It is almost superfluous to add that all the honors which a grateful country could bestow were heaped upon the memory of Nelson. A public funeral was decreed, and a public monument. Statues and monuments also were voted by most of our principal cities. The leaden coffin, in which he was brought home, was cut in pieces, which were distributed as relics of Saint Nelson,—so the gunner of the Victory called them,—and when, at his interment, his flag was about to be lowered into the grave, the sailors who had assisted at the ceremony, with one accord rent it in pieces, that each might preserve a fragment while he lived.

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero—the greatest of our own, and of all former times—was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the Battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end; the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again be contemplated.



CASABIANCA

By FELICIA HEMANS

NOTE.—Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood. A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say, If yet my task be done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound; The boy,—Oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea,—

With shroud and mast and pennon fair, That well had borne their part,— But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart.



THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow; Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech, While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooses, "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds: He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute[316-1] he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure;[316-2] And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward, and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace!'

"Then, aye, then shall he kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.'



"Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a yes I must not say: Nathless[317-3] maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' I will utter, and dissemble— 'Light to-morrow with to-day!'

"Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot page Swim the stream, and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet: 'Lo! my master sends this gage,[317-4] Lady, for thy pity's counting. What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon—[317-5] And the second time, a glove; But the third time—I may bend From my pride, and answer—'Pardon, If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot page will run— Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master,— But, O Love, I love but thee!'"...

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the boughs she stoops, and stops. Lo! the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not; but I know She could never show him—never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

Mrs. Browning tells us very little of Ellie directly, yet she leaves us with a charming picture of an innocent, imaginative, romantic child. Ellie has been reading or listening to tales of knight-errantry, and her mind is full of them, so that the "sweetest pleasure ... for her future" is a lover riding straight out of one of the romances. That she is only a child, with a child's ideas, we may see from the fact that she can think, in her simplicity, of no greater reward for her noble lover than a sight of the swan's nest among the reeds, of which she alone knows.

Mrs. Browning's purpose in writing this little story in verse was to show us how suddenly and how rudely unpleasant facts can break in upon our dreams. Ellie could never show her lover the swan's nest, as she had planned; and we are left with the feeling that she never found the lover of whom she dreamed—that all of her dream proved as false as the beautiful thought about the swan's nest.

FOOTNOTES:

[316-1] It would seem strange to us now if a soldier rode about playing upon a lute; but in the old days of chivalry about which little Ellie had been reading, it was looked upon as almost necessary for a knight to be able to play and sing sweet songs to his lady.

[316-2] The saddle-cloth or housing of the medieval knights was sometimes very large and gorgeous.

[317-3] Nathless is an old word meaning nevertheless. Mrs. Browning uses an occasional old word, in order to give the atmosphere of the tales of chivalry.

[317-4] The gage was a cap or glove, or some other symbol to show that he had performed the deeds which Ellie had demanded of him.

[317-5] Guerdon means reward.



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

By ROBERT BURNS

NOTE.—There are many homes we like to visit in imagination, even if we cannot really go into them. It does not matter so much if they are not the homes of people in our own country who live as we do. For instance, Robert Burns described so well for us once the simple little home of a poor Scotch farmer that we read his words again and again with pleasure. It is such a poor little place, low-walled, thatched-roofed, part stable, that it would be unpleasant to us if we did not see it full of the spirit that makes true homes everywhere. The hard-working old farmer, his faithful wife, their industrious children, the oldest girl Jenny and her lover, all seem to us like very real people, whose joys and griefs are ours as much as theirs. We should like to sit with them at their humble table, to join in the good old hymns, and finally to kneel among them while the gentle old man said the evening prayer. We would not notice their homely clothes, coarse hands and simple, unscholarly language, for their real manliness and womanliness would win our esteem and love.

On the pages that follow we have printed the poem as Burns wrote it, except for some few stanzas it has seemed best to omit. The first nine stanzas contain many Scottish words and expressions, but after the ninth stanza, Burns uses plain English. It was a habit he had of writing sometimes in Scotch dialect and sometimes in fine English. People who have studied his work say that when he speaks right from his heart and because he really cannot help writing, he uses the dialect, but when he tries to teach a lesson, to advise any one, or to moralize, he always uses the English phraseology.

I

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[320-1] The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae[320-2] the pleugh;[320-3] The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil[320-4] is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks,[320-5] and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

II

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree: Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin' stacher[320-6] thro' To meet their dad, wi' flichterin'[320-7] noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking[320-8] cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

III

Belyve,[321-9] the elder bairns come drappin' in. At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca'[321-10] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie[321-11] rin A cannie[321-12] errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw[321-13] new gown, Or deposit her sair-won[322-14] penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.



IV

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:[322-15] The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos[322-16] that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;[322-17] The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

V

Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers[322-18] a' are warned to obey: "An' mind their labours wi' an eydent[322-19] hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk[322-20] or play: An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!"

VI

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, To do some errands and convoy her hame.[323-21] The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e,[323-22] and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins[323-23] is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae[323-24] wild, worthless rake.

