father in
far countries; how in the shape of Mentor she had borne him company in
his long search; which, though failing, as she meant it should fail,
in its first object, had yet had this effect, that through hardships
he had learned endurance, through experience he had gathered wisdom,
and wherever his footsteps had been, he had left such memorials, of
his worth, as the fame of Ulysses's son was already blown throughout
the world. That it was now not many days since Telemachus had arrived
in the island, to the great joy of the queen his mother, who had
thought him dead, by reason of his long absence, and had begun to
mourn for him with a grief equal to that which she endured for
Ulysses: the goddess herself having so ordered the course of his
adventures, that the time of his return should correspond with the
return of Ulysses, that they might together concert measures how to
repress the power and insolence of those wicked suitors. This the
goddess told him; but of the particulars of his son's adventures, of
his having been detained in the Delightful Island, which his father
had so lately left, of Calypso, and her nymphs, and the many strange
occurrences which may be read with profit and delight in the history
of the prince's adventures, she forbore to tell him as yet, as judging
that he would hear them with greater pleasure from the lips of his
son, when he should have him in an hour of stillness and safety, when
their work should be done, and none of their enemies left alive to
trouble them.

Then they sat down, the goddess and Ulysses, at the foot of a wild
olive-tree, consulting how they might with safety bring about his
restoration. And when Ulysses revolved in his mind how that his
enemies were a multitude, and he single, he began to despond, and he
said: "I shall die an ill death like Agamemnon; in the threshold of my
own house I shall perish, like that unfortunate monarch, slain by some
one of my wife's suitors." But then again calling to mind his ancient
courage, he secretly wished that Minerva would but breathe such a
spirit into his bosom as she enflamed him with in the hour of Troy's
destruction, that he might encounter with three hundred of those
impudent suitors at once, and strew the pavements of his beautiful
palace with their bloods and brains.

And Minerva knew his thoughts, and she said, "I will be strongly with
thee, if thou fail not to do thy part. And for a sign between us that
I will perform my promise, and for a token on thy part of obedience, I
must change thee, that thy person may not be known of men."

Then Ulysses bowed his head to receive the divine impression, and
Minerva by her great power changed his person so that it might not be
known. She changed him to appearance into a very old man, yet such a
one as by his limbs and gait seemed to have been some considerable
person in his time, and to retain yet some remains of his once
prodigious strength. Also, instead of those rich robes in which king
Alcinous had clothed him, she threw over his limbs such old and
tattered rags as wandering beggars usually wear. A staff supported his
steps, and a scrip hung to his back, such as travelling mendicants
use, to hold the scraps which are given to them at rich men's doors.
So from a king he became a beggar, as wise Tiresias had predicted to
him in the shades.

To complete his humiliation, and to prove his obedience by suffering,
she next directed him in this beggarly attire to go and present
himself to his old herdsman Eumæus, who had the care of his swine and
his cattle, and had been a faithful steward to him all the time of his
absence. Then strictly charging Ulysses that he should reveal himself
to no man, but to his own son, whom she would send to him when she saw
occasion, the goddess went her way.

The transformed Ulysses bent his course to the cottage of the
herdsman, and entering in at the front court, the dogs, of which
Eumæus kept many fierce ones for the protection of the cattle, flew
with open mouths upon him, as those ignoble animals have oftentimes an
antipathy to the sight of any thing like a beggar, and would have rent
him in pieces with their teeth, if Ulysses had not had the prudence
to let fall his staff, which had chiefly provoked their fury, and sat
himself down in a careless fashion upon the ground: but for all that
some serious hurt had certainly been done to him, so raging the dogs
were, had not the herdsman, whom the barking of the dogs had fetched
out of the house, with shouting and with throwing of stones repressed
them.

He said, when he saw Ulysses, "Old father, how near you were to being
torn in pieces by these rude dogs! I should never have forgiven
myself, if through neglect of mine any hurt had happened to you. But
heaven has given me so many cares to my portion, that I might well be
excused for not attending to every thing: while here I lie grieving
and mourning for the absence of that majesty which once ruled here,
and am forced to fatten his swine and his cattle for food to evil men,
who hate him, and who wish his death; when he perhaps strays up and
down the world, and has not wherewith to appease hunger, if indeed he
yet lives (which is a question) and enjoys the cheerful light of the
sun." This he said, little thinking that he of whom he spoke now stood
before him, and that in that uncouth disguise and beggarly obscurity
was present the hidden majesty of Ulysses.

Then he had his guest into the house, and set meat and drink before
him; and Ulysses said, "May Jove and all the other gods requite you
for the kind speeches and hospitable usage which you have shewn me!"

Eumæus made answer, "My poor guest, if one in much worse plight than
yourself had arrived here, it were a shame to such scanty means as I
have, if I had let him depart without entertaining him to the best of
my ability. Poor men, and such as have no houses of their own, are by
Jove himself recommended to our care. But the cheer which we that are
servants to other men have to bestow, is but sorry at most, yet freely
and lovingly I give it you. Indeed there once ruled here a man, whose
return the gods have set their faces against, who, if he had been
suffered to reign in peace and grow old among us, would have been kind
to me and mine. But he is gone; and for his sake would to God that the
whole posterity of Helen might perish with her, since in her quarrel
so many worthies have perished. But such as your fare is, eat it,
and be welcome; such lean beasts as are food for poor herdsmen. The
fattest go to feed the voracious stomachs of the queen's suitors.
Shame on their unworthiness, there is no day in which two or three
of the noblest of the herd are not slain to support their feasts and
their surfeits."

Ulysses gave good ear to his words, and as he ate his meat, he even
tore it and rent it with his teeth, for mere vexation that his fat
cattle should be slain to glut the appetites of those godless suitors.
And he said, "What chief or what ruler is this, that thou commendest
so highly, and sayest that he perished at Troy? I am but a stranger in
these parts. It may be I have heard of some such in my long travels."

Eumæus answered, "Old father, never any one of all the strangers
that have come to our coast with news of Ulysses being alive, could
gain credit with the queen or her son yet. These travellers, to get
raiment or a meal, will not stick to invent any lie. Truth is not the
commodity they deal in. Never did the queen get any thing of them but
lies. She receives all that come graciously, hears their stories,
enquires all she can, but all ends in tears and dissatisfaction. But
in God's name, old father, if you have got a tale, make the most on't,
it may gain you a cloak or a coat from somebody to keep you warm: but
for him who is the subject of it, dogs and vultures long since have
torn him limb from limb, or some great fish at sea has devoured him,
or he lieth with no better monument upon his bones than the sea-sand.
But for me past all the race of men were tears created: for I never
shall find so kind a royal master more; not if my father or my mother
could come again and visit me from the tomb, would my eyes be so
blessed, as they should be with the sight of him again, coming as from
the dead. In his last rest my soul shall love him. He is not here, nor
do I name him as a flatterer, but because I am thankful for his love
and care which he had to me a poor man; and if I knew surely that he
were past all shores that the sun shines upon, I would invoke him as a
deified thing."

For this saying of Eumæus the waters stood in Ulysses's eyes, and he
said, "My friend, to say and to affirm positively that he cannot be
alive, is to give too much licence to incredulity. For, not to speak
at random, but with as much solemnity as an oath comes to, I say to
you that Ulysses shall return, and whenever that day shall be, then
shall you give to me a cloak and a coat; but till then, I will not
receive so much as a thread of a garment, but rather go naked; for
no less than the gates of hell do I hate that man, whom poverty can
force to tell an untruth. Be Jove then witness to my words, that this
very year, nay ere this month be fully ended, your eyes shall behold
Ulysses, dealing vengeance in his own palace upon the wrongers of his
wife and his son."

To give the better credence to his words, he amused Eumæus with a
forged story of his life, feigning of himself that he was a Cretan
born, and one that went with Idomeneus to the wars of Troy. Also he
said that he knew Ulysses, and related various passages which he
alleged to have happened betwixt Ulysses and himself, which were
either true in the main, as having really happened between Ulysses and
some other person, or were so like to truth, as corresponding with the
known character and actions of Ulysses, that Eumæus's incredulity was
not a little shaken. Among other things he asserted that he had lately
been entertained in the court of Thesprotia, where the king's son of
the country had told him, that Ulysses had been there but just before
him, and was gone upon a voyage to the oracle of Jove in Dodona,
whence he should shortly return, and a ship would be ready by the
bounty of the Thesprotians to convoy him straight to Ithaca. "And in
token that what I tell you is true," said Ulysses, "if your king come
not within the period which I have named, you shall have leave to
give your servants commandment to take my old carcase, and throw it
headlong from some steep rock into the sea, that poor men, taking
example by me, may fear to lie." But Eumæus made answer that that
should be small satisfaction or pleasure to him.

So while they sat discoursing in this manner, supper was served in,
and the servants of the herdsman, who had been out all day in the
fields, came in to supper, and took their seats at the fire, for the
night was bitter and frosty. After supper, Ulysses, who had well
eaten and drunken, and was refreshed with the herdsman's good cheer,
was resolved to try whether his host's hospitality would extend
to the lending him a good warm mantle or rug to cover him in the
night-season; and framing an artful tale for the purpose, in a merry
mood, filling a cup of Greek wine, he thus began:

"I will tell you a story of your king Ulysses and myself. If there is
ever a time when a man may have leave to tell his own stories, it is
when he has drunken a little too much. Strong liquor driveth the fool,
and moves even the heart of the wise, moves and impels him to sing
and to dance, and break forth in pleasant laughters, and perchance to
prefer a speech too which were better kept in. When the heart is open,
the tongue will be stirring. But you shall hear. We led our powers to
ambush once under the walls of Troy."

The herdsmen crowded about him eager to hear any thing which related
to their king Ulysses and the wars of Troy, and thus he went on:

"I remember, Ulysses and Menelaus had the direction of that
enterprise, and they were pleased to join me with them in the command.
I was at that time in some repute among men, though fortune has played
me a trick since, as you may perceive. But I was somebody in those
times, and could do something. Be that as it may, a bitter freezing
night it was, such a night as this, the air cut like steel, and the
sleet gathered on our shields like crystal. There was some twenty
of us, that lay close couched down among the reeds and bull-rushes
that grew in the moat that goes round the city. The rest of us made
tolerable shift, for every man had been careful to bring with him a
good cloak or mantle to wrap over his armour and keep himself warm;
but I, as it chanced, had left my cloak behind me, as not expecting
that the night would prove so cool, or rather I believe because I had
at that time a brave suit of new armour on, which, being a soldier,
and having some of the soldier's vice about me, _vanity_, I was not
willing should be hidden under a cloak; but I paid for my indiscretion
with my sufferings, for with the inclement night, and the wet of the
ditch in which we lay, I was well nigh frozen to death; and when I
could endure no longer, I jogged Ulysses who was next to me, and had
a nimble ear, and made known my case to him, assuring him that I must
inevitably perish. He answered in a low whisper, 'Hush, lest any Greek
should hear you, and take notice of your softness.' Not a word more
he said, but shewed as if he had no pity for the plight I was in. But
he was as considerate as he was brave, and even then, as he lay with
his head reposing upon his hand, he was meditating how to relieve me,
without exposing my weakness to the soldiers. At last raising up his
head, he made as if he had been asleep, and said, 'Friends, I have
been warned in a dream to send to the fleet to king Agamemnon for a
supply, to recruit our numbers, for we are not sufficient for this
enterprize;' and they believing him, one Thoas was dispatched on
that errand, who departing, for more speed, as Ulysses had foreseen,
left his upper garment behind him, a good warm mantle, to which I
succeeded, and by the help of it got through the night with credit.
This shift Ulysses made for one in need, and would to heaven that I
had now that strength in my limbs, which made me in those days to be
accounted fit to be a leader under Ulysses! I should not then want the
loan of a cloak or a mantle, to wrap about me and shield my old limbs
from the night-air."

The tale pleased the herdsmen; and Eumæus, who more than all the rest
was gratified to hear tales of Ulysses, true or false, said, that for
his story he deserved a mantle, and a night's lodging, which he should
have; and he spread for him a bed of goat and sheep skins by the fire;
and the seeming beggar, who was indeed the true Ulysses, lay down and
slept under that poor roof, in that abject disguise to which the will
of Minerva had subjected him.

When morning was come, Ulysses made offer to depart, as if he were not
willing to burthen his host's hospitality any longer, but said, that
he would go and try the humanity of the town's folk, if any there
would bestow upon him a bit of bread or a cup of drink. Perhaps the
queen's suitors (he said) out of their full feasts would bestow a
scrap on him: for he could wait at table, if need were, and play the
nimble serving-man, he could fetch wood (he said) or build a fire,
prepare roast meat or boiled, mix the wine with water, or do any of
those offices which recommended poor men like him to services in great
men's houses.

"Alas! poor guest," said Eumæus, "you know not what you speak. What
should so poor and old a man as you do at the suitors' tables? Their
light minds are not given to such grave servitors. They must have
youths, richly tricked out in flowing vests, with curled hair, like so
many of Jove's cup-bearers, to fill out the wine to them as they sit
at table, and to shift their trenchers. Their gorged insolence would
but despise and make a mock at thy age. Stay here. Perhaps the queen,
or Telemachus, hearing of thy arrival, may send to thee of their
bounty."

As he spake these words, the steps of one crossing the front court
were heard, and a noise of the dogs fawning and leaping about as for
joy; by which token Eumæus guessed that it was the prince, who hearing
of a traveller being arrived at Eumæus's cottage that brought tidings
of his father, was come to search the truth, and Eumæus said: "It is
the tread of Telemachus, the son of king Ulysses." Before he could
well speak the words, the prince was at the door, whom Ulysses rising
to receive, Telemachus would not suffer that so aged a man, as he
appeared, should rise to do respect to him, but he courteously and
reverently took him by the hand, and inclined his head to him, as if
he had surely known that it was his father indeed: but Ulysses covered
his eyes with his hands, that he might not shew the waters which stood
in them. And Telemachus said, "Is this the man who can tell us tidings
of the king my father?"

"He brags himself to be a Cretan born," said Eumæus, "and that he has
been a soldier and a traveller, but whether he speak the truth or
not, he alone can tell. But whatsoever he has been, what he is now
is apparent. Such as he appears, I give him to you; do what you will
with him; his boast at present is that he is at the very best a
supplicant."

"Be he what he may," said Telemachus, "I accept him at your hands. But
where I should bestow him I know not, seeing that in the palace his
age would not exempt him from the scorn and contempt which my mother's
suitors in their light minds would be sure to fling upon him. A mercy
if he escaped without blows: for they are a company of evil men, whose
profession is wrongs and violence."

Ulysses answered: "Since it is free for any man to speak in presence
of your greatness, I must say that my heart puts on a wolfish
inclination to tear and to devour, hearing your speech, that these
suitors should with such injustice rage, where you should have the
rule solely. What should the cause be? do you wilfully give way to
their ill manners? or has your government been such as has procured
ill will towards you from your people? or do you mistrust your
kinsfolk and friends in such sort, as without trial to decline their
aid? a man's kindred are they that he might trust to when extremities
ran high."

Telemachus replied: "The kindred of Ulysses are few. I have no
brothers to assist me in the strife. But the suitors are powerful in
kindred and friends. The house of old Arcesius has had this fate from
the heavens, that from old it still has been supplied with single
heirs. To Arcesius Laertes only was born, from Laertes descended only
Ulysses, from Ulysses I alone have sprung, whom he left so young, that
from me never comfort arose to him. But the end of all rests in the
hands of the gods."

Then Eumæus departing to see to some necessary business of his herds,
Minerva took a woman's shape, and stood in the entry of the door,
and was seen to Ulysses, but by his son she was not seen, for the
presences of the gods are invisible save to those to whom they will to
reveal themselves. Nevertheless the dogs which were about the door saw
the goddess, and durst not bark, but went crouching and licking of the
dust for fear. And giving signs to Ulysses that the time was now come
in which he should make himself known to his son, by her great power
she changed back his shape into the same which it was before she
transformed him; and Telemachus, who saw the change, but nothing of
the manner by which it was effected, only he saw the appearance of a
king in the vigour of his age where but just now he had seen a worn
and decrepit beggar, was struck with fear, and said, "Some god has
done this house this honour," and he turned away his eyes, and would
have worshipped. But his father permitted not, but said, "Look better
at me; I am no deity, why put you upon me the reputation of godhead? I
am no more but thy father: I am even he; I am that Ulysses, by reason
of whose absence thy youth has been exposed to such wrongs from
injurious men." Then kissed he his son, nor could any longer refrain
those tears which he had held under such mighty restraint before,
though they would ever be forcing themselves out in spite of him;
but now, as if their sluices had burst, they came out like rivers,
pouring upon the warm cheeks of his son. Nor yet by all these violent
arguments could Telemachus be persuaded to believe that it was his
father, but he said, some deity had taken that shape to mock him; for
he affirmed, that it was not in the power of any man, who is sustained
by mortal food, to change his shape so in a moment from age to youth:
for "but now," said he, "you were all wrinkles, and were old, and now
you look as the gods are pictured."

His father replied: "Admire, but fear not, and know me to be at all
parts substantially thy father, who in the inner powers of his mind,
and the unseen workings of a father's love to thee, answers to his
outward shape and pretence! There shall no more Ulysseses come here. I
am he that after twenty years absence, and suffering a world of ill,
have recovered at last the sight of my country earth. It was the will
of Minerva that I should be changed as you saw me. She put me thus
together; she puts together or takes to pieces whom she pleases.
It is in the law of her free power to do it: sometimes to shew her
favourites under a cloud, and poor, and again to restore to them their
ornaments. The gods raise and throw down men with ease."

Then Telemachus could hold out no longer, but he gave way now to a
full belief and persuasion, of that which for joy at first he could
not credit, that it was indeed his true and very father, that stood
before him; and they embraced, and mingled their tears.

Then said Ulysses, "Tell me who these suitors are, what are their
numbers, and how stands the queen thy mother affected to them?"

"She bears them still in expectation," said Telemachus, "which she
never means to fulfil, that she will accept the hand of some one
of them in second nuptials. For she fears to displease them by an
absolute refusal. So from day to day she lingers them on with hope,
which they are content to bear the deferring of, while they have
entertainment at free cost in our palace."

Then said Ulysses, "Reckon up their numbers that we may know their
strength and ours, if we having none but ourselves may hope to prevail
against them."

"O father," he replied, "I have oft-times heard of your fame for
wisdom, and of the great strength of your arm, but the venturous mind
which your speeches now indicate moves me even to amazement: for in no
wise can it consist with wisdom or a sound mind, that two should try
their strengths against a host. Nor five, or ten, or twice ten strong
are these suitors, but many more by much: from Dulichium came there
fifty and two, they and their servants, twice twelve, crossed the seas
hither from Samos, from Zacynthus twice ten, of our native Ithacans,
men of chief note, are twelve who aspire to the bed and crown of
Penelope, and all these under one strong roof, a fearful odds against
two! My father, there is need of caution, lest the cup which your
great mind so thirsts to taste of vengeance, prove bitter to yourself
in the drinking. And therefore it were well that we should bethink us
of some one who might assist us in this undertaking."

"Thinkest thou," said his father, "if we had Minerva and the king of
skies to be our friends, would their sufficiencies make strong our
part; or must we look out for some further aid yet?"

"They you speak of are above the clouds," said Telemachus, "and are
sound aids indeed; as powers that not only exceed human, but bear the
chiefest sway among the gods themselves."

Then Ulysses gave directions to his son, to go and mingle with the
suitors, and in no wise to impart his secret to any, not even to the
queen his mother, but to hold himself in readiness, and to have his
weapons and his good armour in preparation. And he charged him, that
when he himself should come to the palace, as he meant to follow
shortly after, and present himself in his beggar's likeness to the
suitors, that whatever he should see which might grieve his heart,
with what foul usage and contumelious language soever the suitors
should receive his father, coming in that shape, though they should
strike and drag him by the heels along the floors, that he should not
stir nor make offer to oppose them, further than by mild words to
expostulate with them, until Minerva from heaven should give the sign
which should be the prelude to their destruction. And Telemachus
promising to obey his instructions departed; and the shape of Ulysses
fell to what it had been before, and he became to all outward
appearance a beggar, in base and beggarly attire.




CHAPTER IX


_The queen's suitors.--The battle of the beggars.--The armour taken
down.--The meeting with Penelope._


From the house of Eumæus the seeming beggar took his way, leaning on
his staff, till he reached the palace, entering in at the hall where
the suitors sat at meat. They in the pride of their feasting began to
break their jests in mirthful manner, when they saw one looking so
poor and so aged approach. He who expected no better entertainment was
nothing moved at their behaviour, but, as became the character which
he had assumed, in a suppliant posture crept by turns to every suitor,
and held out his hands for some charity, with such a natural and
beggar-resembling grace, that he might seem to have practised begging
all his life; yet there was a sort of dignity in his most abject
stoopings, that whoever had seen him, would have said, If it had
pleased heaven that this poor man had been born a king, he would
gracefully have filled a throne. And some pitied him, and some gave
him alms, as their present humours inclined them, but the greater part
reviled him, and bid him begone, as one that spoiled their feast; for
the presence of misery has this power with it, that while it stays, it
can dash and overturn the mirth even of those who feel no pity or wish
to relieve it; nature bearing this witness of herself in the hearts of
the most obdurate.

Now Telemachus sat at meat with the suitors, and knew that it was the
king his father, who in that shape begged an alms; and when his father
came and presented himself before him in turn, as he had done to the
suitors one by one, he gave him of his own meat which he had in his
dish, and of his own cup to drink. And the suitors were past measure
offended to see a pitiful beggar, as they esteemed him, to be so
choicely regarded by the prince.

Then Antinous, who was a great lord, and of chief note among the
suitors, said, "Prince Telemachus does ill to encourage these
wandering beggars, who go from place to place, affirming that they
have been some considerable persons in their time, filling the ears of
such as hearken to them with lies, and pressing with their bold feet
into kings' palaces. This is some saucy vagabond, some travelling
Egyptian."

"I see," said Ulysses, "that a poor man should get but little at your
board, scarce should he get salt from your hands, if he brought his
own meat."

Lord Antinous, indignant to be answered with such sharpness by a
supposed beggar, snatched up a stool, with which he smote Ulysses
where the neck and shoulders join. This usage moved not Ulysses; but
in his great heart he meditated deep evils to come upon them all,
which for a time must be kept close, and he went and sat himself down
in the door-way to eat of that which was given him, and he said, "For
life or possessions a man will fight, but for his belly this man
smites. If a poor man has any god to take his part, my lord Antinous
shall not live to be the queen's husband."

Then Antinous raged highly, and threatened to drag him by the heels,
and to rend his rags about his ears, if he spoke another word.

But the other suitors did in no wise approve of the harsh language,
nor of the blow which Antinous had dealt; and some of them said, "Who
knows but one of the deities goes about, hid under that poor disguise?
for in the likeness of poor pilgrims the gods have many times
descended to try the dispositions of men, whether they be humane or
impious." While these things passed, Telemachus sat and observed all,
but held his peace, remembering the instructions of his father. But
secretly he waited for the sign which Minerva was to send from heaven.

That day there followed Ulysses to the court one of the common sort of
beggars, Irus by name, one that had received alms beforetime of the
suitors, and was their ordinary sport, when they were inclined (as
that day) to give way to mirth, to see him eat and drink; for he had
the appetite of six men; and was of huge stature and proportions of
body; yet had in him no spirit nor courage of a man. This man thinking
to curry favor with the suitors, and recommend himself especially to
such a great lord as Antinous was, began to revile and scorn Ulysses,
putting foul language upon him, and fairly challenging him to fight
with the fist. But Ulysses, deeming his railings to be nothing more
than jealousy and that envious disposition which beggars commonly
manifest to brothers in their trade, mildly besought him not to
trouble him, but to enjoy that portion which the liberality of their
entertainers gave him, as he did quietly; seeing that, of their
bounty, there was sufficient for all.

But Irus thinking that this forbearance in Ulysses was nothing more
than a sign of fear, so much the more highly stormed, and bellowed,
and provoked him to fight; and by this time the quarrel had attracted
the notice of the suitors, who with loud laughters and shouting egged
on the dispute, and lord Antinous swore by all the gods it should be a
battle, and that in that hall the strife should be determined. To this
the rest of the suitors with violent clamours acceded, and a circle
was made for the combatants, and a fat goat was proposed as the
victor's prize, as at the Olympic or the Pythian games. Then Ulysses
seeing no remedy, or being not unwilling that the suitors should
behold some proof of that strength which ere long in their own persons
they were to taste of, stripped himself, and prepared for the combat.
But first he demanded that he should have fair play shewn him, that
none in that assembly should aid his opponent, or take part against
him, for being an old man they might easily crush him with their
strengths. And Telemachus passed his word that no foul play should be
shewn him, but that each party should be left to their own unassisted
strengths, and to this he made Antinous and the rest of the suitors
swear.

But when Ulysses had laid aside his garments, and was bare to the
waist, all the beholders admired at the goodly sight of his large
shoulders being of such exquisite shape and whiteness, and at his
great and brawny bosom, and the youthful strength which seemed to
remain in a man thought so old; and they said, What limbs and what
sinews he has! and coward fear seized on the mind of that great vast
beggar, and he dropped his threats, and his big words, and would
have fled, but lord Antinous staid him, and threatened him that if
he declined the combat, he would put him in a ship, and land him on
the shores where king Echetus reigned, the roughest tyrant which at
that time the world contained, and who had that antipathy to rascal
beggars, such as he, that when any landed on his coast, he would crop
their ears and noses and give them to the dogs to tear. So Irus,
in whom fear of king Echetus prevailed above the fear of Ulysses,
addressed himself to fight. But Ulysses, provoked to be engaged in so
odious a strife with a fellow of his base conditions, and loathing
longer to be made a spectacle to entertain the eyes of his foes, with
one blow, which he struck him beneath the ear, so shattered the teeth
and jaw bone of this soon baffled coward, that he laid him sprawling
in the dust, with small stomach or ability to renew the contest. Then
raising him on his feet, he led him bleeding and sputtering to the
door, and put his staff into his hand, and bid him go use his command
upon dogs and swine, but not presume himself to be lord of the guests
another time, nor of the beggary!

The suitors applauded in their vain minds the issue of the contest,
and rioted in mirth at the expense of poor Irus, who they vowed should
be forthwith embarked, and sent to king Echetus; and they bestowed
thanks on Ulysses for ridding the court of that unsavory morsel, as
they called him; but in their inward souls they would not have cared
if Irus had been victor, and Ulysses had taken the foil, but it was
mirth to them to see the beggars fight. In such pastimes and light
entertainments the day wore away.

When evening was come the suitors betook themselves to music and
dancing. And Ulysses leaned his back against a pillar from which
certain lamps hung which gave light to the dancers, and he made show
of watching the dancers, but very different thoughts were in his head.
And as he stood near the lamps, the light fell upon his head, which
was thin of hair and bald, as an old man's. And Eurymachus, a suitor,
taking occasion from some words which were spoken before, scoffed and
said, "Now I know for a certainty that some god lurks under the poor
and beggarly appearance of this man, for as he stands by the lamps,
his sleek head throws beams around it, like as it were a glory." And
another said, "He passes his time too not much unlike the gods, lazily
living exempt from labour, taking offerings of men." "I warrant," said
Eurymachus again, "he could not raise a fence or dig a ditch for his
livelihood, if a man would hire him to work in a garden."

"I wish," said Ulysses, "that you who speak this, and myself, were to
be tried at any task-work, that I had a good crooked scythe put in
my hand, that was sharp and strong, and you such another, where the
grass grew longest, to be up by day-break, mowing the meadows till
the sun went down, not tasting of food till we had finished, or that
we were set to plough four acres in one day of good glebe land, to
see whose furrows were evenest and cleanest, or that we might have
one wrestling-bout together, or that in our right hands a good
steel-headed lance were placed, to try whose blows fell heaviest and
thickest upon the adversary's head-piece. I would cause you such work,
as you should have small reason to reproach me with being slack at
work. But you would do well to spare me this reproach, and to save
your strength, till the owner of this house shall return, till the
day when Ulysses shall return, when returning he shall enter upon his
birth-right."

This was a galling speech to those suitors, to whom Ulysses's return
was indeed the thing which they most dreaded; and a sudden fear fell
upon their souls, as if they were sensible of the real presence of
that man who did indeed stand amongst them, but not in that form as
they might know him; and Eurymachus, incensed, snatched a massy cup
which stood on a table near, and hurled it at the head of the supposed
beggar, and but narrowly missed the hitting of him; and all the
suitors rose, as at once, to thrust him out of the hall, which they
said his beggarly presence and his rude speeches had profaned. But
Telemachus cried to them to forbear, and not to presume to lay hands
upon a wretched man to whom he had promised protection. He asked if
they were mad, to mix such abhorred uproar with his feasts. He bade
them take their food and their wine, to sit up or to go to bed at
their free pleasures, so long as he should give licence to that
freedom; but why should they abuse his banquet, or let the words which
a poor beggar spake have power to move their spleens so fiercely?

They bit their lips and frowned for anger, to be checked so by a
youth; nevertheless for that time they had the grace to abstain,
either for shame, or that Minerva had infused into them a terror of
Ulysses's son.

So that day's feast was concluded without bloodshed, and the suitors,
tired with their sports, departed severally each man to his apartment.
Only Ulysses and Telemachus remained. And now Telemachus, by his
father's direction went and brought down into the hall armour and
lances from the armoury: for Ulysses said, "On the morrow we shall
have need of them." And moreover he said, "If any one shall ask why
you have taken them down, say, it is to clean them and scour them from
the rust which they have gathered since the owner of this house went
for Troy." And as Telemachus stood by the armour, the lights were all
gone out, and it was pitch-dark, and the armour gave out glistening
beams as of fire, and he said to his father, "The pillars of the house
are on fire." And his father said, "It is the gods who sit above the
stars, and have power to make the night as light as the day." And
he took it for a good omen. And Telemachus fell to cleaning and
sharpening of the lances.

Now Ulysses had not seen his wife Penelope in all the time since his
return; for the queen did not care to mingle with the suitors at their
banquets, but, as became one that had been Ulysses's wife, kept much
in private, spinning and doing her excellent housewiveries among her
maids in the remote apartments of the palace. Only upon solemn days
she would come down and shew herself to the suitors. And Ulysses was
filled with a longing desire to see his wife again, whom for twenty
years he had not beheld, and he softly stole through the known
passages of his beautiful house, till he came where the maids were
lighting the queen through a stately gallery, that led to the chamber
where she slept. And when the maids saw Ulysses, they said, "It is
the beggar who came to the court to-day, about whom all that uproar
was stirred up in the hall: what does he here?" But Penelope gave
commandment that he should be brought before her, for she said, "It
may be that he has travelled, and has heard something concerning
Ulysses."

Then was Ulysses right glad to hear himself named by his queen, to
find himself in no wise forgotten, nor her great love towards him
decayed in all that time that he had been away. And he stood before
his queen, and she knew him not to be Ulysses, but supposed that he
had been some poor traveller. And she asked him of what country he
was.

He told her (as he had before told to Eumæus) that he was a Cretan
born, and however poor and cast down he now seemed, no less a man than
brother to Idomeneus, who was grandson to king Minos, and though he
now wanted bread, he had once had it in his power to feast Ulysses.
Then he feigned how Ulysses, sailing for Troy, was forced by stress
of weather to put his fleet in at a port of Crete, where for twelve
days he was his guest, and entertained by him with all befitting
guest-rites. And he described the very garments which Ulysses had on,
by which Penelope knew that he had seen her lord.

In this manner Ulysses told his wife many tales of himself, at most
but painting, but painting so near to the life, that the feeling of
that which she took at her ears became so strong, that the kindly
tears ran down her fair cheeks, while she thought upon her lord, dead
as she thought him, and heavily mourned the loss of him whom she
missed, whom she could not find, though in very deed he stood so near
her.

Ulysses was moved to see her weep, but he kept his own eyes as dry as
iron or horn in their lids, putting a bridle upon his strong passion,
that it should not issue to sight.

Then told he how he had lately been at the court of Thesprotia, and
what he had learned concerning Ulysses there, in order as he had
delivered to Eumæus: and Penelope was won to believe that there might
be a possibility of Ulysses being alive, and she said, "I dreamed a
dream this morning. Methought I had twenty household fowl which did
eat wheat steeped in water from my hand, and there came suddenly from
the clouds a crook-beaked hawk who soused on them and killed them all,
trussing their necks, then took his flight back up to the clouds. And
in my dream methought that I wept and made great moan for my fowls,
and for the destruction which the hawk had made; and my maids came
about me to comfort me. And in the height of my griefs the hawk came
back, and lighting upon the beam of my chamber, he said to me in a
man's voice, which sounded strangely even in my dream, to hear a hawk
to speak: Be of good cheer, he said, O daughter of Icarius! for this
is no dream which thou hast seen, but that which shall happen to thee
indeed. Those household fowl which thou lamentest so without reason,
are the suitors who devour thy substance, even as thou sawest the fowl
eat from thy hand, and the hawk is thy husband, who is coming to give
death to the suitors.--And I awoke, and went to see to my fowls if
they were alive, whom I found eating wheat from their troughs, all
well and safe as before my dream."

Then said Ulysses, "This dream can endure no other interpretation than
that which the hawk gave to it, who is your lord, and who is coming
quickly to effect all that his words told you."

"Your words," she said, "my old guest, are so sweet, that would you
sit and please me with your speech, my ears would never let my eyes
close their spheres for very joy of your discourse; but none that is
merely mortal can live without the death of sleep, so the gods who are
without death themselves have ordained it, to keep the memory of our
mortality in our minds, while we experience that as much as we live
we die every day: in which consideration I will ascend my bed, which
I have nightly watered with my tears since he that was the joy of it
departed for that bad city:" she so speaking, because she could not
bring her lips to name the name of Troy so much hated. So for that
night they parted, Penelope to her bed, and Ulysses to his son, and
to the armour and the lances in the hall, where they sat up all night
cleaning and watching by the armour.




CHAPTER X


_The madness from above.--The bow of Ulysses.--The slaughter.--The
conclusion._


When daylight appeared, a tumultuous concourse of the suitors again
filled the hall; and some wondered, and some inquired what meant that
glittering store of armour and lances which lay on heaps by the entry
of the door; and [to] all that asked Telemachus made reply, that he
had caused them to be taken down to cleanse them of the rust and of
the stain which they had contracted by lying so long unused, even ever
since his father went for Troy; and with that answer their minds were
easily satisfied. So to their feasting and vain rioting again they
fell. Ulysses by Telemachus's order had a seat and a mess assigned him
in the door-way, and he had his eye ever on the lances. And it moved
gall in some of the great ones there present, to have their feast
still dulled with the society of that wretched beggar as they deemed
him, and they reviled and spurned at him with their feet. Only there
was one Philætius, who had something a better nature than the rest,
that spake kindly to him, and had his age in respect. He coming up
to Ulysses, took him by the hand with a kind of fear, as if touched
exceedingly with imagination of his great worth, and said thus to him,
"Hail! father stranger! my brows have sweat to see the injuries which
you have received, and my eyes have broke forth in tears, when I have
only thought that such being oftentimes the lot of worthiest men, to
this plight Ulysses may be reduced, and that he now may wander from
place to place as you do; for such who are compelled by need to range
here and there, and have no firm home to fix their feet upon, God
keeps them in this earth, as under water; so are they kept down and
depressed. And a dark thread is sometimes spun in the fates of kings."

At this bare likening of the beggar to Ulysses, Minerva from heaven
made the suitors for foolish joy to go mad, and roused them to such a
laughter as would never stop, they laughed without power of ceasing,
their eyes stood full of tears for violent joys; but fears and
horrible misgivings succeeded: and one among them stood up and
prophesied: "Ah, wretches!" he said, "what madness from heaven has
seized you, that you can laugh? see you not that your meat drops
blood? a night, like the night of death, wraps you about, you shriek
without knowing it; your eyes thrust forth tears; the fixed walls, and
the beam that bears the whole house up, fall blood; ghosts choak up
the entry; full is the hall with apparitions, of murdered men; under
your feet is hell; the sun falls from heaven and it is midnight at
noon." But like men whom the gods had infatuated to their destruction,
they mocked at his fears, and Eurymachus said, "This man is surely
mad, conduct him forth into the market-place, set him in the light,
for he dreams that 'tis night within the house."

But Theoclymenus (for that was the prophet's name) whom Minerva had
graced with a prophetic spirit, that he foreseeing might avoid the
destruction which awaited them, answered and said: "Eurymachus, I will
not require a guide of thee for I have eyes and ears, the use of both
my feet, and a sane mind within me, and with these I will go forth of
the doors because I know the imminent evils which await all you that
stay, by reason of this poor guest who is a favourite with all the
gods." So saying he turned his back upon those inhospitable men, and
went away home, and never returned to the palace.

These words which he spoke were not unheard by Telemachus, who kept
still his eye upon his father, expecting fervently when he would give
the sign, which was to precede the slaughter of the suitors.

They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly to their dinner, as
joying in the great store of banquet which was heaped in full tables
about them; but there reigned not a bitterer banquet planet in all
heaven, than that which hung over them this day by secret destination
of Minerva.

There was a bow which Ulysses left when he went for Troy. It had lain
by since that time, out of use and unstrung, for no man had strength
to draw that bow, save Ulysses. So it had remained, as a monument of
the great strength of its master. This bow, with the quiver of arrows
belonging thereto, Telemachus had brought down from the armoury on the
last night along with the lances; and now Minerva, intending to do
Ulysses an honour, put it into the mind of Telemachus, to propose to
the suitors to try who was strongest to draw that bow; and he promised
that to the man who should be able to draw that bow, his mother should
be given in marriage; Ulysses's wife the prize to him who should bend
the bow of Ulysses.

There was great strife and emulation stirred up among the suitors at
those words of the prince Telemachus. And to grace her son's words,
and to confirm the promise which he had made, Penelope came and
shewed herself that day to the suitors; and Minerva made her that she
appeared never so comely in their sight as that day, and they were
inflamed with the beholding of so much beauty, proposed as the price
of so great manhood; and they cried out, that if all those heroes who
sailed to Colchos for the rich purchase of the golden-fleeced ram, had
seen earth's richer prize, Penelope, they would not have made their
voyage, but would have vowed their valours and their lives to her, for
she was at all parts faultless.

And she said, "The gods have taken my beauty from me, since my lord
went for Troy." But Telemachus willed his mother to depart and not be
present at that contest, for he said, "It may be, some rougher strife
shall chance of this, than may be expedient for a woman to witness."
And she retired, she and her maids, and left the hall.

Then the bow was brought into the midst, and a mark was set up by
prince Telemachus: and lord Antinous as the chief among the suitors
had the first offer, and he took the bow and fitting an arrow to the
string, he strove to bend it, but not with all his might and main
could he once draw together the ends of that tough bow; and when he
found how vain a thing it was to endeavour to draw Ulysses's bow,
he desisted, blushing for shame and for mere anger. Then Eurymachus
adventured, but with no better success; but as it had torn the hands
of Antinous, so did the bow tear and strain his hands, and marred his
delicate fingers, yet could he not once stir the string. Then called
he to the attendants to bring fat and unctuous matter, which melting
at the fire, he dipped the bow therein, thinking to supple it and make
it more pliable, but not with all the helps of art could he succeed in
making it to move. After him Liodes, and Amphinomus, and Polybus, and
Eurynomus, and Polyctorides, assayed their strength, but not any one
of them, or of the rest of those aspiring suitors, had any better
luck: yet not the meanest of them there but thought himself well
worthy of Ulysses's wife, though to shoot with Ulysses's bow the
completest champion among them was by proof found too feeble.

Then Ulysses prayed them that he might have leave to try; and
immediately a clamour was raised among the suitors, because of his
petition, and they scorned and swelled with rage at his presumption,
and that a beggar should seek to contend in a game of such noble
mastery. But Telemachus ordered that the bow should be given him, and
that he should have leave to try, since they had failed; "for," he
said, "the bow is mine, to give or to withhold:" and none durst
gainsay the prince.

Then Ulysses gave a sign to his son, and he commanded the doors of the
hall to be made fast, and all wondered at his words, but none could
divine the cause. And Ulysses took the bow into his hands, and before
he essayed to bend it, he surveyed it at all parts, to see whether,
by long lying by, it had contracted any stiffness which hindered the
drawing; and as he was busied in the curious surveying of his bow,
some of the suitors mocked him and said, "Past doubt this man is a
right cunning archer, and knows his craft well. See how he turns it
over and over, and looks into it, as if he could see through the
wood." And others said, "We wish some one would tell out gold into our
laps but for so long a time as he shall be in drawing of that string."
But when he had spent some little time in making proof of the bow, and
had found it to be in good plight, like as a harper in tuning of his
harp draws out a string, with such ease or much more did Ulysses draw
to the head the string of his own tough bow, and in letting of it go,
it twanged with such a shrill noise as a swallow makes when it sings
through the air: which so much amazed the suitors, that their colours
came and went, and the skies gave out a noise of thunder, which at
heart cheered Ulysses, for he knew that now his long labours by the
disposal of the fates drew to an end. Then fitted he an arrow to the
bow, and drawing it to the head, he sent it right to the mark which
the prince had set up. Which done, he said to Telemachus, "You have
got no disgrace yet by your guest, for I have struck the mark I shot
at, and gave myself no such trouble in teazing the bow with fat and
fire, as these men did, but have made proof that my strength is not
impaired, nor my age so weak and contemptible as these were pleased to
think it. But come, the day going down calls us to supper, after which
succeed poem and harp, and all delights which use to crown princely
banquetings."

So saying, he beckoned to his son, who straight girt his sword to his
side, and took one of the lances (of which there lay great store from
the armoury) in his hand, and armed at all points, advanced towards
his father.

The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from his shoulder, and his own
kingly likeness returned, when he rushed to the great hall door with
bow and quiver full of shafts, which down at his feet he poured, and
in bitter words presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. "Thus
far," he said, "this contest has been decided harmless: now for us
there rests another mark, harder to hit, but which my hands shall
essay notwithstanding, if Phoebus god of archers be pleased to give
me the mastery." With that he let fly a deadly arrow at Antinous,
which pierced him in the throat as he was in the act of lifting a cup
of wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the suitors, as their great
champion fell dead, and they raged highly against Ulysses, and said
that it should prove the dearest shaft which he ever let fly, for he
had slain a man, whose like breathed not in any part of the kingdom:
and they flew to their arms, and would have seized the lances, but
Minerva struck them with dimness of sight that they went erring up and
down the hall, not knowing where to find them. Yet so infatuated were
they by the displeasure of heaven, that they did not see the imminent
peril which impended over them, but every man believed that this
accident had happened beside the intention of the doer. Fools! to
think by shutting their eyes to evade destiny, or that any other cup
remained for them, but that which their great Antinous had tasted!

