Читать книгу Children's Stories in English Literature: From Shakespeare to Tennyson - Henrietta Christian Wright - Страница 4

In the year 1564 Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire, England, was a quiet little village that differed in no way from hundreds of others scattered over England at that time. In these little villages the houses were built commonly of wood, with the upper stories overhanging the lower, and with windows of lattice work or horn, as glass was then seldom used except in the houses of the wealthy, where there could also be found carved oaken doors and ornamented balconies, and house-fronts covered with plaster or decorated with panels of oak. Sometimes the village consisted of one long straggling street, which began in the open country and ended perhaps in a moor or bog. But more often the houses were built around a large green, in the centre of which were the may-pole and common well. There the villagers came in the evening to chat and gossip, and on holidays they made merry with dancing and feasting, and the Robin Hood games which were so popular at that time.

Each cottage had its garden wherein grew rosemary and fennel and all kinds of herbs, in closest neighborhood to the roses and daffodils and violets which were the pride of the cottagers; and in the fields beyond, the paths led through scarlet poppies and golden primroses to the great forests which were then found all over England.

Quite outside the villages, and often far removed from them, were the manor-houses of the wealthy squires, the castles of the great nobles, and the abbeys and cathedrals whose fine architecture so beautified the country.

But in Stratford itself the beauty consisted mainly in the prettily kept gardens; the beautiful river Avon, which wound round the village on its way to join the Severn; in the graceful yew, elm, and lime trees which shaded the cottage roofs; and in the old church, built possibly in the days when the Normans were still trying to make the English nation become French, and which may have served as a refuge more than once for some merry band like Robin Hood's.

In one of these cottages, which was richer than many of its neighbors by possessing two stories instead of one, and which had furthermore some dormer windows in its roof and a pent-house over its door, was born in 1564 William Shakespeare, whose name stands far above every other in the story of English literature, and whose genius has made the village of Stratford immortal.

Very little is known of Shakespeare's childhood and boyhood, except that they were spent at Stratford. But we know that his father was a man of some importance in the village, and that the boy's early days must have been comfortable and happy. When he was seven years of age he entered the free grammar-school of the village, where pupils were admitted as soon as they knew how to read. Here for seven years he learned from books the things that were then taught in the grammar-schools, including no doubt some Latin and Greek and as much English as was considered necessary; for in those days English was thought of little importance, and to be a scholar meant to know certain languages and sciences which the learner would probably never use.

But outside of school Shakespeare learned much, and stored the knowledge well in his heart. He knew all the flowers, plants, and trees which were to be found for miles around in the fields and meadows and woods. He spent hours in poring over the history of Stratford Church, where he had been christened and to which he went regularly every Sunday, and which joined the England of his day with a past that was full of the glorious and stirring history of the English nation. This old church must have told him many stories of other days, and of the time when England knew no such peace and honor as she knew in Shakespeare's time. Not far away was the city of Coventry, where were given at stated times and with great splendor the religious or miracle plays which Shakespeare must have seen many a time. And a few miles away from Stratford were the great castles of Warwick and Kenilworth, the former of which was rich in memories of the wars of the Roses, when England was a great battle-field from end to end, and which was second in interest only to Kenilworth, where Queen Elizabeth came from time to time with her train of lords and ladies to be entertained by the great Lord Leicester.

And Shakespeare also learned much from the travel which constantly passed through the village, for Stratford was cut into four sections by the two great public highways which ran through the place from the great neighboring cities, and over which went all the travel of that part of the kingdom. In this way he heard of the great world beyond Stratford. He learned of those great heroes of the sea, Frobisher, and Hawkins, and Gilbert, and Drake, and followed them in imagination in their voyages across the ocean to the unknown continents and islands of the new world. And he heard in the same way of the affairs of London, what the Queen and the great nobles were about, and who was famous and who was not, and what was thought to be fine in the sight of London folk, and what they despised as poor and mean.

And the boy learned strange things, too, from the village folk, who believed in all the superstitions of the day. He could tell which plants were used by witches to concoct poisonous broths, and what herbs the village apothecary gathered to dispel evil charms, and why he recommended blood of dragons and oil of scorpions, and powdered mercury for different diseases. He heard also of the alchemists who could turn iron into gold and clay into silver, and who knew the value and use of every precious stone, and could tell why pearls had mystic virtues, and diamonds brought valor to the possessor, and why the topaz could cure madness, and the hyacinth protect from lightning. And, too, at the county fairs where every kind of ware was sold, the boy Shakespeare could see people buying charms to keep off sickness, or bad luck, or to bring happiness and fortune. Here one could buy love-philters, and crocodiles' tears, and amulets graven with texts of scripture, and cabalistic rings, and could hear strange talk of the wonders produced by the last eclipse of the sun, such as wars and sicknesses, and treason, and could pay an astrologer to calculate his lucky and unlucky days, and purchase a charm which would keep at bay the influence of witches and evil spirits and wicked fairies, and could even buy, were he rich enough, the magical fern-seed which would give to the owner the power of walking invisible among his fellow-men.

Among other things which would be of interest to the youth in Shakespeare's boyhood, may be counted the royal progresses when Queen Elizabeth went from palace to palace throughout the country to be entertained by the great lords of the realm. The Queen on these occasions was always attended by an immense retinue, and the journey was usually made on horseback. At such times the villages through which she passed vied with one another to do her honor. Arches of greenery were erected for her to pass under, flowers and wreaths were scattered before her, the church bells were rung, and the villagers turned out dressed in holiday attire to welcome the Queen, and to see her brilliant company. The lords and ladies in their beautiful costumes, the horses with their trappings of gold and silver, the trumpeters sounding the approach, the beat of drums, and to crown all, the gracious smile and words of the Queen, were things never to be forgotten.

When Kenilworth was the palace visited, all Stratford was alive with interest, and every villager knew of, and many of them saw, the stately ceremonies of the event, for Queen Elizabeth kept great state always. All the men who served her—chamberlains, cupbearers, carvers, ushers, trumpeters, and grooms—were required to be of fine appearance and manner, and even the smallest service was performed with great ceremony. The bearer of a letter had to deliver it kneeling, and kiss it before placing it in the Queen's hands. When the meals were served, the attendants were required to kneel once or twice after placing the dishes on the table, and if she dined in public she was waited upon by the great lords of the realm. And all these things formed subject of talk around Stratford, and all eyes were turned toward Kenilworth when Elizabeth was there.

Most interesting of all the events connected with her visit were the masks and revels, shows and plays which were given at the castle in her honor. One of the royal progresses to Kenilworth occurred when Shakespeare was about twelve years of age, and very likely the boy was present at the entertainments given there, and watched with eager eyes the scene before him. No expense or trouble was spared to make the masks and interludes as perfect as possible, and lords and ladies of high rank were often the performers. Gods and goddesses of the sea, wood nymphs, fairies, mermaids, and witches flitted before the eyes of the audience, and lakes, seas, groves, castles, gardens, and towers appeared and disappeared as if with magic touch.