VII

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben:[323-25] A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;[323-26] The father cracks[323-27] of horses, pleughs, and kye.[323-28] The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate[323-29] and laithfu',[323-30] scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae[323-31] bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[323-32]

VIII

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch,[324-33] chief o' Scotia's food: The sowpe[324-34] their only Hawkie[324-35] does afford, That 'yont the hallan[324-36] snugly chows her cood;[324-37] The dame brings forth in complimental mood To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[324-38] kebbuck[324-39] fell— An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;[324-40] The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond[324-41] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell;[324-42]

IX

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible,[324-43] ance[324-44] his father's pride: His bonnet[324-45] rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart[324-46] haffets[324-47] wearing thin an' bare: Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales[325-48] a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.



X

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

XI

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XII

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; How his first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

XIII

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exultant on triumphant wing:" That thus they all shall meet in future days There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

XIV

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in the book of life the inmates poor enroll.

XV

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

FOOTNOTES:

[320-1] Sugh means a hollow, roaring sound. It is our word sough.

[320-2] Frae is the Scotch word meaning from.

[320-3] Pleugh means plow.

[320-4] Moil is a Scotch word meaning drudgery.

[320-5] A mattock is a two-bladed instrument for digging.

[320-6] Stacher is the Scotch form of stagger.

[320-7] Flichtering means fluttering.

[320-8] Carking is trying.

[321-9] Belyve means soon.

[321-10] Ca' means drive.

[321-11] Tentie means carefully.

[321-12] Cannie means here prudent, or trusty.

[321-13] Braw is fine, gay.

[322-14] Sair-won is hard-earned.

[322-15] Spiers means enquires.

[322-16] The uncos is the news.

[322-17] This line means Makes old clothes look almost as new ones.

[322-18] The younkers are the youngsters.

[322-19] Eydent is diligent.

[322-20] To jauk is to trifle.

[323-21] Hame is the Scotch form of our word home.

[323-22] E'e is a contraction for eye.

[323-23] Hafflins means partly.

[323-24] Nae means no.

[323-25] Ben means into the room.

[323-26] That is, the visit is not unwelcome.

[323-27] Cracks is a Scotch word meaning chats.

[323-28] Kye are cattle.

[323-29] Blate means modest.

[323-30] Laithfu' is bashful.

[323-31] Sae is the Scotch form of so.

[323-32] The lave is the others: that is, the neighbors' girls.

[324-33] The halesome parritch is the wholesome porridge of oatmeal.

[324-34] Sowpe here means a little quantity of milk.

[324-35] Hawkie is a white-faced cow.

[324-36] That is, beyond the partition.

[324-37] Chows her cood means chews her cud.

[324-38] Weel-hain'd means carefully preserved.

[324-39] Kebbuck is cheese.

[324-40] This line, in English, would read And often he is urged (to take more) and often he calls it good.

[324-41] A towmond is a twelvemonth, a year.

[324-42] Since flax was in blossom.

[324-43] The ha'-Bible is the family Bible, which is kept in the hall, or the best room.

[324-44] Ance is the Scotch form of once.

[324-45] That is, his hat.

[324-46] Lyart means gray.

[324-47] Haffets means temples.

[325-48] Wales means chooses.



CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

One of the most tragic, and at the same time one of the most heroic, of true stories is that of Charles and Mary Lamb, the brother and sister who are known to millions of young people as the writers of Tales from Shakespeare.

Charles Lamb was rather a short man, with a spare body and legs so small and thin that Thomas Hood once spoke of them as "immaterial legs." His head, however, was large, and his brow fine; his nose, large and hooked, was in a face which early showed lines of care and trouble; his eyes were large and expressive, twinkling with humor but full of piercing inquiry, and searching with keen interest everything about him; his mouth was large and firm, but around it there flitted a smile that showed the genial, humorous soul of the big-hearted boy.

Lamb's habits were peculiar, there is no denying that, and his habits of dress made him even more noticeable. Almost always he wore a black coat, knickerbockers and black gaiters. The old-fashioned cut of his clothes and their worn appearance showed the narrowness of his means, which, however, never caused him to neglect either clothing or person, for he was remarkably neat in his ways.



Although a poor boy, he was educated in the famous old Christ's Hospital School in London, but when he was ready for college he found himself barred by his stammering, stuttering tongue. Giving up his hope of further schooling, he was glad to take a small clerkship in a government office, where he remained for thirty-three years, a long period with little or no advancement.

It was in 1792, when Charles was about seventeen years of age, that he was given his clerkship, and for nearly four years he lived happily, supporting his parents and his sister in their humble home. Mary was eleven years older than Charles, a quiet gentle creature whom everybody loved, though in some respects she was peculiar. There were things, too, that troubled the family and made them reserved and inclined to be oversensitive. Not only were they very poor, but there had been insanity on the mother's side, and Charles, himself, had at one time been in brief confinement for irrational actions. Mary, too, had occasionally shown signs of madness, but no one anticipated the dreadful event which took place in 1796.