Then Ulysses revealed himself to all in that presence, and that he
was the man whom they held to be dead at Troy, whose palace they
had usurped, whose wife in his life-time they had sought in impious
marriage, and that for this reason destruction was come upon them.
And he dealt his deadly arrows among them, and there was no avoiding
him, nor escaping from his horrid person, and Telemachus by his side
plied them thick with those murderous lances from which there was no
retreat, till fear itself made them valiant, and danger gave them eyes
to understand the peril; then they which had swords drew them, and
some with shields, that could find them, and some with tables and
benches snatched up in haste, rose in a mass to overwhelm and crush
those two; yet they singly bestirred themselves like men, and defended
themselves against that great host, and through tables, shields and
all, right through the arrows of Ulysses clove, and the irresistible
lances of Telemachus; and many lay dead, and all had wounds, and
Minerva in the likeness of a bird sate upon the beam which went across
the hall, clapping her wings with a fearful noise, and sometimes the
great bird would fly among them, cuffing at the swords and at the
lances, and up and down the hall would go, beating her wings, and
troubling every thing, that it was frightful to behold, and it frayed
the blood from the cheeks of those heaven-hated suitors: but to
Ulysses and his son she appeared in her own divine similitude, with
her snake-fringed shield, a goddess armed, fighting their battles. Nor
did that dreadful pair desist, till they had laid all their foes at
their feet. At their feet they lay in shoals; like fishes, when the
fishermen break up their nets, so they lay gasping and sprawling at
the feet of Ulysses and his son. And Ulysses remembered the prediction
of Tiresias, which said that he was to perish by his own guests,
unless he slew those who knew him not.

Then certain of the queen's household went up and told Penelope what
had happened, and how her lord Ulysses was come home, and had slain
the suitors. But she gave no heed to their words, but thought that
some frenzy possessed them, or that they mocked her: for it is the
property of such extremes of sorrow as she had felt, not to believe
when any great joy cometh. And she rated and chid them exceedingly for
troubling her. But they the more persisted in their asseverations of
the truth of what they had affirmed; and some of them had seen the
slaughtered bodies of the suitors dragged forth of the hall. And they
said, "That poor guest whom you talked with last night was Ulysses."
Then she was yet more fully persuaded that they mocked her, and she
wept. But they said, "This thing is true which we have told. We sat
within, in an inner room in the palace, and the doors of the hall
were shut on us, but we heard the cries and the groans of the men
that were killed, but saw nothing, till at length your son called to
us to come in, and entering we saw Ulysses standing in the midst of
the slaughtered." But she persisting in her unbelief, said, that it
was some god which had deceived them to think it was the person of
Ulysses.

By this time Telemachus and his father had cleansed their hands from
the slaughter, and were come to where the queen was talking with those
of her household; and when she saw Ulysses, she stood motionless,
and had no power to speak, sudden surprise and joy and fear and many
passions strove within her. Sometimes she was clear that it was her
husband that she saw, and sometimes the alteration which twenty years
had made in his person (yet that was not much) perplexed her that she
knew not what to think, and for joy she could not believe, and yet for
joy she would not but believe, and, above all, that sudden change from
a beggar to a king troubled her, and wrought uneasy scruples in her
mind. But Telemachus, seeing her strangeness, blamed her, and called
her an ungentle and tyrannous mother! and said that she shewed a too
great curiousness of modesty, to abstain from embracing his father,
and to have doubts of his person, when to all present it was evident
that he was the very real and true Ulysses.

Then she mistrusted no longer, but ran and fell upon Ulysses's neck,
and said, "Let not my husband be angry, that I held off so long with
strange delays; it is the gods, who severing us for so long time, have
caused this unseemly distance in me. If Menelaus's wife had used half
my caution, she would never have taken so freely to a stranger's bed;
and she might have spared us all these plagues which have come upon us
through her shameless deed."

These words with which Penelope excused herself, wrought more
affection in Ulysses than if upon a first sight she had given up
herself implicitly to his embraces; and he wept for joy to possess a
wife so discreet, so answering to his own staid mind, that had a depth
of wit proportioned to his own, and one that held chaste virtue at
so high a price; and he thought the possession of such a one cheaply
purchased with the loss of all Circe's delights, and Calypso's
immortality of joys; and his long labours and his severe sufferings
past seemed as nothing, now they were crowned with the enjoyment of
his virtuous and true wife Penelope. And as sad men at sea whose ship
has gone to pieces nigh shore, swimming for their lives, all drenched
in foam and brine, crawl up to some poor patch of land, which they
take possession of with as great a joy as if they had the world given
them in fee, with such delight did this chaste wife cling to her lord
restored, till the dark night fast coming on reminded her of that more
intimate and happy union when in her long-widowed bed she should once
again clasp a living Ulysses.

So from that time the land had rest from the suitors. And the happy
Ithacans with songs and solemn sacrifices of praise to the gods
celebrated the return of Ulysses: for he that had been so long absent
was returned to wreak the evil upon the heads of the doers; in the
place where they had done the evil, there wreaked he his vengeance
upon them.




MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL:

OR,

THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES,

RELATED BY THEMSELVES

(_Written 1808. 1st Edition 1809. Text of 2nd Edition 1809_)

DEDICATION.

TO

THE YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL


    My dear young friends,

    Though released from the business of the school, the absence of
    your governess confines me to Amwell during the vacation. I
    cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to the
    amusement of you my kind pupils, who, by your affectionate
    attentions to my instructions, have rendered a life of labour
    pleasant to me.

    On your return to school I hope to have a fair copy ready to
    present to each of you of your own biographical conversations last
    winter.

    Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express
    when I offered to become your _amanuensis_. I hope you will find
    I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as
    you know I took notes each day during those conversations, and
    arranged my materials after you were retired to rest.

    I begin from the day our school commenced. It was opened by your
    governess for the first time, on the ---- day of February. I
    pass over your several arrivals on the morning of that day. Your
    governess received you from your friends in her own parlour.

    Every carriage that drove from the door I knew had left a sad
    heart behind.--Your eyes were red with weeping, when your
    governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to
    instruct you. She next desired me to show you into the room which
    we now call the play-room. "The ladies" said she, "may play, and
    amuse themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening,
    that they may be well acquainted with each other before they enter
    the school-room to-morrow morning."

    The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also was sad; for
    I, like you, had parted from my friends, and the duties of my
    profession were new to me, yet I felt that it was improper to give
    way to my own melancholy thoughts. I knew that it was my first
    duty to divert the solitary young strangers: for I considered that
    this was very unlike the entrance to an old established school,
    where there is always some good-natured girl who will shew
    attentions to a new scholar, and take pleasure in initiating her
    into the customs and amusements of the place. These, thought
    I, have their own amusements to invent; their own customs
    to establish. How unlike too is this forlorn meeting to old
    school-fellows returning after the holidays, when mutual greetings
    soon lighten the memory of parting sorrow!

    I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the
    chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing in the room.

    During our first solemn silence, which, you may remember, was only
    broken by my repeated requests that you would make a smaller, and
    still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fairly inclosed
    round, the idea came into my mind, which has since been a source
    of amusement to you in the recollection, and to myself in
    particular has been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form
    a just estimate of the dispositions of you my young pupils, and
    assisted me to adapt my plan of future instructions to each
    individual temper.

    An introduction to a point we wish to carry, we always feel to be
    an aukward affair, and generally execute it in an aukward manner;
    so I believe I did then: for when I imparted this idea to you, I
    think I prefaced it rather too formally for such young auditors,
    for I began with telling you, that I had read in old authors,
    that it was not unfrequent in former times, when strangers were
    assembled together, as we might be, for them to amuse themselves
    with telling stories, either of their own lives, or the adventures
    of others. "Will you allow me, ladies," I continued, "to persuade
    you to amuse yourselves in this way? you will not then look so
    unsociably upon each other: for we find that these strangers of
    whom we read, were as well acquainted before the conclusion of
    the first story, as if they had known each other many years. Let
    me prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of your own
    lives. Fictitious tales we can read in books, and [they] were
    therefore better adapted to conversation in those times when books
    of amusement were more scarce than they are at present."

    After many objections of not knowing what to say, or how to begin,
    which I overcame by assuring you how easy it would be, for that
    every person is naturally eloquent when they are the hero or
    heroine of their own tale, the _Who should begin_ was next in
    question.

    I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amusement of
    itself. Miss Manners, who till then had been the saddest of the
    sad, began to brighten up, and said it was just like drawing king
    and queen, and began to tell us where she passed last twelfth day;
    but as her narration must have interfered with the more important
    business of the lottery, I advised her to postpone it, till it
    came to her turn to favour us with the history of her life, when
    it would appear in its proper order. The first number fell to the
    share of miss Villiers, whose joy at drawing what we called the_
    first prize, _was tempered with shame at appearing as the first
    historian in the company. She wished she had not been the very
    first:--she had passed all her life in a retired village, and
    had nothing to relate of herself that could give the least
    entertainment:--she had not the least idea in the world where
    to begin.

    "Begin," said I, "with your name, for that at present is unknown
    to us. Tell us the first thing you can remember; relate whatever
    happened to make a great impression on you when you were very
    young, and if you find you can connect your story till your
    arrival here to-day, I am sure we shall listen to you with
    pleasure; and if you like to break off, and only treat us with a
    part of your history, we will excuse you, with many thanks for the
    amusement which you have afforded us; and the lady who has drawn
    the second number will, I hope, take her turn with the same
    indulgence, to relate either all, or any part of the events of
    her life, as best pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can
    manage it with the most ease to herself."--Encouraged by this
    offer of indulgence, miss Villiers began.

    If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I shall
    appear to make her or you speak an older language than it seems
    probable that you should use, speaking in your own words, it must
    be remembered, that what is very proper and becoming when spoken,
    requires to be arranged with some little difference before it can
    be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away,
    and the whole must assume a more formal and correct appearance. My
    own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude itself,
    but I have endeavoured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your
    own words, and your own peculiarities of style and manner, and to
    approve myself

    Your faithful historiographer,
    as well as true friend,

    M.B.



I

ELIZABETH VILLIERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)


My father is the curate of a village church, about five miles
from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage-house, which joins the
church-yard. The first thing I can remember was my father teaching me
the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of
my mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study-door; I think I
now hear him say, "Who is there?--What do you want, little girl?" "Go
and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters." Many times in the day
would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this
spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell
syllables and words: in this manner, the epitaph on my mother's tomb
being my primmer and my spelling-book, I learned to read.

I was one day sitting on a step placed across the church-yard stile,
when a gentleman passing by, heard me distinctly repeat the letters
which formed my mother's name, and then say, _Elizabeth Villiers_,
with a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter. This
gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother: he was a lieutenant
in the navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of
my father and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-voyage,
he was coming to visit my mother; no tidings of her decease having
reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth.

When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my
mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a
resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was
too intent on my employment to observe him, and went spelling on. "Who
has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" said my uncle.
"Mamma," I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone
were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. "And who is
mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I replied; and then my
uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to
mamma: he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted
that he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such
a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing
home her long lost sailor uncle.

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way
thither. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up
to our house; I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the way
to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest
the point with his new relation, therefore he lifted me over the
stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew
was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither:
letting go his hand, I said, "You do not know the way--I will shew
you:" and making what haste I could among the long grass and thistles,
and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he
called my _wayward steps_, "What a positive soul this little niece of
mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born,
child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and, pointing to the
tombstone, said, "Here is mamma," in a voice of exultation, as if I
had now convinced him that I knew the way best: I looked up in his
face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but Oh, what a face of
sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect
recollection of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat, and cried
"Sir, sir," and tried to move him. I knew not what to do; my mind
was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in
bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it
was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight
to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and
send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything
and be as frolicsome as I pleased here; all was chearfulness and good
humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell
me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy
would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to
bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was
sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish
dreams I used to fancy myself there, and it was a place within the
ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. I never made out any figure
of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth
green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father.

How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me
it seemed a very long time: at last he took me in his arms, and held
me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told
him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my
uncle. I remember that it was the first day I ever saw my father weep:
that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan,
our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her
that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the
parlour to _poor papa_, and I went in softly, and crept between my
father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned
sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a
dislike to my uncle because he had made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for
I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her
death, and what he had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a
sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but
my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but
for me, he should have died with grief. How I could be any comfort to
my father, struck me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played
and talked with me; but I thought that was all goodness and favour
done to me, and I had no notion how I could make any part of his
happiness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and
strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice
was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or
shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my
little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and
childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story
of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to
the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the
door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study,
and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the
passage, and said, "Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the
garden?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old
amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried
to persuade me, but still I said, "No, no," and ran crying into the
kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, "This child is so
fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her." "Aye," said my
uncle, "I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This
reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for
I had not forgot that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into
our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what
it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he
would manage the little wrangler by himself. When my uncle was gone I
ceased crying; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or
to enquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the
tombstone. No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma
sleeping in the green grave; no jumping from the tombstone to the
ground; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I sate upon my father's
knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, "_How sorry papa looks_,"
till, having been fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with
thought, I fell fast asleep.

My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was our constant
haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get
the better of the death of her mistress, while he continued to teach
the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might sooth his
grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his
sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily
entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set
to study by some other means there would no longer be a pretence for
these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest
market-town to buy me some books.

I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, and I did not
approve of his interfering in our pleasures. I saw him take his hat
and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone _beyond seas_ again,
from whence Susan had told me he had come. Where _beyond seas_ was I
could not tell; but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I
took my seat on the church-yard stile, and kept looking down the road,
and saying, "I hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle
will not come from _beyond seas_ any more;" but I said this very
softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse ill-humoured
fit. Here I sate till my uncle returned from the market-town with his
new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast with a parcel under
his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to look
very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, "Betsy, I have brought
you a pretty book." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't want a
book;" but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry
of opening the parcel he had scattered all the books upon the ground,
and there I saw fine gilt covers and gay pictures all fluttering
about. What a fine sight!--All my resentment vanished, and I held up
my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any
extraordinary favour.

My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office; he had
heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but
to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding
I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much
smaller than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters
to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was
not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the
schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with unwearied
diligence and patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as
if we wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some
pleasant walk; and if my father said it was too far for the child to
walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then Betsy shall
ride;" and in this manner has he carried me many many miles.

In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot to make Susan
furnish him with a luncheon which, though it generally happened every
day, made a constant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under
some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to
distribute his little store; and then I used to peep into the other
pocket to see if there were not some currant wine there and the little
bottle of water for me; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it
made another joke,--that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little
drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of, and instead of my
own silly history, I wish I could remember the entertaining stories my
uncle used to relate of his voyages and travels, while we sate under
the shady trees, eating our noon-tide meal.

The long visit my uncle made us was such an important event in my
life, that I fear I shall tire your patience with talking of him; but
when he is gone, the remainder of my story will be but short.

The summer months passed away, but not swiftly;--the pleasant walks,
and the charming stories of my uncle's adventures, made them seem like
years to me; I remember the approach of winter by the warm great coat
he bought for me, and how proud I was when I first put it on, and that
he called me Little Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves, and
that I laughed and said there were no such things now; then he told me
how many wolves, and bears, and tygers, and lions he had met with in
uninhabited lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's Island. O these
were happy days!

In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. My books were
now my chief amusement, though my studies were often interrupted by
a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel
because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved
my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very
great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of
listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle made me a
little woman in understanding; so that my father said to him, "James,
you have made my child quite a companionable little being."

My father often left me alone with my uncle; sometimes to write his
sermons; sometimes to visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor
neighbours: then my uncle used to hold long conversations with me,
telling me how I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour
to improve myself when he was gone:--now I began justly to understand
why he had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting my
mother's grave, that grave which I often stole privately to look at;
but now never without awe and reverence, for my uncle used to tell
me what an excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of her as
having been a real mamma, which before seemed an ideal something,
no way connected with life. And he told me that the ladies from the
Manor-House, who sate in the best pew in the church, were not so
graceful, and the best women in the village were not so good, as was
my sweet mamma; and that if she had lived, I should not have been
forced to pick up a little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to
learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me all
lady-like fine works and delicate behaviour and perfect manners, and
would have selected for me proper books, such as were most fit to
instruct my mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I
shall have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming in the
womanly character, I owe it to these lessons of my rough unpolished
uncle; for, in telling me what my mother would have made me, he taught
me what to wish to be; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was
introduced to the ladies at the Manor-House, instead of hanging down
my head with shame, as I should have done before my uncle came, like a
little village rustic, I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a
modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do; instead
of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, and thought what
a pretty sight a fine lady was, and thought how well my mother must
have appeared, since she was so much more graceful than these ladies
were; and when I heard them compliment my father on the admirable
behaviour of his child, and say how well he had brought me up, I
thought to myself, "Papa does not much mind my manners, if I am
but a good girl; but it was my uncle that taught me to behave like
mamma."--I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and unpolished as
he said he was, for his lessons were so good and so impressive that I
shall never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to me as long
as I live: he would explain to me the meaning of all the words he
used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffidence and affectation,
pointing out instances of what he meant by those words, in the manners
of the ladies and their young daughters who came to our church; for,
besides the ladies of the Manor-House, many of the neighbouring
families came to our church because my father preached so well.

It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the
crocuses were just blown in the garden, and the primroses had begun to
peep from under the young budding hedge-rows.--I cried as if my heart
would break, when I had the last sight of him through a little opening
among the trees, as he went down the road. My father accompanied him
to the market-town, from whence he was to proceed in the stage-coach
to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me
were. The stile where I first saw my uncle, came into my mind, and I
thought I would go and sit there, and think about that day; but I was
no sooner seated there, than I remembered how I had frightened him
by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how
naughty I had been when I sate muttering to myself at this same stile,
wishing that he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never come
back any more: all my little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind,
now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke
my heart. I was forced to run into the house to Susan for that
consolation I had just before despised.

Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with my father,
after it was dark, and before the candles were lighted, I gave him
an account of my troubled conscience at the church-stile, when I
remembered how unkind I had been to my uncle when he first came, and
how sorry I still was whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had
had with him.

My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, "I will tell you
all about this, my little penitent. This is the sort of way in which
we all feel, when those we love are taken from us.--When our dear
friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much
thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do
we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions;--we let them
freely share our kind or our discontented moods; and, if any little
bickerings disturb our friendship, it does but the more endear us to
each other when we are in a happier temper. But these things come over
us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for
ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quarrels; yet in the first days of
my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind that I might have
done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did
all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love
you; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were
remembered with delight by your uncle; he was telling me in our last
walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the
difficulty he had in getting into your good graces when he first came;
he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put
away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you to
be as kind as possible to those you love; and remember, when they are
gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such
feelings as you have now described are the lot of humanity. So you
will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you
are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now
think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in,
he is to bring home; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and
ask her if the nice cake is almost baked, that she promised to give us
for our tea."

    At this point, my dear miss Villiers, you thought fit to break off
    your story, and the wet eyes of your young auditors, seemed to
    confess that you had succeeded in moving their feelings with your
    pretty narrative. It now fell by lot to the turn of miss Manners
    to relate her story, and we were all sufficiently curious to know
    what so very young an historian had to tell of herself.--I shall
    continue the narratives for the future in the order in which
    they followed, without mentioning any of the interruptions which
    occurred from the asking of questions, or from any other cause,
    unless materially connected with the stories. I shall also leave
    out the apologies with which you severally thought fit to preface
    your stories of yourselves, though they were very seasonable in
    their place, and proceeded from a proper diffidence, because I
    must not swell my work to too large a size.




II

LOUISA MANNERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)


My name is Louisa Manners; I was seven years of age last birthday,
which was on the first of May. I remember only four birthdays. The day
I was four years old is the first that I recollect. On the morning
of that day, as soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, and said,
"Open your eyes, mamma, for it is my birthday. Open your eyes, and
look at me!" Then mamma told me I should ride in a post chaise,
and see my grandmamma and my sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a
farm-house in the country, and I had never in all my life been out of
London; no, nor had I ever seen a bit of green grass, except in the
Drapers' garden, which is near my papa's house in Broad-street; nor
had I ever rode in a carriage before that happy birthday.

I ran about the house talking of where I was going, and rejoicing so
that it was my birthday, that when I got into the chaise I was tired
and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I saw the green fields on both sides of the chaise, and
the fields were full, quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers,
and sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped
my hands together for joy, and I cried out This is

  "Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,"

for I knew many of Watts's hymns by heart.

The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly by us, and one field, and
the sheep, and the young lambs, passed away; and then another field
came, and that was full of cows; and then another field, and all the
pretty sheep returned, and there was no end of these charming sights
till we came quite to grandmamma's house, which stood all alone by
itself, no house to be seen at all near it.

Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and she was very sorry that I did
not remember her, though I had been so fond of her when she was in
town but a few months before. I was quite ashamed of my bad memory.
My sister Sarah shewed me all the beautiful places about grandmamma's
house. She first took me into the farm-yard, and I peeped into the
barn; there I saw a man thrashing, and as he beat the corn with his
flail, he made such a dreadful noise that I was frightened and ran
away: my sister persuaded me to return; she said Will Tasker was very
good-natured: then I went back, and peeped at him again; but as I
could not reconcile myself to the sound of his flail, or the sight of
his black beard, we proceeded to see the rest of the farm-yard.

There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to shew me. There
was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the little wooden
houses where the hens slept at night. The hens were feeding all over
the yard, and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too,
and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their mamma. She was so
frightened if they went near the water. Grandmamma says a hen is not
esteemed a very wise bird.

We went out of the farm-yard into the orchard. O what a sweet place
grandmamma's orchard is! There were pear-trees, and apple-trees,
and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest
flowers that ever were seen, and among the grass under the trees there
grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and daffodils, and blue-bells. Sarah
told me all their names, and she said I might pick as many of them as
ever I pleased.

I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with flowers, and I
carried as many flowers as I could in both my hands; but as I was
going into the parlour to shew them to my mamma, I stumbled over a
threshold which was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with
all my treasure.

Nothing could have so well pacified me for the misfortune of my fallen
flowers, as the sight of a delicious syllabub which happened at that
moment to be brought in. Grandmamma said it was a present from the
red cow to me because it was my birthday; and then because it was the
first of May, she ordered the syllabub to be placed under the May-bush
that grew before the parlour door, and when we were seated on the
grass round it, she helped me the very first to a large glass full of
the syllabub, and wished me many happy returns of that day, and then
she said I was myself the sweetest little May-blossom in the orchard.

After the syllabub there was the garden to see, and a most beautiful
garden it was;--long and narrow, a straight gravel walk down the
middle of it, at the end of the gravel walk there was a green arbour
with a bench under it.

There were rows of cabbages and radishes, and peas and beans. I was
delighted to see them, for I never saw so much as a cabbage growing
out of the ground before.

On one side of this charming garden there were a great many bee-hives,
and the bees sung so prettily.

Mamma said, "Have you nothing to say to these pretty bees, Louisa?"
Then I said to them,

  "How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour,
  And gather honey all the day from every opening flower."

They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, quite close
under the hives.

I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told me about their stings,
which made me afraid for a long time to go too near their hives; but
I went a little nearer, and a little nearer, every day, and, before I
came away from grandmamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker hold me
over the glass windows at the top of the hives, to see them make honey
in their own homes.

After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and that was the last
sight I saw that day; for while I was telling mamma about the cows, I
fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was then put to bed.

The next morning my papa and mamma were gone. I cried sadly, but was a
little comforted at hearing they would return in a month or two, and
fetch me home. I was a foolish little thing then, and did not know
how long a month was. Grandmamma gave me a little basket to gather my
flowers in. I went into the orchard, and before I had half filled my
basket, I forgot all my troubles.

The time I passed at my grandmamma's is always in my mind. Sometimes
I think of the good-natured pied cow, that would let me stroke her,
while the dairy-maid was milking her. Then I fancy myself running
after the dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see the pans full
of milk and cream. Then I remember the wood-house; it had once been a
large barn, but being grown old, the wood was kept there. My sister
and I used to peep about among the faggots to find the eggs the hens
sometimes left there. Birds' nests we might not look for. Grandmamma
was very angry once, when Will Tasker brought home a bird's nest, full
of pretty speckled eggs, for me. She sent him back to the hedge with
it again. She said, the little birds would not sing any more, if their
eggs were taken away from them.

A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always laid more eggs
than she wanted, on purpose to give her mistress to make puddings and
custards with.

I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when we carried her home
a lap-full of eggs, or a few violets; for she was particularly fond of
violets.

Violets were very scarce; we used to search very carefully for them
every morning, round by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry a
stick in her hand to beat away the nettles; for very frequently the
hens left their eggs among the nettles. If we could find eggs and
violets too, what happy children we were!

Every day I used to fill my basket with flowers, and for a long time
I liked one pretty flower as well as another pretty flower, but Sarah
was much wiser than me, and she taught me which to prefer.

Grandmamma's violets were certainly best of all, but they never went
in the basket, being carried home, almost flower by flower, as soon as
they were found; therefore blue-bells might be said to be the best,
for the cowslips were all withered and gone, before I learned the true
value of flowers. The best blue-bells were those tinged with red; some
were so very red, that we called them red blue-bells, and these Sarah
prized very highly indeed. Daffodils were so very plentiful, they
were not thought worth gathering, unless they were double ones, and
butter-cups I found were very poor flowers indeed, yet I would pick
one now and then, because I knew they were the very same flowers that
had delighted me so in the journey; for my papa had told me they were.

I was very careful to love best the flowers which Sarah praised most,
yet sometimes, I confess, I have even picked a daisy, though I knew it
was the very worst flower of all, because it reminded me of London,
and the Drapers' garden; for, happy as I was at grandmamma's, I could
not help sometimes thinking of my papa and mamma, and then I used to
tell my sister all about London; how the houses stood all close to
each other; what a pretty noise the coaches made; and what a many
people there were in the streets. After we had been talking on these
subjects, we generally used to go into the old wood-house, and play at
being in London. We used to set up bits of wood for houses; our two
dolls we called papa and mamma; in one corner we made a little garden
with grass and daisies, and that was to be the Drapers' garden. I
would not have any other flowers here than daisies, because no other
grew among the grass in the real Drapers' garden. Before the time of
hay-making came, it was very much talked of. Sarah told me what a
merry time it would be, for she remembered every thing which had
happened for a year or more. She told me how nicely we should throw
the hay about. I was very desirous indeed to see the hay made.

To be sure nothing could be more pleasant than the day the orchard was
mowed: the hay smelled so sweet, and we might toss it about as much as
ever we pleased; but, dear me, we often wish for things that do not
prove so happy as we expected; the hay, which was at first so green,
and smelled so sweet, became yellow and dry, and was carried away in a
cart to feed the horses; and then, when it was all gone, and there was
no more to play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and perceived
what we had lost in these few merry days. Ladies, would you believe
it, every flower, blue-bells, daffodils, butter-cups, daisies, all
were cut off by the cruel scythe of the mower. No flower was to be
seen at all, except here and there a short solitary daisy, that a week
before one would not have looked at.

It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my pretty flowers; yet,
when we are in great distress, there is always, I think, something
which happens to comfort us, and so it happened now, that gooseberries
and currants were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant
prospect. Some of them began to turn red, and, as we never disobeyed
grandmamma, we used often to consult together, if it was likely she
would permit us to eat them yet, then we would pick a few that looked
the ripest, and run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to
eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be, made them doubly
sweet if she gave us leave to eat them.

When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, grandmamma had a
sheep-shearing.

All the sheep stood under the trees to be sheared. They were
brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the
orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. When they had cropped off
all their wool, they looked very clean, and white, and pretty; but,
poor things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was a
pity to see them. Great preparations were making all day for the
sheep-shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing was not to be
compared to a harvest-home, _that_ was so much better, for that then
the oven was quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot
indeed with roasting beef; yet I can assure you there was no want at
all of either roast beef or plum-pudding at the sheep-shearing.

My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was almost dark, to
see the company at supper. They sate at a long oak table, which was
finely carved, and as bright as a looking-glass.

I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I replied so
prettily when I was spoken to. My sister was more shy than me; never
having lived in London was the reason of that. After the happiest day
bedtime will come! We sate up late; but at last grandmamma sent us to
bed: yet though we went to bed we heard many charming songs sung: to
be sure we could not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the
sound of their voices was very loud and very fine indeed.

The common supper that we had every night was very cheerful. Just
before the men came out of the field, a large faggot was flung on the
fire; the wood used to crackle and blaze, and smell delightfully: and
then the crickets, for they loved the fire, they used to sing, and old
Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well as the crickets did,
he used to take his place in the chimney corner; after the hottest
day in summer, there old Spot used to sit. It was a seat within the
fire-place, quite under the chimney, and over his head the bacon hung.

When old Spot was seated, the milk was hung in a skillet over the
fire, and then the men used to come and sit down at the long white
table.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that I interrupted you here. You are a
little woman now to what you were then; and I may say to you, that
though I loved to hear you prattle of your early recollections, I
thought I perceived some ladies present were rather weary of hearing
so much of the visit to grandmamma. You may remember I asked you some
questions concerning your papa and your mamma, which led you to speak
of your journey home: but your little town-bred head was so full of
the pleasures of a country life, that you first made many apologies
that you were unable to tell what happened during the harvest, as
unfortunately you were fetched home the very day before it began._




III

ANN WITHERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)


My name you know is Withers, but as I once thought I was the daughter
of sir Edward and lady Harriot Lesley, I shall speak of myself as
miss Lesley, and call sir Edward and lady Harriot my father and
mother during the period I supposed them entitled to those beloved
names. When I was a little girl, it was the perpetual subject of my
contemplation, that I was an heiress, and the daughter of a baronet;
that my mother was the honourable lady Harriot; that we had a nobler
mansion, infinitely finer pleasure-grounds, and equipages more
splendid than any of the neighbouring families. Indeed, my good
friends, having observed nothing of this error of mine in either of
the lives which have hitherto been related, I am ashamed to confess
what a proud child I once was. How it happened I cannot tell, for
my father was esteemed the best bred man in the county, and the
condescension and affability of my mother were universally spoken of.

"Oh my dear friend," said miss ----, "it was very natural indeed, if
you supposed you possessed these advantages. We make no comparative
figure in the county, and my father was originally a man of no
consideration at all; and yet I can assure you, both he and mamma had
a prodigious deal of trouble to break me of this infirmity, when I was
very young." "And do reflect for a moment," said miss Villiers, "from
whence could proceed any pride in me--a poor curate's daughter;--at
least any pride worth speaking of; for the difficulty my father had to
make me feel myself on an equality with a miller's little daughter who
visited me, did not seem an anecdote worth relating. My father, from
his profession, is accustomed to look into these things, and whenever
he has observed any tendency to this fault in me, and has made me
sensible of my error, I, who am rather a weak-spirited girl, have been
so much distressed at his reproofs, that to restore me to my own good
opinion, he would make me sensible that pride is a defect inseparable
from human nature; shewing me, in our visits to the poorest labourers,
how pride would, as he expressed it, "prettily peep out from under
their ragged garbs."--My father dearly loved the poor. In persons of
a rank superior to our own humble one, I wanted not much assistance
from my father's nice discernment to know that it existed there; and
for these latter he would always claim that toleration from me, which
he said he observed I was less willing to allow than to the former
instances. "We are told in holy writ," he would say, "that it is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a
rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven." Surely this is not
meant alone to warn the affluent: it must also be understood as an
expressive illustration, to instruct the lowly-fortuned man that he
should bear with those imperfections, inseparable from that dangerous
prosperity from which he is happily exempt."--But we sadly interrupt
your story.--

"You are very kind, ladies, to speak with so much indulgence of my
foible," said miss Withers, and was going to proceed, when little
Louisa Manners asked, "Pray, are not equipages carriages?" "Yes, miss
Manners, an equipage is a carriage." "Then I am sure if my papa had
but one equipage I should be very proud; for once when my papa talked
of keeping a one-horse chaise, I never was so proud of any thing
in my life: I used to dream of riding in it, and imagine I saw my
playfellows walking past me in the streets."

"Oh, my dear miss Manners," replied miss Withers, "your young head
might well run on a thing so new to you; but you have preached an
useful lesson to me in your own pretty rambling story, which I shall
not easily forget. When you were speaking with such delight of the
pleasure the sight of a farm-yard, an orchard, and a narrow slip of
kitchen-garden, gave you, and could for years preserve so lively
the memory of one short ride, and that probably through a flat
uninteresting country, I remembered how early I learned to disregard
the face of Nature, unless she were decked in picturesque scenery; how
wearisome our parks and grounds became to me, unless some improvements
were going forward which I thought would attract notice: but those
days are gone.--I will now proceed in my story, and bring you
acquainted with my real parents.

Alas! I am a changeling, substituted by my mother for the heiress of
the Lesley family: it was for my sake she did this naughty deed; yet,
since the truth has been known, it seems to me as if I had been the
only sufferer by it; remembering no time when I was not Harriot
Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from me my birthright.

Lady Harriot had intended to nurse her child herself; but being seized
with a violent fever soon after its birth, she was not only unable to
nurse it, but even to see it, for several weeks. At this time I was
not quite a month old, when my mother was hired to be miss Lesley's
nurse--she had once been a servant in the family--her husband was then
at sea.

She had been nursing miss Lesley a few days, when a girl who had the
care of me brought me into the nursery to see my mother. It happened
that she wanted something from her own home, which she dispatched the
girl to fetch, and desired her to leave me till her return. In her
absence she changed our clothes: then keeping me to personate the
child she was nursing, she sent away the daughter of sir Edward to be
brought up in her own poor cottage.

When my mother sent away the girl, she affirmed she had not the least
intention of committing this bad action; but after she was left alone
with us, she looked on me, and then on the little lady-babe, and she
wept over me to think she was obliged to leave me to the charge of
a careless girl, debarred from my own natural food, while she was
nursing another person's child.

The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little Harriot were
lying on the table ready to be put on: in these she dressed me, only
just to see how pretty her own dear baby would look in missy's fine
clothes. When she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, "O, my dear
Ann, you look as like missy as any thing can be. I am sure my lady
herself, if she were well enough to see you, would not know the
difference." She said these words aloud, and while she was speaking,
a wicked thought came into her head--How easy it would be to change
these children! On which she hastily dressed Harriot in my coarse
raiment. She had no sooner finished the transformation of miss Lesley
into the poor Ann Withers, than the girl returned, and carried her
away, without the least suspicion that it was not the same infant that
she had brought thither.

It was wonderful that no one discovered that I was not the same child.
Every fresh face that came into the room, filled the nurse with
terror. The servants still continued to pay their compliments to the
baby in the same form as usual, saying, How like it is to its papa!
Nor did sir Edward himself perceive the difference, his lady's illness
probably engrossing all his attention at the time; though indeed
gentlemen seldom take much notice of very young children.

When lady Harriot began to recover, and the nurse saw me in her arms
caressed as her own child, all fears of detection were over; but the
pangs of remorse then seized her: as the dear sick lady hung with
tears of fondness over me, she thought she should have died with
sorrow for having so cruelly deceived her.

When I was a year old Mrs. Withers was discharged; and because she had
been observed to nurse me with uncommon care and affection, and was
seen to shed many tears at parting from me; to reward her fidelity sir
Edward settled a small pension on her, and she was allowed to come
every Sunday to dine in the housekeeper's room, and see her little
lady.

When she went home it might have been expected she would have
neglected the child she had so wickedly stolen; instead of which she
nursed it with the greatest tenderness, being very sorry for what
she had done: all the ease she could ever find for her troubled
conscience, was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in the
weekly visits to its father's house she constantly brought it with
her. At the time I have the earliest recollection of her, she was
become a widow, and with the pension sir Edward allowed her, and some
plain work she did for our family, she maintained herself and her
supposed daughter. The doting fondness she shewed for her child was
much talked of; it was said, she waited upon it more like a servant
than a mother, and it was observed, its clothes were always made, as
far as her slender means would permit, in the same fashion, and her
hair cut and curled in the same form as mine. To this person, as
having been my faithful nurse, and to her child, I was always taught
to shew particular civility, and the little girl was always brought
into the nursery to play with me. Ann was a little delicate thing, and
remarkably well-behaved; for though so much indulged in every other
respect, my mother was very attentive to her manners.

As the child grew older, my mother became very uneasy about her
education. She was so very desirous of having her well-behaved, that
she feared to send her to school, lest she should learn ill manners
among the village children, with whom she never suffered her to play;
and she was such a poor scholar herself, that she could teach her
little or nothing. I heard her relate this her distress to my own
maid, with tears in her eyes, and I formed a resolution to beg of my
parents that I might have Ann for a companion, and that she might be
allowed to take lessons with me of my governess.

My birth-day was then approaching, and on that day I was always
indulged in the privilege of asking some peculiar favour.

"And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to-day?" said my
father, as he entered the breakfast-room on the morning of my
birth-day. Then I told him of the great anxiety expressed by nurse
Withers concerning her daughter; how much she wished it was in her
power to give her an education, that would enable her to get her
living without hard labour. I set the good qualities of Ann Withers
in the best light I could, and in conclusion I begged she might be
permitted to partake with me in education, and become my companion.
"This is a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said sir Edward;
"your mother and I must consult together on the subject." The result
of this consultation was favourable to my wishes: in a few weeks my
foster-sister was taken into the house, and placed under the tuition
of my governess.

To me, who had hitherto lived without any companions of my own age
except occasional visitors, the idea of a playfellow constantly to
associate with, was very pleasant; and, after the first shyness of
feeling her altered situation was over, Ann seemed as much at her ease
as if she had always been brought up in our house. I became very fond
of her, and took pleasure in shewing her all manner of attentions;
which so far won on her affections, that she told me she had a secret
intrusted to her by her mother, which she had promised never to reveal
as long as her mother lived, but that she almost wished to confide it
to me, because I was such a kind friend to her; yet, having promised
never to tell it till the death of her mother, she was afraid to tell
it to me. At first I assured her that I would never press her to the
disclosure, for that promises of secrecy were to be held sacred; but
whenever we fell into any confidential kind of conversation, this
secret seemed always ready to come out. Whether she or I were most to
blame I know not, though I own I could not help giving frequent hints
how well I could keep a secret. At length she told me what I have
before related, namely, that she was in truth the daughter of sir
Edward and lady Lesley, and I the child of her supposed mother.

When I was first in possession of this wonderful secret, my heart
burned to reveal it. I thought how praiseworthy it would be in me to
restore to my friend the rights of her birth; yet I thought only of
becoming her patroness, and raising her to her proper rank; it never
occurred to me that my own degradation must necessarily follow. I
endeavoured to persuade her to let me tell this important affair to
my parents: this she positively refused. I expressed wonder that she
should so faithfully keep this secret for an unworthy woman, who
in her infancy had done her such an injury. "Oh," said she, "you
do not know how much she loves me, or you would not wonder that I
never resent that. I have seen her grieve and be so very sorry on my
account, that I would not bring her into more trouble for any good
that could happen to myself. She has often told me, that since the day
she changed us, she has never known what it is to have a happy moment;
and when she returned home from nursing you, finding me very thin and
sickly, how her heart smote her for what she had done; and then she
nursed and fed me with such anxious care, that she grew much fonder
of me than if I had been her own; and that on the Sundays, when she
used to bring me here, it was more pleasure to her to see me in my
own father's house, than it was to her to see you her real child.
The shyness you shewed towards her while you were very young, and
the forced civility you seemed to affect as you grew older, always
appeared like ingratitude towards her who had done so much for you. My
mother has desired me to disclose this after her death, but I do not
believe I shall ever mention it then, for I should be sorry to bring
any reproach even on her memory."

In a few days after this important discovery, Ann was sent home to
pass a few weeks with her mother, on the occasion of the expected
arrival of some visitors to our house; they were to bring children
with them, and these I was to consider as my own guests.

In the expected arrival of my young visitants, and in making
preparations to entertain them, I had little leisure to deliberate
on what conduct I should pursue with regard to my friend's secret.
Something must be done I thought to make her amends for the injury
she had sustained, and I resolved to consider the matter attentively
on her return. Still my mind ran on conferring favours. I never
considered myself as transformed into the dependant person. Indeed sir
Edward at this time set me about a task which occupied the whole of my
attention; he proposed that I should write a little interlude after
the manner of the French Petites Pieces; and to try my ingenuity, no
one was to see it before the representation except the performers,
myself and my little friends, who as they were all younger than me,
could not be expected to lend me much assistance. I have already
told you what a proud girl I was. During the writing of this piece,
the receiving of my young friends, and the instructing them in their
several parts, I never felt myself of more importance. With Ann my
pride had somewhat slumbered; the difference of our rank left no room
for competition; all was complacency and good humour on my part, and
affectionate gratitude, tempered with respect, on hers. But here I had
full room to shew courtesy, to affect those graces--to imitate that
elegance of manners practised by lady Harriot to their mothers. I was
to be their instructress in action and in attitudes, and to receive
their praises and their admiration of my theatrical genius. It was a
new scene of triumph for me, and I might then be said to be in the
very height of my glory.

If the plot of my piece, for the invention of which they so highly
praised me, had been indeed my own, all would have been well; but
unhappily I borrowed from a source which made my drama end far
differently from what I intended it should. In the catastrophe I lost
not only the name I personated in the piece, but with it my own name
also; and all my rank and consequence in the world fled from me for
ever.--My father presented me with a beautiful writing-desk for the
use of my new authorship. My silver standish was placed upon it; a
quire of gilt paper was before me. I took out a parcel of my best crow
quills, and down I sate in the greatest form imaginable.

I conjecture I have no talent for invention; certain it is that when I
sate down to compose my piece, no story would come into my head, but
the story which Ann had so lately related to me. Many sheets were
scrawled over in vain, I could think of nothing else; still the babies
and the nurse were before me in all the minutiæ of description Ann
had given them. The costly attire of the lady-babe,--the homely garb
of the cottage-infant,--the affecting address of the fond mother to
her own offspring;--then the charming équivoque in the change of
the children: it all looked so dramatic:--it was a play ready made
to my hands. The invalid mother would form the pathetic, the silly
exclamations of the servants the ludicrous, and the nurse was nature
itself. It is true I had a few scruples, that it might, should it
come to the knowledge of Ann, be construed into something very like
a breach of confidence. But she was at home, and might never happen
to hear of the subject of my piece, and if she did, why it was only
making some handsome apology.--To a dependant companion, to whom I
had been so very great a friend, it was not necessary to be so very
particular about such a trifle.

Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with the title, which
I called "The Changeling," and ending with these words, _The curtain
drops, while the lady clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs
audibly_. I invented no new incident, I simply wrote the story as Ann
had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose.

By the time it was finished the company had arrived. The casting the
different parts was my next care. The honourable Augustus M----, a
young gentleman of five years of age, undertook to play the father. He
was only to come in and say, _How does my little darling do to-day?_
The three miss ----'s were to be the servants, they too had only
single lines to speak.

As these four were all very young performers, we made them rehearse
many times over, that they might walk in and out with proper decorum;
but the performance was stopped before their entrances and their exits
arrived. I complimented lady Elizabeth, the sister of Augustus, who
was the eldest of the young ladies, with the choice of the Lady Mother
or the nurse. She fixed on the former; she was to recline on a sofa,
and, affecting ill health, speak some eight or ten lines which began
with, _O that I could my precious baby see!_ To her cousin miss Emily
---- was given the girl who had the care of the nurse's child; two
dolls were to personate the two children, and the principal character
of the nurse, I had the pleasure to perform myself. It consisted of
several speeches, and a very long soliloquy during the changing of the
children's clothes.

The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman of fifteen years of age,
who refused to mix in our childish drama, yet condescended to paint
the scenes, and our dresses were got up by my own maid.

When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several parts, we
announced it for representation. Sir Edward and lady Harriot, with
their visitors, the parents of my young troop of comedians, honoured
us with their presence. The servants were also permitted to go into a
music gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had chosen for
our theatre.

As author, and principal performer, standing before a noble audience,
my mind was too much engaged with the arduous task I had undertaken,
to glance my eyes towards the music gallery, or I might have seen two
more spectators there than I expected. Nurse Withers and her daughter
Ann were there; they had been invited by the housekeeper to be present
at the representation of miss Lesley's first piece.