There was also given at this time a pageant representing the massacre of the Danes in early English history, and knights appeared on war-horses, fighting with spears, and on foot, fighting with swords, mimicking a real battle, the performance ending by the defeat of the Danes and the appearance of some English women leading in bands of captives. These plays and interludes were very often acted by children, and there were four companies of these young actors who were especially devoted to the Queen's service. These were called the children of St. Paul's, the children of Westminster, the children of the Chapel, and the children of Windsor, according to the different schools from which they were taken; and they were in charge of the Master of Revels, whose duty it was to provide their costumes, to rehearse them for the plays, and to attend to the stage properties, which included, among other things, crowns and spangles for angels, sea-horses, devils' eyes, castles, and scenes representing the infernal regions.

Besides these entertainments in honor of the Queen, Shakespeare saw from time to time the companies of regular players who travelled from London throughout the country, frequently stopping at Stratford, where they gave their performances, as was usual at a time when there were no theatres, in the court-yard of the inn. In this way the boy Shakespeare became familiar with the best plays and players of the day, and this, joined with his visits to Coventry, where the great religious plays were given on the feasts of the Church, must have given him many a glimpse of the life beyond his native village.

Amid such scenes and impressions Shakespeare grew to manhood, and it is easy to trace their influence in his works; and thus we know, that when he speaks of elves and fairies, of spirits, charms, and witchcraft, or when he describes the character of a rustic or the manners of a courtier, he does so from the intimate knowledge he gained of such things in his boyhood.

When Shakespeare was twenty-one he went to London to try his fortunes in that great city, and a very interesting place was the London of his day. The Palace and Abbey of Westminster, the Tower of London, the river Thames, where one could see the tall masts of ships glistening like so many clustered spears, and the wherries plying in every direction, and the flocks of white swans floating, and at night the lights of silken-covered pleasure-boats filled with gayly dressed ladies and gentlemen on their way to some mask or party, enlivening their journey with songs and music. Then there was famous London Bridge and St. Paul's Cathedral, and palaces, and markets, and taverns, and bear-gardens, and long streets full of shops where could be bought cups of gold from Venice, and jewelry of all kinds, and carpets, and silks, and shawls which may have been taken perhaps as plunder from some Spanish ships home-bound from Asia, run down by English sailors. Then, too, there were the daily crowds where could be seen people from all over the world. Knights and courtiers jostling country squires, and scholars and divines touching as they passed the highwayman or thief who had won fame by his clever robberies. Here also were noblemen dressed in velvet and gold from Italy and Spain and France, slaves from Spanish America, sea captains and priests, soldiers and servants, all held by chance or interest within the gray walls which circled London, and whose gates gave welcome to as strange a crowd as could be found in the world.

Into this curious crowd came Shakespeare, quick to see and eager to learn, and before long all these strange sights were as familiar to him as the faces of his own townsfolk; and each one told its story to him so plainly that, as before he had learned the secrets of the fields and woods, so now he learned men and the interests which made up the great world. And he learned these lessons so well, that when he came to write his plays, he made such use of them as no writer ever made before or since; for it is the use of this knowledge of the world, combined with his own genius, that makes Shakespeare the greatest dramatist that has ever lived.

But when Shakespeare first entered London the objects of greatest interest to him were the theatres; for since his boyhood two or three regular theatres had been opened, though when the first one was built, or rather made out of some dwelling-houses, the mayor of London and other officials complained that a place where such large crowds could come together would surely spread the plague, which was then raging in the city. And some people even said that the players were the whole cause of the plague, because the acting of plays was a sinful thing.

But when Shakespeare reached London the theatres had been for some years recognized as respectable and proper places of amusement, and persons of all ranks in life visited them daily. One of the principal theatres was that called Blackfriars, which, like the first one, had been made out of some dwelling-houses, and which took its name from the monastery of Blackfriars near by. And it was this poor little play-house—lit by candles, and with its floor of earth, and its stage covered with rushes, and with an audience that smoked, laughed, talked, and ate as the play went on—that Shakespeare entered soon after he reached London, and by so doing crowned it with a fame as immortal as that which rests upon Stratford itself.

The company which acted at this theatre had more than once been seen by Shakespeare in his boyhood, as it was one of the regularly licensed companies, and under the protection of the Earl of Leicester; and it is not unlikely that Shakespeare considered himself very lucky in obtaining a place there, though the place was probably a very humble one at first.

The plays that were then most popular were in many cases written by the actors themselves, and as the company at Blackfriars consisted of some of the leading actors of the day, Shakespeare was at once thrown into the society that would best bring out his talents as an actor and playwright. All London then was wild over the plays of Christopher Marlowe, whose genius had first made the English drama seem a picture of real human life. These plays were either full of exciting and splendid scenes from the life of some great Eastern hero, who moved around the stage like a prince in the "Arabian Nights," or dealt with some trait of human character in such a way that it seemed for the time that the only thing of interest in the world was whether the hero of the play should keep true to his noble nature, or yield to some temptation.

It was in such pictures of character that Marlowe gained the greatest control over his audience, for the struggle between good and evil is one that is constantly going on in men's souls everywhere. Shakespeare frequented the theatres, and acted himself in a small way for a while, perhaps a year or two, and then began to write for the stage himself.

At first he simply joined with some fellow-actor in writing a new play, or in re-writing an old one; but this only continued for a short time, and soon he had begun the series of wonderful plays which stand alone in all literature.

Shakespeare gathered the materials for his plays from many sources, for nearly all the authors of ancient times had been translated into English, and the playwright of the day could choose his plot from many different scenes. In fact, the literature that was open to Shakespeare was as rich and varied as a casket of precious stones, and he made good use of his opportunity. He was familiar with the old writers of Greece and Rome, and knew all the old tales of love and adventure and revenge which filled the pages of Italian writers, and was wise in the old chronicles of England, whose history was as romantic and interesting as a fairy tale. And besides this, he read the tales of those adventurers who had travelled in the far East and told thrilling tales of Arab and Moor and Turk, or excited the imagination by relating the dangers of the Southern Ocean or the Arctic Sea, and the perils among hostile tribes and savage beasts in distant America.

And all this knowledge of books he combined with his knowledge of men, and put both into his plays, and made them so real and true that when people saw them on the stage they forgot that what they saw was acting, and could fancy that they were looking at the real scenes which Shakespeare had in mind when he was writing. And so they laughed over his clowns, and fools, and jesters, and wept over his unhappy kings, and wretched queens, and murdered princes, whose pitiful stories made them think the more tenderly of their own children safe at home. And when the play was over and they came back to everyday life again, it was to declare that this Shakespeare, who also acted in his plays sometimes, was the greatest writer of dramas that had yet appeared, and they crowded the theatre and would listen to no other plays if they might hear his.