It came upon them like a stroke of lightning out of a clear sky. All were gathered together for their noon meal when Mary leaped to her feet and ran wildly about the room, shrieking in the terrifying tones of the insane. She caught the forks and spoons from the table, threw them about the room, and then, seizing a case knife, plunged it into the heart of her mother. Although one of the flying forks had struck her aged father in the head and wounded him severely, Mary sprang upon him and would certainly have killed the feeble old man then and there had not Charles caught her and in a terrible struggle overpowered her and wrested the knife from her grasp. Friends and neighbors came in, and the poor woman was taken to an asylum, where in a short time she recovered her reason and learned of the awful consequences of her madness. In those days hospitals for the insane were much more poorly managed than they are at present, and Charles could not be contented to think of his sister confined within their walls. Accordingly he went to the authorities, and after much persuasion they released her, under the condition that she should be constantly under care.

Then began the long career of brotherly devotion which can scarcely be matched, and which never fails to excite our sympathy and admiration. We may well think it a terrible penance, for Mary's attacks recurred again and again, and more than once Charles had to take her back to the hospital for a brief time while her violence remained too great for him to control. There were long lucid intervals, however, and after a while both learned to recognize the symptoms which preceded an attack, and the two would wend their way to the asylum, where she could take refuge. They carried a straight-jacket with them for use in case she should suddenly become violent, for never could either escape from the nightmare of that first awful catastrophe.

For forty years this companionship, this sublime devotion continued, even to the time of Charles Lamb's death in 1834. Both made many friends, and when the brother was laid away these friends came forward and took up the burden of Mary's care until she, too, died, nearly thirteen years later. The last years of Lamb's life were full of further trouble, that, combined with his crushing anxiety for Mary, broke his genial spirit and left him sad and melancholy.

One of the greatest blows he suffered in his later life was the death of his life-long friend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. See how fondly he wrote of this friend:

"Since I feel how great a part he was of me his great and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I cannot make a criticism on men or books without an ineffectual turning and reference to him.... He was my fifty-years-old friend without a dissension. I seem to love the house he died at more passionately than when he lived.... What was his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel."

It is said that when his sister was first stricken Lamb was engaged to be married to Ann Simmons, a sweet woman, whom he loved passionately. So awful was the blow and so heavy the responsibility he assumed that the match was broken off, and the gentle man resigned his hope of home and family. We shall see, however, that he never quite forgot his love.

Sad as their life certainly was, there were many pleasant days for both brother and sister. Between her spells of violence Mary was a charming companion, a helpful adviser and a writer of great ability, as loyal to her brother as he was to her. When Lamb was engaged to write the Tales from Shakespeare, she took up the pen with him and wrote the stories of the great poet's comedies while Charles wrote the tragedies.

How strong his affection and respect for her really were we may see from his own words: "I am a fool bereft of her co-operation. I am used to look up at her in the worst and biggest perplexities. To say all that I find her would be more than I think anybody could possibly understand. She is older, wiser, and better than I am, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life and death with me."

A more lovable character than Lamb's is hard to find. Full of fun he was when with his friends, punning, quibbling and joking in quaint and original ways that made him welcome wherever he went. "The best acid is assiduity" was one of his favorite puns, and "No work is worse than over-work" is one of his wise and witty remarks.

The stuttering which in some persons might have seemed an annoyance only served to add a certain spiciness to his good-natured quips. It is said that a certain gushing lady once went into a long description of her children and her own passionate love for them. Suddenly interrupting herself she said to Lamb, "And how do you like babies, Mr. Lamb?" With a sober face, but unable to conceal the humorous twinkle in his sharp eyes, Charles replied, "Bub-bub-boiled, Madam!"

Lamb's friendship for Coleridge was fully returned, as we may see from many things the latter wrote. At one time he said: "Lamb's character is a sacred one with me. No associations that he may form can hurt the purity of his mind.... Nothing ever left a stain on that gentle creature's mind."

In 1825 Lamb's health became so poor that he was compelled to give up his clerkship, and thereafter he lived most of his time at Edmonton. The British government gave him an annual pension of L441, which sufficed for the simple wants of himself and his sister.

The immediate cause of his death was a slight accident that befell him a few months after the burial of Coleridge. Unconsciousness came before he had been long ill and before any of his intimate friends could reach him, yet it was their names that were last on his lips. They buried him in the churchyard at Edmonton, as he wished, where on his tombstone may be read:

"Farewell, dear friend—that smile, that harmless mirth, No more shall gladden our domestic hearth; That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow— Better than words—no more assuage our woe. That hand outstretch'd from small but well-earned store Yield succor to the destitute no more. Yet art thou not all lost. Through many an age, With sterling sense and humour, shall thy page Win many an English bosom, pleased to see That old and happier vein revived in thee. This for our earth: and if with friends we share Our joys in heaven we hope to meet thee there."

Besides the Tales from Shakespeare, Charles Lamb wrote many beautiful sketches which are known as the Essays of Elia. Elia was the name of one of the clerks in the South Sea House, where Lamb worked at one time.

