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 Historical tales from Shakespeare, 
 
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 HISTORICAL TALES FROM 
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NOVELS, STORIES, SKETCHES AND 
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 [ARTHUR T. QUILLER-COUCH] 
 
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HISTORICAL TALES 
 FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 By A. T. Quiller-Couch 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK 1900 
 
 K 
 
Copyright, 1900, by 
 Charles Scrihnefs Sons 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PfllNTIhO AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
 
 N£W YORK 
 
\ 
 
 TO 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 WHO WITH THE NEAREST CLAIM AMONG L1VINC MEN 
 TO APPROACH SHAKESPEARE CONFIDENTLY 
 
 HAS WITH THE BEST RIGHT 
 
 SET THEM THE EXAMPLE OP REVERENT AND 
 
 HUMBLE STUDY 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013144682 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Although in the following pages I have chosen 
 those plays, or most of them, which Charles and 
 Mary Lamb omitted from their Tales from Shake- 
 speare, and although I have taken a title very like 
 theirs, my attempt has not been to round off or tag a 
 conclusion to their inimitable work. They, as wise 
 judges of what their book should be, found that a 
 certain class of play lay outside their purpose. It 
 is just these plays — the historical ones — which, 
 with a different purpose, are here cast into narrative 
 form. 
 
 It appeared to the friend who suggested this book, 
 and to me, that nowhere, in spite of many inaccu- 
 racies, can historical pictures be found so vivid or 
 in the main so just as in these historical plays of 
 Shakespeare. We were thinking especially of the 
 plays from English history. But our own experi- 
 ence seemed to show that many young readers fight 
 shy of them, and so miss much which might quicken 
 
PKEFACE 
 
 their interest in history and their early patriotism, 
 being deterred perhaps by the dramatic form and 
 partly by the sophisticated language. (For al- 
 though even a very young reader may delight in 
 Shakespeare, it takes a grown one and a wise one 
 to understand his full meaning.) And we asked 
 ourselves, ' Is it possible, by throwing the stories into 
 plain narrative form and making the language more 
 ordinary, to represent these vivid pictures so that 
 young readers may be attracted to them — yet rev- 
 erently, and in the hope that from our pale, if sim- 
 ple, copies they may be led on and attracted to his 
 rich and wonderful work? ' 
 
 This, at any rate, was my task: not to extract 
 pleasant and profitable stories, as one might (and 
 as the Lambs did) from the masterpieces of Shake- 
 speare's invention, but to follow him into his deal- 
 ings with history, where things cannot be forced 
 to happen so neatly as in a made-up tale, and to per- 
 suade my young audience that history (in spite of 
 their natural distrust) is by no means a dull busi- 
 ness when handled by one who marvellously under- 
 stood the human heart and was able so to put life 
 into the figures of men and women long passed away 
 that they become real to us as we follow their 
 
PREFACE 
 
 thoughts and motions and watch them making love, 
 making war, plotting, succeeding, or accepting re- 
 verses, playing once more the big drama which they 
 played on earth. 
 
 For although ' history ' means properly ' en- 
 quiry ' or ' research/ and threatens nowadays to be 
 a pursuit only enjoyable by a few grown-up persons, 
 when taken in hand by such a poet — or ' maker ' — • 
 it becomes again a story in the familiar sense, a 
 moving tale which everyone can understand and 
 enjoy, children no less than their elders. There 
 had to be this difference, however, between the 
 Lambs' stories and those which I set myself to re- 
 peat from Shakespeare — that whereas they had only 
 to rehearse the plot of The Merchant of Venice, for 
 instance, and the result was a pretty and, for their 
 readers, a novel tale, if I contented myself with do- 
 ing this to the historical plays I should be telling 
 children little more than they already knew from 
 their text-books. It seemed necessary, therefore, 
 to lay more stress on the characters in these plays, 
 and on the many springs of action, often small and 
 subtle ones, by uncovering which Shakespeare made 
 history visible; to keep to the story indeed, but to 
 make it a story of men's motives and feelings, as 
 
PBEFACE 
 
 i well as of the actual events they gave rise to or were 
 derived from. 
 
 For the sake of the story in this sense I have 
 often followed Shakespeare where he is inaccurate, 
 though I have, sometimes corrected without com- 
 ment where a slight correction could do no harm. 
 It seemed to me equally uncalled-for on the one 
 hand to talk of Decius Brutus and on the other to 
 omit the tremendous reappearance of Queen Mar- 
 garet in Richard the Third; equally idle to tie my- 
 self to the stage-chronology of King John and to 
 set it elaborately right; alike unnecessary to repeat 
 Shakespeare's confusion of the two Edmund Morti- 
 mers in one play and officious to cut out Mortimer's 
 farewell in another on the ground that it is untrue 
 to fact. The tale's the thing; else what becomes 
 of Faulconbridge, Falstaff, Fluellen? In general, 
 therefore, I have made it my rule to follow Shake- 
 speare so long as he tells his story with fairness and 
 justice. 
 
 It would be a great pleasure to believe that 
 Shakespeare was always fair and just; to be con- 
 vinced (with the illustrious poet who allows me to 
 dedicate my book to him) that Shakespeare had no 
 hand in the slanderous portrait of Joan of Arc sent 
 
PEEFACE 
 
 down to us under his name. But convinced or not, 
 no writer with a conscience could repeat that por- 
 trait for the children in whom are bound up our 
 hopes of a better England than we shall see. "Were 
 he to do so, I believe that, thanks to such books as 
 Green's Short History of the English People * and 
 Mr. Andrew Lang's A Monk of Fife, our school- 
 boys would reject it with scornful disgust. It is 
 enough to say that here they will not be given the 
 chance; since to-day, if ever, it is necessary to insist 
 that no patriotism can be true which gives to a boy 
 no knightliness or to a girl no gentleness of heart. 
 
 Of true and fervent patriotism these plays are full. 
 Indeed though they are, in Charles Lamb's words, 
 ' strengtheners of virtue ' in many ways, that re- 
 mains their great lesson. It has been said that the 
 real hero of Shakespeare's historical plays is Eng- 
 land; and no one can read them and be deaf to the 
 ringing, vibrating note of pride, of almost fierce 
 joy to be an Englishman, to have inherited the lib- 
 erties of so great a country and be a partaker in her 
 glory. And this love of England is the sincerer for 
 
 1 To which, as to a classic, I have gone for what the play de- 
 nies ; even for some of its language, remembering the effect it 
 had upon me as a boy. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 the courage with which he owns and grieves that she 
 has been sometimes humiliated, sometimes untrue 
 to herself. But as if this were not enough, he has 
 left us — in Faulconbridge, in King Harry, in the 
 two Talbots — lofty yet diverse examples of what 
 patriotism can do; and again in Coriolanus and Mar- 
 cus Brutus particular warnings of how even able 
 men who love their country may, by a little unwis- 
 dom, injure her and wreck themselves. In short, 
 and with the single exception named, these plays 
 might almost serve as a handbook to patriotism, did 
 that sacred passion need one. For nowhere surely 
 in literature is it so confidently nourished and at the 
 same time so wisely and anxiously directed. 
 
 And now, having excused my purpose, let me try 
 to excuse my method also. I started, in my rever- 
 ence for Charles and Mary Lamb, with some thought 
 of tying myself by their rules of diction, and ad- 
 mitting no word which had not at least a warrant 
 somewhere in Shakespeare. But I soon found (1) 
 that the difference of design baulked my pen, and 
 often in an irritating manner; and (2) that although 
 I might hope to ape their example with success 
 enough to deceive many, yet in my heart I was con- 
 scious how far short the attempt must fall of that 
 
PREFACE 
 
 natural easy grace which was theirs alike by genius 
 and by years of loving familiarity with Shakespeare. 
 Every man whose lot it is to write a great deal dis- 
 covers his own manner, and does his best in that. 
 So I resolved to use my own, and trust to telling the 
 tales as simply and straightforwardly as I could. 
 How for my purpose it was necessary to be con- 
 tinually breaking up the rhythm of Shakespeare's 
 majestic lines, and reducing them to ordinary prose; 
 and there remains an apology to make to the critics 
 who, with Shakespeare's lines in their memory, find 
 this hard to tolerate. I ask them to remember that 
 these stories are not intended for grown-up persons 
 who know Shakespeare more or less by heart, but 
 for children to whom their first reading of him is a 
 pleasure to come. 
 
 A. T. QUILLER-COUCH. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CORIOLANUS .... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 Julius Cs:sar .... 
 
 . 46 
 
 King John .... 
 
 . 93 
 
 King Richard the Second . 
 
 . 125 
 
 King Henry the Fourth . 
 
 . 160 
 
 King Henry the Fifth 
 
 . 259 
 
 King Henry the Sixth 
 
 . 304 
 
 King Richard the Third . 
 
 . 370 
 
CORIOLAWUS 
 
 Five hundked years before the birth of Christ 
 there lived in Rome a man of noble family named 
 Caius Marcius. One of his ancestors, Ancus Mar- 
 cius, had been King of Rome, and of the same house 
 were afterwards descended the Marcius who was 
 surnamed Censorinus, from having twice held the 
 censorship, the most venerable office in the common- 
 wealth, and Publius and Quintus Marcius, who to- 
 gether built the great aqueduct which supplied the 
 city with pure water. So that altogether this house 
 of Marcius was a very important one in Rome, and 
 also a very proud one. 
 
 But of all its members none was ever so proud 
 as this Caius Marcius, whose story we have to tell. 
 His father died when he was quite a. child, and 
 thus his training fell into the hands of his widowed 
 mother, the Lady Volumnia. In some respects it 
 could not have fallen into better, for in those days 
 the quality honoured above all others in Rome 
 was manliness, and Volumnia, like a true Roman 
 
TALES EKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 mother, set herself from the first to encourage her 
 boy in all those manly pursuits to which she saw 
 him inclined by nature. As a child he was taught 
 to handle weapons, to exercise his body, and to 
 endure hard living, so that he became swift in run- 
 ning, dexterous in sword-play, and so strong in 
 wrestling that no man could ever throw him. And 
 when he was but sixteen she sent him off to the 
 wars. ' For,' said she, ' had I a dozen sons, and 
 each one as dear to me as my Caius, I had rather 
 have eleven die nobly for their country than one 
 live at home in idle indulgence.' 
 
 The war to which she sent Caius had been stirred 
 up by Tarquin the Proud, the expelled King of 
 Rome, in the hope of winning back his kingdom. 
 The boy distinguished himself in his first battle 
 bestriding a Roman soldier who had been beaten 
 to the ground beside him, and slaying the assail- 
 ant with his own hands. For this feat, when the 
 fight was over and the Roman side victorious, his 
 general caused Caius Marcius to be crowned with 
 a garland of oak-leaves, a coveted honour and only 
 bestowed on one who saved the life of a fellow- 
 Roman. Deep was Volumnia's joy when he re- 
 turned to her with his brows thus bound; while, 
 as for Caius, this first success so spurred his valour, 
 that he soon became known as the bravest fighter 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 in Rome, and though not yet one of her generals 
 — by reason of his youth — yet the first of her war- 
 riors, and the swordsman on whom her armies doted 
 and her generals depended. 
 
 To this his love and passionate pursuit of hon- 
 our had led him. But what he and his mother 
 forgot, or perhaps never saw clearly, was this — that 
 the love and pursuit of honour may be so mixed 
 up with pride as to become but a kind of selfish- 
 ness; a very sublime kind of selfishness, no doubt, 
 but none the less a disease. Cains Marcius was ar- 
 rogantly proud, proud of his family, and, as time 
 went on, insufferably proud on his own account; 
 and this self-esteem, while it taught him to scorn 
 all mean actions and petty personal gain, made him 
 churlish and uncivil of speech to all whom he looked 
 upon as his inferiors. 
 
 ]STow the Romans at this time, and for long years 
 after, were divided into two classes, the Patricians 
 and the Plebeians. To the Patricians belonged 
 the old governing families of Eome, descendants 
 of the first founders of the city, a nobility keeping 
 the chief power in their own hands, trained in war 
 and looking upon war as the one occupation which 
 became their dignity. The Plebeians, on the other 
 hand, were an undisciplined and oppressed crowd 
 of traders, handicraftsmen, labourers, and idlers, 
 
 3 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 having this on their side, that they grew in num- 
 bers with the growth of the city, until the Patri- 
 cians, though they still despised, could no longer 
 ignore them. 
 
 The chief ground of the Plebeians' complaint, 
 among many, lay in the usury practised upon 
 them by their rich masters. The poor man, unable 
 to pay the heavy interest charged, was not only 
 deprived of his goods but taken and sold into 
 bondage, notwithstanding the wounds and scars 
 he showed which he had received in fighting for 
 Rome; and this, they urged, was a violation of 
 the pledge given in the late wars, when they had 
 been persuaded to fight, and had indeed fought 
 faithfully, under a promise of gentler treatment. 
 But when the war was done this promise had not 
 been kept. The common people, indeed, were very 
 nearly starving, and the angrier because the city 
 held great stores of corn, which they firmly be- 
 lieved were being kept by the Patricians for their 
 own use. 
 
 Their discontent began to break out in tumults 
 and street riots, and word of this soon came to the 
 ears of the neighbouring states, which were jealous 
 of Rome (with very good reason) and watching 
 for an opportunity to do her a mischief. They 
 believed this opportunity to be come, and prepared 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 to invade her; and to meet them the Roman Sen- 
 ate made proclamation by sound of trumpet that 
 all men who were of age to carry weapons should 
 come and enter their names on the muster-roll. 
 The Plebeians refused to come; they had been 
 tricked once with promises (they said), and would 
 not give their masters another chance. 
 
 In this fix it began to occur to some of the Sen- 
 ators that they had been too hard upon the poor 
 Plebeians, and many were now for softening the 
 law. But others held out against this, and none 
 so stubbornly as Caius Marcius. In his proud opin- 
 ion these Plebeians were vile dogs and the scum 
 of the earth, and he never scrupled to tell them 
 so to their faces. That he and this dirty, cowardly 
 rabble were men of like flesh and blood was a thing 
 past belief, and since he never opened his mouth 
 to them but to call them curs and worse, it may 
 be fancied how they hated him even while they 
 admired him for a brave soldier. 
 
 The Senate consulted for many days, but thanks 
 to Marcius and his party no good came of their 
 discussions. The Plebeians, seeing no redress, took 
 a bold step ; they gathered themselves together and 
 marched out of the city in a body, using no vio- 
 lence, but crying as they went that Rome had no 
 place for them, and that therefore they must go 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 into wide Italy to find free air, water, and earth 
 to bury them; and so passing out beyond the gates, 
 they encamped on a hill beside the Tiber, called 
 the Sacred Mount. 
 
 This stroke fairly disconcerted the Senators, who 
 now sent out some of their number to treat with 
 the malcontents, and among them one Menenius 
 Agrippa, a friend of Caius Marcius. This Mene- 
 nius was an old man, not over-wise, and certainly 
 no great friend to the Plebeians; but having a 
 blunt, hail-fellow way with him which the people 
 liked. He could use his tongue roughly, but for 
 all that he knew how to tackle a crowd in its own 
 humour, and put in just the shrewd hits which 
 folk of that class enjoy in a public speaker. He 
 wasted no fine words on them, but went straight 
 to the point with a homely proverb. ' What is 
 this? You say that while you sweat and starve, 
 your rich masters eat and grow fat? Did you ever 
 hear tell of the Belly and the Members? Once 
 upon a time all the members of man's body re- 
 belled against the belly, complaining that it alone 
 remained in the midst of the body, eating all the 
 food and doing nothing, while the rest of them 
 toiled early and late for the body's maintenance — 
 the eye seeing, the ear hearing, the legs walking, 
 and so with the rest. But the belly smiled — by 
 
 6 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 the way, you never heard of such a thing as a 
 belly smiling, did you? Well, it did though; and 
 it answered, " That's true enough that I first re- 
 ceive and (so to speak) cupboard all the meats 
 which nourish man's body; but afterwards, look 
 you, I send out nourishment to all the other parts 
 and limbs." And just so, my friends, the Senate 
 of Rome digests and sends out that which bene- 
 fits you and all members of the state.' 
 
 Menenius told this old tale so aptly, singling out 
 one who interrupted, and addressing him as the 
 Great Toe, that he very soon had his audience 
 laughing; and in this good humour they consented 
 with the Senate to come back, on condition that 
 there should be chosen every year five magistrates, 
 called Tribunes, whose special business should be 
 to protect the poor people from violence and op- 
 pression. 
 
 Caius Marcius was furious when he heard of this 
 concession. He had scoffed at the people's stale 
 complaints — that they were hungry, that even dogs 
 must eat, that meat was made for mouths, and the 
 gods did not send corn for rich men only. ' The 
 rabble,' he declared, ' should have pulled the roof 
 off the city before I would have given way and 
 granted them these five fellows to defend their vul- 
 gar wisdom.' 
 
 7 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 His rage was diverted for the moment by the 
 news that the Volscians, the chief enemies of Rome, 
 had taken up arms and were in full march upon 
 the city. They had a leader, too, Tullus Aufidius, 
 whom Marcius longed to encounter. The two had 
 met before this, and found each other worthy foes; 
 and between them, apart from their countries' quar- 
 rel, there had grown up a fierce but generous ri- 
 valry. ' He is a lion I am proud to hunt,' said 
 Marcius; and with his own big arrogance, ' Were 
 I anything but what I am, I would wish to be 
 Tullus Aufidius.' In the campaign for which he 
 was now eager the chief command did not fall to 
 Marcius. By Roman rule this rested with the Con- 
 sul for the year, Cominius, a gallant commander 
 under whom he was as proud to serve as Cominius 
 was glad to have his services. But as Marcius, al- 
 ways courteous to his equals, begged Cominius to 
 precede him and lead the way, he could not resist 
 turning for a parting shot at the assembled rab- 
 ble. ' The Volscians have much corn. Shall we 
 take these rats with us to gnaw their granaries? ' 
 But at the mention of fighting the crowd had be- 
 gun to melt. ' Worshipful mutineers, your valour 
 comes forward bravely! Pray follow! ' 
 
 So Marcius departed for the wars, followed by 
 the sullen hatred of the poorer citizens and their 
 
 8 
 
COBIOLANUS 
 
 newly-chosen Tribunes, and by the prayers of his 
 own women-kind, sitting at home at their house- 
 hold work and waiting for news. But no two pray- 
 ers could well have been more different iu spirit 
 than those offered up by Volumnia, his mother, 
 and Virgilia, his gentle-hearted wife. The one re- 
 joiced that her son had gone to win honour and 
 prove his manhood once more, and her pictures of 
 him as the two sat at their sewing terrified the 
 softer Virgilia, who shuddered at the name of 
 bloodshed, and besought Heaven to spare her hus- 
 band from death. ' The gods bless him from 
 that fell Aufidius! ' { Aufidius! ' cried Volumnia; 
 ' he'll beat Aufidius' head lower than his knee, and 
 then tread on his neck! ' But Virgilia could not 
 quite be comforted by this lively picture. She sat 
 and quaked, and would not be tempted out of doors 
 even when her gossiping acquaintances came with 
 news of the campaign, which was now centred upon 
 the Volscian town of Corioli. 
 
 Upon this important town the Consul Cominius 
 had directed his march. But hearing that the rest 
 of the Volscians were massing their forces to re- 
 lieve it, he divided his army into two parts. To 
 the one part, which included Marcius and was com- 
 manded by Titus Lartius, one of the bravest of the 
 Eoman generals, he entrusted the siege of Corioli; 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 while with the other he himself marched out into 
 the country to meet and grapple with the relieving 
 forces. 
 
 The men of Corioli, disdaining the numbers of 
 the division he left behind, were not slow in mak- 
 ing a sortie, and at the first onset succeeded in beat- 
 ing back the Romans to their trenches. But Mar- 
 cius, heaping curses on the runaways and calling 
 on the stoutest fighters to rally and follow him, 
 replied with a superb charge which drove the as- 
 sailants back to their open gates, through which he 
 hurled himself at their heels — almost alone, for the 
 rain of arrows and javelins from the walls brought 
 his followers to a halt. The Coriolans thereupon 
 slammed to the city gates, shutting him inside, and 
 Titus Lartius, arriving a little later, was fully per- 
 suaded he must have perished. But Marcius mean- 
 while had laid about him with incredible spirit, and 
 actually hewed his way back to the gates; so that 
 even while Titus lamented him, these flew open 
 again and our hero appeared, covered with blood, 
 but keeping his pursuers well at bay. 
 
 Now was the Romans' chance. They poured in 
 to his rescue, and in a very short time the city was 
 theirs. The baser soldiery then and there fell to 
 sacking and plundering, though across the plain 
 could be distinctly heard the noise of fighting where 
 
 10 
 
COKIOLAKUS 
 
 Cominius and his division had fallen in with the 
 relieving force under Tullus Aufidius, and was be- 
 ing hotly beset. Marcius abhorred this vulgar pil- 
 laging, and most of all at such a time when, for 
 aught they knew, their general urgently needed 
 help. The thought of his rival, too, and the chance 
 of encountering him, spurred him to fresh exer- 
 tions, and he begged Titus Lartius to retain only 
 a force sufficient to hold the city, and dispatch him 
 with the rest to Cominius' relief. To this the old 
 commander readily assented, and Marcius flew on 
 his errand. 
 
 His aid was needed. Cominius had been forced 
 to give ground before Tullus Aufidius' attack, and 
 was drawing his men off, albeit in good order, and 
 with none of the violent scolding to which Marcius 
 would have given way in a like reverse. Still the 
 position was grave, and was not made more cheer- 
 ful by the report of a messenger who had seen Titus 
 Lartius and his men driven back on the trenches 
 at the beginning of the fight, and knew nothing 
 of their later success. But the well-known shout 
 of Marcius as he dashed up to the rescue, and his 
 brief tidings that Corioli had fallen, quickly dis- 
 pelled this gloom and gave the men heart for a 
 second attack. He demanded to be told of the Vol- 
 scians' order of battle, and on which side they had 
 
 11 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 placed their best fighting men; and learning that 
 the flower of their warriors, the Antiates, were in 
 the van and led by Aufidius, he besought leave to be 
 set directly against these. This Cominius granted, 
 and as the two armies advanced to their second en- 
 counter, Marcius outstripped his company, and so 
 fiercely charged and cut a lane through the Anti- 
 ates that the press of Romans following into the 
 gap cut the Yolscian array in half, and broke it 
 up. Even so he would not desist from fighting, 
 but calling out that it was not for conquerors to 
 faint, pressed forward until the defeat became a 
 rout and the Volscians were chased off the field 
 with great slaughter. In their last rally Marcius 
 for a moment had the joy of finding himself face 
 to face with Aufidius, and the two were exchang- 
 ing blows when a knot of Yolscians came to the 
 succour of their commander and against his will 
 bore him off, to nurse a fiercer longing than ever 
 for revenge. Up to this his hatred of Marcius had 
 been a soldierly one, but now, in the bitterness of 
 defeat, he felt, for the moment at any rate, that 
 he could stick at nothing to be. even with the man 
 who had met him already these five times, and al- 
 ways come off with the advantage. ' Were he sick, 
 asleep, naked, in sanctuary, nay, my own brother's 
 guest, none of these protections,' swore Aufidius, 
 
 12 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 ' should hinder me from washing my fierce hand in 
 his heart! ' 
 
 The next morning the Consul Cominius, having 
 entered Corioli, mounted a chair of state, and in 
 the presence of the whole army gave thanks to the 
 gods for the great victory. Especially he thanked 
 them that Rome had such a soldier as Caius Mar- 
 cius, and engaged that the citizens at home should 
 echo him. But Marcius would have none of this 
 praise. With a humility which really covered an 
 insane pride — a pride which resented even the sug- 
 gestion that valour in him could possibly be sur- 
 prising — he protested that he had done no more 
 than Lartius, for instance, had done: ' and that's 
 the best I can.' His wounds (he said) smarted to 
 hear themselves thus recognised. When Cominius 
 offered him a tithe of all the horses and treasure 
 captured, he begged to be forgiven for refusing 
 this ' bribe to pay his sword,' as he put it. To his 
 credit he had an entire contempt for private riches; 
 but this refusal again smacked at least as much of 
 pride as of disinterestedness. ' You are too mod- 
 est,' Cominius insisted; ' and if you will indeed 
 be such an enemy to your own deserts, give us leave 
 to treat you as they treat madmen who seek their 
 own hurt — that is, put you in handcuffs first and 
 then reason with you. Be it known, then,' he 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 raised his voice, ' that for his valour I present Caius 
 Marcius with the crown of this war, that I beg him 
 to accept my own horse and harness, and in addi- 
 tion proclaim that henceforth, for his deeds before 
 Corioli, he be known to all the world as we here 
 applaud him — Caius Marcius Cobiolanus! ' 
 
 This compliment, paid before the whole army 
 and acclaimed with shouts and the noise of drum 
 and trumpet, our hero could not refuse. ' Let me 
 go wash the blood from my face,' he answered, 
 ' and then you shall perceive whether I blush or 
 no. But, sir, although I have received princely 
 gifts, I have a boon yet to beg.' ' It is yours be- 
 fore you ask it,' said Cominius. ' There is among 
 the Volscians an old friend and host of mine, a 
 man who once used me kindly. I saw him taken 
 prisoner yesterday, but I was pursuing Aufidius, 
 and in my heat I neglected him. It would do me 
 great pleasure if I could save him from being sold 
 as a slave.' ' A noble request and readily granted. 
 What is your friend's name ? ' ' By Jupiter, I have 
 forgotten! ' It was his own fine action, not the 
 prisoner, he was thinking of; and so at the mo- 
 ment when nothing seemed too small for his mag- 
 nanimous remembrance his selfishness betrayed 
 him. 
 
 Caius Marcius — or Coriolanus as we shall hence- 
 14 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 forth call him — had reached the height of his re- 
 nown. At home even the discontented Plebeians 
 were awed by the lustre of his exploits, and the 
 path lay open before him to the Consulship, the 
 highest honour Rome could bestow, and beyond 
 that to a great and useful career. Volumnia and 
 Virgilia went forth with the crowd that welcomed 
 him into the city, the one praising the gods for his 
 honotirable wounds, the other stopping her tender 
 ears at the mention of them. And such a crowd it 
 was! Dignified priests jostled with nursemaids and 
 kitchen wenches for a sight of the hero ; fine ladies, 
 regardless of their complexions, having found their 
 stations, sat for hours in the sun's eye to await his 
 coming and throw him their gloves and kerchiefs 
 as he passed. Stalls, windows, parapets, ridge-roofs 
 were thronged. It was faces, faces everywhere; 
 faces of all complexions, but all agreeing in their 
 earnestness to catch one glimpse of Coriolanus. 
 His worst enemies, the Tribunes, marked all this 
 and agreed among themselves that the great prize 
 of the state, the Consulship — the one gift left for 
 his mother to desire for him — lay within his grasp. 
 And they foresaw well enough that should Corio- 
 lanus be Consul their own office might (as they 
 put it) ' go to sleep.' 
 
 But among these Tribunes were two, Junius 
 15 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Brutus and Sicinius Velutus, astutcr than the rest. 
 They watched the exultant entry, and kept their 
 tempers even while Menenius Agrippa (our old 
 friend of the ' Belly and the Members ' story) jibed 
 at them for envying the patrician triumph. They 
 bided their time. 
 
 For a Roman who sought the Consulship had 
 to observe certain formalities which they foresaw 
 must go sorely against the grain with Coriolanus. 
 In particular, custom required him to appear on the 
 day of canvassing in a humble dress, wearing only 
 a white tunic like any mere workman, without the 
 flowing cloak, or toga, which marked a Roman of 
 birth; and to solicit each vote as a favour, giving 
 reasons why he thought himself worthy to be Con- 
 sul, and perhaps even displaying the wounds he 
 had earned in his country's service. For the mo- 
 ment, no doubt, the Plebeians were disposed to for- 
 give Coriolanus' past rancour and to let bygones 
 be bygones. But a very little offensiveness might 
 revive the old dislike and turn the scale against 
 him, and these two clever Tribunes believed they 
 might count on his turning restive and showing 
 some of his old arrogance during the canvass. 
 
 As it turned out, they were right. At first Co- 
 riolanus' candidature went well enough. He had 
 the Senate's support, and this his commander Co- 
 
 16 
 
COKIOLANUS 
 
 nrinius announced before a public assembly in a 
 speech which lauded him to the skies. Coriolanus 
 would not stay to listen to it; he had already un- 
 dergone too much of this praise for his taste, and 
 he had not the least desire to hear all his exploits 
 recounted once more, and himself compared as a 
 warrior to a ship in sail and treading men like 
 weeds under its stem. But he returned to hear 
 that the Senate approved his election, and it only 
 remained for him to speak to the people. Upon 
 this (as the Tribunes had expected) he asked leave 
 to be excused the indignity of the canvass, a per- 
 mission which they were too cunning to grant. As- 
 sured now that there were difficulties ahead, they 
 went off to drill the people, so that the questions 
 put to him, and the manner of putting them, might 
 be providentially irritating to his temper. 
 
 The day of canvass arrived, and Coriolanus ap- 
 peared in the market-place clad in his candidate's 
 tunic, and feeling hot and very much ashamed of 
 himself. The citizens, who had gathered in knots 
 to await his coming, dispersed at once and, as their 
 cue was, advanced by ones, twos, and threes to put 
 their questions. From the first Coriolanus was not 
 happy in his manner towards them. ' What am I 
 to say?' he asked Menenius Agrippa by his side: 
 ' Surely you would not have me ask, " What, do 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 you want to see my wounds? Here they are then 
 — I got them in my country's service when some 
 of your brethren roared and ran away from the 
 sound of our own drums." ' ' Good heavens ! ' cried 
 Menenius, 'you must not speak of that! Talk to 
 them reasonably, as for their good.' ' For their 
 good? Shall I tell them to go home, then, and 
 wash their faces? ' 
 
 The very first knot of citizens began to catechise 
 him in a style not likely to improve his temper. 
 This was a great day for them, and they felt a 
 high sense of their own importance. ' Tell us, sir, 
 what brings you to stand here? ' They insisted 
 upon all the formalities. ' My own desert,' snapped 
 Coriolanus. ' Your own desert? ' ' Ay, not my 
 own desire.' ' How not your own desire? ' ' No, 
 sir; it was never my desire yet to beg of the poor.' 
 ' You must think, sir,' put in one specially offen- 
 sive catechiser, ' that if we give you anything we 
 hope to gain something from you.' Coriolanus ap- 
 peared to be vastly impressed by this, which, to be 
 sure, was a somewhat shopkeeper-like view of the 
 position. ' Ah,' he answered, ' pray tell me then 
 your price for the Consulship.' ' The price, sir,' 
 interposed another with better sense, ' is to ask it 
 kindly.' 'Kindly?' Coriolanus pitched his voice 
 in a mocking key : ' Sir, I pray you let me have 
 
 18 
 
COKIOLANUS 
 
 it. I have wounds to show, and will show them to 
 you — in private. Your good vote, sir; what say 
 you? May I count on it? ' ' You shall have it, 
 worthy sir,' promised a citizen, whose wits hap- 
 pened to be too thick to catch the sarcasm. ' That 
 makes two worthy votes begged then. I have your 
 alms. Good-day ! ' Coriolanus turned on his heel. 
 ' There's something odd about this,' grumbled the 
 voter who had talked about exchange; and even 
 the thick-witted one muttered that ' if his vote could 
 be given again — but no matter! ' 
 
 The truth is that even the meanest of us feels a 
 certain importance when he has something to give, 
 and likes to be asked for it politely. Coriolanus 
 was at once too narrowly proud to see what every 
 great leader of men must see, that all men have 
 their feelings, and these must not be rough-ridden 
 but understood, and too honestly proud to stoop to 
 devices which other politicians used while despis- 
 ing them. He did, indeed, go through the form of 
 observance, but with an insolent carelessness which 
 made it worse than omission. Nor was his a noble 
 carelessness, as one humble and mistaken observer 
 had termed it. It was not that he did not care, but 
 that in his heart he hated these Plebeians. He felt 
 all the while how false his position was, and by 
 
 and by, as this feeling became intolerable, he 
 
 19 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 broke out bitterly, ' Here come more votes ! Your 
 votes, pray! Tor your votes I Have fougbt and 
 kept watch; for your votes I carry two dozen odd 
 wounds, and have seen thrice six battles — or heard 
 of them. Pray, pray, give me your votes then, for 
 indeed I want to be Consul! ' 
 
 Puzzled and angered, yet remembering his past 
 services, they gave him their votes. To this — as 
 their Tribunes presently discovered with some dis- 
 may — they stood committed. Coriolanus had gone 
 off to change his detestable garments, and, as he 
 put it, ' know himself again.' Nothing remained 
 but to confirm the election. Yet the temper of the 
 people was sulky, and Brutus and Sicinius quickly 
 perceived that all was not lost. ' "What? Could 
 you not see he was mocking you? Could you not 
 have insisted that as Consul he would be the state's 
 servant, and have pressed your claims and tied him 
 by a promise to serve you instead of speaking, as 
 he always has spoken, against your liberties and 
 charters? Had you not a man's heart amongst you, 
 that you suffered all his contempt and gave him 
 just what he asked? ' ' It is not too late yet,' cried 
 the citizen who had talked about exchange; ' the 
 election is not yet confirmed ! ' 'Be quick then, 
 and revoke this ignorant choice of yours! Stay — 
 put the fault on us. Say that we, your Tribunes, 
 
 20 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 over-persuaded you by laying stress on his great 
 deeds and his ancestry, but that on second thoughts 
 you find him your fixed enemy, and regret our 
 advice — our advice, mind ! Harp on that.' ' We 
 will! ' shouted the crowd, who by this time re- 
 pented the ele.ction almost to a man. They rushed 
 off to the Capitol, and Brutus and Sicinius fol- 
 lowed to watch this pretty storm of their raising. 
 
 Coriolanus, who fully deemed himself Consul 
 elect, and was so deemed by the Senators, was talk- 
 ing among them with Titus Lartius, newly returned 
 from Corioli. Tullus Aufidius, so Titus reported, 
 had raised new troops, and in the face of them the 
 Romans had been the quicker in offering terms of 
 peace and coming away. In short, the Yolscians, 
 though checked for a while, were still dangerous. 
 Their general, Aufidius, in wrath at their yielding 
 Corioli so cheaply, had retired to his own house in 
 the neighbouring town of Antium. ' I wish I had 
 cause to seek him there,' muttered Coriolanus, lit- 
 tle thinking that he would indeed be seeking Au- 
 fidius very soon, but not as Consul of Home. 
 
 For while he came along the street discussing 
 this news, he found his way unexpectedly barred 
 by the Tribunes Brutus and Sicinius. ( Pass no 
 further,' they commanded; ' there will be mischief 
 if this man goes to the market-place.' ' Why,' 
 
 21 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 cried the Senators, ' is not Coriolanus elected by- 
 nobles and commons both? ' 'No; for the people 
 are incensed against him. They cry out that they 
 have been mocked, and call to mind his late op- 
 position when corn was distributed to them free. 
 ' And so,' Coriolanus broke out, ' on that account 
 they take back their votes, and I am not to be Con- 
 sul! I'd better deserve the worst of them, then, 
 and be made a vulgar Tribune like yourself ! ' 
 ' Let me tell you,' answered Sicinius, ' that if you 
 wish to attain whither you're bound, you had bet- 
 ter inquire your way, which you're out of, more 
 gently, or you'll never be either Consul or Tribune.' 
 Menenius and Cominius here interposed, implor- 
 ing calm; but Coriolanus broke out, ' Talk to me 
 of corn! What I said then I'll repeat.' It was in 
 vain that the Senators tried to check him. 'No; 
 I will say it. This shifty, foul-smelling rabble shall 
 learn that I do not flatter. I say again that in 
 truckling to them we are feeding a harvest of tares, 
 of insolence, and sedition, which we ourselves have 
 ploughed for and sown in our folly! ' ' ISTo more, 
 we beseech you ! ' his friends entreated. But Co- 
 riolanus' anger had passed completely out of con- 
 trol. He rated the Senators for their past lenity. 
 ' The rabble had well deserved corn! How? By 
 
 shirking to fight for their country? By mutinies 
 
 22 
 
COKIOLANUS 
 
 and revolts during the campaign? ISTo; they de- 
 manded it, and the Senate, terrorised by their vot- 
 ing strength, gave way. "Enough!" you say? 
 Nay, take more — hear it all. "When gentry, title, 
 wisdom cannot conclude without the " yes " or 
 " no " of general ignorance, then I say you must 
 neglect the true necessity of the state for unstable 
 vanity. I bid you — those of you who prefer a 
 noble life to a long one — pluck out this multi- 
 tude's tongue! Cease to let it lick poison because 
 it finds poison sweet! Put an end to this dishon- 
 our which takes from your state the power to do 
 good by submitting it to the control of that which 
 only knows, or can do, evil ! ' 
 
 ' Enough ! ' cried the Tribunes. ' He has spoken 
 like a traitor, and shall answer as a traitor! This 
 man a Consul? Never! ' They shouted for their 
 officers, the Eediles, to summon the people. Sicinius 
 laid hands on Coriolanus to arrest him. The Sen- 
 ators offered to be surety, but Coriolanus flung him 
 off. 'Hence, old goat! Hence, rotten thing! or 
 I will shake your bones out of your garments.' 
 ' Help ! help ! ' shouted Sicinius, and the asdiles and 
 rabble came running together to his rescue. Eor 
 a while, as they hustled about Coriolanus and tried 
 to lay hands on him, their cries and the counter- 
 cries of the Patricians deafened the air. At length 
 
 23 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Menenius appealed to the Tribunes to speak to 
 the people, and between them they managed to 
 get a hearing. But when they spoke it was not 
 to soothe the feeling against Coriolanus. ' The 
 city of Rome is the people, and we are the people's 
 magistrates. We must stand to that authority or 
 lose it, and in the name of the people we pronounce 
 Marcius worthy of death, and command that he 
 be carried hence and hurled from the Tarpeian 
 rock,' — for this was the form of death set apart 
 for traitors by Roman custom. ' iEdiles, seize 
 him! ' Coriolanus drew his sword. 'No, no! ' — 
 Menenius would have prevented him, calling on 
 the Tribunes to withdraw for a while. But it was 
 too late, and a moment after he was shouting to 
 his fellow-nobles to help Coriolanus, as the rabble 
 made a rush crying, ' Down with him! down with 
 him!' 
 
 In the skirmish which followed the men of birth 
 had the upper hand, and beat Tribunes, asdiles, 
 and mob together out of the street. ' On fair 
 ground I could whip forty such curs,' panted Co- 
 riolanus; but Cominius knew that their advantage 
 was a short one, and he and Menenius persuaded 
 Coriolanus to escape to his house before the crowd 
 came pouring back — as it presently did, demand- 
 ing his instant death without trial for resisting the 
 
 24 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 law. It taxed all Menenius' powers of persuasion 
 to patch up a truce for the moment, engaging that 
 if the Tribunes would promise a regular form of 
 trial he would produce Coriolanus to submit to it. 
 To this the Tribunes, after some dispute, declared 
 themselves ready; and dispersed their followers, 
 commanding them, however, to reassemble in the 
 market-place where the trial should be held. 
 
 It was no easy matter to persuade Coriolanus to 
 attend. At home he raged up and down, swearing 
 the rabble should pull his house about his ears and 
 pile ten Tarpeian rocks one on another, or tear him 
 in pieces by wild horses before he would submit. 
 His friends could do nothing with him, and it was 
 Volumnia who at length persuaded him to go. Co- 
 riolanus had always the deepest respect, as well as 
 love, for his mother. From her he had learnt that 
 passion for honour which he followed with so 
 headstrong a will, and when she besought him to 
 go and use fair speech, insisting that this could 
 not disgrace him, he sullenly consented. ' We'll 
 prompt you,' promised Cominius; 'remember 
 " mildly " is the word.' And ' mildly ' echoed 
 Menenius. ' Mildly be it then,' grumbled Corio- 
 lanus, ' mildly ! ' 
 
 In the market-place the people were awaiting 
 him, well drilled by Brutus and Sicinius to echo 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 whatever cry the Tribunes should raise. These two 
 felt confident that they had only to put Coriolanus 
 in a passion and he would be in their power. Corio- 
 lanus entered, his friends following close and stand- 
 ing about him to hold him in check, and Sicinius 
 began to question him. ' Do you submit to the 
 people's voice and acknowledge their officers? and 
 are content to suffer such legal censure as may be 
 pronounced on you? ' ' I am content/ was the 
 answer. ' There ! you see he is content,' put in 
 the delighted Menenius: ' he is a soldier, remem- 
 ber; you must not expect a soldier to be over-gentle 
 in his language.' ' Well, well, no more of that,' 
 commented Cominius, who did not feel easy just 
 yet. And in his very next words Coriolanus began 
 to take the offensive, demanding why, after being 
 elected Consul, he was dishonoured by having his 
 election annulled. ' It is your business here to an- 
 swer, not to ask questions,' said Sicinius. Still Co- 
 riolanus kept down his temper. ' True, so it is.' 
 ' We charge you that you have deprived Rome of 
 her constitutional government and taken to your- 
 self tyrannical power, for which you are a traitor 
 to the people of Rome.' This was too much. The 
 charge, a new and unexpected one, had no justi- 
 fication. But it was the word ' traitor ' which 
 stuck in Coriolanus' throat. ' " Traitor ! " ' — in a 
 
 26 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 moment lie was past holding. ' May the fires of 
 lowest hell wrap this people ! Call me their traitor ! 
 If this lying Tribune had twenty thousand deaths 
 for me, I would call him the liar that he is! ' 'To 
 the rock! To the rock! ' bawled the multitude. 
 Still his friends implored, but Coriolanus was now 
 utterly deaf. ' Be it the rock, or be it exile, flay- 
 ing, starvation, I would not buy their mercy with 
 a single word.' 
 
 Exile was the sentence the Tribunes had deter- 
 mined on, and in the name of the people Sicinius 
 now pronounced it. Perhaps they hardly dared to 
 exact the last penalty of the Tarpeian rock, but 
 this they promised awaited Coriolanus if he ever 
 again set foot within the gates of Rome. 
 
 ' Curs ! ' answered Coriolanus, ' it is I who ban- 
 ish you! Remain, and tremble at every rumour 
 of war, shake whenever you see the plumes of your 
 invaders nodding. Banish your defenders one by 
 one, until your ignorance delivers you captive with- 
 out a blow. Tor your sakes I despise Borne, and 
 thus turn my back on her. There is a world else- 
 where.' And so he turned and departed, while 
 they flung up their caps and shouted, ' The people's 
 enemy is gone! ' 
 
 His wife, his mother, and a few friends escorted 
 him to the gate. ' Do not weep; a brief farewell 
 
 27 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 is the best. Nay, mother, remember your ancient 
 courage.' Volumnia called curses upon the ' many- 
 headed beast ' that treated her son so ungratefully. 
 Virgilia could only weep. Old Cominius, that true 
 friend, would have gone with him for a while, but 
 Coriolanus forbade it and went his way alone. 
 
 Whither was Coriolanus bound? He was, as we 
 have seen, a man with many great elements; and 
 yet not an entirely great man, for selfishness in- 
 fected them all. Even his high worship of honour 
 had its roots in selfishness. He could say, and he 
 believed, that he had fought and bled for his coun- 
 try, but at heart he thought first of self. He, the 
 brave and noble Coriolanus, had been insulted, 
 abused, treated with shameful ingratitude. The 
 wound to his self-love poisoned all his thoughts. 
 He forgot his boasted affection for his country, 
 forgot everything but his one desire — to be re- 
 venged. 
 
 It was twilight in the Yolscian town of Antium 
 when a stranger, dressed in mean apparel and wear- 
 ing a muffler about his face, entered the gate and 
 wandered along the streets like a man uncertain of 
 his way. Many people passed, but no man knew 
 him. Of one of these he asked to be directed to 
 the house of Tullus Aufidius. 
 
 Tullus Aufidius was dining and (as it chanced) 
 28 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 entertaining the Senators of Antium, for the Vol- 
 scians were even now on the eve of launching a 
 fresh invasion into Roman territory under his guid- 
 ance. The troops were mustered, Aufidius had 
 made his preparations, and the senators had gath- 
 ered to-night to wish him good speed. From the 
 banqueting-room where they feasted the sound of 
 music poured through the doors into the outer hall, 
 where the serving-men ran to and fro with dishes 
 or shouted for more wine. Such was the scene 
 upon which Coriolanus entered, still in his disguise, 
 and stood for a moment looking about him. ' A 
 goodly house! And the feast smells well; but I 
 have scarcely the look of a guest.' ' Hullo, friend ! ' 
 called out one of the slaves, ' what's your business, 
 and where do you come from? Here's no place for 
 you; go to the door, pray.' ' And whence are you, 
 sir? ' demanded another: ' has the porter no eyes, 
 that he admits such fellows? Pray, get you out.' 
 ' Away ! ' Coriolanus thrust him aside. ' Away ? 
 It's for you to go away. I'll have you talked with 
 in a moment.' ' What fellow's this? ' inquired a 
 third. ' A strange one as ever I saw. I cannot 
 get him out of the house. Prithee, call my mas- 
 ter to him.' ' Let me but stand here,' said Corio- 
 lanus; 'I will not hurt your hearth.' But the 
 fellow insisted that he must begone, and so inso- 
 
 29 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 lently that Coriolanus lost his temper and caught 
 him a sound buffet. In the midst of this hubbub 
 Aufidius himself entered, having been summoned 
 to deal with the intruder. ' Where is this fellow? ' 
 he asked; and perceiving Coriolanus, ' Your busi- 
 ness, pray? and your name? Be quick, if you 
 please — your name, sir ! ' 
 
 Coriolanus unwound the muffler from his face. 
 'A name, Tullus, not musical in the Volscian's 
 ears, and I believe harsh to thine.' 
 
 Still Aufidius did not recognise him, being un- 
 prepared for this visitor, of all men. ' Thou hast 
 a face of command, and seemest a noble ship though 
 thy tackle is torn. But I know thee not.' 
 
 ' I am Caius Marcius, once thy foe in particular, 
 and foe of all the Volscians, as my surname Corio- 
 lanus may witness. That name is all my thank- 
 less country requites me with. The cruelty and 
 envy of the rabble, by leave of the dastard nobles 
 who forsook me, have swallowed all the rest and 
 hounded me out of Rome. Therefore I am come 
 to your hearth — not in hope to save my life — but 
 in spite, to be revenged on my banishers. If thou, 
 too, desirest revenge on Borne, make my misery 
 serve thy turn; use me, and I will fight against 
 my country with the spleen of all the devils below. 
 If thou dare not, if it weary thee to try thy fortune 
 
 30 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 afresh, then I am weary, weary to live, and offer 
 my life here to thee and our old grudge.' 
 
 While he spoke Aundius had drawn back in 
 amazement. But he was a man of generous im- 
 pulse, and in a moment he fought down his pres- 
 ent incredulity and his old malice together: — ■ 
 
 ' O Marcius, Marcius ! Each word of thine 
 plucks up a root of our ancient envy! ' He em- 
 braced the foe whose body he had so often and 
 vainly assailed with sword and lance. ' Not when 
 my wedded wife first crossed my threshold did my 
 heart dance as it dances now to see thee here, thou 
 noble thing! Why, thou Mars! I tell thee we 
 have a power on foot now, at this moment; and 
 once more I was purposing to hew thy shield from 
 thine arm or lose my own arm in the endeavour. 
 Time upon time thou hast beaten me, and night 
 after night I have dreamed of new encounters — 
 in my sleep we have been down together, tearing 
 loose our helms, fisting each other's throat — and 
 so waked half-dead with nothing. Worthy Mar- 
 cius! Had we no other quarrel with Rome than 
 her banishing thee, we would muster all from 
 youngest to oldest to avenge thee. Come, come 
 in; take our friendly Senators by the hand — they 
 are here to wish me good speed. Take the half of 
 my command, and direct thine own revenge. Thou 
 
 31 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 sliouldst know best when and how to strike Rome. 
 Come in, I say. They shall say yes to all thy de- 
 sires. Welcome a thousand times! more a friend 
 than ever an enemy — and yet that was much, Mar- 
 cius ! Your hand, come ! ' 
 
 They passed together into the banqueting-room, 
 and soon the disconcerted slaves had plenty to gos- 
 sip about as they saw the strange visitor seated at 
 the upper table and feasted, questioned, and con- 
 sulted amid the deferential awe of the Senators. 
 Aufidius was as good as his word and readily gave 
 up to Coriolanus the half of his commission. With 
 this undreamt ally there was no division and no 
 hesitation in the counsels of Antium. It was war 
 now, and war without delay. 
 
 In Rome the Tribunes were congratulating them- 
 selves. Their enemy was gone, and they had heard 
 no more of him. It was pleasant to see the trades- 
 men singing in their shops, or going amicably 
 about their business instead of running about the 
 streets in tumult as in the days when they had 
 Caius Marcius to provoke them. The Tribunes 
 took great credit for this and for having rid Rome 
 of one who aimed at kingship. They could re- 
 peat this false accusation safely; and Menenius 
 and his fellow-Senators, while they shook their 
 
 32 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 heads, took care to treat the Tribunes with con- 
 sideration. As for Coriolanus, even his mother 
 and wife heard nothing from him. 
 
 The first warning of something amiss came from 
 a slave, who reported that the Volscians were astir 
 again and had crossed the Koman frontiers with 
 two separate armies. He carried this news to the 
 sediles, and was by those wiseacres promptly clapped 
 into prison for a liar. ' Have him whipped,' com- 
 manded Brutus. Menenius suggested that it might; 
 be as well to make a few inquiries before whipping 
 him. 
 
 And while Brutus and Sicinius protested that 
 the tale could not be true — it was not possible — 
 there arrived a messenger with word that the nobles 
 had received news, and were crowding to the Sen- 
 ate House. The slave's report had been confirmed 
 by a second. Marcius had joined with Aufid- 
 ius, and was marching on Borne to revenge him- 
 self. 
 
 ' A likely story! ' sneered Sicinius. { Ay,' added 
 
 Brutus, ' and raised no doubt to make the weaker 
 
 spirits wish him home again.' But this messenger 
 
 was followed by another, and he again by Cominius 
 
 in a towering rage. ' You've made good work! ' 
 
 he broke out, addressing the Tribunes. ' What 
 
 news? "What news? ' asked Menenius eagerly; and 
 
 33 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 being told it, he too rounded on the Tribunes. 
 ' You've made good work, you and your apron- 
 men! Oh, you've made fine work! ' ' But is this 
 true, sir? ' Brutus stammered. ' True? You'll 
 look pale enough before you find it anything else. 
 He will shake Borne about your ears. Who can 
 blame him? And who can beg his mercy? Not 
 you Tribunes — you who deserve such pity as a. wolf 
 deserves of the shepherd. Yes, indeed, you've 
 made good work of it! You've brought Borne to 
 a pretty pass! ' ' Say not we brought it.' ' Who, 
 then? ' snapped Menenius: ' Was it we? We loved 
 him; but, cowards that we were, we gave way and 
 allowed your crew of danglers to hoot him out of 
 the city. Here they come, your danglers! ' as the 
 crowd poured around them discussing the news. 
 ' Well, sirs, how do you like your handiwork?' 
 The crowd was scared, but clamorous after its wont, 
 each man noisily anxious to shift the blame off his 
 own shoulders. ' For my part, when I voted to 
 banish him I said 'twas a pity.' ' I always said 
 we were in the wrong.' ' So did we all.' ' You are 
 goodly things, you voters,' said Cominius, with bit- 
 ter contempt. 
 
 The peril was urgent. Town after town yielded 
 before Coriolanus without a blow, and Borne, di- 
 vided within her gates, lay apparently at his mercy. 
 
 34 
 
COEIOLANUS 
 
 In name he shared the command with Aufidius, 
 but in fact Coriolanus was the sole hero of the 
 campaign. The Volscian soldiery swore by their 
 new leader, and his popularity began to teach Au- 
 fidius that the roots of ancient envy are not so 
 easily plucked up after all. Aufidius was a gen- 
 erous man, up to a point; he had proved it by a 
 highly generous action. But to obey a generous 
 impulse is easier than to keep a magnanimous tem- 
 per constant in face of a rival's success. Some- 
 thing of the old jealousy awoke in the Volscian 
 leader; he saw, or thought he saw, that Coriolanus 
 behaved more haughtily towards him than at first; 
 his near friends and lieutenants encouraged the 
 suspicion; he began to repent that he had given 
 up half his command. Too big a man to deny his 
 rival's merit, he was little enough to be galled by 
 it, and to spy out faults which might some day 
 serve for an accusation. ' Coriolanus has merit; 
 yet something brought him to grief once in spite 
 of it. He has merit enough to silence criticism; 
 yet he fell. Our virtues are as men choose to in- 
 terpret them; a man may have power and be con- 
 scious of his own deserts, yet he will not find in an 
 epitaph what he lacked in the praise of the living. 
 Fire drives out fire, one nail another, and one man's 
 reputation another's. When Eome has fallen, and 
 
 35 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Caius Marcius thinks himself strongest, my time 
 shall come.' 
 