Among the plays which Shakespeare put upon the stage of Blackfriars, or that of the Globe Theatre, which was built a few years after he came to London—for his plays were only performed at these two theatres—we find one which takes us back to the time when Chaucer wrote the Knight's Tale and gave us the romantic story of the love of the knights Palamon and Arcite for the beautiful Emilie, the sister of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, whom Theseus, Duke of Athens, had married after first taking her prisoner in his war with Thebes.

The old story of Chaucer dealt with a time before elves and fairies had forever left the earth, and when people still believed in fabulous races like the Amazons; and this suggested to Shakespeare the idea of writing a play which should take his English audience back to Athens in the days of the great Theseus, and show them how the great lords and ladies, the common folk, lovers and sweethearts, kings and queens, were duped and made the sport of Oberon, king of the fairies, and his wife Titania, aided by the mischievous Puck. The play is called A Midsummer Night's Dream, and most of the scenes are laid at night in a grove near Athens, the favorite haunt of elves and fairies.

This is the story: The beautiful Hermia, daughter of Egeus, had two suitors, Lysander and Demetrius, and she loved Lysander, who seemed to her to have every virtue, and despised Demetrius, who displeased her in every way; and this in itself would not have mattered, but unhappily for Hermia her father heartily liked Demetrius, and heartily disliked Lysander, and thus it was impossible for them to agree as to which of the two Hermia should marry. Now, there was a cruel law in Athens which declared that when a maid refused to marry as her father desired, she should either be made to die a cruel death, or enter a nunnery, and Egeus grew so tired of Hermia's disobedience that at last he resolved to appeal to this law. So, hardly had Theseus returned to Athens with the captive Hippolyta, when there came to him Egeus bringing his wilful daughter, and attended by the two suitors, neither of whom intended to give Hermia up. Theseus listened to the complaint, and tried in vain to persuade Hermia to obey her father and marry Demetrius, and then, not finding it in his heart to punish her for her disobedience, he dismissed them, telling Hermia that he would give her four days to think the matter over before deciding finally what to do with her; for the law of Athens must be carried out, no matter how cruel it might seem. At this Hermia was much dejected, for she had fully resolved never to marry Demetrius, and things would have appeared very dark indeed, had not Lysander managed to console her by proposing that they should run away from Athens, and so get beyond the reach of the cruel law, and thus be happy in spite of it.

This seemed a happy way out of the difficulty, and Hermia agreed to meet Lysander the next night in a grove that was near Athens, in which she had gone maying many a time, and run away with him, and so get beyond her father's anger and the law's injustice. And this plan would have been carried out, and Egeus would never have known what had become of his daughter, but for one thing, and this was the fact that this same Demetrius, whom Hermia despised, was deeply loved by her friend Helena, to whom she told her plan of flight.

Now, Helena loved Demetrius as deeply and truly as Hermia loved Lysander, and she had even a harder lot to bear than her friend; for while Demetrius had once loved her in return, he now cast her off utterly and would have nothing to do with her, though she tried in every way to win back his love. And she was so unhappy that even one kind word from Demetrius would have been most precious to her. So she resolved to tell Hermia's plan to Demetrius, and make him at least think kindly of her once again, even though it might be the means of losing him forever. Now, the return of Theseus to Athens had stirred all the city to devise means of doing him honor, and all sorts of entertainments were to take place to celebrate his return and his marriage to Hippolyta. Among others, a certain number of mechanics had determined to play the interlude of Pyramus and Thisbe, if they could induce Theseus to see it, thinking that their fine acting would win them both regard and reward from the Duke.

And it was their intention to meet in the grove near Athens and rehearse their parts, so that they might keep their play a secret; and, as it happened, the night for their rehearsal was the very one fixed for the meeting of Hermia and Lysander in the same grove. And all these plans might have been carried out, had it not been for an old quarrel between Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of fairyland. The cause of the trouble was a little Indian boy whom Titania refused to give up to Oberon, who had taken a fancy to have the boy in his train, and for a long time the fairy king and queen had hardly spoken to each other. But on the very night that the lovers and players were to meet in the grove, thence came also Oberon roving through the moonlit woods, dull in spirits, and angrier than ever at Titania, for, try how he would, he could not get the Indian boy away from her.

And hardly had he entered with his train, when Titania came also upon the scene, and the two began quarrelling so fiercely that all the attendant elves and fairies crept into acorn cups for fear, and trembled as they heard Titania rebuke Oberon and tell him that the flocks had died and harvests failed, and the land been covered with poisonous fogs which brought diseases to mortals, and that the roses had been bitten with frost, and summer buds had bloomed in winter, and in fact the whole course of nature changed because of his jealousy; and her words so enraged Oberon that he resolved to humble Titania's pride and get the boy, cost what it might.

And so, as soon as Titania had gone on her way Oberon sent Puck to gather the little flower called love-in-idleness; for he meant with this to work a charm that would bring the proud queen to his will, for the juice of this little flower pressed upon the eyelids of one who was sleeping, would cause the sleeper to fall in love with the first object he should see on awaking, and Oberon declared that whether Titania fell in love with monkey or ape, he would not remove the charm until she gave up her little page to him. But hardly had Puck departed on his errand when Demetrius and Helena came in sight in search of Hermia and Lysander, and Oberon making himself invisible, heard poor Helena's laments; for Demetrius, while willing to take her help, would yet not give her the least kind word, and the fairy king seeing that Helena was young and fair, had his elfin heart touched, and resolved to do her a good service and bring her lover's heart back to her.

And so, when Puck came back, bringing love-in-idleness with him, he gave him some of it, and told him to anoint the eyes of Demetrius with it, taking care to do it only when the first thing that Demetrius would see after might be the lady Helena. And Puck departed in high glee, for he loved to mix with the affairs of mortals, who all knew it was he who entered their dairies at night and robbed the milk of its cream, and who lurked about in dark corners frightening village maids, and led country lads miles out of their way across bog and brier, all out of pure mischief; or if he chose, would turn unexpectedly up at hard moments and bind sheaves by moonlight, and weave cloth in the dark, so that he might enjoy the amazement of those for whom he had worked.

But this time Puck made a mistake, for roving through the grove he came upon Hermia and Lysander fast asleep, for they had lost their way and had grown too weary to go on, and as Oberon had told him he would know Demetrius by his Athenian dress, he now pressed the juice upon the eyes of Lysander, who also wore the Athenian dress, and thinking his work well done, the mischievous elf flew away to see what Oberon had been about. And so he did not know that as soon as he left, Helena came up, still following Demetrius, who would yet not listen to her, though he knew she was exhausted and could go no farther. And seeing Lysander lying before her, and thinking him dead, Helena called his name again and again until he awoke, when he straightway fell in love with her, and began praising her beauty and sweetness, and at this poor Helena was more grieved than ever, thinking that Lysander was making cruel sport of her because of her unreturned love for Demetrius. And so she fled from him, not seeing Hermia, who awoke the next moment to find her lover gone, and started through the wood to find him, fearing that some evil had happened him.