A reader can easily form some idea of a writer's character from his work, but Lamb was always so wholly himself, and he threw himself so freely into his essays, that you can tell just what manner of man he was as you read. A large part of the pleasure of reading him comes from this trait. We seem to be sitting with a charming friend whenever we hold one of his books, and to feel that the friend is pouring out his whole heart for our delight and inspiration. Naturally a person must keep alert when he is reading from Charles Lamb, for no one can predict what course the brilliant mind will take. When once a reader has learned to understand his oddities, delicate sentiment, bright wit and loving faithfulness, every word becomes a living thing, and every reading a new delight, a higher inspiration. In none of his essays is he seen to greater advantage than in Dream Children, which follows this brief sketch. The only people young or old who do not love this beautiful essay are those who have not read it or who have read it without really understanding it. You may need to read it once just to see what it is about; again with the aid of the notes and comments we make upon it; a third time to let it cast its spell upon you. If you do that you will not forget it, but will return to it often as years go on and the hard world buffets you with those stern experiences which make you men and women. Every time you read it you will find new graces, more touching sentiment.

Will you read it now for the first time, paying only so much attention to the footnotes as may be necessary for you to understand the language?



DREAM CHILDREN: A REVERY

By CHARLES LAMB

Children love to listen to stories about their elders when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw.

It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field,[335-1] who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood.[335-2]

Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall,[335-3] the whole story down to the Robin Redbreast; till a foolish person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it.

Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.

Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived. Afterwards it came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old tombs they had lately seen at the Abbey,[336-4] and stick them up in Lady C.'s[336-5] tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, "that would be foolish indeed."

And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the neighborhood for many miles around, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery[336-7] by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament[336-8] besides.

Here little Alice spread her hands.

Then I told what a tall, upright, gracious person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer,—here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted,—the best dancer, I was saying, in the country, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain, but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious.

Then I told how she used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said "those innocents would do her no harm;" and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she,—and yet I never saw the infants.

Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out,—sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me,—and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls,[338-9] without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then,—and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees,[338-10] or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at,—or in lying about upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden smells around me,—or basking in the orangery,[338-11] till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth,—or in watching the dace[338-12] that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings,—I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of children.

Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.



Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L——,[340-13] because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out,—and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries;—and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed[340-14] boy—for he was a good bit older than I—many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed;—and how when he died,[340-15] though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not to have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb.



Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n;[342-16] and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens.

When suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:

"We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe[342-17] millions of ages before we have existence, and a name."

And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget[342-18] unchanged by my side,—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

You know Lamb's pathetic history, and you can see how Dream Children came right out of his own sad heart, and how it teems with affectionate recollection. The children, too,—do they not seem like living beings? Can you believe that Alice and John never lived? Let us go back to the essay and see how little it is that he really says about them. Here it is:

ALICE

JOHN

1. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be upbraiding.

She thought it very sad that any one should pull down the beautiful mantelpiece in the great hall, but she would not find fault with him—she was too gentle, too tender for that!

1. Here John smiled as much as to say, "that would be foolish indeed."

John is quite the boy—wise enough to see how ridiculous it was to put a fine, rich old carved chimney among a lot of gilt gimcracks—and rather anxious to show his wisdom.

2. Here little Alice spread her hands.

Don't you think she knew her Psaltery by heart, and a great part of the Testament besides? "Of course it is very wonderful that grandma knew so much—but then, I know it too."

2. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

The tale of the ghostly infants has frightened John a little, but he does not like to admit any timidity there with his father and sister, so he straightens up, expands his eyebrows and looks very brave and manly.

3. Here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted.

The mere suggestion of a dance sets the little foot in motion, and you and I know that Alice is a lively girl who would be as proud of being the best dancer in the country as she was of knowing as much Scripture as her grandmother knew. But how quickly she stops when her father looks grave! We do not think that he objects to Alice dancing, but he knows that he is going to tell her the sad part of the story, and that the dancing accompaniment of Alice's little right foot would be very much out of place.

Later, Alice joined with John in wishing for the grapes, but she was equally willing to give them up when it seemed childish to take them.

3. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her; and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

While the father has been telling of his glorious childhood among the rich fruit on the great estate, John has quietly picked up a bunch of grapes, and his quick-witted father, seeing the act, sneers a little at such-like common baits of children. John, wishing to be manly, puts the grapes back without a word, though evidently he will be glad enough to return to them at the proper time.

Not a selfish child at all was John, for he meditated dividing the grapes with Alice, and they would have been so sweet and cooling while the children stood there listening to the story.

4. Here the children fell a-crying and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

How tender-hearted they both are, and yet until now they had hardly realized that it was for Uncle John that they were wearing their fresh mourning. This was a new grief too sad to them, but it turned their gentle sympathies to their pretty dead mother, of whom they were always glad to hear. The father has scarcely begun to speak when he sees in Alice so much resemblance to his dead wife that he almost thinks it is the mother who stands beside him. So violent is his emotion that he gradually comes out of his reverie, and as he does so the children fade away and recede into the distance, saying, "We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams."