In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character of the nurse,
was delivering the wrong child to the girl, there was an exclamation
from the music gallery, of "Oh, it's all true! it's all true!" This
was followed by a bustle among the servants, and screams as of a
person in a hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to enquire what was
the matter. He saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a fit. Ann
was weeping over her, and crying out, "O miss Lesley, you have told
all in the play!"

Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball-room; there, with tears and
in broken accents, with every sign of terror and remorse, she soon
made a full confession of her so long concealed guilt.

The strangers assembled to see our childish mimicry of passion,
were witness to a highly wrought dramatic scene in real life. I had
intended they should see the curtain drop without any discovery of
the deceit; unable to invent any new incident, I left the conclusion
imperfect as I found it: but they saw a more strict poetical justice
done; they saw the rightful child restored to its parents, and the
nurse overwhelmed with shame, and threatened with the severest
punishment.

"Take this woman," said sir Edward, "and lock her up, till she be
delivered into the hands of justice."

Ann, on her knees, implored mercy for her mother.--Addressing the
children who were gathered round her, "Dear ladies," said she, "help
me, on your knees help me to beg forgiveness for my mother." Down
the young ones all dropped--even lady Elizabeth bent her knee. "Sir
Edward, pity her distress. Sir Edward, pardon her!" All joined in the
petition, except one whose voice ought to have been loudest in the
appeal. No word, no accent came from me. I hung over lady Harriot's
chair, weeping as if my heart would break; but I wept for my own
fallen fortunes, not for my mother's sorrow.

I thought within myself, if in the integrity of my heart, refusing to
participate in this unjust secret, I had boldly ventured to publish
the truth, I might have had some consolation in the praises which so
generous an action would have merited: but it is through the vanity
of being supposed to have written a pretty story, that I have meanly
broken my faith with my friend, and unintentionally proclaimed the
disgrace of my mother and myself. While thoughts like these were
passing through my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. Instead
of being sent away to confinement and the horrors of a prison, she was
given by sir Edward into the care of the housekeeper, who had orders
from lady Harriot to see her put to bed and properly attended to, for
again this wretched woman had fallen into a fit.

Ann would have followed my mother, but sir Edward brought her back,
telling her that she should see her when she was better. He then led
Ann towards lady Harriot, desiring her to embrace her child; she did
so, and I saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, _clasped in her
mother's arms_.

This scene had greatly affected the spirits of lady Harriot; through
the whole of it it was with difficulty she had been kept from
fainting, and she was now led into the drawing-room by the ladies.
The gentlemen followed, talking with sir Edward of the astonishing
instance of filial affection they had just seen in the earnest
pleadings of the child for her supposed mother.

Ann too went with them, and was conducted by her whom I had always
considered as my own particular friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold of
her hand, and said, "Miss Lesley, will you permit me to conduct you to
the drawing-room?"

I was left weeping behind the chair where lady Harriot had sate, and,
as I thought, quite alone. A something had before twitched my frock
two or three times, so slightly I had scarcely noticed it; a little
head now peeped round, and looking up in my face said, "She is not
miss Lesley:" it was the young Augustus; he had been sitting at my
feet, but I had not observed him. He then started up, and taking hold
of my hand with one of his, with the other holding fast by my clothes,
he led, or rather dragged me, into the midst of the company assembled
in the drawing-room. The vehemence of his manner, his little face as
red as fire, caught every eye. The ladies smiled, and one gentleman
laughed in a most unfeeling manner. His elder brother patted him on
the head, and said, "You are a humane little fellow. Elizabeth, we
might have thought of this."

Very kind words were now spoken to me by sir Edward, and he called me
Harriot, precious name now grown to me. Lady Harriot kissed me, and
said she would never forget how long she had loved me as her child.
These were comfortable words; but I heard echoed round the room, "Poor
thing, she cannot help it.--I am sure she is to be pitied.--Dear lady
Harriot, how kind, how considerate you are!" Ah! what a deep sense of
my altered condition did I then feel!

"Let the young ladies divert themselves in another room," said sir
Edward; "and, Harriot, take your new sister with you, and help her
to entertain your friends." Yes, he called me Harriot again, and
afterwards invented new names for his daughter and me, and always
called us by them, apparently in jest; yet I knew it was only because
he would not hurt me with hearing our names reversed. When sir Edward
desired us to shew the children into another room, Ann and I walked
towards the door. A new sense of humiliation arose--how could I go
out at the door before miss Lesley?--I stood irresolute; she drew
back. The elder brother of my friend Augustus assisted me in this
perplexity; pushing us all forward, as if in a playful mood, he drove
us indiscriminately before him, saying, "I will make one among you
to-day." He had never joined in our sports before.

My luckless Play, that sad instance of my duplicity, was never once
mentioned to me afterwards, not even by any one of the children who
had acted in it, and I must also tell you how considerate an old lady
was at the time about our dresses. As soon as she perceived things
growing very serious, she hastily stripped off the upper garments we
wore to represent our different characters. I think I should have
died with shame, if the child had led me into the drawing-room in the
mummery I had worn to represent a nurse. This good lady was of another
essential service to me; for perceiving an irresolution in every one
how they should behave to us, which distressed me very much, she
contrived to place miss Lesley above me at table, and called her miss
Lesley, and me miss Withers; saying at the same time in a low voice,
but as if she meant I should hear her, "It is better these things
should be done at once, then they are over." My heart thanked her, for
I felt the truth of what she said.

My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks: no medicine would
remove the extreme dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir
Edward sent for the clergyman of the parish to give her religious
consolation. Every day he came to visit her, and he would always take
miss Lesley and me into the room with him. I think, miss Villiers,
your father must be just such another man as Dr. Wheelding, our worthy
rector; just so I think he would have soothed the troubled conscience
of my repentant mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to talk of
mercy and forgiveness!

My heart was softened by my own misfortunes, and the sight of my
penitent suffering mother. I felt that she was now my only parent; I
strove, earnestly strove, to love her; yet ever when I looked in her
face, she would seem to me to be the very identical person whom I
should have once thought sufficiently honoured by a slight inclination
of the head, and a civil How do you do, Mrs. Withers? One day, as
miss Lesley was hanging over her, with her accustomed fondness, Dr.
Wheelding reading in a prayer-book, and, as I thought, not at that
moment regarding us, I threw myself on my knees and silently prayed
that I too might be able to love my mother.

Dr. Wheelding had been observing me: he took me into the garden, and
drew from me the subject of my petition. "Your prayers, my good young
lady," said he, "I hope are heard; sure I am they have caused me to
adopt a resolution, which, as it will enable you to see your mother
frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your pious wishes.

"I will take your mother home with me to superintend my family. Under
my roof doubtless sir Edward will often permit you to see her. Perform
your duty towards her as well as you possibly can.--Affection is the
growth of time. With such good wishes in your young heart, do not
despair that in due time it will assuredly spring up."

With the approbation of sir Edward and lady Harriot, my mother was
removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's house: there she soon
recovered--there she at present resides. She tells me she loves me
almost as well as she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at
parting when I came to school.

Here perhaps I ought to conclude my story, which I fear has been a
tedious one: permit me however to say a few words concerning the time
which elapsed since the discovery of my birth until my arrival here.

It was on the fifth day of ---- that I was known to be Ann Withers,
and the daughter of my supposed nurse. The company who were witness to
my disgrace departed in a few days, and I felt relieved from some part
of the mortification I hourly experienced. For every fresh instance
even of kindness or attention I experienced went to my heart, that I
should be forced to feel thankful for it.

Circumstanced as I was, surely I had nothing justly to complain of.
The conduct of sir Edward and lady Harriot was kind in the extreme;
still preserving every appearance of a parental tenderness for me,
but ah! I might no longer call them by the dear names of father and
mother.--Formerly when speaking of them, I used, proud of their
titles, to delight to say, "Sir Edward or lady Harriot did this, or
this;" now I would give worlds to say, "My father or my mother."

I should be perfectly unkind if I were to complain of miss
Lesley--indeed, I have not the least cause of complaint against her.
As my companion, her affection and her gratitude had been unbounded;
and now that it was my turn to be the humble friend, she tried
by every means in her power, to make me think she felt the same
respectful gratitude, which in her dependant station she had so
naturally displayed.

Only in a few rarely constituted minds, does that true attentive
kindness spring up, that delicacy of feeling, which enters into every
trivial thing, is ever awake and keeping watch lest it should offend.
Myself, though educated with the extremest care, possessed but little
of this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among men it is termed
politeness, for since the days of my humiliating reverse of fortune I
have learned its value.

I feel quite ashamed to give instances of any deficiency I observed,
or thought I have observed, in miss Lesley. Now I am away from her,
and dispassionately speaking of it, it seems as if my own soreness
of temper had made me fancy things. I really believe now that I was
mistaken; but miss Lesley had been so highly praised for her filial
tenderness, I thought at last she seemed to make a parade about it,
and used to run up to my mother, and affect to be more glad to see her
than she really was after a time; and I think Dr. Wheelding thought
so, by a little hint he once dropped. But he too might be mistaken,
for he was very partial to me.

I am under the greatest obligation in the world to this good Dr.
Wheelding. He has made my mother quite a respectable woman, and I am
sure it is owing a great deal to him that she loves me as well as she
does.

And here, though it may seem a little out of place, let me stop to
assure you, that if I ever could have had any doubt of the sincerity
of miss Lesley's affection towards me, her behaviour on the occasion
of my coming here ought completely to efface it. She entreated with
many tears, and almost the same energy with which she pleaded for
forgiveness for my mother, that I might not be sent away.--But she was
not alike successful in her supplications.

Miss Lesley had made some progress in reading and writing during the
time she was my companion only, it was highly necessary that every
exertion should be now made--the whole house was, as I may say, in
requisition for her instruction. Sir Edward and lady Harriot devoted
great part of the day to this purpose. A well educated young person
was taken under our governess, to assist her in her labours, and to
teach miss Lesley music. A drawing-master was engaged to reside in the
house.

At this time I was not remarkably forward in my education. My
governess being a native of France, I spoke French very correctly, and
I had made some progress in Italian. I had only had the instruction of
masters during the few months in the year we usually passed in London.

Music I never had the least ear for, I could scarcely be taught my
notes. This defect in me was always particularly regretted by my
mother, she being an excellent performer herself both on the piano and
on the harp.

I think I have some taste for drawing; but as lady Harriot did not
particularly excel in this, I lost so much time in the summer months,
practising only under my governess, that I made no great proficiency
even in this my favourite art. But miss Lesley with all these
advantages which I have named, every body so eager to instruct her,
she so willing to learn--every thing so new and delightful to her,
how could it happen otherwise? she in a short time became a little
prodigy. What best pleased lady Harriot was, after she had conquered
the first difficulties, she discovered a wonderful talent for
music. Here she was her mother's own girl indeed--she had the same
sweet-toned voice--the same delicate finger.--Her musical governess
had little now to do; for as soon as lady Harriot perceived this
excellence in her, she gave up all company, and devoted her whole time
to instructing her daughter in this science.

Nothing makes the heart ache with such a hopeless, heavy pain, as
envy.

I had felt deeply before, but till now I could not be said to envy
miss Lesley.--All day long the notes of the harp or the piano spoke
sad sounds to me, of the loss of a loved mother's heart.

To have, in a manner, two mothers, and miss Lesley to engross them
both, was too much indeed.

It was at this time that one day I had been wearied with hearing
lady Harriot play one long piece of Haydn's music after another, to
her enraptured daughter. We were to walk with our governess to Dr.
Wheelding's that morning; and after lady Harriot had left the room,
and we were quite ready for our walk, miss Lesley would not leave the
instrument for I know not how long.

It was on that day that I thought she was not quite honest in her
expressions of joy at the sight of my poor mother, who had been
waiting at the garden-gate near two hours to see her arrive; yet she
might be, for the music had put her in remarkably good spirits that
morning.

O the music quite, quite won lady Harriot's heart! Till miss Lesley
began to play so well, she often lamented the time it would take,
before her daughter would have the air of a person of fashion's child.
It was my part of the general instruction to give her lessons on this
head. We used to make a kind of play of it, which we called lectures
on fashionable manners: it was a pleasant amusement to me, a sort of
keeping up the memory of past times. But now the music was always
in the way. The last time it was talked of, lady Harriot said her
daughter's time was too precious to be taken up with such trifling.

I must own that the music had that effect on miss Lesley as to render
these lectures less necessary, which I will explain to you; but,
first, let me assure you that lady Harriot was by no means in the
habit of saying these kind of things. It was almost a solitary
instance. I could give you a thousand instances the very reverse of
this, in her as well as in sir Edward. How kindly, how frequently,
would they remind me, that to me alone it was owing that they ever
knew their child! calling the day on which I was a petitioner for
the admittance of Ann into the house, the blessed birthday of their
generous girl.

Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures could do much for miss
Lesley, she remained wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that
is usually attributed to dancing, music effected. When she was sitting
before the instrument, a resemblance to her mother became apparent to
every eye. Her attitudes and the expression of her countenance were
the very same. This soon followed her into every thing; all was
ease and natural grace; for the music, and with it the idea of lady
Harriot, was always in her thoughts. It was a pretty sight to see the
daily improvement in her person, even to me, poor envious girl that I
was.

Soon after lady Harriot had hurt me by calling my little efforts to
improve her daughter trifling, she made me large amends in a very kind
and most unreserved conversation that she held with me.

She told me all the struggles she had had at first to feel a maternal
tenderness for her daughter; and she frankly confessed that she had
now gained so much on her affections, that she feared she had too much
neglected the solemn promise she had made me, _Never to forget how
long she had loved me as her child._

Encouraged by her returning kindness, I owned how much I had suffered,
and ventured to express my fears, that I had hardly courage enough to
bear the sight of my former friends, under a new designation, as I
must now appear to them, on our removal to London, which was expected
to take place in a short time.

A few days after this she told me in the gentlest manner possible,
that sir Edward and herself were of opinion it would conduce to my
happiness to pass a year or two at school.

I knew that this proposal was kindly intended to spare me the
mortifications I so much dreaded; therefore I endeavoured to submit
to my hard fate with cheerfulness, and prepared myself, not without
reluctance, to quit a mansion which had been the scene of so many
enjoyments, and latterly of such very different feelings.




IV

ELINOR FORESTER

(_By Mary Lamb_)


When I was very young, I had the misfortune to lose my mother. My
father very soon married again. In the morning of the day in which
that event took place, my father set me on his knee, and, as he often
used to do after the death of my mother, he called me his dear little
orphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if I loved miss Saville. I
replied "Yes." Then he said this dear lady was going to be so kind
as to be married to him, and that she was to live with us, and be my
mamma. My father told me this with such pleasure in his looks, that I
thought it must be a very fine thing indeed to have a new mamma; and
on his saying it was time for me to be dressed against his return from
church, I ran in great spirits to tell the good news in the nursery.
I found my maid and the house-maid looking out of the window to see
my father get into his carriage, which was new painted; the servants
had new liveries, and fine white ribbands in their hats; and then I
perceived my father had left off his mourning. The maids were dressed
in new coloured gowns and white ribbands. On the table I saw a new
muslin frock, trimmed with fine lace ready for me to put on. I skipped
about the room quite in an ecstasy.

When the carriage drove from the door, the housekeeper came in to
bring the maids new white gloves. I repeated to her the words I had
just heard, that that dear lady miss Saville was going to be married
to papa, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma.

The housekeeper shook her head, and said, "Poor thing! how soon
children forget every thing!"

I could not imagine what she meant by my forgetting every thing, for
I instantly recollected poor mamma used to say I had an excellent
memory.

The women began to draw on their white gloves, and the seams rending
in several places, Anne said, "This is just the way our gloves served
us at my mistress's funeral." The other checked her, and said "Hush!"
I was then thinking of some instances in which my mamma had praised my
memory, and this reference to her funeral fixed her idea in my mind.

From the time of her death no one had ever spoken to me of my mamma,
and I had apparently forgotten her; yet I had a habit which perhaps
had not been observed, of taking my little stool, which had been my
mamma's footstool, and a doll, which my mamma had drest for me, while
she was sitting in her elbow-chair, her head supported with pillows.
With these in my hands, I used to go to the door of the room in which
I had seen her in her last illness; and after trying to open it, and
peeping through the keyhole, from whence I could just see a glimpse of
the crimson curtains, I used to sit down on the stool before the door,
and play with my doll, and sometimes sing to it mamma's pretty song,
of "Balow my babe;" imitating as well as I could, the weak voice in
which she used to sing it to me. My mamma had a very sweet voice. I
remember now the gentle tone in which she used to say my prattle did
not disturb her.

When I was drest in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive to
see how fine I was on papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my favourite
station at her bed-room door. There I sat thinking of my mamma, and
trying to remember exactly how she used to look; because I foolishly
imagined that miss Saville was to be changed into something like my
own mother, whose pale and delicate appearance in her last illness was
all that I retained of her remembrance.

When my father returned home with his bride, he walked up stairs
to look for me, and my new mamma followed him. They found me at my
mother's door, earnestly looking through the keyhole; I was thinking
so intently on my mother, that when my father said, "Here is your new
mamma, my Elinor," I turned round, and began to cry, for no other
reason than because she had a very high colour, and I remembered my
mamma was very pale; she had bright black eyes, my mother's were
mild blue eyes; and that instead of the wrapping gown and close cap
in which I remembered my mamma, she was drest in all her bridal
decorations.

I said, "Miss Saville shall not be my mamma," and I cried till I was
sent away in disgrace.

Every time I saw her for several days, the same notion came into my
head, that she was not a bit more like mamma than when she was miss
Saville. My father was very angry when he saw how shy I continued to
look at her; but she always said, "Never mind. Elinor and I shall soon
be better friends."

One day, when I was very naughty indeed, for I would not speak one
word to either of them, my papa took his hat, and walked out quite in
a passion. When he was gone, I looked up at my new mamma, expecting
to see her very angry too; but she was smiling and looking very
good-naturedly upon me; and she said, "Now we are alone together, my
pretty little daughter, let us forget papa is angry with us; and tell
me why you were peeping through that door the day your papa brought
me home, and you cried so at the sight of me." "Because mamma used to
be there," I replied. When she heard me say this, she fell a-crying
very sadly indeed; and I was so very sorry to hear her cry so, that I
forgot I did not love her, and I went up to her, and said, "Don't cry,
I won't be naughty any more, I won't peep through the door any more."

Then she said I had a little kind heart, and I should not have any
occasion, for she would take me into the room herself; and she rung
the bell, and ordered the key of that room to be brought to her; and
the housekeeper brought it, and tried to persuade her not to go. But
she said, "I must have my own way in this;" and she carried me in her
arms into my mother's room.

O I was so pleased to be taken into mamma's room! I pointed out to her
all the things that I remembered to have belonged to mamma and she
encouraged me to tell her all the little incidents which had dwelt on
my memory concerning her. She told me, that she went to school with
mamma when she was a little girl, and that I should come into this
room with her every day when papa was gone out, and she would tell me
stories of mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than me.

When my father came home, we were walking in a garden at the back of
our house, and I was shewing her mamma's geraniums, and telling her
what pretty flowers they had when mamma was alive.

My father was astonished; and he said, "Is this the sullen Elinor?
what has worked this miracle?" "Ask no questions," she replied, "or
you will disturb our new-born friendship. Elinor has promised to love
me, and she says too that she will call me 'mamma.'" "Yes, I will,
mamma, mamma, mamma," I replied, and hung about her with the greatest
fondness.

After this she used to pass great part of the mornings with me in my
mother's room, which was now made the repository of all my playthings,
and also my school-room. Here my new mamma taught me to read. I was a
sad little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters; my own mamma had often
said, when she got better she would hear me read every day, but as she
never got better it was not her fault. I now began to learn very fast,
for when I said my lesson well, I was always rewarded with some pretty
story of my mother's childhood; and these stories generally contained
some little hints that were instructive to me, and which I greatly
stood in want of; for, between improper indulgence and neglect, I had
many faulty ways.

In this kind manner my mother-in-law has instructed and improved me,
and I love her because she was my mother's friend when they were
young. She has been my only instructress, for I never went to school
till I came here. She would have continued to teach me, but she has
not time, for she has a little baby of her own now, and that is the
reason I came to school.




V

MARGARET GREEN

(_By Mary Lamb_)


My father has been dead near three years. Soon after his death, my
mother being left in reduced circumstances, she was induced to accept
the offer of Mrs. Beresford, an elderly lady of large fortune, to live
in her house as her companion, and the superintendent of her family.
This lady was my godmother, and as I was my mother's only child, she
very kindly permitted her to have me with her.

Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family mansion; she kept no
company, and never moved except from the breakfast-parlour to the
eating-room, and from thence to the drawing-room to tea.

Every morning when she first saw me, she used to nod her head very
kindly, and say, "How do you do, little Margaret?" But I do not
recollect she ever spoke to me during the remainder of the day; except
indeed after I had read the psalms and the chapters, which was my
daily task; then she used constantly to observe, that I improved in
my reading, and frequently added, "I never heard a child read so
distinctly." She had been remarkably fond of needle-work, and her
conversation with my mother was generally the history of some pieces
of work she had formerly done; the dates when they were begun, and
when finished; what had retarded their progress, and what had hastened
their completion. If occasionally any other events were spoken of, she
had no other chronology to reckon by, than in the recollection of what
carpet, what sofa-cover, what set of chairs, were in the frame at that
time.

I believe my mother is not particularly fond of needle-work; for in
my father's lifetime I never saw her amuse herself in this way; yet,
to oblige her kind patroness, she undertook to finish a large carpet,
which the old lady had just begun when her eye-sight failed her. All
day long my mother used to sit at the frame, talking of the shades of
the worsted, and the beauty of the colours;--Mrs. Beresford seated in
a chair near her, and, though her eyes were so dim she could hardly
distinguish one colour from another, watching through her spectacles
the progress of the work.

When my daily portion of reading was over, I had a task of
needle-work, which generally lasted half an hour. I was not allowed to
pass more time in reading or work, because my eyes were very weak, for
which reason I was always set to read in the large-print Family Bible.
I was very fond of reading; and when I could unobserved steal a few
minutes as they were intent on their work, I used to delight to read
in the historical part of the Bible; but this, because of my eyes, was
a forbidden pleasure; and the Bible never being removed out of the
room, it was only for a short time together that I dared softly to
lift up the leaves and peep into it.

As I was permitted to walk in the garden or wander about the house
whenever I pleased, I used to leave the parlour for hours together,
and make out my own solitary amusement as well as I could. My first
visit was always to a very large hall, which, from being paved
with marble, was called the marble hall. In this hall, while Mrs.
Beresford's husband was living, the tenants used to be feasted at
Christmas.

The heads of the twelve Cæsars were hung round the hall. Every day I
mounted on the chairs to look at them, and to read the inscriptions
underneath, till I became perfectly familiar with their names and
features.

Hogarth's prints were below the Cæsars: I was very fond of looking at
them, and endeavouring to make out their meaning.

An old broken battledore, and some shuttlecocks with most of the
feathers missing, were on a marble slab in one corner of the hall,
which constantly reminded me that there had once been younger
inhabitants here than the old lady and her gray-headed servants. In
another corner stood a marble figure of a satyr: every day I laid my
hand on his shoulder to feel how cold he was.

This hall opened into a room full of family portraits. They were all
in the dresses of former times: some were old men and women, and some
were children. I used to long to have a fairy's power to call the
children down from their frames to play with me. One little girl in
particular, who hung by the side of a glass door which opened into the
garden, I often invited to walk there with me, but she still kept her
station--one arm round a little lamb's neck, and in her hand a large
bunch of roses.

From this room I usually proceeded to the garden.

When I was weary of the garden I wandered over the rest of the house.
The best suite of rooms I never saw by any other light than what
glimmered through the tops of the window-shutters, which however
served to shew the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old
ornaments about the rooms; but the worked furniture and carpets, of
which I heard such constant praises, I could have but an imperfect
sight of, peeping under the covers which were kept over them, by the
dim light; for I constantly lifted up a corner of the envious cloth,
that hid these highly-praised rarities from my view.

The bed-rooms were also regularly explored by me, as well to admire
the antique furniture, as for the sake of contemplating the tapestry
hangings, which were full of Bible history. The subject of the one
which chiefly attracted my attention, was Hagar and her son Ishmael.
Every day I admired the beauty of the youth, and pitied the forlorn
state of him and his mother in the wilderness. At the end of the
gallery into which these tapestry rooms opened, was one door, which
having often in vain attempted to open, I concluded to be locked;
and finding myself shut out, I was very desirous of seeing what
it contained; and though still foiled in the attempt, I every day
endeavoured to turn the lock, which whether by constantly trying I
loosened, being probably a very old one, or that the door was not
locked but fastened tight by time, I know not,--to my great joy, as I
was one day trying the lock as usual, it gave way, and I found myself
in this so long desired room.

It proved to be a very large library. This was indeed a precious
discovery. I looked round on the books with the greatest delight. I
thought I would read them every one. I now forsook all my favourite
haunts, and passed all my time here. I took down first one book, then
another.

If you never spent whole mornings alone in a large library, you cannot
conceive the pleasure of taking down books in the constant hope
of finding an entertaining book among them; yet, after many days,
meeting with nothing but disappointment, it becomes less pleasant. All
the books within my reach were folios of the gravest cast. I could
understand very little that I read in them, and the old dark print and
the length of the lines made my eyes ache.

When I had almost resolved to give up the search as fruitless, I
perceived a volume lying in an obscure corner of the room. I opened
it. It was a charming print; the letters were almost as large as the
type of the Family Bible. In the first page I looked into I saw the
name of my favourite Ishmael, whose face I knew so well from the
tapestry, and whose history I had often read in the Bible.

I sate myself down to read this book with the greatest eagerness. The
title of it was "Mahometism Explained." It was a very improper book,
for it contained a false history of Abraham and his descendants.

I shall be quite ashamed to tell you the strange effect it had on me.
I know it was very wrong to read any book without permission to do so.
If my time were to come over again, I would go and tell my mamma that
there was a library in the house, and ask her to permit me to read a
little while every day in some book that she might think proper to
select for me. But unfortunately I did not then recollect that I ought
to do this: the reason of my strange forgetfulness might be that my
mother, following the example of her patroness, had almost wholly
discontinued talking to me. I scarcely ever heard a word addressed to
me from morning to night. If it were not for the old servants saying
"Good morning to you, miss Margaret," as they passed me in the long
passages, I should have been the greatest part of the day in as
perfect a solitude as Robinson Crusoe. It must have been because I
was never spoken to at all, that I forgot what was right and what was
wrong, for I do not believe that I ever remembered I was doing wrong
all the time I was reading in the library. A great many of the leaves
in "Mahometism Explained" were torn out, but enough remained to make
me imagine that Ishmael was the true son of Abraham: I read here that
the true descendants of Abraham were known by a light which streamed
from the middle of their foreheads. It said, that Ishmael's father and
mother first saw this light streaming from his forehead, as he was
lying asleep in the cradle. I was very sorry so many of the leaves
were torn out, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. I used
to read the history of Ishmael, and then go and look at him in the
tapestry, and then read his history again. When I had almost learned
the history of Ishmael by heart, I read the rest of the book, and then
I came to the history of Mahomet, who was there said to be the last
descendant of Abraham.

If Ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how much more so
must Mahomet? His history was full of nothing but wonders from the
beginning to the end. The book said, that those who believed all
the wonderful stories which were related of Mahomet were called
Mahometans, and true believers:--I concluded that I must be a
Mahometan, for I believed every word I read.

At length I met with something which I also believed, though I
trembled as I read it:--this was, that after we are dead, we are to
pass over a narrow bridge, which crosses a bottomless gulf. The bridge
was described to be no wider than a silken thread; and it said, that
all who were not Mahometans would slip on one side of this bridge, and
drop into the tremendous gulf that had no bottom. I considered myself
as a Mahometan, yet I was perfectly giddy whenever I thought of
passing over this bridge.

One day, seeing the old lady totter across the room, a sudden terror
seized me, for I thought, how would she ever be able to get over the
bridge. Then too it was, that I first recollected that my mother would
also be in imminent danger; for I imagined she had never heard the
name of Mahomet, because I foolishly conjectured this book had been
locked up for ages in the library, and was utterly unknown to the rest
of the world.

All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I had made; for I
thought, when they knew of the existence of "Mahometism Explained,"
they would read it, and become Mahometans, to ensure themselves a
safe passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more courage than
I possessed, to break the matter to my intended converts; I must
acknowledge that I had been reading without leave; and the habit
of never speaking, or being spoken to, considerably increased the
difficulty.

My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I was so ill, that
my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. In
the middle of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to
tell her what preyed so much on my mind.

I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as
to be a Mahometan. She was very much alarmed, for she thought I was
delirious, which I believe I was; for I tried to explain the reason of
my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not
at all comprehend what I was talking about.

The next day a physician was sent for, and he discovered, by several
questions that he put to me, that I had read myself into a fever. He
gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said, he
hoped in a few days I should be very well; but as it was a new case
to him, he never having attended a little Mahometan before, if any
lowness continued after he had removed the fever, he would, with my
mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary
case at his leisure; and added, that he could then hold a consultation
with his wife, who was often very useful to him in prescribing
remedies for the maladies of his younger patients.

In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the carriage with
him. Having heard what he said about her prescriptions, I expected,
between the doctor and his lady, to undergo a severe course of
medicine, especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice what
was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had handed me into
the carriage. She studied a little while, and then she said, A ride
to Harlow fair would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her
opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse.

During the ride they entered into conversation with me, and in answer
to their questions, I was relating to them the solitary manner in
which I had passed my time; how I found out the library, and what I
had read in the fatal book which had so heated my imagination,--when
we arrived at the fair; and Ishmael, Mahomet, and the narrow bridge,
vanished out of my head in an instant.

O what a cheerful sight it was to me, to see so many happy faces
assembled together, walking up and down between the rows of booths
that were full of showy things; ribbands, laces, toys, cakes, and
sweetmeats! While the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his kind
lady let me stand as long as I pleased at the booths, and gave me
many things which she saw I particularly admired. My needle-case, my
pin-cushion, indeed my work-basket, and all its contents, are presents
which she purchased for me at this fair. After we returned home, she
played with me all the evening at a geographical game, which she also
bought for me at this cheerful fair.

The next day she invited some young ladies of my own age, to spend the
day with me. She had a swing put up in the garden for us, and a room
cleared of the furniture that we might play at blindman's-buff. One of
the liveliest of the girls, who had taken on herself the direction of
our sports, she kept to be my companion all the time I staid with her,
and every day contrived some new amusement for us.

Yet this good lady did not suffer all my time to pass in mirth and
gaiety. Before I went home, she explained to me very seriously the
error into which I had fallen. I found that so far from "Mahometism
Explained" being a book concealed only in this library, it was well
known to every person of the least information.

The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans, and that, if the leaves of
my favourite book had not been torn out, I should have read that the
author of it did not mean to give the fabulous stories here related as
true, but only wrote it as giving a history of what the Turks, who are
a very ignorant people, believe concerning the impostor Mahomet, who
feigned himself to be a descendant of Ishmael. By the good offices of
the physician and his lady, I was carried home at the end of a month,
perfectly cured of the error into which I had fallen, and very much
ashamed of having believed so many absurdities.




VI

EMILY BARTON

(_By Mary Lamb_)


When I was a very young child, I remember residing with an uncle
and aunt who lived in ----shire. I think I remained there near a
twelvemonth. I am ignorant of the cause of my being so long left there
by my parents, who, though they were remarkably fond of me, never came
to see me during all that time. As I did not know I should ever have
occasion to relate the occurrences of my life, I never thought of
enquiring the reason.

I am just able to recollect, that when I first went there, I thought
it was a fine thing to live in the country, and play with my little
cousins in the garden all day long; and I also recollect, that I soon
found that it was a very dull thing, to live in the country with
little cousins who have a papa and mamma in the house, while my own
dear papa and mamma were in London many miles away.

I have heard my papa observe, girls who are not well managed are
a most quarrelsome race of little people. My cousins very often
quarrelled with me, and then they always said, "I will go and tell my
mamma, cousin Emily;" and then I used to be very disconsolate because
I had no mamma to complain to of my grievances.

My aunt always took Sophia's part because she was so young; and she
never suffered me to oppose Mary, or Elizabeth, because they were
older than me.

The playthings were all the property of one or other of my cousins.
The large dolls belonged to Mary and Elizabeth, and the pretty little
wax dolls were dressed on purpose for Sophia, who always began to cry
the instant I touched them. I had nothing that I could call my own but
one pretty book of stories; and one day as Sophia was endeavouring
to take it from me, and I was trying to keep it, it was all torn to
pieces; and my aunt would not be angry with her. She only said, Sophia
was a little baby and did not know any better. My uncle promised to
buy me another book, but he never remembered it. Very often when he
came home in the evening, he used to say, "I wonder what I have got in
my pocket;" and then they all crowded round him, and I used to creep
towards him, and think, May be it is my book that my uncle has got in
his pocket. But, no; nothing ever came out for me. Yet the first sight
of a plaything, even if it is not one's own, is always a cheerful
thing, and a new toy would put them in a good humour for a while, and
they would say, "Here, Emily, look what I have got. You may take it in
your own hand and look at it." But the pleasure of examining it, was
sure to be stopped in a short time by the old story of "Give that to
me again; you know that is mine." Nobody could help, I think, being a
little out of humour if they were always served so: but if I shewed
any signs of discontent, my aunt always told my uncle I was a little
peevish fretful thing, and gave her more trouble than all her own
children put together. My aunt would often say, what a happy thing
it was, to have such affectionate children as hers were. She was
always praising my cousins because they were affectionate; that was
sure to be her word. She said I had not one atom of affection in my
disposition, for that no kindness ever made the least impression on
me. And she would say all this with Sophia seated on her lap, and
the two eldest perhaps hanging round their papa, while I was so dull
to see them taken so much notice of, and so sorry that I was not
affectionate, that I did not know what to do with myself.

Then there was another complaint against me; that I was so shy before
strangers. Whenever any strangers spoke to me, before I had time to
think what answer I should give, Mary or Elizabeth would say, "Emily
is so shy, she will never speak." Then I, thinking I was very shy,
would creep into a corner of the room, and be ashamed to look up while
the company staid.

Though I often thought of my papa and mamma, by degrees the
remembrance of their persons faded out of my mind. When I tried to
think how they used to look, the faces of my cousins' papa and mamma
only came into my mind.

One morning, my uncle and aunt went abroad before breakfast, and
took my cousins with them. They very often went out for whole days
together, and left me at home. Sometimes they said it was because
they could not take so many children; and sometimes they said it was
because I was so shy, it was no amusement to me to go abroad.

That morning I was very solitary indeed, for they had even taken the
dog Sancho with them, and I was very fond of him. I went all about
the house and garden to look for him. Nobody could tell me where
Sancho was, and then I went into the front court and called, "Sancho,
Sancho." An old man that worked in the garden was there, and he said
Sancho was gone with his master. O how sorry I was! I began to cry,
for Sancho and I used to amuse ourselves for hours together when every
body was gone out. I cried till I heard the mail coachman's horn,
and then I ran to the gate to see the mail-coach go past. It stopped
before our gate, and a gentleman got out, and the moment he saw me
he took me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was Emily Barton,
and asked me why the tears were on my little pale cheeks; and I told
him the cause of my distress. The old man asked him to walk into the
house, and was going to call one of the servants; but the gentleman
would not let him, and he said, "Go on with your work, I want
to talk to this little girl before I go into the house." Then he
sate down on a bench which was in the court, and asked me many
questions; and I told him all my little troubles, for he was such a
good-natured-looking gentleman that I prattled very freely to him. I
told him all I have told you, and more, for the unkind treatment I met
with was more fresh in my mind than it is now. Then he called to the
old man and desired him to fetch a post-chaise, and gave him money
that he should make haste, and I never saw the old man walk so fast
before. When he had been gone a little while, the gentleman said,
"Will you walk with me down the road to meet the chaise, and you shall
ride in it a little way along with me." I had nothing on, not even my
old straw bonnet that I used to wear in the garden; but I did not mind
that, and I ran by his side a good way, till we met the chaise, and
the old man riding with the driver. The gentleman said, "Get down and
open the door," and then he lifted me in. The old man looked in a sad
fright, and said, "O sir, I hope you are not going to take the child
away." The gentleman threw out a small card, and bid him give that to
his master, and calling to the post-boy to drive on, we lost sight of
the old man in a minute.

The gentleman laughed very much, and said, "We have frightened the old
man, he thinks I am going to run away with you;" and I laughed, and
thought it a very good joke; and he said, "So you tell me you are very
shy;" and I replied "Yes, sir, I am, before strangers:" he said, "So I
perceive, you are," and then he laughed again, and I laughed, though
I did not know why. We had such a merry ride, laughing all the way at
one thing or another, till we came to a town where the chaise stopped,
and he ordered some breakfast. When I got out I began to shiver a
little; for it was the latter end of autumn, the leaves were falling
off the trees, and the air blew very cold. Then he desired the waiter
to go and order a straw-hat, and a little warm coat for me; and when
the milliner came, he told her he had stolen a little heiress, and we
were going to Gretna Green in such a hurry, that the young lady had no
time to put on her bonnet before she came out. The milliner said I was
a pretty little heiress, and she wished us a pleasant journey. When
we had breakfasted, and I was equipped in my new coat and bonnet, I
jumped into the chaise again, as warm and as lively as a little bird.

When it grew dark, we entered a large city; the chaise began to roll
over the stones, and I saw the lamps ranged along London streets.

Though we had breakfasted and dined upon the road, and I had got out
of one chaise into another many times, and was now riding on in the
dark, I never once considered where I was, or where I was going to.
I put my head out of the chaise window, and admired those beautiful
lights. I was sorry when the chaise stopped, and I could no longer
look at the brilliant rows of lighted lamps.

Taken away by a stranger under a pretence of a short ride, and
brought quite to London, do you not expect some perilous end of this
adventure? Ah! it was my papa himself, though I did not know who he
was, till after he had put me into my mamma's arms, and told her how
he had run away with his own little daughter. "It is your papa, my
dear, that has brought you to your own home." "This is your mamma, my
love," they both exclaimed at once. Mamma cried for joy to see me, and
she wept again, when she heard my papa tell what a neglected child
I had been at my uncle's. This he had found out, he said, by my own
innocent prattle, and that he was so offended with his brother, my
uncle, that he would not enter his house; and then he said what a
little happy good child I had been all the way, and that when he found
I did not know him, he would not tell me who he was, for the sake
of the pleasant surprise it would be to me. It was a surprise and a
happiness indeed, after living with unkind relations, all at once to
know I was at home with my own dear papa and mamma.

My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I happen to like my tea very much,
I always think of the delicious cup of tea mamma gave us after our
journey. I think I see the urn smoking before me now, and papa
wheeling the sopha round, that I might sit between them at the table.

Mamma called me Little Run-away, and said it was very well it was
only papa. I told her how we frightened the old gardener, and opened
my eyes to shew her how he stared, and how my papa made the milliner
believe we were going to Gretna Green. Mamma looked grave, and said
she was almost frightened to find I had been so fearless; but I
promised her another time I would not go into a post-chaise with a
gentleman, without asking him who he was; and then she laughed, and
seemed very well satisfied.

Mamma, to my fancy, looked very handsome. She was very nicely dressed,
quite like a fine lady. I held up my head, and felt very proud that I
had such a papa and mamma. I thought to myself, "O dear, my cousins'
papa and mamma are not to be compared to mine."

Papa said, "What makes you bridle and simper so, Emily?" Then I told
him all that was in my mind. Papa asked if I did not think him as
pretty as I did mamma. I could not say much for his beauty, but I told
him he was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, and that I liked him
the first moment I saw him, because he looked so good-natured. He
said, "Well then, he must be content with that half-praise; but he
had always thought himself very handsome." "O dear!" said I, and fell
a-laughing, till I spilt my tea, and mamma called me Little aukward
girl.

The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to receive some money,
and he took mamma and me with him, that I might have a ride through
London streets. Everyone that has been in London must have seen the
Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the fine large
rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people had on me; who was grown
such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded streets and the fine
shops, alone kept me in continual admiration.

As we were returning home down Cheapside, papa said, "Emily shall take
home some little books.--Shall we order the coachman to the corner
of St. Paul's church-yard, or shall we go to the Juvenile Library in
Skinner-street?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner-street, for she
wanted to look at the new buildings there. Papa bought me seven new
books, and the lady in the shop persuaded him to take more, but mamma
said that was quite enough at present.

We went home by Ludgate-hill, because mamma wanted to buy something
there; and while she went into a shop, papa heard me read in one of my
new books, and he said he was glad to find I could read so well; for I
had forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me read every day.

My papa stopped the coach opposite to St. Dunstan's church, that I
might see the great iron figures strike upon the bell, to give notice
that it was a quarter of an hour past two. We waited some time that
I might see this sight, but just at the moment they were striking, I
happened to be looking at a toy-shop that was on the other side of
the way, and unluckily missed it. Papa said, "Never mind: we will go
into the toyshop, and I dare say we shall find something that will
console you for your disappointment." "Do," said mamma, "for I knew
miss Pearson, that keeps this shop, at Weymouth, when I was a little
girl, not much older than Emily. Take notice of her;--she is a very
intelligent old lady." Mamma made herself known to miss Pearson, and
shewed me to her, but I did not much mind what they said; no more did
papa;--for we were busy among the toys.

A large wax doll, a baby-house completely furnished, and several other
beautiful toys, were bought for me. I sat and looked at them with an
amazing deal of pleasure as we rode home--they quite filled up one
side of the coach.

The joy I discovered at possessing things I could call my own, and
the frequent repetition of the words, _My own, my own_, gave my mamma
some uneasiness. She justly feared that the cold treatment I had
experienced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore she
invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to see, as she has
since told me, if I should not be liable to fall into the same error
from which I had suffered so much at my uncle's.

As my mamma had feared, so the event proved; for I quickly adopted
my cousins' selfish ideas, and gave the young lady notice that they
were my own plaything's, and she must not amuse herself with them any
longer than I permitted her. Then presently I took occasion to begin
a little quarrel with her, and said, "I have got a mamma now, miss
Frederica, as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and she will
not let you play with my doll any longer than I please, because it
is my own doll." And I very well remember I imitated as nearly as I
could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used to speak to me.

"Oh, fie! Emily," said my mamma; "can you be the little girl, who used
to be so distressed because your cousins would not let you play with
their dolls? Do you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing
to your play-fellow, that they did to you?" Then I saw as plain as
could be what a naughty girl I was, and I promised not to do so any
more.