In the meantime the players had come to the grove for their rehearsal. Bottom, the weaver, Flute, the bellows-mender, Tom Snout, the tinker, Snug, the joiner, Starveling, the tailor, and Peter Quince, all met to play the tragedy of Pyramus and Thisbe, two ill-fated lovers who were parted from each other by a cruel father, and who were in the habit of talking to each other through a chink in the wall which separated their houses. The tragedy relates that one night they agreed to meet at Ninus' tomb by moonlight, and that Thisbe coming first, was frightened away by a roaring lion, and fled leaving her mantle on the ground, and that Pyramus, coming to the place soon after, saw the mantle all stained with blood from the lion's wounds, and thought that Thisbe was dead, and so drew sword and killed himself; and hardly had this happened when Thisbe came back—for the lion had run off in the meantime—and seeing Pyramus dead, she stabbed herself with the same sword, and thus ended the play. In the cast the part of Pyramus was given to Bottom, the weaver, who insisted upon an explanation in the prologue, to the effect that he did not really kill himself with a sword, but only made believe, for fear the ladies in the audience would faint. Flute, the bellows-maker, had the part of Thisbe, with the injunction that he should speak in a very small voice, so that he would be thought a real woman. Snug was the lion, being directed to let his nails grow long so that they should hang out like the lion's claws, and to roar as gently as a sucking-dove, or a nightingale, so that the ladies would not be alarmed. Snout was to be spattered with plaster, and hold up his fingers joined in a circle to typify the chink in the wall through which the lovers talked, and another was to have a thorn bush, dog, and lanthorn to represent the moon.

The rehearsal had just begun, and Bottom had said his lines, when as he retired into the brake to wait for his cue, he was seized upon by Puck who had come wandering around in search of whatever mischief he could find, and who fastened upon him an ass's head; and when he next came forward to speak, his strange appearance so frightened the other players that they fled in dismay, and the rehearsal was broken up.

But Bottom, not knowing of his transformation, stayed on and began singing a lively tune, and it was this air which woke Queen Titania, who was sleeping near by, and upon whose eyes Oberon had so spitefully pressed the juice of love-in-idleness. And so the poor Queen, being under the charm, had to fall in love with Bottom, as he was the first object her eyes fell upon when waking; so deep was the enchantment that she mistook him for a creature of surpassing loveliness, and commanded Peas-blossom, and Cobweb, and Moth, and the other fairies to attend him wherever he went, and to bring to him dewberries, and figs, and grapes, and honey to eat, and the wings of butterflies "to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes." And no sooner had Puck seen this than away he flew to tell his master that Titania had fallen in love with an ass, at which Oberon rejoiced greatly.

Now, while they stood there along came Hermia and Demetrius, she still looking for Lysander, and he trying in vain to make her listen to his suit. Growing weary at length, he threw himself upon the ground and then Puck learned from Oberon that he had made a mistake, and that he should have anointed the eyes of Demetrius and arranged it so that Helena should be by his side when he awoke. So Oberon sent Puck forth to bring Helena, and he himself pressed the juice of love-in-idleness upon Demetrius' eyes, and Demetrius awoke just in time to see Helena enter, followed by Lysander, who was offering her his love. But Helena would not listen to him, and only rejoiced that Demetrius loved her once more, and after the two men had had some bitter words and were about to lay hands on one another, Puck, who had, by his arts, sent them roaming through the woods, making them lose sight of each other, came to Lysander where he lay asleep quite worn out with fatigue, and removed the fateful charm by applying the juice of another herb, so that when he awoke he would again love Hermia.

Now, in the morning, ere the sun was up, there came Theseus with a hunting party—among them Hermia's father—through the woods, and saw all the lovers asleep on the ground, for they had all drawn near the same place without knowing it, the night before. And Egeus had the huntsmen sound their horns, and at the sound the lovers all started up in amazement. And Theseus and Egeus were in still greater amazement when they heard Demetrius declare that he no longer loved Hermia but Helena, although he knew not what had changed him, for no one dreamed that Oberon and Puck had been busy with the affairs of mortals. But Theseus declared himself satisfied at the new turn of affairs, and said that the lovers should be married at the same time that his own wedding was celebrated.

In the meantime Titania had given the little Indian boy to Oberon, for she had no thought of anyone but Bottom, and Oberon having the boy safe in his possession, removed the charm, brought the queen to her senses, and she forgot Bottom and loved Oberon once more, and went off with him and the other fairies to prepare for Theseus' wedding-night. And Bottom woke to find his ass's head gone—for Puck had taken it off—and went back to Athens just in time to join his company and play the part of Pyramus before Theseus and Hippolyta and the great company assembled in their honor. And Oberon and Titania and their band were present also, flitting around unseen by mortal eyes, and hearing with amusement how Demetrius and Lysander and Bottom were still in wonder about what took place in the grove on that strange midsummer night, when they had gone to sleep, and waked to find that what had been so real to them the day before had now but the character and substance of a dream.

Another play of Shakespeare was the tragedy of King Lear, which was taken from a collection of stories gathered together first, perhaps, by Geoffrey of Monmouth, at the same time that he collected the legends of King Arthur. In Shakespeare's tragedy Lear is a British king who, after reigning successfully for many years, decided in his old age to give up the kingdom to his three daughters, Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia, reserving for himself only the crown and a hundred knights for personal attendants.

As he desired to test the love of his daughters for him, he said that he would give the largest share of the kingdom to the one who loved him the most, and so on an appointed day he called together Goneril and Regan and their husbands, and Cordelia, who was unmarried, and told them of his design and asked each daughter in turn how much she loved him. And Goneril said she loved him beyond all power of speech, and that health, beauty, honor, liberty, and life itself could not compare with her love for him. And for this answer Lear gave her great forests and wide meadows and broad rivers in the rich country which was her dower.

Then Regan spoke and said she loved her father as much as Goneril did, and even more, for she found no other thing in life worth living for but her father only. And to her Lear gave likewise a third of the kingdom, consisting of as rich lands as those he had given to Goneril. But when the old king asked Cordelia how much she loved him, she was silent, for it seemed to her that love was not a thing to be measured or counted by words. And when Lear insisted upon an answer she said that, though she loved and honored him far more than she could tell, yet she could not say, as Goneril and Regan did, that she loved nothing else beside; for if she were married, as her sisters were, she should think it right to give some love and honor to her husband. And at this answer Lear fell into a rage and disowned her utterly, and said that from that time she should no more be considered his child, and gave her portion to her sisters; for to him words carried great weight, and Goneril and Regan seemed loving daughters because their words were fair and pleasant to listen to.

Poor Cordelia might have fared badly enough—for the only one at her father's court who spoke a fair word for her was the Duke of Kent, and him the king banished immediately as a punishment for advising him to forgive Cordelia—had it not been that at this time there was a suitor for her hand at court, who loved her for herself alone and was glad to take her for his bride, though she was poor and forsaken and despised, and so he bore her away to become a great queen, for he was the King of France.