Is it not a wonderful thing that with so few words a writer can put his heart so much into yours that you believe almost as much as he does in the reality of the vision?

In the sketch of Lamb we said that his character was very strongly reflected in his writings, and this essay shows the fact wonderfully well. Imagine the man, lonely, heartbroken, weary from the awful task he had set himself, sitting in his bachelor armchair by the fire, dreaming his evening away. Who are the people that come to him in his dreams and what are the incidents? First his grandmother Field, with whom he had spent a great deal of his childhood; then his sweetheart Alice, now married to another, with children of her own; then his brother, by no means a pleasing character, but a lazy and selfish man who, however, in the rich, loving heart of his brother stands out as handsome, affectionate, noble and brave. How keenly he feels the bitter loss which comes to him with tenfold severity when he awakens, and which he makes the closing thought in the essay! Lastly, the faithful Mary, unchanged, appears at his side,—his waking companion, his greatest burden and his greatest joy.

Besides these evidences of his devoted and affectionate disposition, we find proof of his vivid imagination when as a child he gazes upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars that had been emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them. In his busy-idle amusements at the great house he shows the innocence and simplicity of his pleasures, and in the delicate way in which he reproves Alice and John, his genial, sympathetic disposition as well as his abundant good humor. How much finer it was to say, "and such-like common baits of children" than to have said, "John, put the grapes back on the plate."

FOOTNOTES:

[335-1] Lamb's grandmother, Mary Field, was for a long time housekeeper in one of the great English country houses, but not in the county alluded to in the text.

[335-2] This means that the incidents had but lately become familiar to the children. The story is the old one of the Babes in the Wood, as it is sometimes called.

[335-3] One of Lamb's fancies; the chimney-carving in the real house represented stag and boar hunts.

[336-4] Westminster Abbey.

[336-5] An imaginary person with a cheap, showy drawing-room.

[336-7] The Book of Psalms, or such a portion of it as is used in the services of the English Church.

[336-8] New Testament.

[338-9] The trees were planted on the south side of the walls, which protected them from the north wind and ripened them by reflected warmth.

[338-10] The foliage of the yews is very dark, and because these trees are so often planted about cemeteries they give a hint of sadness to every one.

[338-11] The glass house which protected the trees in the winter and hastened the ripening of the fruit in summer.

[338-12] A small fish resembling our chub—usually seen in schools in still waters.

[340-13] Lamb's brother John—twelve years his senior. John was rather a lazy, selfish fellow—at least he never gave up his own pleasures and comforts to assist his family, even in their greatest need.

[340-14] This probably alludes to some temporary affliction, for Charles Lamb was not lame.

[340-15] John Lamb died just before this essay was written.

[342-16] It is not known positively whether Alice Warren was a real or an imaginary character.

[342-17] Lethe was among the ancient Greeks the name given to the river of oblivion, of whose waters spirits drank to gain forgetfulness.

[342-18] Bridget Elia is his sister, Mary Lamb.



READING SHAKESPEARE

The greatest author the world has known is William Shakespeare, and his writings will afford more pleasure, instruction and information than those of any other author. They may be read again and again, for so charged are they with living knowledge and so full of literary charm, that no one can exhaust them in a single reading. Not every reader of Shakespeare loves him, but that is because not every reader appreciates him. He wrote in the English of his times, and used many words and expressions that have since dropped out of the language, changed their meaning, or become unfamiliar in common speech. Then again, his knowledge of life is so profound and his insight into human nature so keen and penetrating, that the casual reader is liable not to follow his thought. In other words, Shakespeare must be studied to be appreciated; but if he is studied and appreciated, he gives a pleasure and exerts an influence that cannot be equaled.



Young people are liable to think that study is laborious and uninteresting, a nuisance and a bore. Nothing of that sort is true of the study of Shakespeare, because for every effort there is a present reward, there is no waiting to see results. Of course there are right ways and wrong ways to study, just as there are right ways and wrong ways of doing anything. Sometimes teachers fail entirely to interest their classes in Shakespeare, and parents say they cannot make their children like Shakespeare. None of this is the fault of the poet or of the children; the fault lies in the methods used to create an interest. If a person begins properly and proceeds as he should, there will never be a lack of interest. Teachers are not needed, and parents may leave their children to learn to be happy in reading by themselves, if the books are prepared properly for them.

In the first place, one of the wonders of Shakespeare is the great variety of his plays. In fact, they cover the whole range of human activities, and introduce characters from almost every walk in life. The stories they tell run from the light and gay to those of more somber hue, from comedy to deepest tragedy. Wit and humor, pathos and sublimity may sometimes be found in the same play, and smiles and tears may be drawn from the same page. What play to select for a beginner becomes then a question of some moment. The Tempest is one of the best, for it is not difficult to read, is an interesting story, has amusing characters, and carries good food for thought.