 In Rome there was absolute dismay, and no at- 
 tempt even to disguise it. Panic-stricken women 
 ran wailing about the streets; the temples were 
 filled with old folks weeping bitterly and entreat- 
 ing the gods; nor could a man be found wise or 
 strong enough to provide for the city's defence. 
 At the suit of the Tribunes (humble enough by 
 this time) Cominius had been persuaded to visit 
 the Volscian camp and supplicate Coriolanus in 
 person. Coriolanus would not listen to his old 
 commander; but as he knelt and pleaded their old 
 acquaintance and blood shed together for Rome's 
 sake, bade him rise, and with no more words, but 
 a wave of the hand only, dismissed him back to the 
 city. Where Cominius had failed would Menenius 
 succeed? It was not likely; yet Menenius had 
 strong claims on Coriolanus' love, and at length 
 suffered himself to be persuaded. Cominius has 
 perhaps chosen an unhappy moment. Menenius, a 
 firm believer in the influence of the stomach over 
 men's actions, would choose a propitious one, af- 
 ter dinner. The mission flattered his sense of im- 
 portance; he might be able to show these huck- 
 stering Tribunes something, these fellows who 
 were likely to cheapen coals by getting Rome 
 
 36 
 
COBIOLANTTS 
 
 burnt to the ground. After all lie did not des- 
 pair. 
 
 So he too set out for the Volscian camp. But 
 his reception there was scarcely encouraging. The 
 sentries at first would not let him pass, and seemed 
 as little impressed by his name as by his recital of 
 friendly services done for Coriolanus in the past. 
 ' You are mistaken/ they assured him, ' if you 
 think to blow out the fire preparing for Rome with 
 such weak breath as this.' While they wrangled, 
 Coriolanus himself came by in talk with Aufidius. 
 ' ISTow, you fellow,' Menenius promised, ' you shall 
 see in what estimation I am held, and if a Jack-in- 
 office can keep me from my son Coriolanus with- 
 out hanging for it or worse ' ; and approaching 
 Coriolanus, ' The glorious gods sit in hourly synod 
 about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no 
 worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my 
 son, my son! I was hardly moved to come to thee; 
 but being assured that none but myself could move 
 thee, I have been blown out of our gates with 
 sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy 
 petitioning countrymen. The good gods assuage 
 thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet 
 here — this blockhead, who like a block hath de- 
 nied my access to thee! ' ' Away! ' answered Co- 
 riolanus. 'Eh? How? Away? ' stammered Mene- 
 
 37 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 nius. ' Away! I know not wife, mother, or child; 
 I am servant to the Volscians now. My ears are. 
 closed against your petitions more firmly than your 
 gates against me. Not another word ! ' He turned 
 to Aufidius. ' This man was my dear friend in 
 Kome, yet thou see'st.' ' You keep a constant tem- 
 per/ said Aufidius. The two generals turned away 
 and left Menenius standing red and discomfited be- 
 fore the jeers of the sentinels. ' As for you, I take 
 no account of such fellows. I say to you as I was 
 said to, Away ! ' and away he stalked, followed by 
 their laughter. 
 
 There was yet one plea left for Kome. While 
 Coriolanus sat within his tent, grieved to have sent 
 this old friend home (as he said) with a cracked 
 heart, and resolute to listen to no more embassies, 
 a stir arose without in the camp. No man had the 
 cruelty to disturb or forbid this new procession. 
 At the head of it in deepest mourning walked Vir- 
 gilia, and behind her Volumnia leading Coriolanus' 
 little son Marcius by the hand, and behind them 
 again a train of Roman ladies, all in sorrowful 
 black. They entered the tent and knelt before him, 
 while Coriolanus rose, divided between his heart's 
 instinct and his resolution to deny it. 
 
 'My lord and husband!' murmured Virgilia, 
 and ceased. 
 
 38 
 
COKIOLANUS 
 
 ' These eyes ' — Coriolanus tried to recover his 
 firmness — ' are not the same I wore in Rome.' 
 
 ' Sorrow — the sorrow that has changed us — 
 makes you think so.' 
 
 He could hold back his love no longer. ' Best 
 of my flesh, forgive me ; but do not say, " Forgive 
 our Romans." One kiss — a kiss as long as my 
 exile, as sweet as my revenge! ' He turned to his 
 mother and knelt to salute her. 
 
 But Volumnia bade him rise, and, in spite of his 
 protestation, sank herself upon her knees, and the 
 child Marcius beside her. ' Thou art my warrior; 
 I helped to frame thee; this is thy son, and thy- 
 self in little.' ' The god of soldiers,' said Corio- 
 lanus, ' make him a noble soldier, proof against 
 shame, and give him to stand in war like a great 
 sea-mark, steadfast, the salvation of men who look 
 upon him ! ' ' And it is we who plead with you,' 
 said Volumnia. 
 
 ' Nay, I beseech. Or, if you will plead, bid me 
 not dismiss my soldiers or capitulate a second time 
 with Rome's mechanics; plead not against my re- 
 venge, for to that I have sworn.' 
 
 ' Tou deny beforehand all we ask, yet we will 
 
 and must ask.' ' Then all the Volscians shall hear 
 
 it,' said Coriolanus, and he called them to stand 
 
 around. 
 
 39 
 
TALES FROM,. SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ' My son,' said Volumnia, ' should we hold our 
 peace, yet the sight of us and our raiment would 
 bewray what manner of life we have led since thy 
 exile. Think how far more unfortunate than all 
 living women are we, since the sight of thee, which 
 should make our eyes flow with joy, our hearts 
 dance with comfort, constrains them to weep and 
 shake with sorrow and terror, making us, thy wife, 
 thy mother, thy child, to see thee besieging the 
 walls of his native country. Ah, it is worst for us; 
 for others may pray to the gods, but we cannot. 
 How can we pray for our country and for thy vic- 
 tory — both so dear to us — when one must destroy 
 the other? when, whichever wins, a curse is bound 
 up in the prayer? Either my son must be led, a 
 foreign recreant, in manacles through our streets, 
 or march in triumph through them, trampling on 
 his country's ruin. But, for me, I will not see that 
 day. If I cannot persuade thee, thou shalt march 
 to assault thy country over thy mother's body that 
 brought thee into the world.' 
 
 ' Ay,' echoed Virgilia, ' and over mine that 
 brought thy son into the world to keep thy name 
 alive.' 
 
 Coriolanus groaned. ' I do wrong to look on 
 women's faces; they turn a man to womanish ten- 
 derness.' He turned to leave them. 
 
 40 
 
CORIOLANTTS 
 
 ' Nay,' commanded Voluninia, ' go not thus 
 from us. Did we implore thee to save the Romans 
 by destroying the Volscians, thou mightst condemn 
 us as aiming against thine honour. But we plead 
 only to reconcile them, so that the Yolscians may 
 say, " This mercy we have shown " ; and the Ro- 
 mans, " This mercy we have received," and both 
 unite in blessing thee as the maker of this peace. 
 Son, the end of war is uncertain; but this is cer- 
 tain, that if thou conquer Home it will be to reap 
 a name which shall be dogged with curses, and its 
 chronicle thus written, " The man was noble, but 
 with his last attempt he wiped out the remembrance 
 of it and destroyed his country, and his name re- 
 mains abhorred." ' 
 
 Yet Coriolanus sat silent. He could not trust 
 himself to speak. 
 
 ' Answer me, my son. Dost thou think it hon- 
 ourable for a noble man to remember the wrongs 
 and injuries done him. Daughter, speak to him. 
 He cares not for your weeping. Speak to him, 
 boy; thy childishness may move him more than 
 our reasoning. Son, no son in the world owes his 
 mother more than thou owest; never in thy life 
 hast thou shown thy mother any courtesy; not 
 when she, poor soul, fond of no other child, doted 
 on thee going to the wars, doted on thee returning 
 
 41 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 laden with honour. Is my plea unjust? Spurn it, 
 then. But if it be just, as thou fearest heaven, 
 deny not thy mother her due.' 
 
 A last time he would have turned away, but she 
 and Virgilia and the child flung themselves on 
 their knees together, uplifting their hands. 
 
 And seeing this, Coriolanus was mastered. He 
 stepped to his mother, and lifting her, held her by 
 the hand for a moment, silent. Then with a cry 
 speech broke from him — ' O mother, mother, what 
 have you done to me! ' Still he held her hand, 
 fighting for words. ' O mother, you have won a 
 happy victory for your country, but — though you 
 know it not — mortal and unhappy for your son ! ' 
 He turned to Aufidius. ' Sir, though I cannot make 
 this war as I promised, I can and will make a peace 
 to suit you. Say,' he added, almost wistfully, 
 since he had come to trust Aufidius, ' could you 
 in my place have listened to a mother less? or have 
 granted less? ' ' I was moved myself,' owned Au- 
 fidius, but this was all he would say. ' I dare be 
 sworn you were. But advise me, my friend, touch- 
 ing what peace you will make. I remain here, and 
 I pray you stand by me in this matter.' He would 
 fain have gone to Borne with them whose dearness 
 to him he had just so dearly proved; but his hon- 
 our held him among the Volscians. ' By and by,' 
 
 43 
 
CORIOLANUS 
 
 he promised; and dismissed them back on their 
 happy errand. ' You deserve to have a temple 
 built to you; all the swords in Italy could not 
 have made this peace.' 
 
 Meanwhile in Home the citizens swayed between 
 hope and despair. "Watchers lined the walls, their 
 eyes bent on the Volscian camp. Within the city 
 the mob had seized upon Brutus, and haled him 
 up and down, promising him a lingering death if 
 the petitioners brought back no comfort. 
 
 At length a cry went up from the walls, a shout. 
 The Volscian camp was moving, retiring. Mes- 
 sengers came running, one after another, with the 
 tidings; and soon, like the blown tide through an 
 archway, the glad throng poured in through the 
 gates. Trumpets sounded, drums, all instruments 
 of music half-drowned in a tumult of cheering. 
 And when at length Volumnia and her ladies ap- 
 peared, escorted by the Senators, the crowd pressed 
 about them rapturously, strewing flowers, and' 
 shouting, ' Welcome ! Welcome ! ' Some lit tri- 
 umphal fires; others ran and flung open the gates 
 of all the temples, which soon were filled with men 
 crowned with garlands and doing sacrifice as though 
 news had come of a great victory. 
 
 Coriolanus was not to share this joy. He had 
 spoken truth when he told his mother that she had 
 
 43 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 won a victory most mortal for him. He turned 
 his back upon the rejoicing city, and went, as his 
 honour summoned him, friendless back to his fate. 
 Eor as he led the Volscian troops homeward, Au- 
 fidius hurried before him, and before he reached 
 Antium with drum and colours, Aufidius had made 
 ready to receive him. ' He has betrayed us. For 
 a few women's tears he has bartered all the blood 
 and labour of our great actions ' ; such was the 
 charge forwarded by Aufidius in letters to the Sen- 
 ators. So when Coriolanus halted in the market- 
 place, and delivered up the terms of peace, Aufidius 
 stepped forward. ' Kead it not, noble lords ! But 
 tell this man he is a traitor ! ' 
 
 ' Traitor ! ' Coriolanus turned on him fierce and 
 amazed. ' Ay, traitor,' Aufidius repeated dogged- 
 ly, ' traitor and coward.' ' My lords,' Coriolanus 
 faced the Senators, ' you shall judge me, and your 
 judgment shall give this cur the lie, as he — he who 
 shall carry the marks of my past whippings to his 
 grave — already knows himself to be a liar.' The 
 Senators would have interposed, but the crowd had 
 been instructed beforehand. Many had cause to 
 hate Coriolanus for sons, fathers, kinsmen lost to 
 them in fighting Eome. They pressed about him, 
 crying, 'Kill! Kill!' — and pierced with stroke 
 upon stroke of their daggers, Coriolanus fell. 
 
 44 
 
COBIOLANUS 
 
 They had killed him believing him their enemy; 
 but, their rage spent, they knew that they had 
 slain a great man. Lifting the body, they bore it 
 with military honours through the streets of An- 
 tium, and buried it as became its rank and its great . 
 deeds. 
 
 45 
 
JULIUS C^ISAR 
 
 Foub hundred and fifty years had passed and the 
 Eome of Coriolanus had become the mistress of 
 the world. But all these years had not healed 
 the quarrel between the patricians and plebeians; 
 for as the city increased in size and dignity and 
 empire, so her citizens increased in numbers and 
 grew less and less inclined to submit to the rule 
 of a few noble and privileged families. And these 
 civil quarrels became more bloody and dangerous 
 as Rome lost that fear of the foreigner which had 
 once bound her citizens together in self-defence. 
 
 To hold and garrison her vast possessions, too, 
 she needed soldiers, and drew them from far and 
 wide to fight under her eagles. And in times of 
 peace these soldiers, being out of employment, 
 were only too apt to meddle with civil affairs; un- 
 til at length it became clear that whoever wanted 
 the upper hand must get the support of the army. 
 The man who perceived this most clearly was him- 
 self a soldier and one of the greatest generals the 
 
 46 
 
JULIUS C^ESAK 
 
 world has ever known — Julius Caesar; and Ms 
 hope was, by making himself master of the army, 
 to rule alone and supreme and by strong and steady 
 government to put an end to the miserable dis- 
 sensions from which the state suffered. 
 
 To this he attained after a long struggle with 
 his great rival Pompey. When it was over and 
 the sons of Pompey, after their father's death, had 
 been crushed in the battle of Munda, Caesar treated 
 the vanquished party with great leniency, no doubt 
 because he wanted as few enemies as possible in 
 the work of steady government to which, as mas- 
 ter of the whole Poman world, he was now to turn 
 his mind. 
 
 But he had made more enemies than he bar- 
 gained for, and some quite unsuspected ones. To 
 begin with, the beaten Pompeians were not men 
 of the sort to understand his generosity or to be 
 grateful for it. Then some of his own followers 
 were angry because their rewards had fallen shortj 
 of what they believed themselves entitled to; an 
 also because Caesar, though he had given them high 
 appointments, went his own way, as strong men 
 will, without consulting them. There were others 
 again — noble spirits — who loved him and yet be- 
 lieved that so much power in the hands of one man 
 was a danger to that Liberty on which the Eomans 
 
 47 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 liad always prided themselves. As for the mob, 
 they cheered for the man who was up, after the 
 manner of mobs. A few months ago they had 
 climbed the walls and house-tops and shouted them- 
 selves hoarse for Pompey. Now that Pompey was 
 dead, and Caesar returned in triumph from his vic- 
 tory over Pompey's sons, they shouted with equal 
 enthusiasm for Caesar. 
 
 And Caesar, in the glow of his triumph, had 
 parted with some of his old wisdom. Men of his 
 great achievements become what we call ' men of 
 destiny ' ; and just as their enemies fail to see that 
 success so mighty must contain something fatal, 
 and cannot wholly depend on one man's cleverness 
 or good luck, so they themselves are apt to forget 
 that they are but the instruments of Heaven, and 
 to take all the credit and become vain and puffed 
 up. Thus the moment of Caesar's triumph was 
 the moment of his most dangerous weakness; for 
 fancying himself almost a god, he began to talk 
 and act in a way which persuaded his enemies that 
 he was no more than a man with an ordinary 
 man's frailties. Both were mistaken, and Destiny 
 as usual turned the mistakes of both to her own 
 sure purposes. 
 
 As usual, too, she gave warning; and at first 
 in that small and seemingly casual voice which 
 
 48 
 
JULIUS (LESAB 
 
 men disregard at the time and remember after- 
 wards. There was an annual festival at Rome 
 called the Lupercalia, held on the 15th of Febru- 
 ary, at the foot of the Aventine Hill, where Romu- 
 lus and Remus, the founders of the city, had been 
 discovered as infants with a she-wolf for their 
 nurse. No doubt in the beginning it had been' a 
 rude shepherd's festival; but the Romans, proud 
 to be reminded of their city's small beginnings, 
 had appointed a company of priests who yearly on 
 this date made a sacrifice of goats in honour of the 
 old mother-wolf, and afterwards cut their skyis 
 into thongs. And the custom was for many noble 
 youths to strip naked and run with these thongs, 
 with Avhich they playfully struck the bystanders. 
 One of the runners this year was Mark Antony, 
 a young man of pleasure, but of ambition too and 
 excellent parts, when his love of pleasure allowed 
 him to use them, and an especial friend of Caesar's. 
 Caesar himself attended in state with his train of 
 followers and flatterers, among whom one Casca 
 was foremost calling ' Silence ! ' to the crowd when- 
 ever the great man so much as opened his mouth. 
 The great man just now was talking familiarly 
 with Antony, who stood ready stripped for the 
 course, when a shrill voice from the throng cried 
 'Caesar!' 'Ha! who calls?' asked Caesar, turn- 
 
 49 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ing about, and the officious Casca ordered silence 
 again. 'Beware the ides of March! " — It was a 
 soothsayer who gave this warning, and repeated it 
 when Casca called him forward; but Csesar lightly- 
 dismissed him as a ' dreamer,' and passed on to see 
 the show. 
 
 The crowd followed at his heels, and left two 
 men standing — noble Romans both of them. Their 
 names were Marcus Brutus and Caius Cassius, and 
 a close friendship united them in spite of their very- 
 different natures. ISTo citizen of Eome was more 
 upright than Brutus, more single-minded, more un- 
 selfishly patriotic. A philosopher and a man of 
 books rather than of action, he was in some ways 
 as simple as a child; and being perfectly honest 
 himself, doubted not that every one else must be 
 honest. Privately he liked Caesar and was re- 
 spected by Csesar; but he believed from the bot- 
 tom of his heart that all this power in the hands 
 of one man was a monstrous treason to the old 
 Roman idea of liberty, and a danger to the com- 
 monwealth, and he watched it with a growing sad- 
 ness and indignation. 
 
 1 The Romans marked off their months by three points : the 
 Kalends or 1st day, and the Nones and Ides, which were the 7th 
 and 15th of March, May, July, October, and the 5th and 13th of 
 other months. They began by reckoning the number of days 
 before the Nones, then the Ides, then the Kalends of next 
 month. The Ides of March were the 15th. 
 
 50 
 
JULIUS CLESAR 
 
 Cassius, too, was indignant; but for reasons less 
 lofty than those which moved Brutus. He felt the 
 wrong done to the state; but being of a splenetic 
 and angry temper, he disliked and was jealous of 
 Caesar. And Caesar paid back this feeling with 
 suspicion. ' That Cassius/ he said once to Antony, 
 ' has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much, 
 and such men are dangerous.' ' Fear him not, 
 Csesar,' replied Antony, ' he is a noble Roman and 
 well disposed.' ' I would he were fatter,' Caesar 
 persisted, who liked to have sleek and contented 
 men about him: ' If I, Csesar, were liable to fear, 
 I do not know whom I should avoid so soon as that 
 spare Cassius. He reads much, is a great observer; 
 he loves no plays as thou dost, Antony; hears no 
 music; smiles seldom, and then as if he scorned 
 himself for smiling. Men such as he are never 
 easy of heart while they behold a greater than 
 themselves; and therefore they are very danger- 
 ous.' And Csesar was right, though he fancied 
 himself too great to fear this danger which he 
 pointed out. 
 
 ' Will you go see the runners? ' asked Cassius, 
 as he and Brutus were left alone. 
 
 'Not I,' said Brutus, 'I am not inclined for 
 
 sport, and lack Antony's lively spirits. But do not 
 
 let me hinder you, Cassius.' 
 
 51 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ' Brutus, how comes it that your manner to me 
 has changed of late? I miss the old gentleness 
 and show of love, and observe that you bear your- 
 self stiffly towards the friend who loves you.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, Cassius. I am troubled in mind, 
 at war with myself; and it is this which makes 
 me seem negligent in my behaviour to my good 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Cassius, ' I have mistaken you, and 
 my mistake has made me keep buried in my breast 
 some thoughts of mine well worth imparting. Tell 
 me, Brutus,' he asked abruptly, ' can you see your 
 face? . . . I wish you could; and I have heard 
 men of the best respect in Borne — except immortal 
 Caasar,' he put in with a sneer; 'men groaning 
 under this present yoke — declare how they wished 
 Brutus would but use his eyes.' 
 
 ' Cassius, into what dangers would you lead 
 me? ' 
 
 'Well, my friend, let me be your glass; and 
 look on me that you may discover more of your- 
 self than you yet know.' And he was beginning 
 to protest what Brutus well knew, that he was no 
 common flatterer or loose talker in company, when 
 the noise of distant shouting interrupted him. 
 
 'What means this shouting?' said Brutus; 'I 
 fear the people are acclaiming Caasar for their king.' 
 
 52 
 
JULIUS C/ESAK 
 
 ' Ay, do you fear that? Then I must think you 
 would not have it so.' 
 
 ' No, Cassius, though I love him well. But what 
 is it you would impart to me ? If it be aught tow- 
 ard the public good, you know that I prize what 
 is honourable more than I fear death.' 
 
 Thus encouraged, Cassius unfolded his tale of 
 grievance. ' Is it honour that we should all stand 
 in awe of this one Caesar, a man like ourselves? 
 You and I were born free as Caesar. Is he in any 
 way more of a man? He is a great swimmer; yet 
 I have swum the roaring Tiber with him, and he 
 has called to me to save him from drowning. I 
 have seen him in Spain, sick of a fever — this god 
 of ours — shaking and pallid, and calling for drink 
 like a sick girl.' 
 
 ' Hark! ' said Brutus, ' they are shouting again. 
 I do believe this applause must be for some new 
 honours heaped on him.' 
 
 ' Why, man, he bestrides this narrow world like 
 a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge 
 legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable 
 graves. Men at one time or another are masters 
 of their own fate, and if we are underlings, we, 
 and not our stars, not our destinies, are to blame. 
 Brutus and Caesar! Why Caesar more than Bru- 
 tus? Is Rome so degenerate that in this last age 
 
 53 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 it holds but one man, and makes him king? There 
 was a Brutus once who would have brooked the 
 devil himself in Home as easily as a king.' He 
 spoke of that Lucius Junius Brutus, his friend's 
 ancestor, who had in old times expelled the Tar- 
 quins. Cassius was indeed no common flatterer, 
 but knew exactly how to touch his friend's pride. 
 Brutus was moved. He confessed that he guessed 
 Cassius' meaning; he would think of what had 
 been said; would talk of it further at some other 
 time. Meanwhile let Cassius sustain himself with 
 this — ' Brutus had rather be a villager than repute 
 himself a son of Borne under such conditions as 
 he foresees will be laid upon Bomans.' 
 
 The re-entry of Csesar and his train broke off 
 their talk. Something had clearly happened at the 
 games to annoy the great man, for his face wore 
 an angry spot, and his wife Calpurnia was pale, 
 while the great orator Cicero had the look he put 
 on when crossed in debate. As they went by Cas- 
 sius plucked Casca by the sleeve and delayed him 
 to know what the matter was. ' Oh,' said Casca, 
 ' there was a crown offered to Csesar, or a kind of 
 crown. It was mere foolery, and I did not mark 
 it. Antony offered it, and Caesar refused it thrice, 
 and then he fell down in a fit.' Casca had a bluff 
 hearty manner with him, but he was really a sly 
 
 54 
 
JULIUS CiESAK 
 
 unstable man who took his cue from his company. 
 'A fit?' said Brutus; 'that is likely enough, he 
 suffers from the falling-sickness.' 1 ' Nay,' inter- 
 posed Cassius, with meaning, ' it is not Caesar, but 
 you and I and honest Casca here that suffer from 
 the falling-sickness.' Casca scented the hint at 
 once, and still keeping his jolly good-fellow-well- 
 met way of speaking, let fall another in answer. 
 ' The tag-rag people,' said he, ' clapped and hissed 
 Caesar, just as if he were playing a part; and what's 
 more, he gave them excuse enough, for just be- 
 fore he fell down he plucked open his doublet and 
 offered me his throat to cut! If I had only been 
 a practical fellow instead of the easy-going one 
 you see, I swear I'd have taken him at his word.' 
 ' And when all was over,' said Brutus, ' Caesar 
 came away sad, as we saw him? ' ' Ay.' ' Did 
 Cicero say anything? ' asked Cassius (for Cicero 
 might or might not join the plot, and it was worth 
 while to find out how he behaved). ' Ay, he spoke 
 Greek.' 'To what effect?' 'Nay,' said Casca, 
 with a shrug of the shoulders, ' you mustn't ask 
 me that. I'm a plain fellow, and it was Greek to 
 me at any rate. There was more foolery besides, 
 if I could remember it.' ' "Will you dine with me 
 to-morrow, Casca? ' asked Cassius, for he saw cun- 
 
 1 A name given to the epilepsy. 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ning where Brutus saw bluntness only. Casca 
 promised, and so they parted. 
 
 And during the next month Cassius was busy. 
 He feared, on second thoughts, to trust Cicero; 
 but he sounded others of his acquaintance — Tre- 
 bonius, Ligarius, Cinna, Decimus Brutus, Metellus 
 Cimber — who were ready to join the plot. Their 
 main hope, however, rested on Marcus Brutus; for 
 whatever their own several motives might be, they 
 knew none but the highest would persuade him to 
 lift a hand against Caesar, and that the people 
 would give him credit for this. Cassius, to influ- 
 ence his friend, had letters and scrolls carefully 
 prepared in different handwritings, all hinting at 
 Caesar's ambition, and that Rome looked to Brutus 
 for deliverance. Some of them would be thrown 
 in at Brutus' window, others laid among the peti- 
 tions in his praetor's chair, others again pinned to 
 the statue of his great ancestor. Every day brought 
 a fresh shower of these letters, which Brutus be- 
 lieved to come honestly from the people and ex- 
 press their wishes. 
 
 Indeed, as often happens when treason or con- 
 spiracy is in the air, the public mind began to be 
 disquieted with vague rumours and whisperings. 
 "Whence they came, or what they meant precisely, 
 none knew. But folk began to talk of omens, signs 
 
 56 
 
JULIUS C^ESAE 
 
 of heaven, mysterious fires and meteors. A lion 
 had been found wandering loose in the streets; an 
 owl had settled at noonday above the great market- 
 place; a slave's hand had burst into flame, but 
 when he had cast the flames from him the hand 
 was found to be unhurt — such were the foolish 
 tales spread and discussed. Certainly the heavens 
 were unsettled and broke on the night before the 
 Ides into a furious thunderstorm. 
 
 Cassius passing through the drenched streets, 
 reckless of the lightning, to join his fellow-con- 
 spirators, ran against Casca, whom the storm and 
 its horrors had completely terrified. He had left 
 Casca to the last, knowing him to be easily pliable. 
 But now the time was short. To-night the plotters 
 were to come together and hear Brutus' final an- 
 swer. It took Cassius but a few minutes to con- 
 vince the shaking man that the portents at which 
 he trembled were really directed against Caesar, to 
 whom in the morning, if report said true, the sena- 
 tors meant to offer the crown; and but a few min- 
 utes more to persuade him that he really was a 
 bondman and owed Csesar a grudge. ' I am ready,' 
 he protested, ' to dare as much as Cassius in putting 
 down the tyrant. I am no tell-tale.' Cassius had 
 his own opinion about this; but now that the time 
 
 for tale-bearing was past, disclosed the plot to him 
 
 57 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and bade him follow to the porch of Pompey's 
 Theatre, where the conspirators were assembling to 
 pay their visit together to Brutus' house. 
 
 Brutus meanwhile had been passing through a 
 terrible time. The more he pondered the more 
 clearly he seemed to see that Cassar's life was a 
 daily-growing menace to the welfare and liberties 
 of Borne. ' It must be by his death,' he heard an 
 inner voice whispering. Another voice would 
 whisper that privately he could find no quarrel 
 with Caesar. And then a third would answer that 
 Caesar's tyranny must increase with his opportuni- 
 ties. ' It is the bright day that brings forth the 
 adder, and therefore,' it said, ' kill this serpent in 
 the egg.' 
 
 These were the thoughts which for days had 
 kept him distracted. They allowed him no sleep 
 to-night, but drove him from his bed long before 
 daybreak. He wakened his young slave Lucius, 
 and bidding him set a taper in the study, walked 
 out into his orchard when the storm had spent it- 
 self and left the heavens clear enough for the eye 
 to mark the meteors shooting above the dark trees. 
 
 But out here the same miserable doubts dogged 
 
 and besieged him. The boy brought word that his 
 
 taper was lit, and handed him a sealed paper which 
 
 he had found by the window in searching for a 
 
 58 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 
 
 flint. ' Go back to bed,' said his master, ' it is not 
 day yet. By the way, is not to-morrow the Ides 
 of March?' 'I know not, sir.' 'Go then first 
 and look in the calendar, and bring me word.' 
 
 He broke the seal of the paper, and read a sen- 
 tence or two by the light of the trailing stars. It 
 was another of the mysterious letters. ' Brutus, 
 thou sleepest. Awake and see thyself ' — the very 
 words might have told him who the author was. 
 Another call to him in the name of his great an- 
 cestors to come to the rescue of Borne. 
 
 The boy, coming back to report the date, was 
 interrupted by a knocking without. It was Cas- 
 sius, with the rest of the conspirators, heavily 
 cloaked and wrapped. By his master's order Lu- 
 cius admitted them to the dark garden. Cassius 
 made them known — Trebonius, Decimus Brutus, 
 Casca, Cinna, Metellus Cimber; and then drew 
 Brutus aside while the rest fell into constrained 
 trivial talk which barely hid their uneasiness. 
 
 But Brutus' mind was made up. After some 
 whispering with Cassius he came forward. ' Give 
 me your hands — no oath is necessary. We are 
 Romans and a promise is enough.' He laid great 
 stress on this; to him it meant everything to read 
 in their purpose the genuine old Boman spirit. 
 Cassius recalled him to more practical matters. 
 
 59 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 '"What of Cicero? Shall we sound Mm? ' 'We 
 must not leave him out,' said Casca, and Cinna 
 and Metellus agreed. Brutus urged that Cicero 
 was not a man to follow what others began. ' Bet- 
 ter leave him out, then,' said Cassius, who mis- 
 trusted Cicero on other grounds. ' No, indeed, he 
 won't do,' chimed in Casca, ready as usual to con- 
 tradict himself and echo the last speaker. 
 
 Decimus Brutus wished to know if Csesar alone 
 should be sacrificed. ' Well urged,' said Cassius; 
 ' if we allow Mark Antony to live, he is just the 
 man to do us mischief. Antony must fall too.' 
 
 But this counsel revolted Brutus. ' We are sac- 
 rifices and not butchers 7 ; he dwelt again on the 
 sober justice of their purpose — as it appeared to 
 him. He abhorred bloodshed, and pleaded for no 
 more than was necessary. 
 
 ' Yet I fear him,' urged the more far-sighted 
 Cassius, ' for the love he bears to Csssar.' 
 
 ' Do not think of him,' Brutus answered impa- 
 tiently. He underrated Antony, and Cassius felt 
 sure he was wrong, but gave way. 
 
 It was three in the morning and high time to 
 disperse. There remained a doubt whether Caesar, 
 who had grown suspicious of late, would not be de- 
 terred by recent omens from going to the Capitol. 
 
 Decimus Brutus engaged to override any such hesi- 
 
 60 
 
JULIUS CiESAE 
 
 tation and bring him. They left promising to send 
 another likely conspirator — Caius Ligarius — whom 
 Brutus was to persuade; and with yet another re- 
 minder of the Roman part they were to play, he 
 saw them through the gate. 
 
 As he turned and bent over the boy Lucius, who, 
 having no plots or cares on his mind, had fallen 
 into a sound sleep, Brutus' wife, Portia, came out 
 from the house. 
 
 She was uneasy about her husband. He had 
 been strange in his manner for many days. Men, 
 she knew, had their dark hours, and she had waited 
 and watched. But this trouble, it seemed, would 
 not let him eat, or talk, or sleep. It had changed 
 him so that only in feature was he the Brutus she 
 knew. ' Dear my lord, tell me the cause of your 
 grief! ' 
 
 ' I am not well in health; that is all.' 
 
 ' Is it for your health, then, that you are here 
 abroad on this cold raw morning? No, you have 
 some sickness of the mind rather, which as your 
 wife I have a right to share. See, I beg you on 
 my knees, by the beauty you once commended and 
 the great vow you swore to me — your other half — 
 that you tell me the truth. "What men were here 
 just now — men who kept their faces hidden? ' 
 
 Then, as Brutus hesitated, she reminded him that 
 CI 
 
TALES PROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 though a woman only she was Brutus' wife and 
 Cato's daughter. 'Listen,' she said, 'before ask- 
 ing to share your secret I determined to test my- 
 self, to prove if I were worthy of it. See, I took 
 a knife and gashed myself here, in the thigh. The 
 wound is very painful, but I have kept my lips 
 tight, and not allowed the pain to overcome me. 
 Now say if I cannot be trusted to keep my lips 
 closed on your secret? ' 
 
 Brutus, touched and amazed by his wife's hero- 
 ism, took her in his arms, and would have told her 
 the whole story then and there, but a knocking in- 
 terrupted him, and with a hurried promise that 
 she should know all, he dismissed her into the house 
 just as the boy admitted the last of the conspirators, 
 Caius Ligarius. 
 
 Nor was Portia the only wife who had slept ill 
 on that ominous night. Caesar's wife, Calpurnia, 
 had been tormented with horrible dreams; dreams 
 in which she had seen her husband's statue spout- 
 ing blood from a hundred wounds, while a crowd 
 of Romans came and bathed their hands in it; 
 dreams so ghastly that thrice in her sleep she had 
 started up crying for help — that Caesar was being 
 murdered. 
 
 To unnerve her further, close upon these dreams 
 62 
 
JULIUS C/ESAE 
 
 had come early reports of the night's portents, the 
 horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness had 
 whelped in the streets; the very graves had been 
 shaken; the men swore to hearing noises of bat- 
 tle, the neighing of horses, the groans of dying 
 men, the squealing of ghosts among the voices of 
 the storm, and that the clouds had actually drizzled 
 blood on the Capitol. Calpurnia had not Portia's 
 firmness of mind. She gave herself up to terror, 
 and protested that Csesar should not stir from the 
 house that day. 
 
 Her fears even infected Csesar, though he would 
 not own it to himself. He gave orders tha i-the 
 priests should do sacrifice and report what omens 
 the v : ctim yielded. Then he turned to Calpurnia. 
 ' What the gods purpose men cannot avoid. These 
 portents are meant for all men, not specially for 
 Csesar. But suppose them meant for me — well, 
 cowards die many times before their death, but a 
 brave man tastes of death once, and once only. 
 It seems to me the strangest of all wonders that 
 men should be fearful, seeing that a man must die 
 and the end must come in its due time.' 
 
 His servant returned with word that the augurs 
 warned Csesar against stirring abroad that day. 
 On plucking forth the entrails of the victim they 
 discovered yet another portent — the heart was miss- 
 
 63 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 ing. Csesar would have made light of it. ' 'Tis 
 the gods' reproof of cowardice,' he said: 'I, too, 
 should lack a heart were I to stay at home for fear.' 
 But Calpurnia besought him to stay and send word 
 by Mark Antony that he was not well ; and Csesar, 
 divided between a belief that he was above danger 
 and a sense of menace in the air, was promising to 
 humour her, when Decimus Brutus arrived to ac- 
 company him to the Senate-house. 
 
 ' Tell them,' said Csesar, ' that I will not come. 
 It were false to say I cannot, and false to say that 
 I dare not. So say that I will not.' 
 
 Decimus asked for his reasons; and being told 
 of Calpurnia's fears, so well enacted his promised 
 part of flatterer, with hints of what the Senate 
 might say or suspect, that Csesar soon felt ashamed 
 to have yielded to his wife's fears. ' Give me my 
 robe,' said he ; 'I will go.' And an escort of his 
 supposed friends (for the conspirators were among 
 them) arriving at that moment settled the matter. 
 ' Come, Antony, Cinna, MetellusI — what, Trebo- 
 nius? You are the man I want a talk with. Keep 
 near me that I may remember.' ' I will,' muttered 
 Trebonius darkly. 
 
 Csesar was to have yet another warning. One 
 Artemidorus, a teacher of rhetoric, had an inkling 
 of the plot, and had posted himself in the crowd 
 64 
 
JULIUS C2ESAK 
 
 before the Capitol with a letter. The citizens' 
 cheered as the great man passed through the streets, 
 while Brutus' wife, Portia, waited outside her 
 door, straining her ears at every sound borne across 
 the city from the direction of the Senate-house. 
 She bade Lucius run thither, and broke off, for- 
 getting she had given the boy no message to take. 
 She read meanings into the talk of the passers-by. 
 She breathed a prayer for Brutus, and then was 
 terrified to think the boy had overheard it. ' Run,' 
 said she, ' any message ! Tell my lord I am cheer- 
 ful, and bring me back word what he answers.' 
 
 Cassar, arriving before the steps of the Senate- 
 house, spied amid the crowd there the soothsayer 
 who had warned him against the Ides of March, 
 and halted to throw him a rallying word. ' So the 
 Ides of March are come! ' 
 
 ' Ay, Caesar,' answered the man, ' but not 
 gone.' 
 
 Decimus Brutus stepped forward with a petition 
 from Trebonius. At the same moment Artemido- 
 rus pressed close, and would have thrust his letter 
 of warning into Csesar's hand. ' Read mine first,' 
 he implored. ' Mine is a suit which touches Csesar 
 nearer.' But Csesar waved it aside with a truly 
 royal answer. ' What touches us ourself shall be 
 served last.' Artemidorus was thrust back into the 
 
 65 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 throng, and so the great man went up the steps, 
 with the attendant crowd at his heels. 
 
 However anxiously some hearts were now beat- 
 ing in that crowd, he — the unsuspicious victim — 
 was at ease, possessed (as never before perhaps) by 
 the calm consciousness of pre-eminence. The con- 
 spirators eyed each other nervously. When any- 
 one not in the plot approached Cassar it filled 
 them with misgivings. They had laid their plan. 
 Trebonius was to draw off Mark Antony, and 
 presently they saw the two step aside together. 
 Metellus Cimber was to kneel and present a peti- 
 tion for the recall of his brother from banishment. 
 Then Casca was to strike ; after him all the others. 
 They pressed around as Cimber flung himself on 
 his knees. Csesar guessed the nature of his peti- 
 tion, and would have prevented him. ' Courtesies 
 such as these might have effect upon ordinary men, 
 not upon Cassar. If this plea be for thy brother, 
 I spurn thee aside like a cur. Know that Caesar 
 doth no wrong, nor will be satisfied without cause.' 
 Brutus and Cassius here pressed forward. ' What, 
 Brutus! I tell thee that as the stars in heaven are 
 past number, but among them only one, the pole 
 star, is fixed and constant, so among men is only 
 one who holds his place unassailably, unmoved and 
 unshaken, and I am he. Hence ! ' as Cinna, in turn, 
 
 66 
 
JULIUS CAESAR 
 
 knelt: 'Wilt thou lift Mount Olympus?' he de- 
 manded; and turning on Decimus Brutus, 'It is 
 idle. Does not even Marcus Brutus kneel in vain? ' 
 ' Speak, hands, for me then! ' cried Casca, and 
 stabbed him fiercely between the shoulders. As 
 Caesar staggered the rest ran upon him with their 
 daggers, hewing and hacking. He turned at bay, 
 but only to take the blow from the man he most 
 trusted, and to look him in the eyes — 
 'Thou too, Brutus?' 
 
 And with that he covered his face and let them 
 strike as they would, until his strength failed and 
 he sank in his blood upon the pavement at the f oot_ 
 of Pompey's statue. 
 
 ' Liberty! Freedom! ' shouted the conspirators, 
 brandishing their daggers. But they shouted to 
 empty benches. The scared senators had started 
 from their seats, and were crowding in a panic for 
 the open. The attack had been so sudden that for 
 the moment none knew how many were in the plot, 
 or could tell friend from foe. Cassius, turning 
 and seeing one aged man who stood confounded 
 and unable to flee, spoke a kind word and hurried 
 him after the rest. For the moment these men 
 stood alone among the pillars of the deserted build- 
 ing, alone with the body of their victim. Antony 
 had fled to his house with the running, screaming 
 
 67 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 crowd. Thence lie despatched a servant, who made 
 bold to pass through the awe-stricken few who lin- 
 gered outside and present himself before the group, 
 as at Brutus' command they smeared their hands and 
 arms with the blood of their victim. To Brutus 
 what they had done was still a deed worthy of old 
 Rome, and as Romans he called on them to go for- 
 ward and waving their red weapons, cry ' Freedom 
 and liberty! ' through the market-place. 
 
 The message brought by the servant was merely 
 a plea that Antony might be allowed to come in 
 safety and learn what manner of burial would be 
 granted to CaBsar's body. ' Thy master,' answered 
 Brutus, ' is a wise and valiant Roman. Tell him 
 upon my honour that he may come and be satisfied, 
 and shall go untouched.' Brutus believed, as the 
 messenger had indeed professed, that Antony could 
 be won over to their side; but Cassius had his mis- 
 givings. 
 
 Antony soon arrived, and seeming not to hear 
 Brutus' salutation, knelt first beside Caesar's body. 
 ' I know not,' said he, looking up from his fare- 
 well and letting fall the cloak he had lifted from 
 the dead face, ' I know not what you intend, gen- 
 tlemen, or what other blood must be shed. For 
 myself there is no fitter hour to die than this, and 
 no place will please me so much as here, by Caasar.' 
 
 68 
 
JULIUS CiESAE 
 
 Brutus assured him they had no such intent. 
 ' Though we must seem to you bloody and cruel, 
 look not at our hands, but at our hearts rather. 
 It is for pity we have done this, pity for Rome. 
 Against you we have nc malice at all.' 
 
 ' Join lis,' said Cassius, who better understood 
 the man they were dealing with, ' and your voice 
 shall be as powerful as any man's in disposing of 
 new dignities.' 
 
 Antony put this aside. The part he had to play 
 was that of a true friend and admirer of Csesar 
 stunned by the shock of the murder, yet willing 
 to believe that other men were wiser than he in 
 his fondness could be. He took the hand of each 
 conspirator in turn, and then seemed to break down 
 under the thought that these hands had just mur- 
 dered his friend. ' Pardon me, Julius ! So it was 
 here they brought thee to bay; here thy hunt- 
 ers stand red with blood, and thou liest among 
 them like a royal stag struck down by many 
 princes! ' 
 
 ' Mark Antony — ' interrupted Cassius. But 
 again Antony seemed to misunderstand him. 
 
 'Pardon me, Caius Cassius; even an enemy 
 might say this. How much more a friend such 
 as I was? ' 
 
 'I blame you not for praising Cassar. But I 
 69 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 am impatient to know what compact you mean to 
 have with us, and if we may depend on you.' 
 
 'It was for that I shook hands with you; but 
 the sight of Caesar distracted me. Yes, I am 
 friends with you all if you will tell me why and in 
 what Caesar was so dangerous.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' put in Brutus, ' this would indeed 
 be a savage spectacle if we could give no reasons 
 for it; but we can — reasons that would satisfy you 
 were you Caesar's own son.' 
 
 ' That is all I ask; except this, that I may carry 
 his body to the market-place and, as becomes a 
 friend, make my speech among the funeral rites in 
 due course.' 
 
 ' You shall,' promised Brutus; but Cassius drew 
 him aside. ' You know not what you are promis- 
 ing,' he whispered. ' Do not consent to this. 
 Consider how he may move the people.' But 
 Brutus never doubted that, his own reasons being 
 good, he had only to state them to convince every- 
 body. ' By your leave,' said he, ' I will myself 
 mount the pulpit first and show what reasons we 
 had for Caasar's death; and explain that what An- 
 tony may say is said by our permission. It will 
 do us more advantage than harm to show our wish 
 that Cassar should be buried with all lawful cere- 
 monies.' 
 
 70 
 
JULIUS C.ESAR 
 
 Cassius was discontented, but gave way again; 
 and Antony readily accepted the conditions. The 
 conspirators left him to prepare the body. Sink- 
 ing on his knees beside it, he begged its dumb for- 
 giveness that he must behave so meekly and gently 
 with ' these butchers.' Then after prophetic prom- 
 ise of the curse this murder should bring upon 
 Rome and Italy, he rose, despatched a messenger 
 to Octavius, Csesar's adopted son, and lifting the 
 body, bore it out to the market-place. 
 
 Brutus had already mounted the rostrum and 
 was addressing the crowd. And the crowd lis- 
 tened approvingly, because they respected his char- 
 acter; but his formal sentences did not kindle 
 them. ' Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! my 
 appeal is to your judgment. If there be any in 
 this assembly, any dear friend of Csesar's, to him 
 I say that Brutus' love for Cassar was no less than 
 his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose 
 against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved 
 Cassar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you 
 rather Cassar were living, and die all slaves, than 
 that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? . . . 
 "Who is here so base that he would be a bondman? 
 "Who so rude that he would not be a Roman? Who 
 so vile that he will not love his country? If any, 
 speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a re- 
 ply-' 
 
 71 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 This was speaking ' like a book,' as we say. The 
 impressed but slightly puzzled crowd, finding an 
 answer expected, , cried after a moment, ' None, 
 Brutus, none ! ' '' 
 
 ' Then I have offended none,' the speaker ar- 
 gued, and was enlarging on the necessity of Csesar's 
 death when Antony arrived with his fellow-mourn- 
 ers bearing Csesar's body in sad procession. Here 
 was a far more effective appeal than cold logic, 
 had Brutus known men well enough; but he was 
 blind to it. 'With this I depart,' he went on, 
 ' that as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, 
 I have the same dagger for myself when it shall 
 please my country to need my death.' 
 
 ' Live, Brutus ! live ! ' shouted the mob. And 
 some were for escorting him home in triumph, 
 others for giving him a statue with his ancestors. 
 ' Let him be Caesar! ' shouted one; while another, 
 even more sapient, suggested ' Caesar's better parts 
 shall be crowned in Brutus.' Comments so igno- 
 rant might have warned him of the mistake he made 
 in relying on their reasonableness. But the warn- 
 ing was wasted. Begging them to listen to what 
 Antony might have to say, he stepped down from 
 the rostrum and withdrew, chivalrously leaving the 
 coast clear. 
 
 There was some disturbance when Antony 
 
 72 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 
 
 mounted the steps to speak. The mob was per- 
 suaded after a fashion that Caesar had been a 
 tyrant and that Rome was well rid of him. ' He'd 
 best speak no harm of Brutus here,' threatened 
 the sapient citizen who had suggested crowning 
 Caesar's better parts. But having obtained silence 
 Antony knew better than to begin by attacking 
 Brutus. 
 
 ' Friends, Romans, countrymen,' he began, ' at- 
 tend ! I am here to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
 The evil which men do survives them; the good 
 is often laid away under earth with their bones. 
 Let it be so with Caesar. He was ambitious, the 
 noble Brutus has told you. If that were so, it 
 was a grievous fault, and Caesar has paid for it 
 grievously. Here, by leave of Brutus and the rest 
 — for Brutus is a man of honour, and so are they 
 all, all men of honour — I am come merely to 
 speak the last words over my friend. 
 
 ' For he was my friend, and to me faithful and 
 just; though Brutus — who is a man of honour — 
 says he was ambitious. He brought, in his time, 
 many captives home to this city, and poured their 
 ransoms into the public coffers. When the poor 
 have cried, Caesar has wept for them. It is hard 
 to detect ambition in all this; but Brutus — who 
 is a man of honour — says he was ambitious. You 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 all saw how at the Lupercalia I thrice offered him 
 the kingly crown, and how he refused it thrice. 
 Was this ambition? Brutus says so; and to be 
 sure, he is a man of honour. But I am not here 
 to disprove what Brutus told you. I am here 
 merely to tell you what I know. You all loved 
 him once — not without cause. Can you not mourn 
 for him? Oh, have men lost all their judgment, 
 all their reason ! ' He paused as one surprised at 
 his own outburst. ' Bear with me, friends; my 
 heart is in the coffin there with Caesar. Grant me 
 a while to pause and recover it! ' 
 
 His listeners were moved already. ' There is 
 reason in what he says.' ' Caesar has had great 
 wrong, if you consider.' ' "We may have a worse 
 master than Caesar.' ' He refused the crown — so 
 he did — so 'tis plain he couldn't have been ambi- 
 tious.' ' Poor soul! look at his eyes, red as fire! ' 
 1 There's not a nobler man in all Rome than An- 
 tony! ' Thus they murmured together, while An- 
 tony conquered his emotion and prepared to speak 
 again. 
 
 ' But yesterday,' he went on, ' the word of Csesar 
 might have weighed against the whole world. Now 
 he lies there with none — not the poorest — to do 
 him reverence. Sirs, if I were disposed to stir you 
 to mutiny and rage I should be wronging Brutus 
 
 74 
 
JULIUS (LESAB 
 
 and Cassius — who, as you know, are men of hon- 
 our. I will not do this. I choose rather to wrong 
 the dead, to wrong myself, to wrong you, than to 
 wrong such men of honour! But here I have 
 Caesar's will. If I were to read it to you — but, 
 pardon me, I do not mean to — I say if I were to 
 read it you would run to kiss Caesar's wounds, to 
 dip your handkerchiefs in his blood ' 
 
 ' The will ! read the will ! ' shouted the people ; 
 but Antony protested that he must not; it was 
 not meet for them to hear how much Caesar loved 
 them; it would inflame them; make them mad. 
 There was no saying what might come of it. 
 
 ' Read the will! Read it! ' they clamoured. 
 
 But again he protested; he had gone too far 
 in speaking of it; he feared, indeed he did, that 
 he was wronging the men of honour — whose dag- 
 gers had stabbed Caesar. 
 
 'The will! the will! "Men of honour"! 
 Traitors! Bead the will! ' 
 
 'You force me to read it? Then come, make 
 a ring about Caesar's corpse while I show you him 
 who made the will.' He stepped down from the 
 rostrum, and as they gathered and pressed about 
 him, he lifted the mantle from the body. 'You 
 all know this mantle. I remember the first time 
 Caesar put it on — one summer's evening, in his 
 
 75 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 tent. It was the day he overcame the Nervii.' 
 He showed them the holes made by the daggers; 
 where Cassius had stabbed, and Casca, and Bru- 
 tus — ' the well-beloved Brutus,' ' Caesar's angel ' — 
 ' ah, that was the unkindest blow ! That was the 
 heart-breaking stroke! Then it was that great 
 Csssar covered his face and fell! ' His hearers 
 were weeping by this time, and he could be bold. 
 'Fell? Ay, and what a fall! My countrymen, 
 then it was that I and you and all of us fell, while 
 treason and bloodshed flourished over us. You 
 weep at sight of his garments merely! Look you 
 here then on Mm — marred, as you behold, by 
 traitors! ' 
 
 They were mad now. They shouted for re- 
 venge. 'Fire!' 'Kill!' 'Slay!' ' Death to the 
 traitors! ' But Antony, who had worked them to 
 frenzy with such masterly art, must perfect that 
 frenzy before letting them slip. 
 
 ' Good friends, sweet friends, I must not stir you 
 up so. The men who have done this deed are men 
 of honour. What private griefs they had against 
 Csesar to make them do it, I know not, alas! But 
 as men of honour they will give you their reasons. 
 You see, I am no orator like Brutus! ' — indeed he 
 was not ! — ' but, as you all know me, a plain blunt 
 man, who love my friend, and have permission to 
 
 76 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 
 
 speak. For I have no gifts of eloquence to set 
 men's blood stirring. I only speak right on, tell- 
 ing you what you know already, shewing you 
 Caesar's wounds, and bidding them speak for me. 
 "Were I Brutus now I could put a tongue into 
 every wound of Caesar that should move the very 
 stones of Rome to rise in revolt.' 
 
 ' And so will we ! ' ' Burn the house of Bru- 
 tus ! ' ' Down with the conspirators ! ' Antony 
 had to shout for a hearing. ' Why, friends, you 
 are going to do you know not what! Nay, you 
 scarce know yet how much cause you have to love 
 Cassar. You have forgotten the will I told you of.' 
 
 'True — the will! Bead the will! ' 
 
 4 Here is the will, then, sealed by Caesar. It 
 gives to every Roman citizen a legacy of seventy- 
 five drachmas,' — again the hubbub was deafening, 
 — ' and to the citizens in general he bequeaths his 
 gardens and orchards beyond Tiber, to them and 
 their heirs for their recreation for ever. . . .' 
 
 They listened for no more. They rushed on the 
 market-place tearing up benches, stalls, tables, and 
 heaping the wreckage for a funeral pile. They 
 laid the body of Caesar on it and set fire to the 
 mass; and as it grew hot they plucked out the blaz- 
 ing brands and rushed off towards the conspirators' 
 houses, yelling for revenge. Antony could watch 
 
 77 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 now. He had done his work, and done it thor- 
 oughly. 
 
 But the conspirators had been warned, and by 
 this time were riding through the gates in hot 
 haste. They drew rein at Antium. The mob, 
 after all, was but a mob; and, though Antony 
 doubtless coveted Cassar's place, before he could 
 aspire to it he must win the army. The senatorial 
 party on the whole supported the conspirators ; for 
 when Brutus and the rest talked of Koman liberty, 
 what they meant was the privileges of the old Ro- 
 man families which still composed the senate, not 
 the rights of the populace. It was the senate, not 
 the populace, which had resented Caesar's absolute 
 power, and for their deliverance the blow had been 
 struck. Officially the senators had, by law and in 
 name at any rate, the army on their side; for by 
 law the chief magistrates took command of the 
 forces. So the conspirators had much in their 
 favour. 
 
 Between these two parties — Antony and the 
 mob on one side, and the majority of the senate 
 on the other — stood the young Octavius, Csesar's 
 grand-nephew and heir, with an army at his back; 
 a young man, not yet twenty, but wiser than other 
 young men, with a handsome, expressionless, in- 
 scrutable face, a heart without feeling, and a tem- 
 
 78 
 
JULIUS C^SAE 
 
 per inhumanly cold and obstinate — an enigma to 
 all, and as yet perhaps even to himself. Brutus 
 and the rest had made the grand mistake of con- 
 spirators; they had supposed that by killing a 
 great man they could destroy the forces which 
 made him. Driven from Cassar's dead body, these 
 forces gathered again and centred upon Cassar's 
 young heir, and henceforth this statue of a youth 
 is propelled by them and moves as a man of fate. 
 