But the old king soon found that fair words do not always mean fair deeds, for Goneril and Regan had no love for him in their selfish hearts, and soon began to treat him very cruelly. One thing followed another, and at last Goneril told her steward to treat the king's servants with open disrespect, knowing well that her father would resent it, and when Lear chided her for it she told him that one hundred knights were too many for his service, and that he really needed but fifty. And at this King Lear got into a rage—as she knew he would—and declared he would go to Regan, who could never treat him so. Thereupon, he went to Regan, taking with him his train, and his fool, who still remained faithful to him, and one new attendant who had lately come and who was really Kent, in disguise, whose love and faithfulness could not suffer him to leave the country when he knew the king might need him at any moment.

But when they reached Regan's castle they found no entrance, for hearing that her father was coming, she had gone to the Duke of Gloucester's, a great nobleman of the land, as she wished to show him all the disrespect she could. And when Lear sent the disguised Kent on with letters, she put him in the stocks because he had drawn his sword upon Goneril's servant. Then when Lear arrived and told her how Goneril had treated him, she answered that Goneril was in the right, for he should be willing to dismiss all his knights and let his daughters' servants serve him if they so desired. Just then Goneril herself came in, having travelled thither in great haste, and with these and other unkind words, they showed him that their hearts were both unloving and cruel. Then the old king saw that although he loved these daughters and had given them all he had, yet they had no love for him, and their fair words had meant only a desire to gain the kingdom.

And at this discovery all his love turned to hate and bitterness, and he reproached them so bitterly that it seemed to them all that he was going mad with grief. And he left them and went forth into the wild storm that had begun to rage, and Goneril and Regan commanded the Duke of Gloucester and his servants to make no search for him, and to deny him entrance should he return.

But news of the way in which the old king was treated had reached France, and the King and Cordelia had sent an army to take up Lear's cause, and this army landed at Dover just about the time that Goneril and Regan had cast their father off, and Kent, yet in disguise, knowing this, sent a message to Cordelia to tell her what had happened. But the Duke of Gloucester, in spite of the commands of Goneril and Regan, followed the old king out in the storm, and took him to a place of safety near by, and hearing later that there was a plot against Lear's life, warned his friends to take him straight to Dover, for he had also heard that Cordelia was there. And for this act of loyalty, which was immediately discovered, Gloucester was seized, and his eyes put out by order of Goneril and Regan, and he was driven forth into the storm as Lear had been, and his estates were given to his son Edmund, who was as base as Goneril and Regan, and who had persuaded his father that his brother Edgar was a traitor to him, so that the Duke had driven him from his presence, and no longer owned him. But Edgar, disguising himself by feigning madness, still lingered around his home and met his father as he was driven forth helpless and blind, and not letting him know who he was, led him across the stormy moor to a place of safety, reaching Dover at last where Kent and Lear had already arrived. And here there was a great battle fought between the French and the forces of Goneril and Regan, and the French were defeated, and Cordelia and her father were taken prisoners, and Edmund ordered the jailer to strangle Cordelia, and then make it appear that she had killed herself.

Immediately after the battle Edgar and Edmund met in mortal combat, and here Edmund received his death-wound; but before he breathed his last a messenger entered to say that Goneril and Regan were both dead, for Goneril had poisoned Regan in a fit of jealousy and then stabbed herself, and so all their wicked scheming had done them no good.

And then came in Lear bearing the dead Cordelia in his arms, and the play ends with the death of the old mad king, for this last sorrow had broken his heart.

Another of Shakespeare's plays, called The Tempest, is taken from some old tale, which was heard first perhaps in Italy. This is the story:

Once upon a time there was a duke who reigned over Milan, and who was so wise and kind that he was beloved by his people as though he had been their father, so that the court of Milan was celebrated throughout Italy for its just laws, and the inhabitants of the duchy were envied for having so liberal and wise a prince for their ruler. But the duke, whose name was Prospero, was much fonder of study than of anything else in the world, and very often, instead of being in the court of justice or in the council chamber, he would be far away in his study, buried deep in some book. The books that he read were of all sorts and kinds. Books of history, philosophy, mathematics, and science, and it was even said that he understood magic and witchcraft. Because of these two last things he was held in great wonder, and the people did not complain because he spent so much time in his study, and left the ruling of the country to his brother Antonio. Thus all was quiet in the land, and Prospero was happy and full of peace, when suddenly all was changed. One night he found himself seized by rough soldiers, who forced him with his little daughter Miranda to leave the castle, and took the two unfortunates down to the sea. They then hurried them in an open boat miles from the shore, and there left them alone in a vessel without sail, mast, or rigging, thinking that thus they would come quickly to their death. For these ruffians were hired by Antonio, who had seized the kingdom while his brother was thinking of nothing but books, and who, by the help of Alonso, the King of Naples, raised such a strong force to defend himself, and promised such rich rewards to those who would help him in the plot, that he carried out his wicked design without much trouble.

But Prospero had one friend, the good Gonzalo, at court who knew of the design, although he could do nothing to prevent it. And through his means there were carried aboard the ship some food and water and garments, and also some of the books that Prospero loved so well. And by fair fortune, it happened that the ship did not go down, but bore them safely to an island far away from the Italian shores, where they found comfort and peace; for on the island there were fresh springs and beautiful flowers, and trees which bore fruits and nuts; and for owner there was none save the monster Caliban, whom Prospero first subdued by the power of witchcraft, and then tried in every kind way to win to goodness. There Prospero and Miranda lived many years, having nothing to annoy them but the wickedness of Caliban, whom Prospero was forced at last to make his slave, and when he did not need him, to confine him in a rock so that he could do no mischief, for Caliban's heart could not be touched by kindness, and he hated Prospero because of his power.

Now, the island was enchanted, and inhabited by spirits of the air, and by deep study of his books of magic Prospero was able at last to command these spirits to do his will, so that although he had landed on the island without a single follower, he soon found one who was willing and able to obey his every wish. This was Ariel, the beautiful chief of the spirits of the air, who before Prospero came had been imprisoned in a pine-tree by Caliban's mother, who was a witch, and who had died leaving Ariel confined for twelve years, as she had no power to let him out. But Prospero had such knowledge of witchcraft that he released Ariel upon his promise to serve him a certain length of time, and for this Ariel and all the spirits of the air gave him cheerful obedience always. By their help and his own powers of magic, Prospero could call up storms and hurricanes, and darken the earth with clouds, and lash the sea into fury; and for him Ariel would fly through the air, or descend into the earth, or dive to the bottom of the ocean, or go with his master on his journeys, when Prospero made himself invisible and floated through the air as if he himself were an air spirit.