A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma said, "I believe I must
pardon you this once, but I hope never to see such a thing again. This
lady is miss Frederica's mamma, and I am quite ashamed that she should
be witness to your inhospitality to her daughter, particularly as she
was so kind to come on purpose to invite you to a share in her _own_
private box at the theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting at
the door to take us, but how can we accept of the invitation after
what has happened?" The lady begged it might all be forgotten; and
mamma consented that I should go, and she said, "But I hope, my dear
Emily, when you are sitting in the play-house, you will remember that
pleasures are far more delightful when they are shared among numbers.
If the whole theatre were your own, and you were sitting by yourself
to see the performance, how dull it would seem, to what you will find
it, with so many happy faces around us, all amused with the same
thing!" I hardly knew what my mamma meant, for I had never seen a
play; but when I got there, after the curtain drew up, I looked up
towards the galleries, and down into the pit, and into all the boxes,
and then I knew what a pretty sight it was to see a number of happy
faces. I was very well convinced, that it would not have been half so
cheerful if the theatre had been my own, to have sat there by myself.
From that time, whenever I felt inclined to be selfish, I used to
remember the theatre, where the mamma of the young lady I had been so
rude to, gave me a seat in her own box. There is nothing in the world
so charming as going to a play. All the way there I was as dull and as
silent as I used to be in ----shire, because I was so sorry mamma had
been displeased with me. Just as the coach stopped, miss Frederica
said, "Will you be friends with me, Emily?" and I replied, "Yes, if
you please, Frederica;" and we went hand in hand together into the
house. I did not speak any more till we entered the box, but after
that I was as lively as if nothing at all had happened.

I shall never forget how delighted I was at the first sight of the
house. My little friend and I were placed together in the front, while
our mammas retired to the back part of the box to chat by themselves,
for they had been so kind as to come very early that I might look
about me before the performance began.

Frederica had been very often at a play. She was very useful in
telling me what every thing was. She made me observe how the common
people were coming bustling down the benches in the galleries, as if
they were afraid they should lose their places. She told me what a
crowd these poor people had to go through, before they got into the
house. Then she shewed me how leisurely they all came into the pit,
and looked about them, before they took their seats. She gave me a
charming description of the king and queen at the play, and shewed me
where they sate, and told me how the princesses were drest. It was a
pretty sight to see the remainder of the candles lighted; and so it
was to see the musicians come up from under the stage. I admired the
music very much, and I asked if that was the play. Frederica laughed
at my ignorance, and then she told me, when the play began, the green
curtain would draw up to the sound of soft music, and I should hear a
lady dressed in black say,

  "Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast:"

and those were the very first words the actress, whose name was
Almeria, spoke. When the curtain began to draw up, and I saw the
bottom of her black petticoat, and heard the soft music, what an
agitation I was in! But before that we had long to wait. Frederica
told me we should wait till all the dress boxes were full, and then
the lights would pop up under the orchestra; the second music would
play, and then the play would begin.

This play was the Mourning Bride. It was a very moving tragedy; and
after that when the curtain dropt, and I thought it was all over, I
saw the most diverting pantomime that ever was seen. I made a strange
blunder the next day, for I told papa that Almeria was married to
Harlequin at last; but I assure you I meant to say Columbine, for I
knew very well that Almeria was married to Alphonso; for she said she
was in the first scene. She thought he was dead, but she found him
again, just as I did my papa and mamma, when she least expected it.




VII

MARIA HOWE

(_By Charles Lamb_)


I was brought up in the country. From my infancy I was always a
weak and tender-spirited girl, subject to fears and depressions.
My parents, and particularly my mother, were of a very different
disposition. They were what is usually called gay: they loved
pleasure, and parties, and visiting; but as they found the turn of my
mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves little trouble about
me, but upon such occasions generally left me to my choice, which was
much oftener to stay at home, and indulge myself in my solitude, than
to join in their rambling visits. I was always fond of being alone,
yet always in a manner afraid. There was a book-closet which led into
my mother's dressing-room. Here I was eternally fond of being shut
up by myself, to take down whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon
them, no matter whether they were fit for my years or no, or whether I
understood them. Here, when the weather would not permit my going into
the dark walk, _my walk_, as it was called, in the garden; here when
my parents have been from home, I have stayed for hours together,
till the loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at length
become quite frightful, and I have rushed out of the closet into the
inhabited parts of the house, and sought refuge in the lap of some one
of the female servants, or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look
pale, that Hannah [Maria] had been frightening herself with some of
those _nasty books_: so she used to call my favourite volumes, which I
would not have parted with, no not with one of the least of them, if I
had had the choice to be made a fine princess and to govern the world.
But my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and say, that
reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty enough to think that this
was only an excuse, for I found that my aunt's weak eyes did not
prevent her from poring ten hours a day upon her prayer-book, or
her favourite Thomas à Kempis. But this was always her excuse for
not reading any of the books I recommended. My aunt was my father's
sister. She had never been married. My father was a good deal older
than my mother, and my aunt was ten years older than my father. As I
was often left at home with her, and as my serious disposition so well
agreed with hers, an intimacy grew up between the old lady and me, and
she would often say, that she only loved one person in the world, and
that was me. Not that she and my parents were on very bad terms; but
the old lady did not feel herself respected enough. The attention and
fondness which she shewed to me, conscious as I was that I was almost
the only being she felt any thing like fondness to, made me love her,
as it was natural; indeed I am ashamed to say that I fear I almost
loved her better than both my parents put together. But there was an
oddness, a silence about my aunt, which was never interrupted but by
her occasional expressions of love to me, that made me stand in fear
of her. An odd look from under her spectacles would sometimes scare me
away, when I had been peering up in her face to make her kiss me. Then
she had a way of muttering to herself, which, though it was good words
and religious words that she was mumbling, somehow I did not like. My
weak spirits, and the fears I was subject to, always made me afraid of
any personal singularity or oddness in any one. I am ashamed, ladies,
to lay open so many particulars of our family; but, indeed it is
necessary to the understanding of what I am going to tell you, of a
very great weakness, if not wickedness, which I was guilty of towards
my aunt. But I must return to my studies, and tell you what books I
found in the closet, and what reading I chiefly admired. There was a
great Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, or rather I used to
spell out meanings; for I was too ignorant to make out many words; but
there it was written all about those good men who chose to be burnt
alive, rather than forsake their religion, and become naughty papists.
Some words I could make out, some I could not; but I made out enough
to fill my little head with vanity, and I used to think I was so
courageous I could be burnt too, and I would put my hands upon the
flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which the book had,
and feel them; but, you know, ladies, there is a great difference
between the flames in a picture, and real fire, and I am now ashamed
of the conceit which I had of my own courage, and think how poor a
martyr I should have made in those days. Then there was a book not
so big, but it had pictures in, it was called Culpepper's Herbal; it
was full of pictures of plants and herbs, but I did not much care for
that. Then there was Salmon's Modern History, out of which I picked
a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the great hooded
serpent which ran strangely in my fancy. There were some law books
too, but the old English frighted me from reading them. But above all,
what I relished was Stackhouse's History of the Bible, where there
was the picture of the Ark and all the beasts getting into it. This
delighted me, because it puzzled me, and many an aching head have I
got with poring into it, and contriving how it might be built, with
such and such rooms, to hold all the world if there should be another
flood, and sometimes settling what pretty beasts should be saved,
and what should not, for I would have no ugly or deformed beast in
my pretty ark. But this was only a piece of folly and vanity, that
a little reflection might cure me of. Foolish girl that I was! to
suppose that any creature is really ugly, that has all its limbs
contrived with heavenly wisdom, and was doubtless formed to some
beautiful end, though a child cannot comprehend it.--Doubtless a frog
or a toad is not uglier in itself than a squirrel or a pretty green
lizard; but we want understanding to see it.

[_Here I must remind you, my dear miss Howe, that one of the young
ladies smiled, and two or three were seen to titter, at this part of
your narration, and you seemed, I thought, a little too angry for
a girl of your sense and reading; but you will remember, my dear,
that young heads are not always able to bear strange and unusual
assertions; and if some elder person possibly, or some book which
you have found, had not put it into your head, you would hardly have
discovered by your own reflection, that a frog or a toad was equal in
real loveliness to a frisking squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as
you called it; not remembering that at this very time you gave the
lizard the name of pretty, and left it out to the frog--so liable we
all are to prejudices. But you went on with your story._]

These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or naughty perhaps,
but they may be forgiven in a child of six years old; but what I am
going to tell I shall be ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as
I live. It will teach me not to form rash judgements. Besides the
picture of the Ark, and many others which I have forgot, Stackhouse
contained one picture which made more impression upon my childish
understanding than all the rest. It was the picture of the raising
up of Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of Endor picture. I was
always very fond of picking up stories about witches. There was a book
called Glanvil on Witches, which used to lie about in this closet; it
was thumbed about, and shewed it had been much read in former times.
This was my treasure. Here I used to pick out the strangest stories.
My not being able to read them very well probably made them appear
more strange and out of the way to me. But I could collect enough to
understand that witches were old women who gave themselves up to do
mischief;--how, by the help of spirits as bad as themselves, they
lamed cattle, and made the corn not grow; and how they made images of
wax to stand for people that had done them any injury, or they thought
had done them injury; and how they burnt the images before a slow
fire, and stuck pins in them; and the persons which these waxen images
represented, however far distant, felt all the pains and torments in
good earnest, which were inflicted in show upon these images: and such
a horror I had of these wicked witches, that though I am now better
instructed, and look upon all these stories as mere idle tales, and
invented to fill people's heads with nonsense, yet I cannot recall to
mind the horrors which I then felt, without shuddering and feeling
something of the old fit return.

[_Here, my dear miss Howe, you may remember, that miss M----, the
youngest of our party, shewing some more curiosity than usual, I
winked upon you to hasten to your story, lest the terrors which you
were describing should make too much impression upon a young head, and
you kindly understood my sign, and said less upon the subject of your
fears, than I fancy you first intended._]

This foolish book of witch stories had no pictures in it, but I made
up for them out of my own fancy, and out of the great picture of the
raising up of Samuel in Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand
the difference there was between these silly improbable tales which
imputed such powers to poor old women, who are the most helpless
things in the creation, and the narrative in the Bible, which does not
say, that the witch or pretended witch, raised up the dead body of
Samuel by her own power, but as it clearly appears, he was permitted
by the divine will to appear, to confound the presumption of Saul; and
that the witch herself was really as much frightened and confounded
at the miracle as Saul himself, not expecting a real appearance; but
probably having prepared some juggling, slight-of-hand tricks and
sham appearance, to deceive the eyes of Saul: whereas she, nor any
one living, had ever the power to raise the dead to life, but only
He who made them from the first. These reasons I might have read in
Stackhouse itself, if I had been old enough, and have read them in
that very book since I was older, but at that time I looked at little
beyond the picture.

These stories of witches so terrified me, that my sleeps were broken,
and in my dreams I always had a fancy of a witch being in the room
with me. I know now that it was only nervousness; but though I can
laugh at it now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I suffered,
you would be thankful that you have had sensible people about you to
instruct you and teach you better. I was let grow up wild like an ill
weed, and thrived accordingly. One night that I had been terrified in
my sleep with my imaginations, I got out of bed, and crept softly to
the adjoining room. My room was next to where my aunt usually sat when
she was alone. Into her room I crept for relief from my fears. The
old lady was not yet retired to rest, but was sitting with her eyes
half open, half closed; her spectacles tottering upon her nose; her
head nodding over her prayer-book; her lips mumbling the words as she
read them, or half read them, in her dozing posture; her grotesque
appearance; her old-fashioned dress, resembling what I had seen in
that fatal picture in Stackhouse; all this, with the dead time of
night, as it seemed to me, (for I had gone through my first sleep,)
all joined to produce a wicked fancy in me, that the form which I had
beheld was not my aunt but some witch. Her mumbling of her prayers
confirmed me in this shocking idea. I had read in Glanvil of those
wicked creatures reading their prayers _backwards_, and I thought
that this was the operation which her lips were at this time employed
about. Instead of flying to her friendly lap for that protection which
I had so often experienced when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk
back terrified and bewildered to my bed, where I lay in broken sleeps
and miserable fancies, till the morning, which I had so much reason to
wish for, came. My fancies a little wore away with the light, but an
impression was fixed, which could not for a long time be done away.
In the day-time, when my father and mother were about the house, when
I saw them familiarly speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished; and
when the good creature has taken me upon her knees, and shewn me any
kindness more than ordinary, at such times I have melted into tears,
and longed to tell her what naughty foolish fancies I had had of her.
But when night returned, that figure which I had seen recurred;--the
posture, the half-closed eyes, the mumbling and muttering which I
had heard, a confusion was in my head, _who_ it was I had seen that
night:--it was my aunt, and it was not my aunt:--it was that good
creature who loved me above all the world, engaged at her good task
of devotions--perhaps praying for some good to me. Again, it was a
witch,--a creature hateful to God and man, reading backwards the good
prayers; who would perhaps destroy me. In these conflicts of mind I
passed several weeks, till, by a revolution in my fate, I was removed
to the house of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant part
of the county, who had come on a visit to our house, and observing my
lonely ways, and apprehensive of the ill effect of my mode of living
upon my health, begged leave to take me home to her house to reside
for a short time. I went, with some reluctance at leaving my closet,
my dark walk, and even my aunt, who had been such a source of both
love and terror to me. But I went, and soon found the good effects of
a change of scene. Instead of melancholy closets, and lonely avenues
of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and cheerful faces; I had companions
of my own age; no books were allowed me but what were rational or
sprightly; that gave me mirth, or gave me instruction. I soon learned
to laugh at witch stories; and when I returned after three or four
months absence to our own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the
same light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, before that
foolish fancy possessed me, or rather, I should say, more kind, more
fond, more loving than before. It is impossible to say how much good
that lady, the kind relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me
by changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was given to me. I
became sociable and companionable: my parents soon discovered a change
in me, and I have found a similar alteration in them. They have been
plainly more fond of me since that change, as from that time I learned
to conform myself more to their way of living. I have never since had
that aversion to company, and going out with them, which used to make
them regard me with less fondness than they would have wished to shew.
I impute almost all that I had to complain of in their neglect, to my
having been a little unsociable, uncompanionable mortal. I lived in
this manner for a year or two, passing my time between our house, and
the lady's who so kindly took me in hand, till by her advice, I was
sent to this school; where I have told to you, ladies, what, for fear
of ridicule, I never ventured to tell any person besides, the story of
my foolish and naughty fancy.




VIII

CHARLOTTE WILMOT

(_By Mary Lamb_)


Until I was eleven years of age, my life was one continued series of
indulgence and delight. My father was a merchant, and supposed to be
in very opulent circumstances, at least I thought so, for at a very
early age I perceived that we lived in a more expensive way than any
of my father's friends did. It was not the pride of birth, of which,
miss Withers, you once imagined you might justly boast, but the mere
display of wealth that I was early taught to set an undue value on.
My parents spared no cost for masters to instruct me; I had a French
governess, and also a woman servant whose sole business it was to
attend on me. My play-room was crowded with toys, and my dress was
the admiration of all my youthful visitors, to whom I gave balls and
entertainments as often as I pleased. I looked down on all my young
companions as my inferiors; but I chiefly assumed airs of superiority
over Maria Hartley, whose father was a clerk in my father's
counting-house, and therefore I concluded she would regard the
fine show I made with more envy and admiration than any other of
my companions. In the days of my humiliation, which I too soon
experienced, I was thrown on the bounty of her father for support.
To be a dependent on the charity of her family, seemed the heaviest
evil that could have befallen me; for I remembered how often I had
displayed my finery and my expensive ornaments, on purpose to enjoy
the triumph of my superior advantages; and with shame I now speak it,
I have often glanced at her plain linen frock, when I shewed her my
beautiful ball-dresses. Nay, I once gave her a hint, which she so well
understood that she burst into tears, that I could not invite her to
some of my parties, because her mamma once sent her on my birthday in
a coloured frock. I cannot now think of my want of feeling without
excessive pain; but one day I saw her highly amused with some curious
toys, and on her expressing the pleasure the sight of them gave her,
I said "Yes, they are very well for those who are not accustomed to
these things; but for my part, I have so many, I am tired of them, and
I am quite delighted to pass an hour in the empty closet your mamma
allows you to receive your visitors in, because there is nothing there
to interrupt the conversation."

Once, as I have said, Maria was betrayed into tears: now that I
insulted her by calling her own small apartment an empty closet, she
turned quick upon me, but not in anger, saying, "O, my dear miss
Wilmot, how very sorry I am--" here she stopped; and though I knew
not the meaning of her words, I felt it as a reproof. I hung down my
head abashed; yet, perceiving that she was all that day more kind and
obliging than ever, and being conscious of not having merited this
kindness, I thought she was mean-spirited, and therefore I consoled
myself with having discovered this fault in her, for I thought my
arrogance was full as excusable as her meanness.

In a few days I knew my error; I learned why Maria had been so kind,
and why she had said she was sorry. It was for me, proud disdainful
girl that I was, that she was sorry; she knew, though I did not, that
my father was on the brink of ruin; and it came to pass, as she had
feared it would, that in a few days my play-room was as empty as
Maria's closet, and all my grandeur was at an end.

My father had what is called an execution in the house; every thing
was seized that we possessed. Our splendid furniture, and even our
wearing apparel, all my beautiful ball-dresses, my trinkets, and, my
toys, were taken away by my father's merciless creditors. The week in
which this happened was such a scene of hurry, confusion and misery,
that I will not attempt to describe it.

At the end of a week I found that my father and mother had gone out
very early in the morning. Mr. Hartley took me home to his own house,
and I expected to find them there; but, oh, what anguish did I feel,
when I heard him tell Mrs. Hartley they had quitted England, and that
he had brought me home to live with them! In tears and sullen silence
I passed the first day of my entrance into this despised house. Maria
was from home. All the day I sate in a corner of the room, grieving
for the departure of my parents; and if for a moment I forgot that
sorrow, I tormented myself with imagining the many ways which Maria
might invent, to make me feel in return the slights and airs of
superiority which I had given myself over her. Her mother began
the prelude to what I expected, for I heard her freely censure the
imprudence of my parents. She spoke in whispers; yet, though I could
not hear every word, I made out the tenor of her discourse. She was
very anxious, lest her husband should be involved in the ruin of our
house. He was the chief clerk in my father's counting-house; towards
evening he came in and quieted her fears, by the welcome news that he
had obtained a more lucrative situation than the one he had lost.

At eight in the evening Mrs. Hartley said to me, "Miss Wilmot, it is
time for you to be in bed, my dear;" and ordered the servant to shew
me up stairs, adding, that she supposed she must assist me to undress,
but that when Maria came home, she must teach me to wait on myself.
The apartment in which I was to sleep was at the top of the house.
The walls were white-washed, and the roof was sloping. There was only
one window in the room, a small casement, through which the bright
moon shone, and it seemed to me the most melancholy sight I had ever
beheld. In broken and disturbed slumbers I passed the night. When
I awoke in the morning, she whom I most dreaded to see, Maria, who
I supposed had envied my former state, and who I now felt certain
would exult over my present mortifying reverse of fortune, stood by
my bedside. She awakened me from a dream, in which I thought she was
ordering me to fetch her something; and on my refusal, she said I must
obey her, for I was now her servant. Far differently from what my
dreams had pictured, did Maria address me! She said, in the gentlest
tone imaginable, "My dear miss Wilmot, my mother begs you will come
down to breakfast. Will you give me leave to dress you?" My proud
heart would not suffer me to speak, and I began to attempt to put on
my clothes; but never having been used to do any thing for myself, I
was unable to perform it, and was obliged to accept of the assistance
of Maria. She dressed me, washed my face, and combed my hair; and as
she did these services for me, she said in the most respectful manner,
"Is this the way you like to wear this, miss Wilmot?" or, "Is this
the way you like this done?" and curtsied, as she gave me every fresh
article to put on. The slights I expected to receive from Maria, would
not have distressed me more, than the delicacy of her behaviour did. I
hung down my head with shame and anguish.

In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her daughter to instruct me in such
useful works and employments as Maria knew. Of every thing which she
called useful I was most ignorant. My accomplishments I found were
held in small estimation here, by all indeed except Maria. She taught
me nothing without the kindest apologies for being obliged to teach
me, who, she said, was so excellent in all elegant arts, and was for
ever thanking me for the pleasure she had formerly received, from
my skill in music and pretty fancy works. The distress I was in,
made these complimentary speeches not flatteries, but sweet drops
of comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken with misfortune and
remorse.

I remained at Mr. Hartley's but two months, for at the end of that
time my father inherited a considerable property by the death of a
distant relation, which has enabled him to settle his affairs. He
established himself again as a merchant; but as he wished to retrench
his expences, and begin the world again on a plan of strict economy,
he sent me to this school to finish my education.




IX

SUSAN YATES

(_By Charles Lamb_)


I was born and brought up, in a house in which my parents had all
their lives resided, which stood in the midst of that lonely tract of
land called the Lincolnshire fens. Few families besides our own lived
near the spot, both because it was reckoned an unwholesome air, and
because its distance from any town or market made it an inconvenient
situation. My father was in no very affluent circumstances, and it
was a sad necessity which he was put to, of having to go many miles
to fetch any thing he wanted from the nearest village, which was full
seven miles distant, through a sad miry way that at all times made it
heavy walking, and after rain was almost impassable. But he had no
horse or carriage of his own.

The church which belonged to the parish in which our house was
situated, stood in this village; and its distance being, as I said
before, seven miles from our house, made it quite an impossible thing
for my mother or me to think of going to it. Sometimes indeed, on a
fine dry Sunday, my father would rise early, and take a walk to the
village, just to see how _goodness thrived_, as he used to say, but
he would generally return tired, and the worse for his walk. It is
scarcely possible to explain to any one who has not lived in the fens,
what difficult and dangerous walking it is. A mile is as good as four,
I have heard my father say, in those parts. My mother, who in the
early part of her life had lived in a more civilised spot, and had
been used to constant churchgoing, would often lament her situation.
It was from her I early imbibed a great curiosity and anxiety to see
that thing, which I had heard her call a church, and so often lament
that she could never go to. I had seen houses of various structures,
and had seen in pictures the shapes of ships and boats, and palaces
and temples, but never rightly any thing that could be called a
church, or that could satisfy me about its form. Sometimes I thought
it must be like our house, and sometimes I fancied it must be more
like the house of our neighbour, Mr. Sutton, which was bigger and
handsomer than ours. Sometimes I thought it was a great hollow cave,
such as I have heard my father say the first inhabitants of the earth
dwelt in. Then I thought it was like a waggon, or a cart, and that it
must be something moveable. The shape of it ran in my mind strangely,
and one day I ventured to ask my mother, what was that foolish thing
that she was always longing to go to, and which she called a church.
Was it any thing to eat or drink, or was it only like a great huge
play-thing, to be seen and stared at?--I was not quite five years of
age when I made this inquiry.

This question, so oddly put, made my mother smile; but in a little
time she put on a more grave look, and informed me, that a church
was nothing that I had supposed it, but it was a great building, far
greater than any house which I had seen, where men, and women, and
children, came together, twice a day, on Sundays, to hear the Bible
read, and make good resolutions for the week to come. She told me,
that the fine music which we sometimes heard in the air, came from
the bells of St. Mary's church, and that we never heard it but when
the wind was in a particular point. This raised my wonder more than
all the rest; for I had somehow conceived that the noise which I
heard, was occasioned by birds up in the air, or that it was made
by the angels, whom (so ignorant I was till that time) I had always
considered to be a sort of birds: for before this time I was totally
ignorant of any thing like religion, it being a principle of my
father, that young heads should not be told too many things at once,
for fear they should get confused ideas, and no clear notions of any
thing. We had always indeed so far observed Sundays, that no work was
done upon that day, and upon that day I wore my best muslin frock,
and was not allowed to sing, or to be noisy; but I never understood
why that day should differ from any other. We had no public
meetings:--indeed the few straggling houses which were near us, would
have furnished but a slender congregation; and the loneliness of the
place we lived in, instead of making us more sociable, and drawing
us closer together, as my mother used to say it ought to have done,
seemed to have the effect of making us more distant and averse to
society than other people. One or two good neighbours indeed we had,
but not in numbers to give me an idea of church attendance.

But now my mother thought it high time to give me some clearer
instruction in the main points of religion, and my father came readily
into her plan. I was now permitted to sit up half an hour later on a
Sunday evening, that I might hear a portion of Scripture read, which
had always been their custom, though by reason of my tender age, and
my father's opinion on the impropriety of children being taught too
young, I had never till now been an auditor. I was taught my prayers,
and those things which you, ladies, I doubt not, had the benefit of
being instructed in at a much earlier age.

The clearer my notions on these points became, they only made me
more passionately long for the privilege of joining in that social
service, from which it seemed that we alone, of all the inhabitants
of the land, were debarred; and when the wind was in that point which
favoured the sound of the distant bells of St. Mary's to be heard
over the great moor which skirted our house, I have stood out in the
air to catch the sounds which I almost devoured; and the tears have
come in my eyes, when sometimes they seemed to speak to me almost
in articulate sounds, to _come to church_, and because of the great
moor which was between me and them I could not come; and the too
tender apprehensions of these things have filled me with a religious
melancholy. With thoughts like these I entered into my seventh year.

And now the time was come, when the great moor was no longer to
separate me from the object of my wishes and of my curiosity. My
father having some money left him by the will of a deceased relation,
we ventured to set up a sort of a carriage--no very superb one, I
assure you, ladies; but in that part of the world it was looked upon
with some envy by our poorer neighbours. The first party of pleasure
which my father proposed to take in it, was to the village where I had
so often wished to go, and my mother and I were to accompany him; for
it was very fit, my father observed, that little Susan should go to
church, and learn how to behave herself, for we might some time or
other have occasion to live in London, and not always be confined to
that out of the way spot.

It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my little heart beating
with almost breathless expectation. The day was fine, and the roads
as good as they ever are in those parts. I was so happy and so proud.
I was lost in dreams of what I was going to see. At length the tall
steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It was pointed out to me by
my father, as the place from which that music had come which I have
heard over the moor, and had fancied to be angels singing. I was wound
up to the highest pitch of delight at having visibly presented to me
the spot from which had proceeded that unknown friendly music; and
when it began to peal, just as we approached the village, it seemed to
speak. _Susan is come_, as plainly as it used to invite me _to come_,
when I heard it over the moor. I pass over our alighting at the house
of a relation, and all that passed till I went with my father and
mother to church.

St. Mary's church is a great church for such a small village as it
stands in. My father said it was a cathedral, and that it had once
belonged to a monastery, but the monks were all gone. Over the door
there was stone work, representing saints and bishops, and here and
there, along the sides of the church, there were figures of men's
heads, made in a strange grotesque way: I have since seen the same
sort of figures in the round tower of the Temple church in London. My
father said they were very improper ornaments for such a place, and
so I now think them; but it seems the people who built these great
churches in old times, gave themselves more liberties than they do
now; and I remember that when I first saw them, and before my father
had made this observation, though they were so ugly and out of shape,
and some of them seemed to be grinning and distorting their features
with pain or with laughter, yet being placed upon a church, to which
I had come with such serious thoughts, I could not help thinking
they had some serious meaning; and I looked at them with wonder, but
without any temptation to laugh. I somehow fancied they were the
representation of wicked people set up as a warning.

When we got into the church, the service was not begun, and my father
kindly took me round, to shew me the monuments and every thing else
remarkable. I remember seeing one of a venerable figure, which my
father said had been a judge. The figure was kneeling, as if it was
alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, I suppose the Bible, lying
on it. I somehow fancied the figure had a sort of life in it, it
seemed so natural, or that the dead judge that it was done for, said
his prayers at it still. This was a silly notion, but I was very
young, and had passed my little life in a remote place, where I had
never seen any thing nor knew any thing; and the awe which I felt at
first being in a church, took from me all power but that of wondering.
I did not reason about any thing, I was too young. Now I understand
why monuments are put up for the dead, and why the figures which
are upon them, are described as doing the actions which they did in
their life-times, and that they are a sort of pictures set up for our
instruction. But all was new and surprising to me on that day; the
long windows with little panes, the pillars, the pews made of oak, the
little hassocks for the people to kneel on, the form of the pulpit
with the sounding-board over it, gracefully carved in flower work. To
you, who have lived all your lives in populous places, and have been
taken to church from the earliest time you can remember, my admiration
of these things must appear strangely ignorant. But I was a lonely
young creature, that had been brought up in remote places, where there
was neither church nor churchgoing inhabitants. I have since lived in
great towns, and seen the ways of churches and of worship, and I am
old enough now to distinguish between what is essential in religion,
and what is merely formal or ornamental.

When my father had done pointing out to me the things most worthy of
notice about the church, the service was almost ready to begin; the
parishioners had most of them entered, and taken their seats; and we
were shewn into a pew where my mother was already seated. Soon after
the clergyman entered, and the organ began to play what is called
the voluntary. I had never seen so many people assembled before. At
first I thought that all eyes were upon me, and that because I was
a stranger. I was terribly ashamed and confused at first; but my
mother helped me to find out the places in the Prayer-book, and
being busy about that, took off some of my painful apprehensions. I
was no stranger to the order of the service, having often read in a
Prayer-book at home; but my thoughts being confused, it puzzled me a
little to find out the responses and other things, which I thought I
knew so well; but I went through it tolerably well. One thing which
has often troubled me since, is, that I am afraid I was too full of
myself, and of thinking how happy I was, and what a privilege it was
for one that was so young, to join in the service with so many grown
people, so that I did not attend enough to the instruction which I
might have received. I remember, I foolishly applied every thing that
was said to myself, so as it could mean nobody but myself, I was so
full of my own thoughts. All that assembly of people, seemed to me as
if they were come together only to shew me the way of a church. Not
but I received some very affecting impressions from some things which
I heard that day; but the standing up and the sitting down of the
people; the organ; the singing;--the way of all these things took up
more of my attention than was proper; or I thought it did. I believe
I behaved better and was more serious when I went a second time, and
a third time; for now we went as a regular thing every Sunday, and
continued to do so, till, by a still further change for the better in
my father's circumstances, we removed to London. Oh! it was a happy
day for me my first going to St. Mary's church: before that day I used
to feel like a little outcast in the wilderness, like one that did
not belong to the world of Christian people. I have never felt like a
little outcast since. But I never can hear the sweet noise of bells,
that I don't think of the angels singing, and what poor but pretty
thoughts I had of angels in my uninstructed solitude.




X

ARABELLA HARDY

(_By Charles Lamb_)


I was born in the East Indies. I lost my father and mother young. At
the age of five my relations thought it proper that I should be sent
to England for my education. I was to be entrusted to the care of a
young woman who had a character for great humanity and discretion; but
just as I had taken leave of my friends, and we were about to take our
passage, the young woman was taken suddenly ill, and could not go on
board. In this unpleasant emergency, no one knew how to act. The ship
was at the very point of sailing, and it was the last ship which was
to sail that season. At last the captain, who was known to my friends,
prevailed upon my relation who had come with us to see us embark,
to leave the young woman on shore, and to let me embark separately.
There was no possibility of getting any other female attendant for me,
in the short time allotted for our preparation; and the opportunity
of going by that ship was thought too valuable to be lost. No other
ladies happened to be going; so I was consigned to the care of the
captain and his crew,--rough and unaccustomed attendants for a young
creature, delicately brought up as I had been; but indeed they did
their best to make me not feel the difference. The unpolished sailors
were my nursery-maids and my waiting-women. Every thing was done by
the captain and the men, to accommodate me, and make me easy. I had
a little room made out of the cabin, which was to be considered as
my room, and nobody might enter into it. The first mate had a great
character for bravery, and all sailor-like accomplishments; but with
all this he had a gentleness of manners, and a pale feminine cast of
face, from ill health and a weakly constitution, which subjected him
to some little ridicule from the officers, and caused him to be named
Betsy. He did not much like the appellation, but he submitted to it
the better, as he knew that those who gave him a woman's name, well
knew that he had a man's heart, and that in the face of danger he
would go as far as any man. To this young man, whose real name was
Charles Atkinson, by a lucky thought of the captain, the care of me
was especially entrusted. Betsy was proud of his charge, and, to do
him justice, acquitted himself with great diligence and adroitness
through the whole of the voyage. From the beginning I had somehow
looked upon Betsy as a woman, hearing him so spoken of, and this
reconciled me in some measure to the want of a maid, which I had been
used to. But I was a manageable girl at all times, and gave nobody
much trouble.

I have not knowledge enough to give an account of my voyage, or to
remember the names of the seas we passed through, or the lands which
we touched upon, in our course. The chief thing I can remember, for I
do not remember the events of the voyage in any order, was Atkinson
taking me up on deck, to see the great whales playing about in the
sea. There was one great whale came bounding up out of the sea, and
then he would dive into it again, and then would come up at a distance
where nobody expected him, and another whale was following after him.
Atkinson said they were at play, and that that lesser whale loved that
bigger whale, and kept it company all through the wide seas: but I
thought it strange play, and a frightful kind of love; for I every
minute expected they would come up to our ship and toss it. But
Atkinson said a whale was a gentle creature, and it was a sort of
sea-elephant, and that the most powerful creatures in nature are
always the least hurtful. And he told me how men went out to take
these whales, and stuck long, pointed darts into them; and how the sea
was discoloured with the blood of these poor whales for many miles
distance: and I admired at the courage of the men, but I was sorry
for the inoffensive whale. Many other pretty sights he used to shew
me, when he was not on watch, or doing some duty for the ship. No one
was more attentive to his duty than he; but at such times as he had
leisure, he would shew me all pretty sea sights:--the dolphins and
porpoises that came before a storm, and all the colours which the sea
changed to; how sometimes it was a deep blue, and then a deep green,
and sometimes it would seem all on fire: all these various appearances
he would shew me, and attempt to explain the reason of them to me,
as well as my young capacity would admit of. There was a lion and a
tiger on board, going to England as a present to the king, and it
was a great diversion to Atkinson and me, after I had got rid of my
first terrors, to see the ways of these beasts in their dens, and how
venturous the sailors were in putting their hands through the grates,
and patting their rough coats. Some of the men had monkeys, which ran
loose about, and the sport was for the men to lose them, and find them
again. The monkeys would run up the shrouds, and pass from rope to
rope, with ten times greater alacrity than the most experienced sailor
could follow them; and sometimes they would hide themselves in the
most unthought-of places, and when they were found, they would grin,
and make mouths as if they had sense. Atkinson described to me the
ways of these little animals in their native woods, for he had seen
them. Oh, how many ways he thought of to amuse me in that long voyage!

Sometimes he would describe to me the odd shapes and varieties of
fishes that were in the sea, and tell me tales of the sea-monsters
that lay hid at the bottom, and were seldom seen by men; and what a
glorious sight it would be, if our eyes could be sharpened to behold
all the inhabitants of the sea at once, swimming in the great deeps,
as plain as we see the gold and silver fish in a bowl of glass. With
such notions he enlarged my infant capacity to take in many things.

When in foul weather I have been terrified at the motion of the
vessel, as it rocked backwards and forwards, he would still my fears,
and tell me that I used to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that
the sea was God's bed, and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe
in that greater motion, as when we felt that lesser one in our little
wooden sleeping-places. When the wind was up, and sang through the
sails, and disturbed me with its violent clamours, he would call it
music, and bid me hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted
my tender apprehensions. When I have looked around with a mournful
face at seeing all _men_ about me, he would enter into my thoughts,
and tell me pretty stories of his mother and his sisters, and a female
cousin that he loved better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny,
and say that when we got to England I should go and see them, and how
fond Jenny would be of his little daughter, as he called me; and with
these images of women and females which he raised in my fancy, he
quieted me for a time. One time, and never but once, he told me that
Jenny had promised to be his wife if ever he came to England, but that
he had his doubts whether he should live to get home, for he was very
sickly. This made me cry bitterly.

That I dwell so long upon the attentions of this Atkinson, is only
because his death, which happened just before we got to England,
affected me so much, that he alone of all the ship's crew has
engrossed my mind ever since; though indeed the captain and all
were singularly kind to me, and strove to make up for my uneasy and
unnatural situation. The boatswain would pipe for my diversion, and
the sailor-boy would climb the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough
foremastman would never willingly appear before me, till he had combed
his long black hair smooth and sleek, not to terrify me. The officers
got up a sort of play for my amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they
called him, Betsy, acted the heroine of the piece. All ways that could
be contrived, were thought upon, to reconcile me to my lot. I was the
universal favourite;--I do not know how deservedly; but I suppose it
was because I was alone, and there was no female in the ship besides
me. Had I come over with female relations or attendants, I should have
excited no particular curiosity; I should have required no uncommon
attentions. I was one little woman among a crew of men; and I believe
the homage which I have read that men universally pay to women, was in
this case directed to me, in the absence of all other woman-kind. I do
not know how that might be, but I was a little princess among them,
and I was not six years old.

I remember the first draw-back which happened to my comfort, was
Atkinson's not appearing during the whole of one day. The captain
tried to reconcile me to it, by saying that Mr. Atkinson was confined
to his cabin;--that he was not quite well, but a day or two would
restore him. I begged to be taken in to see him, but this was not
granted. A day, and then another came, and another, and no Atkinson
was visible, and I saw apparent solicitude in the faces of all the
officers, who nevertheless strove to put on their best countenances
before me, and to be more than usually kind to me. At length, by the
desire of Atkinson himself, as I have since learned, I was permitted
to go into his cabin and see him. He was sitting up, apparently in a
state of great exhaustion, but his face lighted up when he saw me, and
he kissed me, and told me that he was going a great voyage, far longer
than that which we had passed together, and he should never come back;
and though I was so young, I understood well enough that he meant this
of his death, and I cried sadly; but he comforted me and told me, that
I must be his little executrix, and perform his last will, and bear
his last words to his mother and his sister, and to his cousin Jenny,
whom I should see in a short time; and he gave me his blessing, as
a father would bless his child, and he sent a last kiss by me to all
his female relations, and he made me promise that I would go and see
them when I got to England, and soon after this he died; but I was
in another part of the ship when he died, and I was not told it till
we got to shore, which was a few days after; but they kept telling me
that he was better and better, and that I should soon see him, but
that it disturbed him to talk with any one. Oh, what a grief it was,
when I learned that I had lost my old ship-mate, that had made an
irksome situation so bearable by his kind assiduities; and to think
that he was gone, and I could never repay him for his kindness!

When I had been a year and a half in England, the captain, who
had made another voyage to India and back, thinking that time had
alleviated a little the sorrow of Atkinson's relations, prevailed upon
my friends who had the care of me in England, to let him introduce me
to Atkinson's mother and sister. Jenny was no more; she had died in
the interval, and I never saw her. Grief for his death had brought on
a consumption, of which she lingered about a twelvemonth, and then
expired. But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young
man, I have found the most valuable friends which I possess on this
side the great ocean. They received me from the captain as the little
_protégée_ of Atkinson, and from them I have learned passages of his
former life, and this in particular, that the illness of which he died
was brought on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which he
got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend his
captain against a superior force of the enemy which had boarded him,
and which, by his premature valour inspiriting the men, they finally
succeeded in repulsing. This was that Atkinson, who, from his
pale and feminine appearance, was called Betsy. This was he whose
womanly care of me got him the name of a woman, who, with more than
female attention, condescended to play the hand-maid to a little
unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough
sea captain, and his rougher crew.




THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS


[Illustration]

  Showing how notably
  the Queen made her tarts,
  and how scurvily
  the Knave stole them away,
  with other particulars belonging thereunto

Printed for Thomas Hodgkins Hanway Street November 18 1805.

[Illustration: _The Queen of Hearts_]

  High on a Throne of state is seen
  She whom all Hearts own for their Queen.
  Three Pages are in waiting by;
  He with the umbrella is her Spy,
  To spy out rogueries in the dark,
  And smell a rat as you shall mark.

[Illustration: _She made some Tarts_]

  The Queen here by the King's commands,
  Who does not like Cook's dirty hands,
  Makes the court-pastry all herself.
  Pambo the knave, that roguish elf,
  Watches each sugary sweet ingredient,
  And slily thinks of an expedient.

[Illustration: _All on a Summer's day_]

  Now first of May does summer bring,
  How bright and fine is every thing!
  After their dam the chickens run,
  The green leaves glitter in the sun,
  While youths and maids in merry dance
  Round rustic maypoles do advance.

[Illustration: _The Knave of Hearts_]

  When Kings and Queens ariding go,
  Great Lords ride with them for a show
  With grooms & courtiers, a great store;
  Some ride behind, & some before.
  Pambo the first of these does pass,
  And for more state rides on an Ass.

[Illustration: _He stole those Tarts_]

  Thieves! Thieves! holla, you knavish Jack,
  Cannot the good Queen turn her back,
  But you must be so nimble hasty
  To come and steal away her pastry
  You think you're safe, there's one fees all,
  And understands, though he's but small

[Illustration: _And took them quite away_]

  How like a thievish Jack he looks!
  I wish for my part all the cooks
  Would come and baste him with a ladle
  As long as ever they were able,
  To keep his fingers ends from itching
  After sweet things in the Queen's kitchen.

[Illustration: _The King of Hearts_]

  Behold the King of Hearts how gruff
  The monarch stands, how square, how bluff!
  When our eighth Harry rul'd this land,
  Just like this King did Harry stand;
  And just so amorous, sweet, and willing,
  As this Queen stands, stood Anna Bullen.

[Illustration: _Call'd for those Tarts_]

  The meat removed and dinner done,
  The knives are wip'd and cheese put on.
  The King aloud for Tarts does bawl,
  Tarts, tarts, resound through all the Hall.
  Pambo with tears denies the Fact,
  But Mungo saw him in the act.

[Illustration: _And beat the Knave full sore_]

  Behold the due reward of sin,
  See what a plight rogue Pambo's in.
  The King lays on his blows so stout,
  The Tarts for fear come tumbling out
  O King! be merciful as just,
  You'll beat poor Pambo into dust

[Illustration: _The Knave of Hearts_]

  How like he looks to a dog that begs
  In abject sort upon two legs!
  Good Mr. Knave, give me my due,
  I like a tart as well as you,
  But I would starve on good roast Beef,
  Ere I would look so like a thief.

[Illustration: _Brought back those Tarts_]

  The Knave brings back the tarts he stole.
  The Queen swears, that is not the whole.
  What should poor Pambo do? hard prest
  Owns he has eaten up the rest.
  The King takes back, as lawful debt,
  Not all, but all that he can get.

[Illustration: _And vow'd he'd steal no more_]

  Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor
  Vows he will be a thief no more.
  O King your heart no longer harden,
  You've got the tarts, give him his pardon.
  The best time to forgive a sinner
  Is always after a good dinner.

[Illustration]

  "How say you Sir? tis all a joke--
  Great Kings love tarts like other folk!"
  If for a truth you'll not receive it,
  Pray, view the picture, and believe it.
  Sly Pambo too has got a share,
  And eats it snug behind the chair.

[Illustration]

  Their Majesties so well have fed,
  The tarts have got up in their head.
  "Or may be 'twas the wine!"--hush, gipsey!
  Great Kings & Queens indeed get tipsey!
  Now, Pambo, is the time for you:
  Beat little Tell-Tale black & blue.




POETRY FOR CHILDREN

(_1808-1809. Text of 1809_)


ENVY

  This rose-tree is not made to bear
  The violet blue, nor lily fair,
    Nor the sweet mignionet:
  And if this tree were discontent,
  Or wish'd to change its natural bent,
    It all in vain would fret.

  And should it fret, you would suppose
  It ne'er had seen its own red rose,
    Nor after gentle shower
  Had ever smell'd it rose's scent,
  Or it could ne'er be discontent
    With its own pretty flower.

  Like such a blind and senseless tree
  As I've imagin'd this to be,
    All envious persons are:
  With care and culture all may find
  Some pretty flower in their own mind,
    Some talent that is rare.



THE REAPER'S CHILD

  If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind
    The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass,
  Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find,
    Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

  While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping;
    Not the basket that holds the provision is less
  By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper,
    Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

  Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries,
    Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear;
  She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling,
    And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

  When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter,
    You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee;
  So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her
    Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.