 At first Octavius inclined towards the senatorial 
 party. Brutus and Cassius went off to their prov- 
 inces in the East. In Italy Antony might have 
 been crushed had the senate followed a fixed plan 
 or dared to trust Octavius; but distrust and di- 
 visions palsied their policy and the movements of 
 their troops. Octavius saw that he could make 
 nothing of them. On the other hand, by combin- 
 ing with Antony he could crush them in Italy, and 
 then turn upon Brutus and Cassius in the East. 
 As for Antony — well, time would show. 
 
 The two chiefs met, and took into their coun- 
 sels one Marcus ^Emilius Lepidus — a weak man, 
 but a name of weight and influence with the popu- 
 lar party. The three appointed themselves to a 
 Triumvirate — in other words, a three-man dictator- 
 ship — and divided up the Eoman Empire between 
 them as though it had been their own inheritance. 
 
 79 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 To effect this, however, certain prominent men had 
 to be got rid of, and each Triumvir was naturally 
 anxious to shield his own friends. At length, how- 
 ever, by bartering their separate friendships against 
 their hatreds, they ' proscribed,' or marked down 
 and put to death all who were likely to interfere 
 with their plans. Octavius handed over Cicero to 
 Antony; who in turn sacrificed Lucius Csesar, his 
 uncle on his mother's side; while Lepidus, to his 
 peculiar shame, suffered his own brother Paulus to 
 be pricked down on the list. Having thus by 
 wholesale murder cleared the coast in Italy, they 
 could turn securely upon Brutus and Cassius in 
 the East. 
 
 And in the East Brutus was beginning to learn 
 that the philosophy found in books will not carry 
 a man throtigh the business of statecraft, especially 
 when one is conducting a revolution. He wanted 
 money, and pressed Cassius for money. He would 
 have no unjust tolls levied in his own province, 
 and disgraced his subordinate, Lucius Pella, on 
 finding him guilty of pilfering the inhabitants of 
 Sardis. Yet he must have known, had he consid- 
 ered, that if Cassius had money to spare it was 
 only by behaving less scrupulously. This punish- 
 ment of Pella annoyed Cassius, who took it for a 
 reflection upon himself, having dealt leniently a 
 
 80 
 
JULIUS CJESAK 
 
 few days before with two of his own officers simi- 
 larly convicted. At Brutus' request he came with 
 his army to Sardis to clear up misunderstandings. 
 The two friends met coldly, for Cassius was 
 genuinely incensed and made no secret of his 
 feelings. 
 
 Brutus, however, led him to his own tent, and 
 setting a watch on the door bade him speak out his 
 complaints. 
 
 ' You have wronged me,' said Cassius, ' in dis- 
 gracing Lucius Pella and making light of the let- 
 ters I sent appealing for him.' 
 
 ' You wronged yourself, rather, to write in such 
 a case.' 
 
 ' This is no time for laying stress on every petty 
 offence.' 
 
 Now Brutus was suffering and hiding a private 
 sorrow of which his friend knew nothing. Under 
 such trials the tempers of good men grow infirm. 
 
 ' Let me tell you,' he broke out violently, ' you 
 yourself, Cassius, are accused of an itching palm 
 — of trafficking your offices for gold to unworthy 
 men! ' 
 
 'I! an itching palm! ' Cassius sprang up indig- 
 nant, blankly astonished. ' You know you are 
 Brutus who utter the words, or by the gods that 
 
 speech were your last! ' 
 
 81 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAHE 
 
 ' The name of Cassius honours this corrupt 
 dealing, and therefore it goes without chastise- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' Chastisement! ' 
 
 But Brutus was not to be checked. ' Remem- 
 ber March — remember the Ides of March! "Why 
 did Caesar bleed, but for justice? Was there a 
 man of us stabbed him except for justice? ' Cas- 
 sius winced. ' What ! Shall one of us who smote 
 down the foremost man in the world because he 
 supported robbers — shall we, 1 say, now be con- 
 taminating our fingers with base bribes? I'd 
 rather be a dog than such a Roman! ' 
 
 We may pity Cassius now. The ablest, shrewd- 
 est, most practical of all the conspirators, he had 
 one soft place in his heart — his admiring love for 
 his friend. Time after time he had given way to 
 Brutus — in sparing Antony, in allowing Antony 
 to harangue the crowd, he had given way against 
 his judgment; and always the event proved that 
 he had been right and Brutus wrong. His respect 
 for Brutus was a kind of superstition. And here 
 he was being preached at and pelted with oppro- 
 brious words by the friend who had been pressing 
 him for money, being too moral himself to raise 
 money in the only way it could be raised! It was 
 
 intolerable, and he felt it so. 
 
 82 
 
JULIUS C^ESAE 
 
 'Brutus, bait me not, for I'll not endure it. 
 You forget yourself! I am a soldier, older in 
 practice than you, and abler to make condi- 
 tions.' 
 
 Brutus caught him up. ' What, you abler? ' 
 ' Do not tempt me further,' Cassius pleaded. 
 ' You abler? ' Brutus replied with sneer upon 
 sneer: 'You a better soldier?' 'I said an elder 
 soldier, not a better one. Did I say better? ' ' If 
 you did, I care not. . . . You threaten me? 
 I am armed so strong in honesty, your threats 
 go by me like so much wind,' — and Brutus began 
 to twit him with refusing the money. ' I can 
 raise no money by vile means. / had rather coin 
 my blood than wring the vile stuff from these 
 peasants. You know this, and yet when I asked 
 you for money you refused me! Was this done 
 like Cassius? ' Cassius answered simply that he 
 had not refused the money (which, in fact, was 
 true). 'You did!' 'I did not. It was a fool 
 who brought you my answer. A friend should 
 bear the infirmities of a friend, but you, Brutus, 
 make mine greater than they are. Come, Antony ! 
 Come, Octavius! revenge yourself on Cassius 
 alone! He is weary of this world; hated by the 
 man he loves; checked like any slave; all his 
 faults set down, noted, learned by rote, cast in his 
 
 83 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 teeth. Here is my dagger and here my breast, 
 naked! I denied you gold? Take my heart, then. 
 Strike, as you struck Caesar.' 
 
 Brutus was softened, though as yet far from 
 convinced he was in the wrong. ' Sheathe your 
 dagger. I must bear with you; I cannot carry 
 my anger long.' ' And must I live to be mocked 
 and laughed at by Brutus? ' ' I was ill-tempered,' 
 Brutus admitted. ' You confess so much ? Give 
 me your hand.' ' And my heart too.' They had 
 come thus near to being reconciled when a noise 
 at the tent-door interrupted them, and in broke a 
 crazy follower of Brutus, one Marcus Phaonius, 
 who set up to be a philosopher, but from his ec- 
 centric behaviour was more often regarded as a 
 fool. This fellow had heard that the two generals 
 were quarrelling; and, pushing past the guards, 
 he struck an attitude and began to recite certain 
 verses of Homer, full of wise counsel, but with 
 such extravagant gestures that Cassius burst out 
 laughing while Brutus angrily hustled the fellow 
 from the room. 
 
 Nothing cleanses the temper like a hearty laugh. 
 Brutus, still frowning, called for a bowl of wine. 
 ' I did not think,' said his friend, ' you could have 
 been so angry.' ' O Cassius,' came the confession, 
 ' I am sick of many griefs.' 
 
 S4t 
 
JULIUS CAESAR 
 
 ' You — a Stoic — should make use of your 
 philosophy.' 
 
 ' I do. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is 
 dead.' 
 
 'Portia!' 
 
 < She is dead.' 
 
 So this was the explanation . . . Cassius sat 
 stunned." ' How did I escape killing,' he mur- 
 mured, ' when I crossed you so? ' 
 
 Heart-broken with grief for her husband's ab- 
 sence and the forces gathering under Octavius and 
 Antony to overwhelm him, Portia had lost her 
 reason and taken her own life. Brutus told of it 
 in a dull, level voice. It was Cassius who broke 
 out with exclamations; not he to whom she had 
 been dear above living things. 
 
 ' Speak no more of her,' he said, as the boy 
 Lucius entered with the wine. The two friends 
 drank to their love before admitting the captains 
 to consider with them the plan of campaign. 
 
 At first, while Brutus discussed the latest news 
 received of their enemies, Cassius sat dazed and 
 inattentive, muttering of Portia's loss. He roused 
 himself for a moment on hearing that Cicero too 
 had perished — ' proscribed ' by the Triumvirs; but 
 it was a direct question from Brutus which fully 
 awoke him. ' Octavius and Antony were march- 
 
 85 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ing upon Philippi, on the border between Thrace 
 and Macedonia. What did Cassius think of cross- 
 ing over to Europe and encountering them there? ' 
 
 Cassius was opposed to this. It was better to 
 let the enemy weary himself and exhaust his means 
 on long marches than to go and save his labour by 
 meeting him. 
 
 But Brutus made little of these reasons. The 
 people in Asia Minor were disaffected already and 
 grudged their contributions. Octavius and An- 
 tony would enlist recruits as they came, and there- 
 fore were better met and opposed as soon as possible. 
 
 Cassius would have argued. Once more he was 
 right, and Brutus wrong; but either the old ad- 
 miration blinded him, or he was passing weary of 
 altercations. He gave way; the march was fixed 
 for the morrow, and with the friendliest good- 
 nights they parted. 
 
 It was late when the council broke up, and Bru- 
 tus was left alone. A sense of calamity lay heavy 
 on him. He called for two soldiers, Yarro and 
 Claudius, to sleep within his tent-door. They were 
 willing to stand and watch ; but he would not have 
 it so, being always a kind master. His slave Lu- 
 cius brought him his gown and book; the poor 
 boy was heavy with want of sleep. With some 
 self-reproach, Brutus begged him to take his lute 
 
JULIUS C2ESAK 
 
 and play. Lucius would do far more than this for 
 the master he loved; and began to sing, touching 
 the strings drowsily, while the two soldiers slept. 
 The instrument almost slipped from his hand. 
 Brutus took it gently from him, and the boy's head 
 fell back on the pillow. And now the master alone 
 kept watch, holding his book close to a solitary 
 taper. 
 
 Minutes passed; by and by — was the taper burn- 
 ing ill, or was there a shadow deepening beyond 
 it? He looked up. It was a shadow, but it 
 had shape— likeness; it was dead Caesar standing 
 there! Brutus' blood ran cold as he stared at the 
 apparition. It seemed to him that he found voice 
 to challenge it. ' Speak— what art thou? ' 
 
 ' Thy evil spirit, Brutus.' 
 
 ' Why comest thou? ' 
 
 ' To warn thee thou shalt see me again — at 
 Philippi.' 
 
 Between dread and scorn of himself and in- 
 credulity Brutus echoed the words stupidly, almost 
 with a laugh. 
 
 ' At Philippi,' the vision repeated. 
 
 ' Why, I will see thee then, at Philippi ' — Bru- 
 tus brought his fist down on the table, calling 
 'Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Awake there!' — 
 
 and looked again. The vision had vanished. 
 
 87 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' The strings are out of tune, my lord,' muttered 
 the boy Lucius drowsily. 
 
 Brutus awoke him; awoke the two soldiers. 
 ' Why had they cried out in their sleep? what had 
 they seen?' They had seen nothing. Had they 
 cried out? It was strange; but indeed they had 
 seen nothing. 
 
 Had Brutus, too, seen nothing? Perhaps. But 
 the spirit of Caesar — all that Caesar had stood for, 
 all that he had meant upon earth — awaited them 
 on the plains of Philippi towards which Brutus 
 and Cassius set forth next day. They said little 
 to one another as they and their legions marched 
 deeper into what they felt to be the shadow of 
 doom. "When they had crossed the straits and 
 were face to face with their enemies' tents, that 
 shadow hung visible over them. During the march 
 out from Sardis two eagles had perched on their 
 banners and fed from the soldiers' hands. But at 
 Philippi these birds of good omen had taken their 
 departure, and now in their place the air was dark- 
 ened with a flock of ravens, crows, and kites gath- 
 ered from every quarter to forestall the grim feast 
 preparing. 
 
 Nor did the two generals wear the mood of 
 happy assurance. On the morning of the fight 
 they took leave of each other bravely, as men 
 
 88 
 
JULIUS CiESAE 
 
 should, but solemnly, as men prepared for the 
 worst. If victory should be theirs, with the gods' 
 help, then they might meet again with smiles and 
 live all the rest of their days quietly one with an- 
 other. If not — then this day would end the work 
 begun on the Ides of March. JSTo conqueror should 
 ever have the joy of leading Brutus and Cassius 
 in triumph. And upon this they took their fare- 
 wells. 
 
 In the ordering of the battle Brutus found him- 
 self opposed by Octavius, Cassius by Antony. 
 The two Triumvirs were never in hearty agree- 
 ment from the first. Destiny alone bound them 
 together for the time. Their natures were opposed 
 in all respects. The elder man, eager, talented, 
 and pleasure-loving, girded against the lad who 
 was young enough to be his son but who went his 
 own way so calmly and with a sort of bloodless 
 self-possession. Antony had wished to oppose 
 Brutus. ' Why do you cross me ? ' he complained 
 on finding that Octavius had arranged otherwise. 
 ' I do not cross you,' replied Octavius, as if it did 
 not admit of argument ; ' but I will have it so.' 
 Antony said no more. 
 
 Brutus finding Octavius' forces at a disadvan- 
 tage, gave the word to charge; and his haste 
 would have been justified — for his men at the 
 
 89 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 first assault drove their enemies back with, great 
 slaughter — had it not taken Cassius unawares. As 
 it was, Cassius' men gave ground before Antony's 
 attack. He rallied them only to find himself 
 hemmed round. Brutus should have relieved him 
 at this point, and the day would have been won; 
 but his men were plundering and killing among 
 Octavius' tents, and he could not recall them in 
 time. Cassius' cavalry were in full flight for the 
 coast; he did what he could to hold his infantry 
 firm, and snatching an ensign from one of the 
 standard-bearers, planted it for a rallying mark, 
 and fought on in hope of the assistance which did 
 not come. 
 
 At length, however, he was forced to pluck up 
 his standard and withdraw, with a few about him, 
 to a little hill which gave a prospect over the plain. 
 His sight was weak, but he could see his own tents 
 blazing while Antony's soldiery pillaged through 
 them. He made out also a troop of horsemen gal- 
 loping towards him, and doubtful whether they 
 were friends or foes, sent one of his companions, 
 Titinius, to make sure. Meanwhile his servant 
 Pindarus had climbed to the summit of the hill 
 for a better view. 
 
 The advancing horsemen had in fact been sent 
 by Brutus, though too late. Perceiving Titinius, 
 
 90 
 
JULIUS C^SAE 
 
 and knowing him for one of Cassius' friends, they 
 raised a great shout of welcome, with boastings of 
 their victory. But Pindarus on the hill, hearing 
 the noise and seeing Titinius surrounded, made 
 sure that he was taken prisoner, and called down 
 this news to Cassius. ' Come down,' commanded 
 his master. The two were alone. ' In Parthia I 
 made thee prisoner, and in return for thy life took 
 an oath from thee that whatsoever I might bid thou 
 wouldst do. Take thy liberty now, and this sword 
 — the sword that stabbed Csesar. Smite, I com- 
 mand thee; now, as I cover my face.' Pindarus 
 drove the sword home, and then, as his master fell 
 dead, east it from him and ran; nor was he ever 
 seen again. 
 
 So it happened that Titinius returning crowned 
 with a wreath of victory and impatient to tell his 
 good news, stumbled on his master stretched dead 
 upon the hillside. The garland was useless now. 
 Titinius bound it reverently on the senseless brow, 
 and forthwith, like a stern Roman, slew himself 
 upon the body; there to be found a little later by 
 Brutus and his attendants. With bent head Bru- 
 tus uttered the last farewell over his friend — ' the 
 last of all the Romans,' he called him. ' Friends, I 
 owe this dead man more tears than ever you shall see 
 me pay. I shall find time, Cassius; I shall find time.' 
 
 91 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 In truth, as he said, the spirit of Caesar still 
 walked the earth and turned the conspirators' 
 swords against themselves. Brutus' own time was 
 not long. The first battle having proved inde- 
 cisive, he offered fight again — to be driven from 
 the field with a few remaining followers. One by 
 one he drew them aside and entreated them to per- 
 form for him the office which Pindarus had per- 
 formed for Cassius. Each shook his head; they 
 loved him too well. It was a servant who at 
 length, turning his head aside, held the sword on 
 which Brutus flung himself — more gladly, he said, 
 than he had lifted it against Caesar. 
 
 Even his enemies respected the body, and gave 
 it burial with full honours. ' This,' said Antony, 
 ' was the noblest Roman of them all. All the con- 
 spirators save him did what they did in envy of 
 Caesar's greatness. He alone joined them in hon- 
 est motive and thought for the common good. His 
 life was gentle, and himself so composed, that 
 ]STature might stand up and say to all the world 
 " This was a man ! " ' 
 
 92 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 Heney II., King of England, was lord not of 
 England only, but of a good third of what we call 
 France. If you take a map of Erance and draw 
 a line from Boulogne due south to the Pyrenees, 
 you may say roughly that the country east of it 
 was swayed by the King of France, and the coun- 
 try west of it by the King of England. 
 
 Erom his mother Matilda, daughter of our Hen- 
 ry I., he inherited the dukedom of Normandy as 
 well as the crown of England; from his father 
 Anjou, Maine, and Touraine; and his marriage 
 with Elinor, Duchess of Aquitaine, brought him 
 the seven provinces of the south — Poitou, Sain- 
 tonge, the Angoumois, La Marche, the Limousin, 
 Perigord, and Gascony. 
 
 Through his father — Geoffrey, the handsome 
 Plantagenet, Count of Anjou — Henry came of one 
 of the most notable and terrible races in history; 
 a race descended from a wild Breton woodman 
 who had helped the French king against the Danes 
 
 93 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and won for himself a grant of broad lands beside 
 the Loire; a race half -savage, utterly unscrupulous, 
 and abominably shrewd; great fighters to begin- 
 with, afterwards great generals, schemers, and 
 controllers of men; outwardly good-natured and 
 charming, but at heart lustful, selfish, monstrous 
 in greed, without natural affection and indifferent 
 to honour; scoffers at holiness, yet slavishly su- 
 perstitious; and withal masterful men of affairs, 
 sticking at no crime or treason which might help 
 their ends. Such was the character fatally handed 
 down from father to son. Henry inherited his 
 share of it, and passed it on to his sons, who broke 
 his heart by their hatreds and conspiracies against 
 him; but the son whose treachery darkened his 
 last hour was his favourite, John. 
 
 Of these sons we ape only concerned with three 
 — Richard Cceur de Lion; Geoffrey, Duke of 
 Brittany; and John. On his father's death, Rich- 
 ard — who had hastened it by intriguing with the 
 King of France — succeeded to the throne. Geof- 
 frey was already dead, but had left a young son, 
 Arthur, of whom we are to hear. Richard reigned 
 for ten years, of which he spent just six months 
 in England. He was a brave soldier but a detest- 
 ably bad king. He looked on war as a sport, and 
 
 to feed that sport in foreign countries he drained 
 
 94 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 England by the cruellest taxes, which he repaid 
 -with misgovernment, or rather with no government 
 at all. To him England, whose crown he wore, 
 was a foreign land. 
 
 Now to John — who remained at home while 
 Eichard went crusading — England was not a for- 
 eign land, not a country of second importance. 
 John was the shrewdest as well as the wickedest 
 of his shrewd and wicked race, and alone of that 
 race he valued England aright. We shall have to 
 hate him; but let this be set to his credit against 
 his black sins. He was the first of our kings to 
 teach England — by bitter suffering, indeed, but 
 still he taught her — to stand up for herself and 
 defy the world. 
 
 When Richard died of an arrow-wound received 
 while he was attacking the Castle of Chalus in the 
 Limousin for some treasure he supposed it to con- 
 tain, John, who had long been plotting against 
 him at home, seized his opportunity and the crown 
 of England. 
 
 He had no right to it. The true heir was young 
 Arthur, son of his elder brother Geoffrey. But 
 John was here on the spot, and he had his mother 
 Elinor's support — for with her, as with the father 
 he injured, he had always been the favourite son. 
 England acknowledged him; Normandy acknowl- 
 
 95 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKB 
 
 edged him; and in the south of Trance his mother 
 held Aquitaine secure for him. 
 
 On the other hand Anjou, Maine, and Touraine 
 did homage to young Arthur; and Philip, King 
 of France, stood forward to champion his cause — 
 not, as we shall see, from any burning sense of 
 justice, but calculating perhaps that on his borders 
 so young and gentle a lad would be a more com- 
 fortable neighbour than the ruthless and sinister 
 John. At any rate, in answer to the entreaties of 
 Constance, Arthur's mother, he made a fine show 
 of indignation and sent his ambassador Chatillon 
 to demand the surrender of John's claims. 
 
 ' What follows,' asked John grimly, ' if we 
 refuse? ' 
 
 ' Fierce and bloody war,' replied Chatillon, 
 ' proudly to control you and enforce the rights you 
 withhold by force.' 
 
 ' Here we have war for war, blood for blood, con- 
 trolment for controlment. Take that answer to 
 France; and take it swiftly. For be you swift as 
 lightning, the thunder of my cannon shall be quick 
 on your heels.' 
 
 And John was as good as his word. Chatillon, 
 delayed by contrary winds, had scarcely time to 
 reach France and report this defiance to his master 
 before John had collected troops and was after him. 
 
 96 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 The ambassador found King Philip, with Con- 
 stance, Arthur, and his forces, collected before the 
 walls of Angiers, the capital of Anjou and birth- 
 place of the Plantagenets. The unhappy citizens of 
 that town saw themselves, as we say, between the 
 devil and the deep sea. To acknowledge Arthur, 
 to acknowledge John, seemed equally hazardous; 
 and an error in deciding would assuredly mean their 
 ruin. With admirable prudence, therefore, they 
 had closed their gates against both parties, and post- 
 poned the ticklish business of declaring their prefer- 
 ence until events should determine which side was 
 likely to win. 
 
 This hesitancy of theirs naturally annoyed Philip, 
 who had by his side, to support Arthur's cause, the 
 Viscount of Limoges — though the real importance 
 of this nobleman counted as nothing to his impor- 
 tance in his own conceit. As friend of the family 
 to a Plantagenet he was enacting a new part. For 
 it was by an arrow-shot from his Castle of Chalus 
 that Richard Cosur de Lion had perished. 
 
 This was hardly an affair to brag about; but in 
 honour of it Limoges ever after wore a lion's skin 
 across his shoulders, and was swaggering now in 
 this cloak while professing his love for Eichard's 
 nephew. But if the part he enacted was new, he 
 seemed to feel it a magnanimous one, and promised 
 
 97 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Arthur his help and received the thanks of Con- 
 stance with the air of a man who has reason to be 
 pleased with himself and believe Heaven pleased 
 with him. 
 
 "While Philip was making up his mind to batter 
 the obstinate town into submission, Chatillon ar- 
 rived with his report and the news that John had 
 crossed the Channel and was following upon An- 
 giers by forced marches, bringing with him his 
 mother Elinor, a very goddess of discord stirring 
 him up to blood and strife; his niece Blanch, daugh- 
 ter of his sister Elinor and King Alphonso of Cas- 
 tile; and a whole crowd of dauntless volunteers who 
 had sold their fortunes in England to equip them- 
 selves and win new and greater fortunes in France. 
 
 Chatillon spoke truth. Before Philip could bend 
 his artillery against the walls, John arrived with his 
 host and brought the Erench to parley. There was 
 little to argue. Philip took his stand upon Arthur's 
 plain right to inherit. ' Geoffrey was thy elder 
 brother, and this is his son. England was Geoffrey's 
 right, and this is Geoffrey's.' ' Whence hast thou 
 commission to lay down a law and condemn me 
 by it?' was all that John could demand in reply. 
 ' From that supernal Judge,' answered Philip, ' who 
 stirs good thoughts in the breasts of any man hold- 
 ing strong authority, and bids him see to it when 
 
 98 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 the right is defaced or stained. That Judge has 
 made me this boy's guardian; under His warrant 
 I impeach the wrong you are doing, and by His 
 help I mean to chastise it.' The parley might have 
 ended here had not the dispute been fiercely taken 
 up by the tongues of the women, Elinor on the one 
 side, Constance on the other. Limoges in his char- 
 acter of family friend was ill-advised enough to in- 
 terpose between them, crying c Peace ! ' ' Hear the 
 crier! ' exclaimed a mocking voice at his elbow. 
 The insulted noble turned round, demanding who 
 dared thus to interrupt, and found himself face to 
 face with a bluff and burly Englishman, a soldier 
 commanding in John's army, Robert Faulconbridge 
 by name. 
 
 Now this Eaulconbridge was a son of Richard 
 Cceur de Lion's, born out of wedlock. Like his 
 father, he loved fighting for its own sake, and like a 
 true Englishman he loved his country. So when 
 John offered him service abroad, these two passions 
 of his jumped together, and he readily gave up all 
 claim to his estates at home and took the knight- 
 hood held out to him as his reward. The honour, 
 as he confessed, he might learn to rise to. It was 
 his humour to make himself out a rough and care- 
 less free-lance. But this blunt, humour covered a 
 real earnestness, and to see his father's memory in- 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 suited by this Limoges with the lion's skin was 
 more than he could endure. 
 
 ' Who is this fellow? ' demanded Limoges. 
 
 ' One that will soon let you know, sir, if I can 
 catch you and that hide of yours alone. I'll tan 
 that skin-coat for you, I promise you. So look to 
 it! ' and Faulconbridge rated him until the ladies 
 of John's train began to join in the sport. ' See,' 
 went on Faulconbridge, ' the ass in lion's clothing ! 
 Ass, I'll take that burden off you, never fear, or lay 
 on another that your shoulders shall feel ! ' 
 
 Limoges turned away in disgust; and Philip call- 
 ing silence on this noisy diversion, demanded if John 
 would resign his usurped titles and lay down his 
 arms. ' My life as soon! ' John retorted, and called 
 on Arthur to submit, promising him more by way of 
 recompense than ever the coward hand of France 
 could win for him. Elinor, too, urged Arthur to 
 submit. ' Do, child,' mimicked Constance, using 
 such prattle as is used to children. ' Go to it grand- 
 am ; give grandam kingdom, and grandam will give 
 it a plum, a cherry, and a fig; there's a good grand- 
 am.' The women's tongues broke loose again. 
 Philip with difficulty cried them down at length, 
 and bade a trumpet be blown to summon the citizens 
 of Angiers to the parley. 
 
 The citizens appeared on the walls, and John and 
 mo 
 
KING JOHN" 
 
 Philip in turn urged them by threats and persuasion 
 to make their decision. The citizens made answer 
 that they would acknowledge neither John nor Ar- 
 thur until one had proved himself the stronger; for 
 him they reserved their submission. In this resolu- 
 tion they were obstinate, and the two parties drew 
 off to array their armies for the test of combat. 
 
 But the engagement which followed was inde- 
 cisive. Each side claimed some trifling success, "and 
 on the strength of their claims the heralds of France 
 and England were soon under the walls once more 
 urging the citizens to decide. The citizens, who had 
 watched the fight with impartial minds and from 
 a capital position, made answer to the heralds and 
 to the impatient kings who followed, that in their 
 opinion no advantage had been gained by either 
 party, and that they abode by their determination 
 to keep their gates barred. 
 
 On hearing this answer it occurred to the pugna- 
 cious Eaulconbridge to recollect that once upon a 
 time the factions in Jerusalem under John of Gis- 
 cala and Simon bar-Gioras had ceased their assaults 
 upon each other to combine in resisting the Romans. 
 He suggested that this example from history was 
 worth copying, and that by first combining their 
 forces to batter down Angiers France and England 
 would clear the ground for settling their own quar- 
 
 101 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 rel. To this wild counsel, as its author modestly- 
 called it, Philip and John were the more readily- 
 disposed to listen because in fact there appeared 
 no other way out of a somewhat ludicrous fix. 
 
 Hitherto the citizens of Angiers had found the 
 easiest policy — that of sitting still and waiting — 
 the wisest. But now they saw clearly it was high 
 time for them in their turn to make a suggestion; 
 for if the two kings listened to Paulconbridge, as 
 they seemed not averse from doing, Angiers was 
 doomed. 
 
 So their spokesman craved leave for a word, and 
 it was granted. This astute burgess saw well 
 enough that the real decision for Angiers lay, not 
 between Arthur and John, its rightful and its 
 wrongful sovereign, but between the army of Philip 
 and the army of John. Prom the beginning he had 
 pledged the town to accept as in the right the claim- 
 ant which should prove the stronger; and from this 
 there was but a short step to the proposal he now 
 made, which without any regard for right was sim- 
 ply aimed to get both armies on the same side. 
 
 ' See,' said he, ' on one side here is the Lady 
 
 Blanch, the niece of England; on the other, Lewis, 
 
 the Dauphin of Prance. Where could be sought 
 
 and found a couple more clearly suited each for the 
 
 other? Unite them, and you unite two divided ex- 
 102 
 
KING JOHN" 
 
 cellences, which only need union to be perfection; 
 you join two silver currents such as together glorify 
 the banks that bound them in.' It was a shameless 
 proposal, but the speaker was addressing shameless 
 ears, and did not allow this to trouble him. Indeed 
 his eloquence began to carry him away. ' Marry 
 them,' said he, ' and their union shall do more than 
 battery upon our gates. But without this match the 
 sea enraged is not half so deaf, nor are lions more 
 confident, nor mountains and rocks more immova- 
 ble; no, nor is Death himself in mortal fury one- 
 half so peremptory, as we are to keep this city! ' 
 
 ' Dear, dear! ' commented Eaulconbridge, who 
 had a natural prejudice against any scheme likely 
 to dissuade from fighting, and perhaps a leaning of 
 his own towards the love of the Lady Blanch, ' here's 
 a large mouth indeed! It spits forth death and 
 mountains, rocks and seas, and talks as familiarly 
 of roaring lions as maids of thirteen talk of puppy- 
 dogs! Zounds! in all my born days I was never 
 so bethumped with words ! ' 
 
 But the speaker knew what ears he was address- 
 ing. First Elinor advised her son to grasp the offer. 
 She saw that Philip was wavering; perceived him 
 already whispering with his advisers; noted that 
 he glanced about him, and that Arthur and Con- 
 stance were not present to harden him in the right. 
 
 103 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 ' Will their Majesties answer me? ' asked the voice 
 upon the wall. ' Let England speak first/ said 
 wavering Philip. And John on this invitation 
 spoke; offering Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers 
 for the bride's dowry. The bribe was too much for 
 Philip ; the young couple professed themselves will- 
 ing; Angiers opened her gates. Philip had one 
 spasm of contrition for the widow and the widow's 
 son he was betraying; but John quickly silenced 
 his regrets. 'Arthur shall be Duke of Brittany 
 and Earl of Richmond, as well as lord of this fair 
 town. If we cannot fulfil all the Lady Constance's 
 wishes, we will at least give enough to silence her 
 exclamations.' The whole party passed through the 
 gates to solemnise the contract without loss of time, 
 leaving that rough soldier Eaulconbridge to muse 
 alone on the power of Self-interest, that goddess 
 who persuades men to break their vows, and kings 
 to do off the armour which conscience has buckled 
 on. But Faulconbridge had perhaps more than one 
 reason for being out of temper. 
 
 To the Earl of Salisbury fell the thankless errand 
 of carrying the news to Constance as she sat with 
 her son in the Erench king's pavilion. Her out- 
 cries were terrible and pitiful too. ' Gone to be 
 married! Gone to swear a truce, to join false blood 
 with false blood! ' She would not believe it. She 
 104 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 turned fiercely on the Earl, and then reading the 
 truth in his looks, fell to caressing and fondly la- 
 menting over her boy. ' Begone ! ' she commanded 
 Salisbury, ' leave me alone with my woes.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, madam,' he answered, ' I may not 
 return without you.' 
 
 ' Thou mayst, thou shalt. I will not go. Grief 
 so great as mine is proud,' and she seated herself 
 upon the ground. ' Here,' said she, ' I and sorrows 
 sit. Here is my throne; go bid kings come and 
 bow before it ! ' 
 
 Terrible were the curses she uttered when the 
 kings with the bridal train returned from the cere- 
 mony and found her seated thus; curses and 
 prayers for discord between them, swiftly to be fid- 
 filled. The officious Limoges again tried to pacify 
 her, and again most ill-advisedly, for she turned on 
 him in a fury and withered him with contemptuous 
 fury. He was a coward, ever strong upon the 
 stronger side; a champion who never fought but 
 when fighting was safe ; a ramping, bragging fool ; 
 a loud-mouthed promiser, who fell away from his 
 promises. ' Thou wear a lion's hide ! Do it off for 
 shame, and hang a calf-skin on those recreant 
 limbs!' 
 
 Limoges was stung. ' If a man,' he sputtered, 
 
 ' dared to say those words to me ! ' 
 
 105 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' And hang a calf -skin on those recreant limbs/ 
 spoke a cool voice at his elbow, and there stood Faul- 
 conbridge ready for him. 
 
 It was maddening. ' Villain! for thy life thou 
 darest not say so ! ' 
 
 ' And — hang — a calf-skin — on — those — recreant 
 — limbs/ repeated Faulconbridge imperturbably. 
 
 John had scarcely time to call peace between 
 them before a newcomer was announced — Pan- 
 dulph, the legate of Pope Innocent the Third. The 
 Pope had grave cause of anger against John. After 
 the death of Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, John had forced the monks of Christchurch to 
 accept a creature of his own, John de Gray, Bishop 
 of Norwich, as Primate. Innocent set aside the 
 election, and consecrated Stephen Langton, a car- 
 dinal and thorough churchman, as archbishop. 
 John refused to allow Stephen to set foot in Eng- 
 land, drove out the monks of Christchurch, quar- 
 tered a troop of soldiers in their cloisters, and 
 confiscated their lands. Innocent threatened ex- 
 communication, and now sent Pandulph to demand 
 in the Pope's name why John had not submitted. 
 
 This flung John into a fury. ' What earthly 
 
 name can compel the free breath of a sacred king to 
 
 submit to questioning? Go, ask your master that; 
 
 and further add, from the mouth of England, that 
 106 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 no Italian priest shall take tithe or toll in our do- 
 minions. But as, under God, we are supreme head, 
 so under Him we will uphold that supremacy with- 
 out the assistance of any Pope ! ' 1 
 
 ' Brother of England, you blaspheme-,' put in 
 Philip, shocked by this defiance. 
 
 ' Blaspheme, do I ? Though you and all the kings 
 in Christendom are misled by this meddling priest — 
 this man who sells divine pardon for money; though 
 you and all the rest feed this juggling witchcraft 
 with your moneys; yet I alone — alone I say — will 
 stand up against it and count the Pope's friends 
 my foes.' 
 
 This was enough. In the Pope's name Pandulph 
 pronounced the terrible words of interdict — placing 
 John without the pale of Christianity, blessing all 
 who revolted from allegiance to him, and promising 
 the name and worship of a saint to anyone who 
 should by secret murder rob him of his hateful life. 
 And the curses of Constance echoed the appalling 
 sentences. 
 
 Then turning to Philip, Pandulph bade him, on 
 peril of the Pope's curse, withdraw his friendship 
 
 1 Remember that Shakespeare, who puts this defiance into 
 John's mouth, was writing for a Protestant England. Call it 
 right or wrong, ' England for England ' was John's motto, and 
 —black as Shakespeare must paint him — it is also the motto of 
 this play. 
 
 107 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and join with the rest of Christendom against the 
 heretic. 
 
 This demand, coming so soon upon his newly- 
 knit compact, placed Philip in a truly pitiable 
 plight. And standing there amid the clamours of 
 the women between the imperious calm of Pandulph 
 and dark face of John, who stood silent, waiting for 
 his answer with the sneer ready on his lips, the 
 King of France cut a sorry figure. In vain he pro- 
 tested and appealed to Pandulph. The legate an- 
 swered him calmly, proving that to keep faith with 
 John was to break faith with religion, that to be 
 friends with both was impossible. 
 
 And in the end, as was certain from the first, 
 Philip gave way. Though by doing so he must set 
 discord between the young pair so newly married, 
 he gave way. John had looked for nothing else. 
 ' France,' said he, with curt contempt, ' thou shalt 
 rue this hour within this hour; ' and turning to 
 Faulconbridge, bade him draw the English forces 
 together. Faulconbridge needed no second bidding. 
 
 And in the fight which followed, Faulconbridge, 
 at least, had his revenge. It is not known in what 
 part of the field he encountered Limoges, or what 
 was said between them. But he returned nonchal- 
 antly bearing Limoges' head, and asserting that, by 
 his life, it was very hot weather! 
 108 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 John, too, enjoyed some measure of revenge in 
 taking prisoner young Arthur, whom he handed 
 over into the keeping of his Chamberlain, Hubert 
 de Burgh. In the camp of the beaten French there 
 was little doubt now of the fate in store for the boy. 
 His mother Constance cried for him, and refused to 
 be comforted. Her body had become a grave to her 
 soul, a prison holding the eternal spirit against its 
 will. Her cries and calls upon death wrung the hear- 
 ers' hearts. They deemed her mad wholly, but she 
 denied it with fierceness. ' I am not mad. If I 
 were, I could forget my son, or cheat myself with 
 a babe of rags. I am not mad.' Binding up her 
 dishevelled hair, she fell to wondering and asking 
 Pandulph if 'twere true she should meet her boy in 
 heaven. ' For now sorrow will canker his beauty, 
 and he will grow hollow as a ghost, and dim, and 
 meagre; and so he'll die. And so, when he rises 
 again, and I meet him in the court of heaven, I 
 shall not know him — shall never, never again be- 
 hold my pretty Arthur ! ' Philip and Pandulph 
 tried to rebuke this excess of grief. She pointed to 
 the legate, ' He talks, that never had a son! ' Then 
 turned to the King — ' Grief! It is grief that fills 
 up the room of my absent child, lies in his bed, 
 walks at my side, puts on his pretty looks, and re- 
 peats his words. Good reason have I to be fond of 
 
 109 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 grief. Fare you well! had you such a loss as I, I 
 could give better comfort than yours.' And she 
 went her way to her chamber; but as she went she 
 broke out crying again, ' O Lord! my boy, my fair 
 son, my Arthur ! ' 
 
 Lewis the Dauphin and Pandulph watched her as 
 she went, the boy shallow of heart and head, the 
 man deep-witted and just now thoughtful even be- 
 yond his habit. ' Before the curing of a disease,' 
 he mused half-aloud, ' ay, in the instant when 
 health turns back towards repair, the fit is strongest. 
 It is strange, now, to think how much John has 
 lost in this which he supposes so clearly won. 
 You are grieved, are you not, that Arthur is pris- 
 oner?' 
 
 ' As heartily,' said Lewis, ' as John is glad.' 
 ' You are young. Listen ; John has seized Ar- 
 thur, and while that lad lives John cannot draw a 
 quiet breath. Arthur will fall.' 
 
 ' But what shall I gain by Arthur's fall? ' 
 ' Simply this, that in the right of your bride, the 
 Lady Blanch, you can then claim all that Arthur 
 did. The times conspire with you. This murder of 
 Arthur — which must be — will so freeze the hearts 
 of men against John that every natural sign of 
 heaven will be taken for an index of divine wrath 
 against him.' 
 
 110 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 ' May be,' Lewis urged, ' he will not touch his 
 life, but hold him a prisoner.' 
 
 ' Should you but move a foot,' said the astute 
 priest, ' even if Arthur be not dead already, at that 
 news he dies. That death will set the hearts of all 
 England in revolt. Nor is this all. Eaulconbridge 
 is even now in England ransacking the church and 
 offending charity. A dozen Erench over there at 
 tbis moment would whistle ten thousand English- 
 men to their side. Shall we lay this before your 
 father? ' 
 
 The temptation was too strong. ' Yes, let 
 us go,' answered Lewis. ' Strong reasons make 
 strong actions. What you urge my father will 
 not deny.' 
 
 On one point Pandulph was not mistaken. "While 
 Arthur lived John could not draw quiet breath. No 
 sooner had he despatched Eaulconbridge to England 
 than he called Hubert de Burgh to him. Of murder 
 he would not speak openly, but first he dwelt on 
 Hubert's professed love for him, and went on to 
 say that he had a matter to speak of, but must fit it 
 to some better time. The day was too open. If it 
 were night now, and a friend standing by — such a 
 friend as could see without eyes, hear without ears, 
 make reply without tongue, why then . . . and 
 
 ill 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 yet he loved Hubert well and believed himself loved 
 in return. 
 
 ' So well,' protested Hubert, ' that were it death 
 to do bidding of yours, I would undertake it ! ' 
 
 ' Do I not know thou wouldst? Hubert,' he 
 whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder at the 
 boy, whom Elinor had craftily drawn aside. ' Good 
 Hubert, throw an eye on that boy yonder. I tell 
 thee he is a serpent in my way. Wheresoever I 
 tread he lies before me. Dost understand? Thou 
 art his keeper.' 
 
 ' And will keep him so that he shall never offend 
 your Majesty.' 
 
 ' Death.' John muttered the word, half to him- 
 self. 
 
 ' My lord? ' Hubert heard, and half understood. 
 
 ' A grave.' John was not looking at him. 
 
 ' He shall not live.' 
 
 ' Enough.' John made show not to have heard. 
 ' Hubert, I love thee. Well, well, I'll not say what 
 I intended. To England now, with a merry heart! ' 
 
 When Hubert, however, had his young charge 
 safe in England, John's commands became more 
 precise. Arthur's eyes were to be burnt out with 
 hot irons — an order which revolted even one of the 
 executioners hired for the task. And when the 
 112 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 dreadful hour came, and Hubert had the men sta- 
 tioned behind the arras with orders to heat the irons, 
 his heart, as he sent for the boy, sickened at the 
 thought of the black business. For Arthur with his 
 gentle and confiding nature had soon given Hubert 
 his. love, and Hubert's rough nature was touched by 
 the child who meant no harm to anyone and could 
 not understand that anyone should mean harm to 
 him. 
 
 Arthur saw at once that his friend was heavy. 
 ' Why should you be sad? ' he asked. ' I think no- 
 body should be sad but I; and if only I were out of 
 prison, and a shepherd-boy, I could be as merry as 
 the day was long. I would even be merry here, if 
 it were not for fear of my uncle. Is it my fault, 
 though, that I am Geoffrey's son? I wish I were 
 your son, Hubert, and then you would love me.' 
 
 This innocent talk was torture to Hubert. He 
 feared that more of it would steal all his resolution, 
 and therefore pulled out the hateful paper at once 
 and showed it, turning away to hide the tears that 
 against his will came into his eyes. 
 
 ' "What ! ' cried the dazed child. ' Burn out my 
 eyes! Will you do it? Have you the heart? Hu- 
 bert, when your head ached, I bound it with my 
 handkerchief — the best I had — and sat with you 
 at midnight to comfort you. If you think this was 
 
 113 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 crafty love, you must. But will you indeed put out 
 these eyes that never so much as frowned on you, 
 and never shall? ' 
 
 ' I must. I have sworn,' groaned Hubert, and 
 stamped his foot for signal to call the executioners. 
 It was pitiful how Arthur ran and clung to him at 
 the sight of them with their cords and irons. 
 
 ' Save me, Hubert, save me ! ' he screamed. 
 
 ' Give me the iron, and bind him here,' com- 
 manded Hubert. 
 
 ' No, no — I will not struggle. I will be still as a 
 stone. For Heaven's sake do not let them bind me! 
 Hubert, hear me! — drive these men away, and I 
 will sit as quiet as a lamb. I will not wince, will 
 not speak a word. Only send these men away, and 
 I will forgive whatever torment you put me to ! ' 
 
 ' Go,' said Hubert, ' leave me with him.' And 
 the executioners withdrew, glad to be released from 
 the horrible deed. ' Come, boy, prepare yourself.' 
 
 But Arthur pleaded on his knees. ' Hubert, cut 
 out my tongue, if you will, but spare my eyes ! O, 
 spare my eyes ! ' The iron, while he pleaded, grew 
 cold in Hubert's hand. He could not do this mon- 
 strous crime. It was ruin for him if John dis- 
 covered the truth, but he would take the risk, and 
 spread the report that Arthur was dead. Thus re- 
 solved, he led the boy away to hide him. 
 114 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 His friends in the French camp were not the only 
 ones who foreboded evil for Arthur. To make all 
 sure, John on his return to England had himself 
 crowned a second time. The barons who attended — 
 the Earls of Pembroke, Salisbury, and the rest — 
 were full of courtly phrases. This second corona- 
 tion, they assured John, was superfluous as to gild 
 refined gold, to paint the lily, perfume the violet, or 
 seek to garnish daylight with a taper. But behind 
 these polite professions they were whispering about 
 Arthur's fate. And when John bade them state 
 what reforms they wished for, the Earl of Pem- 
 broke boldly requested, for all, that Arthur should 
 be set at liberty. 
 
 ' Let it be so,' answered John, who knew, or 
 thought he knew, how idle a thing he conceded. At 
 this moment Hubert entered, and the King drew 
 him aside, while the lords whispered their suspicions. 
 
 ' Good lords,' announced John, coming back, ' I 
 regret that to grant your demand is beyond me. 
 This man tells me that Arthur died last night.' 
 
 There was an ominous silence. Then the Earl of 
 
 Salisbury spoke. ' Indeed,' said he with meaning, 
 
 ' we feared that his sickness was past cure.' ' Yes,' 
 
 added the Earl of Pembroke, ' we heard how near 
 
 his death he was — before he felt himself sick. This 
 
 must be answered for.' 
 
 115 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' Why are you frowning on me? ' John demand- 
 ed. ' Do I hold the shears of destiny, or can I com- 
 mand life? ' 
 
 ' It is foiil play,' replied Salisbury boldly, and 
 Pembroke echoed him. In stern anger the barons 
 withdrew. Already John began to repent his cruel 
 order, or at any rate the haste of it. 
 
 Soon he had further cause. News came that 
 France was arming mightily to invade England — 
 nay, had already landed an army under the Dau- 
 phin; that his mother Elinor was dead; that 
 death, too, had ended the frenzy of poor Constance. 
 Plow could he meet the invaders? His barons were 
 disaffected. Faulconbridge, who had been levying 
 cruel toll upon the clergy, returned with word that 
 the whole country was uneasy, full of vague fears, 
 overrun with men prophesying disasters. In truth 
 the interdict lay on the land like a blight. All pub- 
 lic worship of God had ceased. The church-doors 
 were shut and their bells silent ; men celebrated no 
 sacrament but that of private baptism; youth and 
 maid could not marry; the dying went without par- 
 don or comfort; the dead lay unburied by the high- 
 roads; the corpses of the clergy were piled on 
 churchyard walls in leaden coffins; the people heard 
 no sermons but those preached at the market-crosses 
 by priests who cried down curses, or wild prophets 
 116 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 who uttered warnings and pointed to the signs of 
 heaven for confirmation. "With news similar to 
 Faulconbridge's Hubert broke in on the King, as 
 he sat muttering in dark sorrow for his mother 
 Elinor's death. It was ' Arthur,' ' Arthur,' in all 
 men's mouths. The peers had gone to seek Arthur's 
 grave; all the common folk whispered of Arthur's 
 death. 
 
 ' Arthur's death ? ' John interrupted him savage- 
 ly. ' Who murdered him but you? ' 
 
 ' At your wish,' retorted Hubert. 
 
 ' It is the curse of kings to be attended by such 
 over-hasty slaves.' 
 
 ' Here is your hand and seal for it,' Hubert pro- 
 tested. But John, who by this time heartily wished 
 Arthur alive again, broke out on him with craven 
 reproaches. ' Why had Hubert taken him at his 
 word? Why had he not dissuaded, even by a look — 
 a look would have been enough.' So he ran on, un- 
 til Hubert had to confess the truth, that Arthur 
 was yet alive. 
 
 ' Arthur alive ! ' The King sprang up. ' Hast- 
 en! Report it to the peers! Forgive what I said 
 in my passion ; my rage was blind. Nay, answer me 
 not, but hasten and bring these angry lords back to 
 me! ' 
 
 But Hubert was mistaken. Arthur was no longer 
 117 
 
TALES. FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 alive. The unhappy prince, scheming to break from 
 his prison, had escaped the watch by donning a ship- 
 boy's clothes; but in a rash leap from the walls had 
 broken himself upon the stones below, a little while 
 before the barons — Pembroke, Salisbury, and 
 Bigot — arrived in search of him. Before hearing 
 Hubert's news John had despatched Faulconbridge 
 to persuade them to return. He overtook them by 
 the wall of the castle; and while he urged them, 
 they stumbled together on the young body lying at 
 the base of it. 
 
 ' It was murder,' they swore ; ' the worst and 
 vilest of murder; nay, a murder that stood alone, 
 unmatchable ! ' They appealed to Faulconbridge. 
 
 ' It is a damnable work,' he admitted indignantly. 
 ' The deed of a heavy hand; that is,' he mused 
 doubtfully, ' if it be the work of any hand.' 
 
 'If!' cried Salisbury. 'There is no if! We 
 had an inkling of this. It is Hubert's shameful 
 handiwork devised by the King — whose service, 
 kneeling by this sweet child's body, I renounce, and 
 swear neither to taste pleasure nor take rest until I 
 have glorified this hand of mine with vengeance! ' 
 And the two other barons said Amen to him. 
 
 But hardly was the vow taken before Hubert 
 himself arrived, hot with haste, and panting, ' Lords, 
 the King sends for you. Arthur is alive ! ' With 
 113 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 that lie stood confounded, staring down upon Ar- 
 thur's dead body. 
 
 'Begone, villain!' Salisbury drew his sword. 
 ' Murderer ! ' ' 1 am no villain, no murderer,' Hu- 
 bert protested. ' Cut him to pieces! ' urged Pem- 
 broke. Faulconbridge flung himself between them, 
 threatening to strike Salisbury dead if he stirred a 
 foot. ' Put up your sword ! or I'll so maul you and 
 your toasting-iron that you'll think the devil him- 
 self has got hold of you! ' And Salisbury, proud 
 lord as he was, obeyed. But, though Hubert pro- 
 tested his innocence, the angry lords would not be- 
 lieve. Paulconbridge could do no more, and was 
 forced, to his chagrin, to watch them galloping off 
 to join the Dauphin. 
 
 When they were gone he turned to Hubert. 
 ' Know you of this work? For if this work be 
 yours, Hubert, your soul is lost beyond reach of 
 mercy; nay, if you but consented, despair. Hu- 
 bert, I suspect you grievously.' 
 
 Said Hubert, ' If in act, or consent, or thought, 
 I stole the sweet breath of this child, let hell lack 
 pains enough for my torture ! I left him well.' He 
 lifted the body and carried it in his arms into the 
 castle, while Faulconbridge followed sorely per- 
 plexed. ' I lose my way,' confessed that honest 
 soldier, ' amid the thorns and dangers of this world.' 
 
 119 
 
TALES PROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 By this time John's case was a sorry one. Pope 
 Innocent had formally deposed him, and was urging 
 on the crusade which the Dauphin led against Eng- 
 land. "Wales was in revolt, Scotland intriguing 
 against him. But, worse than all, England herself 
 could not be relied on. , Betrayed by his barons, 
 who nocked to Lewis' standard; denounced by the 
 clergy; sullenly hated by all classes, who laid the 
 miseries of the interdict to his account; the King 
 felt the ground slipping from under his feet. 
 
 But he was an Angevin after all; that is to say, 
 as diabolically clever as he was shameless. It only 
 needed shamelessness, and by a bold stroke he could 
 turn the tables on France, and perhaps win back all. 
 John played it. He sent for Pandulph, and hypo- 
 critically tendered his submission to the Pope, on 
 condition that the Pope called off the Prench and 
 put a stop to the crusade against him. Like many 
 a man without religion John was slavishly super- 
 stitious, and he had heard it prophesied that before 
 Ascension-day he should deliver up his crown; and 
 it pleased him to think that by this form of tender- 
 ing it into Pandulph's hands he was cheating Heaven 
 as well as his enemies. 
 
 Pandulph gave him back the circlet, and hast- 
 ened off to compel the Dauphin to lay down his 
 
 arms. Scarcely had he left before Faulconbridge 
 120 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 arrived with news that London had thrown open its 
 gates to the French, and the barons refused to return 
 to their allegiance. 
 
 ' What! "When they heard that Arthur was yet 
 alive ? ' 
 
 ' They found him dead — done to death by some 
 accursed hand.' 
 
 ' That villain Hubert told me he lived.' 
 
 ' On my soul,' said Eaulconbridge, ' he did, for 
 aught Hubert knew.' 
 
 John informed him of the peace just made with 
 the Pope. As might be expected, this news filled 
 Faulconbridge with disgust. It was too much alto- 
 gether for his English stomach. ' But perhaps,' he 
 suggested, ' the Cardinal Pandulph cannot make 
 your peace,' — he had to call it ' your peace '■ — ' and, 
 if he can, let them see at least that we meant to de- 
 fend ourselves.' And with John's permission he 
 hurried off to save what he could of England's 
 honour. 
 