Will you then, our young readers, go hand in hand with us into the reading of Shakespeare? Do as we say this one time, and read as we ask you to, even if it does take some time from your play. If, while you are doing it, you do not enjoy yourselves, or if at the end you do not feel repaid, then take your own course in your reading thereafter. It will be a better course for having studied one great play carefully.

However, before we begin the play, let us read the charming tale written by Charles and Mary Lamb. It will give us briefly the story of The Tempest, though a wealth of incidents is omitted.

THE TEMPEST

A TALE FROM SHAKESPEARE BY CHARLES AND 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 enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these, Ariel was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or useful: therefore he was 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 slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such-like 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 showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full of living beings like themselves. "O my dear father," said she, "if by your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious souls within her."

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

"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.

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

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 everything; 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 island, since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, 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 his dear son swallowed up by the waves and lost. "But he is safe," said Ariel, "in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of the king, his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and his princely 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 prince. Where is the king, and my brother?"

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



"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed; but there is more work yet."

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master, you have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I 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 witch-crafts, 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 further he would have him do; and away went Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the same melancholy posture.

"O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, 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. Is it not a spirit?"

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

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

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing 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 the father; "one word more will make me chide you, girl! What an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this, as he does 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 labor he had imposed on him, and then pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched them both.

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

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

"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry your logs the while." But this 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 showed her love by forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above all the ladies he ever saw.

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

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

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

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

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible 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 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 stupefied 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, showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda.

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

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

The king of Naples was 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 overruling 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 harbor, and the sailors on board her, and that he and his daughter would accompany them home the next morning. "In the meantime," said 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 farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall live!" Here Ariel sang 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 and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendor on their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.



THE TEMPEST

By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Having read Lamb's version of the story, we are ready for the play as Shakespeare wrote it. To begin with, we will read it through from beginning to end with as little hesitation and delay as possible. We shall not expect to understand it all, and will pass over the more difficult passages without attempting to master them. If at times we are unable to go on intelligently, we will look at the notes at the bottom of the pages and get the help we need. This reading, however, is intended merely to give us a general idea of the play. We are spying out the land as a general might do it, trying to see what kind of a country we are invading, and to locate the places where we are liable to meet with resistance. We will stop a moment now and then to shudder at Caliban, to admire Prospero, to love the sweet Miranda or to laugh at the nonsense of the jester and the drunken butler, but we will hasten on to the end nevertheless, knowing that we will become better acquainted with the people at another time.

Having finished the play, we will return to the beginning for a second, a slower, more careful reading. Now many things that at first seemed obscure will have cleared themselves by our greater knowledge of the play. This time, however, we must read every sentence carefully and try to understand the meaning of all. The footnotes should all be read, because it often happens that when we think we understand what a sentence signifies, we give the wrong meaning to a word or phrase, and hence change the whole sense.

When this second reading has been completed, we will have a good understanding of the play, a more intimate acquaintance with the characters, and be ready for the more interesting studies which follow the play.

THE PERSONS

ALONSO, King of Naples.

SEBASTIAN, his Brother.

PROSPERO, the rightful Duke of Milan.

ANTONIO, his Brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.

FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples.

GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor of Naples.

ADRIAN, } FRANCISCO, } Lords.

CALIBAN, a savage and deformed Slave.

TRINCULO, a Jester.

STEPHANO, a drunken Butler.

Master of a Ship, Boatswain, and Mariners.

MIRANDA, Daughter to Prospero.

ARIEL, an airy Spirit.

Other Spirits attending on Prospero.

IRIS, } CERES, } JUNO, } presented by Nymphs, } Spirits. Reapers, }

SCENE, a Ship at Sea; afterwards an uninhabited Island.



ACT I

SCENE I.—On a Ship at sea. A Storm, with Thunder and Lightning.

Enter Master and Boatswain severally.

MASTER speaks.

Boatswain!

Boats. Here, master: what cheer?

Mast. Good,[366-1] speak to the mariners: fall to't yarely,[366-2] or we run ourselves a-ground: bestir, bestir. [Exit.

Enter Mariners.

Boats. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the top-sail. Tend to the master's whistle. [Exeunt Mariners.]—Blow till thou burst thy wind,[366-3] if room enough![366-4]

Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO, and Others.

Alon. Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master? Play the men.[366-5]

Boats. I pray now, keep below.

Anto. Where is the master, boatswain?

Boats. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins; you do assist the storm.

Gonza. Nay, good, be patient.

Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What care these roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.

Gonza. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

Boats. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present,[367-6] we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.[367-7]—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say. [Exit.

Gonza. I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he hath no drowning-mark upon him; his complexion[367-8] is perfect gallows.—Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang'd, our case is miserable. [Exeunt.

Re-enter Boatswain.

Boats. Down with the top-mast! yare; lower, lower! Bring her to try wi' th' main-course.[367-9] [A cry within.] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office,[367-10]—

Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO.

Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink?

Sebas. A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Boats. Work you, then.

Anto. Hang, cur, hang! you insolent noisemaker, we are less afraid to be drown'd than thou art.

Gonza. I'll warrant him for drowning,[368-11] though the ship were no stronger than a nut-shell.

Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses![368-12] off to sea again: lay her off!

Re-enter Mariners, wet.

Mariners. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! [Exeunt.

Boats. What, must our mouths be cold?

Gonza. The King and Prince at prayers! let us assist them, For our case is as theirs.

Sebas. I'm out of patience.

Anto. We're merely[368-13] cheated out of our lives by drunkards. This wide-chopp'd rascal—would thou mightst lie drowning, The washing of ten tides!

Gonza. He'll be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at widest to glut[368-14] him.

(A confused noise within.) Mercy on us! We split, we split!—Farewell, my wife and children!—Farewell, brother!—We split, we split, we split! [Exit Boatswain.

Anto. Let's all sink wi' th' King. [Exit.

Sebas. Let's take leave of him. [Exit.

Gonza. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground; ling, heath, broom, furze,[369-15] anything. The wills[369-16] above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [Exit.

SCENE II.—The Island: before the Cell of PROSPERO.

Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA.

Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to th' welkin's cheek,[369-1] Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd With those that I saw suffer! a brave[369-2] vessel, Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her, Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish'd! Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er[369-3] It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and The fraughting[370-4] souls within her.

Pros. Be collected; No more amazement:[370-5] tell your piteous heart There's no harm done.

Mira. O, woe the day!

Pros. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee,— Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter,—who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am; nor that I am more better[370-6] Than Prospero, master of a full-poor cell, And thy no greater father.

Mira. More to know Did never meddle[370-7] with my thoughts.

Pros. 'Tis time I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me.—So: [Lays down his robe. Lie there, my art.[370-8]—Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such prevision in mine art So safely order'd, that there is no soul[370-9]— No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know further.



Mira. You have often Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd And left me to a bootless inquisition,[372-10] Concluding, Stay, not yet.

Pros. The hour's now come; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear: Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst; for then thou wast not Out[372-11] three years old.

Mira. Certainly, sir, I can.

Pros. By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mira. 'Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me?

Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What see'st thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here, How thou camest here, thou mayst.[372-12]

Mira. But that I do not.

Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power.

Mira. Sir, are you not my father?

Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; thou his only heir, A princess—no worse issued.

Mira. O the Heavens! What foul play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was't we did?

Pros. Both, both, my girl: By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence; But blessedly holp[373-13] hither.

Mira. O, my heart bleeds To think o' the teen[373-14] that I have turn'd you to, Which is from my remembrance! Please you, further.[373-15]

Pros. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,— I pray thee, mark me;—that a brother should Be so perfidious!—he whom, next thyself, Of all the world I loved, and to him put The manage[373-16] of my State; as, at that time, Through all the signiories[373-17] it was the first, And Prospero the prime[373-18] Duke; being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel: those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my State grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle,— Dost thou attend me?

Mira. Sir, most heedfully.

Pros.—Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them; who[374-19] t' advance, and who To trash[374-20] for over-topping[374-21]—new-created The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em, Or else new-form'd 'em; having both the key[374-22] Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the State To what tune pleased his ear; that[374-23] now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck'd the verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.

Mira. O good sir, I do.

Pros. I pray thee, mark me. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness,[374-24] and the bettering of my mind With that which, but[374-25] by being so retired, O'er-prized all popular rate,[374-26] in my false brother Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood, in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans[375-27] bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact,—like one Who having unto truth, by falsing of it,[375-28] Made such a sinner of his memory To[375-29] credit his own lie,—he did believe He was indeed the Duke; out o' the substitution,[375-30] And executing the outward face of royalty, With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing,— Dost thou hear?[375-31]

Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Pros. To have no screen between this part he play'd And them he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan.[375-32] Me,[375-33] poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates— So dry he was for sway[376-34]—wi' th' King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend The dukedom, yet unbow'd,—alas, poor Milan![376-35]— To most ignoble stooping.[376-36]

Mira. O the Heavens!

Pros. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit; Which was, that he, in lieu[376-37] o' the premises,— Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,— Should presently[376-38] extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, With all the honours, on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to th' practice[376-39] did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness, The ministers for th' purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self.[376-40]

Mira. Alack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried on't then, Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint[377-41] That wrings mine eyes to't.

Pros. Hear a little further, And then I'll bring thee to the present business Which now's upon's;[377-42] without the which this story Were most impertinent.[377-43]

Mira. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us?

Pros. Well demanded, wench:[377-44] My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not— So dear the love my people bore me—set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few,[377-45] they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist[377-46] us, To cry to th' sea that roar'd to us; to sigh To th' winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong.

Mira. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you!

Pros. O, a cherubim Thou wast that did preserve me! Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from Heaven, When I have degg'd[378-47] the sea with drops full salt, Under my burden groan'd; which raised in me An undergoing stomach,[378-48] to bear up Against what should ensue.

Mira. How came we ashore?

Pros. By Providence divine. Some food we had, and some fresh water, that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity,—being then appointed Master of this design,—did give us; with Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, Which since have steaded[378-49] much; so, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me, From mine own library, with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.

Mira. Would I might But ever see that man!