THE RIDE

  Lately an Equipage I overtook,
  And help'd to lift it o'er a narrow brook.
  No horse it had except one boy, who drew
  His sister out in it the fields to view.
  O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going
  For the first time to see the green grass growing.
  This was the end and purport of the ride
  I learn'd, as walking slowly by their side
  I heard their conversation. Often she--
  "Brother, is this the country that I see?"
  The bricks were smoking, and the ground was broke,
  There were no signs of verdure when she spoke.
  He, as the well-inform'd delight in chiding
  The ignorant, these questions still deriding,
  To his good judgment modestly she yields;
  Till, brick-kilns past, they reach'd the open fields.
  Then as with rapt'rous wonder round she gazes
  On the green grass, the butter-cups, and daisies,
  "This is the country sure enough," she cries;
  "Is't not a charming place?" The boy replies,
  "We'll go no further." "No," says she, "no need;
  No finer place than this can be indeed."
  I left them gathering flow'rs, the happiest pair
  That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air,




THE BUTTERFLY

SISTER

Do, my dearest brother John,
Let that Butterfly alone.

BROTHER

       What harm now do I do?
You're always making such a noise--

SISTER

O fie, John; none but naughty boys
       Say such rude words as you.

BROTHER

Because you're always speaking sharp:
On the same thing you always harp.
       A bird one may not catch,
Nor find a nest, nor angle neither,
Nor from the peacock pluck a feather,
       But you are on the watch
To moralise and lecture still.

SISTER

And ever lecture, John, I will,
       When such sad things I hear.
But talk not now of what is past;
The moments fly away too fast,
Though endlessly they seem to last
       To that poor soul in fear.

BROTHER

Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose;
But, sister, you talk like a goose,
       There's no soul in a fly.

SISTER

It has a form and fibres fine,
Were temper'd by the hand divine
       Who dwells beyond the sky.
Look, brother, you have hurt its wing--
And plainly by its fluttering
       You see it's in distress,
Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau,
A Butterfly is call'd you know,
       That's always in full dress:
The finest gentleman of all
Insects he is--he gave a Ball,
       You know the Poet wrote.
Let's fancy this the very same,
And then you'll own you've been to blame
       To spoil his silken coat.

BROTHER

Your dancing, spangled, powder'd Beau,
Look, through the air I've let him go:
       And now we're friends again.
As sure as he is in the air,
From this time, Ann, I will take care,
       And try to be humane.


THE PEACH

  Mamma gave us a single Peach,
    She shar'd it among seven;
  Now you may think that unto each
    But a small piece was given.

  Yet though each share was very small,
    We own'd when it was eaten,
  Being so little for us all
    Did its fine flavour heighten.

  The tear was in our parent's eye,
    It seem'd quite out of season;
  When we ask'd wherefore she did cry,
    She thus explain'd the reason.

  "The cause, my children, I may say,
    Was joy, and not dejection;
  The Peach, which made you all so gay,
    Gave rise to this reflection:

  "It's many a mother's lot to share,
    Seven hungry children viewing,
  A morsel of the coarsest fare,
    As I this Peach was doing."


CHUSING A NAME

  I have got a new-born sister;
  I was nigh the first that kiss'd her.
  When the nursing woman brought her
  To Papa, his infant daughter,
  How Papa's dear eyes did glisten!--
  She will shortly be to christen:
  And Papa has made the offer,
  I shall have the naming of her.

  Now I wonder what would please her,
  Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa.
  Ann and Mary, they're too common;
  Joan's too formal for a woman;
  Jane's a prettier name beside;
  But we had a Jane that died.
  They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
  That she was a little Quaker,
  Edith's pretty, but that looks
  Better in old English books;
  Ellen's left off long ago;
  Blanche is out of fashion now.
  None that I have nam'd as yet
  Are so good as Margaret.
  Emily is neat and fine.
  What do you think of Caroline?
  How I'm puzzled and perplext
  What to chuse or think of next!
  I am in a little fever.
  Lest the name that I shall give her
  Should disgrace her or defame her
  I will leave Papa to name her.


CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS

  A bird appears a thoughtless thing,
  He's ever living on the wing,
  And keeps up such a carolling,
  That little else to do but sing
                    A man would guess had he.

  No doubt he has his little cares,
  And very hard he often fares,
  The which so patiently he bears,
  That, list'ning to those cheerful airs,
                      Who knows but he may be

  In want of his next meal of seeds?
  I think for _that_ his sweet song pleads.
  If so, his pretty art succeeds.
  I'll scatter there among the weeds
                    All the small crumbs I see.


THE ROOK AND THE SPARROWS

  A little boy with crumbs of bread
  Many a hungry sparrow fed.
  It was a child of little sense,
  Who this kind bounty did dispense;
  For suddenly it was withdrawn,
  And all the birds were left forlorn,
  In a hard time of frost and snow,
  Not knowing where for food to go.
  He would no longer give them bread,
  Because he had observ'd (he said)
  That sometimes to the window came
  A great blackbird, a rook by name,
  And took away a small bird's share.
  So foolish Henry did not care
  What became of the great rook,
  That from the little sparrows took,
  Now and then, as 'twere by stealth,
  A part of their abundant wealth;
  Nor ever more would feed his sparrows.
  _Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows._
  I wish I had been there; I would
  Have told the child, rooks live by food
  In the same way that sparrows do.
  I also would have told him too,
  Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can
  Attain the rectitude of man.
  Nay that even, when distress
  Does on poor human nature press,
  We need not be too strict in seeing
  The failings of a fellow being.


DISCONTENT AND QUARRELLING

JANE

Miss Lydia every day is drest
Better than I am in my best
       White cambric-muslin frock.
I wish I had one made of clear
Work'd lawn, or leno very dear.--
       And then my heart is broke

Almost to think how cheap my doll
Was bought, when hers cost--yes, cost full
       A pound, it did, my brother;
Nor has she had it weeks quite five,
Yet, 'tis as true as I'm alive,
       She's soon to have another.

ROBERT

O mother, hear my sister Jane,
How foolishly she does complain,
       And teaze herself for nought.
But 'tis the way of all her sex,
Thus foolishly themselves to vex.
       Envy's a female fault.

JANE

O brother Robert, say not so;
It is not very long ago,
       Ah! brother, you've forgot,
When speaking of a boy you knew,
Remember how you said that you
       Envied his happy lot.

ROBERT

Let's see, what were the words I spoke?
Why, may be I was half in joke--
        May be I just might say--
Besides that was not half so bad;
For Jane, I only said he had
       More time than I to play.

JANE

O _may be, may be_, very well:
And may be, brother, I don't tell
       Tales to mamma like you.

MOTHER

O cease your wrangling, cease, my dears;
You would not wake a mother's fears
       Thus, if you better knew.


REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION

JANE

Mamma is displeased and looks very grave,
  And I own, brother, I was to blame
Just now when I told her I wanted to have,
  Like Miss Lydia, a very fine _name_.
'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well,
  When mamma says, "I love my good Jane."
I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell
  If she ever will say so again.

ROBERT

We are each of us foolish, and each of us young,
  And often in fault and to blame.
Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue,
  I acknowledge it now to my shame.
For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made,
  Which reflected upon her whole sex;
And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid
  That this might my dear mother vex.

JANE

But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad
  As that naughty reflection of mine,
When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had
  Dolls and dresses expensive and fine.
For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd;
  Since mamma does provide all I have.

MOTHER

Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd,
  You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane;
And if you never will be naughty again,
  Your fond mother will never look grave.


NEATNESS IN APPAREL

  In your garb and outward clothing
    A reserved plainness use;
  By their neatness more distinguish'd
    Than the brightness of their hues.

  All the colours in the rainbow
    Serve to spread the peacock's train;
  Half the lustre of his feathers
    Would turn twenty coxcombs vain.

  Yet the swan that swims in rivers,
    Pleases the judicious sight;
  Who, of brighter colours heedless,
    Trusts alone to simple white.

  Yet all other hues, compared
    With his whiteness, show amiss;
  And the peacock's coat of colours
    Like a fool's coat looks by his.


THE NEW-BORN INFANT

  Whether beneath sweet beds of roses,
  As foolish little Ann supposes,
  The spirit of a babe reposes
      Before it to the body come;
  Or, as philosophy more wise
  Thinks, it descendeth from the skies,--
      We know the babe's now in the room.

  And that is all which is quite clear,
  Ev'n to philosophy, my dear.
      The God that made us can alone
  Reveal from whence a spirit's brought
  Into young life, to light, and thought;
      And this the wisest man must own.

  We'll now talk of the babe's surprise,
  When first he opens his new eyes,
      And first receives delicious food.
  Before the age of six or seven,
  To mortal children is not given
      Much reason; or I think he would

  (And very naturally) wonder
  What happy star he was born under,
      That he should be the only care
  Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady,
  Who fondly calls him her own baby,
      Her darling hope, her infant heir.


MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS

  The motes up and down in the sun
    Ever restlessly moving we see;
  Whereas the great mountains stand still,
    Unless terrible earthquakes there be.

  If these atoms that move up and down
    Were as useful as restless they are,
  Than a mountain I rather would be
    A mote in the sun-beam so fair.


THE BOY AND SNAKE

  Henry was every morning fed
  With a full mess of milk and bread.
  One day the boy his breakfast took,
  And eat it by a purling brook
  Which through his mother's orchard ran.
  From that time ever when he can
  Escape his mother's eye, he there
  Takes his food in th' open air.
  Finding the child delight to eat
  Abroad, and make the grass his seat,
  His mother lets him have his way.
  With free leave Henry every day
  Thither repairs, until she heard
  Him talking of a fine _grey bird_.
  This pretty bird, he said, indeed,
  Came every day with him to feed,
  And it lov'd him, and lov'd his milk,
  And it was smooth and soft like silk.
  His mother thought she'd go and see
  What sort of bird this same might be.
  So the next morn she follows Harry,
  And carefully she sees him carry
  Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess.
  What was her terror and distress,
  When she saw the infant take
  His bread and milk close to a snake!
  Upon the grass he spreads his feast,
  And sits down by his frightful guest,
  Who had waited for the treat;
  And now they both begin to eat.
  Fond mother! shriek not, O beware
  The least small noise, O have a care--
  The least small noise that may be made,
  The wily snake will be afraid--
  If he hear the lightest sound,
  He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.
  She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe,
  As she stands the trees beneath;
  No sound she utters; and she soon
  Sees the child lift up its spoon,
  And tap the snake upon the head,
  Fearless of harm; and then he said,
  As speaking to familiar mate,
  "Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:"
  The snake then to the other side,
  As one rebuked, seems to glide;
  And now again advancing nigh,
  Again she hears the infant cry,
  Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do;
  Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you."
  The danger's o'er--she sees the boy
  (O what a change from fear to joy!)
  Rise and bid the snake "good-bye;"
  Says he, "Our breakfast's done, and I
  Will come again to-morrow day:"
  Then, lightly tripping, ran away.


THE FIRST TOOTH

SISTER

  Through the house what busy joy,
  Just because the infant boy
  Has a tiny tooth to show.
  I have got a double row,
  All as white, and all as small;
  Yet no one cares for mine at all.
  He can say but half a word,
  Yet that single sound's preferr'd
  To all the words that I can say
  In the longest summer day.
  He cannot walk, yet if he put
  With mimic motion out his foot,
  As if he thought, he were advancing,
  It's prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

  Sister, I know, you jesting are,
  Yet O! of jealousy beware.
  If the smallest seed should be
  In your mind of jealousy,
  It will spring, and it will shoot,
  Till it bear the baneful fruit.
  I remember you, my dear,
  Young as is this infant here.
  There was not a tooth of those
  Your pretty even ivory rows,
  But as anxiously was watched,
  Till it burst its shell new hatched,
  As if it a Phoenix were,
  Or some other wonder rare.
  So when you began to walk--
  So when you began to talk--
  As now, the same encomiums past.
  'Tis not fitting this should last
  Longer than our infant days;
  A child is fed with milk and praise.


TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

(_Text of 1818_)

  Smiling river, smiling river,
    On thy bosom sun-beams play;
  Though they're fleeting and retreating,
    Thou hast more deceit than they.

  In thy channel, in thy channel,
    Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones,
  Deep immersed and unhearsed,
    Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

  Ever whitening, ever whitening,
    As thy waves against them dash;
  What thy torrent, in the current,
    Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

  As if senseless, as if senseless
    Things had feeling in this case;
  What so blindly, and unkindly,
    It destroy'd, it now does grace.


THE FIRST OF APRIL

  "Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head;
    From your blushes I plainly discern,
  You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed,
    I desire that the truth I may learn."

  "O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day
    What an ill-natured thing I have done;
  I persuaded myself it was only in play,
    But such play I in future will shun.

  "The least of the ladies that live at the school,
    Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue,
  Ah! would you believe it? an April fool
    I have made her, and call'd her so too.

  "Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low,
    I have hopes that she might them not hear.
  I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so,
    The instant the school-girls drew near,

  "I presented it with a fine bow to the child,
    And much her acceptance I press'd;
  When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd,
    I never felt half so distress'd.

  "No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there,
    For the paper was white and quite clean,
  And folded up neatly, as if with great care.
    O what a rude boy I have been!

  "Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be,
    Ever since I've done nothing but grieve.
  If a thousand young ladies a walking I see,
    I will never another deceive."


CLEANLINESS

  Come my little Robert near--
  Fie! what filthy hands are here--
  Who that e'er could understand
  The rare structure of a hand,
  With its branching fingers fine,
  Work itself of hands divine,
  Strong, yet delicately knit,
  For ten thousand uses fit,
  Overlaid with so clear skin
  You may see the blood within,
  And the curious palm, disposed
  In such lines, some have supposed
  You may read the fortunes there
  By the figures that appear--
  Who this hand would chuse to cover
  With a crust of dirt all over,
  Till it look'd in hue and shape
  Like the fore-foot of an Ape?
  Man or boy that works or plays
  In the fields or the highways
  May, without offence or hurt,
  From the soil contract a dirt,
  Which the next clear spring or river
  Washes out and out for ever--
  But to cherish stains impure,
  Soil deliberate to endure,
  On the skin to fix a stain
  Till it works into the grain,
  Argues a degenerate mind,
  Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd,
  Wanting in that self-respect
  Which does virtue best protect.

    All-endearing Cleanliness,
  Virtue next to Godliness,
  Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty,
  To the body health and beauty,
  Who that's human would refuse it,
  When a little water does it?


THE LAME BROTHER

  My parents sleep both in one grave;
    My only friend's a brother.
  The dearest things upon the earth
    We are to one another.

  A fine stout boy I knew him once,
    With active form and limb;
  Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran,
    O I was proud of him!

  He leap'd too far, he got a hurt,
    He now does limping go.--
  When I think on his active days,
    My heart is full of woe.

  He leans on me, when we to school
    Do every morning walk;
  I cheer him on his weary way,
    He loves to hear my talk:

  The theme of which is mostly this,
    What things he once could do.
  He listens pleas'd--then sadly says,
    "Sister, I lean on you."

  Then I reply, "Indeed you're not
    Scarce any weight at all.--
  And let us now still younger years
    To memory recall.

  "Led by your little elder hand,
    I learn'd to walk alone;
  Careful you us'd to be of me,
    My little brother John.

  "How often, when my young feet tir'd,
    You've carried me a mile!--
  And still together we can sit,
    And rest a little while.

  "For our kind master never minds,
    If we're the very last;
  He bids us never tire ourselves
    With walking on too fast."


GOING INTO BREECHES

  Joy to Philip, he this day
  Has his long coats cast away,
  And (the childish season gone)
  Puts the manly breeches on.
  Officer on gay parade,
  Red-coat in his first cockade,
  Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
  Birthday beau surpassing him,
  Never did with conscious gait
  Strut about in half the state,
  Or the pride (yet free from sin)
  Of my little MANIKIN:
  Never was there pride, or bliss,
  Half so rational as his.
  Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em--
  Philip's limbs have got their freedom--
  He can run, or he can ride,
  And do twenty things beside,
  Which his petticoats forbad:
  Is he not a happy lad?
  Now he's under other banners,
  He must leave his former manners;
  Bid adieu to female games,
  And forget their very names,
  Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek,
  Sports for girls and punies weak!
  Baste the Bear he now may play at,
  Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at,
  Show his skill and strength at Cricket,
  Mark his distance, pitch his wicket,
  Run about in winter's snow
  Till his cheeks and fingers glow,
  Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
  Without any fear to fall.
  If he get a hurt or bruise,
  To complain he must refuse,
  Though the anguish and the smart
  Go unto his little heart,
  He must have his courage ready,
  Keep his voice and visage steady,
  Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum,
  That a tear may never come,
  And his grief must only speak
  From the colour in his cheek.
  This and more he must endure,
  Hero he in miniature!
  This and more must now be done
  Now the breeches are put on.


NURSING

  O hush, my little baby brother;
    Sleep, my love, upon my knee.
  What though, dear child, we've lost our mother;
    That can never trouble thee.

  You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
    What can you know of our loss?
  The house is full enough of sorrow.
    Little baby, don't be cross.

  Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
    Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.--
  He's quiet now, he does not move,
    Fast asleep is little Will.

  My only solace, only joy,
    Since the sad day I lost my mother,
  Is nursing her own Willy boy,
    My little orphan brother.


THE TEXT

  One Sunday eve a grave old man,
    Who had not been at church, did say,
  "Eliza, tell me, if you can,
    What text our Doctor took to-day?"

  She hung her head, she blush'd for shame,
    One single word she did not know,
  Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
    Her silent blushes told him so.

  Again said he, "My little maid,
    What in the sermon did you hear;
  Come tell me that, for that may aid
    Me to find out the text, my dear."

  A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
    She wish'd she better had attended;
  She sobbing said, when she could speak,
    She heard not till 'twas almost ended.

  "Ah! little heedless one, why what
    Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
  Some foolish fancies must have got
    Possession of your head, my dear.

  "What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
    Nor seek from me the truth to smother."--
  "O I remember very well,
    I whisper'd something to my brother.

  "I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
    We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,--
  Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
    Yet I repeated these words o'er

  "Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt.
    But here comes William, and if he
  The good things he has heard about
    Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."

  "No, Sir," said William, "though perplext
    And much disturbed by my sister,
  I in this matter of the text,
    I thank my memory, can assist her.

  "I have, and pride myself on having,
    A more retentive head than she."--
  Then gracefully his right hand waving,
    He with no little vanity

  Recited gospel, chapter, verse--
    I should be loth to spoil in metre
  All the good words he did rehearse,
    As spoken by our Lord to Peter.

  But surely never words from heaven
    Of peace and love more full descended;
  That we should seventy times seven
    Forgive our brother that offended.

  In every point of view he plac'd it,
    As he the Doctor's self had been,
  With emphasis and action grac'd it:
    But from his self-conceit 'twas seen

  Who had brought home the words, and who had
    A little on the meaning thought;
  Eliza now the old man knew had
    Learn'd that which William never caught.

  Without impeaching William's merit,
    His head but served him for the letter,
  Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit;
    Her memory to her heart was debtor.


THE END OF MAY

  "Our Governess is not in school,
    So we may talk a bit;
  Sit down upon this little stool,
    Come, little Mary, sit:

  "And, my dear play-mate, tell me why
    In dismal black you're drest?
  Why does the tear stand in your eye?
    With sobs why heaves your breast?

  "When we're in grief, it gives relief
    Our sorrows to impart;
  When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
    'Twill ease your little heart."

  "O, it is trouble very bad
    Which causes me to weep;
  All last night long we were so sad,
    Not one of us could sleep.

  "Beyond the seas my father went,
    'Twas very long ago;
  And he last week a letter sent
    (I told you so, you know)

  "That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
    And we should see him soon,
  Either the latter end of May,
    Or by the first of June.

  "The end of May was yesterday,
    We all expected him;
  And in our best clothes we were drest,
    Susan, and I, and Jim.

  "O how my poor dear mother smil'd,
    And clapt her hands for joy;
  She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
    And Susan, and my boy.

  "'Come all, and let us think,' said she,
    'What we can do to please
  Your father, for to-day will he
    Come home from off the seas.

  "'That you have won, my dear young son,
    A prize at school, we'll tell,
  Because you can, my little man,
    In writing all excel;

  "'And you have made a poem, nearly
    All of your own invention:
  Will not your father love you dearly,
    When this to him I mention?

  "'Your sister Mary, she can say
    Your poetry by heart;
  And to repeat your verses may
    Be little Mary's part,

  "'Susan, for you, I'll say you do
    Your needlework with care,
  And stitch so true the wristbands new,
    Dear father's soon to wear!'

  "'O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
    'Tis like a seaman's voice.'--
  Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
    How did we all rejoice!

  "'My husband's come!' 'My father's here!
    But O, alas, it was not so;
      It was not as we said:
  A stranger seaman did appear,
  On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
    For he brought to us a tale of woe,
      Our father dear was dead."


FEIGNED COURAGE

  Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
  Was flourishing in air his father's cane,
  And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate,
  Now thought himself _this_ Hero, and now _that_:
  "And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be;
  My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee.
  Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade
  A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made!
  And now by deeds still braver I'll evince,
  I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.--
  Give way, ye coward French:--" as thus he spoke,
  And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke
  To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers;
  (The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears)
  He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
  Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
  Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
  That in the tented field so late was shown!
  Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head,
  And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.


THE BROKEN DOLL

  An infant is a selfish sprite;
  But what of that? the sweet delight
  Which from participation springs,
  Is quite unknown to these young things.
  We elder children then will smile
  At our dear little John awhile,
  And bear with him, until he see
  There is a sweet felicity
  In pleasing more than only one
  Dear little craving selfish John.

    He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke,
  That he our new wax doll has broke.
  Anger will never teach him better;
  We will the spirit and the letter
  Of courtesy to him display,
  By taking in a friendly way
  These baby frolics, till he learn
  True sport from mischief to discern.

    Reproof a parent's province is;
  A sister's discipline is this,
  By studied kindness to effect
  A little brother's young respect.
  What is a doll? a fragile toy.
  What is its loss? if the dear boy,
  Who half perceives he's done amiss,
  Retain impression of the kiss
  That follow'd instant on his cheek;
  If the kind loving words we speak
  Of "Never mind it," "We forgive,"
  If these in his short memory live
  Only perchance for half a day--
  Who minds a doll--if that should lay
  The first impression in his mind
  That sisters are to brothers kind?
  For thus the broken doll may prove
  Foundation to fraternal love.


THE DUTY OF A BROTHER

  Why on your sister do you look,
    Octavius, with an eye of scorn,
  As scarce her presence you could brook?--
    Under one roof you both were born.

  Why, when she gently proffers speech,
    Do you ungently turn your head?
  Since the same sire gave life to each;
    With the same milk ye both were fed.

  Such treatment to a female, though
    A perfect stranger she might be,
  From you would most unmanly show;
    In you to her 'tis worse to see.

  When any ill-bred boys offend her,
    Showing their manhood by their sneers,
  It is your business to defend her
    'Gainst their united taunts and jeers.

  And not to join the illiberal crew
    In their contempt of female merit;
  What's bad enough in them, from you
    Is want of goodness, want of spirit.

  What if your rougher out-door sports
    Her less robustious spirits daunt;
  And if she join not the resorts,
    Where you and your wild playmates haunt:

  Her milder province is at home;
    When your diversions have an end,
  When over-toil'd from play you come,
    You'll find in her an in-doors friend.

  Leave not your sister to another;
    As long as both of you reside
  In the same house, who but her brother
    Should point her books, her studies guide?

  If Nature, who allots our cup,
    Than her has made you stronger, wiser;
  It is that you, as you grow up,
    Should be her champion, her adviser.

  It is the law that Hand intends,
    Which fram'd diversity of sex;
  The man the woman still defends,
    The manly boy the girl protects.


WASPS IN A GARDEN

  The wall-trees are laden with fruit;
    The grape, and the plum, and the pear,
  The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit
    Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there.

  Yet all are not welcome to taste
    These kind bounties of nature; for one
  From her open-spread table must haste,
    To make room for a more favour'd son:

  As that wasp will soon sadly perceive,
    Who has feasted awhile on a plum;
  And, his thirst thinking now to relieve,
    For a sweet liquid draught he is come.

  He peeps in the narrow-mouth'd glass,
    Which depends from a branch of the tree;
  He ventures to creep down,--alas!
    To be drown'd in that delicate sea.

  "Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right,
    These glass bottles are hung upon trees:
  'Midst a scene of inviting delight,
    Should we find such mementoes as these?"

  "From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw
    A lesson, for look at that bee;
  Compar'd with the wasp which you saw,
    He will teach us what we ought to be.

  "He in safety industriously plies
    His sweet honest work all the day,
  Then home with his earnings he flies;
    Nor in thieving his time wastes away."--

  "O hush, nor with _fables_ deceive,"
    I replied; "which, though pretty, can ne'er
  Make me cease for that insect to grieve,
    Who in agony still does appear.

  "If a _simile_ ever you need,
    You are welcome to make a wasp do;
  But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed
    With things that are serious and true."


WHAT IS FANCY?

  SISTER

  I am to write three lines, and you
  Three others that will rhyme.
  There--now I've done my task.

  BROTHER

  Three stupid lines as e'er I knew.
  When you've the pen next time,
  Some Question of me ask.

  SISTER

  Then tell me, brother, and pray mind,
  Brother, you tell me true:
  What sort of thing is _fancy_?

  BROTHER

  By all that I can ever find,
  'Tis something that is very new,
  And what no dunces _can see_.

  SISTER

  That is not half the way to tell
  What _fancy_ is about;
  So pray now tell me more.

  BROTHER

  Sister, I think 'twere quite as well
  That you should find it out;
  So think the matter o'er.

  SISTER

  It's what comes in our heads when we
  Play at "Let's make believe,"
  And when we play at "Guessing."

  BROTHER

  And I have heard it said to be
  A talent often makes us grieve,
  And sometimes proves a blessing.


ANGER

  Anger in its time and place
  May assume a kind of grace.
  It must have some reason in it,
  And not last beyond a minute.
  If to further lengths it go,
  It does into malice grow.
  'Tis the difference that we see
  'Twixt the Serpent and the Bee.
  If the latter you provoke,
  It inflicts a hasty stroke,
  Puts you to some little pain,
  But it _never stings again_.
  Close in tufted bush or brake
  Lurks the poison-swelled snake,
  Nursing up his cherish'd wrath.
  In the purlieus of his path,
  In the cold, or in the warm,
  Mean him good, or mean him harm,
  Whensoever fate may bring you,
  The vile snake will _always sting you_.


BLINDNESS

  In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be,
    A little quiet girl my notice caught;
  I saw she look'd at nothing by the way,
    Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought.

  I with an old man's courtesy address'd
    The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid
  And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
    The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said,

  "I cannot see the prospect, I am blind."
    Never did tongue of child utter a sound
  So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
    Her mother then related how she found

  Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day
    She saw her lay her needlework aside,
  And, as on such occasions mothers will,
    For leaving off her work began to chide.

  "I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please;
    I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night."
  The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
    And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light.


THE MIMIC HARLEQUIN

  "I'll _make believe_, and fancy something strange:
  I will suppose I have the power to change
  And make all things unlike to what they were,
  To jump through windows and fly through the air,
  And quite confound all places and all times,
  Like Harlequins we see in Pantomimes.
  These thread-papers my wooden sword must be,
  Nothing more like one I at present see.
  And now all round this drawing-room I'll range
  And every thing I look at I will change.
  Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird;
  To a Poll Parrot she is now transferr'd.
  Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage
  To whisk this little bag into a cage;
  And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it,
  Another change I'll shew you in a minute."

  "O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?
  There never was so mischievous a son.
  You've put the cat among my work, and torn
  A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."


WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK

  My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see,
  They seem for any use to be unfit for me.
  My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
  Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd.
  Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look;
  I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!
  The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take,
  And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
  And every day I will set down in order due,
  How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
  At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight,
  If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
  If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright,
  Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
  And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.


MEMORY

  "For gold could Memory be bought,
    What treasures would she not be worth!
  If from afar she could be brought,
    I'd travel for her through the earth!"

  This exclamation once was made
    By one who had obtain'd the name
  Of young forgetful Adelaide:
    And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.

  If Memory indeed it were,
    Or such it only feign'd to be--
  A female figure came to her,
    Who said, "My name is Memory:

  "Gold purchases in me no share,
    Nor do I dwell in distant land;
  Study, and thought, and watchful care,
    In every place may me command.

  "I am not lightly to be won;
    A visit only now I make:
  And much must by yourself be done,
    Ere me you for an inmate take.

  "The only substitute for me
    Was ever found, is call'd a pen:
  The frequent use of that will be
    The way to make me come again."


THE REPROOF

  Mamma heard me with scorn and pride
  A wretched beggar boy deride.
  "Do you not know," said I, "how mean
  It is to be thus begging seen?
  If for a week I were not fed,
  I'm sure I would not beg my bread."
  And then away she saw me stalk
  With a most self-important walk.
  But meeting her upon the stairs,
  All these my consequential airs
  Were chang'd to an entreating look.
  "Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book,
  Mamma, you promis'd I should have."
  The Pocket Book to me she gave;
  After reproof and counsel sage,
  She bade me write in the first page
  This naughty action all in rhyme;
  No food to have until the time,
  In writing fair and neatly worded,
  The unfeeling fact I had recorded.
  Slow I compose, and slow I write;
  And now I feel keen hunger bite.
  My mother's pardon I entreat,
  And beg she'll give me food to eat.
  Dry bread would be received with joy
  By her repentant Beggar Boy.


THE TWO BEES

  But a few words could William say,
    And those few could not speak plain.
  Yet thought he was a man one day;
    Never saw I a boy so vain.

  From what could vanity proceed
    In such a little lisping lad?
  Or was it vanity indeed?
    Or was he only very glad?

  For he without his maid may go
    To the heath with elder boys,
  And pluck ripe berries where they grow:
    Well may William then rejoice.

  Be careful of your little charge;
    Elder boys, let him not rove;
  The heath is wide, the heath is large,
    From your sight he must not move.

  But rove he did: they had not been
    One short hour the heath upon,
  When he was no where to be seen;
    "Where," said they, "is William gone?"

  Mind not the elder boys' distress;
    Let them run, and let them fly.
  Their own neglect and giddiness
    They are justly suffering by.

  William his little basket fill'd
    With his berries ripe and red;
  Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd,
    Under foot he stamp'd them dead.

  William had cours'd them o'er the heath,
    After them his steps did wander;
  When he was nearly out of breath,
    The last bee his foot was under.

  A cruel triumph, which did not
    Last but for a moment's space,
  For now he finds that he has got
    Out of sight of every face.

  What are the berries now to him?
    What the bees which he hath slain?
  Fear now possesses every limb,
    He cannot trace his steps again.

  The poor bees William had affrighted
    In more terror did not haste,
  Than he from bush to bush, benighted
    And alone amid the waste.

  Late in the night the child was found:
    He who these two bees had crush'd
  Was lying on the cold damp ground,
    Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

  A fever follow'd from the fright,
    And from sleeping in the dew;
  He many a day and many a night
    Suffer'd ere he better grew.

  His aching limbs while sick he lay
    Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain;
  Oft would he to his mother say,
    "I ne'er will kill a bee again."


THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

  O what a joyous joyous day
    Is that on which we come
  At the recess from school away,
    Each lad to his own home!

  What though the coach is crammed full,
    The weather very warm;
  Think you a boy of us is dull,
    Or feels the slightest harm?

  The dust and sun is life and fun;
    The hot and sultry weather
  A higher zest gives every breast,
    Thus jumbled all together.

  Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud,
    Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.
  Who is so buoyant, free, and proud,
    As we home-travellers are?

  But sad, but sad is every lad
    That day on which we come,
  That last last day on which away
    We all come from our home.

  The coach too full is found to be:
    Why is it crammed thus?
  Now every one can plainly see
    There's not half room for us.

  Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
    This hot and sultry weather,
  Who but our master is to blame,
    Who pack'd us thus together!

  Now dust and sun does every one
    Most terribly annoy;
  Complaints begun, soon every one
    Elbows his neighbour boy.

  Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
    We shout not now huzzah;
  A sadder group may not be found
    Than we returning are.


THE ORANGE

  The month was June, the day was hot,
  And Philip had an orange got.
  The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
  Refreshing to the smell and sight;
  Not of that puny size which calls
  Poor customers to common stalls,
  But large and massy, full of juice,
  As any Lima can produce.
  The liquor would, if squeezed out,
  Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--

    The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
  Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
  He turns it round, and longs to drain,
  And with the juice his lips to stain.
  His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
  The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_.
  He from his pocket draws a knife--
  When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
  Which folks experience when they wish,
  Yet scruple to begin a dish,
  And by their hesitation own
  It is too good to eat alone.
  But appetite o'er indecision
  Prevails, and Philip makes incision.
  The melting fruit in quarters came--
  Just then there passed by a dame--
  One of the poorer sort she seem'd,
  As by her garb you would have deem'd--
  Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
  A sickly infant ten months old;
  That from a fever, caught in spring,
  Was slowly then recovering.
  The child, attracted by the view
  Of that fair orange, feebly threw
  A languid look--perhaps the smell
  Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell
  A corresponding sweetness there,
  Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare--
  Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
  Felt healing and restorative--
  For never had the child been grac'd
  To know such dainties by their taste.

    When Philip saw the infant crave,
  He straitway to the mother gave
  His quarter'd orange; nor would stay
  To hear her thanks, but tript away.
  Then to the next clear spring he ran
  To quench his drought, a happy man!


THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

  _Dear Sir, Dear Madam_, or _Dear Friend_,
    With ease are written at the top;
  When those two happy words are penn'd,
    A youthful writer oft will stop,

  And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,
    As if he thinks to find in air
  The wish'd-for following words, or tries
    To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

  But haply all in vain--the next
    Two words may be so long before
  They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
    Gives in despair the matter o'er;

  And when maturer age he sees
    With ready pen so swift inditing,
  With envy he beholds the ease
    Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.

  Courage, young friend; the time may be,
    When you attain maturer age,
  Some young as you are now may see
    You with like ease glide down a page.

  Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor,
    In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
  The welcom'st words in all your letter
    May be those two kind words at top.


THE THREE FRIENDS

(_Text of 1818_)

  Three young maids in friendship met;
  Mary, Martha, Margaret.
  Margaret was tall and fair,
  Martha shorter by a hair;
  If the first excell'd in feature,
  Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
  Mary, though to rival loth,
  In their best gifts equall'd both.
  They a due proportion kept;
  Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
  Margaret joy'd when any good
  She of Martha understood;
  And in sympathy for either
  Mary was outdone by neither.
  Thus far, for a happy space,
  All three ran an even race,
  A most constant friendship proving,
  Equally belov'd and loving;
  All their wishes, joys, the same;
  Sisters only not in name.

    Fortune upon each one smil'd,
  As upon a fav'rite child;
  Well to do and well to see
  Were the parents of all three;
  Till on Martha's father crosses
  Brought a flood of worldly losses,
  And his fortunes rich and great
  Chang'd at once to low estate;
  Under which o'erwhelming blow
  Martha's mother was laid low;
  She a hapless orphan left,
  Of maternal care bereft,
  Trouble following trouble fast,
  Lay in a sick bed at last.

    In the depth of her affliction
  Martha now receiv'd conviction,
  That a true and faithful friend
  Can the surest comfort lend.
  Night and day, with friendship tried,
  Ever constant by her side
  Was her gentle Mary found,
  With a love that knew no bound;
  And the solace she imparted
  Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.

    In this scene of earthly things
  Not one good unmixed springs.
  That which had to Martha proved
  A sweet consolation, moved
  Different feelings of regret
  In the mind of Margaret.
  She, whose love was not less dear,
  Nor affection less sincere
  To her friend, was, by occasion
  Of more distant habitation,
  Fewer visits forc'd to pay her,
  When no other cause did stay her;
  And her Mary living nearer,
  Margaret began to fear her,
  Lest her visits day by day
  Martha's heart should steal away.
  That whole heart she ill could spare her,
  Where till now she'd been a sharer.
  From this cause with grief she pined,
  Till at length her health declined.
  All her chearful spirits flew,
  Fast as Martha gather'd new;
  And her sickness waxed sore,
  Just when Martha felt no more.

  Mary, who had quick suspicion
  Of her alter'd friend's condition,
  Seeing Martha's convalescence
  Less demanded now her presence,
  With a goodness, built on reason,
  Chang'd her measures with the season;
  Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
  Went where she was wanted more;
  All her care and thoughts were set
  Now to tend on Margaret.
  Mary living 'twixt the two,
  From her home could oft'ner go,
  Either of her friends to see,
  Than they could together be.

    Truth explain'd is to suspicion
  Evermore the best physician.
  Soon her visits had the effect;
  All that Margaret did suspect,
  From her fancy vanish'd clean;
  She was soon what she had been,
  And the colour she did lack
  To her faded cheek came back.
  Wounds which love had made her feel,
  Love alone had power to heal.

    Martha, who the frequent visit
  Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
  With impatience waxed cross,
  Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
  All that Mary did confer
  On her friend, thought due to her.
  In her girlish bosom rise
  Little foolish jealousies,
  Which into such rancour wrought,
  She one day for Margaret sought;
  Finding her by chance alone,
  She began, with reasons shown,
  To insinuate a fear
  Whether Mary was sincere;
  Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
  Whence her actions did proceed.
  For herself, she'd long been minded
  Not with outsides to be blinded;
  All that pity and compassion,
  She believ'd was affectation;
  In her heart she doubted whether
  Mary car'd a pin for either.
  She could keep whole weeks at distance,
  And not know of their existence,
  While all things remain'd the same;
  But, when some misfortune came,
  Then she made a great parade
  Of her sympathy and aid,--
  Not that she did really grieve,
  It was only _make-believe_,
  And she car'd for nothing, so
  She might her fine feelings shew,
  And get credit, on her part,
  For a soft and tender heart.

    With such speeches, smoothly made,
  She found methods to persuade
  Margaret (who, being sore
  From the doubts she'd felt before,
  Was prepared for mistrust)
  To believe her reasons just;
  Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
  Which in Mary late she had;
  Made her, in experience' spite,
  Think her friend a hypocrite,
  And resolve, with cruel scoff,
  To renounce and cast her off.

    See how good turns are rewarded!
  She of both is now discarded,
  Who to both had been so late
  Their support in low estate,
  All their comfort, and their stay--
  Now of both is cast away.
  But the league her presence cherish'd,
  Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
  She, that was a link to either,
  To keep them and it together,
  Being gone, the two (no wonder)
  That were left, soon fell asunder;--
  Some civilities were kept,
  But the heart of friendship slept;
  Love with hollow forms was fed,
  But the life of love lay dead:--
  A cold intercourse they held
  After Mary was expell'd.

    Two long years did intervene
  Since they'd either of them seen,
  Or, by letter, any word
  Of their old companion heard,--
  When, upon a day, once walking,
  Of indifferent matters talking,
  They a female figure met;--
  Martha said to Margaret,
  "That young maid in face does carry
  A resemblance strong of Mary."
  Margaret, at nearer sight,
  Own'd her observation right:
  But they did not far proceed
  Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
  She--but ah! how chang'd they view her
  From that person which they knew her!
  Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
  And its matchless beauty marr'd:--
  But enough was left to trace
  Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.
  When her eye did first behold them,
  How they blush'd!--but, when she told them
  How on a sick bed she lay
  Months, while they had kept away,
  And had no inquiries made
  If she were alive or dead;--
  How, for want of a true friend,
  She was brought near to her end,
  And was like so to have died,
  With no friend at her bed-side;--
  How the constant irritation,
  Caus'd by fruitless expectation
  Of their coming, had extended
  The illness, when she might have mended,--
  Then, O then, how did reflection
  Come on them with recollection!
  All that she had done for them,
  How it did their fault condemn!

    But sweet Mary, still the same,
  Kindly eas'd them of their shame;
  Spoke to them with accents bland,
  Took them friendly by the hand;
  Bound them both with promise fast,
  Not to speak of troubles past;
  Made them on the spot declare
  A new league of friendship there;
  Which, without a word of strife,
  Lasted thenceforth long as life.
  Martha now and Margaret
  Strove who most should pay the debt
  Which they ow'd her, nor did vary
  Ever after from their Mary.


ON THE LORD'S PRAYER

  I have taught your young lips the good words to say over,
    Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r,
  And now let me help my dear child to discover
    The meaning of all the good words that are there.
  "Our Father," the same appellation is given
    To a parent on earth, and the parent of all--
  O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven
    Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.

  To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion
    Of it, and with reverence mention the same;
  Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion
    Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.

  His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven,"
    Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe,
  That such grace and favour to us may be given,
    Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.

  "Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension
    May well understand is to pray for our food;
  Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention,
    God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.

  You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven,
    As you forgive those that are done unto you;"
  Before this you say to the God that's in heaven,
    Consider the words which you speak. Are they true?

  If any one has in the past time offended
    Us angry creatures who soon take offence,
  These words in the prayer are surely intended
    To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.

  We pray that "temptations may never assail us,"
    And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find;
  But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us,
    If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.

  "For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,
    For ever and ever," these titles are meant
  To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye:
    And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent.


"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME"

  To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented
    Their children--what fears and what hopes they must feel!
  When this the disciples would fain have prevented,
    Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal.

  Not only free leave to come to him was given,
    But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake,
  "Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:"
    The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake.

  With joy then the parents their children brought nigher,
    And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay
  On their heads; and they made a petition still higher,
    That he for a blessing upon them would pray.

  O happy young children, thus brought to adore him,
    To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face;
  No doubt now in heaven they still are before him,
    Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.

  For being so blest as to come to our Saviour,
    How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink!
  'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour
    Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.


THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY

A FABLE

  When the arts in their infancy were,
    In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
  A wise Magpye constructed that rare
    Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.

  This was talk'd of the whole country round,
    You might hear it on every bough sung,
  "Now no longer upon the rough ground
    Will fond mothers brood over their young.

  "For the Magpye with exquisite skill
    Has invented a moss-cover'd cell,
  Within which a whole family will
    In the utmost security dwell."

  To her mate did each female bird say,
    "Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear;
  If she will but teach us the way,
    A nest we will build us up here.

  "It's a thing that's close arch'd over head,
    With a hole made to creep out and in;
  We, my bird, might make just such a bed,
    If we only knew how to begin."

  To the Magpye soon every bird went,
    And in modest terms made their request,
  That she would be pleas'd to consent
    To teach them to build up a nest.

  She replied, "I will shew you the way,
    So observe every thing that I do.
  First two sticks cross each other I lay--"
    "To be sure," said the Crow; "why, I knew,

  "It must be begun with two sticks,
    And I thought that they crossed should be."
  Said the Pye, "Then some straw and moss mix,
    In the way you now see done by me."

  "O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw,
    "That must follow of course, I have thought;
  Though I never before building saw,
    I guess'd that without being taught."

  "More moss, straw, and feathers, I place,
    In this manner," continued the Pye.
  "Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case;
    Though no builder myself, even I,"

  Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so;
    It must of necessity follow:
  For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know,
    It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow."

  Whatever she taught them beside,
    In his turn every bird of them said,
  Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried,
    He had just such a thought in his head.

  Still the Pye went on shewing her art,
    Till a nest she had built up half way;
  She no more of her skill would impart,
    But in anger went flutt'ring away.