 Indeed, Pandulph was not prospering on his er- 
 rand. He found the Dauphin entertaining the re- 
 volted barons with words as fair as they were de- 
 ceitful, since, after using them to crush John, he 
 meant to make short work with Salisbury, Pem- 
 broke, and the rest. Young Lewis had learnt his 
 lesson too well. As Pandulph himself had once 
 
 121 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 suggested, he was now by Arthur's death left with 
 a good claim to the English crown. In short, he 
 flatly refused to draw off his troops. ' Am I Rome's 
 slave? ' he demanded. ' Your breath kindled this 
 war, but who maintained it? "Who but I provided 
 men and munition, and bore the sweat of this busi- 
 ness. Here I am with England half -conquered, and 
 all the best cards in my hand, and you ask me to 
 retire! No, on my soul, I will not! ' 
 
 In this temper Eaulconbridge found him, and 
 with the legate at a complete loss. It was the chance 
 he had prayed for, and he made royal use of it. In 
 the name of England he stood up to the angry 
 Dauphin, defied him, and dressed him down with 
 threats. ' Our English King promises through me 
 to whip you and your army of yoimgsters out of his 
 territories. What! the hand that cudgelled you 
 the other day at your own door till you jumped the 
 hatch and hid yourself, and shook even when a cock 
 crew — your own Gallic cock — thinking its voice an 
 Englishman's— do you deem that hand which chas- 
 tised you in your own chambers to be enfeebled 
 here ? ' And having done with the Dauphin, he 
 swung round on the revolted barons and gave them 
 their. rating in turn. 
 
 ' Enough ! ' broke in Lewis at length. ' We grant 
 
 you can outscold us.' Pandulph would have put in 
 
 122 
 
KING JOHN 
 
 a word, but Faulconbridge bore him down, and with 
 mutual defiance the parley ended. 
 
 It was war now, but a war which brought dis- 
 asters to both sides. In the south of England the 
 Dauphin met with small resistance; but the fleet 
 which was to bring him supplies came to wreck on 
 the Goodwin Sands, and the English barons, warned 
 of the treachery he plotted against them, streamed 
 away from him. On the other hand, John, though 
 he kept the field fiercely, traversing the midlands 
 by forced marches from the Welsh border to Lin- 
 coln and breaking up the barons' plans, was already 
 touched with a fever which increased on him as he 
 started from Lynn and crossed the Wash in a fresh 
 movement northwards. In crossing the sandy flats 
 his troops were surprised by the tide, and all his 
 baggage and treasure washed away. 
 
 Shaking with the fever, which by this time had 
 taken fatal hold of him, wet, exhausted, and sick at 
 heart, the stricken tyrant took shelter in the Abbey 
 of Swineshead. There, men said, a monk poisoned 
 his food; but although the monks had reason 
 enough to hate him, we need not lay this crime at 
 their door. Panting for air, crying that his soul 
 might have elbow-room for hell was within him, he 
 was borne out into the abbey orchard. The tears of 
 his young son Henry fell on his face. ' The salt of 
 
 123 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 them is hot/ he complained; and so, at the height 
 of his own misery and England's, he died. 
 
 His death put a new face on the fortunes of Eng- 
 land. Against a young king, supported by the 
 barons and the better hopes of his subjects, the 
 troops of a foreigner could not hold their ground 
 for long on this island. And the lesson of this 
 ' troublesome raigne ' is summed up for us in the 
 wise, brave, and patriotic words of Eaulconbridge 
 — lines which every English boy should get by_ 
 heart: — 
 
 ' This England never did, nor never shall, 
 Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 
 But when it first did help to wound itself. 
 Now these her princes are come home again, 
 Come the three corners of the world in arms, 
 And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, 
 If England to herself do rest but true. ' 
 
 124 
 
KING EICHAKD THE SECOND 
 
 "When King Edward the Third died, the crown 
 passed to his grandson Richard, son of the good and 
 gallant Black Prince whose untimely death all Eng- 
 land lamented. And though Richard became king 
 in his eleventh year, all England hoped much of 
 him for his father's sake. In honour of his corona- 
 tion London was gay with banners and arches, and 
 the loyal merchants of Cheapside erected a fountain 
 which ran with wine for the rejoicing citizens. 
 
 But the sons of strong men are not always strong, 
 and as time went on Richard began to disappoint 
 the hopes of his subjects. He was weak, partly no 
 doubt by nature, partly perhaps by training; for 
 he had too many advisers, some of whom flattered 
 him whilst all were intent on their own ends. A 
 boy may be weak and yet very wilful, and this boy- 
 king naturally made favourites of those who flat- 
 tered him most, and, being without experience, 
 trusted to their advice. At first he was given twelve 
 councillors ; his three uncles, the Duke of Lancaster 
 
 125 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 (called John of Gaunt), the Duke of York, and the 
 Duke of Gloucester, being excluded; but these 
 three in their jealousy often interfered with the 
 government, and at last one of them, the Duke of 
 Gloucester, was put at the head of the council. 
 Under him the Parliament- — called ' wonderful ' by 
 some, and ' merciless ' by others who admired it less 
 — put to death two of Richard's favourites, De Vere 
 and Suffolk, and stripped the rest of their properties. 
 This incensed the young king, who waited his time 
 and at twenty-two, declaring he would be in lead- 
 ing-strings no longer, dismissed his guardians and 
 for some years ruled his kingdom discreetly and 
 well. 
 
 But he was not great enough to forgive those who 
 had humbled him. Perhaps, too, he still feared the 
 Duke of Gloucester. At any rate, after eight years 
 of merciful rule he seized his uncle suddenly and 
 had him carried off to Calais, where Thomas Mow- 
 bray, Duke of Norfolk, was governor; and in the 
 prison there Gloucester came to a mysterious end. 
 We cannot be certain that he was murdered by the 
 King's order; but many believed this. And they 
 believed it the more surely when Richard began to 
 cast off pretence of ruling to please his people. He 
 had chosen new favourites — Sir John Bushy, Sir 
 Henry Green, Sir William Bagot — to replace his 
 126 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 old ones; and now he called a packed parliament, 
 which not only undid the acts of the detested ' won- 
 derful ' Parliament, but entrusted all future gov- 
 ernment to the King and a little knot of his friends. 
 So Richard for the time was absolute, and the king- 
 dom suffered, as it always must when a king 
 postpones its happiness to his private likes and 
 dislikes. 
 
 Gloucester was dead, and of the other two uncles 
 (whatever they suspected) old Lancaster — or John 
 of Gaunt — was too wise, and old York too pliable, 
 to accuse the King openly of his murder. But John 
 of Gaunt had a son Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, 
 Duke of Hereford, a soldierly man who was not so 
 cautious. Henry's wife, too, was a sister of Glou- 
 cester's widow, and this no doubt made him more 
 eager for revenge. Yet even Henry Bolingbroke 
 did not dare accuse his cousin the king in so many 
 words. He chose a more politic way. At first 
 privately, and then openly, he charged Mowbray, 
 Duke of JSTorf oik — who had been governor of Calais 
 at the time of Gloucester's murder — as a traitor. 
 The King summoned the appellant and the accused 
 to confront each other in his presence, and there, 
 after mutual defiance, the one protesting the truth 
 of his charge, the other his complete innocence, and 
 both their loyalty, they severally stated their quar- 
 
 127 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 rel. ' I accuse Mowbray,' said Bolingbroke, ' first, 
 that he has detained for his own use eight thousand 
 nobles which should have been paid to the King's 
 soldiers; next, that he has been the head and spring 
 of all treasons contrived in this realm for these 
 eighteen years ; and further,' — and here lay the pith 
 of his accusation — ' that he did contrive the death 
 of the Duke of Gloucester, whose innocent blood 
 cries to me from the earth for justice and chastise- 
 ment.' 'What sayest thou to this?' demanded 
 Bickard, hiding his feelings (whatever they were) 
 and turning to Mowbray. ' Eear not because the 
 accuser is my cousin. Ye are equally my subjects, 
 and the King's eyes and ears are impartial, the firm- 
 ness of his soul unstooping.' Mowbray gave Boling- 
 broke the lie in his throat. Each of the disputants 
 by this time had thrown down his gage, and now 
 each swore to uphold his cause upon the other's 
 body. Richard endeavoured to appease them, and 
 invoked the help of old John of Gaunt, Boling- 
 broke's father, who stood by. But Mowbray flung 
 himself at the King's feet imploring to be allowed 
 to defend his honour; and finding Bolingbroke 
 equally stubborn, Richard ceased his mediation. 
 ' We were not born,' he said, ' to sue, but to com- 
 mand. And since our commandment will not make 
 
 you friends, we charge you to appear at Coventry, 
 
 128 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 on St. Lambert's day, and there decide your quarrel 
 with sword and lance.' 
 
 So at Coventry on the appointed day the lists were 
 set with all the ceremony and circumstance of those 
 times. The King attended with his train of nobles 
 and favourites; and as they entered to the sound of 
 trumpets and filed into their seats along the deco- 
 rated balcony, they found both combatants armed 
 and ready with their heralds. At a word from the 
 King the Lord Marshal, to whom fell the solemn 
 business of dressing the lists, approached Mowbray 
 the defendant, and demanded his name and quarrel. 
 
 ' My name,' was the answer, ' is Thomas Mow- 
 bray, Duke of Norfolk, and I come hither upon my 
 knightly oath, to defend my loyalty and truth to 
 God, my King, and my heirs, against the Duke of 
 Hereford who appeals me ; and by the grace of God 
 and this arm of mine to prove him a traitor to my 
 God, my King, and me. And as I truly fight, de- 
 fend me Heaven ! ' 
 
 Bolingbroke, on being asked the same question, 
 
 declared, ' I am Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and 
 
 Derby, who stand in arms here ready to prove in 
 
 lists upon Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, by 
 
 God's grace and my bodily valour, that he is a 
 
 traitor to God, to King Richard, and to me. And 
 
 as I truly fight, defend me Heaven! ' 
 
 129 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The Lord Marshal thereupon (as the custom was) 
 gave warning that no man should, upon pain of 
 death, enter or touch the lists, except only the of- 
 ficers appointed to direct the duel. But before en- 
 gaging Bolingbroke craved leave to kneel and kiss 
 the King's hand; ' for,' said he, ' Mowbray and I 
 are like two men vowed to a long and weary pil- 
 grimage, and it were fitting that we took a ceremoni- 
 ous and loving farewell of our friends.' ' Nay,' said 
 the King, when this message was reported; 'we 
 will ourselves descend and embrace him; ' and he 
 did so, saying, ' Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is 
 right, so be thy fortune ! ' meaning ' as far as,' or 
 ' */ thy cause is right,' for he well knew that the 
 charge against Mowbray was covertly aimed at him- 
 self. And he added, ' Though thy blood and mine 
 be kin, if thy blood be shed we may lament but not 
 avenge thee.' ' Nay,' answered Bolingbroke, who 
 took his meaning, ' let no man lament for me if I 
 fall. But I go to this fight, and so I take my leave, 
 confident, lusty, young, and cheerful. And do thou, 
 my father,' turning to John of Gaunt, ' prosper me 
 with thy blessing, that my armour may be proof 
 against my adversary, and thy name take new 
 brightness from thy son's lance.' ' God make thee 
 prosperous in thy good cause ! ' answered the old 
 man. 
 
 130 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 The King's farewell to Mowbray was purposely 
 more cold and brief. ' However God or fortune 
 may cast my lot,' Mowbray protested, ' there lives 
 or dies a true subject, a loyal, just, and upright 
 gentleman. Take from me the wish of happy years. 
 And so, as a captive from prison, gentle and jocund, 
 I go to this feast of battle. For truth has a quiet 
 breast.' ' Earewell, my lord,' the King answered; 
 ' in thine eye I read virtue and valour together.' 
 
 With that he gave the word to the Lord Marshal. 
 The two combatants received their lances, and the 
 heralds on either side made proclamation : ' Here 
 standeth Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 
 on pain to be found false and recreant, to prove the 
 Duke of Norfolk a traitor to God, to his sovereign, 
 and to him.' ' Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, 
 Duke of Norfolk, on pain to be found false and 
 recreant, both to defend himself and to approve 
 the same on Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and 
 Derby.' 
 
 ' Sound trumpets ! and set forward, combatants ! ' 
 shouted the Lord Marshal; but as the pair couched 
 lances and dug spurs for the charge, as the horses 
 gathered pace for the shock, he glanced towards the 
 royal balcony, and held up a hand. 
 
 ' Stay! ' he cried. ' The King has thrown down 
 
 his truncheon! ' 
 
 131 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 For by this signal Richard, as president of the 
 fight, arrested it. 
 
 The combatants reined up. ' Let them,' com- 
 manded Richard, ' lay by their helmets and spears 
 and both return here to their chairs.' And while 
 they obeyed, and the trumpets sounded a long flour- 
 ish, he consulted, or seemed to consult, with his 
 nobles. 
 
 ' Draw near,' he commanded again, ' and hearken 
 what with our council we have decided.' And he 
 went on to unfold his sentence — a sentence of ban- 
 ishment on both; for Bolingbroke ten years, but 
 for Mowbray no date at all. ' Never to return,' were 
 the hopeless words of Mowbray's sentence. ' It is a 
 heavy one,' pleaded the unhappy man. ' A dearer 
 merit, and not so deep a maim, I have deserved at 
 my King's hands. Can I unlearn my native Eng- 
 lish which I have learned these forty years? I am 
 too old to go to school now. That to which you 
 condemn me is a living death.' 
 
 But the King answered curtly that the time had 
 gone by for pleading. Yet, weak man that he was, 
 he recalled Mowbray and desired both him and Bol- 
 ingbroke to lay hands on his sword and vow never 
 to meet and plot against him — a foolish vow, which 
 suggested a fear, and the keeping of which he could 
 never enforce. 
 
KING -KICHAKD THE SECOND 
 
 Both took the vow. And on rising Bolingbroke 
 made a last appeal to Mowbray to confess. But 
 ' No,' said Mowbray, ' I am no traitor. "What thou 
 art, God, thou, and I know; and all too soon, I fear, 
 the King will learn and rue it.' And so he departed 
 into exile. 
 
 No sooner was he gone than weak Richard, read- 
 ing the sorrow in the dimmed eyes of old John of 
 Gaunt, impetuously relieved Bolingbroke of four 
 years of his sentence. His banishment, he promised, 
 should be for sis not for ten winters. But this way- 
 ward leniency brought him little gratitude. Boling- 
 broke did not even thank him. ' Four lagging win- 
 ters,' he commented grimly, ' four wanton springs 
 ended in a word! Such is the breath of kings! ' 
 Old Gaunt was more nobly rebukeful. ' I thank 
 my liege that for my sake he remits four years of my 
 son's exile ; though it will profit me little, since, ere 
 the six years be gone, my inch of taper will be burnt 
 out, and I gone into darkness where I shall never 
 see my son.' ' Why, uncle,' Richard would have re- 
 assured him, ' thou hast many years yet.' The old 
 man turned on him grandly. ' But not a minute, 
 King, that thou canst give! Shorten my days with 
 sorrow thou canst, kill me thou canst, but lengthen 
 life or restore it thou canst not.' ' Thy son,' said 
 Richard, nettled to an unworthy taunt, ' is banished 
 
 133 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 upon good advice — which thy tongue joined in giv- 
 ing.' ' That is true,' answered John of Gaunt; ' I 
 gave it as a judge, not as a father, and in the sen- 
 tence destroyed my own life. Alas! I looked for 
 one of you to say I was too strict with my own. But 
 you did not; you allowed my unwilling tongue to do 
 myself this wrong! ' To this the selfish Kichard 
 could find no answer, but curtly left them to their 
 leave-taking. And a sorry leave-taking it was, the 
 good old man vainly casting about for arguments to 
 cheat the bitterness of his son's exile. ' Six winters 
 are quickly gone . . . this absence will make 
 home-coming all the more precious ... to the 
 wise man all places visited by the eye of Heaven 
 are ports and happy havens ... let necessity 
 teach thee to reason thus, for there is no virtue like 
 necessity.' But the younger man brushed these 
 flimsy consolations aside. ' Can a man bear to hold 
 fire in his hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus, 
 or cloy his hunger by imagining that he feasts ? No ; 
 to apprehend happiness makes him feel more keenly 
 the evil he suffers. But farewell England's ground 
 — my mother and nurse ! Where'er I wander, this 
 I can yet boast, that though banished I am a true- 
 born Englishman.' And with this he took his leave. 
 But Bichard, alone with his favourites — Bagot 
 and Green and the rest — could confess he was glad 
 134 
 
KING HICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 to be rid of Henry Bolingbroke. For the King 
 had no sons of his own, and this son of Lancaster 
 had wooed the common people and practised such 
 affability that to jealous minds he seemed to look 
 forward with confidence to a day when the crown 
 would be his. ' Well, he is gone,' said Green ; 
 ' out of sight is out of mind.' Thus relieved of 
 present anxiety, and having no child for whom his 
 love might have taught him that in the end a 
 king's welfare and his people's are one, and hav- 
 ing emptied his coffers by selfish extravagance, 
 Richard fell in with the proposal to farm out the 
 nation's revenues to these harpies, who undertook 
 to provide him with ready money to suppress a 
 rebellion in Ireland which for the moment was 
 giving him trouble. One day, while they were 
 discussing this, Bushy entered with news that John 
 of Gaunt had been seized with a grievous illness. 
 In such company Richard could blurt out his feel- 
 ings. ' Now, may God,' he cried, ' put it in the 
 physician's mind to help him to his grave immedi- 
 ately! The lining of his coffers shall make coats 
 for our soldiers in these Irish wars. Pray God,' 
 he added cruelly, ' that we may make haste — and 
 come too late ! ' And all said ' Amen.' 
 
 John of Gaunt was sick indeed. His son's ban- 
 ishment had been his death-blow; and now, at 
 
 135 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Ely House in Holborn, he lay in his bed and dis- 
 cussed with his pliable brother, old York, the last 
 warning he intended to deliver to Richard. ' Vex 
 not yourself; counsel comes in vain to him,' urged 
 York. ' But the tongues of dying men — these, 
 they say, enforce attention like deep harmony. 
 Men's ends are more marked than their lives. 
 Though Richard would not hear my counsel in 
 life, his ear may be unsealed now.' ' No,' said 
 York, ' for it is stopped with flattery. Save the 
 little breath thou hast remaining.' But the dying 
 man felt bound to speak; ' for,' said he, ' I feel 
 like a prophet inspired to foretell that this rash 
 fierce blaze of riot cannot last; ' and as he lay 
 awaiting the King's coming, his lips began to mut- 
 ter, over and over, words of love for England and 
 pride in her. 1 
 
 1 This incomparable lament may only be rendered in Shake- 
 speare's own words, which no English boy, who is old enough 
 to love his country, is too young to get by heart, forgetting the 
 sorrow in it. Tears such as Gaunt's are drawn from a well of 
 joy and pride in England and of fierce love of her good name — 
 
 ' This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 
 This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 This other Eden, demi-paradise, 
 This fortress built by Nature for herself 
 Against infection and the hand of war, 
 This happy breed of men, this little world, 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall 
 136 
 
KING EICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 While he mourned, the King was announced, 
 with his Queen and train of courtiers. ' How fares 
 our noble uncle, Lancaster? ' were the Queen's 
 words; but Richard addressed York more roughly. 
 ' What comfort, man? How is't with old Gaunt? ' 
 The sick man heard the word, and his failing mind 
 fixed and began to harp on it : ' Ay, old Gaunt — 
 old and gaunt — gaunt with keeping watch for 
 sleeping England — gaunt as the grave to which I 
 go.' ' Can sick and dying men be so witty? ' 
 sneered Richard. ' ISTay, King, 'tis thou who art 
 sick, and thy death-bed no lesser than thy realm 
 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 Against the envy of less happier lands, 
 This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, 
 This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
 Eear'd by their breed and famous by their birth, 
 Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 
 For Christian service and true chivalry, 
 As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry 
 Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son, — 
 This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, 
 Dear for her reputation through the world, 
 Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, 
 Like to a tenement or pelting farm : 
 England, bound in with the triumphant sea, 
 Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
 Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, 
 With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds : 
 That England, that was wont to conquer others 
 Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. 
 Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, 
 How happy then were my ensuing death ! ' 
 137 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 wherein thou liest and givest over thy anointed 
 body to be cured by these flatterers, these physi- 
 cians who dealt the wound.' And rising on his 
 pillow he began to call shame on his nephew's mad 
 misgovernment. But Richard, white for the mo- 
 ment and scared, turned upon him in a fury. 
 ' Thou lunatic, lean-witted fool ! Darest thou pre- 
 sume on an ague's privilege to admonish me thus? 
 Now, by my throne, wert thou not brother to great 
 Edward's son, thy tongue which runs so roundly 
 should run thy head from thy shoulders! ' ' Spare 
 me not for that,' exclaimed Gaunt bitterly: 'My 
 brother Gloucester's end is good witness that thou 
 regardest not shedding Edward's thy grandfather's 
 blood ! ' And so having uttered at last the accusa- 
 tion which he had so long forborne to utter, and 
 for hinting at which he had consented to see his 
 son exiled, Gaunt was borne out dying. ' So be 
 it,' said Richard. 
 
 But so incensed was he — men of his nature be- 
 ing angriest when some fear underlies their wrath 
 — that presently, when the Earl of Northumber- 
 land brought news that Gaunt's life had indeed 
 flickered out, he rapped forth the order which he 
 had discussed secretly with Bushy, Bagot, and the 
 rest — to seize upon the dead duke's estate and 
 moneys for his own royal use. 
 138 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 Even old York — weak worm as he was — turned 
 at this. The nation's disgrace had not stirred him 
 as it stirred Gaunt, but he could feel a family 
 wrong; and for once he plucked up courage to 
 speak out — so boldly, indeed, as to astonish Rich- 
 ard. ' Why, uncle, what's the matter? ' exclaimed 
 the King incredulously, after a while. Ev.en so 
 small an interruption as this dashed the old man's 
 spirit; but he persisted — only now with some 
 abatement of vigour — in warning the King what 
 danger he courted by confiscating Gaunt's prop- 
 erty and thus dispossessing Bolingbroke. Richard 
 quickly took the measure of this protest. ' Think 
 what you will, we seize his plate, goods, money, 
 and lands.' ' Then I'll not be by to countenance 
 it,' was York's feeble conclusion, and with that he 
 departed, muttering that no good could come of it. 
 
 He was scarcely gone before Richard betrayed 
 how a little firmness might have carried the day. 
 Almost in the same breath with which he gave 
 instructions about confiscating Lancaster's prop- 
 erty, he appointed York to be lord governor of 
 England during his own absence at the Irish wars. 
 Eor in truth he had been brought up in a wholesome 
 dread of his uncles, and some of it still lingered 
 to be transferred to this last surviving one, and 
 
 the weakest of them all. 
 
 139 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 But if York scarcely knew his own mind, other 
 nobles knew theirs. The Earl of Northumberland, 
 head of the great house of Percy, only waited the 
 King's departure to call shame on his conduct, or, 
 as he preferred to put it (and men, when they 
 meant business, have put it thus more than once 
 or twice in English history), on the conduct of his 
 misleading flatterers. He said enough, indeed, to 
 make certain nobles present suspect that he had 
 more to tell, and they pressed him to tell it — 
 which he did. News had come from Brittany that 
 Bolingbroke with a few noble followers and three 
 thousand men-at-arms had set sail in eight tall 
 ships with intent to make a landing in the north- 
 east of England. They had been waiting only for 
 the King's departure. ' Then to horse! ' cried 
 Lord Boss; and ' To horse! ' echoed Lord Wil- 
 loughby; and soon the conspirators were in saddle 
 and galloping northwards. 
 
 It was true; Bolingbroke had landed at Kavens- 
 purgh on the Humber. There the Earl of North- 
 umberland joined him, with other discontented 
 nobles; and no sooner was Northumberland pro- 
 claimed traitor than his brother, the Earl of Wor- 
 cester, Lord Steward, broke his white staff of office 
 and fled northwards to join the rising. The news 
 reached the Queen as she sat talking with Bushy 
 140 
 
KING KICHAKD THE SECOND 
 
 and Bagot. Her heart was heavy already after 
 parting from her husband — for she loved him, 
 poor lady! — and heavier yet with an unborn sor- 
 row; for trouble often makes itself felt before it 
 takes shape. And when Green came running with 
 the ominous news, it sank like lead. Nor could 
 she take comfort at the sight of trembling old 
 York, who followed on Green's heels. ' Uncle/ 
 she cried, ' for God's sake speak comfortable 
 words! ' But York, though he had donned his 
 gorget as if for war, could only wring his hands 
 and cry feebly that he was old, and ' Why am I, 
 so weak that I can scarce support myself, left to 
 underprop my nephew's kingdom? Would to God 
 he had cut my head off first! Have no posts been 
 despatched for Ireland? How are we to find 
 money? Sure I cannot tell what to do in this 
 tangle ... on one side the King, my kins- 
 man, whom oath and duty bid me defend; on the 
 other, Bolingbroke, my kinsman too, whom the 
 King has wronged. . . . Well, something must 
 be done! Gentlemen, muster your forces and 
 meet me at Berkeley. I ought to be at Plashy 
 where my brother Gloucester's wife is lying dead 
 at this moment. Biit there's no time; everything 
 is at sixes and sevens! ' 
 
 Clearly there was little to be hoped of so ram- 
 141 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 Wing a commander; and no sooner had he de- 
 parted than Bushy, Bagot, and Green resolved to 
 save themselves by flight. Green and Bushy 
 posted off for Bristol; Bagot to take advantage 
 of the fair wind for Ireland — the wind which at 
 once hastened the ill news towards the King and 
 hindered his own return. 
 
 There was good cause for their dejection and 
 terror. Escorted by Northumberland and his 
 forces, Bolingbroke marched unimpeded down and 
 across England from Ravenspurgh to Berkeley in 
 Gloucestershire. Here with some show of boldness 
 old York challenged his advance, and in an inter- 
 view which he opened with great dignity upbraided 
 his nephew roundly with this bold act of treason. 
 Henry, whose action spoke for itself, was humble 
 enough in words. ' My gracious uncle, in what 
 have I offended? I am Lancaster now; but my 
 rights and revenues have — yourself knows how un- 
 justly — been plucked from me and given away to 
 unthrifty upstarts. I ask for my legal rights 
 only; but lawyers are denied me, and therefore 
 I am come to lay my claim in person.' Behind 
 all this, and behind the pleas urged on York by 
 the other disaffected lords, stood the real argument 
 which all were too polite to hint at — Bolingbroke's 
 
 troops. York hemm'd and ha'd. ' Well, I can't 
 
 142 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 prevent you; but if I could I call Heaven to wit- 
 ness that I would. Since I cannot, I call you to 
 witness that I am neutral. So fare you well — 
 unless it please you to enter the castle here and 
 repose you for the night.' ' An offer,' answered 
 Bolingbroke smoothly, ' which we will accept. 
 But we must persuade you a little further — and 
 that is, to go with us to Bristol Castle, where I 
 hear that Bushy, Bagot, and the rest of these 
 caterpillars of the commonwealth have sought 
 shelter.' ' May be, may be,' answered old York, 
 who knew himself in no condition to refuse. 
 ' Things past redress are past care,' was now the 
 one reflection in which he could find any com- 
 fort. 
 
 There remained a last hope for Richard in the 
 "Welsh army, forty-thousand strong, which the 
 Earl of Salisbury had collected in Wales. But 
 already this strong force was weakening. A re- 
 port ran among them that the King was dead; 
 and in their superstitious minds this was confirmed 
 by a dozen idle omens. A blight had fastened on 
 all the bay-trees in the country, the heaven was 
 full of meteors, the moon had taken a bloody tinge, 
 and prophets whispered that such signs infallibly 
 foreran the death of kings or their fall. One thing 
 
 was certain; the King delayed to return. And 
 
 143 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 before he landed on the "Welsh coast, this army, 
 which might have saved him, had melted away. 
 
 But as yet Richard knew nothing of the extent 
 of these disasters. On his landing he wept for 
 joy and touched the very earth affectionately, com- 
 paring himself to a mother who re-greets her child 
 after a long absence and plays fondly with her 
 tears and smiles at meeting. And in truth this 
 was Richard's way; whether glad or sorry, he must 
 play with his feelings and dress them up in fine 
 words, and dandle and make a show of them. 
 ' Nay, do not mock me, my lords,' said he (for 
 they could not always conceal their impatience of 
 this pretty habit) ; ' this earth shall have a feel- 
 ing and these stones turn to armed soldiers sooner 
 than see her native King falter under foul re- 
 bellion.' ' No doubt, no doubt,' answered in effect 
 the trusty Bishop of Carlisle ; ' but none the less 
 we had better be using all the means which Heaven 
 puts in our way.' And old York's son, the Duke 
 of Aumerle, hinted even more roughly that this 
 was no time for dallying. Kichard turned on him 
 petulantly : ' Discomf ortable cousin ! knowest thou 
 not that thieves and robbers range abroad boldly 
 in darkness; but when the sun confronts them 
 and plucks the cloak of night off their backs, they 
 stand bare and naked and tremble at themselves! 
 144 
 
KING EICHARB THE SECtN» 
 
 So, when I confront him, shall this traitor Boling- 
 broke tremble at himself and his sins. Not all the 
 water in the rough rude sea has power to wash the 
 balm from an anointed King, nor can the breath 
 of worldlings depose the Lord's elected deputy. 
 For every man impressed to aid Bolingbroke, God 
 hath in his pay a glorious angel to fight for 
 Richard ! ' 
 
 The entrance of the Earl of Salisbury inter- 
 rupted these big words. ' Ah, my lord, welcome ! ' 
 Richard greeted him. ' How far off lies your 
 power? ' meaning the Welsh army. 'Alas,' was 
 the desperate answer, ' no nearer and no farther 
 off than this my weak arm. My gracious lord, 
 you have come one day too late. Call back yester- 
 day and you shall have twelve thousand fighting 
 men. But to-day that army is gone. It heard that 
 the King was dead, and has fled to make friends 
 with Bolingbroke.' 
 
 At this ominous news the blood left Richard's 
 cheeks; but at a word from Aumerle he recovered 
 himself. 'Am I not King? Is not the King's 
 name twenty thousand men? Arm then, my 
 name, against this puny subject! Have I not 
 York, too? And has not York power enough to 
 serve my turn? ' 
 
 But his high tone sank again as he caught sight 
 145 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 of a new messenger, Sir Stephen Scroop, with ill- 
 tidings written on his face; and (as men will) he 
 tried to meet the blow he saw coming, and to 
 soften it by talking humbly. 'At the worst it 
 will be worldly loss. Suppose my kingdom lost. 
 Why, then, my care goes with it. Will Boling- 
 broke be great as we? He shall not be greater; 
 for if he serve God, we'll serve Him too.' 
 
 Poor flimsy arguments — and not even honest 
 ones — to fortify a king's mind! For Scroop's tale 
 was of disaster. ' Bolingbroke covers the land 
 with steel, and hearts harder than steel. Not 
 strong men only, but greybeards, boys, thy very 
 almsmen, yea, even women, are running to him.' 
 ' What — what of my friends, the Earl of Wilt- 
 shire, Bushy, and Green? Have they made peace 
 with Bolingbroke ? ' ' They have made peace ' — 
 began Scroop. ' O villains, vipers! ' broke in the 
 King, and fell to cursing them for dogs and 
 Judases. As he took breath, Scroop explained 
 that the peace these unhappy men had made was 
 not this world's peace. Bolingbroke had taken 
 them prisoners at Bristol, and already the grave 
 covered them. * But where,' asked Aumerle, ' is 
 my father, the Duke of York, with his power? ' 
 ' No matter where,' cried despondent Richard, and 
 
 began again to play with his misery. ' Let us talk of 
 14fi 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 graves, worms, epitaphs — nothing but sorrow! For 
 God's sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad 
 stories of the death of kings, and of Death, the 
 King of kings! ' and so forth. ' My lord,' said 
 the Bishop of Carlisle impatiently, ' wise men 
 never sit and wail their woes, but seek to meet 
 and prevent them; ' and ' Yes,' said Aumerle once 
 more, ' ask of my father York; he has a force to 
 help you.' Richard, as easily elated as cast down, 
 caught at the suggestion he had rejected a minute 
 before. ■ He was not only hopeful again, but con- 
 fident. ' Thou chidest me well; to win our own is 
 an easy task. Say ' — he turned on Scroop — ' where 
 is our uncle York with his power? Speak sweetly, 
 man, though thou lookest sourly! ' 'Alas! ' said 
 the messenger, ' I look as I feel, and my tale is 
 like a torture applied little by little. Your uncle 
 York has joined Bolingbroke; your northern cas- 
 tles have fallen to him, and your southern gentle- 
 men-in-arms have gone over to his side.' Under 
 this last blow of all Richard weakly faced around 
 on Aumerle. ' Beshrew thee, cousin, for leading 
 me to comfort when I was so sweetly on the way 
 to despair! By heaven, I'll hate him for ever who 
 speaks another word of comfort! Discharge my 
 followers! Let them hence from me to Boling- 
 broke! ' 
 
 147 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 In this spirit the unhappy Xing set forth on 
 his way to Mint Castle, where he was scarcely in- 
 stalled before Bolingbroke arrived with drums and 
 colours and a force which included the willing 
 Northumberland and the unwilling York. It was 
 Harry Percy (or Hotspur, as men called him for 
 his brave and heady temper), Northumberland's 
 son, who brought the news that King Richard lay 
 within the castle. Bolingbroke at once ordered a 
 parley. His trumpet sounded and was answered, 
 and presently Richard himself appeared on the 
 walls, with the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Salis- 
 bury, Scroop, and the rest of his followers. 
 
 Bolingbroke did not himself advance to the 
 parley, but remained below the walls and with- 
 drawing a little apart sent Northumberland for- 
 ward to be his spokesman. As this rough noble 
 advanced, unceremoniously enough, the King drew 
 himself up and his eye (as even the watchers be- 
 low could see) flashed like an eagle's. There was 
 a pause, and ' We are waiting, my lord,' said Rich- 
 ard : ' You forget, it seems, the duty of kneeling 
 to your lawful King. If we be not that, show us, 
 pray, the hand of God that hath dismissed us from 
 our stewardship. Go, tell Bolingbroke — who me- 
 thinks stands yonder — that every stride he makes 
 upon my land is dangerous treason. He is come 
 
 148 
 
KING EICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 to open war as it were a testament bequeathing 
 him a crown; but before he enjoys that crown in 
 peace, ten thousand bloody crowns of mother's 
 sons shall change the complexion of England to 
 scarlet indignation.' 
 
 To this Northumberland gave a smooth answer. 
 ' Heaven forbid our lord the King should so be 
 assailed! Nay, Bolingbroke begs leave rather to 
 kiss thy hand and swear that he comes only to sue 
 for his revenues and his restoration as a free sub- 
 ject. This granted, he swears to lay aside his arms ; 
 and, as I am a gentleman, I believe him.' 
 
 ' Then tell him,' said Richard, ' that he is wel- 
 come, and his demands shall be granted,' — a gall- 
 ing answer for a monarch to utter, yet a wise one; 
 for, as Aumerle said, ' We must fight with gentle 
 words till time lend us friends and sharper wea- 
 pons.' 
 
 And it was an answer which yet gave Richard a 
 chance, had he kept a cool head. Eor by holding 
 Bolingbroke to his oath he could have forced him to 
 choose between disbanding his amy and seizing the 
 King by force and so proclaiming himself a breaker 
 of his word. But the sight of Northumberland re- 
 turning so agitated him that he let slip the very offer 
 which Bolingbroke dearly wished to receive, but 
 hardly yet dared to demand. ' Must the King sub- 
 
 149 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 mit? ' lie cried. ' The King shall do it. Must he 
 be deposed and lose the name of King ? Why, then, 
 let it go ! ' And turning to Aumerle, who could not 
 withhold his tears (for many men yet loved Richard 
 in spite of his waywardness), he confessed most piti- 
 fully and in words that might have moved a stone 
 that his spirit was broken. ' Let me now change 
 my jewels for a set of beads, my palace for a her- 
 mitage, my gay apparel and my sceptre for an alms- 
 man's gown and such a staff as palmers carry, my 
 large kingdom for a little grave — a little grave and 
 obscure. Or bury me rather in the king's highway, 
 some way of common traffic, where subjects' feet 
 may trample, hour by hour, on their sovereign's 
 head. Nay, my weeping cousin, let us weep to- 
 gether, and make a pretty match of our weeping. 
 Shall we drop our tears until they fret a pair of 
 graves for us to lie in, and men write over us how 
 we dug them? ' 
 
 While he played with these poor sorrowful fan- 
 cies, came Northumberland with word that Boling- 
 broke desired to speak with his Majesty in the base- 
 court below. The King descended; and, when the 
 invader met him with due homage, would not suffer 
 him to kneel. ' My gracious lord,' said Boling- 
 broke, ' I come but for my own.' ' Your own is 
 yours,' Richard answered, ' and I am yours, and all 
 150 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 is yours. "We must do what force will have us do; 
 and that, cousin, is to set on towards London, is it 
 not? ' ' Yea, my good lord.' ' Then I must not 
 say no,' sighed the King. 
 
 To London accordingly he was escorted, in name 
 still King of England; but what he was in fact his 
 reception there told only too surely. For, as the 
 citizens crowded to their casements, all their eyes 
 were for Bolingbroke, who rode ahead on a mettle- 
 some horse — Richard's own horse, too, Roan Bar- 
 bary by name — which paced as if proud of its new 
 master; all tongues cried ' God save Bolingbroke! ' 
 and Bolingbroke answered their salutations with 
 bared head, bowing to this side and that. As it is 
 on the stage when a well-graced actor leaves it and 
 is succeeded by one whom the audience holds tedi- 
 ous, so poor Richard followed, drooping beneath the 
 scowls of his ' faithful subjects.' No joyful tongue 
 gave him welcome. No man cried ' God save Rich- 
 ard! ' But some even cast dust down upon his 
 anointed head, dust which he shook off with a gen- 
 tler, simpler sorrow than he was presently to show 
 in laying off his crown. 
 
 For it was to come to this. Shortly, at "Westmin- 
 ster, old York — who was learning his lackey-like 
 business of compliance more and more easily — 
 brought Bolingbroke word that Richard willingly 
 151 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 resigned his sceptre to the ' great Duke of Lancas- 
 ter.' ' And long live Henry the Fourth! ' wound 
 up this venerable time-server. 
 
 ' In God's name, then, I ascend the throne,' re- 
 plied Bolingbroke. 
 
 One voice only challenged his right — the voice of 
 the trusty old Bishop of Carlisle, who, stirred up by 
 God, as he asserted, boldly and at risk of his head 
 protested against this dethronement as a sin against 
 God, and prophesied the wars and bloodshed that 
 this division of house against house would bring up- 
 on England in the end. ' Well have you argued, 
 sir,' sneered Northumberland; ' and for your pains 
 we arrest you of high treason.' 
 
 He was answered yet more effectually by the en- 
 trance of Richard, who humbly offered Henry the 
 crown; and yet with a last reluctance which Henry 
 bore down by quietly pinning him back from his 
 wandering sentences to the point, ' Are you, or are 
 you not, contented to resign? ' and with many pretty 
 sad speeches too, which Henry (having gained his 
 point) treated now with some humour and little cere- 
 mony, while Northumberland would have forced the 
 King to read over the bald confession of his mis- 
 government. Unable to keep the dignity of king- 
 ship, Richard would fain have dallied with the dig- 
 nity of his sorrow. ' If my word be sterling yet in 
 153 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 England, let it command that a mirror be brought 
 to show me what face I have, since it is bankrupt of 
 its majesty.' ' Go somebody, and fetch him a look- 
 ing-glass,' commanded Bolingbroke, with brief and 
 biting contempt. It was brought. ' Was this the 
 face that every day kept under its household roof 
 ten thousand men? This the face that faced so 
 many follies, and was at last outfaced by Boling- 
 broke? Brittle glory and brittle face! ' Richard 
 dashed the glass on the ground. ' I have done. I 
 beg one boon, and will afterwards trouble you 
 no more.' ' Name it.' ' Your leave to go.' 
 ' Whither? ' ' Whither you will, only to be out of 
 your sight.' ' Go, some of you, convey him to the 
 Tower.' 
 
 We left Richard's young Queen alone with her 
 attendants and her foreboding heart. One day, as 
 the poor lady sat with two of her maids in the Duke 
 of York's garden at Langley, she heard the garden- 
 ers chatting as they went about their pruning and 
 weeding; and one began to contrast their well- 
 ordered plot of ground with England — ' our sea- 
 walled garden,' as they called it, — so full of weeds, 
 so unkempt, unpruned, with her hedges ruined, her 
 flower-knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs 
 swarming with caterpillars. ' Hold thy peace,' the 
 
 153 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 head-gardener chid him. ' He who allowed this dis- 
 ordered spring has now himself met with autumn 
 and the fall of leaf; and the weeds which his once- 
 spreading leaves sheltered — Wiltshire, Bushy, and 
 Green — are by this time plucked up root and all.' 
 ' What, are they dead? ' * They are, and Boling- 
 broke has seized the King himself. 'Tis doubt he 
 will be deposed before long. Letters arrived last 
 night for a dear friend of the Duke of York's, and 
 they tell black tidings.' 
 
 The Queen, listening in the shadow of the trees, 
 heard all that was said, and came running forward 
 all distraught. ' Wretch! Where got you this ill 
 news? ■ Speak! ' ' Alas! madam, and pardon me; 
 it is all true.' 
 
 Poor lady! She hurried to London, in time to 
 
 post herself with her attendants in the street along 
 
 which in a little while Richard came with the guard 
 
 escorting him to the Tower. In her eyes, if not in 
 
 others, he was kingly still. ' Ah, see him . . . 
 
 nay, rather, do not see him, my fresh rose withered; 
 
 and yet, look up and behold him, that your eyes may 
 
 dissolve to dew, and wash my rose fresh again with 
 
 true-love tears ! ' ' Sweet,' said Bichard, catching 
 
 sight of her and halting, ' this is Necessity, to whom 
 
 I am now sworn brother. Hie thee to France, and 
 
 there hide thee in some religious house, and learn 
 154 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 to think of our former state as a happy dream. We 
 two must win a heavenly crown now in place of the 
 crown we squandered here.' 
 
 Was this her royal husband, answering so tamely? 
 Even her eyes of love could see that it was a changed 
 Richard — changed in more than estate. ' What ! ' 
 she cried, ' is thine intellect deposed too ? Hath 
 Bolingbroke usurped even thy heart? Does not the 
 dying lion thrust forth a paw and wound the earth, 
 if nothing else, in his noble rage at being over- 
 powered ? And wilt thou take thy correction mildly 
 and kiss the rod and fawn — thou, the lion of Eng- 
 land? ' 
 
 She could not rouse him. ' Go,' he answered, 
 ' think that I am dead, and that here, as from my 
 death-bed, thou takest leave for the last time.' And 
 he fell to fancying how her tale would move hearers 
 in foreign lands, as she sat by the late winter's fire 
 with good old folks and listened to their stories of 
 woeful happenings in ages long ago, and in requital 
 told them the lamentable history of Richard, and 
 sent them weeping to their beds. ' For,' said he, 
 dwelling with the fancy, ' the very brands on the 
 hearth will weep the fire out, and will mourn, some 
 in ashes, some coal-black, for the deposing of a right- 
 ful king.' 
 
 Their leave-taking was bluntly broken short by 
 155 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Northumberland, with news that Bolingbroke had 
 now changed his mind and Richard must go, not to 
 the Tower, but to Pomf ret Castle in Yorkshire. An 
 order too had come that the Queen must depart for 
 France with all speed. 
 
 ' Northumberland,' said Eiehard, ' the time shall 
 not be long before thou, who hast planted an un- 
 rightful King, wilt desire to pluck him wp again.' 
 
 ' My guilt be on my head,' was the short reply. 
 ' Take your leave and part.' 
 
 ' Come then, my wife, let me unkiss our married 
 oath — and yet not so, for it was made with a kiss. 
 Part us, Northumberland; me towards the shiver- 
 ing north; my wife to France, whence she came to 
 me adorned like May-time, and whither she returns 
 like Hallowmas with its short daylight.' 
 
 ' Must we be divided? Must we part? ' pleaded 
 the Queen. ' Ah ! banish us both, or let me go 
 whither he goes ! ' 
 
 But this was not allowed. With fond, unhappy 
 speeches they kissed and tore themselves asunder, 
 not to meet again in this world. 
 
 For even with Richard in prison Bolingbroke was 
 hardly secure, and his friends felt that he was not 
 secure. Already the Abbot of "Westminster, with 
 Aumerle, Salisbury, and others of Richard's friends, 
 had hatched a plot against the new King. 
 15G 
 
KING EICHAED THE SECOND 
 
 It came, indeed, to nothing. Old York, discov- 
 ering his son Aumerle's share in the conspiracy, lost 
 no time in denouncing him to Bolingbroke. A dif- 
 ferent father this from old John of Gaunt, who had 
 so heroically, yet sorrowfully, voted his son's banish- 
 ment! Henry was not to be scared by plotters of 
 this order; and at the Duchess of York's intercession 
 he pardoned Aumerle, who lived to become Duke 
 of York in his turn and, later, to find a brave man's 
 end on the great field of Agincourt. The Bishop 
 of Carlisle, too, was pardoned, as his straight and 
 fearless loyalty deserved. And with the death of 
 the grand conspirator, the Abbot of Westminster, 
 and the execution of Salisbury and some of the lesser 
 men, this small rebellion flickered out. 
 
 But while Richard lived Henry's fears must live 
 too ; for any uprising would find an excuse in him, 
 helpless prisoner though he might be. A certain 
 knight, Sir Pierce of Exton, catching up some un- 
 guarded word of Henry's, resolved to set this fear to 
 rest for ever. 
 
 In his prison at Pomfret Richard was already 
 schooling himself to bear his calamity. For even 
 calamity can be carried with an air, and — king or 
 captive — a man of his nature must be a figure. 
 Friends to visit him he -had none but a faithful 
 groom of his stable, who came with hardly-won 
 
 157 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 leave to look upon the face of his latetfoyal master; 
 for Bichard, with all his faults and weakness, was a 
 lovable man, and could inspire devotion. The poor 
 groom could talk of little besides horses, but his sym- 
 pathy was none the less honest for that, and none the 
 less grateful. 
 
 While they talked a keeper entered with a dish. 
 ' My lord,' he said, setting it down, ' will it please 
 you to fall to? ' ' Taste of it first,' answered Rich- 
 ard, who feared poison; and indeed it was the man's 
 custom to do so; but this time he refused. ' My 
 lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately 
 came from the King, commands the contrary.' 
 ' The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee ! ' 
 cried Eichard, and began to beat him soundly. 
 ' Help ! help ! help ! ' cried the keeper. And at 
 this signal the door flew open, and Sir Pierce of Ex- 
 ton, with his armed servants, stood on the threshold. 
 
 With that Richard knew that his hour had come. 
 Weak as his will might be, he had never lacked 
 bodily courage; it has never been the way of Eng- 
 lish kings to lack it. In his youth he had faced a 
 crowd of armed rebels under Wat Tyler, and cowed 
 them with rare fearlessness; and the same spirit was 
 alive in him yet. He snatched an axe from the first 
 servant and clove him down with it. ' Go thou, 
 and fill another room in hell! ' he shouted, turning 
 158 
 
KING RICHARD THE SECOND 
 
 on a second and smiting him dead. But this was 
 his last blow. Before he could recover, Exton beat 
 him to the ground with a fatal stroke. 
 
 Thus died Bichard the Second, more nobly than 
 he had lived. ' I hate the murderer, love him the 
 murdered,' said Henry, when the coffin was brought 
 to him at Windsor; and perhaps he was sincere. 
 England had stood sorely in need of a firm and sol- 
 dierly king, and now she had one. But the crown 
 had come to him through bloodshed, and not with- 
 out treason; and men who inclined to question the 
 future saw the punishment for these things looming 
 there sullenly, though as yet afar off. 
 
 159 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 Bolingbeoke, now King Henry the Fourth, found 
 no ease and little happiness in the throne to which 
 he had made his way so crookedly. To begin 
 with, Eichard's death did not leave him the right- 
 ful successor. This was a youth named Edward 
 Mortimer, grandson of the Earl of March, who 
 had married Philippa, daughter of Lionel Duke of 
 Clarence. This Lionel was the third, John of 
 Gaunt (Henry's father) the fourth, of Edward III. 'a 
 sons; and therefore, while young Edward Mortimer 
 lived, the title of Henry was a faulty one. 
 
 He rested it, however, not on law but on the good- 
 will of his subjects. We have seen how as Boling- 
 broke he courted the opinions and flattered the hopes 
 of Englishmen of all degrees. These hopes and 
 opinions had given him the crown. He was the 
 popular king; and now he must approve the peo- 
 ple's choice by governing to please them. 
 
 Unfortunately by doing so he could not avoid of- 
 160 
 
KING HENRY THE EOUKTH 
 
 fending the great nobles who had helped to exalt 
 him; and especially the rough Earl of Northumber- 
 land, whom Richard had warned ' the time will not 
 be long before thou who hast planted an unrightful 
 king shalt be longing to pluck him up again.' There 
 was nothing these feudal barons desired so little as 
 to see the privileges of the common folk extended; 
 for each was a little king in his own territory and a 
 law to himself. But this happened to be just the 
 mischief which Henry's first Parliament set about 
 correcting, and in the course of its stormy debates 
 no less than forty gauntlets of defiance were flung 
 down on the floor of the House. We stand now at 
 the beginning of the struggle which the Wars of the 
 Roses completed by utterly breaking up the old 
 feudal system. The first heavy blows against that 
 system were dealt by this Parliament of Henry's. 
 Bit by bit the Commons increased their power. 
 Parliament took upon itself authority to declare 
 what was treason and what was not; it forbade gov- 
 ernment by packed assemblies; it voted the supplies 
 of money and claimed to know how they were spent; 
 it tried to restrain the insolence of the great lords by 
 forbidding any person except the King to give liv- 
 eries to his retainers. 
 
 Naturally the barons began to ask themselves why 
 they had seated this man on the throne, to consider 
 161 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 they had been tricked, and to feel sore about it. 
 And Henry, who read their thoughts, knew that he 
 had no answer to give. But above all, the death of 
 Richard lay on his conscience and haunted him con- 
 tinually. In two years this burden had changed 
 ' mounting Bolingbroke ' into an old man shaken 
 and wan with care; too much the man to faint or 
 turn back from the path marked out for him, yet 
 conscious all the while of a heavy debt which must 
 be discharged some day, and praying that the settle- 
 ment might be deferred. 
 
 Two years before, when the news of Richard's 
 murder was first brought to him, he had meditated 
 a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to expiate his guilt; 
 but civil discord had kept him at home, and the pur- 
 pose was yet unfulfilled. Now in a short breathing 
 space his thoughts turned again to a crusade against 
 the pagans in the 
 
 ' holy fields 
 Over whose acres walked those blessed feet 
 Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed 
 For our advantage on the bitter cross.' 
 
 But again while his Council discussed the expedi- 
 tion came news to unsettle it. One Owen Glen- 
 dower, a Welshman and descendant of Welsh 
 princes, had been educated in London, and had 
 162 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUKTH 
 
 served as an esquire at the Court of Kicharcl II. In 
 wrath at his master's death and the confiscation of 
 his own estates, he had raised a revolt in Wales, and 
 his harrying of the English border called out the 
 forces of the shire of Hereford to resist him, under 
 the command of Sir Edmund Mortimer, uncle of 
 that Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, whom we 
 spoke of just now as legal heir to the throne. The 
 encounter ended in a defeat of the English, over a 
 thousand of whom were slain, and their dead bodies 
 barbarously mutilated by the savage women of 
 Wales. Sir Edmund himself fell into Glendower's 
 hands. Close upon this came tidings from the 
 North, more cheerful indeed, yet not wholly pleas- 
 ing to Henry. A-Scottish invasion had been rough- 
 ly checked by a defeat on ISTesbit Moor; but that 
 brave Scot and inveterate foe of the Percies, Archi- 
 bald Earl of Doiiglas, had vowed vengeance, and 
 invading England three months later, was faced at 
 Holmedon (now Humbleton, in Northumberland) 
 on Holy-rood day by the English under young 
 Harry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, and was there ut- 
 terly routed with the loss of ten thousand men, in- 
 cluding three-and-twenty Scottish knights. Doug- 
 las himself lost an eye in the fight; and five hundred 
 prisoners fell into Hotspur's hands, including Mor- 
 dake (Murdach) Earl of Fife, eldest son of Robert 
 
 163 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Duke of Albany, Eegent of Scotland, and the Earls 
 of Murray, Angus, and Athol. 
 
 Two thoughts at least poisoned Henry's pleasure 
 in this victory. In the first place it must increase 
 in the North the prestige of the House of Percy, al- 
 ready great enough to keep him uneasy. And sec- 
 ondly, whenever men spoke of the heir of that house, 
 Harry Hotspur, he could not help reflecting upon his 
 own graceless son, that other and very different 
 Harry, who seemed deaf to every call of honour, 
 and squandered his youth in taverns with all man- 
 ner of dissolute company. ' I would,' he groaned, 
 ' it could be proved that some fairy had changed our 
 two children in their cradles, and called mine Harry 
 Percy, his Harry Plantagenet ! ' And he would 
 try to dismiss the young scapegrace from his mind 
 as he turned wearily to his business of state. 
 