Thus Prospero was lord of the whole island and of the inhabitants of the air above, and had no enemy but Caliban, who often had to be punished with cramps and pinches and aching bones ere he would do his duty. Now, it happened after many years—so many in fact that Miranda had grown to womanhood—that the King of Naples gave his daughter in marriage to an African prince, and as he was returning from the wedding with a large company, among whom were Antonio the usurping duke of Milan, the king's son Ferdinand, and the good old Gonzalo, the vessel bearing them passed very near the island where Prospero was living. Prospero, who knew everything by the power of his witchcraft, had knowledge of this and immediately formed a plan by which he might get back his lost dukedom. And first he sent Ariel to raise a furious tempest which would cast the ship on shore and bring all his enemies into his power. So Ariel took on the form of a spirit of flame, and amid the dashing of waves and rush of rain he boarded the ship and darted hither and thither, now flaming on the beak, now on the deck, and again in the cabin, or climbing the masts spread over sail and rigging, till the vessel looked like a great ship of fire, and crew and passengers were alike filled with horror and thought that their last hour had come. Then all the Duke's party leaped in terror from the burning ship, preferring death in the sea rather than to stay amid such terrors. But by the magic of Ariel not one was lost and all reached the island safely, though separated into different parties, for that was what Prospero wished. The sailors who had remained on board were then thrown into an enchanted sleep while the vessel drifted to a safe harbor in a little bay, where the calm waters and the fragrance of dew-laden flowers, and the music of the invisible air-spirits would keep them in peaceful dreaming till Prospero should have accomplished his design.

Then Ariel flew to his master and told him of his success, and was promised his freedom if he would but help Prospero in this last enterprise. In the meantime Prospero called Miranda to him and told her the real story of their lives, and she was amazed to learn that her father was a great duke and she herself of noble birth, for of these things she had never dreamed. She was also glad to know that her father had had good reason for raising the storm, as it had grieved her sadly to watch the burning ship and the unfortunate passengers struggling with the waves; not knowing that Ariel had conducted them safely to land. And having heard this story, Miranda was thrown into an enchanted sleep and did not wake until Ariel again appeared, though visible to Prospero only, leading by magic songs young Ferdinand, whom he had found sitting on the shore, alone and disconsolate, mourning for his father. And Miranda and Ferdinand immediately fell in love with one another, as Prospero meant they should, for this was part of his plan.

Then Prospero, with the help of Ariel and the other air-spirits, led Antonio and his party into all sorts of queer adventures where they saw mysterious shapes, heard voices singing in the air above them, and were continually led from one delusion to another. And all this time graver things were happening, for Sebastian, brother of the King of Naples, formed a plot with Antonio to murder Alonso, who was sick with grief over the loss of his son Ferdinand, and succeed to the kingdom; and Caliban, with the assistance of some of the servants, formed a plot to murder Prospero. But Prospero discovered this by the power of his art and laid charms upon all the plotters, so that nothing could come of their designs, and then having tested Ferdinand's love for Miranda by making him perform many hard tasks, he prepared to bring the adventure to an end.

So he clothed himself in his magic robes and drew a charmed circle, and into this circle Ariel brought first the King and his friends, who stood there helpless and amazed, looking upon Prospero as they might have looked upon a ghost, and fearing that they were all going mad. And then Prospero told them how they had all been brought to the island by his power and demanded his dukedom back, and Antonio and Alonso were both filled with dread, seeing how their wicked plot had come to an end, and knowing that they were both helpless before the power of Prospero. But Alonso's fear was also mixed with grief at the loss of his son, and Prospero was touched by this grief, and being well pleased that his plan had worked so nicely, he revealed to them Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess together; and when Alonso could believe that it was really his son that he saw, and not one of the island illusions, his joy was beyond words. And then Caliban and the servants were brought into the charmed circle and their plots revealed, and glad enough were they to escape with their lives, for they too saw that nothing could withstand Prospero's magic power.

Then Prospero invited them all to a banquet, and promised them a fair voyage home to Naples, where the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda should be celebrated. And after this he burned his magic robes, buried his wand, and sunk his magic books deep into the sea, for he had ceased to be king of the enchanted isle and was content to become once more Duke of Milan, and to rule his people and be loved by them as they had loved him before his banishment.

Shakespeare's plays are generally divided for convenience into tragedies, comedies, and historical plays. All of the historical plays, with the exception of three, are based upon facts in English history. They may be enumerated as follows: King John, Richard II., Henry IV., in two parts; Henry V., Henry VI., Richard III., in three parts; Henry VIII., and what are called the three Roman plays, Coriolanus, Julius Cæsar, and Antony and Cleopatra.

The plays from English history are taken, as a rule, from older plays by the same name written by minor playwrights, or from the old chronicles which describe so minutely and interestingly the affairs of history. And as these events were transcribed in the main by contemporaries, they are full of life and color, and would thus appeal very strongly to the imagination of Shakespeare. Hollinshed, Hall, and Fabyan are the chroniclers most often consulted.

The long series presents, with some breaks, a splendid panorama of English history, from the days of John to those of Henry VIII., in which move in stately procession the great historical personages of the Middle Ages in England. All the great events and important characters—the kings and queens, the knights and barons, the princes and dukes, the soldiers and populace of this time—live again in these plays with the interest of reality.

King John, founded upon an older play of the same name, contains some of the most celebrated of Shakespeare's characters. It is a story of Norman days (John was the great-great-grandson of the Conqueror), and of the cruel deeds and lawless acts which men committed in those times when kings came to the throne by power and not by right. John had no right to the throne, as the true heir was Arthur, son of Geoffrey, an elder brother of John. Arthur's rights were supported by the French King, and Shakespeare has taken the incidents of this war for the throne, and woven them into a play of such interest, that it will forever represent the master in one of his greater moods. The character of Constance, the mother of Arthur, is one of the most famous in all Shakespeare. Her pride, and grief, and despair are drawn with Shakespeare's finest touch, while the pitiful story of the little prince is perhaps the most pathetic child-story in Shakespearian art. Arthur is taken prisoner by John and carried to England, and then because he fears further trouble, John decides upon the death of the boy. This horrible deed he intrusts to Hubert, Arthur's keeper, instructing him to burn out the child's eyes with red-hot irons. Hubert goes to the cell to do the deed, and then follows the striking passage in which the heart of the jailer is turned from the crime by the pathetic pleading of Arthur. It is a beautiful picture of depraved manhood kept from utter wickedness by the innocent faith of helpless childhood. And so great is the art shown in drawing the picture that it appeals to us not as art but as a faithful representation of nature.

The play ends with the death of John, supposedly by poison, and the entrance of his son Henry as his successor, Arthur having been killed by falling from the walls of his prison while trying to escape. The drama has a fine flavor of the old Norman rule ere John had met his barons at Runnymede, and been forced to sign the great charter which heralded in the true liberty of the English nation. As it is also the first written of the historical plays, it marks the dawning of a new epoch in the English drama, which became from that time a means of portraying national interests and affairs as it had never done before.

Richard II. is, in a literary sense, one of the first of the plays, and contains passages of exquisite beauty. It is the story of the rise of the House of Lancaster through the deposition of Richard by Henry, who thereupon became Henry IV.