  And this speech in their hearing she made,
    As she perched o'er their heads on a tree,
  "If ye all were well skill'd in my trade,
    Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"--

  When a scholar is willing to learn,
    He with silent submission should hear.
  Too late they their folly discern;
    The effect to this day does appear:

  For whenever a Pye's nest you see,
    Her charming warm canopy view,
  All birds' nests but hers seem to be
    A Magpye's nest just cut in two.


THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK

A FABLE

  "A wicked action fear to do,
  When you are by yourselves; for though
    You think you can conceal it,
  A little bird that's in the air
  The hidden trespass shall declare,
    And openly reveal it."

  Richard this saying oft had heard,
  Until the sight of any bird
    Would set his heart a quaking;
  He saw a host of winged spies
  For ever o'er him in the skies,
    Note of his actions taking.

  This pious precept, while it stood
  In his remembrance, kept him good
    When nobody was by him;
  For though no human eye was near,
  Yet Richard still did wisely fear
    The little bird should spy him.

  But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
  Poor frailty will not always keep
    From that which is forbidden;
  And Richard one day, left alone,
  Laid hands on something not his own,
    And hop'd the theft was hidden.

  His conscience slept a day or two,
  As it is very apt to do
    When we with pain suppress it;
  And though at times a slight remorse
  Would raise a pang, it had not force
    To make him yet confess it.

  When on a day, as he abroad
  Walk'd by his mother, in their road
    He heard a sky-lark singing;
  Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
  Proclaim'd the superstitious fears
    His inmost bosom wringing.

  His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry,
  And fondly ask'd the reason why;
    Then Richard made confession,
  And said, he fear'd the little bird
  He singing in the air had heard
    Was telling his transgression.

  The words which Richard spoke below,
  As sounds by nature upwards go,
    Were to the sky-lark carried;
  The airy traveller with surprise
  To hear his sayings, in the skies
    On his mid journey tarried.

  His anger then the bird exprest:
  "Sure, since the day I left the nest,
    I ne'er heard folly utter'd
  So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth,
  As what this little son of earth
    Hath in his grossness mutter'd.

  "Dull fool! to think we sons of air
  On man's low actions waste a care,
    His virtues or his vices;
  Or soaring on the summer gales,
  That we should stoop to carry tales
    Of him or his devices!

  "Our songs are all of the delights
  We find in our wild airy flights,
    And heavenly exaltation;
  The earth you mortals have at heart
  Is all too gross to have a part
    In sky-lark's conversation.

  "Unless it be in what green field
  Or meadow we our nest may build,
    Midst flowering broom, or heather;
  From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may
  With least obstruction wing their way
    Up to the walks of ether.

  "Mistaken fool! man needs not us
  His secret merits to discuss,
    Or spy out his transgression;
  When once he feels his conscience stirr'd,
  That voice within him is the _bird_
    That moves him to confession."


THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS

A FABLE

  When beasts by words their meanings could declare,
  Some well-drest men and women did repair
  To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:

  And one who was the spokesman in the place
  Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace
  The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.

  His observation none impeach'd or blam'd,
  But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd
  Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.

  One monkey, who had more pride than the other,
  His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother;
  But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:

  "The slights and coolness of this human nation
  Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication;
  'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."


LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION

A FABLE

  Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation,
    Three travellers, a tour together went;
  And, after many a long perambulation,
    Agreed to part by mutual consent.

  Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going
    To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain;
  Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing,
    There you'll be sure to meet with me again"

  Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure
    With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands;
  Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure
    Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."

  But Reputation said: "If once we sever,
    Our chance of future meeting is but vain:
  Who parts from me, must look to part for ever,
    For _Reputation lost comes not again_."


THE SPARROW AND THE HEN

  A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak,
    Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay:
  Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek
    Our food, when your family's fed every day.

  "Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird,
    The sight of whose plumage her master may please,
  I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd
    To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.

  "I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers,
    A good honest brown I find most to my liking,
  It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers,
    But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.

  "We know that the bird from the isles of Canary
    Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage;
  But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary,
    The fancy of man it cannot much engage.

  "My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer,
    Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss;
  If voice were in question I ought to be dearer;
    But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this.

  "Nor is it your proneness to domestication,
    For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch,
  As we say to each other--but, to our vexation,
    O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."

  "Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow.
    "No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have,"
  "Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow,"
    The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.

  "Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise--I wish you could read--
    Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why
  Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need
    Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."


WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?

  Brothers and sisters I have many:
  Though I know there is not any
  Of them but I love, yet I
  Will just name them all; and try,
  As one by one I count them o'er,
  If there be one a little more
  Lov'd by me than all the rest.
  Yes; I do think, that I love best
  My brother Henry, because he
  Has always been most fond of me.
  Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel;
  I think I love her quite as well.
  And, I assure you, little Ann,
  No brother nor no sister can
  Be more dear to me than she.
  Only, I must say, Emily,
  Being the eldest, it's right her
  To all the rest I should prefer.
  Yet after all I've said, suppose
  My greatest fav'rite should be Rose.
  No, John and Paul are both more dear
  To me than Rose, that's always here,
  While they are half the year at school;
  And yet that neither is no rule.
  I've nam'd them all, there's only seven;
  I find my love to all so even,
  To every sister, every brother,
  I love not one more than another.


THE BEGGAR-MAN

  Abject, stooping, old, and wan,
  See yon wretched beggar man;
  Once a father's hopeful heir,
  Once a mother's tender care.
  When too young to understand
  He but scorch'd his little hand,
  By the candle's flaming light
  Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright,
  Clasping fond her darling round,
  A thousand kisses heal'd the wound.
  Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
  No mother tends the beggar man.

    Then nought too good for him to wear,
  With cherub face and flaxen hair,
  In fancy's choicest gauds array'd,
  Cap of lace with rose to aid,
  Milk-white hat and feather blue,
  Shoes of red, and coral too
  With silver bells to please his ear,
  And charm the frequent ready tear.
  Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
  Neglected is the beggar man.

    See the boy advance in age,
  And learning spreads her useful page;
  In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,
  And shews the marbles, tops, and balls.
  What's learning to the charms of play?
  The indulgent tutor must give way.
  A heedless wilful dunce, and wild,
  The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;
  The youth in vagrant courses ran;
  Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
  Their fondling is the beggar man.


CHOOSING A PROFESSION

  A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
  To be in European learning taught,
  Some years before to Westminster he went,
  To a Preparatory School was sent.
  When from his artless tale the mistress found,
  The child had not one friend on English ground,
  She, ev'n as if she his own mother were,
  Made the dark Indian her peculiar care.
  Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought;
  To know the bent of his young mind she sought,
  For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find
  To what profession he was most inclin'd,
  That where his genius led they might him train;
  For nature's kindly bent she held not vain.
  But vain her efforts to explore his will;
  The frequent question he evaded still:
  Till on a day at length he to her came,
  Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same
  Trade he would be those boys of colour were,
  Who danc'd so happy in the open air.
  It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys,
  With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise,
  In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array,
  Were dancing in the street the first of May.


BREAKFAST

  A dinner party, coffee, tea,
  Sandwich, or supper, all may be
  In their way pleasant. But to me
  Not one of these deserves the praise
  That welcomer of new-born days,
  _A breakfast_, merits; ever giving
  Cheerful notice we are living
  Another day refresh'd by sleep,
  When its festival we keep.
  Now although I would not slight
  Those kindly words we use "Good night,"
  Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
  And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow,"
  With which again our friends we greet,
  When in the breakfast-room we meet,
  At the social table round,
  Listening to the lively sound
  Of those notes which never tire,
  Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
  Sleepy Robert never hears
  Or urn, or kettle; he appears
  When all have finish'd, one by one
  Dropping off, and breakfast done.
  Yet has he too his own pleasure,
  His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
  And, left alone, he reads or muses,
  Or else in idle mood he uses
  To sit and watch the vent'rous fly,
  Where the sugar's piled high,
  Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
  Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.


WEEDING

  As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play,
    Was lab'ring industriously hard
  To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away,
    Which grew in her father's court-yard;

  In her juvenile anger, wherever she found,
    She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore;
  The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground;
    Not a weed of them all she forbore.

  At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light
    (Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd);
  The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite;
    In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,

  "Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those
    Their great sprawling leaves thus presume
  To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose,
    And take up a flower's sweet room?"

  On the odious offenders enraged she flew;
    But she presently found to her cost
  A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new,
    And rage was in agony lost.

  To her father she hastily fled for relief,
    And told him her pain and her smart;
  With kindly caresses he soothed her grief,
    Then smiling he took the weed's part.

  "The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours
    Resembles: too apt we're to deem
  In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs,
    And the poor but as weeds to esteem.

  "But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel,
    Though some will be passive enough,
  From others who're more independent 'tis well
    If we meet not a _stinging rebuff_."


PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS

  A child's a plaything for an hour;
    Its pretty tricks we try
  For that or for a longer space;
    Then tire, and lay it by.

  But I knew one, that to itself
    All seasons could controul;
  That would have mock'd the sense of pain
    Out of a grieved soul.

  Thou, straggler into loving arms,
    Young climber up of knees,
  When I forget thy thousand ways,
    Then life and all shall cease.


THE TWO BOYS

  I saw a boy with eager eye
  Open a book upon a stall,
  And read as he'd devour it all:
  Which when the stall-man did espy,
  Soon to the boy I heard him call,
  "You, Sir, you never buy a book,
  Therefore in one you shall not look."
  The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh
  He wish'd he never had been taught to read,
  Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.

    Of sufferings the poor have many,
  Which never can the rich annoy.
  I soon perceiv'd another boy
  Who look'd as if he'd not had any
  Food for that day at least, enjoy
  The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder.
  This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder,
  Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny,
  Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat:
  No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat.


THE OFFER

    "Tell me, would you rather be
  Chang'd by a fairy to the fine
  Young orphan heiress Geraldine,
    Or still be Emily?

    "Consider, ere you answer me,
  How many blessings are procur'd
  By riches, and how much endur'd
    By chilling poverty."

    After a pause, said Emily:
  "In the words orphan heiress I
  Find many a solid reason why
    I would not changed be.

    "What though I live in poverty,
  And have of sisters eight--so many,
  That few indulgences, if any,
    Fall to the share of me;

    "Think you that for wealth I'd be
  Of ev'n the least of them bereft,
  Or lose my parent, and be left
    An orphan'd Emily?

    "Still should I be Emily,
  Although I look'd like Geraldine;
  I feel within this heart of mine
    No change could worked be."


THE SISTER'S EXPOSTULATION ON THE BROTHER'S LEARNING LATIN

  Shut these odious books up, brother--
  They have made you quite another
  Thing from what you us'd to be--
  Once you lik'd to play with me--
  Now you leave me all alone,
  And are so conceited grown
  With your Latin, you'll scarce look
  Upon any English book.
  We had us'd on winter eyes
  To con over Shakespeare's leaves,
  Or on Milton's harder sense
  Exercise our diligence--
  And you would explain with ease
  The obscurer passages,
  Find me out the prettiest places
  The poetic turns, and graces,
  Which alas! now you are gone,
  I must puzzle out alone,
  And oft miss the meaning quite,
  Wanting you to set me right.
  All this comes since you've been under
  Your new master. I much wonder
  What great charm it is you see
  In those words, _musa, musæ_;
  Or in what they do excel
  Our word, _song_. It sounds as well
  To my fancy as the other.
  Now believe me, dearest brother,
  I would give my finest frock,
  And my cabinet, and stock
  Of new playthings, every toy,
  I would give them all with joy,
  Could I you returning see
  Back to English and to me.


THE BROTHER'S REPLY

  Sister, fie, for shame, no more,
  Give this ignorant babble o'er,
  Nor with little female pride
  Things above your sense deride.
  Why this foolish under-rating
  Of my first attempts at Latin?
  Know you not each thing we prize
  Does from small beginnings rise?
  'Twas the same thing with your writing,
  Which you now take such delight in.
  First you learnt the down-stroke line,
  Then the hair-stroke thin and fine,
  Then a curve, and then a better,
  Till you came to form a letter;
  Then a new task was begun,
  How to join them two in one;
  Till you got (these first steps past)
  To your fine text-hand at last.
  So though I at first commence
  With the humble accidence,
  And my study's course affords
  Little else as yet but words,
  I shall venture in a while
  At construction, grammar, style,
  Learn my syntax, and proceed
  Classic authors next to read,
  Such as wiser, better, make us,
  Sallust, Phædrus, Ovid, Flaccus:
  All the poets (with their wit),
  All the grave historians writ,
  Who the lives and actions show
  Of men famous long ago;
  Ev'n their very sayings giving
  In the tongue they us'd when living.

  Think not I shall do that wrong
  Either to my native tongue,
  English authors to despise,
  Or those books which you so prize;
  Though from them awhile I stray,
  By new studies call'd away,
  Them when next I take in hand,
  I shall better understand.
  For I've heard wise men declare
  Many words in English are
  From the Latin tongue deriv'd,
  Of whose sense girls are depriv'd
  'Cause they do not Latin know.--
  But if all this anger grow
  From this cause, that you suspect
  By proceedings indirect,
  I would keep (as misers pelf)
  All this learning to myself;
  Sister, to remove this doubt,
  Rather than we will fall out,
  (If our parents will agree)
  You shall Latin learn with me.


NURSE GREEN

  "Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night:
    What cause is there yet keeps my darling awake?
  This throb in your bosom proclaims some affright
    Disturbs your composure. Can innocence quake?

  "Why thus do you cling to my neck, and enfold me,
    What fear unimparted your quiet devours?"
  "O mother, there's reason--for Susan has told me,
    A dead body lies in the room next to ours."

  "I know it; and, but for forgetfulness, dear,
    I meant you the coffin this day should have seen,
  And read the inscription, and told me the year
    And day of the death of your poor old Nurse Green."

  "O not for the wealth of the world would I enter
    A chamber wherein a dead body lay hid,
  Lest somebody bolder than I am should venture
    To go near the coffin and lift up the lid."

  "And should they do so and the coffin uncover,
    The corpse underneath it would be no ill sight;
  This frame, when its animal functions are over,
    Has nothing of horror the living to fright.

  "To start at the dead is preposterous error,
    To shrink from a foe that can never contest;
  Shall that which is motionless move thee to terror;
    Or thou become restless, 'cause they are at rest?

  "To think harm of her our good feelings forbid us
    By whom when a babe you were dandled and fed;
  Who living so many good offices did us,
    I ne'er can persuade me would hurt us when dead.

  "But if no endeavour your terrors can smother,
    If vainly against apprehension you strive,
  Come, bury your fears in the arms of your mother;
    My darling, cling close to me, I am alive."


GOOD TEMPER

  In whatsoever place resides
  Good Temper, she o'er all presides;
  The most obdurate heart she guides.

  Even Anger yields unto her power,
  And sullen Spite forgets to lour,
  Or reconciled weeps a shower;

  Reserve she softens into Ease,
  Makes Fretfulness leave off to teaze,
  She Waywardness itself can please.

  Her handmaids they are not a few:
  Sincerity that's ever true,
  And Prompt Obedience always new,

  Urbanity that ever smiles,
  And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles,
  And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles,

  And Firmness that is always ready
  To make young good-resolves more steady,
  The only safeguard of the giddy;

  And blushing Modesty, and sweet
  Humility in fashion neat;
  Yet still her train is incomplete,

  Unless meek Piety attend
  Good Temper as her surest friend,
  Abiding with her to the end.


MODERATION IN DIET

  The drunkard's sin, excess in wine,
    Which reason drowns, and health destroys,
  As yet no failing is of thine,
    Dear Jim; strong drink's not given to boys.

  You from the cool fresh steam allay
    Those thirsts which sultry suns excite;
  When choak'd with dust, or hot with play,
    A cup of water yields delight.

  And reverence still that temperate cup,
    And cherish long the blameless taste;
  To learn the faults of men grown up,
    Dear Jim, be wise and do not haste.

  They'll come too soon.--But there's a vice,
    That shares the world's contempt no less;
  To be in eating over-nice,
    Or to court surfeits by excess.

  The first, as finical, avoid;
    The last is proper to a swine:
  By temperance meat is best enjoy'd;
    Think of this maxim when you dine.

  Prefer with plain food to be fed,
    Rather than what are dainties styl'd;
  A sweet tooth in an infant's head
    Is pardon'd, not in a grown child.

  If parent, aunt, or liberal friend,
    With splendid shilling line your purse,
  Do not the same on sweetmeats spend,
    Nor appetite with pampering nurse.

  Go buy a book; a dainty eaten
    Is vanish'd, and no sweets remain;
  They who their minds with knowledge sweeten,
    The savour long as life retain.

  Purchase some toy, a horse of wood,
    A pasteboard ship; their structure scan;
  Their mimic uses understood,
    The school-boy make a kind of man.

  Go see some show; pictures or prints;
    Or beasts far brought from Indian land;
  Those foreign sights oft furnish hints,
    That may the youthful mind expand.

  And something of your store impart,
    To feed the poor and hungry soul;
  What buys for you the needless tart,
    May purchase him a needful roll.


INCORRECT SPEAKING

  Incorrectness in your speech
    Carefully avoid, my Anna;
  Study well the sense of each
    Sentence, lest in any manner
  It misrepresent the truth;
  Veracity's the charm of youth.

  You will not, I know, tell lies,
    If you know what you are speaking.--
  Truth is shy, and from us flies;
    Unless diligently seeking
  Into every word we pry,
  Falsehood will her place supply.

  Falsehood is not shy, not she,--
    Ever ready to take place of
  Truth, too oft we Falsehood see,
    Or at least some latent trace of
  Falsehood, in the incorrect
  Words of those who Truth respect.



CHARITY

  O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan,
    And why that self-satisfied smile
  At the shilling you gave to the poor working man,
    That lifted you over the stile?

  'Tis not much; all the bread that can with it be bought
    Will scarce give a morsel to each
  Of his eight hungry children;--reflection and thought
    Should you more humility teach.

  Vain glory's a worm which the very best action
    Will taint, and its soundness eat thro';
  But to give one's self airs for a small benefaction,
    Is folly and vanity too.

  The money perhaps by your father or mother
    Was furnish'd you but with that view;
  If so, you were only the steward of another,
    And the praise you usurp is their due.

  Perhaps every shilling you give in this way
    Is paid back with two by your friends;
  Then the bounty you so ostentatious display,
    Has little and low selfish ends.

  But if every penny you gave were your own,
    And giving diminish'd your purse;
  By a child's slender means think how little is done,
    And how little for it you're the worse.

  You eat, and you drink; when you rise in the morn,
    You are cloth'd; you have health and content;
  And you never have known, from the day you were born,
    What hunger or nakedness meant.

  The most which your bounty from you can subtract
    Is an apple, a sweetmeat, a toy;
  For so easy a virtue, so trifling an act,
    You are paid with an innocent joy.

  Give thy bread to the hungry, the thirsty thy cup;
    Divide with th' afflicted thy lot:
  This can only be practis'd by persons grown up,
    Who've possessions which children have not.

  Having two cloaks, give one (said our Lord) to the poor;
    In such bounty as that lies the trial:
  But a child that gives half of its infantile store
    Has small praise, because small self-denial.


MY BIRTH-DAY

  A dozen years since in this house what commotion,
    What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado;
  Ev'ry soul in the family at my devotion,
    When into the world I came twelve years ago.

  I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me)
    My promise was such as no parent would scorn;
  The wise and the aged who prophesied by me,
    Augur'd nothing but good of me when I was born.

  But vain are the hopes which are form'd by a parent,
    Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine;
  My frail constitution soon made it apparent,
    I nourish'd within me the seeds of decline.

  On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started,
    My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell;
  My physicians foreboding took leave and departed,
    And they wish'd me dead now, who wished me well.

  Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance,
    Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair;
  Like an angel she watch'd o'er the lamp of existence,
    And never would leave while a glimmer was there.

  By her care I'm alive now--but what retribution
    Can I for a life twice bestow'd thus confer?
  Were I to be silent, each year's revolution
    Proclaims--each new birth-day is owing to her.

  The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted,
    Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots,
  Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted,
    Enrich'd by small culture it put forth small fruits.

  But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared,
    Secur'd by nice art from the dews and the rains,
  Unsound at the root may with justice be feared,
    If it pay not with int'rest the tiller's hard pains.


THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER

  Within the precincts of this yard,
  Each in his narrow confines barr'd,
  Dwells every beast that can be found
  On Afric or on Indian ground.
  How different was the life they led
  In those wild haunts where they were bred,
  To this tame servitude and fear,
  Enslav'd by man, they suffer here!

  In that uneasy close recess
  Couches a sleeping Lioness;
  The next den holds a Bear; the next
  A Wolf, by hunger ever vext;
  There, fiercer from the keeper's lashes,
  His teeth the fell Hyena gnashes;
  That creature on whose back abound
  Black spots upon a yellow ground,
  A Panther is, the fairest beast
  That haunteth in the spacious East.
  He underneath a fair outside
  Does cruelty and treach'ry hide.

  That cat-like beast that to and fro
  Restless as fire does ever go,
  As if his courage did resent
  His limbs in such confinement pent,
  That should their prey in forests take,
  And make the Indian jungles quake,
  A Tiger is. Observe how sleek
  And glossy smooth his coat: no streak
  On sattin ever match'd the pride
  Of that which marks his furry hide.
  How strong his muscles! he with ease
  Upon the tallest man could seize,
  In his large mouth away could bear him,
  And into thousand pieces tear him:
  Yet cabin'd so securely here,
  The smallest infant need not fear.

  That lordly creature next to him
  A Lion is. Survey each limb.
  Observe the texture of his claws,
  The massy thickness of those jaws;
  His mane that sweeps the ground in length,
  Like Samson's locks, betok'ning strength.
  In force and swiftness he excels
  Each beast that in the forest dwells;
  The savage tribes him king confess
  Throughout the howling wilderness.
  Woe to the hapless neighbourhood,
  When he is press'd by want of food!
  Of man, or child, of bull, or horse,
  He makes his prey; such is his force.
  A waste behind him he creates,
  Whole villages depopulates.
  Yet here within appointed lines
  How small a grate his rage confines!

  This place methinks resembleth well
  The world itself in which we dwell.
  Perils and snares on every ground
  Like these wild beasts beset us round.
  But Providence their rage restrains,
  Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains;
  His goodness saveth every hour
  His darlings from the Lion's power.


THE CONFIDANT

  Anna was always full of thought
    As if she'd many sorrows known,
  Yet mostly her full heart was fraught
    With troubles that were not her own;
  For the whole school to Anna us'd to tell
  Whatever small misfortunes unto them befell.

  And being so by all belov'd,
    That all into her bosom pour'd
  Their dearest secrets, she was mov'd
    To pity all--her heart a hoard,
  Or storehouse, by this means became for all
  The sorrows can to girls of tender age befall.

  Though individually not much
    Distress throughout the school prevail'd,
  Yet as she shar'd it all, 'twas such
    A weight of woe that her assail'd,
  She lost her colour, loath'd her food, and grew
  So dull, that all their confidence from her withdrew.

  Released from her daily care,
    No longer list'ning to complaint,
  She seems to breathe a different air,
    And health once more her cheek does paint.
  Still Anna loves her friends, but will not hear
  Again their list of grievances which cost so dear.


THOUGHTLESS CRUELTY

  There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly--
  And should you thousand ages try
  The life you've taken to supply,
      You could not do it.

  You surely must have been devoid
  Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd
  A thing which no way you annoy'd--
      You'll one day rue it.

  'Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say,
  That's born in April, dies in May;
  That does but just learn to display
      His wings one minute,

  And in the next is vanish'd quite.
  A bird devours it in his flight--
  Or come a cold blast in the night,
      There's no breath in it.

  The bird but seeks his proper food--
  And Providence, whose power endu'd
  That fly with life, when it thinks good,
      May justly take it.

  But you have no excuses for't--
  A life by Nature made so short,
  Less reason is that you for sport
      Should shorter make it.

  A fly a little thing you rate--
  But, Robert, do not estimate
  A creature's pain by small or great;
      The greatest being

  Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh,
  And these the smallest ones possess,
  Although their frame and structure less
      Escape our seeing.

EYES

  Lucy, what do you espy
  In the cast in Jenny's eye
  That should you to laughter move?
  I far other feelings prove.
  When on me she does advance
  Her good-natur'd countenance,
  And those eyes which in their way
  Saying much, so much would say,
  They to me no blemish seem,
  Or as none I them esteem;
  I their imperfection prize
  Above other clearer eyes.

    Eyes do not as jewels go
  By the brightness and the show,
  But the meanings which surround them,
  And the sweetness shines around them.

    Isabel's are black as jet,
  But she cannot that forget,
  And the pains she takes to show them
  Robs them of the praise we owe them.
  Ann's, though blue, affected fall;
  Kate's are bright, but fierce withal;
  And the sparklers of her sister
  From ill-humour lose their lustre.
  Only Jenny's eyes we see,
  By their very plainness, free
  From the vices which do smother
  All the beauties of the other.


PENNY PIECES

    "I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove."
  "You do--what sum then usually, my love,
  Is there deposited? I make no doubt,
  Some Penny Pieces you are not without."

    "O no, Papa, they'd soil my glove, and be
  Quite odious things to carry. O no--see,
  This little bit of gold is surely all
  That I shall want; for I shall only call
  For a small purchase I shall make, Papa,
  And a mere trifle I'm to buy Mamma,
  Just to make out the change: so there's no need
  To carry Penny Pieces, Sir, indeed."

    "O now I know then why a blind man said
  Unto a dog which this blind beggar led,--
  'Where'er you see some fine young ladies, Tray,
  Be sure you lead me quite another way.
  The poor man's friend fair ladies us'd to be;
  But now I find no tale of misery
  Will ever from their pockets draw a penny.'--
  The blind man did not see _they wear not any_."


THE RAINBOW

  After the tempest in the sky
  How sweet yon Rainbow to the eye!
  Come, my Matilda, now while some
  Few drops of rain are yet to come,
  In this honeysuckle bower
  Safely shelter'd from the shower,
  We may count the colours o'er.--
  Seven there are, there are no more;
  Each in each so finely blended,
  Where they begin, or where are ended,
  The finest eye can scarcely see.
  A fixed thing it seems to be;
  But, while we speak, see how it glides
  Away, and now observe it hides
  Half of its perfect arch--now we
  Scarce any part of it can see.
  What is colour? If I were
  A natural philosopher,
  I would tell you what does make
  This meteor every colour take:
  But an unlearned eye may view
  Nature's rare sights, and love them too.
  Whenever I a Rainbow see,
  Each precious tint is dear to me;
  For every colour find I there,
  Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear;
  My favourite green, the grass's hue,
  And the fine deep violet-blue,
  And the pretty pale blue-bell,
  And the rose I love so well,
  All the wondrous variations
  Of the tulip, pinks, carnations,
  This woodbine here both flower and leaf;--
  'Tis a truth that's past belief,
  That every flower and every tree,
  And every living thing we see,
  Every face which we espy,
  Every cheek and every eye,
  In all their tints, in every shade,
  Are from the Rainbow's colours made.


THE FORCE OF HABIT

  A little child, who had desired
  To go and see the Park guns fired,
  Was taken by his maid that way
  Upon the next rejoicing day.
  Soon as the unexpected stroke
  Upon his tender organs broke,
  Confus'd and stunn'd at the report,
  He to her arms fled for support,
  And begg'd to be convey'd at once
  Out of the noise of those great guns,
  Those naughty guns, whose only sound
  Would kill (he said) without a wound:
  So much of horror and offence
  The shock had giv'n his infant sense.
  Yet this was He in after days
  Who fill'd the world with martial praise,
  When from the English quarter-deck
  His steady courage sway'd the wreck
  Of hostile fleets, disturb'd no more
  By all that vast conflicting roar,
  That sky and sea did seem to tear,
  When vessels whole blew up in air,
  Than at the smallest breath that heaves,
  When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.


CLOCK STRIKING

  Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago,
  I was ask'd, and I answer'd, I hardly did know,
    But I thought that I heard it strike three.
  Said my friend then, "The blessings we always possess
  We know not the want of, and prize them the less;
    The church-clock was no new sound to thee.

  "A young woman, afflicted with deafness a year,
  By that sound you scarce heard, first perceiv'd she could _hear;_
    I was near her, and saw the girl start
  With such exquisite wonder, such feelings of pride,
  A happiness almost to terror allied,
    She shew'd the sound went to her heart."


WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY?

    "Why so I will, you noisy bird,
      This very day I'll advertise you,
      Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.
    A fine-tongu'd parrot as was ever heard,
  I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you,
  And say no family should be without you."

    Thus far a gentleman address'd a bird,
  Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator,
  Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?
    Though she but seven words can say,
    Twenty and twenty times a day
    She interferes with all my dreams,
    My projects, plans, and airy schemes,
    Mocking my foible to my sorrow:
    I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."

    To this the bird seven words did say:
    "Why not do it, Sir, to-day?"


HOME DELIGHTS

  To operas and balls my cousins take me,
  And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me.
  In summer season, when the days are fair,
  In my godmother's coach I take the air.
  My uncle has a stately pleasure barge,
  Gilded and gay, adorn'd with wondrous charge;
  The mast is polish'd, and the sails are fine,
  The awnings of white silk like silver shine;
  The seats of crimson sattin, where the rowers
  Keep time to music with their painted oars;
  In this on holydays we oft resort
  To Richmond, Twickenham, or to Hampton Court.
  By turns we play, we sing--one baits the hook,
  Another angles--some more idle look
  At the small fry that sport beneath the tides,
  Or at the swan that on the surface glides.
  My married sister says there is no feast
  Equal to sight of foreign bird or beast.
  With her in search of these I often roam:
  My kinder parents make me blest at home.
  Tir'd of excursions, visitings, and sights,
  No joys are pleasing to these home delights.


THE COFFEE SLIPS

  Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink,
  I on the generous Frenchman think,
  Whose noble perseverance bore
  The tree to Martinico's shore.
  While yet her colony was new,
  Her island products but a few,
  Two shoots from off a coffee-tree
  He carried with him o'er the sea.
  Each little tender coffee slip
  He waters daily in the ship,
  And as he tends his embryo trees,
  Feels he is raising midst the seas
  Coffee groves, whose ample shade
  Shall screen the dark Creolian maid.
  But soon, alas! his darling pleasure
  In watching this his precious treasure
  Is like to fade,--for water fails
  On board the ship in which he sails.
  Now all the reservoirs are shut,
  The crew on short allowance put;
  So small a drop is each man's share,
  Few leavings you may think there are
  To water these poor coffee plants;--
  But he supplies their gasping wants,
  Ev'n from his own dry parched lips
  He spares it for his coffee slips.
  Water he gives his nurslings first,
  Ere he allays his own deep thirst;
  Lest, if he first the water sip,
  He bear too far his eager lip.
  He sees them droop for want of more;--
  Yet when they reached the destin'd shore,
  With pride th' heroic gardener sees
  A living sap still in his trees.
  The islanders his praise resound;
  Coffee plantations rise around;
  And Martinico loads her ships
  With produce from those dear-sav'd slips.[1]

[Footnote 1: The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to
be found in the Abbé Raynal's History of the Settlements and Trade of
the Europeans in the East and West Indies, book XIII.]


THE DESSERT

  With the apples and the plums
  Little Carolina comes,
  At the time of the dessert she
  Comes and drops her new last curt'sy;
  Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er
  In the nursery before.
  What shall we compare her to?
  The dessert itself will do.
  Like preserves she's kept with care,
  Like blanch'd almonds she is fair,
  Soft as down on peach her hair,
  And so soft, so smooth is each
  Pretty cheek as that same peach,
  Yet more like in hue to cherries;
  Then her lips, the sweet strawberries,
  Caroline herself shall try them
  If they are not like when nigh them;
  Her bright eyes are black as sloes,
  But I think we've none of those
  Common fruit here--and her chin
  From a round point does begin,
  Like the small end of a pear;
  Whiter drapery she does wear
  Than the frost on cake; and sweeter
  Than the cake itself, and neater,
  Though bedeck'd with emblems fine,
  Is our little Caroline.


TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC

  Why is your mind thus all day long
    Upon your music set;
  Till reason's swallow'd in a song,
    Or idle canzonet?

  I grant you, Melesinda, when
    Your instrument was new,
  I was well pleas'd to see you then
    Its charms assiduous woo.

  The rudiments of any art
    Or mast'ry that we try,
  Are only on the learner's part
    Got by hard industry.

  But you are past your first essays;
    Whene'er you play, your touch,
  Skilful, and light, ensures you praise:
    All beyond that's too much.

  Music's sweet uses are, to smooth
    Each rough and angry passion;
  To elevate at once, and soothe:
    A heavenly recreation.

  But we misconstrue, and defeat
    The end of any good;
  When what should be our casual treat,
    We make our constant food.

  While, to th' exclusion of the rest,
    This single art you ply,
  Your nobler studies are supprest,
    Your books neglected lie.

  Could you in what you so affect
    The utmost summit reach;
  Beyond what fondest friends expect,
    Or skilful'st masters teach:

  The skill you learn'd would not repay
    The time and pains it cost,
  Youth's precious season thrown away,
    And reading-leisure lost.

  A benefit to books we owe,
    Music can ne'er dispense;
  The one does only _sound_ bestow,
    The other gives us _sense_.


TIME SPENT IN DRESS

  In many a lecture, many a book,
    You all have heard, you all have read,
  That time is precious. Of its use
    Much has been written, much been said.

  The accomplishments which gladden life,
    As music, drawing, dancing, are
  Encroachers on our precious time;
    Their praise or dispraise I forbear.

  They should be practis'd or forborne,
    As parents wish, or friends desire:
  What rests alone in their own will
    Is all I of the young require.

  There's not a more productive source
    Of waste of time to the young mind
  Than dress; as it regards our hours
    My view of it is now confin'd.

  Without some calculation, youth
    May live to age and never guess,
  That no one study they pursue
    Takes half the time they give to dress.

  Write in your memorandum-book
    The time you at your toilette spend;
  Then every moment which you pass,
    Talking of dress with a young friend:

  And ever when your silent thoughts
    Have on this subject been intent,
  Set down as nearly as you can
    How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

  If faithfully you should perform
    This task, 'twould teach you to repair
  Lost hours, by giving unto dress
    Not more of time than its due share.


THE FAIRY

  Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew
  If what we've been reading of fairies be true.
  Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of
  The fairies he here does so prettily write of?
  O what a sweet sight if he really had seen
  The graceful Titania, the Fairy-land Queen!
  If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year;
  I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.--
  Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing
  A fine little delicate lady-like being,
  Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy,
  I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy.
  Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair
  Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair
  Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height,
  I verily think that she measur'd not quite
  Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal,
  I was almost persuaded to think she was tall.
  Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite--
  There--d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright?
  You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss."
  "Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this
  Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary
  Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."


CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE

  Unto a Yorkshire school was sent
    A Negro youth to learn to write,
  And the first day young Juba went
    All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.

  But soon with alter'd looks askance
    They view his sable face and form,
  When they perceive the scornful glance
    Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

  He in the school was first in fame:
    Said he, "It does to me appear
  To be a great disgrace and shame
    A black should be admitted here."

  His words were quickly whisper'd round,
    And every boy now looks offended;
  The master saw the change, and found
    That Orme a mutiny intended.

  Said he to Orme, "This African
    It seems is not by you approv'd;
  I'll find a way, young Englishman,
    To have this prejudice remov'd.

  "Nearer acquaintance possibly
    May make you tolerate his hue;
  At least 'tis my intent to try
    What a short month may chance to do."

  Young Orme and Juba then he led
    Into a room, in which there were
  For each of the two boys a bed,
    A table, and a wicker chair.

  He lock'd them in, secur'd the key,
    That all access to them was stopt;
  They from without can nothing see;
    Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

  A month in this lone chamber Orme
    Is sentenc'd during all that time
  To view no other face or form
    Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.

  One word they neither of them spoke
    The first three days of the first week;
  On the fourth day the ice was broke;
    Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.

  The dreary silence o'er, both glad
    To hear of human voice the sound,
  The Negro and the English lad
    Comfort in mutual converse found.

  Of ships and seas, and foreign coast,
    Juba can speak, for he has been
  A voyager: and Orme can boast
    He London's famous town has seen.

  In eager talk they pass the day,
    And borrow hours ev'n from the night;
  So pleasantly time past away,
    That they have lost their reckoning quite.

  And when their master set them free,
    They thought a week was sure remitted,
  And thank'd him that their liberty
    Had been before the time permitted.

  Now Orme and Juba are good friends;
    The school, by Orme's example won,
  Contend who most shall make amends
    For former slights to Afric's son.


THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

  My father's grandfather lives still,
    His age is fourscore years and ten;
  He looks a monument of time,
    The agedest of aged men.

  Though years lie on him like a load,
    A happier man you will not see
  Than he, whenever he can get
    His great grand-children on his knee.

  When we our parents have displeas'd,
    He stands between us as a screen;
  By him our good deeds in the sun,
    Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

  His love's a line that's long drawn out,
    Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
  His heart is oak, yet unto us
    It like the gentlest reed can bend.

  A fighting soldier he has been--
    Yet by his manners you would guess,
  That he his whole long life had spent
    In scenes of country quietness.

  His talk is all of things long past,
    For modern facts no pleasure yield--
  Of the fam'd year of forty-five,
    Of William, and Culloden's field.

  The deeds of this eventful age,
    Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd,
  Can no more interest wake in him
    Than stories of another world.

  When I his length of days revolve,
    How like a strong tree he hath stood,
  It brings into my mind almost
    Those patriarchs old before the flood.


THE SPARTAN BOY

  When I the memory repeat
  Of the heroic actions great,
  Which, in contempt of pain and death,
  Were done by men who drew their breath
  In ages past, I find no deed
  That can in fortitude exceed
  The noble Boy, in Sparta bred,
  Who in the temple minist'red.

    By the sacrifice he stands,
  The lighted incense in his hands.
  Through the smoking censer's lid
  Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid
  Into his sleeve, and passed in
  Between the folds ev'n to the skin.
  Dire was the pain which then he prov'd;
  But not for this his sleeve he mov'd,
  Or would the scorching ember shake
  Out from the folds, lest it should make
  Any confusion, or excite
  Disturbance at the sacred rite.
  But close he kept the burning coal,
  Till it eat itself a hole
  In his flesh. The slanders by
  Saw no sign, and heard no cry,
  Of his pangs had no discerning,
  Till they smell'd the flesh aburning
  All this he did in noble scorn,
  And for he was a Spartan born.

    Young student, who this story readest,
  And with the same thy thoughts now feedest,
  Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid
  To do the thing the Spartan did;
  Thy feebler heart could not sustain
  Such dire extremity of pain.
  But in this story thou mayst see,
  What may useful prove to thee.
  By his example thou wilt find,
  That to the ingenuous mind
  Shame can greater anguish bring
  Than the body's suffering;
  That pain is not the worst of ills,
  Not when it the body kills;
  That in fair religion's cause,
  For thy country, or the laws,
  When occasion due shall offer
  'Tis reproachful _not to suffer._
  If thou shouldst a soldier be,
  And a wound should trouble thee,
  If without the soldier's fame
  Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim,
  Do not for a little pain
  On thy manhood bring a stain;
  But to keep thy spirits whole,
  Think on the Spartan and the _coal._


QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM

(_Text of 1818_)

  On a bank with roses shaded,
  Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
  Violets whose breath alone
  Yields but feeble smell or none,
  (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on
  When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
  While o'er head six slaves did hold
  Canopy of cloth o' gold,
  And two more did music keep,
  Which might Juno lull to sleep,
  Oriana who was queen
  To the mighty Tamerlane,
  That was lord of all the land
  Between Thrace and Samarchand,
  While the noon-tide fervor beam'd,
  Mused herself to sleep, and _dream'd_.

    Thus far, in magnific strain,
  A young poet sooth'd his vein,
  But he had nor prose nor numbers
  To express a princess' slumbers.--
  Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
  Was deep versed in old romances,
  And could talk whole hours upon
  The great Cham and Prester John,--
  Tell the field in which the Sophi
  From the Tartar won a trophy--
  What he read with such delight of,
  Thought he could as eas'ly write of--
  But his over-young invention
  Kept not pace with brave intention.
  Twenty suns did rise and set,
  And he could no further get;
  But, unable to proceed,
  Made a virtue out of need,
  And, his labours wiselier deem'd of,
  Did omit _what the queen dream'd of._


ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

  This Picture does the story express
  Of Moses in the Bulrushes.
  How livelily the painter's hand
  By colours makes us understand!

    Moses that little infant is.
  This figure is his sister. This
  Fine stately lady is no less
  A personage than a princess,
  Daughter of Pharaoh, Egypt's king;
  Whom Providence did hither bring
  This little Hebrew child to save.
  See how near the perilous wave
  He lies exposed in the ark,
  His rushy cradle, his frail bark!
  Pharaoh, king of Egypt land,
  In his greatness gave command
  To his slaves, they should destroy
  Every new-born Hebrew boy.
  This Moses was an Hebrew's son.
  When he was born, his birth to none
  His mother told, to none reveal'd,
  But kept her goodly child conceal'd.
  Three months she hid him; then she wrought
  With Bulrushes this ark, and brought
  Him in it to this river's side,
  Carefully looking far and wide
  To see that no Egyptian eye
  Her ark-hid treasure should espy.
  Among the river-flags she lays
  The child. Near him his sister stays.
  We may imagine her affright,
  When the king's daughter is in sight.
  Soon the princess will perceive
  The ark among the flags, and give
  Command to her attendant maid
  That its contents shall be display'd.
  Within the ark the child is found,
  And now he utters mournful sound.
  Behold he weeps, as if he were
  Afraid of cruel Egypt's heir!
  She speaks, she says, "This little one
  I will protect, though he the son
  Be of an Hebrew." Every word
  She speaks is by the sister heard.
  And now observe, this is the part
  The painter chose to show his art.
  Look at the sister's eager eye,
  As here she seems advancing nigh.
  Lowly she bends, says, "Shall I go
  And call a nurse to thee? I know
  A Hebrew woman liveth near,
  Great lady, shall I bring her here?"
  See! Pharaoh's daughter answers, "Go."--
  No more the painter's art can show.
  He cannot make his figures move.--
  On the light wings of swiftest love
  The girl will fly to bring the mother
  To be the nurse, she'll bring no other.
  To her will Pharaoh's daughter say,
  "Take this child from me away:
  For wages nurse him. To my home
  At proper age this child may come.
  When to our palace he is brought,
  Wise masters shall for him be sought
  To train him up, befitting one
  I would protect as my own son.
  And Moses be a name unto him,
  Because I from the waters drew him."


DAVID

  It is not always to the strong
  Victorious battle shall belong.
  This found Goliath huge and tall:
  Mightiest giant of them all,
  Who in the proud Philistian host
  Defied Israel with boast.

    With loud voice Goliath said:
  "Hear, armed Israel, gathered,
  And in array against us set:
  Ye shall alone by me be met.
  For am not I a Philistine?
  What strength may be compar'd to mine?

    "Chuse ye a man of greatest might:
  And if he conquer me in fight,
  Then we will all servants be,
  King of Israel, unto thee.
  But if I prove the victor, then
  Shall Saul and all his armed men
  Bend low beneath Philistian yoke."
  Day by day these words he spoke,
  Singly traversing the ground.
  But not an Israelite was found
  To combat man to man with him,
  Who such prodigious force of limb
  Display'd. Like to a weaver's beam
  The pond'rous spear he held did seem.
  In height six cubits he did pass,
  And he was arm'd all o'er in brass.