 The Percies at any rate held that the time had 
 come when they might bear themselves haughtily 
 towards Henry. The ransom of the prisoners taken 
 at Holmedon would amount to no small sum of 
 money; and when the King sent to claim them, his 
 messenger brought word that Hotspur flatly refused 
 to surrender any but Mordake, Earl of Eif e. In hot 
 displeasure the King sent again to summon him, 
 with his father Northumberland and his uncle Wor- 
 cester, to Windsor, to answer for this refusal. 
 164 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 To Windsor accordingly they came, but their 
 bearing was by no means humble. Worcester, in- 
 deed, who was ever a sour-minded noble, flatly told 
 Henry that the House of Percy deserved no such 
 treatment from one who owed his greatness to it, 
 and was promptly dismissed from the presence. 
 ' When we need your counsel we will send for you,' 
 said the King, and turned to Northumberland for 
 his explanation. ' The prisoners, my good lord,' 
 the Earl said, ' were not denied with the positive- 
 ness reported to you.' But here his son broke in 
 hotly. ' My liege, I denied no prisoners. But I 
 remember when the fight was over, and I leaning 
 on my sword breathless, exhausted, and dry with 
 rage and hard work, there came to me a certain lord, 
 neat, trimly dressed, clean shaven, and fresh as a 
 bridegroom. The fellow was scented like a milli- 
 ner, and kept sniffing at a pouncet-box he held 'twixt 
 finger and thumb, and smiling and chattering; and 
 as the soldiers went by carrying the dead bodies, he 
 rated them for unmannerly knaves to bring a 
 slovenly, ill-looking corpse between the wind and his 
 nobility. In this mincing speech of his he ques- 
 tioned me, and amongst the rest demanded my pris- 
 oners in your Majesty's name. Then it was that all 
 smarting, with my wounds taking cold, to be so pes- 
 tered with a coxcomb, I gave him out of my pain 
 165 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 and impatience some careless answer — he should, or 
 he should not — I forget what exactly. For he 
 made me mad, standing there so spruce and dapper, 
 scented and talking like a lady-in-waiting of guns 
 and drums and wounds — save the mark ! — and tell- 
 ing me that spermaceti was the sovereign'st remedy 
 on earth for an inward bruise, and " it was a great 
 pity, so it was, to dig that nasty saltpetre out of the 
 harmless earth to destroy many a good tall fellow so 
 cowardly! " and " but for these vile guns he would 
 have been a soldier himself." This empty, idle 
 chatter, my lord, I answered at random as I have 
 told you, and beseech you not to take his report as 
 any accusation of my love for your Majesty.' 
 
 ' Surely, my lord,' pleaded Sir Walter Blunt, a 
 gallant and loyal knight who stood among the listen- 
 ers, ' whate'er Lord Harry Percy said at such a time 
 and place, and to such a person, may reasonably be 
 forgotten and held in the circumstances void of of- 
 fence, if he be ready now to unsay it.' 
 
 ' But I tell you he still denies me his prisoners ! ' 
 insisted the King angrily; ' or surrenders them only 
 on condition that we promptly ransom at our own 
 cost his foolish brother-in-law Mortimer, now held 
 a prisoner by Glendower.' 
 
 This was indeed Hotspur's stipulation, and one 
 not at all pleasing to Henry. The King had no in- 
 166 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUETH 
 
 clination at all to spend money in buying home a 
 Mortimer of all persons in the world. And Morti- 
 mer did not seem to find his captivity intolerable, if 
 the news were true that he had actually married 
 Glendower's daughter. From this to the sugges- 
 tion that he had led his troops against Glendower 
 with the set purpose of betraying them was no very 
 long step, and Henry did not find it a difficult one. 
 ' Ask us to empty our coffers to buy back a traitor! 
 No; let him starve on the barren mountains! He 
 is no friend of mine who asks for one penny to ran- 
 som revolted Mortimer.' t 
 
 ' Revolted Mortimer ! ' Hotspur flared up at the 
 word. ' He never did revolt, my liege; never fell 
 off from you but by the fortune of war; and to that 
 his many wounds can bear witness — wounds which 
 he took in stubborn and bloody combat with Glen- 
 dower on the banks of Severn. Treachery never 
 yet took wounds of that sort, and therefore let him 
 not be slandered with revolt.' 
 
 ' Tut, tut! ' answered Henry lightly. ' Mortimer 
 fought no such combat; he durst as well have met 
 with the devil alone as with Owen Glendower. 
 Sirrah,' he wound up sharply, ' speak no more of 
 Mortimer. Send me your prisoners speedily, or you 
 shall hear from me in a fashion you won't care for. 
 
 My lord Northumberland, we give you and your 
 167 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 son leave to depart. Send us your prisoners, I re- 
 peat, or you will hear of it.' 
 
 With these words the King walked out, and left 
 Hotspur raging. ' If the devil come and roar for 
 his prisoners, I will not send them! ' He would 
 have run after Henry and shouted it, had not his 
 father and his uncle, who re-entered at the moment, 
 held him hack while they tried to make him hear 
 reason. ' Not speak of Mortimer! 'Zounds, I will 
 speak of him; aye, and let my soul want mercy if 
 I don't join with him and lift him as high as this 
 thankless King! He will have all my prisoners, 
 will he ? But when I urge him to ransom my wife's 
 brother, when I speak the name Mortimer, then his 
 countenance changes! ' 
 
 ' And good reason why,' Worcester put in quiet- 
 ly. ' Is not a Mortimer true heir to the crown, and 
 was he not so proclaimed by King Richard before 
 his death ? ' 
 
 ' Ay ? Then I don't blame this cousinly King for 
 wishing a Mortimer to starve on the barren moun- 
 tains! But you — you who set the crown on the 
 head of this forgetful man — will you go on to abet 
 this murder? Shall it be recorded of you that not 
 only did you pluck down the rose Bichard to plant 
 this thorn, this canker, this Bolingbroke — as you 
 did, and God forgive you for it ! — but suffered the 
 168 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 shame of being fooled and cast off by the man for 
 whom you stooped to do it? Nay, while there is 
 yet time redeem your good name and revenge your- 
 self on this King, who would pay his debt by plot- 
 ting to take your lives.' ' And so we will,' said 
 Worcester, ' if you will hearken to the secret I have 
 to whisper. But I warn you that what I propose 
 will be perilous.' ' Perilous? ' — Hotspur was off 
 again: ' Give me peril, adventure, anything so that 
 it wins honour! Set honour shining in the moon 
 and I will leap for her; sink her into unfathomed 
 depths of sea and I will dive for her and pluck her 
 up by the locks, so that I might have her for my 
 own ! It's this half -faced sharing of honour that I 
 cannot stomach.' 'Pray listen!' 'I cry your 
 mercy; proceed.' ' These Scottish prisoners, 
 
 then ' 'I'll keep them all, I tell you! By 
 
 heaven, he shall not have a single Scot of them, not 
 if a Scot would save his soul ! ' ' Nay, but listen ; 
 
 you shall keep those prisoners ' ' Nay, I will, 
 
 and that's flat ! He won't ransom Mortimer, won't 
 he? forbids me to speak of Mortimer! I swear I'll 
 catch him asleep and holla " Mortimer! " in his ear; 
 nay, I'll train a starling to say " Mortimer," " Mor- 
 timer," nothing but " Mortimer," all day long, and 
 make him a present of it to keep his anger going. 
 
 I'll make it my life's business to torment this Boling- 
 
 169 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 broke; and as for that Prince Harry, that son of his, 
 if I didn't think his father would thank me to be 
 rid of him, I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale." 
 Worcester was making for the door in despair. 
 ' Why, what a wasp-stung impatient fool thou art,' 
 cried Northumberland, ' that wilt listen to no tongue 
 but thy own ! ' ' Well, and it does sting me when I 
 hear of this vile politician and remember the candy 
 deal of courtesy the fawning dog proffered me once 
 at — where was it? — that place in Gloucestershire 
 where we helped to put him on the throne. How 
 went it? — " When my fortune shall be better estab- 
 lished," and " gentle Harry Percy," and " kind 
 cousin." The devil take such cozeners! say I. 
 God forgive me! x Let's have your tale, uncle; I've 
 done.' ' Nay, if you have not, start afresh. We 
 will stay your leisure.' ' I have done, I tell you.' 
 Hotspur flung himself into a chair, while Worcester 
 unfolded his plot. /"Briefly it was this — that Hot- 
 spur should return all his Scottish prisoners without 
 ransom and, crossing the border, on the strength of 
 this act of generosity invite his old foe the Douglas 
 to an alliance against Henry; that meanwhile Nor- 
 thumberland should visit and make cause with Kich- 
 ard Scroop, the powerful Archbishop of York, who 
 (it was understood) bitterly resented the death of 
 his brother, William, Earl of Wiltshire, at Boling- 
 170 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 broke's hands, and only waited an occasion to be 
 revenged; and finally, that these two forces should 
 unite with Glendower and Mortimer from Wales, 
 a- matter which Worcester charged himself to ar- 
 range presently when the time should be ripe. It 
 was a strong plot, as Hotspur allowed. It suited 
 his temper exactly, and soon the two Percies were 
 riding north to put their revenge into action. \ 
 
 Here we must leave them and go in search of that 
 Prince Harry of whom we have heard men speaking 
 from time to time, but speaking nothing to his 
 credit. While his father toiled and watched and 
 schemed to preserve the crown against other am- 
 bitious men who threatened it, we, shall find him at 
 ease entertaining his pet crony, an old, disreputable, 
 and immensely fat knight called Sir John Palstaff. 
 There was much good in this old fellow, or rather, 
 much that was amiable, in spite of his rascality and 
 loose living. He was, in fact, a gentleman; a poor 
 gentleman shaken loose from the lower degrees of 
 feudalism when that edifice began to rock and 
 totter. Shaken off, he had gone utterly astray, 
 wasting his clays in drinking and rioting among un- 
 worthy company, which in the end became a ne- 
 cessity to him. His round face and grotesque, fat 
 belly were familiar in every low London tavern, and 
 
 171 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 the butt of men far below him in birth and still far- 
 ther below him in honesty. Yet with all his in- 
 curable frailty he kept so large a heart and so sweet 
 a temper that at the sound of his infectious laugh 
 — never so ready as at his own expense — men felt 
 themselves drawn to him even in the act of despising 
 him. The Prince found him the rarest of com- 
 panions; for you could laugh at him, or laugh with 
 him, or even both together. 
 
 For the moment their pursuit of folly left them a 
 little repose, and for lack of anything better— or 
 worse — to do, Falstaff sat drinking, while the Prince 
 lounged and watched him. 
 
 ' Hal, what time of day is it, lad? ' demanded the 
 old Knight. 
 
 ' Thou art so fat-witted with drinking and snor- 
 ing after supper and sleeping upon benches after 
 noon that thou hast even forgotten to ask what it 
 concerns thee to know. What in the world hast 
 thou to do with the time of day? ' 
 
 'True; the night is the time for us, who take 
 
 purses. Sweet wag, let there be no gallows stand- ' 
 
 ing when thou art King. . Do not thou, when thou 
 
 art King, hang a thief. Phew ! ' he sighed, ' I am 
 
 as melancholy to-day as a gib cat. I prithee, Hal, 
 
 trouble me no more with vanity. I would to 
 
 Heaven thou and I knew where good reputations 
 172 
 
KING HENKY THE FOUKTH 
 
 could be bought. An old lord of the Council rated 
 me the other day in the street about you, but I 
 marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but 
 I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and 
 in the street too. But indeed thou art enough to 
 corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon 
 me, Hal — Heaven forgive thee for it! Before I 
 knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now I am, if 
 a man should speak truly, little better than one of 
 the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will. 
 I'll not forfeit my soul for any King's son in Chris- 
 tendom.' 
 
 The Prince looked across at him slily. ' Where 
 shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack? ' 
 
 ' 'Zounds, where thou wilt, lad. I'll make one, 
 call me a villain and cut off my spurs if I don't ! ' 
 
 ' I see a good amendment of life in thee,' laughed 
 his companion, ' from praying to purse-taking ! ' 
 
 Sir John grinned amiably. ' But hullo ! here 
 comes Poins. Now we shall know if that villain 
 Gadshill have made an appointment,' — this being 
 a notorious footpad named after a rise on the road 
 between London and Canterbury in evil repute for 
 highway robberies. And Poins indeed brought 
 word of an appointment at this very spot. ' My 
 lads, my lads, to-morrow morning by four o'clock 
 early at Gradshill! There are pilgrims going to 
 
 173 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding 
 to London with fat purses. I have masks for you 
 all. Bring your own horses. Gadshill spends to- 
 night at Kochester, and I have bespoke supper for 
 to-morrow night in Eastcheap. "We may do it as 
 secure as sleep.' 
 
 'I'll go,' promised Falstaff. .lSaL_wi. lt- thou 
 make one ? ' 
 
 ' What, I rob? laJkMJ^ Not I, by my faith.' 
 Prince Harry had no prejudice against playing the 
 madcap, but he kept a good share of commpnjsense^ 
 at the bottom of his follies, and highway robbery_ 
 was too serious a jest altogether. 
 
 ' Pll turn traitor then,' growled Falsjajff, ' when 
 thou art King,' and assured Jbhn— having a pun 
 handy as usual— that a man couldn't- be half a sov- 
 ereign if he dared not stand for ten shillings! But 
 Poins got rid of the old Knight with a promise to 
 persuade the Prince, and no sooner saw his fat back 
 turned than he whispered a plan which made Harry 
 rub his hands with delight. 
 
 So it was that w hile Harry Percy rode north with 
 a secret in his_ breast and a plot to be executed, Harry 
 Plantagenet took horse at nightfall "and £Qda.,SQil£h + ___ 
 with a secret and a plot of f ar merrier complexion. 
 
 It was four in the morning and pitch-dark, and 
 already in an inn-yard at Koghester the sleepy car- 
 174 ' 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 riers were shuffling about with lanterns and har- 
 nessing their horses. Gadshill, the highwayman, 
 who had slept in the house, was astir too, and soon 
 enough to learn from the chamber-man of the inn 
 (an accomplice) that in the party just setting forth 
 was a franklin, or yeoman, from the weald of Kent 
 with three hundred marks worth of gold 1 about him. 
 ' I heard him tell it to one of his company last night 
 at supper. Tbey are up already and calling for 
 eggs and butter; they will away presently.' 
 
 Gadshill smacked his lips. This was no ordinary 
 piece of business, and he could not hang for a job in 
 which, for sport's sake, no less a personage than the 
 Prince of Wales was " gracing the profession,' as he 
 put it. To-night he was in league with no sixpenny 
 rascals, but with the ' nobility and tranquillity.' 
 So he saddled his nag with a quiet mind, and ambled 
 off to Gadshill, where the Prince, Poins, and Fal- 
 staff were already at the rendezvous beside the dark 
 highway. Poins_had_taken ^advantage of the dark- 
 ness to untether Falstaff's horse, and tie him up at 
 a little distance; and the fat knight was fuming up 
 and down in search of him, while the other two lay 
 a few paces off and shook with laughter. ' Eight 
 yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles 
 afoot with me/ he groaned, as he waddled to and fro; 
 
 1 £200. 
 175 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 ' and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough. 
 A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true to one 
 another ! ' At length they whistled from their hid- 
 ing-place. ' Plague on you ! Give me my horse, 
 you rogues; give me my horse, and he hanged to 
 you!' 
 
 ' Keep quiet, youjfat jpaunch ! ' whispe red t he.. 
 Prince. ' Lie down, lay your ear to the grouiwL^and 
 listen if you can hear the tread of travellers.' 
 
 ' Lie down? Have you any levers to lift me up 
 againirTjdo? Good Prince Hal,' he wheedled, 
 'help me to my horse, good King's son! Treat- 
 ment like this, when a jest is so forward, and afoot 
 too ! I hate it.' 
 
 Just then Gadshill arrived with Bardolph and 
 Peto, two fellow-plotters he had picked up on the 
 way. ' On with your masks, quick! There's 
 money a little way behind us, and now coming down 
 the hill!' 
 
 The Prince made haste, and divided his company 
 on the plan arranged. Gadshill, Bardolph, Peto, 
 and Falstaff were to waylay the travellers close by 
 in the narrow lane. The Prince himself and Poins 
 would take their stand a little farther down the hill, 
 and pounce upon any who escaped. 
 
 ' How many be there of them? ' asked Peto. 
 
 ' Some eight or ten,' Gadshill reported. 
 176 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUETH 
 
 "Zounds!' Falstaff's voice had dismay in it. 
 'Won't they rob tts?' 
 
 But the footsteps were close by this time, and 
 with a whispered word or two Prince Harry and 
 Poins slipped off to their place of ambush. 
 
 Along came the unsuspecting travellers. They 
 had finished the toilsome ascent, and were giving 
 their horses over to the boy to lead down the hill 
 while they stretched their legs, when out sprang our 
 rascals from behind a thicket. ' Strike! ' bellowed 
 Sir John. 'Down with them! Cut the villains' 
 throats! Ah, you caterpillars, you bacon-fed 
 knaves! They hate us young fellows; down with 
 them! fleece them!' 
 
 The poor travellers, thrown into confusion, and 
 crying helplessly, were quickly robbed and secured. 
 ' Hang ye, you fat-bellied knaves ! Young men 
 must live! ' panted Falstaff, while this was doing. 
 The four seated themselves by the road to divide 
 their spoil before taking horse. 'If the Prince and 
 Poins be not two arrant, cowards there equity 
 
 stirring. There's no more valour in that Poins than 
 in a wild-duck ! ' 
 
 ' Your money! ' shouted a voice behind his 
 shoulder. ' Villains ! ' 
 
 They scrambled to their feet in the darkness. 
 
 Gadshill, Bardolph, Peto broke away and ran for 
 177 
 
o 
 
 TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 their lives; and Falstaff, after a blowjpxiwo, look 
 to his heels also, leaving the booty scatteredjnijhe 
 ground^ The Prince and Poins — for these and no 
 other were the assailants — flung themselves down 
 and laughed until they were tired. Still shaking 
 with laughter at the thought of the dismayed four 
 now running at the sound of each other's footsteps 
 — each taking the other in the darkness for a con- 
 stable — of Falstaff especially, larding the earth with 
 sweat as he shuffled along, the pair gathered up their 
 gains, climbed into saddle, and galloped away mer- 
 rily towards London. 
 
 But the cream of the jest, they promised them- 
 selves, was to come when Falstaff should make his 
 appearance next evening in Eastcheap, where Poins 
 had ordered supper at the Boar's Head. The 
 Prince and Poins were there early, you may be sure, 
 and whiled away the time at the expense of Francis, 
 a distracted waiter, whom the Prince held in talk, 
 while Poins played the impatient customer, and 
 kept bawling ' Francis ! ' from the next room. 
 'Francis! Francis!' 'Coming, sir! Coming!' 
 By this simple game they managed to drive the poor 
 fellow half out of his wits before letting him go. 
 
 The Prince flung himself into a chair. ' Men 
 
 take their pleasures differently. Now I am not yet 
 
 of that fellow Hotspur's mind — he that kills me 
 178 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 some six or seven dozen Scots at a breakfast, washes 
 his hands, and says to his wife, " Fie upon this quiet 
 life ! I want work." " My sweet Harry," says 
 she, " how many hast thou killed to-day? " " Give 
 my roan horse a drench," says he; and answers, 
 " Some fourteen," an hour after; " a trifle, a tri- 
 fle." ' 
 
 But here the door opened, and in walked Falstaff, 
 Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto, with the waiter at 
 their heels carrying wine. All four were footsore 
 and sulky, and Falstaff merely growled when Poins 
 bade him welcome. ' A plague of all cowards, I 
 say, and amen to it! Give me a cup of sack, boy. 
 A plague of all cowards ! ' He affected to disregard 
 the Prince and Poins and their greetings. ' Pah ! 
 this sack has been doctored too; there is nothing but 
 roguery to be found in villanous man; yet a coward 
 is worse than doctored sack. Go thy ways, old 
 Jack; die when thou wilt, for manhood, good man- 
 hood, is forgot upon the face of the earth. There 
 live not three good men unhanged in England, and 
 one of them is fat and grows old. A bad world, I 
 say. A plague of all cowards, I say still.' 
 
 ' How now, wool-sack? ' demanded Prince Harry. 
 ' "What are you muttering? ' 
 
 ' A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy 
 
 kingdomwith a dagger of lath, and drive all thy 
 
 179 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I'll 
 never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of 
 Wales!' 
 
 ' Why, what's the matter, you round man? ' 
 
 'Are you not a coward? answer me that: and 
 Poins there? ' 
 
 ' 'Zounds,' threatened Poins, ' call me coward 
 again, and I put a knife into your fat paunch.' 
 
 ' I call thee coward? I'll see thee further ere I 
 call thee a coward; but I would give a thousand 
 pounds if I could run as fast as thou canst. You are 
 straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who 
 sees your back. Call you that backing of your 
 friends? A plague on such backing! Give me a 
 sup of sack.' Palstaff drained another cup. ' A 
 plague of all cowards, still say I.' 
 
 ' What's the matter? ' asked the Prince again. 
 
 ' What's the matter ! There be four of us here 
 have taken a thousand pounds this very morning.' 
 
 ' Where is it, Jack? Where is it? ' 
 
 ' Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred 
 upon poor four of us.' 
 
 ' What, a hundred, man? ' 
 
 ' I am a rogue if I was not at close quarters with 
 a dozen of them two hours together. 'Twas a mira- 
 cle I escaped. I was eight times thrust through 
 the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut 
 180 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 through and through; my sword hacked like a hand- 
 saw — look for yourself ! I never fought better since 
 I was a man; but all no good. A plague of all 
 cowards! ' 
 
 The Prince, in mock bewilderment, appealed to 
 the others to tell their story, and all together 
 plunged into the outrageous concocted tale. ' We 
 
 four set upon some dozen ' ' Sixteen at least.' 
 
 ' And bound them.' ' No, they were not bound.' 
 ' Yes, they were bound, every man of them, or I'm 
 a Hebrew Jew.' ' As we were sharing some six or 
 
 seven fresh men set upon us ' ' And unbound 
 
 all the rest, and on they all came.' ' If I fought not 
 with fifty of them, I'm a bunch of radish.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear ' — the Prince kept a serious face — 
 ' pray Heaven you have not murdered some of 
 them! ' 
 
 ' Nay, that's past praying for. Two I am sure I 
 have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. See here, 
 Hal ' — Falstaff struck an attitude — ' thou knowest 
 my old guard ; well, I took it — so. Pour rogues in 
 buckram let drive at me ' 
 
 ' What, four? Thou saidst two a moment ago.' 
 
 ' Four, Hal; I told thee four. These four as- 
 sailed me in front, thrusting at me. I made no more 
 ado, but took all their seven points in my buckler, 
 
 thus.' 
 
 181 
 
I ^ TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ' Seven? Why just now there were but four.' 
 
 'In buckram? ' 
 
 ' That was it; four, in buckram suits.' 
 
 ' Seven, by my sword-hilt, or else I am a villain.' 
 
 ' Let him alone,' whispered Poins; ' we shall 
 have more presently.' 
 
 ' Dost thou hear me, Hal? That's right, for it is 
 worth the listening to. These nine men in buckram 
 that I told thee of ' 
 
 The Prince whistled softly. ' Two more al- 
 ready! ' 
 
 ' Their points being broken, began to give me 
 ground. I followed close, came in foot and hand; 
 and as quick as thought paid out seven of the 
 eleven! ' 
 
 'Monstrous!' groaned Harry. 'Eleven buck- 
 ram men out of two ! ' 
 
 ' But, as the devil would have it,' went on Pal- 
 staff, ' three accursed fellows in coats of Kendal 
 green came at my back and let drive at me ; for it 
 was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy 
 hand ' 
 
 'Well, of all the lies!' 
 
 'Eh? What? Art thou mad? Is not the truth 
 the truth?' 
 
 ' Why, how couldst thou know these men in Ken- 
 dal green, when thou sayst it was too dark to see thy 
 182 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 hand? Come, explain, pray.' And Poins joined in, 
 ' Explain Jack, explain.' 
 
 ' What, upon compulsion! Tell you on compul- 
 sion! Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons 
 were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no 
 man a reason upon compulsion — not I ! ' 
 
 'Enough, of this,' said the Prince; 'and now 
 listen to me. We two — Poins and I — saw you four 
 set upon four travellers, and bind them, and make 
 yourselves masters of their wealth. Mark, now, 
 how a plain tale shall put you down. Then we two 
 did set on jou four, and, with a word, outbraved you 
 and took your booty; ay, and have it. We can 
 show it to you here in the house. Why, Ealstaff, 
 you carried your fat paunch away and roared while 
 you ran as lustily as ever I heard bull-calf. And 
 you hack you sword like that, and say it was done in 
 fight ! Come, what trick can you find now to cover 
 your shame? ' 
 
 ' Ay, Jack,' echoed Poins, ' what trick can you 
 find now? ' \^ 
 
 Sir John stood abashed for just a moment; then a .| & ■• . 
 twinkle showed in a corner of his eye, and spread,^ jf \ 
 
 
 slowly over his fat features 
 
 ' By the Lord, I knew ye all the time! Why, 
 hear you, my masters, was it for me to kill the heir- ^ .yf, 
 apparent ? Should I turn upon a true Prince ? Why. " fi/ " 
 
 ,.'■' 
 
 183 ( ' • ,V; 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but be- 
 ware instinct! The lion will not touch the true 
 Prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward 
 upon instinct. I shall think the better of myself 
 and thee during my life ! But, lads, I am glad you 
 have the money. Shut the doors, hostess ! ' 
 
 But the hostess had a word of her own to say. 
 ' There was a nobleman of the Court at the door 
 would speak with the Prince.' 
 
 ' Give him money and send him packing,' said 
 the Prince, not willing to be interrupted. 
 
 Falstaff offered to take him an answer, and while 
 he was gone Bardolph and the others confessed how 
 the knight had hacked his sword with his dagger, 
 and persuaded them to tickle their noses with spear- 
 grass, and make them bleed, and smear their clothes 
 with the blood, to make believe it was all done in 
 fight. 
 
 But Falstaff came back with serious news. The 
 Prince hailed him lightly. ' Well, how now, fat 
 Jack? How long is't ago since thou sawest thine 
 own knee ? ' ' My own knee ? When I was about thy 
 years, Hal, an eagle's talons would have met round 
 my waist. I could have crept through an alderman's 
 thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief! it 
 blows a man up like a bladder! But there's villanous 
 news abroad. That was Sir John Bracy, sent by 
 184 
 
KING HENEY THE EOUKTII 
 
 your father; you must go to the Court in the morn- 
 ing. That mad Percy of the north, and that wizard- 
 fellow of Wales, Owen Glendower, and his son-in- 
 law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that 
 sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that never runs 
 away ' 
 
 ' Unless upon instinct, Jack.' 
 
 ' I grant ye, upon instinct. Well these, and one 
 Mordake, and a thousand blue bonnets more, are up 
 in arms. Worcester has stolen away to-night ; thy 
 father's beard is turned white with the news, and 
 you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mack- 
 erel. Tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly afraid? 
 Could the world choose for thee, as heir-apparent, 
 three worse enemies than Douglas, Percy, and Glen- 
 dower? ' 
 
 ' Afraid? Not a whit, Jack; I lack some of thy 
 instinct? 
 
 ' Well, well; thou wilt be horribly chid to-mor- 
 row, when thy father gives thee a talking-to. If 
 thou lovest me, practise an answer.' 
 
 Upon this, though the news was serious and the 
 time short, Prince Harry could not resist setting the 
 fat Knight in a chair to represent the King, and 
 rehearsing to-morrow's scene with him in mockery; 
 and afterwards taking the King's seat himself and 
 rating the corpulent old man as a headstrong youth, 
 
 165 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 rebuking him especially with his fondness for that 
 hoary old reprobate, Sir John Falstaff. While the 
 two were at this game a second knocking sounded on 
 the outer door, and the hostess came running to say 
 that the sheriff and watch were without, demanding 
 to search the house. Guessing what brought them, 
 the Prince cleared the room and had just time to 
 stow Sir John behind the arras hangings before the 
 sheriff appeared with the robbed carrier. 
 
 ' Pardon me, my lord,' explained the sheriff recog- 
 nising the Prince, ' but a hue and cry has followed 
 certain men to this house.' 
 
 'What men?' 
 
 ' One of them, my gracious lord, is a notorious 
 character — a gross, fat man.' 
 
 'Ha! I know whom you mean. He is not here, 
 but I will engage he shall call upon you by to-mor- 
 row dinner-time, and answer any charge you may 
 bring.' 
 
 ' There are two gentlemen, my lord, who have lost 
 three hundred marks in this robbery.' 
 
 ' That may be. If he have robbed them, he shall 
 be answerable ' ; and so with compliments the 
 Prince bowed the sheriff out. 
 
 But when he and Peto, the coast being clear, 
 
 pulled aside the arras, they found Sir John with his 
 
 double chin sunk on his chest. Tired out with his 
 186 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 last night's exertions, he had dropped sound asleep. 
 ' Search his pockets,' whispered the Prince ; but 
 Peto could find no money — only a tavern bill which 
 read: 
 
 s. d. • 
 Item, A capOn . . . , . .22 
 
 Item, Sauce 4 
 
 Item, Sack, 2 gallons . . . .58 
 Item, Anchovies and sack after supper . 2 6 
 Item, Bread Oi 
 
 ' O monstrous ! but one half -penny worth of bread 
 to this intolerable deal of sack! ' The Prince looked 
 down on the stertorous sleeper. ' Let him snore on. 
 It is late, and I must to Court in the morning. The 
 money stolen must be paid back with interest. We 
 
 a charg e of foot-soldiers ; I know the marching will 
 be the death of. him. Good morrow, Peto,' and 
 Prince Harry stepped out into the cold dawn. 
 
 -N 
 In truth the serious summons had come for him. 
 Hotspur had prospered in the affair which took him 
 north. Douglas had readily joined the conspiracy. 
 Northumberland had no difficulty in persuading the 
 Archbishop of York, who commended not only the 
 attempt but the plan of campaign. And Glendower 
 needed no persuasion, being already in active rebel- 
 
 187 
 
TALES FKOM/SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 lion against the King. By the Archbishop's advice 
 a paper was drawn up stating the several grounds 
 which justified the revolt, and copies of this were 
 secretly sent here and there throughout England to 
 those barons whose affection for Henry stood in 
 doubt. Many returned promises of help; though 
 it may be said here that their promises did not 
 amount to much on the day of trial. And indeed 
 the conspiracy held grave elements of weakness. It 
 had no roots in popular feeling; for the people as 
 a whole looked upon the King as their friend, and 
 justly; and read plainly enough in this revolt the 
 jealousy and disappointment of a few big nobles. 
 JSTor was it knit together by a common purpose. 
 Northumberland lagged behind his son, considering 
 how he might save himself in case of failure. 
 Douglas and Glendower had quite different aims; 
 and Glendower especially was about the last man 
 in the world Hotspur could understand. 
 - Hotspur worked hard, and for a while his impetu- 
 osity carried the movement along. His plans laid, 
 he set out for Wales ; and his wife (who had pleaded 
 vainly to be taken into his confidence) followed him 
 to Bangor, where she met' her brother. Mortimer 
 and his newly-wedded Welsh 1 wife in company 
 with Grle'ndower. and his wild troops. Worcester, 
 
 too, had arrived. But from the first it was clear 
 188 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 that Hotspur and Glendower could neither agree 
 nor tolerate each other. 
 
 „i_ We know what Hotspur was — a blunt, head- 
 strong, practical soldier, impatient of speech and 
 curt, almost brutal, of manner even towards his own 
 wife. Glendower was a fighter too, but he was also 
 a chieftain over a wild and superstitious race; a 
 dreamer and a visionary ; gentle toward women ; in- 
 sanely proud of his barbaric sovereignty, and touchy 
 at the least suspicion of ridicule; a romantic and 
 dignified savage thinly varnished by his youthful 
 training in the English Court. 
 
 So when the leaders met in council at the Arch- 
 deacon of Bangor's house, and began, with the map 
 between them, to parcel out the realm of England, 
 the first compliments were scarcely exchanged be- 
 fore Hotspur and Glendower began (as we say) to 
 rub each other's temper the wrong way. 
 
 ' Be seated, cousin Percy,' Glendower began 
 graciously; ' or let me say cousin Hotspur, for when 
 our enemy Lancaster hears tell of you by that name 
 he turns pale and wishes you in heaven.' 
 
 ' And you in hell whenever he hears of Owen 
 Glendower.' Hotspur bettered the compliment with 
 a brusque laugh. 
 
 But Glendower took it quite seriously. ' I cannot 
 blame him; at my nativity the heavens were full of 
 
 189 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 blazing stars, and the whole frame and foundation 
 of the earth quaked at my birth.' 
 
 ' Why so it would have done at the same season if 
 your mother's cat had but kittened, though you had 
 never been born.' 
 
 ' I say,' repeated Glendower solemnly, ' that the 
 earth shook when I was born.' 
 
 ' Did it ? Then I say that the earth.qpuldn't have 
 been of my mind, if it shook for fear of you.' 
 
 ' The heavens were on fire ; the earth trembled.' 
 
 ' Oh, then the eartibshook^^eejy^Jbejven^on 
 fire; that explains it. The earth suffers from those 
 spasms at times.' 
 
 ' Cousin,' Glendower reproved him, ' I do not 
 permit many to cross me as you are doing.' And 
 having no spark of humour, he went on to adduce 
 further proof that he was no ordinary man. 
 
 'I think no man speaks better Welsh.' Hotspur 
 soon had enough of this. ' I'll to dinner.' 
 
 ' Peace, cousin,' put in Mortimer, ' or you will 
 drive him mad.' 
 
 t ' I can call spirits out of the deep,' still went on 
 the sonorous Glendower. 
 
 ' Why so can I; so can any man. The question 
 is if they'll come when you call them.' 
 
 ' I can teach you to command the devil him- 
 self.' 
 
 190 
 
KING HENEY THE FOURTH 
 
 ' And I can teach you how to shame him. Tell 
 the truth and shame the devil — that's the way, 
 cousin.' 
 
 ' Thrice hath Henry Bolinghroke made head 
 against me; thrice from the banks of Wye and Sev- 
 ern have I beaten him home bootless and weather- 
 beaten.' 
 
 'Home without boots, and in foul weather! 
 How in the world escapes he the ague ! ' 
 
 Clearly Hotspur in this mood was intractable. 
 Even Glendower saw this at length, and picked up 
 the map sullenly. The Archdeacon of Bangor had 
 divided off the future realms of the three parties in 
 the revolt. To the Mortimers, as true heirs to the 
 throne, fell the whole of England south of Trent 
 and east of Severn. The Percies took the north of 
 England from Trent to the Scottish border, and 
 * Glendower his native Wales. But Hotspur was 
 now in a temper to pick holes in any arrangement. 
 ' It seems to me you have given me the smallest of 
 the portions; look at this river here, this Trent, wind- 
 ing into the best of my territory, and cutting out a 
 huge slice. I'll have the current dammed up here, 
 and cut a straight channel across. It shall not wind 
 so.' 
 
 'Hot wind? ' cried Glendower. ' But it shall, it 
 
 must; you see that it does.' 
 ""191 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' Then I'll see that it shall not ; it shall run 
 straight.' 
 
 Mortimer showed that another bend of the river 
 gave Hotspur back as much as the first took from 
 him. Worcester pointed out how a little engineer- 
 ing would make the channel straight. Glendower 
 would not hear of any alteration. ' Pray who will 
 deny me ? ' demanded Hotspur. ' I will.' ' Then 
 you had better say it in Welsh, so that I shall not 
 understand you.' ' I can speak English, my lord, 
 as well as you. Yes, and I learnt in the English 
 Court to turn many an English song to the harp, 
 and give a new ornament to your language; an ac- 
 complishment which I believe you never possessed.' 
 ' No, I'm glad to say, I'd rather be a kitten and 
 cry " mew ! " than be one of your ballad-mongers.' 
 Glendower gave him up in despair. ' Very well, 
 you shall have Trent turned.' ' Oh, as for that I ' 
 don't care ; I'd give thrice so much land to any friend 
 who deserved it; but when a man starts to bargain 
 with me, look you, I'll dispute to the ninth part of 
 a hair.' 
 
 The compact was given into the secretary's hands, 
 
 and Glendower withdrew with dignity, while the 
 
 two others expostulated with Hotspur for so crossing 
 
 the worthy gentleman. ' I cannot help it,' Hotspur 
 
 protested; ' he wearies and vexes me so with his lore 
 192 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUETH 
 
 and his crack-brained pretensions. He's worse than 
 a smoky house.' ' And yet, let me tell you,' said 
 Mortimer, ' my father-in-law has a real respect for 
 you, and curbs himself when you cross his humour 
 as he would for no other man in the world.' ' Well, 
 well, I am schooled,' said Hotspur, and bore him- 
 self good-humouredly enough until the moment of 
 departure — hours spent in that peaceful happiness 
 which made home so dear to Glendower, and was 
 enjoyed by him so rarely. It was small wonder that 
 Mortimer had fallen in love with his captor's daugh- 
 ter, and was loath now to leave his Welsh wife, 
 whose language was strange to him, as his was to her, 
 but who loved him and spoke it with tearful eyes 
 while she sang him the soft songs of her native land, 
 and he, laid on the rushes with his head on her lap, 
 looked up and forgot for a while that the campaign 
 called him and the moments were running away 
 towards his departure. Even Hotspur, that hater 
 of ballads and scorner of sentiment, was less brutal 
 than his wont in anouncing that the time was come 
 to take leave. 
 
 We left Prince Harry on his way to answer his 
 
 father's summons. The King wished to speak with 
 
 him alone, for he read the anger of Heaven in the 
 
 reports which reached him of his eldest son's mis- 
 
 193 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 conduct, and fully believed that in this was laid up 
 the punishment for his own past wrong-doing. ' My 
 father,' said the Prince, ' I would I could redeem 
 all my offences as thoroughly as I can prove myself 
 guiltless of many charged against me. But let me 
 beg this, that if I disprove many falsehoods brought 
 to your Majesty's ear by smiling but envious tat- 
 tlers, I may in return for some youthful faults which 
 I have indeed committed find pardon on making a 
 clean breast.' 
 
 ' May God pardon thee, Harry ! It is for me to 
 wonder how my son can so differ from his father and 
 all his blood. Struck out of the Council — thy place 
 there given to thy younger brother Clarence — all 
 but an alien to my Court and thy kindred of the 
 blood! — What wonder that men think upon what 
 they hoped and expected of thee before now, and 
 shake their heads prophetically? Had I made my- 
 self cheap as thou, should I ever have won the 
 crown? No; I husbanded myself, went abroad 
 rarely, and when I did people would point and say, 
 " This is he! " or ask, " Where? Which is Boling- 
 broke?" And with this I used such courtesy as 
 won their allegiance, so that they raised cheers for 
 me even in the King's presence. It was Bichard, 
 that skipping fellow, who made himself cheap and 
 familiar; ambling up and down with shallow com- 
 194 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 panions, laughing and sporting until the public eye 
 grew utterly tired of him. And thou, Harry, art 
 running the same gait. Not an eye but is aweary 
 of thee ' — the King sighed — ' save mine, which hath 
 yearned to see thee more ; which even now does what 
 I would not have it do, and grows dim with a foolish 
 tenderness.' 
 
 ' My gracious lord,' promised Harry, ' from this 
 time I will be more myself.' But the King had 
 more on his mind. That his son should be so dif- 
 ferent from Hotspur — there lay the wound which 
 gnawed him — that he should be driven to envy this 
 foe, and acknowledge him at every point superior 
 to his own Harry, his nearest and dearest enemy. 
 And in this bitterness he uttered a taunt equally 
 cruel and unjust. ' I could believe thou art base 
 enough, degenerate enough, through fear of him 
 or pettish wrath against me, to take Percy's pay and 
 fall in at his heels to fight against me ! ' 
 
 ' Do not think that ! ' cried Harry, shocked and 
 indignant. ' You shall not find it so ; and God for- 
 give those who have so warped your Majesty's good 
 thoughts from me ! There shall come yet the close 
 of a day when, wiping off the blood of battle and 
 with it my past disgrace, I shall be bold to tell you 
 I am your son. And that day shall be when this 
 much lauded Hotspur and your poorly thought-of 
 
 195 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 Harry come face to face. Before God, sir, he shall 
 render me up all my lost honours, if I have to tear 
 the reckoning from his heart. Trust me this once, 
 and I will die every death before breaking this 
 vow! ' 
 
 ' I will trust thee,' said the King slowly. 
 
 And the hour for proving that trust was at hand. 
 While father and son still looked each other in the 
 face, Sir Walter Blunt arrived with news that 
 Douglas and Percy had already joined forces at 
 Shrewsbury. Glendower would be following, and 
 old Northumberland might be despatching rein- 
 forcements at any moment. The Earl of West- 
 moreland and young Prince John of Lancaster were 
 already moving northward upon the rebels. ' On 
 Wednesday, Harry, you shall set forward; we our- 
 selves the day after. Let your line of march be 
 through Gloucestershire, and in twelve days' time 
 we should meet and join at Bridgenorth.' Smart- 
 ing from this interview, but flushed now with a new 
 resolve, Harry hurried off to prepare for the cam- 
 paign. 
 
 In his preparations he did not forget his old 
 
 promise to provide Falstaff with a command of foot. 
 
 That worthy just now was in a melancholy humour, 
 
 but doing his best to work it off by railing at Bar- 
 
 dolph's red nose, a feature which did much service 
 196 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 by engaging his attention in hours of slackness or 
 despondency. The images — biblical and other — 
 called up by it, the trains of thought suggested by it, 
 were endless. ' Thou art our admiral, thou bearest 
 the lantern in the poop. . . . When thou rannest 
 up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did 
 not take thee for a will-o'-the-wisp or a ball of wild- 
 fire there's no purchase in money. . . . Thou hast 
 saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, 
 walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and 
 tavern; but what thou hast drunk would have 
 bought me lights as cheap in the dearest chandler's 
 in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of 
 yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years, 
 Heaven reward me for it ! ' Sir John's commen- 
 tary was peculiarly rich and pungent to-day; the 
 fact (as he asserted) being that during his sleep he 
 had been robbed of several valuable bonds and 
 a seal-ring belonging to his grandfather. This 
 charge against the credit of her house Mistress 
 Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head, shrilly resent- 
 ed, and the dispute was hot when the Prince ar- 
 rived and proved the robbery to have been but a few 
 unpaid tavern-bills. As for the money taken from 
 the travellers, it had been paid back. ' Ah! ' quoth 
 Sir John, not in the least out of countenance; ' I do 
 not like that paying back ; 'tis a double labour.' But 
 
 197 
 
TALES FKOM- SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the Prince was in earnest now. Sir John must at- 
 tend in the Temple Hall to-morrow to receive his 
 commission and money for his equipment. Bar- 
 dolph must set out with a letter for Prince John of 
 Lancaster. ' To horse, Peto ; thou and I have thirty 
 miles yet to ride ere dinner-time.' These tavern 
 loafers took fire from him; their marching orders 
 had come, and in a day or two they with their bet- 
 ters had left London and were pressing northward 
 to Shrewsbury. 
 
 At Shrewsbury in the rebel camp all was not pros- 
 pering. Hotspur and Douglas had met in good 
 fighting trim, but Glendower had not arrived, and 
 worse still, Northumberland, whose name and influ- 
 ence in the north meant everything to their cause, 
 was either sick or feigning sickness, and marched 
 southward slowly, sending messages that his com- 
 ing must not be relied on. ' A bad time to be taken 
 sick,' grumbled "Worcester. ' His health was never 
 so valuable as it is just now.' Hotspur, for a mo- 
 ment depressed by the news, quickly recovered his 
 spirits. It would be no bad thing in case of mishap 
 to have a second force to fall back upon. Worces- 
 ter shook his head; the great Percy's hesitation 
 would have a moral effect — men would begin to 
 doubt and question. Hotspur and Douglas alike 
 scorned the notion of fear; and a report that the 
 193 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 royal forces were approaching set the former on fire 
 with impatience. Happiest of all was he to hear 
 that the Prince of Wales was coming; for in truth, 
 and for some time, these two Harrys had felt them- 
 selves to he rivals. Harry Percy might talk dis- 
 dainfully, hut the feeling was there. Harry, Prince 
 of "Wales, might listen to the other's praises with 
 affected carelessness, hut he had not heen too care- 
 less to mark and rememher even what kind of horse 
 Hotspur rode. While men contrasted them, fate 
 whispered to each of a day which should finally de- 
 cide between them — ' Harry to Harry, hot horse to 
 horse.' 
 
 So while Glendower tarried and Northumberland 
 sent malingering messages, the royal troops pressed 
 on towards Bridgenorth. It was lucky for his Ma- 
 jesty that his army contained few companies such 
 as Falstaff's. Sir John had not left London too 
 soon. The tale of the robbery on Gadshill had come 
 to the ears of the Lord Chief -Justice Gascoigne, who 
 was not a man to show favour to any friend of the 
 Prince, or even to the Prince himself. It had been 
 his duty before now to sentence Bardolph to im- 
 prisonment for a riot committed in the Prince's 
 company, and Harry, being in court when the sen- 
 tence was delivered, had so far forgotten himself as 
 
 199 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 to draw his sword; whereupon the judge had 
 promptly committed him to the King's Bench. 
 
 Ealstaff, who had been reported as concerned in 
 the Gadshill robbery, had to thank the confusion of 
 the times rather than any weakness of Lord Chief- 
 Justice Gascoigne that he was still free to abuse the 
 King's confidence. And he abused it royally. Be- 
 ing licensed to ' press ' soldiers in the King's service, 
 he had taken care to lay hands only on passably 
 rich fellows — yeomen's sons, well-to-do bride- 
 grooms on the eve of marriage, and the like — in fact 
 any one who seemed pretty sure to pay a round sum 
 to escape serving. And with the money thus got- 
 ten he had hired in their place such a crew of scare- 
 crows that he was fairly ashamed to march them 
 through the streets of Coventry. ' The villains,' he 
 growled, ' march so wide between the legs as if they 
 had fetters on ; for indeed I had the most of 'em out 
 of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my 
 company; and the half -shirt is two napkins tacked 
 together and thrown over the shoulders like a her- 
 ald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the 
 truth, stolen from my host at St. Alban's, or else 
 from the red-nosed innkeeper of Daventry. But,' 
 he consoled himself, 'that's all one; they'll find 
 linen on every hedge. And as for the fellows them- 
 selves, they'll serve as food for powder; they'll fill 
 200 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUETH 
 
 a pit as well as their betters. Tush! mortal men, 
 mortal men ! ' 
 
 The Prince, in whose army these rapscallions 
 marched, joined the King at Bridgenorth, and the 
 combined armies marched forward on Shrewsbury 
 and halted within sight of the rebel forces. 
 
 Still Northumberland hung back, and Glendower 
 tarried on the Welsh border. But although he 
 knew himself outnumbered, although Worcester 
 and even Douglas counselled delay, Hotspur was for 
 prompt attack. Always a fierce fighter, in this 
 crisis he showed himself an indifferent general. He 
 had, however, a true general's power of swaying 
 men, which he used now to override opposition ; and 
 when the King sent Sir Walter Blunt to offer gen- 
 erous terms, he returned the insulting message that 
 he and his house had proved the King's promises be- 
 fore and knew what they were worth. Yet on an 
 afterthought he promised that the King's offer 
 should be considered, and that Worcester should 
 bring a cooler answer on the morrow. 
 
 The morrow had scarcely dawned when Worces- 
 ter, with Sir Richard Vernon by his side, rode into 
 the royal camp for this last interview. The day was 
 that before the feast of Saint Mary Magdalen, and 
 the month July, but the newly risen sun hung red 
 
 201 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and angry in a cheerless sky, and a whistling south 
 wind gave promise of stormy weather. 
 
 In the King's presence Worcester rehearsed once 
 more his old tale of the promises given to the house 
 of Percy and unfulfilled. Prince Harry, standing 
 beside his father, listened with impatience, and at 
 the close of the recital stepped forward and offered 
 to save unnecessary bloodshed and decide the quar- 
 rel between their two houses by single combat with 
 Hotspur, to whose admitted prowess he paid many 
 courtly compliments. This gallant proposal was of 
 course not to be thought of; but the King, still 
 clemently minded, again offered the rebels pardon 
 if they would surrender, and a free inquiry into 
 their grievances with a view to redress. 
 
 Vernon was for reporting this offer to Hotspur, 
 but Worcester, morose and distrustful as ever, turned 
 it over in his mind and decided that the King was not 
 to be relied on; he would merely bide his time and 
 find another occasion to strike. Hotspur's trespass 
 might be forgotten for the sake of his youth and 
 notoriously choleric temper; but his elders, who had 
 spurred him on, would one day surely be made to 
 pay for it. Thus reasoning, Worcester took a de- 
 cision as fatal as it was dishonest, and returning to 
 Hotspur and Douglas not only said nothing of the 
 King's offer, but so misreported him as to throw his 
 203 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 nephew into a new rage. One thing only he related 
 truthfully, the Prince of Wales's challenge; and 
 Vernon, not relishing the deceit which he was abet- 
 ting, found some consolation in bearing witness to 
 the courtesy with which that challenge had been 
 uttered. ' Courteous, was he ? ' answered Hotspur. 
 ' I hope before night to embrace him so with a sol- 
 dier's arm that he will find himself shrinking under 
 my courtesy.' "Without delay he set his battle in 
 order, and with the famous cry of his house, 
 ' Esperance ! Percy ! ' led them forward to the 
 attack. 
 
 After a murderous exchange of archery, the two 
 armies joined, and in the first shock Douglas with 
 his Scots forced back the King's van, led by the 
 Earl of Stafford, and very nearly broke their array. 
 Distressed by a storm of arrows and harassed in flank 
 by irregular bodies of Welshmen who had been lurk- 
 ing in the wooded hills and marshes and now came 
 to the rebels' support, the Earl's men were wavering 
 when Henry came up and relieved them with his 
 main body. Now from the nature of the quarrel it 
 had been foreseen that the rebels might direct their 
 attack specially against the King's person, and to 
 baffle this no less than four knights had taken the 
 field that day in armour precisely like the King's. 
 
 Two of these, the Earl of Stafford himself and Sir 
 
 203 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Walter Blunt, were cut down by Douglas in two 
 separate onsets which carried to the very foot of the 
 royal standard; and finding himself twice cheated, 
 the Scot swore to cut his way through the King's 
 wardrobe piece by piece until he had found the real 
 Henry, and to this vow our friend Falstaff no doubt 
 owed his life. For, encountering with Douglas, 
 and finding himself in peril of being; spitted, this 
 hero flung himself on the ground and shammed dead. 
 It was n ot easy in any circumstances to mistake Fal- 
 staff for the King of England in disguise, and with- 
 out pausing to make sure Douglas hurried forward 
 in pursuit of higher game. 
 
 As we know, it was no light matter for Fjdstaff, 
 once prostrate, to get on his legs again. On this oc- 
 casion_hejffiaain, no great haste to try, and so it hap- 
 jDened^that, stretched where he had .fallen, he was 
 witness of the encounter between Jh.a_gajr i whoJtiad 
 been seeking each other since., first th e battle joined . 
 
 Prince Harry had been fighting nobly. Early in 
 the day an arrow had wounded him in the face, and 
 his father, himself withdrawn from the hottest of 
 the fight only by the vehement entreaties of the Earl 
 of March, had vainly implored him to retire and 
 have his wound dressed. To this he would not lis- 
 ten, and it was on the ground from which he had 
 
 already beaten off an onslaught of Douglas upon his 
 204 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 father that he and Hotspur at length came face to 
 face. 
 
 ' Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.' 
 They fought, knowing that for one or the other his 
 hour had come. And it was Hotspur, the formida- 
 ble, the approved soldier, who fell. It was Prince 
 Hal, the reputedly worthless, who stooped and laid 
 his scarf respectfully over the face of his dead rival 
 — so often envied! As he did so he turned and 
 spied Falstaff. ' fflhat? Thou too, old ac quaint- 
 ance! I , ^ewell,_old_Jack! — I could tetter have 
 spared a better man. Lie there by Percy until 
 I return^and,.: see - thee duly embowelled and 
 biuied-L ' 
 
 Falstaff watched him out of sight, and slowly 
 heaved himself on his feet. 'Embowelled! If 
 thou embowel me to-day, I'll give thee leave to 
 powder and eat me too, to-morrow. Phew ! It was 
 time to counterfeit, or that hot, termagant Scot had 
 paid me scot and lot too. Tlip hptter part of valour 
 ^discretion, say I. ' He waddled over to Hotspur's 
 corpse, and giving.it a thrust or two with his dag- 
 ger to make, sure, hoisted it pn ? his back. 
 
 By this time the rebel bugles were sounding re- 
 treat. Lacking Hotspur to put heart in them, their 
 ranks were breaking, and the day was already won 
 when Prince Harry and his brother, John of Lan- 
 
 205 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 caster, met the fat Knight staggering along under 
 his burden. The Prince could hardly believe his 
 eyes, or his ears either, when Falstaff cast the body 
 on the ground and complacently claimed that he and 
 no other had killed Hotspur. ' There is Percy. If 
 your father will do me any honour, well and good; 
 if not, let him kill the next Percy himself.' 
 
 ' Why, I killed Percy with my own hand, and I 
 saw thee dead ! ' 
 
 ' Didst thou indeed? Lord, Lord, how this world 
 is given to lying! I grant you I was down and out 
 of breath, and so was he. But we rose both at an 
 instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury 
 clock. See you this wound in his thigh ! ' 
 
 ' Make the most of thy falsehood, if it do thee 
 
 any good.' The Prince had no time to waste in 
 
 such disputing. The victory was now assured, the 
 
 rebellion broken up. Douglas, chased from the 
 
 field and spurring his horse at a desperate crag, was 
 
 flung heavily and taken prisoner. Him the King 
 
 pardoned without ransom at Harry's entreaty. 
 
 "Worcester and Vernon, captives too, he condemned 
 
 to execution. ' Hadst thou borne back our true 
 
 message of grace, many a gallant man now dead 
 
 had been drawing life this hour.' They were led 
 
 forth, and the King, despatching his son John and 
 
 the Earl of Westmoreland towards York to deal 
 20G 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 with Northumberland and the Archbishop, di- 
 rected his own march upon Wales to complete his 
 victory. 
 
 II 
 
 In the orchard of Warkworth Castle, on the banks 
 of the Coquet and handy by the sea, the old Earl of 
 Northumberl and pgggdjtojmd fro, waiting for news 
 of the battle he had been too ' crafty-sick ' to attend. 
 And along the roads between Shrewsbury and 
 "Warkworth more than one horseman was spurring 
 with rumours caught up in quiet towns far from the 
 battle-field. 
 