Pros. Now I arise:[378-50] Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit[378-51] Than other princesses can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

Mira. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,— For still 'tis beating in my mind,—your reason For raising this sea-storm?

Pros. Know thus far forth: By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune— Now my dear lady—hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith[379-52] doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.[379-53] Here cease more questions: Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness, And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.[379-54] [MIRANDA sleeps. Come away, servant, come! I'm ready now: Approach, my Ariel; come!

Enter ARIEL.

Ari. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds: to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality.[379-55]

Pros. Hast thou, spirit, Perform'd to point[379-56] the tempest that I bade thee?

Ari. To every article. I boarded the King's ship; now on the beak,[379-57] Now in the waist,[380-58] the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I'd divide, And burn in many places; on the top-mast, The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,[380-59] Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary[380-60] And sight-outrunning were not: the fire, and cracks Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble. Yea, his dread trident shake.

Pros. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil[380-61] Would not infect his reason?

Ari. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad,[380-62] and play'd Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel. Then all a-fire with me: The King's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,[380-63]—then like reeds, not hair,— Was the first man that leap'd; cried, Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.

Pros. Why, that's my spirit! But was not this nigh shore?

Ari. Close by, my master.

Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe?

Ari. Not a hair perish'd; On their unstaining[381-64] garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. The King's son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle[381-65] of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.[381-66]

Pros. Of the King's ship The mariners, say, how hast thou disposed, And all the rest o' the fleet?[381-67]

Ari. Safely in harbour Is the King's ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex'd Bermoothes,[381-68] there she's hid: The mariners all under hatches stow'd; Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I've left asleep:[381-69] and, for the rest o' the fleet Which I dispersed, they all have met again, And are upon the Mediterranean flote,[382-70] Bound sadly home for Naples; Supposing that they saw the King's ship wreck'd, And his great person perish.

Pros. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is performed: but there's more work. What is the time o' the day?

Ari. Past the mid season, At least two glasses.[382-71]

Pros. The time 'twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously.

Ari. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember[382-72] thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd[382-73] me.

Pros. How now! moody? What is't thou canst demand?

Ari. My liberty.

Pros. Before the time be out? no more![382-74]

Ari. I pr'ythee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year.[382-75]

Pros. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee?

Ari. No.

Pros. Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep; to run upon the sharp Wind of the North; to do me business in The veins o' the earth when it is baked with frost.[383-76]

Ari. I do not, sir.

Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing![383-77] Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy[383-78] Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?

Ari. No, sir.

Pros. Thou hast: where was she born? speak; tell me.

Ari. Sir, in Argier.[383-79]

Pros. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forgett'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish'd. Is not this true?

Ari. Ay, sir.

Pros. This blue-eyed hag[383-80] was hither brought, And here was left by th' sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for[383-81] thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests,[384-82] she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into[384-83] a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here,[384-84] A freckled whelp, hag-born—not honour'd with A human shape.

Ari. Yes, Caliban her son.

Pros. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What torment I did find thee in: thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears. It was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax Could not again undo: it was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out.

Ari. I thank thee, master.

Pros. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till Thou'st howl'd away twelve Winters.

Ari. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent[384-85] to command, And do my spriting gently.

Pros. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee.

Ari. That's my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?

Pros. Go make thyself like to a nymph o' the sea: Be subject to no sight but mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go take this shape, And hither come in't: hence, with diligence!— [Exit ARIEL. Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!

Mira. [Waking.] The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me.

Pros. Shake it off. Come on; We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer.

Mira. 'Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on.

Pros. But, as 'tis, We cannot miss him:[385-86] he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices That profit us.—What, ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! speak.

Cal. [Within.] There's wood enough within.

Pros. Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee: Come forth, thou tortoise! when![385-87]—

Re-enter ARIEL, like a Water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint[386-88] Ariel, Hark in thine ear.

Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit.

Pros. Thou poisonous slave, come forth!

Enter CALIBAN.

Cal. As wicked[386-89] dew as e'er my mother brush'd With raven's feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o'er![386-90]

Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches[386-91] that shall pen thy breath up; urchins[386-92] Shall, for that vast[386-93] of night that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Cal. I must eat my dinner This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother. Which thou takest from me. When thou camest here first, Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in't[386-94] and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee, And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. Cursed be that I did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king: and here you sty[387-95] me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' the island.

Pros. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning,[387-96] but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison.

Cal. You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid[387-97] you For learning me your language!

Pros. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best, To answer other business. Shrugg'st thou, malice? If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old[388-98] cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

Cal. No, pray thee.— [Aside.] I must obey: his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him.

Pros. So, slave; hence! [Exit CALIBAN.

Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND following.

ARIEL'S SONG

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd The wild waves whist,[388-99] Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Hark, hark! { Burden dispersedly. The watch-dogs bark: { Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear; { Bow-wow. The strain of strutting { chanticleer. { Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Ferd. Where should this music be? i' the air, or th' earth? It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father's wreck, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion[389-100] With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it, Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. No, it begins again.