There are two parts to the story of the latter's reign—Henry IV., Parts I. and II. The central thought of Henry IV. is the development of the character of the young Prince of Wales, from a mere fun-loving boy into the royal-hearted, knightly Henry V. The famous Falstaff, one of Shakespeare's most celebrated characters, figures in these plays. He is the typical comic character of the stage of Shakespeare's day and was a prime favorite with the crowds which thronged the pit of the Globe and Blackfriars. Falstaff belonged to the masses, and his fat person, and coarse but jolly humor, his fondness for sack, and the merry company he always had around him, delighted the audiences, which saw in him one of their own kind, and recognized the picture as well drawn. His was a humor that could always be understood, because it was English, and his tastes and delights were understood, because they were also English. This character, therefore, standing for one of the national types, is one of the greatest creations of Shakespearian comedy.

In Henry V., Shakespeare took for his subject the victories of the famous hero king over the French, the last act of the great drama of the hundred years' war which had been waging between England and France. Henry V., the soldier king, was ideally loved by the nation whose glory he had made his own, and his victories at Harfleur and Agincourt were the pride of English history. This story of glory and conquest Shakespeare put into his play and gave to the world an ideal English king, brave, generous, and royal, weaving into the plot besides such a wealth of incident, humor, and romance that it will ever be one of the most popular of the historical plays.

Henry VI., which is in three parts, relates the fall of the House of Lancaster through the defeat of Henry VI. and the death of his only son.

Richard III., one of the finest of the historical plays, opens with the famous soliloquy of Richard upon the old prophecy which said that the sons of King Edward IV. should be murdered by one whose name began with the letter G, the initial of Richard's own title as Duke of Gloster. In this play one of the darkest chapters of English history is portrayed, that in which Richard murders successively his brother Clarence, the Duke of Buckingham, the little heir to the throne and his brother, and a number of other persons whom he fancied stood in the way of his advancement. He gains the crown through these foul means, but he has made himself so detested that the people are glad when the Earl of Richmond claims the crown and declares war upon Richard. Richmond was the representative of the Lancastrian party, as Richard was of that of York, and as he had married Richard's daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, the two families which had made the Wars of the Roses famous in England were in this struggle set against each other for the last time. The play ends with the victory of Richmond, who came to the throne as Henry VII., and the death of Richard on Bosworth Field. It is one of the greatest of Shakespeare's plays, the dramatic interest being so powerful that we are carried along from scene to scene with almost breathless intensity. The character of Richard is one of the greatest portraits in all literature of wickedness and ability personified.

Henry VIII. is the story of Catharine of Aragon, the first wife of Henry VIII., and the mother of Queen Mary, and of her unhappy divorce from that monarch.

The three Roman plays are taken from Plutarch's "Lives of Distinguished Men of Antiquity." These plays, which picture the severity of the Roman republic in Coriolanus, the splendor of the imperial beginnings in Julius Cæsar, and the luxury and magnificence of the epoch just following in Antony and Cleopatra, also portray every variety of human passion and make the characters of two thousand years ago as real as if they were people of our own time. Of the three, Antony and Cleopatra is the most poetic—as it is indeed one of the most poetic of all Shakespeare's plays. Julius Cæsar is a storehouse of political wisdom, full of meaning to the England of Shakespeare's day, as well as to all countries in all times. This play contains the well-known orations of Brutus and Antony over the body of Cæsar, whose assassination by Brutus, Cassius, and other friends of Cæsar forms the climax of the play. These orations produce a dramatic effect which calls back to life that old Roman world as does nothing else in the plot. In the stately and polished arraignment of Brutus, who loved Cæsar well, but Rome more, as in the passionate pleading of Antony, whose love kept faith even with death, we have a backward glance into those far-off days when the eloquence of the orator brought to pass what law or justice might not effect. These orations make the strange power of those old Greek and Roman orators understood, and call up pictures of the crowds which thronged the courts of Athens and Rome to listen to the voices which should depose tyrants or make kings, or inspire deeds of deathless heroism.

The quarrel between Brutus and Cassius, before their defeat by Antony, and the heir of Cæsar, is also one of the striking features of this play, being one of the most famous scenes in the Shakespearian drama.

In his comedies Shakespeare gave full rein to his imagination and fancy, and has left recorded in them some of the most perfect of his works. They are founded upon Italian and French romances as a rule, and show Shakespeare's light and airy humor, and his grace of fancy in striking contrast with his serious vein. In these comedies one feels the joy of life and sees the heart in its sunny moods, with perhaps just enough seriousness intermixed to remind us that it is human life we see and not the picture of a dream. The comedies are: A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Comedy of Errors, Love's Labor's Lost, The Taming of the Shrew, Two Gentlemen of Verona, All's Well that Ends Well, Much Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, The Merry Wives of Windsor, The Winter's Tale, Measure for Measure, The Tempest, The Merchant of Venice, and Twelfth Night; perhaps in this list would also be included Cymbeline, a sort of tragi-comedy.

As You Like It is one of the most charming of the comedies, and, next to A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest, shows, perhaps, Shakespeare's fancy in its lightest mood, though, unlike them, its interest is purely human, with no machinery of fairy, elf, or spirit introduced. It is the story of some lovers whom chance has driven into a forest where already reside a banished duke and his court. The free life of the woods, the out-of-door freshness, the introduction of tree, and rock, and stream as agents in the plot, the poetic rhapsodies of Jacques, the lovers, and the philosophical reflections of the Duke's friend and counsellor, all suggest the pastoral and idyllic life of such an existence as might have been spent by happy shepherds and shepherdesses in Arcadia or some other region of the imagination. It is indeed Arcadia reproduced in the forest of Arden, Arden woods, where grow English flowers, and whose brooks are familiar to English eyes. The lovers hang their love-notes upon the boughs of the oak, and medlar, and hawthorn, names dear to English hearts, and the whole atmosphere of the play is ideally perfect in the portrayal of that mood of fancy which all love to indulge in at times. In the end, Rosalind, the princess, who roams the forest in the dress of a page, marries the hero, Orlando, and the Duke recovers his inheritance, but this is one of Shakespeare's plays in which the plot seems less important than the poetic translation of an aërial mood, and it is this ideality which makes the play unique among the comedies.

The Merchant of Venice is a play founded upon the promise of a young Venetian to forfeit a pound of his own flesh if he did not pay at a certain time his debt to a Jewish merchant who held his bond to this effect. There is a love-story interwoven, in which Portia, the heroine, who is in love with Bassanio, a friend of Antonio, saves Antonio's life; for Shylock, the merchant, because he hates the young Christians who borrow money of him and then despise him, has determined to execute his bond, and demands the pound of flesh to be cut off above Antonio's heart. Portia enters the court-room disguised in the gown of a lawyer as the scene is going on, and by her eloquent and ingenious pleading, she shows that the agreement does not provide for shedding one drop of Antonio's blood, and rescues Antonio, causing all the property of Shylock to be confiscated and himself banished. This is one of the comedies which deals with the deeper emotions of the heart, and the intricate and subtle intellectual passions are handled with such masterly skill by Shakespeare that it ranks as one of his greatest plays.

The Taming of the Shrew is an amusing story of a lady whose sharp tongue made her feared by everyone, but who was subdued by the ingenuity of her husband, who scolded her so incessantly that she had no chance ever to say a word back. It has always been one of the most popular of the comedies, and is among the most frequently acted.