 The first of these tired riders to dismount at the 
 castle gate was Lord Bardolph, one of the heads of 
 the conspiracy. Northumberland tottered out to 
 learn the news. 
 
 ' Certain news ! ' announced Lord Bardolph, ' and 
 as good as heart can wish ! The King defeated and 
 wounded almost to death, the Prince of Wales slain 
 outright by your son, both the Blunts dead, and 
 young Prince John, Westmoreland, and Stafford 
 fled from the field ! Never since Caesar's time was 
 day so fought, so followed up, and so fairly won ! ' 
 
 ' But whence have you this? From Shrews- 
 bury? Saw you the field? ' 
 
 207 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 ' I had it, my lord, from a gentleman who was 
 there and saw; one of birth and name, who can be 
 trusted.' 
 
 While Lord Bardolph spoke another rider ap- 
 peared on the crest of the road. 
 
 ' Here comes Travers,' cried the Earl, ' my ser- 
 vant whom I sent last Tuesday to seek news.' 
 
 ' I overtook him, my lord, and rode on ahead; he 
 can bring no certain news but what I gave him.' 
 
 But Travers had something more to tell. ' My 
 lord,' he panted, dismounting. ' Lord Bardolph 
 turned me back with the joyful tidings and outrode 
 me, being better horsed. But after him came spur- 
 ring a gentleman on a horse over-ridden and lath- 
 ered with blood. He reined up and asked the way 
 to Chester; and I demanded what news from 
 Shrewsbury. He answered that the rebellion had 
 bad luck, and young Harry Percy's spur was cold. 
 That is how he said it, and with that gave his horse 
 the head and striking spur again left me at a furious 
 gallop.' 
 
 'What! tell it me again. How said he? — that 
 Hotspur's spur was cold, the rebellion had ill luck? ' 
 
 ' My lord,' insisted Lord Bardolph, ' I'll wager 
 my barony his story was false ! ' 
 
 But the Earl was not convinced, and presently a 
 third horseman hove in sight. It was Morton, an- 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUETH 
 
 other retainer of the Percy; and his face told that 
 his tidings were evil. He had escaped from 
 Shrewsbury, he reported. The Earl forestalled 
 more with a trembling string of questions, which 
 Morton's white face answered only too surely. 
 ' Yes, the Douglas was living, and the Earl's brother 
 
 — as yet; but as for my lord's son ' ' Why, he 
 
 is dead. Ah, I guessed it, I know it ! Yet speak, 
 Morton, and tell me my son is not dead! ' ' I can- 
 not think he is dead, my lord,' said Lord Bardolph. 
 
 But Morton had to answer that it was true. 
 ' Sorry am I to force you, my lord, to believe that 
 which I would to God these eyes had not seen. But 
 he is dead, slain by Prince Harry, and his death dis- 
 heartened the troops and turned the day. Worces- 
 ter fell a prisoner in the flight, Douglas was thrown 
 from his horse and taken. In short, the victory was 
 the King's, who has already despatched a force un- 
 der Prince John and Westmoreland against your 
 lordship.' 
 
 Such in sum was the news, not to be doubted. 
 And now the unhappy Earl, who had tarried and 
 feigned illness when he could have saved every- 
 thing, awoke to his loss and flinging his crutch away 
 in a weak passion, called too late for his armour, and 
 too late took heaven and earth to witness that he 
 would be avenged. His listeners, who knew too 
 
 209 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 well what his conduct had cost, yet reasoned with 
 him that nothing could be gained while yet more 
 might be hazarded by this outburst. The mischief 
 at Shrewsbury was done; it remained for men who 
 had counted the risks of rebellion beforehand to ac- 
 cept that reverse and put forth new efforts elsewhere. 
 The Archbishop of York' was up, with a strong 
 army; and the rising which before had been in 
 men's eyes a rebellion only, now had the sanction 
 of religion to avenge the death of Richard, whose 
 blood had been scraped from the stones of Pomfret 
 Castle to incite the people. Let the Earl and the 
 Archbishop join forces boldly and all might yet be 
 redeemed. 
 
 Erom Warkworth Lord Bardolph posted south to 
 York, where the Archbishop sat deliberating with 
 Lord Hastings and Lord Mowbray. These had 
 ready a picked force of twenty-five thousand men, 
 and they had to consider if such a force could hold 
 head without Northumberland's aid. With that 
 aid they could feel reasonably safe, but Lord Bar- 
 dolph knew too well to trust the Earl's energy. 
 They were (he argued) planning a big enterprise, 
 and ought to count the cost carefully, and be cer- 
 tain their means were equal to it. Hastings was 
 more sanguine; the King, to be sure, had more than 
 five-and-twenty thousand men, but his power must 
 210 
 
KING HENEY THE EOUETH 
 
 be divided against three separate dangers — against 
 Glendower, against the French (who had landed 
 twelve thousand men at Milford Haven in Wales), 
 and lastly against this new revolt should they de- 
 termine on it. The Archbishop decided for prompt 
 action. ' The country,' said he, ' is already sick 
 and surfeited of this usurper. Let us go forward 
 boldly and proclaim everywhere what calls us to 
 arms! ' 
 
 Meanwhile Prince Harry, whom the King had 
 now learned to trust with the command of men, was 
 pressing back the "Welshmen; and it is enough to say 
 here that by slow and careful campaigns, lasting 
 over four years during which he learned the art of 
 soldiery and a scorn of hardships which was to stand 
 him in good stead hereafter, Harry wrested the 
 south of Wales from Glendower, and drove him 
 back into the mountain fastnesses around Snowdon, 
 there to maintain a stubborn and almost single-hand- 
 ed fight until his death. 
 
 But this was a kind of fighting which, sharp while 
 
 it lasted, had its holidays; and now and again it gave 
 
 Harry time to revisit London. Falstaff (who was 
 
 of no build for Welsh campaigning) soon after the 
 
 battle of Shrewsbury found himself back in the old 
 
 haunts, with a boy to follow him for page (a gift 
 
 from the Prince), but a purse barely sufficient to 
 211 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 maintain this grandeur. Somehow bis tailor fought 
 shy of giving him credit, and demanded security; 
 was even unkind enough to ask for better security 
 than Bardolph's, which Falstaff offered. * The ras- 
 cally knave ! I looked he should have sent me two- 
 and-twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and 
 he sends me security ! I can get no remedy against 
 this consumption of the purse; borrowing only lin- 
 gers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.' 
 
 So we find him back in London streets with seven 
 groats and twopence in his purse, and a page at heel 
 pompously bearing his master's sword and buckler, 
 and openly poking fun at his master's broad back. 
 ' I know not how 'tis,' — Falstaff turned about on the 
 pavement, and sticking his thumbs in his girdle, ad- 
 dressed the lad reproachfully; ' but men of all sorts 
 take a pride to gird at me ; the brain of that foolish 
 clay, man, is not able to invent anything that tends 
 to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on 
 me; I am not only witty in myself, but the cause 
 of wit in other men.' 
 
 Who should pass along the street at this moment 
 but the man Sir John had best reason to avoid — 
 Lord Chief -Justice Gascoigne? Sir John had, in- 
 deed, been sent for by this upright judge before 
 marching north, to answer some awkward questions 
 
 about the robbery on Gadshill, but had managed to 
 
 212 
 
KING HENBY THE FOUKTH 
 
 put a convenient distance between himself and 
 London. The victory at Shrewsbury had happened 
 in the interval, and the Lord Chief -Justice was dis- 
 posed to let bygones be bygones; though, at the same 
 time, the sight of Falstaff suggested that a word of 
 advice would not be out of place. So, knowing that 
 the fat knight was to depart again northwards pres- 
 ently to join Prince John of Lancaster, he sent his 
 servant to call him. 
 
 Falstaff at first pretended to be deaf, and then, as 
 the servant plucked his sleeve, made believe to take 
 him for a beggar. But the judge was not to be 
 shaken off so. ' Sir John Falstaff, a word with 
 you,' said he gravely, walking up. 
 
 Thus cornered, Falstaff could only push forward 
 a hundred inqiiiries for his lordship's health. ' I 
 am glad to see your lordship abroad: I heard say 
 your lordship was sick: I hope your lordship goes 
 abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean ; 
 past your youth, hath yet a touch of age. I most ' 
 humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend 
 care of your health.' 
 
 The judge waved aside all this solicitude, and 
 
 would have begun, but Sir John was off upon an- '* 
 
 other tack. ' An't please your lordship, I hear his 
 
 Majesty is returned sick from Wales. I hear it is 
 
 that apoplexy again. This apoplexy is, as I take it, 
 213 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship; a kind 
 of sleeping in the blood, or pins-and-needles, as your 
 lordship might say. It has its origin in much grief, 
 in study, and worry of the brain. I have read the 
 cause of its effects in Galen; it is a kind of deafness.' 
 
 Gascoigne drily; 'for you hear not what I say to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Say rather, my lord,' Falstaff answered with a 
 broad smile, 'jtjis the diseas e of not listening that X 
 jm troubled with.' 
 
 ' Well, well, sir; I sent for you before the expedi- 
 tion to Shrewsbury to answer for a robbery upon 
 Gadshill; your services in the wars have a little gild- 
 ed over that night's exploit, and you may thank the 
 unquiet times that the business was allowed to pass 
 so quietly. But I warn you to let sleeping dogs lie. 
 The truth is, you live in great infamy, and have been 
 a bad companion for the young Prince.' 
 
 ' My lprd^_ypu that are^.old ,,mafe.jiojdljowjn£es 
 for us youngsters. We are wags. I confess, we fel- 
 lows in the prime of our vouth.' 
 
 1 You a youngster! you, with every mark of age 
 on you — a moist eye, a white beard, a decreasing 
 leg, an increasing belly; with your voice cracked, 
 your wind short, your chin double, your wit sin- 
 gle, every part of you smitten with antiquity? 
 2H 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 And yet you call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir 
 John! ' 
 
 ' My lord, I was born about three o'clock in the 
 afternoon, with a white head and something of a 
 round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with hal- 
 loing and singing of anthems. The truth is, I am\ 
 only old in judgment and understanding; and if any i 
 one will dance with me for a thousand marks, let 
 him lend me the money and I'm his man. As for 
 that box on the ear the Prince gave you, he gave it 
 like a rude Prince and you took it like a sensible lord. 
 I have rebuked him for it, and the young lion re- J 
 pents, not in sackcloth, but in old sack.' 
 
 ' Well, the King has separated Prince Harry from 
 you. I hear you are going with Prince John of 
 Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of 
 Northumberland. ' 
 
 ' Yes, and I thank your pretty sweet wit for it.' 
 Falstaff was shrewd enough to put two. and two to- 
 gether. ' It seems there is not a dangerous action 
 can peep out its head, but I am thrust upon it. 
 Well, I cannot last for ever; but it always was the 
 trick of our English nation, if they have a good 
 thing, to make it too common. If you must have 
 it that I am an old man, you should give me some 
 rest. But there! I would to Heaven my name 
 were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were 
 
 215 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 better to be eaten to death with rust than scoured 
 to nothing with perpetual motion.' 
 
 Somehow the Lord Chief -Justice felt that he was 
 not having the best of the encounter. He turned to 
 walk away. ' Well, be honest, be honest; and may 
 your expedition prosper.' 
 
 ' Will your lordship lend me a thousand pounds 
 to furnish me forth? ' asked Falstaff blandly. 
 
 ' Not a penny, not a penny. Farewell ; commend 
 me to my cousin Westmoreland.' The judge was 
 off in a hurry. 
 
 Falstaff looked after him. ' Lord, how old age 
 is given to covetousness ! ' he sighed. 
 
 Indeed Sir John's purse was at a low ebb. Mis- 
 tress Quickly of the Boar's Head Tavern would give 
 him credit no longer, and had actually entered a suit 
 against him to recover what he owed. ' A hundred 
 mark,' she tearfully assured the sheriff's officers, ' is 
 a long one for a poor lone woman to bear; and I have 
 borne, and borne, and borne, and have been fubbed 
 off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off from this day to 
 that day, that it is a shame to be thought on ! ' And 
 so it happened that when next the Lord Chief-Jus- 
 tice came upon Falstaff it was~tb~find him brawling 
 with the sheriff's men, with Bardolph backing his 
 resistance, and Dame Quickly dancing round the 
 scuffle, calling names and crying for a rescue — or 
 216 
 
KING HENKY THE FOURTH 
 
 as she put it, ' a rescue or two ' — at the top of her 
 shrill voice. 
 
 ' Keep the peace here ! ' commanded the Chief- 
 Justice. ' What's the matter? How now, Sir 
 John ! You should have been well on your way to 
 York by this time.' 
 
 ' Oh, my most worshipful lord,' began Mistress 
 Quickly, ' an't please your grace, I am a poor widow 
 of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.' 
 
 ' For what sum? ' 
 
 ' It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, 
 all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and 
 home.' 
 
 Gascoigne turned to Falstaff. 'Fie, Sir John! 
 Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so 
 rough a course to come by her own? ' 
 
 ' What is the gross sum I owe thee ? ' Falstaff 
 demanded. 
 
 ' Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and 
 thy money too. Thou did'st swear to me upon a 
 parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, 
 at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednes- 
 day in Wheeson 1 week, when the Prince broke thy 
 head for likening his father to a singing-man of 
 Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was 
 washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my 
 
 1 Mistress Quickly means Whitsun. 
 217 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not 
 goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then 
 and call me Gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow 
 some vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of 
 prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; 
 whereby I told thee they were ill for a green 
 wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone 
 down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity 
 with such poor people; saying that ere long they 
 should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss 
 me and bid me lend thee thirty shillings? I put 
 thee now to thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst! ' 
 
 ' My lord / said Ealstaff compassionately, ' this is _ 
 a poor mad soul. She has seen bgtjer daysjjmdjhe 
 truth is poverty has driven her crazy.' 
 
 ' Sir John, Sir John,' the Chief -Justice answered, 
 ' I know well your manner of twisting the true cause 
 the false way. But neither your confidence nor 
 your glib and impudent sauciness can prevail upon 
 my level consideration. You have practised upon 
 this woman's weakness. Pay her the debt you owe 
 her, and undo the wrong you have done her.' 
 
 Falstaff was stung. ' My Lord, I will take no 
 such snubbing from you without an answer. You 
 call honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a 
 man makes courtesy to you and holds his peace, 
 he is virtuous. No, my lord, my humble duty re- 
 218 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 membered, I do not choose to be your suitor. I 
 say to you I request to be delivered from these of- 
 ficers, being upon hasty employment in the King's 
 affairs.' 
 
 The reply was poor perhaps; but it showed that 
 Falstaff, though careless with the low company of 
 his choice, had shame enough left, being a gentle- 
 man himself, to wince under the rebuke of a gentle- 
 man. The Chief-Justice was here interrupted by 
 a Captain named Gower, with letters from the King; 
 and while he studied them, Falstaff applied himself 
 to the task of wheedling Mistress Quickly — no very 
 difficult one. Scraps of their talk only reached the 
 judge, and he paid no heed to them. ' As I am a 
 gentleman, now.' ' By the heavenly ground I 
 tread upon, Sir John, I shall have to pawn my plate 
 and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.' ' Glasses, 
 glasses are the only ware for drinking; and for thy 
 walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the 
 Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-eolours, 
 is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings and these 
 fly-bitten tapestries. Come, there's not a better 
 soul in England than thou, if 'twere not for thy 
 humours. Go, wash thy face and withdraw the ac- 
 tion. Come, come, I know thou waSt set on to 
 this.' ' Let it be twenty nobles, Sir John! i' faith, 
 I am loath to pawn my plate, I am. . . . "Well, 
 
 219 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 well, you shall have your way, though I pawn my 
 gown. I hope you'll come to supper. You'll pay 
 me in the lump — no instalments? ' ' As sure as I 
 live ! ' — So Falstaff had his way, and the prospect 
 of a good supper besides; and as Dame Quickly 
 bustled off to prepare it, he turned to the Chief- 
 Justice. ' What's the news, my lord? ' 
 
 But the Chief-Justice affected not to hear him. 
 ' "Where lay the King last night? ' he demanded of 
 Gower. 
 
 ' At Basingstoke, my lord,' was the answer. 
 
 ' I hope all is well, my lord. What's the news, 
 my lord? ' Falstaff repeated. 
 
 Still the Chief- Justice^gaid no regard. ' Are all 
 his forces returned with him? ' he went on to in- 
 quire. Gower answered, ' No; fifteen hundred foot 
 and five hundred horse have marched to join Prince 
 John against the Earl of Northumberland and the 
 Archbishop.' 
 
 ' Is the King back from Wales, my lord? ' Fal- 
 staff persisted. But still he addressed a deaf ear. 
 
 ' Come with me, Master Gower,' went on the 
 Chief-Justice. ' I shall have a letter presently to 
 send by you.' 
 
 Falstaff cleared his throat. ' My lord! ' 
 
 ' Hey? What's the matter? ' For the first time 
 the Chief-Justice seemed aware of his presence. 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUETH 
 
 But now it was Sir John's turn, and he pointedly 
 addressed Captain Gower. 
 
 ' Master Gower, may I beg you to dine with 
 me?' 
 
 ' I thank you, Sir John, I must wait upon my 
 lord here.' 
 
 ' Sir John,' said the Chief-Justice sternly, ' you 
 loiter too long here, being bound to recruit soldiers 
 on your way.' 
 
 Not a word did Sir John seem to hear. ' Will 
 you sup with me then, Master Gower? ' 
 
 .The .Chjej> Justice stamped his foot. 'What 
 foolish master taught„_y_Q.u,- .these ^manners, Sir 
 John?' 
 
 ' Gower,' said Sir John, with his bland smile, ' if 
 my manners become me not, he was a fool who 
 taught them me.' Then with a mock bow he turned 
 on his adversary, ' Tap for tap, my lord, as between 
 fencers — and so part fair! ' 
 
 So once more Chief-Justice Gascoigne had not 
 all the best of it, and Falstaff supped merrily that 
 night at the Boar's Head, hob-a-nob with Bardolph 
 and Dame Quickly and a ranting follower of his 
 named. Pis|ol,,.whose gift lay chiefly in swaggering 
 and mouthing fustian lines out of plays and books, 
 of wMeh he knew just enough to misquote them — a 
 bragging rascal with the heart of a mouse. We 
 221 
 
 V" 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 shall meet him again and make his better acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 And in the midst of their feasting who should 
 drop in but the Prince, newly returned from Wales, 
 with his old comrade Poins? We do not change old 
 habits in a moment; and now and again, even after 
 his taste of a new self-respect and men's better 
 opinions, Harry caught himself hankering after the 
 old wild ways. As he put it to Poins, L It does my 
 greatness discredit, but I must confess to a longing 
 for small beer.' He knew, too, that men did not 
 seriously believe him reformed. In his heart he 
 was deeply sorry for his father's sickness; but few, 
 he felt sure, would give him credit for this, and the 
 thought cast him back upon a reckless show of not 
 caring. ' Yet,' he confided to Poins, ' I could tell 
 thee, as one whom it pleases me for lack of a better 
 to call my friend, I could be sad, and very sad too.' 
 
 ' Scarcely,' answered Poins incredulously, ' upon 
 such a subject.' 
 
 The Prince sighed. ' I see; thou thinkest me as 
 deep in the devil's book as thyself or Ealstaff. Let 
 the end try the man. But I tell thee my heart 
 bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick. What 
 wouldst thou think of me if I should weep? ' 
 
 ' I should think thee a most princely hypocrite.' 
 
 ' And so would every man,' said Harry bitterly; 
 222 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 ' and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man 
 thinks. And why, pray, should you and every man 
 think so? ' 
 
 ' Why, because of your loose life and your at- 
 tachment to Fal staff.' 
 
 ' And to thee; add that' 
 
 Poins protested. ' The worst any one can say 
 of me is that I am a younger son and a proper fellow 
 of my hands.' So surely it appears to every man 
 that he is a good fellow really, though led astray 
 by somebody else, or perhaps by circumstances. 
 
 The man they most blamed at any rate had re- 
 solved to lead the Prince astray no longer, nor be 
 suspected of it. Falstaff had been stung by the 
 Chief -Justice's rebuke, and learning of the Prince's 
 likely arrival in London, sat down and wrote a let- 
 ter, and despatched it by Bardolph. Thus it ran: 
 'Sib John Falstaff, Knight, to the son of the 
 King, nearest his father, Harry Pkince of Wales, 
 GREETING: I will imitate the honourable Romans in 
 brevity. I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and 
 I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, who 
 abuses thy favour. Repent at idle times as thou 
 mayest; and so, farewell. — Thine, by yea and no, 
 which is as much as to say, as thou usest him, Jack 
 Falstaff with my familiars, John with my bro- 
 thers and sisters, and Sir John with all Europe? 
 
 223 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' Is your master here in London? ' the Prince 
 asked Bardolph. 
 
 ' Yea, my lord.' 
 
 ' Where sups he? at the old haunt? ' 
 
 ' At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.' 
 
 ' What company? ' 
 
 ' The old crew, my lord.' 
 _Prince Harry turned toPoins, ' We will steal 
 upon them there; ' and after cautioning Bardolph 
 not to report his arrival, he and Poins hurried off to 
 procure a couple of waiters' suits, in which they ap- 
 peared on the scene as the old riotous mirth was at 
 its height. The_old laugh -went round, the. old jests 
 were played, but the Prince, though he._entered.into 
 them, missed the old sparkle. In truth he had de- 
 scended to this tavern world, but he had never be- 
 longed to it, and was just beginning to find this out. 
 Even Ealstaff , with the quick sympathy of a gentle- 
 man, felt a difference, and answered now and then 
 with a changed note — a terribly sad note for all its 
 defiant recklessness. It was Peto who put an end 
 to the revelry, breaking in with news that the King 
 had returned to Westminster, that a score of weary 
 riders had come with tidings from the north, and 
 that messengers were knocking up all the taverns 
 to find Falstaff, and hurry him on his road. Sir 
 John thrust his chair back from the table, and 
 224 
 
KING HENKY THE FOUKTH 
 
 lurched off to pack his campaigning kit, while the 
 Prince did on sword and cloak and passed out into 
 the street, busy with the thought which had been 
 in his head all day. ' We play the fools with 
 the moment, and the spirits of the wise sit in the 
 clouds and mock us. "Well, the end shall try the 
 man.' 
 
 •V . 
 
 In quiet Gloucestershire there lived at this time 
 a country gentleman and Justice of the Peace, by 
 name Master Shallow; a vain, petty, talkative per- 
 son, well on in years, full of his own importance, 
 and given to painting for his neighbours the most 
 wonderful pictures of the dashing, dare-devil life he 
 had led in London when he had studied at Clement's 
 Inn, and before he had come back to settle down as 
 a country squire. 
 
 He had not many listeners, and the best of them 
 was his cousin Master Silence; for Master Silence 
 either took, or seemed to take, all his stories for gos- 
 pel, and seldom interrupted with talk of his own. 
 ~N ow it happened that he had come over for an early 
 visit, and after the first handshaking he must an- 
 swer for his health and his wife's and his daughter 
 Ellen's (a godchild of Shallow's) and his son Will- 
 iam's. Thus the talk ran on: — 
 
 ' And William? I dare say now William is be- 
 225 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 come a good scholar. He is at Oxford still, is lie 
 not?' 
 
 ' He is, to my cost.' 
 
 ' He must be going then to the Inns o' Court 
 shortly. I was once of Clement's Inn, where I 
 think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.' 
 
 ' You were called " lusty Shallow " then, cousin.' 
 
 ' By the mass, I was called anything; and I would 
 have done anything indeed too, and never thought 
 twice. There was I, and little John Doit of Staf- 
 fordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis 
 Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you 
 wouldn't see another four such roisterers in all the 
 Inns o' Court. There was Jack Falstaff, too, now 
 Sir John, a youngster and page to Thomas Mowbray, 
 Duke of Norfolk.' 
 
 ' Will that be the same Sir John who is coming 
 here to enlist soldiers ? ' 
 
 ' The same, the very same. I saw him break 
 Skogan's head at the court-gate when he was a whip- 
 per-snapper not so high ; and the very same day did 
 I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, be- 
 hind Gray's Inn. Dear, dear, the mad days I have 
 spent! And to think how many of my old ac- 
 quaintance are dead! ' 
 
 ' We shall all follow, cousin.' 
 
 ' Certain, 'tis certain ; very sure, very sure ; death, 
 226 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 as the Psalmist says, is certain to all; all shall die. 
 "What was a good yoke of bullocks fetching at Stam- 
 ford fair? ' 
 
 ' To say truth, I was not there.' 
 
 ' Death is certain. Is old Double of your town 
 still living? ' 
 
 ' Dead, cousin.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear, dead is he? 'A drew a good bow: 
 and dead! 'A shot a fine shoot: John o' Gaunt 
 loved him well, and betted much money on him. 
 Dead, now? He'd hit you the white at twelve- 
 score yards, and carry a long-distance shot fourteen 
 and fourteen and a half, 'twould have done your 
 heart good to see. What price a score of ewes 
 now? ' 
 
 ' That depends; a score of good ewes may be 
 worth ten pounds.' 
 
 ' Arid so old Double is dead, is he ? ' 
 
 This profitable talk was here interrupted by a 
 visitor, who turned out to be our friend Bardolph, 
 bearing Sir John Falstaff's compliments and the 
 news of his arrival. 
 
 Master Shallow was delighted to hear it. ' How 
 doth the good knight ? May I ask how my lady his 
 wife doth? ' 
 
 ' Pardon, sir,' answered Bardolph, ' a soldier is 
 
 better accommodated than with a wife.' 
 
 237 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' And that is well said, sir; well said indeed. 
 " Better accommodated," very good indeed; good 
 phrases are surely, and ever were, very commend- 
 able. " Accommodated," it comes of Latin " ac- 
 commodo " ; very good, a good phrase.' 
 
 ' Please, sir? ' Bardolph was puzzled. ' I know 
 nothing about phrase; but the word is a good soldier- 
 like word, and that I will maintain with my sword. 
 " Accommodated," that is, when a man is, as they 
 say, accommodated; or Avhen a man is, being, where- 
 by he may be thought to be accommodated; which,' 
 Bardolph wound up, ' is an excellent thing.' 
 
 Before Master Shallow had done admiring this 
 interpretation, Falstaff's arrival claimed his polite- 
 ness. ' Give me your hand, give me your wor- 
 ship's good hand. By my truth, you bear your 
 years very well! Welcome, good Sir John. — This 
 is my cousin Silence, a justice of the peace like my- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Good Master Silence,' Palstaff bowed, ' it is fit- 
 ting that you should be of the peace. Phew! this 
 is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me 
 here half a dozen sufficient men? ' 
 
 ' Marry, we have sir.' Master Shallow begged 
 Palstaff to be seated. ' Where's the roll? where's 
 the roll? where's the roll?' He fussed about, fit- 
 ting on his spectacles. ' Let me see, let me see, let 
 228 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUETH 
 
 me see. So, so, so, so, . . .' He found the names 
 at length and called up the six dispirited recruits 
 one by one. They were a sorry crew, and Sir John 
 had plenty to say about their looks. Two of them 
 only had the makings of stout soldiers — Ralph 
 Mouldy and Peter Bullcalf . ' Is thy name 
 Mouldy?' demanded Falstaff. 'Yes, sir, an it 
 please you,' stammered the poor man. ' 'Tis the 
 more time thou wert used then.' ' Ha, ha, ha ! ' 
 tittered Master Shallow, ' excellent, upon my word! 
 things that are mouldy lack use : very good indeed ! 
 Well said, Sir John; very well said.' 
 
 Falstaff passed the six in review, ' Are these all? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' They are two more than your number,' Shallow 
 reminded him. ' You must have but four from 
 these parts. And so, I pray you, go in with me to 
 dinner.' 
 
 But Sir John was pressed for time. ' Come, I 
 will drink with you, but I cannot stay for dinner. 
 By my troth I am glad to see you again, Master 
 Shallow,' he added affably. 
 
 ' Ah, Sir John, do you remember that wild night 
 we spent in the windmill in St. George's Field? ' 
 
 ' Tut, tut, Master Shallow; no more of that, no 
 more of that.' 
 
 ' Ha ! that was a merry night. Ha, Cousin 
 229 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Silence, if thou hadst seen what this knight and I 
 have seen! Eh, Sir John? ' 
 
 ' "We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master 
 Shallow.' 
 
 ' That we have, that we have, that we have; faith, 
 Sir John, we have : our watchword was " Hem 
 boys! " Come, let's to dinner, let's to dinner. 
 Dear, dear, the days that we have seen! Come, 
 come. . . .' 
 
 Now it suited Sir John's book very well that Bar- 
 dolph should be left alone for a while with the re- 
 cruits. As he fully expected, no sooner had he 
 stepped into the house with the justices than a couple 
 — Bullcalf and Mouldy — began to sidle up to the 
 Corporal; for these two likely fellows were the ones 
 who least liked the prospect of soldiering. 
 
 Bullcalf began, ' Good Master Corporal Bar- 
 dolph, stand my friend, and here's four ten-shillings 
 in Erench crowns for you. In truth, sir, I had as 
 lief be hanged as go to the wars. Eor my own part, 
 sir, I don't care; but rather because I am unwilling, 
 and for my own part have a desire to stay with my 
 friends; else, sir, I would not care, for my own part, 
 so much.' 
 
 ' Go to; stand aside,' said Bardolph gruffly. 
 
 ' And good master corporal captain,' pleaded 
 Mouldy, ' for my old woman's sake stand my friend. 
 230 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 She has nohody to do anything about her when I 
 am gone, and she is old and cannot help herself. 
 You shall have forty shillings from me too, sir.' 
 
 ' Go to; stand aside,' commanded Bardolph in the 
 same tone. Perhaps he expected some further 
 bribes; but the others were either too poor or too 
 reckless to offer anything. Indeed the feeblest 
 scarecrow of them all protested that he for his part 
 was ready to go. 'A man can die but once : we owe 
 God a death; and I'll never bear a base mind. If 
 it be my destiny, so be it: if not, so be it: no man's 
 too good to serve his king: and let it go which way 
 it will, the man who dies this year is safe for the 
 next.' 
 
 'Well spoken,' said Bardolph; ' thou'rt a good 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' Faith, sir, I'll bear no base mind.' 
 
 So when Falstaff came out, Bardolph drew him 
 aside. ' Sir,. a word with you,' he„whispered, ' I 
 have three pounds to let Mouldy and Bullcalf go.' 
 — From which it will be seen that the corporal took 
 his pickings. 
 
 ' Come, Sir John,' demanded Master Shallow, 
 ' which four will you have? ' 
 
 Fals taff eye d the six withhis wisest air. ' Mouldy 
 and Bullcalf shall stay at home; I'll take the rest.' 
 ""'Sir John, Sir John,' Shallow twittered, ' be bet- 
 281 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ter advised! They are your likeliest men, and I 
 would have you served with the best.' 
 
 ' Master Shallow,' replied Falstaff loftily, ' are 
 you pretending to teach me how to choose a man? 
 " What care I for limbs, thews, stature, bulk, or all 
 the big total of these? Give me spirit, Master 
 Shallow. Take that thin fellow yonder: he pre- 
 sents no mark to the enemy; the foeman might as 
 well aim at the edge of a penknife. And that other 
 fellow — what a pair of legs for a retreat! Or see 
 this ragged man — what's his name? — Wart. Bar- 
 dolph, give Wart a musket; now then, Wart, march! 
 Come, show us how you handle your musket. So; 
 very well; very good, very good indeed! O give 
 me always a little, lean, old, wrinkled, bald marks- 
 man ! There's a sixpence for thee, Wart.' 
 
 ' But,' Master Shallow protested, ' he's not doing 
 it right! I remember at Mile-end Green, when I 
 lived at Clement's Inn, I belonged to an archery 
 club; and there was a little nimble fellow who would 
 manage his weapons thus ; and he would about and 
 about, and come you in and come you in ; " rah-tah- 
 tah," would he say; " bounce! " would he say; and 
 away again would he go, and again would he come. 
 I shall never see such a fellow! ' sighed Master 
 Shallow, pacing about and skipping to show exactly 
 how it was done. 
 
 232 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 ' These fellows will do well, Master Shallow,' Fal- 
 staff assured him, and so took leave, vowing he had a 
 dozen miles to march that night. The justice wished 
 him prosperity. ' And pay us_ a visit on your way 
 back; let our old acquaintance be renewed. Nay, 
 who knows but I may go up to London with you to 
 court.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I wish you would, Master Shallow.' 
 
 ' There, there; I said it too hastily. Fare you 
 well.' 
 
 ' Fare you well, gentlemen.' Falstaff command- 
 ed Bardolph to march the recruits ahead of him. 
 '__Aj._I x6turjuLfee_toJLdJumseJ^J.X JSfill Jjave sport 
 with these justices; I do_see_to the bottom of this 
 Shallow. Dear, dear, how subject we old men are 
 to this vice of lying! This same shrivelled-up jus- 
 tice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wild- 
 ness of his youth and the feats he hath done about 
 Turnbull Street — and every third word of it a false- 
 hood! I remember him at Clement's Inn like a 
 man made out of a cheese-paring, a forked radish 
 with a funny little head carved on top. And now 
 this miserable lath is become a squire, and talks as 
 familiarly of John o' Gaunt as if he had been his 
 Bworn brother; and I'll swear never set eyes on him 
 but once, in the tilt-yard, and then had his head 
 broken for crowding among the marshal's men. I 
 233 
 
\J 
 
 TALES PROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 was there and saw it, and told John o' Gaunt he beat 
 his own name. "Well, well, I'll make his further^ 
 acquaintance if 1^ return, and it shall go hard jf ^1 
 don't turn him to some profit.' 
 
 „.„,.-v, , : ; ; ..-.^>V?\rV , W'W^TVVV»f«L >•*■■'■ i' '^ -* 
 
 At home in his palace of Westminster the King 
 lay sick in mind and body, wearing to his end under 
 the cares of the crown he had once so eagerly seized, 
 restless, wooing in vain on his pillows of down that 
 sleep which the meanest of his subjects enjoyed as 
 an easy boon — the labourer in smoky cabin on a 
 hard pallet, the ship-boy perched on a giddy mast 
 yet cradled by the rocking seas. And lying awake 
 through the long night-watches he remembered 
 Richard and Richard's prophecy — that Northum- 
 berland, who had made haste to overthrow one king, 
 would not be slow in casting down another. An- 
 other prophecy he recalled ; an old one which prom- 
 ised that his death should be in Jerusalem; and he 
 prayed for an end of these civil wars, that he might 
 sail, as he had so long purposed, for the Holy Land, 
 and there meet it, not unwelcome. 
 
 And Northumberland, not less unhappy, still tar- 
 ried in his castle of Warkworth near the sea. But 
 for him his son Hotspur might be alive and Morti- 
 mer King of England; and it added a gnawing poi- 
 son to his self-reproach that now, when too late he 
 would have redeemed his honour, the voices that 
 234 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 assured him how vain it was were the dispirited sad 
 voices of Hotspur's mother and Hotspur's wife. 
 ' The time was,' the young widow reminded him, 
 scarce knowing how cruelly; ' the time was you 
 broke your word when it was dearer than it can ever 
 be now; when your own Percy, Harry, my heart's 
 dear, looked northward for his father's coming, and 
 looked in vain. His honour was to him as the sun 
 to heaven; by the light of him was all England's 
 chivalry moved to do brave deeds. All copied him 
 who sought to be noble; copied even his small tricks 
 of manner and speech. Him you left at disadvan- 
 tage to abide a battle hopeless but for the miracle 
 of his name. Tour honour? Ah, never now 
 wrong his ghost by holding your honour more scru- 
 pulous with others than you held it with him ! Let 
 the Archbishop alone and his friends. They are 
 strong. Had my dear Harry had but half their 
 numbers, this day might I, twining my arms around 
 his neck, be talking of that other Harry's — his slay- 
 er's — grave ! ' 
 
 ' Beshrew your heart, daughter,' groaned the un- 
 happy father, ' you draw the spirit out of my breast. 
 I must go and face the danger, or it will find me 
 elsewhere and worse provided.' But wife and son's 
 wife implored him together to escape to Scotland 
 and wait; and knowing that they despised him, 
 235 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 knowing that he despised himself, he took their ad- 
 vice, sent excuses to the Archbishop, and fled north- 
 ward. It must be terrible for an old man to despise 
 himself, and feel that the time for cure has gone by. 
 
 His message was felt as a heavy blow by the Arch- 
 bishop and his partisans Mowbray and Hastings. 
 But it reached them when they were in full march 
 and committed to war. At Gaultree Forest in 
 (Yorkshire they came face to face with the King's 
 army, led by Prince John and the Earl of West- 
 moreland; and again from the royal side came an 
 offer of terms. But this time the offer was not so 
 honest as it had been at Shrewsbury. Perhaps the 
 King had Worcester's treachery in his mind when 
 he gave Prince John his instructions, or perhaps that 
 somewhat cold-blooded youth devised the snare 
 which his brother Prince Harry would have scorned 
 to lay. 
 
 It was Westmoreland who brought the rebel lead- 
 ers to parley, demanding in the King's name their 
 reasons for this armed rising. Once more the Arch- 
 bishop repeated the old story. It was not with these 
 men as with the Percies, a story of past services un- 
 rewarded. They had hated Bolingbroke and felt 
 his hatred from the beginning. The Archbishop 
 owed him a brother's death. Mowbray was the son 
 of that Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, who 
 230 • 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUETH 
 
 had faced Bolingbroke in the lists at Coventry, and 
 gone from them into hopeless exile ; he had been al- 
 lowed, indeed, to inherit his father's estates, hut he 
 had inherited, too, the memory of that bitter sen- 
 tence, and no man in England nursed a deeper de- 
 testation of Henry. ' With my consent,' he de- 
 clared, ' we will admit no parley.' Hastings was 
 less uncompromising. ' Has the Prince John,' he 
 asked, ' a full commission from his father to hear 
 our complaints and grant conditions? ' Westmore- 
 land assured them that this was so. ' I am come to 
 learn these complaints, to tell you that his Grace 
 will give you audience and freely grant those de- 
 mands which shall appear to him to be just.' On 
 this assurance the Archbishop tendered a paper set- 
 ting forth their grievances. ' Let them be re- 
 dressed, my lord,' said he, ' and all concerned in this 
 movement granted due acquittal, and once more we 
 are His Majesty's peaceful subjects.' 
 
 The royal offer seemed a fair one, and Mowbray 
 alone remained unconvinced. Westmoreland de- 
 parted back with the document, and returned with 
 word that Prince John would meet and confer with 
 the malcontent leaders midway between the two ar- 
 mies. 
 
 In the conference which followed the Prince 
 opened with a formal rebuke, but ended by confess- 
 237 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ing that the demands contained in the paper seemed 
 to him fair. ' And I swear here by the honour of 
 my blood that my father's intentions have been mis- 
 taken; that they and his authority alike have been 
 abused by some about him. My Lord Archbishop, 
 these grievances shall be speedily redressed; they 
 shall, on my soul. If my word for it content you, 
 we will here and now disband our forces on each 
 side, and pledge our restored love and amity.' 
 
 ' I take your princely word that they shall be re- 
 dressed,' answered the Archbishop. 
 
 And now it only remained to pay and discharge 
 the two armies. Hastings sent word to the rebel 
 camp; and while the leaders drank and pledged one 
 another, they heard the cheers of the dispersing sol- 
 diery. Prince John commanded Westmoreland to 
 go and disband the royal troops. ' My lord,' said 
 he, turning to the Archbishop, ' if it please you, let 
 the two armies march past us, that we may see the 
 men we came so near contending with.' 
 
 The Archbishop agreed, and sent Hastings to give 
 the order. 
 
 But now Westmoreland came back with word 
 that the royal army was not yet in motion. Its lead- 
 ers had charge from Prince John to keep their sta- 
 tion, and would not stir without his direct com- 
 mand. 
 
 238 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 ' They know their duties,' said the Prince calmly. 
 
 What he meant by this he made plain when 
 Hastings returned and announced that it was too late 
 to march the Archbishop's men past; they were 
 already dispersed and hurrying homeward, east, 
 west, north, and south, like boys when a school 
 breaks up. 
 
 ' Good news, my Lord Hastings,' said "Westmore- 
 land ironically; ' and so I arrest you, traitor, of high 
 treason; and you, Lord Archbishop; and you also, 
 Lord Mowbray.' 
 
 Under this treacherous stroke, Mowbray, as he 
 had most mistrusted, was the first to find his speech. 
 He turned on Prince John. ' Is this just and hon- 
 ourable ? ' he asked. 
 
 It was neither; it was the meanest and coldest 
 crime the House of Lancaster had to pay for in its 
 day of reckoning. ' Will you break your faith 
 thus? ' the Archbishop demanded. 
 
 ' I pledged none to thee, 7 was the Prince's shame- 
 ful answer. ' I promised redress of these griev- 
 ances, and by my honour I will perform it with a 
 most Christian care. But for you rebels, you shall 
 taste the doom of rebels. Lead these men to the 
 block; and sound drums for the pursuit of their fol- 
 lowers! ' With the name of God on his lips the 
 
 Prince hurried off to chase and massacre. 
 239 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 At home the thoughts of the sick King still ran 
 on his voyage to Palestine, and again on the son he 
 loved most but could never understand. The 
 nearer he drew to his end the more his heart yearned 
 over this Harry who should succeed him. Most of 
 all he hated that others should share or even guess 
 his own fears. To his other sons — and especially 
 to Thomas of Clarence, who had succeeded to 
 Harry's place in the Council, and cherished little 
 love but no little contempt for his elder brother — 
 . he insisted pitifully on Harry's good qualities and 
 kindness of heart. 
 
 There came a day when, stretched on his couch, 
 he asked after Harry, and was told that the Prince 
 had gone to hunt at Windsor. 
 
 ' Is not Thomas of Clarence with him? ' 
 
 ' No, my lord, he is here.' And Clarence came 
 forward. ' What would my lord and father? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Why, Clarence, art thou not with thy brother? 
 Thou dost neglect him, and yet of all his brothers he 
 loves thee best. Cherish that love, my son; and 
 when I am dead it may knit you all together in 
 brotherly affection, proof against envious whisper- 
 ers who will seek to divide our house against itself. 
 His is a generous nature, but quickly incensed, and 
 then as stubborn as flint; therefore chide his faults 
 240 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUKTH 
 
 carefully and in season, and again in his headstrong 
 moods give him rein and let his passion work itself 
 out. Study him, Clarence.' 
 
 ' I will observe him, my lord, with all care and 
 love.' 
 
 ' But why art thou not at Windsor with him? ' 
 
 ' He is not at Windsor to-day, but dining in Lon- 
 don — with Poins and his other constant compan- 
 ions.' 
 
 This was just what Henry had dreaded to hear; 
 and for the moment in his weakness he let slip the 
 cry of his heart, the anguish he had been trying to 
 hide, the perpetual haunting terroBTof the days to 
 come, when he should be asleep in his tomb and his 
 son misgoverning England without check or guid- 
 ance. It was at this moment, while the Earl of 
 Warwick, one of his wisest counsellors, sought to 
 console him, that a messenger arrived from the north 
 with happy news. Northumberland at last had 
 met the reward of paltering with fate. He had 
 failed Hotspur; he had failed the Archbishop; both 
 in the hour of need. Too late he had been forced 
 to summon up courage and strike with Lord Bar- 
 dolph and the remnant of the rebel leaders; and at 
 Tadcaster, near York, had fallen on the field in the 
 general rout of his troops. 
 
 This was the news which at another time might 
 241 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 have put new life into Henry. But Henry was past 
 rejoicing. Stretching out his hands, with one ter- 
 rible call upon Good Fortune which had come too 
 late, he sank back upon his couch in a swoon. 
 
 His sons rushed to his side, with "Westmoreland 
 and Warwick. They bore him into another cham- 
 ber, and laid him there on a bed, standing beside 
 him until the fit passed and his eyes opened. He 
 was very weary, he whispered; let there be no noise 
 made, unless it were soothing music. He begged- 
 them to set the crown on the pillow beside him, 
 while the music lulled him — if it might be — to 
 sleep. 
 
 While the musicians played softly in a near room, 
 and the King's eyes closed, Prince Harry came in 
 noisy high spirits along the corridor, eager to tell the 
 good news from the north which he had heard out- 
 side. Warwick met him at the door, entreating, 
 ' Less noise, less noise ! ' 
 
 The sight of his brothers' grief and of the figure 
 stretched on the bed sobered him. ' Has he heard 
 the good news ? ' he asked. ' What ? Overcome by 
 it? If he be sick with joy, he'll recover without 
 physic' 
 
 ' Not so much noise,' Warwick entreated again. 
 ' Prince, I implore you speak low; your father is 
 disposed to sleep.' 
 
 242 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUETH 
 
 The others withdrew softly to the other room, but 
 Harry sat down to watch alone by his father. "While 
 he watched his eyes fell on the crown resting oh the 
 pillow. ' "Why does it lie there, I wonder? ' He 
 went over, touched it, took it in his hands, laid it 
 back again. ' Sleep with it now; but of how much 
 slumber has it not robbed thee, my father — this 
 golden burden? ' As he set it down something 
 caught his attention. A tiny feather of down had 
 escaped from the pillow and lay close to the King's 
 parted lips. He bent; the feather did not stir. 
 ' This must be death ! ' He dropped on his knees. 
 ' My gracious lord ! my father ! ' The figure on 
 the bed neither answered nor moved. ' Sleep? ay, 
 the sleep that hath parted so many English kings 
 from this golden circlet.' He took the crown again 
 from the pillow, and standing upright held it in both 
 hands above him. ' My due to thee, father, is a 
 son's tears and heavy sorrows, and tenderly, fully, 
 shall they be paid; thy due to me is this crown. 
 Here on my head I place it; God shall guard it: the 
 whole world shall not be strong enough to force it 
 from me — the crown of England, to be my son's as 
 it was my father's ! ' 
 
 By and by the eyes of the sick King unclosed, and 
 gazed feebly about the room. It was empty. He 
 raised himself on an elbow. * "Warwick ! Glouces- 
 243 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ter! Clarence! ' he called; and as they came hur- 
 riedly, ' Why have you left me alone here? ' 
 
 ' We left the Prince of Wales here, my liege. 
 He undertook to sit by you and watch.' 
 
 ' The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let me 
 see him; he is not here.' 
 
 ' He must have gone out by this door; he did not 
 pass through the room where we have been sitting.' 
 
 But the King's eyes were now turned upon his 
 pillow. ' Where is the crown? Who has taken it? 
 Go, fetch the Prince. Is he so hasty to think me 
 dead? O you sons! ' he cried bitterly, 'you for 
 whom we fathers wake and scheme and toil, only to 
 be thus rewarded! ' 
 
 The Prince was not far to seek. Warwick found 
 him overcome with grief, weeping alone in one of 
 the rooms close by; and he came back joyful and 
 amazed, while Henry dismissed the others with a 
 motion of his weak hand. 
 
 ' Father! I never thought to hear you speak 
 again ! ' 
 
 ' Thy wish, Harry, was father of that thought. 
 It seems I stay too long and weary thee. What! 
 So hungry after my empty chair that thou must 
 needs put on my honours before thy hour comes? 
 Couldst thou not have waited a little — a very little? 
 but must steal that which in an hour or two would 
 244 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 have been thine without offence? All thy life has 
 proved that thou hadst never any love for me, and 
 now thou wilt have me die well assured of it. What ! 
 Couldst thou not forbear one half -hour? Go, then, 
 dig my grave; bid the bells ring for thy coronation.' 
 From terrible reproaches the dying father passed to 
 yet more bitter, more terrible gibes. ' Harry the 
 Fifth is crowned! Long live the new king, and 
 farewell to dignity and wise counsel ! Assemble, all 
 the apes of idleness, all the scum of Europe! Has 
 any nation a ruffian ready to swear, drink, dance, 
 revel, rob, murder, commit the oldest sins in the 
 newest kind of ways? Be happy — he shall trouble 
 you no longer. Send him to England — there are 
 office, honours, power awaiting him here. For 
 Harry the Fifth is King, and England goes back to 
 her old inhabitants, the wolves! ' 
 
 Harry was hurt beyond anger. ' My liege, blame 
 the tears that hindered my speech and have suf- 
 fered you to speak, me to listen, so far. There is 
 your crown; and may He who wears a crown ever- 
 lasting long guard it yours ! If I care for it more 
 than as your honour and renown, let me not rise 
 from these knees. God is my witness, when I came 
 in and finding no sign of breath believed you dead, 
 how cold it struck my heart; my witness with what 
 thoughts I lifted the crown, accusing it and the 
 
 245 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 cares of it for thy death, and put it on my head as 
 moved by the moment to try with it, as with an en- 
 emy who had murdered my father, the quarrel of 
 a true inheritor. But if I rejoiced, was puffed up, 
 or hailed its possession, may God keep it from my 
 head for ever, and abase me as low as the poorest 
 vassal who kneels to it in awe and terror ! ' 
 
 These indignant words, spoken with honest looks, 
 touched the King and convinced him. ' My son, 
 God must have put it in thy mind to take the crown, 
 that thy words of excuse might win the more surely 
 thy father's love! Come, Harry, sit by my bed, 
 and hear my counsel — the latest, I think, that I shall 
 ever utter. God knows, my son, by what devious 
 ways I came to this crown, as I know too well what 
 a weight it hath been to wear. But it descends to 
 thee more quietly, better allowed by men's opinions, 
 ay, and assured; for I carry to earth all the stain 
 with which it was won. All my reign through I 
 have been forced to defend it, and thou knowest with 
 what peril I have done so. My death changes all, 
 and by thee it will be worn as a fair inheritance. 
 Yet beware; the power of those who advanced me 
 and might have dragged me low again is but newly 
 broken. It was to keep them busy, too busy to be 
 idly prying into my title, that I had planned to lead 
 them to Palestine. Do thou, Harry, keep them 
 246 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 busy with wars abroad, and so may action wear out 
 the old bad memories, and God, forgiving how I 
 came by the crown, grant it may abide with thee in 
 true peace! ' 
 
 ' My gracious liege,' declared Harry, ' as you won 
 it, wore it, kept it, and have given it to me, so it is 
 mine, and against all the world will I maintain it.' 
 
 The King was exhausted and almost too weak for 
 speech. ' My lord,' he muttered, as "Warwick re- 
 entered, ' the chamber where I swooned — has it not 
 some particular name? ' 
 
 ' It is called Jerusalem, your majesty.' For so 
 it was called from the paintings around its walls, 
 and indeed is so called to this day. 
 
 Henry remembered the old prophecy that no- 
 where but in Jerusalem should his end be. ' Praise 
 be unto God ! vainly I supposed it was to be in the 
 Holy Land; but now bear me back to that chamber, 
 and let Henry die in Jerusalem.' 
 
 Now Falstaff had not forgotten his promise to 
 revisit Justice Shallow on his way back from the 
 wars; and a little while after these things happened 
 at "Westminster, in peaceful Gloucestershire Sir 
 John was resting his unwieldy legs under the jus- 
 tice's table, drinking deep of his sack, listening to 
 his endless empty discourse, and promising himself 
 
 247 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 how Prince Harry would laugh over his description 
 of this visit, a little dressed up. ' It's a long way a 
 dressed-up tale and a jest with a solemn face will go 
 with a youngster who never had an ache in his 
 shoulders. I will make Harry laugh over this Shal- 
 low till he cries.' 
 
 And indeed after supper, when the justice led his 
 guests out into his orchard, where their dessert was 
 spread in a summer arbour — ' a last year's pippin of 
 my own grafting, with a dish of caraways and so 
 forth ' — the tale promised to be a very lively one. 
 For Master Shallow had drunk too much sack, and 
 Master Silence had unaccountably found his tongue 
 and could not be restrained from trolling out 
 snatches of song. 
 
 ' I did not think,' remarked Falstaff, observing 
 him with a roguish cock of the eye; ' I did not think 
 Master Silence had been a man of this mettle.' 
 
 'Who, I?' hiccupped Silence; 'I have been 
 merry once or twice in my time! ' and again he 
 broke into singing. 
 
 While they pledged each other and Falstaff egged 
 Silence on to make himself more and more ridicu- 
 lous, they heard from the orchard a knocking on the 
 house door, and Shallow's man Davy ran to answer 
 it. He came back. ' An't please your worship, 
 there's one Pistol arrived from the court with news.' 
 248 
 
KING HENRY THE FOUKTH 
 
 'Pistol? From the court? Let him come in. 
 "Why, how now, Pistol? ' demanded Sir John, as the 
 visitor came swaggering across the turf. ' What 
 wind blew you hither? ' 
 
 ' Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. 
 Knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in 
 this realm.' 
 
 ' 'Pon my word, now, I think he be,' tittered Mas- 
 ter Silence foolishly, ' unless it be fat Puff of Barson 
 parish.' 
 
 ' Puff! ' Pistol rounded on him with a flourish in 
 his loftiest manner, familiar enough to his friends, 
 but highly disconcerting to an honest country gen- 
 tleman pretty far fuddled with drink. ' Puff in thy 
 teeth, most recreant coward base! Sir John, I am 
 thy Pistol and thy friend, And helter-skelter have I 
 rode to thee, And tidings do I bring and lucky joys 
 And golden times and happy news of price.' 
 
 ' Come,' said Falstaff, with a glance at Silence, 
 who sat with his jaw dropped in sheer astonishment 
 at a gentleman who talked blank verse, and such 
 unusual blank verse, by habit, ' I pray thee tell thy 
 news like a man of this world.' 
 
 ' A farthing for the world and worldlings base ! 
 I speak of Africa and golden joys.' 
 