    Him we will leave awhile--and speak
  Of one, the soft down on whose cheek
  Of tender youth the tokens bare.
  Ruddy he was and very fair.
  David, the son of Jesse he,
  Small-siz'd, yet beautiful to see.
  Three brothers had he in the band
  Of warriors under Saul's command;
  Himself at home did private keep
  In Bethlem's plains his father's sheep.

    Jesse said to this his son:
  "David, to thy brothers run,
  Where in the camp they now abide,
  And learn what of them may betide.
  These presents for their captains take,
  And of their fare inquiries make."
  With joy the youth his sire obey'd.--
  David was no whit dismay'd
  When he arrived at the place
  Where he beheld the strength and face
  Of dread Goliath, and could hear
  The challenge. Of the people near
  Unmov'd he ask'd, what should be done
  To him who slew that boasting one,
  Whose words such mischiefs did forebode
  To th' armies of the living God?

    "The king," they unto David say,
  "Most amply will that man repay,
  He and his father's house shall be
  Evermore in Israel free.
  With mighty wealth Saul will endow
  That man: and he has made a vow;
  Whoever takes Goliath's life,
  Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife."

    His eldest brother, who had heard
  His question, was to anger stirr'd
  Against the youth: for (as he thought)
  Things out of his young reach he sought.
  Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here,
  To question warlike men? say, where
  And in whose care are those few sheep,
  That in the wilderness you keep?
  I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art:
  In the naughtiness of thy heart,
  Hoping a battle thou mayst see,
  Thou comest hither down to me."

  Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son
  In these words: "What have I done?
  Is there not cause?" Some there which heard,
  And at the manner of his word
  Admir'd, report this to the king.
  By his command they David bring
  Into his presence. Fearless then,
  Before the king and his chief men,
  He shews his confident design
  To combat with the Philistine.
  Saul with wonder heard the youth,
  And thus address'd him: "Of a truth,
  No pow'r thy untried sinew hath
  To cope with this great man of Gath."

  Lowly David bow'd his head,
  And with firm voice the stripling said:
  "Thy servant kept his father's sheep.--
  Rushing from a mountain steep
  There came a lion, and a bear,
  The firstlings of my flock to tear.
  Thy servant hath that lion kill'd,
  And kill'd that bear, when from the field
  Two young lambs by force they seiz'd.
  The Lord was mercifully pleas'd
  Me to deliver from the paw
  Of the fierce bear, and cruel jaw
  Of the strong lion. I shall slay
  Th' unrighteous Philistine this day,
  If God deliver him also
  To me." He ceas'd. The king said, "Go:
  Thy God, the God of Israel, be
  In the battle still with thee."

    David departs, unarmed, save
  A staff in hand he chanc'd to have.
  Nothing to the fight he took,
  Save five smooth stones from out a brook;
  These in his shepherd's scrip he plac'd,
  That was fasten'd round his waist.
  With staff and sling alone he meets
  The armed giant, who him greets
  With nought but scorn. Looking askance
  On the fair ruddy countenance
  Of his young enemy--"Am I
  A dog, that thou com'st here to try
  Thy strength upon me with a staff--?"
  Goliath said with scornful laugh.
  "Thou com'st with sword, with spear, with shield,
  Yet thou to me this day must yield.
  The Lord of Hosts is on my side,
  Whose armies boastful thou'st defied.
  All nations of the earth shall hear
  He saveth not with shield and spear."

    Thus David spake, and nigher went,
  Then chusing from his scrip, he sent
  Out of his slender sling a stone.--
  The giant utter'd fearful moan.
  The stone though small had pierced deep
  Into his forehead, endless sleep
  Giving Goliath--and thus died
  Of Philistines the strength and pride.


DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM

(_Text of 1818_)

  David and his three captains bold
  Kept ambush once within a hold.
  It was in Adullam's cave,
  Nigh which no water they could have,
  Nor spring, nor running brook was near
  To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
  Then David, king of Israel,
  Strait bethought him of a well,
  Which stood beside the city gate,
  At Bethlem; where, before his state
  Of kingly dignity, he had
  Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
  But now his fierce Philistine foe
  Encamp'd before it he does know.
  Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
  Those three bold captains he addrest,
  And wish'd that one to him would bring
  Some water from his native spring.
  His valiant captains instantly
  To execute his will did fly.
  The mighty Three the ranks broke through
  Of armed foes, and water drew
  For David, their beloved king,
  At his own sweet native spring.
  Back through their armed foes they haste,
  With the hard earn'd treasure graced.
  But when the good king David found
  What they had done, he on the ground
  The water pour'd. "Because," said he,
  "That it was at the jeopardy
  Of your three lives this thing ye did,
  That I should drink it, God forbid."




THREE POEMS NOT IN _POETRY FOR CHILDREN_


SUMMER FRIENDS

  The Swallow is a summer bird;
    He in our chimneys, when the weather
  Is fine and warm, may then be heard
    Chirping his notes for weeks together.

  Come there but one cold wintry day,
    Away will fly our guest the Swallow:
  And much like him we find the way
    Which many a gay young friend will follow.

  In dreary days of snow and frost
    Closer to Man will cling the Sparrow:
  Old friends, although in life we're crost,
    Their hearts to us will never narrow.

  Give me the bird--'give me the friend--
    Will sing in frost--will love in sorrow--
  Whate'er mischance to-day may send,
    Will greet me with his sight to-morrow.


A BIRTH-DAY THOUGHT

  Can I, all gracious Providence!
    Can I deserve thy care:
  Ah! no; I've not the least pretence
    To bounties which I share.

  Have I not been defended still
    From dangers and from death;
  Been safe preserv'd from ev'ry ill
    E'er since thou gav'st me breath?

  I live once more to see the day
    That brought me first to light;
  Oh! teach my willing heart the way
    To take thy mercies right!

  Tho' dazzling splendour, pomp, and show,
    My fortune has denied,
  Yet more than grandeur can bestow,
    Content hath well supplied.

  I envy no one's birth or fame,
    Their titles, train, or dress;
  Nor has my pride e'er stretched its aim
    Beyond what I possess.

  I ask and wish not to appear
    More beauteous, rich, or gay:
  Lord, make me wiser every year,
    And better every day.


THE BOY, THE MOTHER, AND THE BUTTERFLY

[1827]

  Young William held the Butterfly in chase,
  And it was pretty to observe the race
  Betwixt the Fly and Child, who nigh had caught him
  But for a merry jest his Mother taught him.
  "My valiant Huntsman, fie!" she said, "for shame,
  You are too big a match for so small game,
  To catch the Hare, or nimble Squirrel try,
  Remember, William, He is BUT A FLY."

  Not always is Humanity imprest
  By serious schooling; a light word or jest
  Will sometimes leave a moral sting behind
  When graver lessons vanish out of mind.




PRINCE DORUS

OR

FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE


A POETICAL VERSION OF AN ANCIENT TALK

  In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell,
  A King in love with a great Princess fell.
  Long at her feet submiss the Monarch sigh'd,
  While she with stern repulse his suit denied.
  Yet was he form'd by birth to please the fair,
  Dress'd, danc'd, and courted with a Monarch's air;
  But Magic Spells her frozen breast had steel'd
  With stubborn pride, that knew not how to yield.

  This to the King' a courteous Fairy told,
  And bade the Monarch in his suit be bold;
  For he that would the charming Princess wed,
  Had only on her cat's black tail to tread,
  When straight the Spell would vanish into air,
  And he enjoy for life the yielding fair.

  He thank'd the Fairy for her kind advice.--
  Thought he, "If this be all, I'll not be nice;
  Rather than in my courtship I will fail
  I will to mince-meat tread Minon's black tail."

  To the Princess's court repairing strait,
  He sought the cat that must decide his fate;
  But when he found her, how the creature stared!
  How her back bristled, and her great eyes glared!
  That [tail] which he so fondly hop'd his prize,
  Was swell'd by wrath to twice its usual size;
  And all her cattish gestures plainly spoke
  She thought the affair he came upon, no joke.
  With wary step the cautious King draws near,
  And slyly means to attack her in her rear;
  But when he thinks upon her tail to pounce,
  Whisk--off she skips--three yards upon a bounce--
  Again he tries, again his efforts fail--
  Minon's a witch--the deuce is in her tail--

  The anxious chase for weeks the Monarch tried,
  Till courage fail'd, and hope within him died.
  A desperate suit 'twas useless to prefer,
  Or hope to catch a tail of quicksilver.--
  When on a day, beyond his hopes, he found
  Minon, his foe, asleep upon the ground;
  Her ample tail behind her lay outspread,
  Full to the eye, and tempting to the tread.
  The King with rapture the occasion bless'd.
  And with quick foot the fatal part he press'd.
  Loud squalls were heard, like howlings of a storm,
  And sad he gazed on Minon's altered form,--
  No more a cat, but chang'd into a man
  Of giant size, who frown'd, and thus began:

  "Rash King, that dared with impious design
  To violate that tail, that once was mine;
  What though the spell be broke, and burst the charms,
  That kept the Princess from thy longing arms,--
  Not unrevenged shall thou my fury dare,
  For by that violated tail I swear,
  From your unhappy nuptials shall be born
  A Prince, whose Nose shall be thy subjects' scorn.
  Bless'd in his love thy son shall never be,
  Till he his foul deformity shall see,
  Till he with tears his blemish shall confess,
  Discern its odious length, and wish it less!"

  This said, he vanish'd; and the King awhile
  Mused at his words, then answer'd with a smile
  "Give me a child in happy wedlock born,
  And let his Nose be made like a French horn;
  His knowledge of the fact I ne'er can doubt,--
  If he have eyes, or hands, he'll find it out."

  So spake the King, self-flatter'd in his thought,
  Then with impatient step the Princess sought.
  His urgent suit no longer she withstands,
  But links with him in Hymen's knot her hands.

    Almost as soon a widow as a bride,
  Within a year the King her husband died;
  And shortly after he was dead and gone,
  She was deliver'd of a little son,
  The prettiest babe, with lips as red as rose,
  And eyes like little stars--but such a nose--
  The tender Mother fondly took the boy
  Into her arms, and would have kiss'd her joy;
  His luckless nose forbade the fond embrace--
  He thrust the hideous feature in her face.

  Then all her Maids of Honour tried in turn,
  And for a Prince's kiss in envy burn;
  By sad experience taught, their hopes they miss'd,
  And mourn'd a Prince that never could be kiss'd.

  In silent tears the Queen confess'd her grief,
  Till kindest Flattery came to her relief.
  Her maids, as each one takes him in her arms,
  Expatiate freely o'er his world of charms--
  His eyes, lips, mouth--his forehead was divine--
  And for the nose--they called it Aquiline--
  Declared that Cæsar, who the world subdued,
  Had such a one--just of that longitude--
  That Kings like him compelled folks to adore them,
  And drove the short-nos'd sons of men before them--
  That length of nose portended length of days,
  And was a great advantage many ways--
  To mourn the gifts of Providence was wrong--
  Besides, _the Nose was not so very long_.--

  These arguments in part her grief redrest,
  A mother's partial fondness did the rest;
  And Time, that all things reconciles by use,
  Did in her notions such a change produce.
  That, as she views her babe, with favour blind,
  She thinks him handsomest of human kind.

  Meantime in spite of his disfigured face,
  Dorus (for so he's call'd) grew up apace;
  In fair proportion all his features rose,
  Save that most prominent of all--his Nose.
  That Nose, which in the infant could annoy,
  Was grown a perfect nuisance in the boy.
  Whene'er he walk'd, his Handle went before,
  Long as the snout of Ferret, or Wild Boar;
  Or like the Staff, with which on holy day
  The solemn Parish Beadle clears the way.

  But from their cradle to their latest year,
  How seldom Truth can reach a Prince's ear!
  To keep th' unwelcome knowledge out of view,
  His lesson well each flattering Courtier knew;
  The hoary Tutor, and the wily Page,
  Unmeet confederates! dupe his tender age.
  They taught him that whate'er vain mortals boast--
  Strength, Courage, Wisdom--all they value most--
  Whate'er on human life distinction throws--
  Was all comprised--in what?--a length of nose!
  Ev'n Virtue's self (by some suppos'd chief merit)
  In short-nosed folks was only want of spirit.

  While doctrines such as these his guides instill'd,
  His Palace was with long-nosed people fill'd;
  At Court, whoever ventured to appear
  With a short nose, was treated with a sneer.
  Each courtier's wife, that with a babe is blest,
  Moulds its young nose betimes; and does her best,
  By pulls, and hauls, and twists, and lugs and pinches,
  To stretch it to the standard of the Prince's.

  Dup'd by these arts, Dorus to manhood rose,
  Nor dream'd of aught more comely than his Nose,
  Till Love, whose pow'r ev'n Princes have confest,
  Claim'd the soft empire o'er his youthful breast.
  Fair Claribel was she who caused his care;
  A neighb'ring Monarch's daughter, and sole heir.
  For beauteous Claribel his bosom burn'd;
  The beauteous Claribel his flame return'd;
  Deign'd with kind words his passion to approve,
  Met his soft vows, and yielded love for love.
  If in her mind some female pangs arose
  At sight (and who can blame her?) of his Nose.
  Affection made her willing to be blind;
  She loved him for the beauties of his mind;
  And in his lustre, and his royal race,
  Contented sunk--one feature of his face.

  Blooming to sight, and lovely to behold,
  Herself was cast in Beauty's richest mould;
  Sweet female majesty her person deck'd,
  Her face an angel's--save for one defect--
  Wise Nature, who to Dorus over kind,
  A length of nose too liberal had assign'd,
  As if with us poor mortals to make sport,
  Had giv'n to Claribel a nose too short:
  But turned up with a sort of modest grace;
  It took not much of beauty from her face;
  And subtle Courtiers, who their Prince's mind
  Still watch'd, and turned about with every wind,
  Assur'd the Prince, that though man's beauty owes
  Its charm to a majestic length of nose,
  The excellence of Woman (softer creature)
  Consisted in the shortness of that feature.
  Few arguments were wanted to convince
  The already more than half persuaded Prince;
  Truths, which we hate, with slowness we receive,
  But what we wish to credit, soon believe.

  The Princess's affections being gain'd,
  What but her Sire's approval now remain'd?
  Ambassadors with solemn pomp are sent
  To win the aged Monarch to consent
  (Seeing their States already were allied)
  That Dorus might have Claribel to bride.
  Her Royal Sire, who wisely understood
  The match propos'd was for both kingdoms' good,
  Gave his consent; and gentle Claribel
  With weeping bids her Father's court farewell.

  With gallant pomp, and numerous array,
  Dorus went forth to meet her on her way;
  But when the Princely pair of lovers met,
  Their hearts on mutual gratulations set,
  Sudden the Enchanter from the ground arose,
  (The same who prophesied the Prince's nose)
  And with rude grasp, unconscious of her charms,
  Snatch'd up the lovely Princess in his arms,
  Then bore her out of reach of human eyes,
  Up in the pathless regions of the skies.

  Bereft of her that was his only care,
  Dorus resign'd his soul to wild despair;
  Resolv'd to leave the land that gave him birth,
  And seek fair Claribel throughout the earth.
  Mounting his horse, he gives the beast the reins,
  And wanders lonely through the desert plains;
  With fearless heart the savage heath explores,
  Where the wolf prowls, and where the tiger roars,
  Nor wolf, nor tiger, dare his way oppose;
  The wildest creatures see, and shun, his NOSE.
  Ev'n lions fear! the elephant alone
  Surveys with pride a trunk so like his own.
  At length he to a shady forest came,
  Where in a cavern lived an aged dame;
  A reverend Fairy, on whose silver head
  A hundred years their downy snows had shed.
  Here ent'ring in, the Mistress of the place
  Bespoke him welcome with a cheerful grace,
  Fetch'd forth her dainties, spread her social board
  With all the Store her dwelling could afford.
  The Prince with toil and hunger sore opprest,
  Gladly accepts, and deigns to be her guest.
  But when the first civilities were paid,
  The dishes rang'd, and Grace in order said;
  The Fairy, who had leisure now to view
  Her guest more closely, from her pocket drew
  Her spectacles, and wip'd them from the dust,
  Then on her nose endeavour'd to adjust;
  With difficulty she could find a place
  To hang them on in her unshapely face;
  For if the Princess's was somewhat small,
  This Fairy scarce had any nose at all.
  But when by help of spectacles the Crone
  Discern'd a Nose so different from her own,
  What peals of laughter shook her aged sides!
  While with sharp jests the Prince she thus derides.

FAIRY

  "Welcome, great Prince of Noses, to my cell;
  'Tis a poor place,--but thus we Fairies dwell.
  Pray, let me ask you, if from far you come--
  And don't you sometimes find it cumbersome?"

PRINCE

  "Find what?"

FAIRY

          "Your Nose--."

PRINCE

                  "My Nose, Ma'am!"

FAIRY

                               "No offence.--
  The King your Father was a man of sense,
  A handsome man (but lived not to be old)
  And had a Nose cast in the common mould.
  Ev'n I myself, that now with age am grey,
  Was thought to have some beauty in my day,
  And am the Daughter of a King. Your sire
  In this poor face saw something to admire--
  And I to shew my gratitude made shift--
  Have stood his friend--and help'd him at a lift--
  'Twas I that, when his hopes began to fail,
  Shew'd him the spell that lurk'd in Minon's tail--
  Perhaps you have heard--but come, Sir, you don't eat--
  That Nose of yours requires both wine and meat--
  Fall to, and welcome, without more ado--
  You see your fare--what shall I help you to?
  This dish the tongues of nightingales contains;
  This, eyes of peacocks; and that, linnets' brains;
  That next you is a Bird of Paradise--
  We fairies in our food are somewhat nice.--
  And pray, Sir, while your hunger is supplied,
  Do lean your Nose a little on one side;
  The shadow, which it casts upon the meat,
  Darkens my plate, I see not what I eat "--

  The Prince on dainty after dainty feeding,
  Felt inly shock'd at the old Fairy's breeding;
  And held it want of manners in the Dame,
  And did her country education blame.
  One thing he only wonder'd at,--what she
  So very comic in his nose could see.
  Hers, it must be confest, was somewhat short,
  And time and shrinking age accounted for't;
  But for his own, thank heaven, he could not tell
  That it was ever thought remarkable;
  A decent nose, of reasonable size,
  And handsome thought, rather than otherwise.
  But that which most of all his wonder paid,
  Was to observe the Fairy's waiting Maid;
  How at each word the aged Dame let fall
  She courtsied low, and smil'd assent to all;
  But chiefly when the rev'rend Grannam told
  Of conquests, which her beauty made of old.--
  He smiled to see how Flattery sway'd the Dame,
  Nor knew himself was open to the same!
  He finds her raillery now increase so fast,
  That making hasty end of his repast,
  Glad to escape her tongue, he bids farewell
  To the old Fairy, and her friendly cell.

  But his kind Hostess, who had vainly tried
  The force of ridicule to cure his pride,
  Fertile in plans, a surer method chose,
  To make him see the error of his nose;
  For till he view'd that feature with remorse,
  The Enchanter's direful spell must be in force.

  Midway the road by which the Prince must pass,
  She rais'd by magic art a House of Glass;
  No mason's hand appear'd, nor work of wood;
  Compact of glass the wondrous fabric stood.
  Its stately pillars, glittering in the sun,
  Conspicuous from afar, like silver, shone.
  Here, snatch'd and rescued from th' Enchanter's might,
  She placed the beauteous Claribel in sight.
  The admiring Prince the chrystal dome survey'd,
  And sought access unto his lovely Maid;
  But, strange to tell, in all that mansion's bound,
  Nor door, nor casement, was there to be found.
  Enrag'd, he took up massy stones, and flung
  With such a force, that all the palace rung;
  But made no more impression on the glass,
  Than if the solid structure had been brass.
  To comfort his despair, the lovely maid
  Her snowy hand against her window laid;
  But when with eager haste he thought to kiss,
  His Nose stood out, and robb'd him of the bliss.
  Thrice he essay'd th' impracticable feat;
  The window and his lips can never meet.

  The painful Truth, which Flattery long conceal'd,
  Rush'd on his mind, and "O!" he cried, "I yield;
  Wisest of Fairies, thou wert right, I wrong--
  _I own, I own, I have a Nose too long_."

  The frank confession was no sooner spoke,
  But into shivers all the palace broke,
  His Nose of monstrous length, to his surprise
  Shrunk to the limits of a common size;
  And Claribel with joy her Lover view'd,
  Now grown as beautiful as he was good.
  The aged Fairy in their presence stands,
  Confirms their mutual vows, and joins their hands.
  The Prince with rapture hails the happy hour,
  That rescued him from self-delusion's power;
  And trains of blessings crown the future life
  Of Dorus, and of Claribel, his wife.




NOTES

CHARLES LAMB AND BOOKS FOR CHILDREN


Charles Lamb's activities as a writer for children seem to have begun
and ended in the service of Godwin. The earliest effort in this
direction of which we have any knowledge is _The King and Queen of
Hearts_, 1805, and the latest _Prince Dorus_, 1810 or 1811, unless we
count _Beauty and the Beast_, possibly 1811, which in my opinion he
did not write.

Lamb first met William Godwin (1756-1836), the philosopher, probably
through the instrumentality of their mutual friend Thomas Holcroft,
not long after Gillray had satirised Lamb and Lloyd, in his plate in
the first number of _The Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine_, August,
1798, as a frog and a toad, seated in the vicinity of Coleridge and
Southey and reading together a volume labelled "Blank Verse, by Toad
and Frog." "Pray, Mr. Lamb," said Godwin when he first made Lamb's
acquaintance, "are you toad or frog?" It was feared that trouble might
ensue, but Lamb and Godwin were found the next morning at breakfast
together and they became good, though never very intimate, friends.

Godwin, who had been for a while a minister at Ware, in Hertfordshire,
came to London in 1779, and took up literature as a profession
seriously in 1783. His _Political Justice_ was published in 1793,
_Caleb Williams_ in 1794, and _St. Leon_ in 1799. After loving at
a distance Mrs. Opie and Mrs. Inchbald, Godwin married Mary
Wollstonecraft in 1797. Their daughter afterwards became Mrs. Shelley,
the wife of the poet. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin died in the year of
her marriage, and in 1801 Godwin married again, a Mrs. Clairmont,
a widow. Lamb detested her. None the less it was she who took to
publishing and who incited him and his sister to write the charming
children's books in this volume.

Lamb helped Godwin with other literary ventures before the publishing
business was started. In 1800 he wrote an epilogue to his tragedy
of "Antonio" (see the essay in Vol. II., "The Old Actors," for a
description of the luckless first night), and he advised him in the
composition of "Faulkener," another tragedy, which failed in 1807 and
which also had a prologue by Lamb. And a letter is extant showing Lamb
toiling at a review of Godwin's _Chaucer_ in 1803, but the review
itself is not forthcoming.

The publishing business was started in 1805 on Mrs. Godwin's
initiative. At first, owing to the undesirability of connecting the
name of a political and moral firebrand like Godwin with books for
children, it was arranged that the business, which was in Hanway
Street, Oxford Street, should bear the name of the manager, Thomas
Hodgkins, while the books contributed by Godwin were to be signed
Edward Baldwin. In 1806, however, Mrs. Godwin opened a shop at 41
Skinner Street, Snow Hill (now demolished), and published in her own
name as M.J. Godwin & Co., at The Children's Library.

For her the Lambs wrote _The King and Queen of Hearts_ (by Charles
Lamb), 1805; _Tales from Shakespear_, 1807; _The Adventures of
Ulysses_ (by Charles Lamb), 1808; _Mrs. Leicester's School and Poetry
for Children_, 1809; and _Prince Dorus_ (by Charles Lamb), 1811. Mrs.
Godwin translated tales from the French, Godwin contributed _Baldwin's
Fables_, _Baldwin's Pantheon_, and histories of Greece, England and
Rome, and Hazlitt wrote an English Grammar. The principal illustrator
to the firm was William Mulready.

Although Lamb had the most cordial disliking for Mrs. Godwin, he
always stood by his old friend her husband. Between 1811 and 1821
the two men seem to have had little to do with each other; but in
1822 Lamb came to Godwin's assistance to much purpose. The title to
Godwin's house in Skinner Street was successfully contested in that
year, and Godwin became a bankrupt. A fund was therefore set on
foot for him by Lamb and others, Lamb's own contribution being £50.
Godwin, however, never rightly rallied, and thenceforward lived very
quietly, wrote the _History of the Commonwealth_ and _Lives of the
Necromancers_, and died in 1836. Mrs. Godwin survived him until 1841.

Knowing what we do--from Dowden's _Shelley_ and other sources--it is
not possible greatly to admire Godwin's character, nor is the second
Mrs. Godwin a subject for enthusiasm; but the part played by them in
the Lambs' literary life was extremely valuable. Charles Lamb had,
it is true, other stimulus, and without his work for children, sweet
though it is, his name would still be a household word; but Mary Lamb
might, but for the Godwins, have gone almost silent to the grave. Her
writings, with their sweet gravity and tender simplicity, were called
forth wholly by the Bad Baby, as Lamb called Mrs. Godwin.

Lamb's views on the literature of the nursery had crystallised long
before he began to write children's books himself. In a letter to
Coleridge, October 23,1802, he had said:--

"'Goody Two Shoes' is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has
banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at
Newberry's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner
of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's
nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs.
Barbauld's books convey, it seems, must come to a child in the _shape
of knowledge_, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his
own powers when he has learnt, that a horse is an animal, and Billy is
better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest
in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he
suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded
to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is
there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would
have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives'
fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural
history!"

Hence when the time came Lamb was all ready with a nursery method of
his own.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 1. TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR.

Mary Lamb was asked to write the _Tales from Shakespear_, with help
from her brother, in the spring of 1806 or the winter of 1805. I have
seen the statement that this was at the instigation of Hazlitt, but
Lamb does not say so. The first mention of the work is in Lamb's
letter to Manning, May 10, 1806:--

"She [Mary] says you saw her writings about the other day, and she
wishes you should know what they are. She is doing for Godwin's
bookseller twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's
tales. Six are already done by her, to wit, 'The Tempest,' 'Winter's
Tale,' 'Midsummer Night,' 'Much Ado,' 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and
'Cymbeline'; and the 'Merchant of Venice' is in forwardness. I have
done 'Othello' and 'Macbeth,' and mean to do all the tragedies. I
think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. It's
to bring in sixty guineas. Mary has done them capitally, I think,
you'd think. These are the humble amusements we propose, while you are
gone to plant the cross of Christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi.
Quam homo homini præstat! but then, perhaps, you'll get murdered, and
we shall die in our beds with a fair literary reputation."

Mary Lamb's letters to Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Sarah Hazlitt),
continue the story. This is on June 2, 1806:--

My _Tales_ are to be published in separate story-books; I mean, in
single stories, like the children's little shilling books. I cannot
send you them in Manuscript, because they are all in the Godwins'
hands; but one will be published very soon, and then you shall have
it _all in print_. I go on very well, and have no doubt but I shall
always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to keep going on. I
think I shall get fifty pounds a year at the lowest calculation; but
as I have not yet seen any _money_ of my own earning, for we do not
expect to be paid till Christmas, I do not feel the good fortune, that
has so unexpectedly befallen me, half so much as I ought to do. But
another year, no doubt, I shall perceive it.

When I write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, for Charles is
to go in a few days to the Managers to inquire about it. But that must
now be a next-year's business too, even if it does succeed; so it's
all looking forward, and no prospect of present gain. But that's
better than no hopes at all, either for present or future times.

Charles has written Macbeth, Othello, King Lear, and has begun Hamlet;
you would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but
not on one cushion sitting), like Hermia and Helena in the Midsummer
Night's Dream; or, rather, like an old literary Darby and Joan: I
taking snuff; and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make
nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he
finds out he has made something of it....

Martin [Burney] has just been here. My Tales (_again_) and Charles's
Farce has made the boy mad to turn Author; and he has written a Farce,
and he has made the Winter's Tale into a story; but what Charles says
of himself is really true of Martin, for _he can make nothing at all
of it_; and I have been talking very eloquently this morning, to
convince him that nobody can write farces, &c., under thirty years of
age. And so I suppose he will go home and new model his farce.

A little later, June 26, Lamb writes to Wordsworth:--

"Mary is just stuck fast in All's Well that Ends Well. She complains
of having to set forth so many female characters in boy's clothes. She
begins to think Shakspear must have wanted Imagination. I to encourage
her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work,
flatter her with telling how well such and such a play is done. But
she is stuck fast and I have been obliged to promise to assist her."

Then we have Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart again (early in July, 1806):
"I am in good spirits just at this present time, for Charles has been
reading over the _Tale_ I told you plagued me so much, and he thinks
it one of the very best: it is 'All's Well that Ends Well.'"

The work was finished in the autumn of 1806 and published at the end
of the year, dated 1807. Lamb sent Wordsworth a copy on January 29,
1807, with the following letter:--

    "We have book'd off from Swan and Two Necks, Lad Lane, this day
    (per Coach) the Tales from Shakespear. You will forgive the
    plates, when I tell you they were left to the direction of Godwin,
    who left the choice of subjects to the bad baby, who from mischief
    (I suppose) has chosen one from damn'd beastly vulgarity (vide
    'Merch. Venice'), where no atom of authority was in the tale to
    justify it--to another has given a name which exists not in the
    tale, Nic Bottom, and which she thought would be funny, though in
    this I suspect _his_ hand, for I guess her reading does not reach
    far enough to know Bottom's Christian name--and one of Hamlet, and
    Grave digging, a scene which is not hinted at in the story, and
    you might as well have put King Canute the Great reproving his
    courtiers--the rest are Giants and Giantesses. Suffice it, to save
    our taste and damn our folly, that we left it all to a friend W.G.
    who in the first place cheated me into putting a name to them,
    which I did not mean, but do not repent, and then wrote a puff
    about their _simplicity_, &c., to go with the advertisement as in
    my name! Enough of this egregious dupery. I will try to abstract
    the load of teazing circumstances from the Stories and tell you
    that I am answerable for Lear, Macbeth, Timon, Romeo, Hamlet,
    Othello, for occasionally a tail piece or correction of grammar,
    for none of the cuts and all of the spelling. The rest is my
    Sister's.--We think Pericles of hers the best, and Othello of
    mine--but I hope all have some good. As You Like It, we like
    least.

    "So much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to
    Johnny, as 'Mrs. Godwin's fancy'.

    "C.L.

      "_Our love to all_.

    "I had almost forgot, My part of the Preface begins in the middle
    of a sentence, in last but one page, after a colon, thus:--

    ":--_which if they be happily so done_, &c. (see page 2, line 7
    from foot).

    The former part hath a more feminine turn and does hold me up
    something as an instructor to young ladies: but upon my modesty's
    honour I wrote it not.

    "Godwin told my Sister that the Baby chose the subjects: a fact in
    taste."

This letter not only tells us how the preface was written--the first
part, I take it, by William Godwin--but what Lamb himself thought of
the pictures; which I reproduce in the large edition. It is customary
to attribute the designs to Mulready and the engraving to William
Blake.

I have set up the _Tales_ from the second edition, 1809, because it
embodies certain corrections and was probably the last edition in
which the Lambs took any interest. The changes of word are few. I note
the more important; Page 5, line 1, "recollection" was "remembrance"
in the first edition; page 10, line 27, "voracious" was "ugly" in the
first edition; page 15, line 21, "vessel" was "churn"; page 42, line
30, "continued" was in the first edition "remained"; page 108, foot,
"But she being a woman" had run in the first edition, "But she being
a bad ambitious woman." I leave other minute differences to the
Bibliographer.

The second edition was issued in two forms: one similar to the first
edition and one with only frontispiece, a portrait of Shakespear, and
the following foreword from the pen, I imagine, of Mr. Godwin:--

    ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION

    The Proprietors of this work willingly pay obedience to the voice
    of the public. It has been the general sentiment, that the style
    in which these Tales are written, is not so precisely adapted for
    the amusement of mere children, as for an acceptable and improving
    present to young ladies advancing to the state of womanhood.
    They therefore now offer to the public an edition prepared with
    suitable elegance. In the former impression they gave twenty
    prints, illustrative of the twenty tales which compose these
    volumes, for they knew that it was a grievous thing and a
    disappointment to a child, to find some tales without the
    recommendation of a print, which the others possessed. The prints
    were therefore made from spirited designs, but did not pretend to
    high finishing in the execution. To this edition they have annexed
    merely a beautiful head of our immortal Dramatist, from a much
    admired painting by Zoust.--They are satisfied that every reader
    of taste will thank them for not suppressing the former Preface,
    though not exactly applicable on the present occasion.

    N.B.--A few copies have been worked off on the plan of the former
    impression, for the use of those who rather coincide in the
    original conception of the writer, than in the opinion above
    stated.

Lamb, we may be sure, had no hand in this manifesto, but whatever
protest he may have made was unsuccessful. It reappears in the third
edition, while the preface there has the general alteration of the
first person singular to the first person plural: "our young readers"
for "my young readers," and so forth. But this was probably Godwinian
work.

The Godwins also issued some or all of the _Tales_ separately at
sixpence each (the two ordinary volumes cost eight shillings) with
three plates to each, of a different design from those in the
two-volume edition. These little books are exceedingly rare, but
copies have been discovered both plain and coloured. The plates are
attributed to Blake.

The Lambs' _Tales from Shakespear_ were not, Mr. Bertram Dobell has
pointed out, the first experiment of the kind. In 1783 was published
in Paris _Contes Moraux, Amusans et Instructifs, à l'usage de la
Jeunesse tirés des Tragédies de Shakespear_. Par M. Perrin. The Lambs
did not, however, borrow anything from M. Perrin, even if they were
aware of his work. The _Tales_ are peculiarly their own.

The _Tales from Shakespear_ are, and probably will continue to be,
the most widely distributed of all the Lambs' work. In England it may
be that _Elia_ has had as many readers; but abroad the _Tales from
Shakespear_ easily lead. In the British Museum catalogue I find
translations in French, German, Swedish, Spanish, and Polish. (No
complete translation of _Elia_ into any language is known, not even in
French, although a selection of the essays will be found at the end of
Depret's monograph, _De L'Humeur Littéraire en Angleterre_, 1877.) In
England almost every Christmas brings a new edition of the _Tales_ and
often an imitation.

Although Mary Lamb was the true author of the book, as of _Mrs.
Leicester's School_ and of _Poetry for Children_, her share being much
greater than her brother's in all of these, she was not until many
years later associated publicly with any of them. The _Tales_ were
attributed to Charles Lamb, presumably against his wish, as we see
from a sentence in the letter to Wordsworth quoted above, and the
other two books had no name attached to them at all. Why Mary Lamb
preserved such strict anonymity we do not now know; but it was
probably from a natural shrinking from any kind of publicity after the
unhappy publicity which she had once gained by her misfortune.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 240. THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES.

Lamb must have been as busy in the years 1806-1808 as in any of his
life; for he then not only had his India House work, but wrote his
share of the _Tales from Shakespear_, _Mrs. Leicester's School_ and
_Poetry for Children_, wrote all of _The Adventures of Ulysses_, and
finally prepared his _Dramatic Specimens_. Moreover in 1806 he had the
harassment of the alterations and impending production of "Mr. H."

On February 26, 1808, he tells Manning that he has just finished _The
Adventures of Ulysses_ and the _Specimens_, describing _The Adventures
of Ulysses_ as "intended to be an introduction to the reading of
Telemachus! it is done out of the Odyssey, not from the Greek. I
would not mislead you: nor yet from Pope's Odyssey, but from an older
translation of one Chapman. The 'Shakspeare Tales' suggested the doing
it." Many years after Lamb wrote to Barton (August 10, 1827): "Did
you ever read my 'Adventures of Ulysses,' founded on Chapman's old
translation of it? for children or _men_. Ch. is divine, and my
abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity."

Chapman's _Homer_ was the folio which Leigh Hunt tells us he once saw
Lamb kiss.

Writing to Coleridge on October 23, 1802, Lamb says:--

    "I have just finished Chapman's Homer. Did you ever read it?--it
    has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a
    rapid original, of any; and in the uncommon excellence of the more
    finished parts goes beyond Fairfax or any of 'em. The metre is
    fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur.
    Cowper's ponderous blank verse detains you every step with some
    heavy Miltonism; Chapman gallops off with you his own free
    pace....

    "I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my
    next. I am much interested in him."

A brief correspondence which passed between Godwin and Lamb just
before the publication of _The Adventures of Ulysses_ may be given
here.

WILLIAM GODWIN TO CHARLES LAMB

    Skinner Street, _March_ 10, 1808.

    Dear Lamb,--I address you with all humility, because I know you to
    be _tenax propositi_. Hear me, I entreat you, with patience.

    It is strange with what different feelings an author and
    a bookseller looks at the same manuscript. I know this by
    experience: I was an author, I am a bookseller. The author thinks
    what will conduce to his honour: the bookseller what will cause
    his commodities to sell.

    You, or some other wise man, I have heard to say, It is children
    that read children's books, when they are read, but it is parents
    that choose them. The critical thought of the tradesman put itself
    therefore into the place of the parent, and what the parent will
    condemn.

    We live in squeamish days. Amid the beauties of your manuscript,
    of which no man can think more highly than I do, what will the
    squeamish say to such expressions as these,--'devoured their
    limbs, yet warm and trembling, lapping the blood,' page 10. Or
    to the giant's vomit, page 14; or to the minute and shocking
    description of the extinguishing the giant's eye in the page
    following. You, I daresay, have no formed plan of excluding the
    female sex from among your readers, and I, as a bookseller, must
    consider that if you have you exclude one half of the human
    species.

    Nothing is more easy than to modify these things if you please,
    and nothing, I think, is more indispensable.

    Give me, as soon as possible, your thoughts on the matter.

    I should also like a preface. Half our customers know not Homer,
    or know him only as you or I know the lost authors of antiquity.
    What can be more proper than to mention one or two of those
    obvious recommendations of his works, which must lead every human
    creature to desire a nearer acquaintance.--Believe me, ever
    faithfully yours,

    W. GODWIN.

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN

    _March_ 11, 1808.

    Dear Godwin,--The giant's vomit was perfectly nauseous, and I am
    glad you pointed it out. I have removed the objection. To the
    other passages I can find no other objection but what you may
    bring to numberless passages besides, such as of Scylla snatching
    up the six men, etc.,--that is to say, they are lively images of
    _shocking_ things. If you want a book, which is not occasionally
    to _shock_, you should not have thought of a tale which was so
    full of anthropophagi and wonders. I cannot alter these things
    without enervating the Book, and I will not alter them if the
    penalty should be that you and all the London booksellers should
    refuse it. But speaking as author to author, I must say that I
    think _the terrible_ in those two passages seems to me so much to
    preponderate over the nauseous, as to make them rather fine than
    disgusting. Who is to read them, I don't know: who is it that
    reads Tales of Terror and Mysteries of Udolpho? Such things sell.
    I only say that I will not consent to alter such passages, which
    I know to be some of the best in the book. As an author I say to
    you, an author, Touch not my work. As to a bookseller I say, Take
    the work such as it is, or refuse it. You are as free to refuse it
    as when we first talked of it. As to a friend I say, Don't plague
    yourself and me with nonsensical objections. I assure you I will
    not alter one more word.

As the reader will see, Lamb made only the one alteration; nor did he
add a preface recommending the works of Homer.

I have set up _The Adventures of Ulysses_ from the second edition,
1819, because it probably contains Lamb's final revision of the text.
The punctuation differs considerably from that of the first edition,
but there are, I think, only four changes of words. On page 251, line
34, "and" was inserted before "snout"; on page 257, line g, "does"
was substituted for "do"; on page 266, line 7 from foot, "over" was
substituted for "above"; and on page 276, line 5 from foot, "it" was
inserted after "keep."

The suggestion has been made that, since Lamb states in the preface
that this work was designed as a supplement to _The Adventures
of Telemachus_, he was also the author of one of the versions of
Fénélon's popular tale. But this, I think, has no foundation in fact.
We know from Lamb's letter to Godwin that the impulse to write _The
Adventures of Ulysses_ came from Godwin, and it was natural that he,
a bookseller, should wish to associate this new venture with a volume
so well known and so acceptable as the _Telemachus_. Now and then in
the story Lamb deliberately refers to Fénélon's work, as when in the
fourth chapter he says:--

"It were useless to describe over again what has been so well told
already; or to relate those soft arts of courtship which the goddess
used to detain Ulysses; the same in kind which she afterwards
practised upon his less wary son, whom Minerva, in the shape of
Mentor, hardly preserved from her snares when they came to the
Delightful Island together in search of the scarce departed Ulysses."

This is drawn not from Chapman or Homer, but from the Archbishop of
Cambrai. Lamb introduced it in accordance with the first sentence of
his preface.

Lamb adapted Chapman very freely. For the material in Chapter I. we
must go to Chapman, Books IX. and X.; for Chapter II., to Books X.
and XL; for Chapter III., to Book XII.; for Chapter IV., to the early
books; for Chapters V., VI. and VII., to Chapman, Books V.-IX. and
XIII.; for Chapter VIII., to Books XIII. and XIV.; and for Chapter IX.
to the end, to Chapman, Book XVI. and onwards. It must be agreed
that Lamb performed a difficult task with great skill and success,
especially when we consider his want of interest, frequently admitted,
in stories. But the pleasure of adding dignity and sweetness to the
character of Ulysses seems to have been very considerable as he
worked (or so I imagine), and he made practically a new thing, a very
persuasive blend of ancient and modern. The book has not been so
popular as the _Tales from Shakespear_, but it has, I think, finer
literary merits and may perhaps be read by older intellects with more
satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 316. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL.

This charming little book was published by Mrs. Godwin at the end of
1808, dated 1809, with no author's name attached. Besides, however,
ample internal evidence as to its authorship, there are many
references to it in Lamb's letters. Why it was issued anonymously we
cannot now learn; probably, as I have suggested, from Mary Lamb's
unwillingness to have her name in print. The _Tales from Shakespear_,
it will be remembered, were described always as being by Charles Lamb,
although Mary did far more than half, and it was at the outset her
book. Her share of _Mrs. Leicester's School_ was equally great, and
a sentence in one of her letters to Sarah Stoddart suggests that it
was hers in inception also: "I have been busy making waistcoats, and
plotting new work to succeed the _Tales_." Possibly it was because
his share in the book was so small that Lamb refused to sign _Mrs.
Leicester's School_ as he had the _Tales from Shakespear_; possibly
he had other reasons, the title-page of his _Dramatic Specimens_
being one of them. When, a little while afterwards, the _Poetry for
Children_ was published, it was stated to be "by the author of _Mrs.
Leicester's School_," while several of the poems when reprinted by
Mylius (see notes below) were signed Mrs. Leicester. Thus, Mary Lamb's
last chance of seeing her name on a title-page vanished. But we may
feel confident that her own wishes were consulted in the matter.

Lamb's share in _Mrs. Leicester's School_ we know from a letter to
Bernard Barton (January 23, 1824): "My Sister's part in the Leicester
School (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same
quantity) in the Shakspeare Tales which bear my name. I wrote only the
Witch Aunt, the first going to Church, and the final Story, about a
little Indian girl in a ship."