The Comedy of Errors is founded upon the comical mistakes and adventures which befall two men and their slaves, who resemble each other so closely that they are constantly being mistaken for one another.

Much Ado about Nothing relates the love-story of the maid Beatrice and the bachelor Benedict, who, having vowed to hate each other, promptly fell in love when their friends mischievously and deceitfully assured each one privately of the other's love.

And so through all the comedies runs the wide stream of universal sympathy with and understanding of the virtues and faults and foibles of human nature, so skilfully treated and delicately handled that they must forever stand among the best of Shakespeare's productions.

The greatest of Shakespeare's tragedies are Hamlet, King Lear, Macbeth, Othello, and Romeo and Juliet. Hamlet, perhaps the greatest of Shakespeare's plays for its study of the human heart, is founded upon an old Danish story of one of the kings of Denmark, who killed his brother and then married the widowed queen and succeeded to the throne. Hamlet, the son, is visited by the ghost of his father, which reveals the horrible story to him, and the play is the story of Hamlet's vengeance. In with the plot is woven the beautiful love-story of Ophelia and Hamlet with its unhappy ending. Ophelia is one of the most perfectly drawn woman characters in Shakespeare's works.

The play of Hamlet contains a philosophy of life. In it the feelings of the heart are brought out and marshalled before the eyes like the actors on a stage. We see the weakness of Hamlet's character contrasted with his intellectual greatness, just as we might see one character in a play standing before another. Thus we are made to feel that it is not the ambition of the king, nor the wickedness of the queen, nor the treachery of friends which leads to the final catastrophe, but Hamlet's own irresolute spirit, which could never rise to the proper height, and which constantly wavered and drew back at critical moments. It is this marvellous portrayal of the mingled strength and weakness of the soul that makes Hamlet one of the most perfect and human creations in all literature.

The tragedy of Macbeth, taken from Hollinshed's chronicles, is founded upon one of those dark tales of murder which fill the pages of early Scottish history. Macbeth, thane of Glammis and Cawdor, is excited by the prophecy of three witches to murder Duncan, the king, and usurp the crown. His courage, however, would have failed him at the last moment had not Lady Macbeth urged him on to the deed. He murders Duncan at night, and Lady Macbeth throws suspicion upon the two servants of the king by placing their bloody daggers (with which Macbeth had done the deed) beside them as they slept. Macbeth is crowned, and all goes well for a time. Then suspicions arise. Lady Macbeth walks in her sleep and is watched by her attendants, who see her washing her hands as if trying to wipe out blood-stains. Macbeth himself sees ghosts and has visions of the crimes he has committed, but is comforted by a prophecy to the effect that no harm shall reach him till Birnamwood, the distant forest, shall come to his palace at Dunsinane. But the trouble forms, enemies rise, an army is formed against the usurping king headed by Malcolm, son of Duncan. The soldiers advance to Dunsinane Castle bearing boughs from Birnamwood upon their shoulders, and thus fulfil the prophecy, and Macbeth, after more than one bloody deed, dies at last by the hand of Macduff, one of Malcolm's captains.

In Macbeth, Shakespeare has made a powerful study of the effect of conscience upon conduct. This play is remarkable from the fact that the downfall of Lady Macbeth and her husband is due to no outside influence or circumstance, but comes solely from within. As in Hamlet we see two emotions of the heart placed opposite and warring one with the other. And this unseen war of conscience with crime is the one agent which leads to the downfall of the murderers. If Lady Macbeth had been entirely wicked, her husband might have lived and died king of Scotland. But no one is entirely wicked. Behind the ambition which plotted the murder stood the conscience which guarded the soul, and which might not be slain as kings are slain. It was this conscience, more terrible than swords of foes, which turned and betrayed her, and delivered her into the hands of her enemies—another instance of the masterly insight of Shakespeare into the human soul and the springs of human action.

In the play of Othello, Shakespeare has painted one of the darkest pictures in all his tragedies. The plot was taken from an Italian novel, a popular story of Shakespeare's day. Romeo and Juliet, also taken from Italian source, is, perhaps, next to Hamlet, the most popular of the tragedies. It is the story of the two young lovers, Romeo and Juliet, whose love was crossed by a fate so unkind that all lovers who hear their story must weep for them. These two lovers each represented the great houses of Capulet and Montague, which had been at bitter feud for years, and from this fact they knew that their cause was hopeless, as the heads of the families would rather have seen their children dead than united in marriage.

Juliet, in order to prevent a marriage with a young nobleman whom her father had chosen, takes a sleeping potion which makes her appear as if dead, and she is interred in the tomb of the Capulets on what was to have been her wedding-day. Romeo, who had been banished for killing a follower of the Capulets, hears of Juliet's burial, and procuring a poison, goes to the tomb to die by her side. He takes the drug and Juliet wakes to find him dead, and in the despair of love kills herself with his dagger.

This tale of old Verona was made by Shakespeare to live again with new life in this powerful drama, which is now the most famous love-story in the world. It is full of beauty, pathos, and strength, and ranks among the great masterpieces of the poet.

Thus we see from a study of the different plays of Shakespeare that there is no passion of the heart that he has not touched, and that he represents in his works the life of man in whatever society or condition. It is this human interest which invests his pages with a charm that can never die, and which, combined with his poetic genius, places him at the head of all other writers.

Shakespeare always considered Stratford his home, and bought there an estate where he visited his family from time to time. When he had accumulated a sufficient fortune he sold his interest in the Globe Theatre and retired to Stratford to spend the rest of his life. There he died four years later, on the anniversary of his fifty-second birthday, and was buried in the little parish church so closely connected with his first childish memories of the outside world.

Outside of his plays he is known as the author of a few other poems and songs and more than a hundred sonnets possessed of exquisite beauty, but it is his great dramas which have won for Shakespeare the fame which has placed his name far above and beyond any other in the history of the world.

Shakespeare's friend and contemporary, Ben Jonson, was, next to Marlowe, the most popular of the playwrights who formed the group of which Shakespeare himself was the head. Jonson's plays were, in nearly every sense, comedies based upon the affairs and manners of the day and particularly of London life. He introduced all kinds of odd characters into his dramas, and made them ridiculous by setting their oddities against one another, or gave the play a humorous cast by bringing in some absurd or extravagant whim of the moment as the centre spring of the plot. His best known plays are: Every Man in his Humor, Every Man out of his Humor, Bartholomew Fair, The Alchemist, Volpone, and The Silent Woman, an unfinished drama of great beauty, called The Sad Shepherd, and the tragedy, Catiline. Jonson was also the author of many beautiful masques which were given at the court entertainments, among which may be mentioned The Masque of Oberon, The Masque of Queens, and The Paris Anniversary. Besides his dramas, Jonson wrote many songs which have become famous, and which place him high among English lyrical poets. These songs occur in his masques and also in his collected poems, called Forest and Underwoods.