 ' Very well, then.' Palstaff observing its effect 
 upon the two justices, took up Pistol's manner with 
 249 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 a grin. ' O base Assyrian knight, what is thy 
 news ? Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.' 
 
 ' And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John — ' 
 
 warbled Silence. 
 
 ' Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? 
 And shall good news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay 
 thy head in Furies' lap ! ' 
 
 ' Honest gentleman,' quavered Shallow, ' I don't 
 know who you may be, but all this is very strange 
 to me ' 
 
 ' Why, then, be sorry for it,' Pistol interrupted. 
 
 ' Your pardon, sir,' persisted the little justice; ' if 
 you come with news from the court, I take it there's 
 but two ways, either to utter it or to conceal it.' He 
 drew himself up primly. ' I am, sir, under the 
 King, a person of some authority.' 
 
 ' Under which king, Besonian? Speak or die! ' 
 
 ' Why, under King Harry.' 
 
 ' Harry the Fourth or the Fifth? ' 
 
 ' Harry the Fourth, to be sure.' 
 
 Pistol snapped his fingers. ' That, then, for thy 
 authority! Sir John, thy pet lamb is to-day King 
 of England. And long live Harry the Fifth ! ' 
 
 ' What! ' .Falstaff staggered to his feet. ' The 
 
 old King dead! ' 
 
 ' As a door-nail.' 
 
 250 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUETH 
 
 ' Away Bardolph ! saddle my horse. Master 
 Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the 
 land, it is thine. Pistol, I will double — charge thee 
 with honours.' 
 
 ' O joyful day! ' Bardolph waved his hat. ' I 
 wouldn't swap my fortune to-day for a knight- 
 hood.' 
 
 But Falstaff was all fume and bustle to be off 
 towards London. ' Carry Master Silence to bed. 
 Master Shallow — my Lord Shallow — be what thou 
 wilt, I am the dispenser of fortune now — get on 
 thy boots! We'll ride all night. Bless thee, Pis- 
 tol. Away, Bardolph! Come, tell me more, 
 Pistol. Boot, boot and saddle, Master Shallow! I 
 know the young King is pining for me. JLetustake 
 any man's horses; Jhe laws_of England are what I 
 choose 'em to be. Blessed are they who have been . 
 Jac k Fa lstaff 's friends; and woe to my Lord Chief - 
 Justice!..' 
 
 The Prince's loose companions were not alone in 
 believing that a merry time lay in store for them, 
 and a sorry one for men of sobriety and good coun- 
 sel. The Lord Chief-Justice, for example, had rea- 
 son enough to fear what Falstaff so confidently 
 promised. "What could he look for from the youth 
 he had been hardy enough to commit to prison? ' I 
 would he had called me with him,' he sighed, when 
 
 251 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 news came to him of the King's death. Whatever 
 happened, it could not be worse than he had fore- 
 boded of late. 
 
 At the first audience of the new King which he 
 attended at Westminster, the Princes Gloucester 
 and Clarence gave this upright judge but cold com- 
 fort. ' You will have to pay your suit to Sir John 
 Ealstaff now,' the latter sneered. 
 
 Harry when he entered the audience chamber 
 was quick to perceive the gloom on their faces. 
 ' Brothers,' said he, ' you mix fears with your sad- 
 ness. This is the English court, not the Turkish; 
 here Harry is succeeded by Harry, not one tyrant 
 by a tyrant who slays his brothers. Yet be sorrow- 
 ful, as I will be sorrowful; but let us as brothers 
 wear for a common reason the sorrow that so roy- 
 ally becomes you.' The young King cast his eyes 
 around the chamber. ' I see you all look strangely 
 on me. You most of all ' — he turned on the Lord 
 Chief-Justice — ' you are assured I have little love 
 for you.' 
 
 ' I am assured,' answered Gascoigne with humble 
 courage, ' that if I be measured rightly, your Maj- 
 esty has no just reason to hate me.' He had 
 promised the Princes beforehand that he would sue 
 for no half-hearted pardon, but if his uprightness 
 and innocence availed nothing, would follow the 
 252 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 dead King to his grave and tell him in another world 
 who had sent him there. 
 
 ' No reason? ' demanded Harry. ' Can a prince 
 of my great hopes forget the indignity yon once laid 
 on me? What! rate, rebuke, pack off to prison the 
 heir of England! Is that to be forgotten, think 
 you? ' 
 
 ' My liege/ answered Gascoigne firmly, ' as judge 
 I stood for your father. I represented the King. 
 While I administered his law your highness was 
 pleased to forget the majesty I stood for; you struck 
 me there in the very seat of justice. In me you 
 offended your father, and by his authority I com- 
 mitted you. If I did ill, you who now wear his 
 crown cannot take it ill should a son of yours insult 
 the law and, through the law, your royal person. 
 Suppose the case yours; imagine yourself so dis- 
 dained by a son; imagine me silencing that son by 
 the power I hold from you; and so after cold con- 
 sideration pass sentence upon me, and say what I 
 did that misbecame my place or my person or the 
 majesty of my King.' 
 
 ' My lord judge,' answered Harry, ' you are 
 right. Continue to bear the scales and the sword 
 of justice, and may you increase in honour till you 
 live to see a son of mine offend you and obey you as 
 I did. Then shall I live to say as my father said: 
 253 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " I am happy to have a judge so brave that he dares 
 to do justice on my own son; and not less happy to 
 have a son who can so submit himself to justice." 
 Yes, my lord, continue to wear that untarnished 
 sword and to use it as boldly, as justly, as impar- 
 tially as you sed it against me. There is my 
 hand; help me with your wisdom; and with the 
 help of God and such counsellors as you, no one 
 shall have cause to wish aught but long life to King 
 Harry.' 
 
 Had Falstaff known of this — had he and his com- 
 panions guessed that while they spurred towards 
 London the King's officers were ransacking the 
 Boar's Head Tavern and dragging its hostess and 
 others to answer for the life of a man mishandled 
 there by Pistol and since dead of his wounds — their 
 haste had been less confident. As it was, they 
 reached the city and posted themselves near "West- 
 minster Abbey in time to hear the trumpets and to 
 see the grooms strewing rushes along the roadway 
 for the King's return from the coronation. Pal- 
 staff had already on the strength of his promises bled 
 the justice for the loan of a thousand pounds, and 
 his only regret was that time had not allowed him 
 to array his men in new liveries. ' Stand here by 
 me, Master Shallow; I will make the King do you 
 
 grace : I will leer upon him as he comes by, and you 
 254 
 
KING HENEY THE FOUKTH 
 
 shall mark how pleasantly he'll look. Stand be- 
 hind me, Pistol; I wish I had those liveries. But 
 no matter, this poor show will prove what zeal, what 
 devotion, I had to see him.' 
 
 ' True, true,' Master Shallow agreed. 
 
 'As it were to ride day and night; and not to 
 have patience, not to change my clothes, but to stand 
 stained with travel and sweating with desire to see 
 him; thinking of nothing else, putting all other busi- 
 ness aside, as if there were nothing else important 
 in the world but to see him.' 
 
 ' Very true.' 
 
 Pistol indeed had heard disquieting news of the 
 raid on the Boar's Plead Tavern, and repeated it to 
 Palstaff. The womenkind there, it seemed, had 
 been taken and flung into prison. 
 
 ' Tut, tut,' — Sir John waved him aside; ' I will 
 see them set at liberty.' 
 
 And now the trumpets sounded, the throng raised 
 a mighty shout, and forth from the great doors of 
 the Abbey stepped the newly crowned King with 
 his train of peers attending. 
 
 ' God save thy grace, King Hal ! ' Falstaff thrust 
 himself forward, cheering louder than any. ' My 
 royal Hal!' 
 
 ' The heavens thee guard and keep ; most royal 
 
 imp of fame ! ' chimed in Pistol. 
 
 255 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 ( God save thee, my sweet boy! ' Falstaff shouted, 
 almost splitting his lungs. 
 
 The King heard his remembered voice, halted, 
 flung him a glance, and turned to Gascoigne. ' My 
 Lord Chief -Justice, pray speak to that vain man.' 
 
 'Have you lost your wits?' chided the judge. 
 ' Do you know whom you speak to? ' 
 
 But Falstaff was not to be repressed. ' My King ! 
 My Jove ! I am speaking to thee, my heart ! ' 
 
 The King looked him up and down. Then, 
 clearly and coldly, he spoke : ' Old man, I know thee 
 not. Get thee to thy prayers; for ill do white hairs 
 become a fool and a jester. I have been a long time 
 dreaming, and in that dream I have known such a 
 man, one so swollen with indulgence, so old, and so 
 profane. But now I am awake and despise my 
 dream. Hence! leave gluttony, and learn that 
 there is a grave gaping for thee and thrice as wide 
 as for other men. "Nay, answer me not with some 
 foolish jest, nor presume that what I was I still am. 
 For God knows, and the world shall know, that I 
 have dismissed my old self, and with it I dismiss 
 those who were my companions. When thou hear- 
 est that I am again what I was, then approach and 
 be again my tutor and feeder in riots; but until then 
 I forbid thee on pain of death, as I have forbidden 
 the rest of my misleaders, to approach within ten 
 256 
 
KING HENRY THE FOURTH 
 
 miles of my person. I have granted thee a suffi- 
 cient income for life, that poverty may not drive 
 thee to evil, and as we hear of your reformation we 
 will advance you. My Lord Chief-Justice, it shall 
 be your duty to see this performed.' And so King 
 Harry passed on. 
 
 Falstaff turned a sad, very woeful face. ' Master 
 Shallow,' he said, ' I owe you a thousand pound.' 
 
 ' Yea, marry, Sir John,' chirped Shallow; ' and I 
 beseech you let me have it to carry home with me.' 
 
 ' That can hardly be, Master Shallow,' the old 
 knight answered pitifully, and strove to reassure 
 himself. ' Do not you grieve at this. He will send 
 for me in private. Look you, he has to appear like 
 this to the world. Never fear for your advance- 
 ment; I shall make you a great man yet.' 
 
 Master Shallow shook a rueful head. ' I cannot 
 well perceive how. I beseech you, Sir John, let me 
 have five hundred of my thousand.' 
 
 ' Sir, I will be as good as my word. Come with 
 me to dinner; come Pistol and Bardolph; I shall be 
 sent for soon to-night.' 
 
 But even this hope was shattered by Lord Chief- 
 Justice Gascoigne as he came back along the street 
 in talk with Prince John of Lancaster and followed 
 by his officers. ' Go,' he commanded; ' carry Sir 
 John Falstaff and his company to the Fleet Prison! ' 
 
 257 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' My lord, my lord/ stammered poor Falstaff. 
 
 ' No more at present! I will hear you soon, at 
 another time.' He watched them as they were led 
 off and turned to Prince John in silence. 
 
 ' A good beginning,' said the Prince quietly; ' the 
 King has provided for his old followers, but they are 
 banished until the world finds their conduct more 
 reputable.' 
 
 ' They are,' assented the Lord Chief-Justice 
 grimly. 
 
 ' My lord, he has called his parliament.' Again 
 the stern old judge nodded as a man well pleased. 
 ' I will lay odds,' the Prince went on, ' that before 
 the year is out we shall be moving — perhaps as far 
 as to France.' The Lord Chief-Justice looked at 
 him sharply. ' I heard a little bird sing so,' said 
 Prince John. 
 
 258 
 
KING HENRY THE EIFTH 
 
 Pkince Hal was now King Henry V., and Prince 
 Hal no longer. All trace of that madcap, that 
 haunter of taverns and dissolute company, had van- 
 ished in the young man who now held the sceptre of 
 England with a firm hand and serious purpose. The 
 wildness seemed to die out of him as the breath left 
 his father's body, and his people wondered, while 
 they thanked Heaven for the change. Never, they 
 told each other, had reformation come in such a 
 swift and cleansing flood; and since the days of 
 miracles had gone by, they were forced to believe 
 that his thoughtfulness had been growing secretly 
 under cover of his old wild courses, as a strawberry 
 ripens under a nettle, or grass springs fastest while 
 the night hides it. 
 
 Eor they saw him to be not sober-minded only, 
 but shrewd; of strong will, yet just; masterful, while 
 willing to listen to advice; at once a king with high 
 thoughts for his country's welfare and honour, and 
 
 a man with a mind of his own. He had not f orgot- 
 259 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ten his father's dying counsel, to strengthen his 
 throne by busying the minds of the nobles with for- 
 eign conquest, that so they might be the less tempted 
 to plot mischief. They were restless, he knew. 
 "War was their chief and natural pastime; he must 
 supply it abroad upon an honourable excuse, or they 
 would find one for raising trouble at home. Al- 
 ready plots were hatching around the young Earl 
 of March, who (as men did not forget) in strict law 
 was heir to the throne. It was high time to confirm 
 himself for the great struggle surely coming be- 
 tween the crown of England and big feudal lords. 
 A successful war abroad would keep them busy, and 
 (better still) busy in strengthening his hands. 
 
 And the chance lay open to him. France had 
 let no occasion slip of thwarting and fostering trea- 
 son against Bolingbroke; but France just now had 
 an unhappy madman for king, under whom she was 
 rent by the quarrels of two factions, the one headed 
 by the Duke of Burgundy, the other by the Duke 
 of Orleans ; Burgundians and Armagnacs they were 
 called. Under this strife she lay for the moment 
 helpless. This moment was Henry's, and he seized 
 it to claim the French throne. 
 
 The claim was in law a shadowy one; the shadow 
 
 of a claim raised once before by our Edward III. 
 
 It rested on this. Philip the Bold of France, who 
 260 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 died in 1285, had left two sons, Philip the Fair, who 
 succeeded him, and Charles, Count of Yalois. 
 Philip the Fair had three sons, each of whom held 
 the throne in turn, and one daughter Isabella, who 
 married our Edward II., and became the mother of 
 Edward III. Now when these three sons died with- 
 out heirs the crown did not pass to their sister Isa- 
 bella, but to the son of Charles of Valois, the reason 
 being that by a law (called the Salic Law) no woman 
 could hold the succession. And with the descen- 
 dants of Charles of Valois the crown had remained 
 down to the madman Charles VI., who now wore 
 it. 
 
 Edward III. had refused to accept this Salic law, 
 arguing that it was of force only in Salic land, and 
 that this did not include Prance. There had been 
 much reason in his claim, but there was none in the 
 claim now revived by Henry V., his descendant; be- 
 cause if Henry stood upon strict law, the throne of 
 France belonged not to him but to the young Earl 
 of March, as first in direct descent from Edward. 1 
 
 He made his claim, however; and he had some- 
 thing more than the weakness of France to promise 
 him success. For reasons of their own the clergy 
 of England, headed by the Archbishop of Canter- 
 
 1 A glance at the accompanying table will help to make plain 
 the question of title. 
 
 261 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 a 
 
 
 ca »a 
 
 — =3 8 
 
 25 S.g§ 
 
 O p 
 
 s< 
 
 -Jifccl 
 
 
 °s 
 
 is j? 
 
 OSS "g§ 
 fix ^ 
 
 p ajco 
 
 So*. 
 
 
 
 
 -s 
 
 H 
 
 
 § 
 
 S . 
 
 *-T . 
 
 < 
 
 
 So 
 
 '•e as 
 
 
 S 
 
 
 .■eg wa 
 .■o£g_o« 
 
 — S. § 
 
 ■o"S»~' 
 
 J* 
 
 
 ., 1 dS - 
 2S— ^SJ» 
 
 1* 
 
 4 
 
 262 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 bury, were longing for a foreign war. As Henry 
 wanted to keep his nobles busy,, so the clergy wished 
 to keep Henry diverted from prying into their af- 
 fairs. The Church, in fact, was feeling the first 
 of the pains and disquiet which in time brought the 
 Reformation to birth. Men were beginning to look 
 enviously on her great riches, and to ask how they 
 were spent. In the last reign a bill had been 
 brought before Parliament making the King mas- 
 ter of the lands left to the Church by devout per- 
 sons and ' disordinately spent ' by the clergy; the 
 money to be used in maintaining earls, knights, and 
 esquires for the defence of the realm, almshouses 
 for the poor, and leaving a surplus of twenty thou- 
 sand pounds for the King's own coffers. This, as 
 the Archbishop put it, was not drinking deep, but 
 drinking cup and all; and how the clergy felt tow- 
 ards the bill we need not say. Pressing troubles 
 had pushed it out of question for the time; but now 
 under the new King it was being proposed again. 
 Something must be done to divert him; and what 
 better for this purpose than a foreign war? For 
 this to be sure he would need money. Very well; 
 these wily Churchmen would supply him with 
 money. 
 
 They did more ; they made the war binding upon 
 his conscience. The day came which brought the 
 
 263 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 French answer to his demands; but before grant- 
 ing tbe ambassadors audience, Henry sent for the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury and desired to be told 
 whether the Salic law did or did not bar his claim. 
 ' God forbid,' said he, ' that you should wrest or 
 bow your interpretation to that which suits not with 
 the truth, since God knows how much blood will 
 be shed to seal approval of what you say. Speak, 
 my lord; but bear this in mind, I conjure you, and 
 speak only with a pure conscience.' 
 
 The Archbishop spoke without hesitation. To 
 begin with (he argued), the Salic land did not in- 
 clude France, but lay in Germany, between the 
 rivers Sala and Elbe. The Salic law was never de- 
 vised for France, nor did the French possess their 
 present territory until four hundred years and more 
 after the death of King Pharamond, the supposed 
 founder of the law. Moreover, this very law would 
 upset the French kings' claim to their own crown, 
 since both King Pepin and Hugh Capet had derived 
 their titles by female descent. All this the Arch- 
 bishop set forth with much show of learning, and 
 quoted the Book of Numbers to support him — ' If 
 a man die, and have no son, ye shall cause his in- 
 heritance to pass unto his daughter.' ' May I, then, 
 with right and conscience make this claim?' de- 
 manded Henry. ' The sin be on my head ! ' was 
 264 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 the Archbishop's answer. Nobles and churchmen 
 now vied in urging the King to uphold his claim, 
 but Henry, having the answer he had religiously 
 sought, needed no urging. His mind made up on 
 this main point, he turned his thoughts at once to 
 ways and means. It would never do to leave his 
 kingdom defenceless against the Scot, who would 
 seize the moment of his absence to invade and 
 harry. Said the old proverb — 
 
 If that you will France win, 
 Then with Scotland first begin. 
 
 The Duke of Exeter and the Archbishop met this 
 difficulty. ' My liege, a quarter of your fighting 
 men, with you to lead them, will set France shak- 
 ing. Leave lis with the rest, and we promise to de- 
 fend England for you.' 
 
 It was enough. ' Call in the Dauphin's messen- 
 gers! ' commanded Henry, and they entered. 
 ' Now we will know the Dauphin's pleasure, since 
 it seems you come from him.' ' May we speak 
 freely? ' they demanded. ' "We are no tyrant,' was 
 the answer, ' but a Christian King; our passions as 
 securely chained as the wretches in our prisons. Be 
 frank without fear.' 
 
 Their first words made it clear that to the mis- 
 taken Dauphin Henry was still Prince Hal. ' In 
 
 265 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 answer to your claims, then, the Dauphin, our mas- 
 ter, says that you savour too much of your youth; 
 bids you be advised you cannot dance your way 
 into French dukedoms; and sends you, therefore, 
 as an offering more suitable for you — this chest of 
 treasure.' 
 
 ' What treasure, uncle? ' asked Henry, as the 
 Duke of Exeter peered beneath the lid they lifted. 
 
 ' My liege, it is — tennis-balls! ' 
 
 Henry sprang from his throne, but mastered his 
 rage in a moment and stood grimly staring down 
 upon the tennis-balls, these insulting ghosts of his 
 youth fetched up for a sorry joke. He turned upon 
 the ambassadors. ' We are glad,' he said quietly, 
 ' the Dauphin is so pleasant with us. We thank 
 you for his present and for your pains. When we 
 have matched our rackets with these balls of his, 
 by God's grace we will play a set which shall strike 
 his father's crown into the hazard! Yes, we under- 
 stand him and how he twits us with our wild youth. 
 But tell him that when I rouse me in my throne 
 of France he shall see and know for what I reserved 
 my majesty! And tell him,' Henry's voice rose, 
 ' tell the pleasant prince this mock of his has turned 
 his tennis-balls to gun-stones, shall mock wives out 
 of their husbands, mothers from their sons, shall 
 mock castles down, and give men yet unborn cause 
 360 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 to curse the pleasantry. But all this lies in the 
 will of God, to whom I appeal. Go in peace. Let 
 the Dauphin know that I follow, and add that his 
 jest will savour of a shallow wit when bewept by 
 thousands more than it made laugh.' He turned to 
 his attendants, ' Give these men safe conduct hence.' 
 
 ' It was a merry message,' said the Duke of Exe- 
 ter when the ambassadors had taken their leave. 
 
 ' We hope to make the sender blush for it,' an- 
 swered the King. Having committed the main issue 
 to God, whose will upon the best advice he was fol- 
 lowing, this thorough Englishman turned to busi- 
 ness. All his thought now was to get to France 
 swiftly and in good time. 
 
 And all the fighting spirits of England took fire 
 from him. They cared little for the right or wrong 
 of the excuse; they looked back across years of 
 galling peace and French insult and intrigue, and 
 remembered Cressy. No more silken dalliance! 
 Noble and knight, squire and serving-man, took 
 down their weapons and looked to their equipment. 
 The poor man sold his pasture and bought a horse 
 to carry him to the wars and win wealth. All was 
 noise and bustle about the armourers' forges. The 
 taverns of Eastcheap felt the stir. The war would 
 bring plunder for rascals. ' Profits,' as Pistol put 
 it, ' will accrue ' ; and he and the rest of Falstaff' s 
 
 267 
 
TALES PKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 hangers-on began to furbish up their swords and 
 scour their stained armour, eager as crows at the 
 scent of carrion, thirsty as horse-leeches. Pistol 
 himself had lately patched up a marriage with 
 Dame Quickly, greatly to the disgust of a late crony 
 Corporal Nym, to whom that lady had already 
 plighted her troth; and red-nosed Bardolph had 
 much ado to keep the peace between the rivals, who 
 drew when they met and deafened him with their 
 abuse, Pistol ranting in the old braggart fashion, 
 ]STym sheepish but persistent and vindictive, and 
 the one as cowardly as the other. ' Come, shall I 
 make you two friends? ' proposed Bardolph. ' "We 
 must to Prance together. Why should we keep 
 knives to cut one another's throats? ' 
 
 ' Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl 
 on ! ' foamed Pistol. 
 
 ]STym was more matter-of-fact. ' You'll pay me 
 the eight shillings I won of you at betting? ' 
 
 ' Base isthe slave that pays ! ' was all th e satis- 
 faction to be had at first] but pre sently relenting , 
 / Pistol promised six-and-eightpence, money down. 
 ^ Such are the quarrels of rogues, quickly patched 
 
 up on the chance of .preying together uponhonest 
 men. Within a minute this pair were sworn broth- 
 ers" for the campaign, in which Pistol proposed to 
 
 serve as sutler — with pickings. 
 268 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 But Falstaff had come to the end of his campaign- 
 ings. He lay at Mistress Quickly's, sick (as his 
 hostess described it) of ' a burning quotidian ter- 
 tian ' ; but in a wiser moment she came nearer the 
 truth. ' The King has killed his heart ' ; there 
 lay the secret of the disease, and before the King 
 embarked the old reprobate had died of it. ' A' 
 made a finer end,' was Mistress Quickly's account, 
 ' and went away an it had been any christom child; 
 a' parted even just between twelve and one, even at 
 the turning o' the tide : for after I saw him fumble 
 with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon 
 his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; 
 for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled 
 of green fields. " How now, Sir John! " quoth I; 
 " what, man! be o' good cheer." So a' cried out, 
 " God, God, God ! " three or four times. Now I, 
 to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of God ; 
 I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with 
 any such thoughts yet. So a' bade me lay more 
 clothes on his feet . . .' In short, Falstaff was 
 dead. ' Would I we re with him,' groaned Bar- 
 d olph, ' wbgresQme'er..he is, either, in heaven or in 
 _hell}_'^ and even Pistol heaved an honest sigh be- 
 fore^kissjug his wife and bidding her. keep good 
 house and give no credit during his absence. 
 
 The King, before setting sail from Southampton, 
 269 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 had to cast off other and better trusted friends than 
 Sir John. On the very eve of departure a plot was 
 discovered for murdering him and setting the young 
 Earl of March on the throne. To this treason 
 French gold had tempted three men in Henry's in- 
 most counsels — his cousin Richard, Earl of Cam- 
 bridge, Sir Thomas Grey, and even Lord Scroop of 
 Masham, his bedfellow. And they, not suspecting 
 themselves discovered, gave Henry opportunity to 
 condemn them out of their own mouths. Before 
 the nobles, who already knew their guilt, he first 
 consulted them on the firmness and loyalty of his 
 troops, and having listened to their false assurances 
 turned to the Duke of Exeter, bidding him set free 
 a man who the day before had been imprisoned for 
 railing against the King's majesty. The three plot- 
 ters each in turn pressed for severity upon the of- 
 fence, though a trifling one and committed in drunk- 
 enness. ' Let us be merciful,' said Henry. ' Your 
 highness,' urged Cambridge, ' may be merciful and 
 yet punish him.' ' Nevertheless, we will set him 
 free, although Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in 
 their dear care to preserve our person, would have 
 him punished. And now to our French business ! ' 
 He handed to the three plotters the parchments they 
 supposed to contain their commissions, and watched 
 them break the seals. ' Why, how now, gentlemen? 
 270 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 What read you in those papers that so changes your 
 complexion? ' 
 
 The unhappy three were staring at their death 
 warrants. Mercy was not for them. Their pun- 
 ishment must be extreme as the trust reposed in 
 them. In solemn sorrow Henry sent them out to 
 their doom. ' I will weep for thee,' he said to 
 Scroop, the most trusted of all, ' for thy revolt is like 
 another Fall of Man.' And they confessed that 
 they deserved the death which Henry prayed God to 
 give them patience to endure. They were led forth ; 
 and that same night the King put his puissance in 
 the further keeping of God and cheerfully hoisted 
 sail for France. 
 
 Already in the French court some minds were 
 growing uneasy. The Dauphin, to be sure, con- 
 sented to follow his father's advice (for Charles, 
 now enjoying one of his short spells of sanity, ob- 
 served the vigour of the English approach and re- 
 called bygone disasters and the memorable shame of 
 Cressy) and to repair some of the weaker fortresses. 
 But he persisted in his fatal error that Henry was 
 but a vain, shallow boy, not to be taken seriously, 
 still less to be feared. ' As for fear,' he urged, ' we 
 have no more cause to show it than we should if we 
 learned that England were busy with a Whitsun 
 morris-dance.' The Constable of France, Charles 
 
 371 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 d' Albert, was wiser. ' Prince, you are mistaken. 
 Question your ambassadors, and they will tell you 
 how royally, yet modestly, he received them; how 
 careful he showed himself in taking counsel, yet 
 how resolute. These vanities you speak of are 
 spent and done with.' ' You are wrong, my lord,' 
 was the Dauphin's reply; ' but there's no harm in 
 esteeming an enemy more formidable than he seems, 
 and our defences shall be looked to.' 
 
 Quick on the heels of the message returned to the 
 Dauphin, Henry had despatched an embassy of his 
 own, headed by the Duke of Exeter, bearing his 
 conditions with documents in support of his claim. 
 Pie would endure no delay. He whom we first 
 found rallying Falstaff for wanting to know the 
 time of day, had now learnt (as Exeter said) to 
 weigh time even to the uttermost grain. The Dau- 
 phin was for prompt defiance. His father pleaded 
 for a night's respite. ' Despatch us with speed,' 
 Exeter insisted, ' or he will be here in person to 
 know why you are loitering. Already he and his 
 men have landed.' Charles could find no condi- 
 tions to stay the invasion already launched, and the 
 Dauphin had his wish therefore, with what fatal re- 
 sults to Erance we are to see. 
 
 Henry's fleet had crossed from Southampton with 
 
 a fair wind, and made the mouth of the Seine ; and 
 272 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 there, at Caux, he landed his thirty thousand soldiers 
 and marched upon the town of Harfleur. It was a 
 motley and miscellaneous army he commanded. 
 English of all ranks and classes were there, from 
 nobles down to sturdy yeomen, and from these down 
 to such needy rascals as our friends Bardolph, 
 Pistol, and Nym. These three worthies owned one 
 page between them — the boy given by Henry to 
 Ealstaff in the old days — but, indeed, as the lad con- 
 soled himself, ' three such antics do not amount to 
 one man.' He was not long in discovering their ar- 
 rant cowardice. Bardolph was red-faced, but white- 
 livered; Pistol had a killing tongue and a quiet 
 sword; while as for Nym, ' he never broke any man's 
 head but his own, and that was against a post when 
 he was drunk.' Plunder, not fighting, was their 
 game. ' Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve 
 leagues, and sold it for three half -pence. !Nym and 
 Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Cal- 
 ais they stole a fire-shovel.' Rogues all, and when 
 all was said and done, very futile rogues ! The lad, 
 being honest as well as shrewd, promised himself a 
 quick dismissal from such service. 
 
 But the ranks were not made up of Englishmen 
 only. Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen had taken 
 service with Henry as common soldiers and petty 
 officers, and the shouts and calls of command under 
 
 273 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the walls of Harfleur made up a babel of dialects 
 comic enough for those who listened to it, but more 
 ',, than merely amusing to us who know of what this 
 H was the beginning; how men of these races have 
 since fought side by side, or back to back, with what 
 traditions of glory and with what splendid results. 
 They wefe good fighters even at Harfleur, these men 
 of strange dialects. There was Captain Fluellen, 
 for instance, a self -conceited, peppery, and pedantic 
 little Welshman, scolding, arguing, criticising or- 
 ders, but sweating and fighting like a hero. In 
 Captain Fluellen's neighbourhood our London bul- 
 lies found it unpleasantly difficult to shirk danger. 
 ' Up to the breach, you dogs ! ' was his exhortation, 
 backed with blows of the sword. A moment later 
 would find him wrangling with the messenger sent 
 by the Duke of Gloucester to fetch him to the siege- 
 mines. ' Tell the Duke it is not so good to come to 
 the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according 
 to the disciplines of the war : the concavities of it is 
 not sufficient; for, look you, the adversary, you may 
 discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digg'd himself 
 four yard under by countermines: I think a' will 
 plow up all, if there is not better directions.' Cap- 
 tain Gower, the messenger, had to remind him that 
 the siege was being conducted by the Duke of 
 Gloucester, under the direction of an Irishman, one 
 274 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 Captain Macmorris. ' He is an ass. He has no more 
 directions in the disciplines of the wars, look you, of 
 the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy dog ! ' This 
 amiable opinion Fluellen had occasion to repeat to 
 Macmorris himself, who came up at this point. 
 ' Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you 
 vouchsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, 
 as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of 
 the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, 
 look you.' Macmorris first pleaded that the day 
 was too hot for argument, and went on to lose his 
 temper, but without the least effect. ' Look you, if 
 you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Cap- 
 tain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do 
 not use me with that affability as in discretion you 
 ought to use me, look you; being as good a man as 
 yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the 
 derivation of my birth, and in other particularities.' 
 It was the King who controlled these jarring ele- 
 ments and knit them into an army; the King, now 
 proving himself a born commander, and not least 
 by the ardour of devotion his mere presence kindled 
 Englishman, "Welshman, Irishman, Scot, each 
 caught fire from him. Did he hold them back? 
 they stood ready, eager, like greyhounds straining 
 at the leash. Did he cry them on? they flung them- 
 selves into the breach again and again, resolute to 
 
 275 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 force it or close the wall up with their bodies, for 
 he called on their pride of birth in the name of home 
 and the pastures which had bred them brave men. 
 He never spared himself. He rode here, there, 
 everywhere, and as he rode from point to point kept 
 alive the battle-cry, ' God for Harry, England, and 
 St. George ! ' around Harfieur. 
 
 Moreover, though merciful by nature, he had 
 hardened his temper to war as every great general 
 must. When after five weeks' siege he summoned 
 the citizens to the last parley, there was no lack of 
 sternness in his conditions. ' Submit yourselves, or 
 defy us on certainty of the worst; for, as I am a 
 soldier, if you force me to begin the battery once 
 again, I will not leave Harfieur until she is buried 
 in her ashes. Before shutting the gates of mercy, 
 I bid you take pity on your town, on your people, 
 while I have my soldiers in control. Refuse, and 
 you shall see their hands defiling the locks of your 
 screaming daughters; your old men taken by their 
 beards and brained against the walls; your babes 
 spitted upon pikes, while their maddened mothers 
 shriek as the wives of Jewry before King Herod's 
 slaughterers. Choose, then.' 
 
 There was no other choice. Hopeless of aid from 
 the Dauphin, Harfieur flung open its gates. But 
 the city had been won at terrible cost. Dysentery 
 276 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 and fever ravaged Henry's camp, and his men were 
 falling like sheep. It was with an army reduced 
 to half its old strength that he determined to follow 
 the example of his great-grandfather Edward and 
 insult the enemy by a bold march upon Calais. He 
 found the bridges of the Somme broken down, and 
 the fords rendered impassable by lines of sharp 
 stakes; but after some days' delay an unguarded 
 point was discovered high up the stream, and by 
 forced marches he flung his army rapidly across, and 
 pressing forward to Blangy, captured by a sharp 
 skirmish the bridge over the little river Ternoise, 
 just beyond which, at the village of Agincourt, lay 
 the French army of more than sixty thousand, bar- 
 ring the road to Calais. 
 
 The bridge was gallantly seized and held. To 
 quote Fluellen, who esteemed himself a judge, ' I 
 assure you there is very excellent services commit- 
 ted at the pridge. . . . The Duke of Exeter has 
 very gallantly maintained the pridge; the French 
 is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most 
 prave passages. . . . The perdition of th' athver- 
 sary hath been very great, reasonable great : marry, 
 for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, 
 but one that is like to be executed for robbing a 
 church.' 
 
 This was indeed the unhappy Bardolph. 
 277 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Though his men were half -starving, Henry had 
 given express orders that the villages were not to be 
 plundered, nor the inhabitants insulted, nor any- 
 thing taken without payment. He presented him- 
 self to France, leJ;_usj , ememb.e J r, not ng.fl-mt.1i frag 
 conqueror but as j, lawful. jpjfgEeign inter posing to 
 heal her dissensions. \Towards such an offence as 
 Bardolph's he was least likely to show mercy, for 
 V Bardolph had stolen a pax. 1 ' A pax of little price,' 
 urged his crony Pistol, who came to persuade Flu- 
 ellen to make intercession for the thief. Now Flu- 
 ellen had been not a little impressed by Pistol's loud 
 boasting at the bridge, and was inclined to think 
 him a very valiant soldier; but he could not stomach 
 indiscipline. ' For if, look you, he were my 
 brother, I would desire the duke to use his good 
 pleasure and put him to execution; for discipline 
 ought to be used.' Whereupon Pistol. fell tg.abus- 
 v ing him, and stalked off .in.ja._h.ufL 'It is well. 
 Very good.' — Pluellen shrugged his shoulders with 
 much calm. ' Why,' said Captain Gower, who 
 stood by, ' I remember that fellow; an arrant coun- 
 terfeit rascal and a cutpurse.' ' I assure you, a'/ 
 uttered as prave words at the pridge as you shall see 
 in a summer's day.' ' Ay, the kind of rogue that 
 
 1 That is, a picture of Christ on a piece of wood or metal, 
 kissed by worshippers in token of brotherly, peace and unity. 
 
 278 
 
KING HENRY THE FIETH 
 
 now and then goes to the wars, to return and swag- 
 ger about London as a soldier. Such fellows are 
 pat with the names of great commanders; they have 
 the campaign by heart, and would teach you what 
 happened at such and such an earthwork, breach, or 
 convoy; who was shot, who disgraced; what terms 
 the enemy stood out for; they have it all in the right 
 war-like phrases, which they trick up with new 
 oaths. You'd hardly believe how far a suit of cam- 
 paigning clothes and a beard cut like a general's will 
 go among foaming bottles and listeners whose wits 
 ale has washed out of them! ' 
 
 But a campaign so grim as this of Henry's was 
 like to prove sadly fatal to these swashers. Indeed 
 it was fast thinning the ranks of honester men; and 
 the French, while they wondered at Henry's dar- 
 ing, were almost sorry to see him come on with 
 troops so sick, weary, famished, and (as they were 
 bound to believe) dispirited. The glory of beating 
 him would be the less. They never doubted to have 
 him at their mercy; and King Charles sent his her- 
 ald Montjoy from Kouen to demand the invader's 
 surrender. ' Say thou to Harry of England ' — 
 thus ran the message — ' though we seemed dead, we 
 did but sleep. We could have rebuked him at Har- 
 fleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an in- 
 jury till it were full ripe. Now we speak, and our 
 
 379 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly, 
 see his weakness, and admire our long-suffering. 
 Bid him, therefore, consider his ransom, which must 
 be proportionate to our losses in wealth, and men, 
 and the disgrace we have digested. Our losses he 
 is too poor to repay; and for our disgrace his own 
 person, kneeling at our feet, will hardly give 
 satisfaction. Tell him, for conclusion, that he 
 has betrayed his followers, whose doom is pro- 
 nounced.' 
 
 ' Fairly rendered,' was Henry's answer to Mont- 
 joy. ' Turn back and tell your King I am not 
 anxious to meet him between this and Calais. To 
 speak frankly, my men are weakened by sickness, 
 lessened in numbers; the few I have scarcely better 
 than so many Frenchmen — nay, God forgive me! 
 that was boasting, and I am sorry for it. Tell your 
 master my ransom is but this body of mine, and my 
 army a weak and sickly guard for it; yet, before 
 God, we will come on, though King Charles and 
 another as mighty as he stand in our way. If we 
 may pass, we will ; hinder us, and French blood shall 
 pay for it. "We desire no battle; but weak as we are 
 we will not shun it.' 
 
 ' I hope they will not come on us now,' muttered 
 
 Gloucester, the King's brother, when Mbntjoy had 
 
 departed. ' "We are in God's hand, brother,' was 
 2S0 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 Henry's answer; ' not in theirs.' He gave the or- 
 der to cross the river. 
 
 There was very different talk in the French camp. 
 While Henry spoke of trusting in God, the Dau- 
 phin was boasting of his horse and armour. Says 
 the Psalmist : ' Some trust in- chariots, and some in 
 horses; but we will remember the name of the Lord 
 our God.' ' I will trot to-morrow a mile,' promised 
 the Dauphin, ' and my way shall be paved with 
 English faces.' The young French nobles cast dice 
 for the prisoners they were to take in the morning. 
 The English, they agreed, were fools; if they had 
 any apprehension they would run away. ' By ten 
 o'clock, let me see,' said the Duke of Orleans, ' we 
 shall have a hundred Englishmen apiece.' 
 
 The English had found a camping-ground but 
 fifteen hundred paces from the French outposts. 
 Drenched and exhausted they lit their watch-fires 
 and cowered over them to ruminate on the morrow; 
 so lank and gaunt in their worn coats that they 
 seemed beneath the moon's rays a gathering of 
 ghosts rather than of men — a gathering, at any rate, 
 of men devoted to the sacrifice on which the enemy 
 counted. So close lay the two camps, that across 
 the belt of darkness where the outposts listened, be- 
 tween the glow of the watch-fires, each army could 
 
 hear the other's confused hum, the horses neighing 
 
 231 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and challenging, the armourers' hammers busily 
 closing the rivets for the morning, now announced 
 to be near by the cocks crowing from unseen farm- 
 steads along the countryside. 
 
 Henry knew even better than his soldiers how 
 nearly desperate was the prospect for England. 
 "Weariness aside, he was outnumbered by five to one. 
 But in him the greater danger awoke the greater 
 courage ; nor did his own weariness prevent him go- 
 ing the rounds before dawn with his brother 
 Gloucester. ' Good-morrow,' said he, finding his 
 other brother, Bedford, upon a like errand; ' there 
 must be some sort of goodness in evil, for, see, our 
 bad neighbour makes us early risers, which is both 
 healthful and thriftful.' Then greeting a stout old 
 soldier, Sir Thomas Erpingham, ' A good soft pil- 
 low,' said he, ' were better for that good white head 
 than the churlish turf of France.' ' My liege, I like 
 my lodging better as it is, since now I may say, " I 
 am lodged like a king." ' Henry borrowed the 
 old knight's cloak, and wrapping himself close in 
 it went forward alone. He wished to observe 
 quietly and in disguise those feelings which his 
 men would be loath to disclose in the presence of 
 their King. 
 
 The first sentry to challenge him in this disguise 
 
 was our friend Pistol, still chewing his disgust at 
 283 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 that unfeeling man Captain Fluellen. 'What's 
 thy name?' demanded Pistol. 'Harry le Roy.' 
 'Leroy? a Cornish name, eh?' 'lama Welsh- 
 man,' — which was true enough, for Henry's birth- 
 place was Monmouth. ' Knowest thou Fluellen? ' 
 ' Yes.' ' Then tell that leek-eating Welshman I'll 
 knock his leek about his pate next St. David's day.' 
 ' You had better not wear your dagger in your cap 
 that day, lest he knock that about yours.' But Flu- 
 ellen just now had more important matters to think 
 about. Presently the King passed him in earnest 
 talk with his English friend, Captain Gower; chid- 
 ing, in fact, Captain Gower for raising his voice too 
 loudly. ' It is the greatest admiration in the world, 
 when the true and aunchient prerogatives and laws 
 of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains 
 but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you 
 shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle tad- 
 die nor pibble pabble in Pompey's camp; I warrant 
 you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and 
 the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety 
 of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.' 
 'Why,' pleaded Gower, 'the enemy is loud; you 
 hear him all night.' ' If the enemy is an ass and a 
 fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, 
 that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool 
 
 and a prating coxcomb? ' ' There is much care and 
 
 283 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 valour in this Welshman,' thought Henry, and 
 passed on unobserved. 
 
 But he heard another aspect of war discussed by 
 the next group he fell in with, a group of three com- 
 mon soldiers standing and watching the dawn. As 
 he strolled up in the uncertain light, they asked to 
 what company he belonged. ' To Sir Thomas Er- 
 pingham's.' ' A good old commander and a kind- 
 hearted gentleman; tell us, how does he think we 
 stand? ' ' As men wrecked on a sandbank, who look 
 to be washed off by the next tide.' ' He has not 
 told the King so, surely? ' ' No,' replied Henry, 
 ' nor is it fitting he should. For, though I speak it 
 to you, I think the King is but a man as I am; a man 
 with a man's senses; a man like any other when his 
 royal pomp and rich clothes are laid by. His feel- 
 ings may soar higher, maybe; yet when they swoop 
 back to earth, they swoop much as ours. Kb doubt 
 he tastes fear as we do ; and yet men should be chary 
 of imparting their fear to him, lest by showing it 
 he should dishearten his whole army.' ' He may 
 show what outward courage he will,' growled one 
 of the three, a fellow named John Bates ; ' but I be- 
 lieve, cold as the night is, he could wish himself in 
 Thames up to the neck! And I wish he were, and 
 I beside him, so we could win out of this.' ' I swear 
 I don't believe the King would wish himself any- 
 284 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 where but where he is.' ' Then I would he were 
 here alone. So would he be ransomed, and a many 
 poor men's lives saved.' ' I dare say/ said Henry,.*; 
 ' you love him better than to wish any such thing, 
 howsoever you say this to feel other men's minds. 
 For my part, I could die nowhere so contentedly as 
 in the King's company, his cause being just and 
 his quarrel honourable.' ' That's more than we 
 know,' put in another, Michael Williams by name. 
 ' Ay,' said Bates, ' and more than we should seek to 
 know. It's enough that we're his subjects; if his 
 cause be wrong, we are only obeying him, and that 
 clears us.' ' But,' "Williams objected, ' if the cause 
 be wrong, the King has a heavy reckoning to make, 
 when all those legs and arms, chopped off in a bat- 
 tle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all 
 " We died at such a place! "; some swearing, some 
 crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor 
 behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some 
 upon their children left without provision. I'm 
 af eard few men die well in battle ; for how can they 
 quit themselves in goodwill towards men while their 
 business is shedding blood? And if they do not die 
 well, it will be a black matter for the King who led 
 them to it, and whom they could not disobey.' 
 ' Nay,' said Henry, ' suppose a son went after 
 
 merchandise by his father's orders, and in his sea- 
 
 285 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 faring perished in a state of sin, by your argument 
 his father must be held responsible! Or if a ser- 
 vant, carrying money for his master, be set upon by 
 robbers and killed before he can make his peace with 
 God, you would call his master to blame for his 
 soul's damnation ! Not so ; nor in fact can any king, 
 be his cause never so spotless, if it come to be de- 
 cided by swords, try it out with unspotted soldiers. 
 Every subject's duty is the King's; but every sub- 
 ject's soul is his own. Therefore, should every sol- 
 dier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, 
 wash every mote out of his conscience. So, if he 
 die, his death is gain; and if he do not, he has lost 
 his time blessedly in gaining such preparation. And 
 in him that escapes it were no sin to think that God, 
 to whom he made so free an offering of himself, let 
 him outlive that day to see His greatness and teach 
 others how they should prepare.' 
 
 They were honest fellows. ' I do not desire,' 
 said Bates, ' the King should answer for me; and 
 yet I determine to fight lustily for him.' Yet they 
 could not quite believe Henry's word that the King 
 would never allow himself to be ransomed. ' Ay, 
 he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when 
 our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we 
 never the wiser.' Henry rallied the gloomy Will- 
 iams, and played at pretending to lose his temper 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 when they jeered at him — a common soldier — for 
 his impudence in promising ' if I live to see the 
 King ransomed, I'll never trust his word again.' 
 But as he parted from them his spirits felt suddenly 
 the terrible weight laid iipon him. ' Yes; they laid 
 it all on the King: their lives, their souls, their 
 debts, their wives and children, their sins — all on 
 the King! He must bear all. To this hard con- 
 dition greatness is born, and can never escape from 
 it — to bear the reproach of every fool who has only 
 sense to feel his own wringing. Kings must neg- 
 lect the heart's ease of private men; yet for what 
 recompense? Is ceremony a recompense? Let be 
 the hollowness of it: can it repay a king for the 
 sleep which slaves enjoy, but he misses upon his 
 gorgeous bed? ' 
 
 The moment found him weak, but it was a mo- 
 ment only. It passed when Sir Thomas Erpingham 
 came with news that the English nobles were seek- 
 ing him. ' Collect them at my tent,' he command- 
 ed; and falling on his knees he besought the God 
 of battles to steel the hearts of his Englishmen — 
 yes, and to forget for this day the sin by which his 
 father had won the crown. That sin, he knew in 
 his heart, had not been retrieved; the blood of Eich- 
 ard was yet to be answered for. He had done 
 much; would do more: the debt of divine wrath 
 287 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 must be met, but ' Not to-day, O Lord! O, not to- 
 day!' 
 
 And again while be prayed the French were 
 boasting of their horses and armour. In the gath- 
 ering light tbey paraded, sixty thousand strong. 
 The ground favoured them too. Flanked on either 
 side by thick woods, they showed the English so 
 narrow a front as to offer nothing to assault but a 
 pack of men drawn up thirty deep. While they 
 kept that position they could defy attack, and Henry 
 had no choice between attack and surrender. Day 
 found his ragged horsemen already in saddle and 
 planted in face of tbis host ' like fixed candlesticks,' 
 each with a torch in his hand; their armour rusty, 
 their horses shrunken in flesh, with a tell-tale droop 
 of the hind-quarters and heads lolling forward on 
 their fouled bits. And over this spiritless cavalry 
 wheeled flock upon flock of crows, sinister and im- 
 patient. 
 
 ' They have said their prayers, and they stay for 
 death,' cried the French Constable. 
 
 ' God's arm strike for us ! ' said the pious Earl of 
 Salisbury among the English lords; ' the odds are 
 fearful.' ' O,' sighed Westmoreland, ' that we had 
 here but ten thousand of those men who stand idle 
 in England to-day ! ' Henry overheard him. ' I 
 would not have a single man more! If we are to 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 die, the smaller loss to England; if to live, the 
 greater our share of honour. Before God, as I love 
 honour I would not have one man more to lessen 
 the honour of this day's work! Go, make it known 
 through the ranks that any man who will may de- 
 part; shall have a passport home and money to take 
 him. We would not die in company of that man 
 who fears his willingness to die in our company. 
 To-day is St. Crispian's feast. I tell you the man 
 who outlives this day and comes safely home shall 
 stand an inch higher and feel his heart leap when- 
 ever he hears the name of Crispian; ay, if he live to 
 see old age, yearly he shall call his neighbours to 
 feast on this day's eve, and tell them " To-morrow 
 is St. Crispian! " — shall strip back his sleeve, show 
 his scars, " These wounds I had on Crispin's day." 
 Old men forget; yet when all's forgotten he shall 
 remember and brag of his feats performed this day; 
 and then our names — King Harry, Bedford and 
 Exeter, "Warwick, Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester 
 — will rise to his lips familiar as household words, 
 and as the cup goes round be freshly remembered. 
 Good man! he shall teach his son the tale, and Cris- 
 pin Crispian never go by from this day to the world's 
 end but we shall be remembered in it — we, we 
 happy few, we band of brothers ! For the man who 
 sheds his blood with me to-day shall be my brother; 
 
 289 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 by that raised a gentleman, however low his estate. 
 And gentlemen now a-bed in England shall curse 
 themselves that they were not here, and stand 
 abashed when any man speaks who fought beside 
 me upon St. Crispian's day! ' 
 
 Once more before the armies engaged the Con- 
 stable sent Montjoy to offer Henry the chance of 
 ransom; and again Montjoy carried back a firm re- 
 fusal. The Duke of York — known to us in Kich- 
 ard's reign as Aumerle, but now under a higher title 
 a better and braver man — craved the honour of 
 leading the English van. Henry granted it, and 
 for the last time commending the battle to God, gave 
 the order to advance. 
 
 The English archers bared their breasts and arms 
 for free play and charged forward with shout. It 
 it likely enough their charge would have had small 
 effect on the French defence, had the French been 
 contented to defend. But the sight of this auda- 
 cious advance was too much for their patience; and, 
 disregarding the Constable's plan of battle, the 
 dense, heavily-weighted mass of men-at-arms broke 
 ground and came floundering forward into the open 
 over the sodden ground, which they trod into a 
 quagmire. As they came, Henry called a halt. 
 Each of his archers carried a sharpened stake ; and 
 
 now at a word planting a rough and ready stockade, 
 290 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 from behind it they poured their arrows into the 
 throng where no arrow could miss a mark. The 
 slaughter was terrible; yet the French blundered on 
 and by sheer weight drove the archers right and left 
 into the woods, only to find the deadly rain now 
 pouring on either flank from behind the trees, 
 among which they could not pursue. While they 
 swayed mire-bound and exposed to this cross-fire, 
 Henry flung his heavier troops straight on their 
 front, himself charging like a hero and setting an 
 example to all. Once he went down under the blow 
 of a French mace; again, while stooping to lift the 
 Duke of York, felled by a blow of Alengon's, he 
 took a stroke from the same hand which shore away 
 a piece of the crown on his helmet. But the French 
 masses were breaking up. The first to take to flight 
 was a body of horsemen, some six hundred in num- 
 ber, who, hearing that the English camp lay unde- 
 fended, rode round upon it and through it, pillaging 
 and hacking down the lackeys and boys who showed 
 fight. The news of it reached Henry as he drew 
 breath after the great charge. There was no gen- 
 tleness in him now. Stung by this outrage, and 
 perceiving the French cavalry attempting to rally, 
 he gave the stern order to show no quarter but kiE : 
 all prisoners taken. 
 
 But the French rally came to nothing. The day 
 291 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 was Henry's, as the herald Montjoy admitted, who 
 came by and by to sue for leave to bury the French 
 dead. ' What,' asked Henry, ' is the name of the 
 castle standing yonder?' ' Agincourt.' 'Then 
 we will name this the field of Agincourt.' 
 
 On this field of Agincourt more than ten thou- 
 sand Frenchmen lay dead, and among them one 
 hundred and twenty-six princes and nobles bearing 
 banners. The Constable himself had fallen, 
 Chatillon, Admiral of France, the Duke of Alencon, 
 felled by Henry's own hand, the Dukes of Brabant 
 and Bar, the Duke of Burgundy's brother, the Earls 
 Grandpre, Roussi, Fauconberg, Foix, Beaumont, 
 Marie, Vaudemont, and Lestrale. The Dukes of 
 Orleans and Bourbon were prisoners, with fifteen 
 hundred lords, barons, knights, and esquires, besides 
 common men. England had lost the Duke of York 
 and the Earl of Suffolk — they had dropped side by 
 side, and shaken hands like gallant brothers-in-arms 
 before death parted them; one knight, one esquire, 
 and but five-and-twenty rank and file. ' O God, thy 
 arm was here ! ' cried Henry as his eye fell on the 
 short list. ' Accept this victory, God, for it is thine 
 only! ' He forbade his men, on pain of death, to 
 boast of their triumph; even the numbers of the 
 killed were only to be published with the acknowl- 
 edgment that God had fought for England. The 
 292 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 army fell into line of march and moved in procession 
 to the village, there to chant the ' Te Deum ' and 
 ' Non nobis ' — ' Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, 
 but unto thy Name give glory . . .' 
 