The little book was well received, and was quietly popular for some
years, running into eight editions by 1823. I imagine, however, that
it was little known between 1830 and the end of the century. Latterly
there has been a revival in interest. One or two critics have touched
rapturous heights in their praise. Landor wrote to Crabb Robinson in
April, 1831:--

    It is now several days since I read the book you recommended to
    me, "Mrs. Leicester's School;" and I feel as if I owed you a debt
    in deferring to thank you for many hours of exquisite delight.
    Never have I read anything in prose so many times over within so
    short a space of time as "The Father's Wedding-day." Most people,
    I understand, prefer the first tale--in truth a very admirable
    one--but others could have written it. Show me the man or woman,
    modern or ancient, who could have written this one sentence: "When
    I was dressed in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive,
    to see how fine I was on papa's wedding day; and I ran to my
    favourite station at her bedroom door." How natural, in a little
    girl, is this incongruity--this impossibility! Richardson would
    have given his "Clarissa," and Rousseau his "Heloïse" to have
    imagined it. A fresh source of the pathetic bursts out before
    us, and not a bitter one. If your Germans can show us anything
    comparable to what I have transcribed, I would almost undergo a
    year's gargle of their language for it. The story is admirable
    throughout--incomparable, inimitable....

Landor wrote to Lady Blessington to the same effect. Praise of this
book is so pleasant to read that I quote his second letter too:--

    One of her tales is, with the sole exception of the _Bride of
    Lammermoor_, the most beautiful tale in prose composition in any
    language, ancient or modern. A young girl has lost her mother, the
    father marries again, and marries a friend of his former wife. The
    child is ill reconciled to it, but being dressed in new clothes
    for the marriage, she runs up to her mother's chamber, filled with
    the idea how happy that dear mother would be at seeing her in all
    her glory--not reflecting, poor soul! that it was only by her
    mother's death that she appeared in it. How natural, how novel is
    all this! Did you ever imagine that a fresh source of the pathetic
    would burst forth before us in this trodden and hardened world? I
    never did, and when I found myself upon it, I pressed my temples
    with both hands, and tears ran down to my elbows.

And Coleridge remarked to Allsop:--

    It at once soothes and amuses me to think--nay, to know--that
    the time will come when this little volume of my dear and
    well-nigh oldest friend, Mary Lamb, will be not only enjoyed but
    acknowledged as a rich jewel in the treasury of our permanent
    English literature; and I cannot help running over in my mind the
    long list of celebrated writers, astonishing geniuses, Novels,
    Romances, Poems, Histories and dense Political Economy quartos
    which, compared with _Mrs. Leicester's School_, will be remembered
    as often and prized as highly as Wilkie's and Glover's _Epics_ and
    Lord Bolingbroke's _Philosophies_ compared with _Robinson Crusoe_.

I have set up the book from the second edition, 1809, because the
Lambs' final text is probably to be found there. Although certain
additional minor differences were made in the eighth and ninth
editions, 1821 and 1825, I think it very unlikely that they were
made by Mary or Charles Lamb. The principal alteration between the
second and first editions is page 317, line 6, "your eyes were red
with weeping," for "The traces of tears might still be seen on your
cheeks." The other differences are very slight, mostly being in
punctuation, but there are also a few changes of word. I leave these,
however, to the Bibliographer.

The eighth edition was furnished with the following preface; which,
though it is signed "The Author," is not, I think, from either Mary or
Charles Lamb's pen. I rather suspect Mrs. Godwin.

    "Tell me a story, Mamma," was almost the first request my own
    child made me when she understood the meaning of a story, and
    I soon discovered I had no easier method of managing a very
    difficult temper than by adapting my stories to the errors she
    committed, or the good qualities she announced; but as I found it
    a very difficult and troublesome task to repeat the same story
    precisely the same each time, and as a sensible child, even at
    so early a period as three years of age, will remember where the
    narrator forgets, and never fail to detect the mistakes of the
    second repetition, I came to the resolution to print a small
    collection of stories for very young children, composed merely of
    circumstances incidental to their age.

The great error of many juvenile books is their deviation from truth;
and as so much is absolutely necessary to be taught, why add to
the labour by impressing false ideas on the mind of an infant, and
thus lose the opportunity of making amusement the vehicle to convey
instruction? A Mother only is, perhaps, capable of adapting stories to
the capacities of very young Children; for a Mother only watches the
unfolding of their ideas, and the bent of their dispositions. If one
good Mother finds these tales of service to her in her arduous but
pleasing task, my purpose will be answered.

It is stated that a French version of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, under
the title _Les Jeunes Pensionnaires_, was published. I have seen,
however, only _Petits Conies à l'usage de la Feunesse traduits de
l'Anglais par M'me M. D'Avot_, 1823, which contains "Elisabeth
Villiers, ou l'Oncle marin," "Charlotte Wilmot," "Marguerite Green, ou
la jeune Mahométane," and "Arabella Hardy, ou la Traversée."

_Mrs. Leicester's School_ calls for little annotation, except for the
purpose of relating the stories to the lives of their writers; for it
contains some very valuable autobiographical matter. But there are a
few minor points too.

Page 316. _Dedication_.

In the choice of Amwell School as the name of Mrs. Leicester's
establishment Mary (or Charles) returned after an inveterate Lamb
habit to the old Hertfordshire days. Amwell, where the New River
rises, is only a few miles from Widford and Blakesware. The signature
to the dedication, "M.B.," may have been a little joke for the
amusement of Martin Burney, who had taken such interest in the
progress of the _Tales from Shakespear_ and was in those days a
special favourite with Mary Lamb.

Page 319. I.--_Elizabeth Villiers_. "The Sailor Uncle."

By Mary Lamb. The story of the little girl learning her letters from
her mother's grave may have belonged to Widford churchyard; otherwise
there seems to be no personal memory here.

Page 328. II.--_Louisa Manners_. "The Farm House."

By Mary Lamb. Much of the description of the farm and country is
probably from memory of the old days at Mackery End, where we know
Mary Lamb to have gone with her little brother Charles some time
about 1780, and perhaps herself earlier. It is, however, possible
that Blakesware is meant, since Mary Lamb speaks of the grandmother:
Mrs. Bruton of Mackery End was her great aunt. One feels that the
grandmother's sorrow at not being remembered (on page 329) is from
life; and also the episode with Will Tasker (on the same page), and
the description (and probably the name) of Old Spot, the shepherd, on
page 333.

Page 334. III.--_Ann Withers_. "The Changeling."

By Mary Lamb. In one of the later editions of this story certain small
changes were made, not, I fancy, by Mary Lamb. For example, on page
349, line 19, the sentence was made to read: "Neither dancing, nor
any foolish lectures, could do much for Miss Lesley, she remained
_for some time_ wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is
usually attributed to dancing music _finally effected_." The italics
indicate the additions of the nice editorial hand.

Page 350. IV.--_Elinor Forester_. "The Father's Wedding Day."

By Mary Lamb. It is this story which Landor so much admired (see
above). The pretty song, "Balow, my babe," was probably "Ann
Bothwell's Lament," beginning "Balow, my boy."

Page 354. V.--_Margaret Green_. "The Young Mahometan."

By Mary Lamb, and perhaps her most perfect work. Here we have a
description of Blakesware, the home of the Plumers, which for many
years was uninhabited by the family, and left from 1778 to 1792 in the
sole charge of Mrs. Field, Charles and Mary's maternal grandmother.
Charles, since he was born in 1775, would on his visits have known no
power superior to his grandmother; but Mary, who was born in 1764,
would have occasionally encountered Mrs. Plumer, just as Margaret
Green met Mrs. Beresford. Probably Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Beresford
were very like. Probably also Mrs. Field maintained silence with her
grandchild, for we know that neither she nor her daughter rightly
understood Mary Lamb. Mrs. Field used to speak of her "poor moythered
brains." Mary's description of the old house should be compared
with Charles's in the _Elia_ essays "Blakesmoor in H----shire" and
"Dream-Children." In one point they are at variance; for Mary says
that the twelve Cæsars "hung" round the hall, and her brother that
they were life-size busts. I have the authority of a gentleman who
remembers them at Gilston, whither they were removed, for saying that
Charles Lamb's memory was the more accurate. The picture of the little
girl with a lamb seems to have made an equal impression on both their
minds; and both mention the shuttlecocks on the table.

Page 360. VI.--_Emily Barton_. "Visit to the Cousins."

By Mary Lamb. Possibly autobiographical in the matter of the first
play. Charles Lamb's first play was the opera "Artaxerxes;" Mary's may
quite well have been Congreve's "Mourning Bride." The book-shop at the
corner of St. Paul's Churchyard would be Harris's (late Newbery's);
that in Skinner Street (No. 41) was, of course, Godwin's, where _Mrs.
Leicester's School_ was published and sold. This pleasant art of
advertising one's wares in one's own children's books was brought
to perfection by Newbery, and by Harris, his successor, whose tiny
histories are full of reminders of the merits of the corner of St.
Paul's Churchyard. By making Mr. Barton hesitate between the two shops
and then go to Mrs. Godwin's, Lamb (for here it was probably he and
not his sister) carried the joke a step farther than Newbery.

The following account of the figures on old St. Dunstan's Church (the
children of to-day are taken to Cheapside to see Bennett's clock) is
given in Hughson's _London_ (1805):--

    On the outside of the church, within a niche and pediment at the
    south-west end, over the clock, are two figures of savages or wild
    men, carved in wood, and painted natural colour, as big as the
    life, standing erect, with each a knotty club in his hand, with
    which they alternately strike the quarters, not only their arms,
    but even their heads, moving at every blow.

Moxon tells us that when the old church was pulled down and the
figures were removed, Lamb shed tears. The figures I am told
still exist in the garden of the villa in Regent's Park--"St.
Dunstan's"--that once belonged to the Marquis of Hertford and is now
the Earl of Londesborough's London House.

Miss Pearson kept a toy-shop at No. 7 Fleet Street. The Lambs knew her
through Charles's old schoolmistress, Mrs. Reynolds.

Page 368. VII.--_Maria Howe_. "The Witch Aunt."

By Charles Lamb. This story is peculiarly interesting to students of
Lamb's life, for it describes, probably with absolute fidelity, his
Aunt Hetty, and elaborates the passage concerning Stackhouse's _New
History of the Bible_, which is to be found in the _Elia_ essay
"Witches and other Night Fears." Aunt Hetty is described elsewhere by
Lamb in his _Elia_ essays, "Christ's Hospital" and "My Relations;" and
in the poem "Written on the Day of my Aunt's Funeral." In Mary Lamb's
letter to Sarah Stoddart on September 21, 1803, is a short passage
corroborative of Lamb's account of the relations subsisting between
his aunt and his parents:--

    My father had a sister lived with us--of course, lived with my
    Mother, her sister-in-law; they were, in their different ways, the
    best creatures in the world--but they set out wrong at first. They
    made each other miserable for full twenty years of their lives--my
    Mother was a perfect gentlewoman, my Aunty as unlike a gentlewoman
    as you can possibly imagine a good old woman to be; so that my
    dear Mother (who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor
    head and heart) used to distress and weary her with incessant and
    unceasing attention and politeness, to gain her affection. The old
    woman could not return this in kind, and did not know what to make
    of it--thought it all deceit, and used to hate my Mother with a
    bitter hatred; which, of course, was soon returned with interest.

Lamb told Coleridge, in a letter upon his aunt's death, "she was to me
the 'cherisher of infancy.'"

In the _Elia_ essay on "Witches" no mention is made of Glanvil; but
there is a passage in the unpublished version of _John Woodvil_ which
mentions both it and Stackhouse:--

  I can remember when a child the maids
  Would place me on their lap, as they undrest me,
  As silly women use, and tell me stories
  Of Witches--Make me read "Glanvil on Witchcraft,"
  And in conclusion show me in the Bible,
  The old Family-Bible, with the pictures in it,
  The 'graving of the Witch raising up Samuel,
  Which so possest my fancy, being a child,
  That nightly in my dreams an old Hag came
  And sat upon my pillow.

That was written some eight or nine years earlier than "Maria Howe;"
the essay on "Witches" some fifteen years later. Joseph Glanvill
(1636-1680) issued his _Philosophical Considerations touching Witches
and Witchcraft_, in 1666.

Page 375. VIII.--_Charlotte Wilmot_. "The Merchant's Daughter."

By Mary Lamb.

Page 378. IX.--_Susan Yates_. "First Going to Church."

By Charles Lamb. John Lamb, the father, came from Lincolnshire, but
Charles did not know that county at all. The remark, "to see how
goodness thrived," may well have been John Lamb's, or possibly his
father's; and Lamb's own first impressions of church, probably
acquired at the Temple (which he mentions here by comparison), were,
it is easy to believe, identical with the imaginary narrator's. Church
bells seem always to have had an attraction for him: he has a pretty
reference to them in _John Woodvil_, and a little poem in _Blank
Verse_, 1798, entitled "The Sabbath Bells."

Page 384. X.--_Arabella Hardy_. "The Sea Voyage."

By Charles Lamb. Nothing else that Lamb wrote is quite so far from the
ordinary run of his thoughts; and nothing has, I think, more charm.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 389. The King and Queen of Hearts This is probably the first of
Charles Lamb's books for children. Of its history nothing is known:
the proof that Charles Lamb wrote it is to be found in a letter
from Lamb to Wordsworth, now in America, dated February 1, 1806,
the concluding portion of which, and the only portion that has been
printed--beginning "_Apropos_ of Spenser"--will be found in most
editions of the correspondence tacked on to the letter dated June,
1806. In the earlier part of this missive Lamb enumerates the books
which he has just despatched to Wordsworth by carrier from London.
Among these is an edition of Spenser, leading to the "_apropos_."
Also: "there comes W. Hazlitt's book about Human Action for Coleridge;
a little song book for Sarah Coleridge; a Box for Hartley ...; a
Paraphrase on _The King and Queen of Hearts_, of which I, being the
author, beg Mr. Johnny Wordsworth's acceptance and opinion. _Liberal
Criticism_, as G. Dyer declares, I am always ready to attend to."

As Charles Lamb is not known to have written children's books for any
one but the Godwins, who in 1806 were still publishing under cover of
Thomas Hodgkins' name, in Hanway Street, it is reasonable to assume
that if a paraphrase of _The King and Queen of Hearts_ nursery rhyme
could be found, bearing Hodgkins' or Godwin's name, and dated 1805 or
1806, Lamb would be its author. That such a work did exist was proved
by the advertisements at the end of other of Godwin's juvenile books.
In the first edition of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 1809, is this
announcement:--

    "Likewise, the following elegant and approved Publications,
    containing each of them the Incidents of an agreeable Tale,
    exhibited in a Series of Engravings, Price 1s. plain, or 1s. 6d.
    coloured.

    "1. _The King and Queen of Hearts: showing how notably the Queen
    made her Tarts, and how Scurvily the Knave stole them away._ &c."

This series was called the Copperplate Series. In due course a copy
of No. 1, _The King and Queen of Hearts_, was found in the library of
Miss Edith Pollock, bought by her at the sale of the late Mr. Andrew
W. Tuer, an authority upon old children's literature and the publisher
to whose enterprise we owe the facsimile editions of _Prince Dorus_
and _Poetry for Children_. Mr. Tuer, however, had not suspected Lamb's
authorship. The cover of Miss Pollock's copy bears the date 1809,
which means that the little book was re-bound as required with the
date of the current year upon it. Copies of the first edition have
since been discovered and sold for enormous sums. The date is 1806.

In a copy of _The Looking Glass_, another of Godwin's books, _The King
and Queen of Hearts_ is thus advertised, with a new quatrain, probably
also from Lamb's pen:--

    "Price 1s. Plain; or 15. 6ed. Coloured,
      The King and Queen of Hearts,
          With the
  Rogueries of the Knave who stole away the Queen's Pies.
      Illustrated in Fifteen elegant Engravings:
  Agreeably to the famous Historical Ballad on the Subject.

    "I write of Tarts; how sweet a tale!
    You'll lick your lips to hear it told:
  I show you mighty Kings and Queens,
    Robes of scarlet, Crowns of gold."

This little book, _The Looking Glass_, which relates the early life
of William Mulready (1786-1863), was issued in facsimile by Mr. F.G.
Stephens in 1885, with an interesting account of its history. Therein
Mr. Stephens wrote: "Mr. Linnell told me that the cuts to the once
well-known _Nongtong Paw_ [Vol. 6 of "The Copperplate Series;" see
above], _The Sullen Woman and the Pedlar_ [Vol. 2 of the same series],
_Think before you speak_, and _The King and Queen of Hearts_, were
designed by Mulready." We thus discover who was the illustrator. My
own feeling is that the plates came first and Lamb's verses later.

_The King and Queen of Hearts_ cannot be said to add anything
characteristic to the body of Lamb's writings. But its discovery
is historically valuable in establishing--by the date 1805 on the
engraved title-page--the fact that before the _Tales from Shakespear_,
which are usually thought to be the brother and sister's first
experiment in writing for children, Charles at any rate had tried his
hand at that pastime. _The King and Queen of Hearts_ thus becomes his
first juvenile work.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 404. POETRY FOR CHILDREN.

This little book, attributed on the title-page merely to the author
of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, was published in two minute volumes at
three shillings by Mrs. Godwin in 1809.

Robert Lloyd, writing from London to his wife in April, 1809, says
of Charles and Mary Lamb: "If we may use the expression, their Union
of affection is what we conceive of marriage in Heaven. They are
the World _one_ to the _other_. They are writing a Book of Poetry
for children together." Later: "It is _task_ work to them, they are
writing for money, and a Book of Poetry for Children being likely to
sell has induced them to compose one." Writing to Coleridge of the
_Poetry for Children_, in June, 1809, Lamb says: "Our little poems are
but humble, but they have no name. You must read them, remembering
they were task-work; and perhaps you will admire the number of
subjects, all of children, picked out by an old Bachelor and an old
Maid. Many parents would not have found so many." Charles Lamb, by the
way, was then thirty-four, and Mary Lamb forty-four. In sending the
book to Manning, Lamb said that his own share of the poems was only
one-third.

The little book seems to have been quickly allowed by its publisher
to pass into the void. Possibly the two-volume form was found to be
impracticable: at any rate _Poetry for Children_ disappeared, many
of its pieces at various times reappearing with the signature Mrs.
Leicester in _The Junior Class-Book_ (two pieces), in _The First Book
of Poetry_ (twenty-two pieces) and _The Poetical Class Book_ (three
pieces), all compiled by William Frederic Mylius, a Christ's Hospital
master, and published by Mrs. Godwin. Hence the extreme rarity of
_Poetry for Children_, which seemed to be completely lost until, in
1877, a copy was found in Australia. Two or three other copies of
the English edition have since come to light. Mylius used also the
frontispieces to the two volumes. As I have not seen all the editions
of these compilations, it is possible that my figures may not be
complete.

An American edition of _Poetry for Children_ was published in 1812 at
Boston. The poems "Clock Striking," "Why not do it, Sir, To-day?" and
"Home Delights," were omitted.

I have placed against the poems, in the notes that follow, the
authorship--brother or sister's--which seems to me the more probable.
But I hope it will be understood that I do this at a venture, and,
except in a few cases, with no exact knowledge.

Page 404. _Envy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 404. _The Reaper's Child_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 405. _The Ride_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 406. _The Butterfly_.

(?) Mary Lamb. The poet referred to was William Roscoe, author of _The
Butterfly's Ball_, 1807.

Page 407. _The Peach_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 408. _Chusing a Name_.

By Charles Lamb; as we know from a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd.

Page 408. _Crumbs to the Birds_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 409. _The Rook and the Sparrows_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 410. _Discontent and Quarrelling_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 411. _Repentance and Reconciliation_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 412. _Neatness in Apparel_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 412. _The New-born Infant_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 413. _Motes in the Sun-beams_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 413. _The Boy and Snake_.

(?) Mary Lamb. This poem was the subject of the frontispiece to
Vol. I. of the original edition. According to a letter from Jean D.
Montgomery printed in _The County Gentleman_ in August, 1907, there is
extant in Kirkcudbrightshire a legend on which this poem is probably
based. She writes thus:--

    "At the farm of Newlaw, in the parish of Rerrick, in
    Kirkcudbrightshire, Scotland, some people named Crosbie lived
    about the year 1782--at least, they had a son, Douglas, who was
    born there in that year. When the child grew old enough to trot
    about by himself his mother was in the habit of giving him his
    plate of porridge and milk to take outside the farm and eat every
    morning. He had probably done so for long enough, when one day,
    his mother, happening to go out, saw him seated on the ground
    eating his porridge in company with an adder, who, however,
    instead of hurting the child, merely supped up the milk. When the
    reptile edged a little nearer to the boy than was quite equal,
    Douglas slapped the adder on his head with his horn spoon, saying,
    "Keep yer ain side o' the plate, Grey Bairdie."

The mother was, of course, terrified, but waited until the boy had
finished his meal, when she called in the neighbours and killed the
adder.

Curiously enough a precisely similar story turned up in Hungary in
1907 and was telegraphed to the London press from Budapest.

Page 415. _The First Tooth_.

Mary Lamb. The last line was quoted by Lamb in his Popular Fallacy
"That Home is Home": "It has been prettily said, that 'a babe is fed
with milk and praise.'"

Page 416. _To a River in which a Child was Drowned_.

By Charles Lamb. It was reprinted by him in the _Works_, 1818, the
text of which is here given. I imagine Lamb to have found the metre
and manner of the poem in the ballad "Gentle River, Gentle River"
(translated from the Spanish "Rio Verde, Rio Verde"), which is
printed in the _Percy Reliques_. Reprinted by Mylius in _The Junior
Class-Book_.

Page 416. _The First of April_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 417. _Cleanliness_.

(?) Charles Lamb. In the little essay "Saturday Night," written in
1829, Lamb disputes the truth of the adage "Cleanliness is next to
Godliness."

Page 418. _The Lame Brother_.

(?) Mary Lamb. John Lamb, Charles's elder brother, was lamed when a
young man (much older than the brother in the verses) by a falling
stone. In "Dream-Children" Lamb states that he himself was once
lame-footed too, and had to be carried by John. Somewhere between the
two brothers the historical truth of this poem probably resides.

Page 419. _Going into Breeches_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 420. _Nursing_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 421. _The Text_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 422. _The End of May_.

Mary Lamb. Talfourd writes, apparently with reference to this poem:
"One verse, which she did not print--the conclusion of a little poem
supposed to be expressed in a letter by the son of a family who, when
expecting the return of its father from sea, received news of his
death,--recited by her to Mr. Martin Burney, and retained in his fond
recollection, may afford a concluding example of the healthful wisdom
of her lessons:--

  'I can no longer feign to be
  A thoughtless child in infancy;
  I tried to write like young Marie,
    But I am James her brother;
  And I can feel--but she's too young--
  Yet blessings on her prattling tongue,
    She sweetly soothes my mother.'"

Page 424. _Feigned Courage_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 425. _The Broken Doll_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 426. _The Duty of a Brother_.

(?) Mary Lamb, amended by Charles Lamb.

Page 427. _Wasps in a Garden_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 428. _What is Fancy?_

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 429. _Anger_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 429. _Blindness_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 430. _The Mimic Harlequin_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 430. _Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum Book_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 431. _Memory_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 432. _The Reproof_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 432. _The Two Bees_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 434. _The Journey from School and to School_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 435. _The Orange_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 436. _The Young Letter-writer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 437. _The Three Friends_.

By Charles Lamb. Reprinted by him in his _Works_, 1818, with the text
now given, which differs very slightly from that of 1809.

Page 442. _On the Lord's Prayer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 443. "_Suffer little Children_ ..."

(?) Mary Lamb. With this poem ended Vol. I. of the original edition of
_Poetry for Children_. With the following poem Vol. II. began.

Page 445. _The Magpye's Nest, or a Lesson of Docility_.

(?) Mary Lamb. In this poem some trace of John Lamb senior's poetical
manner may be seen. Fables drawn from bird life stand at the beginning
of his _Poetical Pieces on Several Occasions_ (see Vol. II.).

Page 447. _The Boy and the Sky-lark_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The frontispiece to Vol. II. of _Poetry for
Children_ took its subject from this poem.

Page 449. _The Men and Women, and the Monkeys_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 449. _Love, Death, and Reputation_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Mr. Swinburne contributed to _The Athenæum_ of
February 2, 1878, a note on this poem:--

At the 96th page of the new edition of Charles and Mary Lamb's
'_Poetry for Children_' is a little poem of which the authorship can
hardly be doubtful, done into rhyme from the blank verse of Webster; a
translation by no means to its advantage. The original is to be found
in the third act of the "Duchess of Malfi," in the magnificent scene
where the privacy of the wedded lovers is invaded by Ferdinand; in
whose mouth the apologue transferred or "conveyed" by Lamb into the
quaint and delightful little book over the recovery of which all the
hearts of his lovers are yet warm with rejoicing, has a tragic and
terrible significance. It may be worth remark that the _Poetry for
Children_ appeared the year after that--most fortunate of years
for all students of the higher English drama--which was made nobly
memorable by the appearance of the matchless and priceless volume of
'_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who Lived about the Time of
Shakespear_,' in which the fratricide's apologue is translated at
length; so that while some part of Lamb's too rare leisure was given
to the gentle "task work" of making rhymes for little children, the
first strong savour of a fierce delight in his new intimacy with the
third and most tragic of English tragic poets must have been fresh and
hot upon him.

Page 450. _The Sparrow and the Hen_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Mrs. Glasse would be Hannah Glasse, of _The Art of
Cookery made Plain and Easy_, 1747.

Page 451. _Which is the Favourite?_

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 451. _The Beggar-Man_.

By John Lamb, Charles and Mary's brother; as we know from a letter
from Charles Lamb to Robert Lloyd.

Page 452. _Choosing a Profession_.

By Mary Lamb, as we know on the evidence of Robert Lloyd.

Page 453. _Breakfast_.

This also, on Robert Lloyd's evidence, is by Mary Lamb.

Page 454. _Weeding_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 455. _Parental Recollections_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The first line was quoted by him in the _Elia_ essay
"The Old and the New Schoolmaster." The poem may be considered as the
poetical correlative of the beautiful _Elia_ essay "Dream-Children."

Page 455. _The Two Boys_.

By Mary Lamb. Quoted by Lamb, as by "a quaint poetess," in his _Elia_
essay "Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading."

Page 456. _The Offer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 456. _The Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's Learning
Latin_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Many years later Mary Lamb wrote a sonnet in
_Blackwood_ on a kindred subject, addressed to Emma Isola. Mary Lamb
taught Latin to Mary Cowden Clarke (when Mary Victoria Novello) and to
William Hazlitt's son, also to Miss Kelly.

Page 457. _The Brother's Reply_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 459. _Nurse Green_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 460. _Good Temper_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 460. _Moderation in Diet_.

(?) Mary Lamb. The "splendid shilling" (borrowed from Phillips' parody
of Milton) suggests a touch of Charles Lamb.

Page 462. _Incorrect Speaking_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 462. _Charity_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 463. _My Birth-day_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 464. _The Beasts in the Tower_.

(?) Charles Lamb. There is a hint of Blake's "Tiger, tiger burning
bright" (which Lamb so greatly admired) in--

  That cat-like beast that to and fro
  Restless as fire doth ever go.

Page 466. _The Confidant_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 466. _Thoughtless Cruelty_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 467. _Eyes_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 468. _Penny Pieces_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 469. _The Rainbow_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 470. _The Force of Habit_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 470. _Clock Striking_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The late R.H. Shepherd, in his edition of Lamb,
remarks upon the resemblance between lines 10 and 11 and the couplet
in "Hester"--

          if 'twas not pride
  It was a joy to that allied--

as proving Charles Lamb to be the author.

Page 471. _Why not do it, Sir, To-day?_

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 471. _Home Delights_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 472. _The Coffee Slips_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 473. _The Dessert_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 474. _To a Young Lady, on being too fond of Music_.

(?) Mary Lamb. Melesinda also was the name of the heroine in "Mr. H."

Page 475. _Time spent in Dress_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 476. _The Fairy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 476. _Conquest of Prejudice_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 478. _The Great Grandfather_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 479. _The Spartan Boy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 480. _Queen Oriana's Dream_.

By Charles Lamb. Reprinted by him in his _Works_, 1818, the text of
which is here given.

Page 481. _On a Picture of the Finding of Moses, etc_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 483. _David_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 486. _David in the Cave of Adullam_.

Reprinted by Lamb, with Mary Lamb's name to it, in the _Works_, 1818,
the text of which is here given. This was the last poem in _Poetry for
Children_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 488, _Summer Friends_.

By Mary Lamb. This poem was sent by Robert Lloyd to his wife in April,
1809, as being one of the poems which Mary Lamb was writing for
_Poetry for Children_. It was not, however, included in that
collection.

Page 488. _A Birth-day Thought_.

This poem is printed by Mylius in his _First Book of Poetry_. In the
edition of 1811 the initials M.L. are appended; in later editions,
C.L. Hence it is included here. But we have no proof that M.L. stands
for Mary Lamb, or C.L. for Charles Lamb; although the coincidence
would be very striking if they did not.

Page 489. _The Boy, the Mother, and the Butterfly_.

These verses, which have not before been collected with Lamb's
writings, exist in an album which belonged probably to Thomas
Westwood, son of the Lambs' providers at Enfield. They are signed
Charles Lamb and dated October 9, 1827, at Enfield Chase.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page 490. PRINCE DORUS, OR FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE.

Apart from the internal evidence, which is very strong, I think, the
only reason for attributing this tale to Charles Lamb is an entry
in Crabb Robinson's diary for May 15, 1811: "A very pleasant call
on Charles and Mary Lamb. Read his version of _Prince Dorus, the
Long-Nosed King_." In his reminiscences of Lamb and others (in MS.)
Robinson said, under 1811: "C. Lamb wrote this year for children a
version of the Nursery Tale of Prince Dorus. I mention this, because
it is not in his collected works and like two vols. of Poems for
Children likely to be lost. I this year tried to persuade him to make
a new version of the old Tale of Reynard the Fox. He said he was sure
it would not succeed--sense for humour, said L., is extinct." What
particular version of the story was used by Lamb we cannot tell, but
in a little book called _Adventures of Musul; or, The Three Gifts_,
printed for Vernor & Hood and E. Newbery in 1800, "The Prince that had
a Long Nose" is one of the tales. Lamb's version does not call for
annotation.




INDEX


A

"Adventures of Ulysses," 240, 505.
"All's Well that Ends Well," 115.
Allsop, Thomas, and Coleridge, 509.
Amwell and the Lambs, 510.
"Anger," 429, 518.
"Ann Withers," 334, 511.
_Anti-Jacobin and Review, The_, 499.
"Arabella Hardy," 384, 513.
"As You Like It," 44.


B

Baldwin, Edward (Godwin's pseudonym), 500.
Barbauld, Mrs., Lamb on, 500.
Barton, Bernard, Lamb's letters to, 505, 508.
"Beasts in the Tower, The," 464, 520.
"Beggar Man, The," 451, 520.
Bells and Lamb, 513.
"Birthday Thought, A," 488, 522.
Blake, William, 503, 520.
Blakesware and the Lambs, 511.
"Blindness," 429, 518.
"Boy and the Sky-lark, The," 447, 519.
"Boy and the Snake, The," 413, 516.
"Boy, Mother, and Butterfly, The," 489, 522.
"Breakfast," 453, 520.
"Broken Doll, The," 425, 518.
"Brother's Reply, The," 457, 520.
Burney, Martin, and the Lambs, 502, 510, 518.
"Butterfly, The," 406, 516.


C

"Changeling, The," 334, 511.
Chapman, George, his _Homer_, 505, 507.
"Charity," 462, 520.
"Charlotte Wilmot," 375, 513.
"Choosing a Profession," 452, 520.
"Chusing a Name," 408, 516.
Clairmont, Mrs. (afterwards Mrs. Godwin), 499.
"Cleanliness," 417, 517.
"Clock Striking," 470, 521.
"Coffee Slips, The," 472, 521.
Coleridge, S.T., Lamb's letters to, 500, 505, 515.
---- on _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 509.
"Comedy of Errors," 136.
"Confidant, The," 466, 521.
"Conquest of Prejudice," 476, 521.
"Crumbs to the Birds," 408, 516.
"Cymbeline," 81.


D

"David," 483, 521.
"---- in the Cave of Adullam," 486, 522.
"Dessert, The," 473, 521.
"Discontent and Quarrelling," 410, 516.
"DORUS, PRINCE," 490, 522.
"Duchess of Malfi," Lamb's paraphrase from, 449, 519.
"Duty of a Brother, The," 426, 518.


E

_Elia_ in translation, 504.
"Elinor Forester," 350, 511.
"Elizabeth Villiers," 319, 510.
"Emily Barton," 360, 511.
"End of May, The," 422, 518.
"Envy," 404, 516.
"Eyes," 467, 521.


F

"Fairy, The," 476, 521.
"Farmhouse, The," 328, 310.
"Father's Wedding Day, The," 350, 511.
"Feigned Courage," 424, 518.
Fénélon, his _Telemachus_, 507.
Field, Mary, the Lambs' grandmother, 511.
"First Going to Church," 378, 513.
"---- of April, The," 416, 517.
"---- Tooth, The," 415, 517.
"Force of Habit, The," 470, 521.


G

Gillray, James, his caricature of Lamb, 499.
Glanvill, Joseph, on witchcraft, 513.
Godwin, Mrs., Lamb's hostility to, 500.
---- her choice in pictures, 502.
---- her preface to _Mrs. Leicester's School_ (?), 509.
-- William, his meeting with Lamb, 499.
---- becomes a publisher, 500.
---- his influence on Lamb's career, 500.
---- his preface to _Tales from Shakespear_, 503.
---- his criticism of _The Adventures of Ulysses_, 506.
---- Lamb's reply to him, 506.
"Going into Breeches," 419, 517.
"Good Temper," 460, 520.
"Great Grandfather, The," 478, 521.


H

"Hamlet," 199.
Hazlitt, Sarah. _See_ Sarah Stoddart.
Hazlitt, William, 500, 501.
Hodgkins, Thomas, Godwin's manager, 500.
"Home Delights," 471, 521.
Homer, in Chapman's translation, 505, 507.


I

"Incorrect Speaking," 462, 520.


J

"JOHN WOODVIL" quoted, 513.
"Journey from School and to School, The," 434, 518.
Juvenile literature, Lamb on, 500.


K

"King Lear," 92.
"KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS," 389, 513.


L

Lamb, Charles, and books for children, 499.
---- and William Godwin, 499, 505.
---- and Mrs. Godwin, 500, 502.
---- on Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Trimmer, 500, 501.
---- and _Tales from Shakespear_, 501.
---- and the Godwins' illustrator, 502.
---- and _The Adventures of Ulysses_, 505.
---- kisses Chapman's _Homer_, 505.
---- commends it to Coleridge, 505.
---- on publishers and authors, 506.
---- and Mrs. _Leicester's School_, 508.
---- his affection for St. Dunstan's giants, 512.
---- and Stackhouse's picture of the witch, 513.
---- his father and Lincolnshire, 513.
Lamb, Charles, and church bells, 513.
---- his first children's book, 513.
---- and _The King and Queen of Hearts_, 513.
---- and _Poetry for Children_, 515.
---- his union with his sister, 515.
---- and _Prince Dorus_, 522.
-- Elizabeth, the Lambs' mother, 512.
-- John, the Lambs' father, 513.
---- the Lambs' brother, his poem, 451, 520.
---- his lameness, 517.
-- Mary, and _Tales from Shakespear_, 501.
---- her difficulty with "All's Well that Ends Well," 502.
---- her anonymity, 504.
---- and _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 508.
---- her "new source of the pathetic," 509.
---- a preface in her name, 509.
---- her memory of Mackery End (?), 510.
---- her recollections of Blakesware, 511.
---- her relations with her grandmother, 511.
---- her first play, 511.
---- on her aunt Hetty and her mother, 512.
---- and _Poetry for Children_, 515.
---- her union with her brother, 515.
"Lame Brother, The," 418, 517.
Landor, Walter Savage, on _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 508.
"LEICESTER, MRS., HER SCHOOL," 316, 508.
Lloyd, Robert, and the Lambs, 515.
_Looking Glass, The_, 514.
"Louisa Manners," 328, 510.
"Love, Death, and Reputation," 449, 519.


M

"Macbeth," 106.
Mackery End and the Lambs, 510.
"Magpye's Nest, The," 445, 519.
Manning, Thomas, Lamb's letters to, 501, 505.
"Margaret Green," 354, 511.
"Maria Howe," 368, 512.
"Measure for Measure," 148.
"Memory," 431, 518.
"Men and Women, and the Monkeys, The," 449, 519.
"Merchant of Venice, The," 69.
"Merchant's Daughter, The," 375, 513.
"Midsummer Night's Dream," 13.
"Mimic Harlequin, The," 430, 518.
"Moderation in Diet," 460, 520.
"Motes in the Sunbeams," 413, 516.
"MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL," 316, 508.
---- in translation, 510.
"Much Ado About Nothing," 33.
Mulready, William, 500, 503, 515.
"My Birthday," 463, 520.
Mylius, W.F., his gleanings from Lamb, 516.


N

"Neatness in Apparel," 412, 516.
Newbery's art of advertisement, 512.
"New-born Infant, The," 412, 516.
"Nurse Green," 459, 520.
"Nursing," 420, 518.


O

_Odyssey, The_. _See_ Chapman.
"Offer, The," 456, 520.
"On a Picture of the Finding of Moses," 481, 521.
"On the Lord's Prayer," 442, 519.
"Orange, The," 435, 518.
"Othello," 213.


P

"Parental Recollections," 455, 520.
"Peach, The," 407, 516.
Pearson, Miss, 512.
"Penny Pieces," 468, 521.
"Pericles," 225.
Plumer, Mrs., and Mary Lamb, 511.
"POETRY FOR CHILDREN," 404, 515.
"PRINCE DORUS," 490, 522.


Q

"Queen Oriana's Dream," 480, 521.


R

"Rainbow, The," 469, 521.
"Reaper's Child, The," 404, 516.
"Repentance and Reconciliation," 411, 516.
"Reproof, The," 432, 518.
"Ride, The," 405, 516.
Robinson, Crabb, and Lamb, 522.
---- and Landor, 508.
"Romeo and Juliet," 184.
"Rook and the Sparrows, The," 409, 516.


S

"Sailor Uncle, The," 319, 510.
St. Dunstan's giants, 512.
"Sea-Voyage, The," 384, 513.
"SHAKESPEAR, TALES FROM," 1, 501.
Shakespeare, William, and the Lambs, 1, 501.
"Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's Learning Latin, The," 456, 520.
"Sparrow and the Hen, The," 450, 519.
"Spartan Boy, The," 479, 521.
Stoddart, Sarah, Mary Lamb's letters to, 501, 502, 508, 512.
"Suffer Little Children...," 443, 519.
"Summer Friends," 488, 522.
"Susan Yates," 378, 513.
Swinburne, Mr. A.C., on Lamb, 519.


T

"TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR," 1.
---- how written, 501.
---- how illustrated, 502.
---- Godwin's preface, 503.
---- translation, 504.
"Taming of the Shrew," 126.
_Telemachus, The Adventures of_, 507.
"Tempest, The," 3.
"Text, The," 421, 518.
"Thoughtless Cruelty," 466, 521.
"Three Friends, The," 437, 519.
"Time Spent in Dress," 475, 521.
"Timon of Athens," 173.
"To a River in which a Child was Drowned," 416, 517.
"To a Young Lady, on being Too Fond of Music," 474, 521.
Translations of Lamb's work, 504, 510.
Trimmer, Mrs., Lamb on, 501.
"Twelfth Night," 161.
"Two Bees, The," 432, 518.
"---- Boys, The," 455, 520.
"---- Gentlemen of Verona," 58.


U

"ULYSSES, ADVENTURES OF," 240, 505.


V

"Visit to the Cousins," 360, 511.


W

"Wasps in a Garden," 427, 518.
Webster, Thomas, and Lamb, 519.
"Weeding," 454, 520.
"What is Fancy?" 428, 518.
"Which is the Favourite?" 451, 519.
"Why not do it, Sir, To-day?" 471, 521.
"Winter's Tale, The," 23.
"Witch Aunt, The," 368, 512.
Wollstonecraft, Mary, 499.
"WOODVIL, JOHN," quoted, 513.
Wordsworth, William, Lamb's letters to, 502, 514.
"Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum-Book," 430, 518.


Y

"Young Letter-Writer, The," 436, 519.
"---- Mahometan," 354, 511.




INDEX OF FIRST LINES


A bird appears a thoughtless thing, 408.
A child's a plaything for an hour, 455.
A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, 452.
A dinner party, coffee, tea, 453.
A dozen years since in this house what commotion, 463.
A little boy with crumbs of bread, 409.
A little child, who had desired, 470.
A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, 450.
A wicked action fear to do, 447.
Abject, stooping, old, and wan, 451.
After the tempest in the sky, 469.
An infant is a selfish sprite, 425.
Anger in its time and place, 429.
Anna was always full of thought, 466.
As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, 454.
Brothers and sisters I have many, 451.
But a few words could William say, 432.
Can I, all gracious Providence, 488.
Come my little Robert near, 417.
David and his three captains bold, 486.
_Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend_, 436.
Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago, 470.
Do, my dearest brother John, 406.
For gold could Memory be bought, 431.
Henry was every morning fed, 413.
High on a Throne of state is seen, 390.
Horatio, of ideal courage vain, 424.
I am to write three lines, and you, 429.
I have got a new-born sister, 408.
I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, 442.
I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove, 468.
I saw a boy with eager eye, 455.
I'll _make believe_, and fancy something strange, 430.
If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind, 404.
In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be, 429.
In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell, 490.
In many a lecture, many a book, 475.
In whatsoever place resides, 460.
In your garb and outward clothing, 412.
Incorrectness in your speech, 462.
It is not always to the strong, 483.
Joy to Philip, he this day, 419.
Lately an Equipage I overtook, 405.
Lucy, what do you espy, 467.
Mamma gave us a single Peach, 407.
Mamma heard me with scorn and pride, 432.
Mamma is displeased and look very grave, 411.
Miss Lydia every day is drest, 410.
My father's grandfather lives still, 478.
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, 430.
My parents sleep both in one grave, 418.
O hush, my little baby brother, 420.
O what a joyous joyous day, 434.
O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan, 462.
On a bank with roses shaded, 480.
Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation, 449.
One Sunday eve a grave old man, 421.
Our Governess is not in school, 422.
Said Ann to Matilda, I wish that we knew, 476.
Shut these odious books up, brother, 456.
Sister, fie, for shame, no more, 457.
Smiling river, smiling river, 416.
Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head, 416.
Tell me, would you rather be, 456.
The drunkard's sin, excess in wine, 460.
The month was June, the day was hot, 435.
The motes up and down in the sun, 413.
The Swallow is a summer bird, 488.
The wall-trees are laden with fruit, 427.
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly, 466.
This Picture does the story express, 481.
This rose-tree is not made to bear, 404.
Three young maids in friendship met, 437.
Through the house what busy joy, 415.
To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented, 443.
To operas and balls my cousins take me, 471.
Unto a Yorkshire school was sent, 476.
When beasts by words their meanings could declare, 449,
When I the memory repeat, 479.
When the arts in their infancy were, 445.
Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, 472.
Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, 412.
Why is your mind thus all day long, 474.
Why on your sister do you look, 427.
Why so I will, you noisy bird, 471.
With the apples and the plums, 473.
Within the precincts of this yard, 464.
Young William held the Butterfly in chase, 489.
Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night, 459.









End of Project Gutenberg's Books for Children, by Charles and Mary Lamb