 But England was less disposed to make light of 
 her soldiers' prowess. Henry's army, too weary to 
 pursue its victory, made its way unopposed to Calais, 
 and there shipped for home. Crowds lined the 
 beach at Dover to welcome him, and even rushed 
 into the sea to touch his ship. London poured forth 
 her citizens on Blackheath to fetch home the victor. 
 Henry behaved throughout as a modest man, re- 
 jecting even the proposal that his battered helmet 
 and sword should be borne through the city of Lon- 
 don before him. His work was not done yet. He 
 had struck but the first blow, if the most effective, 
 and was content for two years to watch France as 
 between the Burgundians and Armagnacs she went 
 from bad to worse. For a time the Emperor Sigis- 
 mund occupied himself in an attempt to patch up 
 terms between the two countries, but with no re- 
 sult; and in 1417 Henry sailed once more for Nor- 
 mandy, this time with forty thousand followers. 
 
 The discipline of the former campaign had been 
 
 a stern discouragement of weeds and wastrels in the 
 
 English soldiery. Men of true stuff — Gower, Flu- 
 
 ellen, and their likes — were eager enough to serve 
 
 293 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 again; Fluellen, for example, was ready to follow 
 wherever led by his modern Alexander the Great, 
 or Big, or (as he preferred to pronounce it) ' Pig.' 
 Henry was born at Monmouth, and ' I think it is in 
 Macedon where Alexander the Pig is porn. I tell 
 you, if you look in the map of the 'orld, I warrant 
 you sail find in the comparisons between Macedon 
 and Monmouth that the situations, look you, is both 
 alike. There is a river in Maoedon; and there is 
 also moreover a river at Monmouth: it is called Wye 
 at Monmouth ; but it is out of my prains what is the 
 name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as 
 my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in 
 both.' But the day of Sir John Falstaff's merry 
 rascally crew was over. The march upon Calais 
 had weeded out a Bardolph and Nym — both hanged 
 for pilfering. At home Dame Quickly lay dying 
 while her husband took ship for the wars, the last of 
 the gang. 
 
 Even for Pistol there was waiting retribution of 
 a sort. Still nursing his grudge against Fluellen, 
 he had been ill-advised enough, soon after landing 
 on French soil, to insult the little "Welshman before 
 company by bringing him bread and salt to eat with 
 his Welsh leek. ' It was in a place where I could 
 not breed no contention with him; but I will be so 
 
 bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once 
 394 
 
\j> 
 
 r" 
 
 KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my 
 
 desires -' . ^-*feA , 
 
 So Flu ellen still w o^thejgek jnhis „cap,Jhougli ^j**-*'"''* 
 
 St. David's dayjvas long past, and at length he ,«-> 
 caught his man. ' God pless you, Aunchient Pis- ">* \>r " 
 tol ! you s curvy, lousy knave, God plessjvou! ilpe- "JjV\ r a 
 seech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my de- y^ - ^ C 
 sires, and my requests, and my petitions, to, eat, look ■ f ^ v i •$ ' 
 you, this leek; because, Look you, you do not love it, _y- v ' 
 nor your affections and your appetites and your di- 
 _ gest ions doo's not agree with it, I would desire you 
 to eat it.' ' Not for Cadwallader and all his goats ! ' 
 swore Pistol : ' Base Trojan, thou shalt die ! ' — as j jf" 
 Fluellen fell to and began to cudgel him lustily. 
 ' You say very true ; I sail die when God's will is. 
 In the mean time I will desire you to live and eat 
 your victuals.' Here, still holding out his raw 
 leek, he banged him again. ' I pray you fall to; 
 if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.' Pistol 
 began to whine. ' Must I eat it ? ' ' Yes, cer- 
 tainly, out of doubt, and out of question too, and 
 ambiguities.' The unhappy man began to nibble. 
 ' By this leek I will most horribly revenge : I eat 
 and eat, I swear — ' 'Eat. I prav-J gou. Will you 
 have some mor e sauce toujour leek? ' Seeing Flu- 
 ellen's cudgel lifted again, Iterate j^edientjy. 
 ' Throw none away,' insisted Fluellen; ' the skin ia 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 good for jour br oken coxco mb.' He flung the poor 
 wretch a groat, to heal his pate. Pistol pocketed it 
 and slunk away, swearing horribly; slunk away to 
 sink lower as such men will. We see no more of 
 him. With him, as he goes, passes the old order of 
 the Boar's Head, Eastcheap. 
 
 He who had once been the spoilt child of that 
 order was now riding at the head of an army from 
 victory to victory. He stormed Caen, was received 
 by Bayeux, reduced Alengon and Falaise, Av- 
 ranches and Domfront; marched through Evreux, 
 captured Louviers, flung his troops across the Seine, 
 and sat down before Rouen. This, the wealthiest 
 of all the cities of France, fell after a long, hideous 
 siege. ' War,' said Henry, ' has three handmaidens 
 to wait on her — Fire, Blood, and Famine. I have 
 chosen the meekest maid of the three.' With 
 Rouen fallen, and his kingdom hopelessly at vari- 
 ance, there remained but one course for the poor 
 mad King of France. It was the young Duke of 
 Burgundy who finally, at Troyes, brought about a 
 meeting between the unhappy Charles and his con- 
 queror. Henry listened unmoved while the mis- 
 eries of France were recounted. The recital over, 
 he laid down his terms like a man of business. He 
 must be regent of France during Charles's life; he 
 must receive the crown as his own upon Charles's 
 296 
 
KING HENKY THE FIFTH 
 
 death; and he must have Charles's daughter Kath- 
 arine to wife. 
 
 Rather, this last was his first and his capital de- 
 mand. It remained to learn what Katharine would 
 say. 
 
 She was a lady of great good sense. From the 
 first she had heen curious to hear of this brave sol- 
 dier from the north who won battles and spoke a 
 language so barbarous. It was still as a soldier that 
 he came wooing her. She was one of his terms of 
 truce; and between this assurance and a perception 
 of the ludicrous figure he cut as a wooer with scarce- 
 ly a dozen words of French, he performed his court- 
 ship bluntly enough. Katharine could speak Eng- 
 lish but a very little better. ' Faith, Kate, I am 
 glad of it; else thou wouldst find me such a plain 
 king thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy 
 my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but 
 directly to say " I love you." If thou canst love 
 such a downright fellow, whose face is not worth 
 sun-burning, and who never looks in his glass for 
 love of anything he sees there, why well and good. 
 I speak like a plain soldier. If thou canst love me 
 for this, take me; if not, I shall not die of it; and yet 
 I love thee.' He essayed a French sentence, but 
 broke down in comic despair. Katharine smiled at 
 his perplexity, and liked him; and in this manner 
 *297 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 the conqueror of France won a French wife, and a 
 charming one. We met him first as a wild scape- 
 grace youngster, little better than a boy. We have 
 seen him confirmed, step by step, in strength and a 
 better judgment; become a wise king, a God-fearing 
 man, a triumphant warrior. Here, at the height 
 of achievement, we leave him; happily married, 
 worshipped by his subjects, seated on a throne se- 
 curely established, and looking forward to a still 
 more splendid inheritance. 
 
 298 
 
KING HENRY THE FIFTH 
 
 THE BALLAD OP AGINCOURT 
 
 Fayre stood the winde for France, 
 When we our sailes advance, 
 Nor now to proue our chance 
 
 Longer not tarry, 
 But put vnto the mayne : 
 At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his warlike trayne 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a forte, 
 Furnish' d in warlike sorte, 
 Comming toward Agincourte 
 
 (In happy houre), 
 Skermishing day hy day 
 With those oppose his way. 
 Whereas the Grenrall laye 
 
 With all his powre. 
 
 Which in his height of pride, 
 As Henry to deride, 
 His Kansome to prouide 
 
 Vnto him sending ; 
 Which he neglects the while, 
 As from a nation vyle, 
 Tet with an angry smile 
 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 And turning to his men, 
 Quoth famous Henry then, 
 ' Though they be one to ten 
 Be not amazed : 
 299 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Yet haue we well begun ; 
 Battailes so brauely wonne 
 Euermore to the sonne 
 By fame are rays6d. 
 
 ' And for my selfe, (quoth hee) 
 This my full rest shall bee, 
 England nere mourne for me 
 
 Nor more esteeme me : 
 Victor I will remaine, 
 Or on this earth be slaine ; 
 Neuer shall she sustaine 
 
 Losse to redeeme me. 
 
 'Poiters and Cressy tell, 
 
 When moste their pride did swell, 
 
 Vnder our swords they fell : 
 
 Ne lesse our skill is, 
 Then when our grandsyre greate, 
 Claiming the regall seate, 
 In many a warlike feate 
 
 Lop'd the French lillies.' 
 
 The Duke of Yorke soe dread 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 With the maine Henry sped 
 
 Amongst his hench men. 
 Excester had the rear, 
 A brauer man not there. 
 And now preparing were 
 
 For the false Frenchmen. 
 300 
 
KING HENKY THE FIFTH 
 
 And ready to be gone, 
 Armour on armour shone, 
 Drum vnto drum did grone, 
 
 To heare was woonder ; 
 That with the cries they make 
 The very earth did shake : 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 
 O, noble Erpingham! 
 
 That didst the signall frame 
 
 Vnto the forces ; 
 When from a medow by, 
 Like a storme, sodainely 
 The English archery 
 
 Stuck the French horses. 
 
 The Spanish vghe J so strong, 
 Arrowes a cloth-yard long, 
 That like to serpents stoong, 
 
 Piercing the wether : 
 None from his death now starts, 
 But playing manly parts, 
 And like true English harts 
 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 When down theyr bowes they threw, 
 And foorth theyr bilbowes drewe, 
 And on the French they flew, 
 No man was tardy. 
 
 'Yew. 
 301 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 Arms from the shoulders sent, 
 Scalpes to the teeth were rent ; 
 Downe the French pesants went, 
 These men were hardye. 
 
 When now that noble King, 
 His broade sword brandishing, 
 Into the hoast did fling, 
 
 As to or'whelme it ; 
 Who many a deep wound lent, 
 His armes with blood besprent, 
 And many a cruell dent 
 
 Brused his helmett . 
 
 Glo'ster, that Duke so good, 
 Next of the royall blood, 
 For famous England stood 
 
 With his brave brother : 
 Clarence in Steele most bright, 
 That yet a maiden knighte, 
 Tet in this furious fighte, 
 
 Scarce such an other . 
 
 Warwick in bloode did wade, 
 Oxford the foes inuade, 
 And cruel slaughter made 
 
 Still as they ran vp. 
 Suffolk his axe did ply, 
 Beaumont and Willoughby 
 Bare them right doughtyly, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 302 
 
KING HENEY THE FIFTH 
 
 On happy Cryspin day 
 Fought was this noble fray, 
 "Which fame did not delay 
 To England to carry. 
 O ! When shall Englishmen 
 With such acts fill a pen, 
 Or England breed agen, 
 Such a King Harry ? 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 303 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 Henry V. was granted but two years to enjoy his 
 glory. He lived to see a son born to him; and with 
 the help of the young Duke of Burgundy — who 
 since the treacherous murder of his father by the 
 Armagnacs, had in revenge flung the full weight of 
 his support on the English side — to make himself 
 complete master of Northern France to the banks of 
 the Loire. When, as regent of France and heir to 
 the crown, he celebrated the feast of Whitsuntide at 
 Paris in the palace of the Louvre the splendour and 
 gaiety of his court far outshone that of the real king. 
 
 And then, at the height of his fortunes, death 
 claimed him. What the disease was is not known. 
 It struck swiftly, baffling the physicians; and at Vin- 
 cennes near Paris, on the 1st of September 1422, 
 Henry died. His body was borne home in state and 
 laid in the vaults of Westminster Abbey. 
 
 While the echoes of his dead march were still roll- 
 ing through the Abbey aisles, men's ears caught the 
 304 
 
KING HENRY -THE -SIXTH 
 
 murmur of coining trouble. The inheritor of the 
 two heavy sceptres of England and Erance (for the 
 mad King Charles had died a few weeks after his 
 conqueror) was an infant nine months old, whose 
 welfare, with that of England, was placed in the 
 hands of his uncle Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, 
 as Protector, and a Council of twenty headed by 
 Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester. Another 
 uncle, the Duke of Bedford — a general only inferior 
 in skill to the dead King — was made Regent of 
 Erance. 
 
 In other words, the kingly power which Henry 
 IV. had fought so hardly for, and Henry V. had 
 kept and increased by his own winning qualities and 
 the fame of foreign victories, was now by force of 
 circumstances given back to the great nobles. We 
 shall see how they used it to wreck their country and 
 in the end to work out their own perdition. The 
 story we have to tell reminds one of the house swept 
 and garnished of the Gospel parable. Such a house 
 the conqueror of Agincourt had prepared; his sud- 
 den death left it open to a company of evil spirits 
 far ' worse than the first.' ' The violence and an- 
 archy which had always clung like a taint to the 
 baronage, had received a new impulse from the war 
 with Erance. Long before the struggle was over it 
 had done its fatal work on the mood of the English 
 
 805 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 noble. His aim had become little more than a lust 
 for gold, a longing after plunder, after the pillage 
 of farms, the sack of cities, the ransom of captives. 
 So intense was the greed of gain, that only a threat 
 of death could keep the fighting-men in their ranks, 
 and the results of victory after victory were lost by 
 the anxiety of the conquerors to deposit their plun- 
 der and captives safely at home.' 1 
 
 For a while the firm hand of Bedford kept this 
 mischief in check. Summoned from the funeral 
 rites of his great brother by the first of those mes- 
 sengers of disaster whom in a short time every wind 
 was to bring across the Channel, he soon gave the 
 French provinces proof that they were over-hasty 
 in revolting. The Dauphin on his father's death 
 had at once proclaimed himself King with the title 
 of Charles VII., but it was long before he saw the 
 end of the struggle on which he now entered. Still 
 helped by the Duke of Burgundy, Bedford reduced 
 the North of France back to its submission, and 
 nobly upheld the honour of England in the victories 
 of Crevant (1423) and Verneuil (1424). The lat- 
 ter crushed a daring advance of the French, who 
 had pushed northward from the Loire, which sep- 
 arated the English from the French provinces, and 
 offered battle on the very borders of Normandy — 
 
 1 Green's Short History of the English People. 
 306 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 most rashly, for they were hurled back leaving a 
 third of their knighthood on the field. In this mo- 
 ment of their utter discomfiture Bedford should 
 have thrown his troops across the Loire. 
 
 He did not, and the reason why he did not is to be 
 found at home. The Protector, ' the good ' — but 
 certainly not too good — ' Duke Humphrey,' was at 
 loggerheads with the Council from the first, and 
 especially with its president, Henry Beaufort, a rich, 
 ambitious, and quite unscrupulous churchman, son 
 of John of Gaunt by a second marriage. The ha- 
 tred of these two men broke into fierce words even 
 over the coffin of the late King. ' Cease your 
 wranglings and live at peace! ' Bedford had im- 
 plored them ; but with Bedford away in France they 
 paid little heed to his counsel. By Henry's will 
 Gloucester should have been Regent of England as 
 well as Protector. By Beaufort's influence in the 
 Council he was refused the title. The serving men 
 of the two nobles — Gloucester's in blue, and Beau- 
 fort's in tawny livery — never met without a skir- 
 mish; they flourished clubs and hurled paving-stones 
 in the very streets of London, to the sore scandal of 
 the Lord Mayor and all peaceable citizens; they 
 brawled and their masters bandied insults and 
 threats in the presence of the boy-king, who already 
 
 began to show a gentle, timorous nature, devout, 
 307 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 wishing well to all men, but weak and quite unfit 
 to rule — least of all to rule the selfish and turbulent 
 crowd which surrounded him. 
 
 Utterly selfish it was, every man in it; the ' good 
 Duke Humphrey ' no less than the rest. Sick of 
 the Protectorate in which the Council persistently 
 tied his hands, Gloucester sought his own ambition 
 abroad. He had married Jacqueline of Bavaria, 
 the divorced wife of the Duke of Brabant, and 
 claimed a large portion of the Netherlands as her 
 inheritance. The Duke, her first husband, opposed 
 this claim, and was supported by the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy, who looked upon himself as Brabant's heir. 
 Tor Gloucester to persist in his claim meant estrang- 
 ing the Duke of Burgundy from the English alli- 
 ance, a most serious loss. But England's interest 
 came second to her Lord Protector's. He himself 
 soon had enough of the struggle ; but it dragged on 
 for three years, and meanwhile Bedford had to sit 
 helpless before the chance of a splendid success, and 
 watch his late allies the Burgundians marching away 
 from him to fight his brother. Even without them 
 he might have done much, had the quarrels of Glou- 
 cester and Beaufort at home allowed them time to 
 provide him with the supplies of men and money 
 he begged for. It was not until 1428 that, peace 
 being restored in Holland and the Duke of Bur- 
 308 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 gundy once more free to help his old allies, it was 
 resolved to push southward across the Loire and re- 
 duce the provinces owning the sway of Charles. 
 
 The English had let their golden opportunity 
 slip; but for all their fortunate delay the plight of 
 the Dauphin, as we may yet call him, was very 
 nearly desperate. As his first step Bedford laid 
 siege to Orleans, and while he invested it with ten 
 thousand men Charles had to look on and own him- 
 self powerless to relieve the city. The besieged 
 themselves lay under a spell of terror, cowed as it 
 were by the names of Bedford and his two gallant 
 lieutenants, the Earl of Salisbury and Lord Talbot. 
 Behind the English all the north of Erance, as far 
 eastward as the border of Lorraine, lay ravaged and 
 starving, the crops burnt, the peasantry destitute. 
 
 It was from Domremy, a village near that Lor- 
 raine border, that while Orleans meditated surren- 
 der and Charles had shut himself up at Chinon to 
 weep helplessly, help arose for France; a girl to put 
 courage into a nation of men, a saint to match her 
 unselfish devotion against the utter selfishness guid- 
 ing the counsels of England, and against all expecta- 
 tion, almost against hope, to perform the miracle 
 and win. 
 
 Jeanne d'Arc, or Joan of Arc as we call her, was 
 
 a shepherd's daughter in this village of Domremy, 
 309 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 at the foot of the wooded slopes climbing towards 
 the Vosges mountains. She was a dreamy child, 
 fond of wandering alone in these woods, and making 
 friends with the birds and wild creatures she met; 
 the folk at home saw nothing more in her than ' a 
 good girl, simple and pleasant in her ways,' fonder 
 of indoor tasks than of work in the fields, tender 
 towards all suffering, very devout, a child living 
 very near to God and loving Him passionately. 
 
 The war, of which she had heard echoes in the 
 talk of the villagers, but very vague echoes, came 
 sweeping by Domremy at length. Then she knew 
 what it meant, saw the ruin and misery it left in its 
 wake, and while she nursed the wounded her heart 
 swelled with pity for France. 
 
 It seems a little thing, pity in the heart of one 
 peasant girl among thousands who saw this war and 
 suffered from it. But there lies the miracle; it was 
 a little thing. "While she brooded she recalled an 
 old prophecy that a maid from the Lorraine border 
 should arise and save the land. In her walks now 
 she saw visions — the mother of God walking be- 
 tween the trees; St. Michael standing in a slant of 
 light between the green boughs and calling on her 
 to save France ; there was pity in Heaven (said he) 
 for the fair realm of France. How might she save 
 France ? ' Messire, I am but a poor maiden ; I know 
 310 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 not how to ride to the wars or to lead men-at-arms.' 
 She thought with shuddering of warfare and 
 wounds; she shrank even from facing the rough 
 men of the camp with their coarse greetings and 
 hrutal oaths. Yet her duty led thither, and lay 
 plain hefore her — ' I must go to the King.' Her 
 parents threatened, the villagers mocked her. ' It 
 is no will of mine to go,' she pleaded; ' I had far 
 rather stay here among you. But I must go to the 
 King, even if I wear my legs to the knees.' At 
 length the captain of the near town of Vaucouleurs 
 took her by the hand, and swore to lead her to 
 Charles. At Chinon the churchmen refused to be- 
 lieve in her mission, but she won her way to the 
 Dauphin at length, and he received her in the midst 
 of his despairing nobles. ' Gentle Dauphin,' said 
 she, ' my name is Joan the Maid. The heavenly 
 King sends me to tell you that you shall be anointed 
 and crowned in the town of Kheims, to be lieutenant 
 of Himself who is the King of France.' 
 
 Had his case been only a little less desperate, the 
 Dauphin would no doubt have dismissed her lightly. 
 As it was, his French were so completely cowed by 
 past defeats, and stood in such awe of the very 
 names of mad-brained Salisbury and Talbot who, 
 made prisoner in an engagement when the odds 
 
 against him were four to one, had effected his ran- 
 311 
 
TALES FHOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 som, and taken the field again more fiercely than 
 ever, that even though the English before Orleans 
 numbered but three thousand, the swarms of sol- 
 diery in the starving city dared not come out and 
 fight. The coming of Joan broke this spell. Rid- 
 ing at the head of ten thousand men, clad cap-a-pie 
 in white armour, with the great white banner of 
 Prance studded with fleur-de-lys waving above her, 
 she appeared to the citizens of Orleans as an angel 
 from heaven. ' I bring you,' she told Dunois, the 
 commander of the besieged, as he sallied out to greet 
 her, ' the best aid ever sent, the aid of the heavenly 
 King.' Scarcely opposed, she rode in through the 
 gates and round the walls, bidding the citizens look 
 on the ring of English forts and fear them no longer. 
 The French generals plucked up heart and marched 
 out to the attack. Salisbury had already fallen, 
 killed by a shot as he surveyed Orleans from one of 
 the forts. Talbot fought like a lion, but was ut- 
 terly outnumbered. The French reduced fort after 
 fort. Joan herself fell wounded before the last and 
 strongest. They carried her into a vineyard, and 
 Dunois would have sounded the retreat. ' Not yet! 
 As soon as my standard touches the walls you shall 
 enter the fort.' It touched and the French burst in. 
 Orleans was saved. 
 
 Talbot, however, was not the leader to be daunted 
 312 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 by a single reverse, nor could the spell his prowess 
 had built up be destroyed so summarily. Famous 
 stories gathered about his name as they now began 
 to gather about Joan. One ran that the Countess 
 of Auvergne, professing a wish to see and speak with 
 so renowned a warrior, invited him to pay her a visit 
 and accept the hospitality of her castle. Talbot 
 obeyed, and arriving was led to the Countess, who 
 had given orders to lock and bar all the doors be- 
 hind him. ' What ! is this the man ? ' was her greet- 
 ing. ' Is this the redoubtable Talbot, the scourge 
 of France? I looked to have seen a Hercules, or a 
 Hector at least; not this puny fellow.' 'Madam,' 
 answered Talbot, but moderately abashed, ' it is 
 plain that I have come at an unwelcome moment; 
 I must take leave of you and choose some fitter occa- 
 sion.' 'Take leave? Nb, my lord, excuse me, you 
 are my prisoner.' Talbot laughed. ' Your lady- 
 ship should have chosen Talbot's substance, not his 
 shadow, to treat so severely.' ' Why, are you not 
 Talbot? ' ' I am indeed; and yet but the shadow of 
 
 Talbot. As for his substance ' He put his 
 
 horn to his lips and blew, and at once, with beat of 
 drums, his soldiers came bursting through the gates 
 and poured into the castle. ' These, madam, are 
 Talbot's substance.' The discomfited lady sued for 
 
 mercy. ' Nay, you have not offended me. Some 
 313 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 food and wine for my soldiers will be satisfaction 
 enough.' 
 
 A warrior of this humour will hardly be persuaded 
 that he is beaten. Even after Joan had entered Or- 
 leans with colours flying, in the midst of the French 
 rejoicings Talbot with his handful of English had 
 escaladed the walk by night and fought his way to 
 the market-place. The death of Salisbury, the hero 
 of thirteen battles, called upon him to be avenged. 
 He had read this command on the face of his great 
 comrade as he bent over him; and over the body, 
 which had been carried up the scaling-ladder and 
 advanced to the middle of the great square, he could 
 claim that his vow had been paid by the death of five 
 Frenchmen for every drop of Salisbury's blood. 
 Forced from the town, and at length (as we have 
 seen) from the forts surrounding it, by overwhelm- 
 ing numbers, he withdrew his troops northward in 
 good order. 
 
 Until reinforcements arrived he was powerless. 
 But the French generals still feared him heartily, 
 and, remembering •Verneuil, would have remained 
 inactive on the Loire. Joan refused to hear of this. 
 Her mission was not yet over; and while the English 
 waited around Paris she left the river at Giens and 
 marched through Troyes, her army growing as it ad- 
 vanced, to Eheims. Here, with the coronation of 
 314 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 Charles, she felt that her promise had been fulfilled. 
 ' The pleasure of God is done,' she said, kneeling at 
 the King's feet, and besought leave to go home. 
 She was told that she could not be spared yet. 
 
 Though far differently inspired, these soldiers of 
 France and England thought first of their duty; 
 Joan following a heavenly vision, Talbot fighting 
 under no such lofty enthusiasm, but doggedly and 
 as a man should who loves his country. The selfish- 
 ness lay at home in England with the wrangling 
 nobles who kept him short of supplies; and among 
 these was one whose growing ambitions, secretly 
 nursed as yet, were to cost England even more dear 
 than the disputes which already weakened her fight- 
 ing arm. 
 
 We have seen that when Henry IV. deposed Kich- 
 ard and seized the throne, he was not the true heir 
 to it even after Richard's death. The true heirship 
 rested with the Mortimers, descended from Edward 
 III.'s third son, Lionel, Duke of Clarence; whereas 
 the house of Lancaster descended from his fourth 
 son John of Gaunt. This fault in their succession 
 they had cause enough to bear in mind, and fear that 
 one day it would come to be paid for. It had been 
 in Henry's mind when he prayed before Agincourt 
 ' Not to-day, O Lord! ' 
 
 The day, though for long averted, was coming. 
 315 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The last of the Mortimers, Earls of March, lay wast- 
 ing to death in the Tower of London ; but his sister, 
 Ann Mortimer, had married Richard, Earl of Cam- 
 bridge, son of the old Duke of York who so feebly 
 defended the kingdom from Bolingbroke; and thus 
 in her son, Eichard Plantagenet, were united the 
 two lines of Mortimer and York, both derived from 
 Edward III., and the elder claiming the true succes- 
 sion to the throne. 
 
 He was heir, too, to a great revenge; for his 
 father, the Earl of Cambridge, had been one of the 
 three whose treason Henry V. had discovered on the 
 eve of sailing from Southampton * (and we can 
 guess at what the husband of Ann Mortimer would 
 be aiming). His death and attainder left his son 
 without title ; but Eichard meant to get his title and 
 his revenge too, in time. 
 
 Meanwhile, he must walk warily, for to all ap- 
 pearances the odds were heavy against him. The 
 house of Lancaster had possession — which is pro- 
 verbially nine points of the law — and a record of 
 three reigns in unbroken succession, one at least a 
 reign of which England was proud. Eor all their 
 differences, the rulers of the state were Lancastrian 
 to a man, and Lancastrian by birth. Gloucester 
 and Bedford were the King's uncles. Beaufort, 
 
 1 See p. 270. 
 316 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 now created a Cardinal, was a son of John of Gaunt, 
 and only a little below him in influence came an- 
 other Beaufort, his nephew the Duke of Somerset. 
 These Beauforts, moreover, had a game of their own 
 to play. Though belonging to a junior branch of 
 Lancaster, and barred from the succession by a 
 special clause in the Act which confirmed the mar- 
 riage of John of Gaunt with their ancestress Kath- 
 arine Swynford, they had hopes that, should the 
 young King leave no heir, their claim would be made 
 good. 1 The Beauforts, therefore, were the last to 
 whom Richard could look for help. There re- 
 mained two powerful nobles, who might or might 
 not be of service to him — the Earls of Suffolk and 
 Warwick. Both were astute, ambitious, selfish; 
 each sought his own increase and sought it along his 
 own path. It remained for Richard to see if those 
 paths would run for a time with his. 
 
 A quarrel with the young Earl of Somerset in 
 the Temple Hall — ' where now the studious lawyers 
 
 1 The following table will illustrate the hopes of the Beau- 
 forts : — 
 
 HOUSE OF LANCASTER. 
 
 Blanche of Lancaster. = John of Gaunt, = Katharine Swynford. 
 I Duke of Lancaster. I 
 Henry IV. I 
 
 i ~i i 
 
 | John Beaufort, Henry Beaufort, 
 
 Henry V. Duke of Gloucester Duke of Bedford Earl of Somerset. Bp. of Winches- 
 | (childless). (childleBBj. i ter and Cardinal. 
 
 Henry VI. John Beaufort, 
 
 Duke of Somerset. 
 
 317 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 have their bowers ' — brought this to the test. No 
 fitter spot could have been found for setting forward 
 Richard Plantagenet's claim, which rested on law. 
 Stung by a taunt of the heir of the Beauf orts in the 
 presence of Suffolk, Warwick and others, Richard 
 lost control of his tongue and spoke boldly of his 
 rights. The argument grew loud, and at Suffolk's 
 suggestion they left the hall and walked out into the 
 quiet garden by the river, where each disputant ap- 
 pealed in turn to his hearers. But the hearers felt 
 they were on ticklish and dangerous ground. Suf- 
 folk evaded Richard's appeal. ' Faith,' said War- 
 wick, ' ask me to judge between two hounds, two 
 swords, two horses, two girls, and I may have some- 
 thing to say ; but these nice sharp quillets of the law 
 are beyond me.' ' Since you are tongue-tied then,' 
 said Richard, ' leave words alone and proclaim your 
 thoughts by token. Let him who values his birth 
 as a true-born gentlemen, if he believes there is truth 
 in my plea, join me in plucking a white rose off this 
 brier.' ' Ay,' answered Somerset, ' and let him who 
 is neither coward nor flatterer, but dares to take sides 
 with truth, pluck here a red rose with me.' War- 
 wick plucked a white rose, Suffolk a red. A gentle- 
 man called Vernon who stood by, chose a white rose, 
 and a lawyer of the party did the same; ' for,' said 
 
 he, ' unless my study and my books tell me false, the 
 318 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 Earl of Somerset's argument will not hold.' ' Now 
 where is your argument? ' Richard asked tauntingly. 
 ' Here in my scabbard,' answered Somerset; ' and it 
 meditates that which shall dye your white rose crim- 
 son.' The dispute broke out afresh, and Warwick 
 and Suffolk found themselves drawn into it. Som- 
 erset took his stand on the death and attainder of 
 Richard's father. Richard insisted that his father 
 had been no traitor, ' and that I will prove on better 
 men than Somerset.' The champions of the red 
 rose withdrew from the garden, uttering defiance. 
 ' This slur they cast on your house,' promised War- 
 wick, ' shall be wiped out speedily. The King has 
 summoned his Parliament to patch up a truce be- 
 tween Gloucester and Beaufort; and if he do not 
 then and there make thee Duke of York, my name 
 shall no longer be Warwick.' Pinning on their 
 white roses, Richard's supporters left the garden. 
 
 Warwick was as good as his word. But before 
 Parliament met, Richard had visited the Tower and 
 received a blessing from the lips of his dying uncle 
 Mortimer. The unhappy prisoner, whose youth 
 had flowered and wasted behind bars, rehearsed the 
 woes of his house. ' I am childless, dying; thou art 
 my heir, but tread warily. I ask for no mourning, 
 only see to my funeral. And so farewell, depart 
 
 with fair hopes and prosper! ' 
 
 319 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Death had quenched Edmund Mortimer's ' dusky- 
 torch ' before his nephew hurried to the Parliament 
 House, where the young King was attempting once 
 more the endless business of reconciling Gloucester 
 and the Cardinal. This time he indeed persuaded 
 them to shake hands, but only after an open brawl 
 which proved how little they respected their sov- 
 ereign's presence; and the Cardinal, at any rate, had 
 no intention of keeping his promise. Richard's 
 turn came after this difficulty had been composed. 
 Warwick presented a petition for his restoration to 
 title and inheritance; the Protector joined in urging 
 it. Henry gave way readily. ' I grant it, with all 
 the inheritance belonging to the house of York.' 
 Richard vowed obedience till death. ' Stoop, then; 
 set your knee against my foot. For this homage, 
 I gird thee with the sword of thy house, and bid thee 
 rise Duke of York.' 
 
 Henry had a special reason just now for desiring 
 concord among his nobles, being on the point of 
 crossing the sea to Paris, there to be crowned King 
 of France in answer to Charles's coronation at 
 Rheims. But their amity was as insincere and 
 short-lived as the homage of York, between whom 
 and Somerset the feud of the two roses broke out in 
 sharp words during the hollow ceremony. 
 
 No ceremony could have been hollower, for the 
 320 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 English cause in France was doomed already, and 
 soon to be doubly doomed by a hateful crime. Joan 
 of Arc had been detained in the French court while 
 the towns in the north opened their gates to Charles. 
 But Bedford, relieved by the efforts of Cardinal 
 Beaufort, who poured bis own wealth into the Eng- 
 lish treasury to raise fresh troops, took the offensive 
 in his turn and drove Charles back behind tbe Loire, 
 while the Duke of Burgundy set about reducing the 
 revolted towns. This new call brought Joan upon 
 the scene again. Her mission from God had ended, 
 as she felt, at Rheims. But she could be brave still, 
 and she still led the Frencb ranks gallantly, until 
 in a sortie from the city of Compiegne she was pulled 
 from her horse by an archer and made prisoner. 
 Her captors sold her to Burgundy, and he in his turn 
 to tbe English. To them she was a sorceress and her 
 triumphs procured by the Evil One. After a year's 
 imprisonment she was tried as a witch before an ec- 
 clesiastical court presided over by the Bishop of 
 Beauvais. Their questions failed to entangle her. 
 They forbade her the mass. ' Our Lord can make 
 me hear it without your aid,' she told them, weep- 
 ing. That she was a witch she denied to the last. 
 ' God has always been my Lord in all that I have 
 done. The devil has never had any power over me.' 
 
 In the end they condemned her. A pile of faggots 
 
 321 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 was raised in the market-place of Rouen, where her 
 statue stands to-day. The brutal soldiers tore her 
 from the hands of the clergy and hurried her to the 
 stake, but their tongues fell silent at her beautiful 
 composure. One even handed her a cross he had 
 patched together with two rough sticks. She 
 clasped it as the flames rose about her. ' Yes ! ' she 
 cried; ' my voices were of God! ' and with those tri- 
 umphant words the head of this incomparable mar- 
 tyr sank on her breast. ' We are lost,' muttered an 
 English soldier standing in the crowd; ' we have 
 burned a saint.' 
 
 Burgundy, who had sold her, was already waver- 
 ing. Very tenderly Joan had pleaded with him in 
 a parley for France, and against the unnatural 
 wounds he inflicted on France. l Consider her, 
 thine own country, France once so fertile! Con- 
 sider her towns and cities defaced, her wasting ruin. 
 As a mother looks on her dying babe, so look upon 
 France as she pines to death.' And to Burgundy 
 her words might well have brought echoes of a day 
 when he himself had pleaded for France with Henry 
 V., painting the decay of her husbandry and the 
 savage misery of her inhabitants. It had taxed all 
 the diplomacy of Beaiifort to pin him so long to the 
 English cause. But even the Cardinal's persua- 
 sions failed in the end, and soon after Joan's death 
 322 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 the Duke deserted back to Charles. This blow was 
 followed by a second and yet more fatal one in the 
 death of Bedford. Paris rose, drove out its garri- 
 son of English, and declared for Charles. The 
 English possessions shrank at once to Normandy, 
 portions of Anjou and Picardy, and Maine. At 
 home the policy of England was distracted between 
 Gloucester, who strove to continue the war, and Suf- 
 folk, who, following his own ambitious career, had 
 become master of the Council when age and in- 
 firmity forced Beaufort to give over the active con- 
 duct of affairs, and was now scheming for peace. 
 Abroad, York had succeeded Bedford as Regent of 
 Erance, but was hampered at every turn by his 
 deadly foe, Somerset. If Talbot, now Earl of 
 Shrewsbury, had been supported, our tale might 
 have been a different one. He fought a hopeless 
 cause with magnificent courage, at one time fording 
 the Somme with the waters up to his chin to relieve 
 Crotoy, at another forcing the passage of the Oise 
 in face of a whole French army. Driven from Nor- 
 mandy, which in 1450 was wholly lost, he sailed for 
 the south and landed in Gascony. Twenty-thou- 
 sand men should have followed to reinforce him, but 
 were delayed, and while Somerset hung back in spite 
 against York, Talbot found himself confronted be- 
 fore Bordeaux by an overwhelming army of Erench. 
 
 323 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' The feast of death is prepared/ said he; and turn- 
 ing to his son, young John Talbot, bade him mount 
 his swiftest horse and escape. Hotly the young 
 man refused. ' Is my name Talbot? Am I your 
 son, and you ask me to fly? ' 'To stay means death 
 for both of us.' ' Then let me be the one to stay. 
 By flight I can save nothing of Talbot but will be 
 a shame to me.' Father and son embraced and 
 made ready to die together. Ear from help, yet npt 
 too far if Somerset had made haste with his cavalry, 
 the fighting Earl saw his troops mown down in 
 swathes by the French cannon, and charging into 
 the press rescued his son from the sword of Orleans. 
 ' Art not weary, John? There is time yet. Fly and 
 avenge me.' ' Talbot's son,' was the answer, ' will 
 die beside Talbot.' In the next charge the Earl 
 fell, and the lad rushed forward after his assailants. 
 Some soldiers brought back his body and laid it in 
 the arms of his dying father. ' Now I am content. 
 My old arms are my boy's grave.' So passed indig- 
 nant from France to heaven the last surviving spirit 
 of Agincourt. 
 
 Elsewhere the end had been ignoble enough. 
 The young King — had his will counted — detested 
 the war. To his pious and contemplative nature 
 such strife between peoples of one faith was abhor- 
 rent. Gloucester, awake at length to the hopeless- 
 324 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 ness of the struggle, was for accepting the interven- 
 tion of the Pope and the Emperor, concluding peace 
 on good terms, and sealing it by a marriage between 
 Henry and the daughter of the Earl of Armagnac. 
 This, however, did not suit his opponent, Suffolk, 
 who had a scheme of his own for marrying Henry 
 to Margaret, daughter of Reignier Duke of Anjou 
 and titular King of [Naples — a beautiful and almost 
 penniless lady with whom, indeed, Suffolk himself 
 had fallen more than half in love. In wooing her 
 for his sovereign his tongue now and then spoke for 
 his own heart. But if fond, he was above all things 
 ambitious. Her being Queen of England would 
 not prevent his paying court to her, while it would 
 give her power to support his schemes. Reignier 
 was a grasping father and drove a hard bargain, 
 naming nothing less as the price of the match than 
 the cession of Anjou (which by this time was not 
 England's to give) and Maine, which Suffolk knew 
 well to be the key of Normandy. To Suffolk this 
 weighed little in comparison with his private advan- 
 tage. He posted back to England and plied Henry 
 and the Council with his praises of Margaret's 
 beauty. Gloucester was outvoted again, and the 
 contract with the Earl of Armagnac broken off. 
 Henry listened wearily to their wrangling. ' I am 
 sick,' said he, ' with too much thinking.' He had 
 325 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 lost his father's conquests. Even the great southern 
 province which had belonged to England ever since 
 Henry II. had married Eleanor of Aquitaine was 
 preparing to pass from him. If peace could be pur- 
 chased by ceding Anjou and Maine, he was ready to 
 spare them. Marriage he did not desire, yet (as he 
 told Gloucester) would be content with any choice 
 tending to God's glory and England's welfare. His 
 mind, utterly irresolute, was sensitive enough to be 
 distracted by these perpetual quarrels; and in this 
 condition, as weak men will, he decided suddenly, 
 almost pettishly; despatched Suffolk to France to 
 arrange the betrothal with Margaret ; in the very act 
 of disregarding his advice, begged Gloucester to 
 excuse this sudden enforcement of ' my will ' ; and 
 withdrew from the Council to shut himself up and 
 meditate on the cares which afflict a king. 
 
 So Suffolk departed triumphant, following a 
 vision of still greater personal triumphs. Margaret 
 should be Queen and rule Henry; but Suffolk should 
 rule her, and through her the King and the whole 
 realm. 
 
 326 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 n 
 
 But one thing Suffolk had left out of account, the 
 temper of the English people. He and his peers 
 might treat the national honour as a chattel to be 
 bartered for their private ends ; but the mass of his 
 countrymen had learnt under Henry V. to be proud 
 of England, and this pride broke into furious re- 
 sentment when they saw her greatness dishonoured 
 by weak hands and trafficked away with a selfish 
 unconcern. Duke Humphrey might be an imper- 
 fect patriot, but he was for continuing the fight 
 rather than surrendering on such terms. When 
 Suffolk brought Margaret home to London in state, 
 the Protector's voice faltered as he read over the 
 contract. At the clause ceding Anjou and Maine 
 he fairly broke down. 
 
 The Cardinal, Suffolk's chief supporter, took the 
 scroll from him and read on. Henry listened, pro- 
 fessed himself well pleased with the bargain, and 
 made Suffolk a duke for his services. He had no 
 sooner withdrawn, however, with Margaret, and her 
 conductor to prepare for the coronation, than Duke 
 Humphrey found speech. ' What ! was it for this 
 my brother Henry spent all — his youth, his valour, 
 money, and men, — lodging in the open field, winter 
 
 327 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and summer, to conquer France ? "Was it for this my 
 brother Bedford laboured with his wits to keep what 
 Henry had won? Yourselves — Somerset, Buck- 
 ingham, York, Salisbury, Warwick — have earned 
 honourable scars, while the Cardinal and I have sat 
 toiling in Council early and late, and all to keep 
 France. Is this to be the undoing and shameful 
 end of your prowess and our policy? ' 
 
 He had England behind him in speaking so; but 
 the conscience of Englishmen had not yet discov- 
 ered how to make itself heard. For the moment he 
 spoke to men of opposing aims, and they listened 
 with very different minds. Beaufort, his old en- 
 emy, openly censured his boldness; but then Beau- 
 fort's interest lay with the King's party and the new 
 favourite, Suffolk. Somerset and Buckingham 
 (another duke of the blood royal, descended from 
 Thomas of Gloucester, the youngest of Edward 
 III.'s sons) distrusted the Cardinal as their rival in 
 craft, but were more concerned just now in hating 
 and scheming against Duke Humphrey, the actual 
 Protector, and were ready to join forces to pull him 
 down from his seat. That Somerset took one side 
 was reason enough for York's taking the other. But 
 York, we must remember, considered himself the 
 rightful heir to the throne, and that these were Ms 
 dukedoms which Suffolk had given away. War- 
 328 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 wick and his father, Salisbury, 1 as supporters of 
 York, were angry on his account, and also indignant 
 at the loss of provinces they had helped to win. 
 
 Eor the moment, then, these diverse factions fall 
 into two. On the one hand we see Gloucester, sup- 
 ported by York, Salisbury, and Warwick, all indig- 
 nant at the King's marriage and the bargain it stood 
 for, and representing in this the general silent feel- 
 ing of England. On the other we have Suffolk, 
 who made the bargain, favoured by the Queen, up- 
 held by the Cardinal, and joined by Somerset and 
 Buckingham, for the present purpose of unseating 
 and destroying Gloucester. 
 
 And for the moment this second party could use 
 
 the King's favour, and so held the upper hand. The 
 
 stroke against Duke Humphrey must be dealt, and 
 
 quickly; but how? They found their opening in 
 
 the indiscretion of his second wife, Eleanor Cobham. 
 
 This aspiring dame was guessed, and shrewdly 
 
 enough, to nurse ambitions which flew higher than 
 
 1 To show the descent of the Kingmaker, we may extend the 
 table given on p. 317, thus — 
 
 John of Gaunt = Katharine Swynford. 
 
 John Beaufort, Henry Beaufort, Joan Beaufort, m. Ralph Nevil, Earl of 
 
 Earl of Somerset. the Cardinal. i Westmoreland. 
 
 John Beaufort, _ , El l c J> a ?: d ; 
 
 Dnke of Somerset. Earl o£ Salisbury. 
 
 Richard, 
 Earl of Warwick (Kingmaker). 
 
 329 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 her husband's. She was a good hater, at any rate, 
 and found a hater to match her in the young Queen, 
 with whom she soon started a fierce quarrel. It 
 maddened Margaret to see Gloucester's wife parad- 
 ing the Court with a troop of ladies and a duchy's 
 revenue on her back, flaunting her riches, and not 
 careful to hide her disdain of the penniless upstart 
 from Anjou. She had boasted (so Margaret heard) 
 that the train of her meanest gown outvalued all the 
 Duke Regnier's estates. It was a woman's quarrel, 
 and the storm burst in a very feminine fashion. 
 Somerset and York were quarrelling again; this time 
 over their claims to be regent over what remained 
 of French territory. York, who had held the office, 
 looked to be reappointed. Somerset opposed him. 
 Duke Humphrey supported York. ' Why should 
 Somerset be preferred? ' was the natural question 
 urged by the Protector's party. ' Because,' an- 
 swered Margaret imperiously, ' the King will have 
 it so.' ' Madam,' replied Gloucester, ' if so, the 
 King is old enough to speak for himself.' ' Then,' 
 came the retort, ' if he be old enough, he does not 
 need you for Protector.' ' At his pleasure,' said 
 Gloucester, ' I am ready to resign.' ' Resign 
 then ! ' broke out the tongues of his enemies in turn 
 — Suffolk, the Cardinal, Somerset, Buckingham, the 
 Queen herself. Gloucester choked down his rage 
 330 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 for the moment and withdrew, not trusting him- 
 self to speak. His Duchess remained. Margaret 
 dropped her fan. ' My fan, if you please ! ' she 
 commanded, and, as the Duchess delayed to pick it 
 up, caught her a box in the ear; then, feigning to 
 have mistaken her for a maid-in- waiting, ' I cry your 
 mercy, madam. Was it you? ' The Duchess 
 flounced out promising vengeance. 
 
 She meant it too. But Suffolk had already pre- 
 pared a trap for her, and when the Queen com- 
 plained impatiently of her husband's subjection, 
 Suffolk could promise a speedy deliverance. ' I tell 
 thee, De la Pole,' Margaret confessed, ' when I saw 
 thee at Tours riding a tilt in my honour, and stealing 
 away the French ladies' hearts, I thought thy mas- 
 ter had been as brave and handsome and as gallant 
 a wooer. But his thoughts are all given over to 
 holiness. His beads and his sacred books are more 
 to his taste than tilt-yard and weapons, and saints' 
 images all the lady-loves he cares for.' She 
 stamped her foot. ' I wish to Heaven the Cardi- 
 nals' College would elect him Pope and carry him 
 off to Borne ! ' Suffolk besought her to be patient. 
 ' And as for the Duchess,' he promised, ' I have 
 limed a bush for that bird. When I have caught 
 her, as I presently shall, never fear that she'll mount 
 
 again to trouble you.' 
 
 331 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 Eleanor Cobham, in fact, had over-reached her- 
 self. Since her husband would not make a snatch 
 at the crown, she had set her own wits to work, and 
 tempted by an opportunity which Suffolk cunningly 
 threw in her way, had called in the help of sorcery. 
 She was now, as her enemy knew, consulting with 
 Margery Jourdain, a witch, a conjurer named Bol- 
 ingbroke, and two priestly confederates, Hume and 
 Southwell. Hume was actually in Suffolk's pay; 
 the rest, it is most likely, were but foolish impostors 
 who made a living by trading on superstitious folks. 
 To such knaves the rich Duchess would be a gold 
 mine, if only they could keep her bemused by jug- 
 glery and specious prophesying. Unfortunately 
 for them Suffolk proved as prompt in striking as he 
 was careless of what became of his tools after they 
 had served him. As soon as ever he felt the mo- 
 ment ripe he used his information and despatched 
 York and Buckingham with a guard to Duke Hum- 
 phrey's London house. They broke into the garden 
 and surprised the victims in the midst of their in- 
 cantations — Margery Jourdain and Bolingbroke 
 pretending to raise the Spirit of Evil, while South- 
 well took down its answers and the Duchess, with 
 Hume, watched from a balcony. ' Lay hands on 
 these traitors and their trash! ' commanded York; 
 and then glancing aloft, ' What ! You there, 
 333 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 madam? The King and commonwealth are deeply 
 indebted to you for these pains of yours!'- The 
 papers seized by the guard contained the following 
 prophecies : — 
 
 (1) Of the King— 
 
 'The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ; 
 But him outlive, and die a violent death. ' 
 
 (2) Of Suffolk— 
 
 ' By water shall he die, and take his end.' 
 
 (3) Of Somerset— 
 
 'Let him shun castles.' 
 
 To seek information concerning the King's death 
 was plainly treasonable. York marched his cap- 
 tives to prison, and despatched Buckingham post- 
 haste to St. Albans, where he found Henry hawking 
 and distracted as usual in the midst of his sport by 
 the quarrelling peers, of whom Gloucester and the 
 Cardinal were at the moment within an ace of com- 
 ing to blows. Buckingham's news, as may be sup- 
 posed, wholly confounded the Protector, and 
 fetched the King hurriedly back to London to in- 
 quire into the Duchess's treason. There was, of 
 course, no defence; the culprits had been taken red- 
 handed. Henry pronounced judgment, sentencing 
 Margery Jourdain to be burned at Smithfield, Bol- 
 
 ingbroke, Southwell, and Hume to be hanged, while 
 
 333 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 the Duchess — saved from the worst by her noble 
 birth— was condemned to do three days' open pen- 
 ance through the streets of London, and then to live 
 in banishment in the Isle of Man, under care of the 
 governor, Sir John Stanley. 
 
 The day of her penance came, horrible alike for 
 her and for Duke Humphrey, who on hearing her 
 condemnation had knelt and with tears rendered up 
 his Protector's staff into the King's hands. In 
 mourning dress, with his attendants in black about 
 him, the unhappy husband waited and watched the 
 street along which his wife came in her degrada- 
 tion. She came bare-footed, draped in a white 
 sheet pinned with insulting placards, holding a taper 
 alight. A jeering crowd followed her. ' Are you 
 come, my lord, to look on my open shame? It is 
 penance for thee too.' She pointed back at the 
 crowd. ' Ah ! Gloucester, hide from their hateful 
 looks! ' ' Patience, Nell! ' the poor Duke pleaded; 
 ' be patient and forget this grief.' ' Teach me, 
 then, to forget myself. For while I think I am thy 
 wife, and thou art a prince and ruler of England, 
 methinks I should not be led along thus! Ah, 
 Humphrey! can I bear it? Believest thou I shall 
 ever look forth on the world again and deem it happy 
 to see the sun! To remember what I was — there 
 will lie the hell : to say " I am Duke Humphrey's 
 334 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 wife. He was a prince and a ruler of England ; yet 
 so ruled and was such a prince that he stood by whilst 
 I, his duchess, was made a shameful jest for the 
 street." !No! ' she went on bitterly, 'be mild as 
 ever! Do not blush at it! Stir at nothing until 
 the axe of death hang over thine own neck — as it 
 will! Eor Suffolk, all in all with her who hates 
 thee and all of us, and York and the false Cardinal 
 have set the snare for thy feet. Go thy way, trust- 
 ing as ever, and never seek to prevent them! ' 
 
 But Gloucester would not believe. ' I must of- 
 fend before I can be attainted. Had I twenty 
 times the foes I have; had each of them twenty 
 times his present power, I cannot be harmed while 
 I rest loyal, true, without crime. I beseech thee, 
 ISfell, be patient, and leave this to wear itself quickly 
 away! ' 
 
 While he talked with her a herald arrived to sum- 
 mon him to the King's Parliament, fixed to be held 
 at Bury St. Edmunds on the first of the next month. 
 ' The date fixed ! My consent not asked ! ' — Duke 
 Humphrey forgot that he was Protector no longer. 
 ' This is close dealing,' mused he, but prepared to 
 obey. Hastily husband and wife took their sor- 
 rowful farewells and parted; she towards her exile, 
 he for Bury St. Edmunds, where before his arrival 
 his enemies were arranging his downfall. 
 
 335 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 For while Henry wondered at his delay in com- 
 ing, Margaret, Suffolk, the Cardinal, and Bucking- 
 ham were together poisoning his ear with evil 
 charges and worse hints against the late Protector. 
 ' Should Henry die now and without child, Glouces- 
 ter would be next heir to the throne.' ' It was he 
 who must have set his wife upon her devilish prac- 
 tices.' To come to more definite charges: ' He had 
 taken bribes from France.' ' As Protector he had 
 visited small offences with savage punishments.' 
 ' He had levied money to pay the armies in France 
 and had never sent it.' It was York who brought 
 this last charge; for although York had disclosed 
 his aims to Salisbury and Warwick, and although 
 they had secretly sworn to make him King of Eng- 
 land, he saw more clearly than they that Duke 
 Humphrey's fate was now sealed, and the time had 
 come to abandon him. Between them the plotters 
 so wrought on the weak King, that when Gloucester 
 entered at length and, wishing the King health, 
 prayed to be forgiven his delay, Suffolk felt able to 
 step forward boldly and arrest him of high treason. 
 Duke Humphrey did not blench. ' A clean heart 
 is not easily daunted,' said he, and denied, as he hon- 
 estly could, the charges his enemies now repeated 
 against him. ' I never robbed the soldiers of any 
 pay, nor have ever received one penny from France 
 336 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 as bribe. So help me God, I have watched night 
 after night studying good for England ! If I have 
 stolen one doit from the King, or hoarded one groat 
 of his for my own use, let it be brought against me 
 in fair trial. iSTay, rather than tax the poor com- 
 mons, I have poured out my own money to pay the 
 garrisons, and never asked for repayment. As for 
 my punishment of offenders, it is notorious that my 
 fault, if any, was too great clemency.' Suffolk cut 
 him short. ' These are trifles. It is for heavier 
 crimes I arrest you, and hand you over to my Lord 
 Cardinal here, who will keep you until your trial.' 
 The hunted man turned to Henry, but Henry could 
 give little help. ' My lord,' said he, ' it is my es- 
 pecial hope that you will clear yourself of all these 
 suspicions; for my conscience assures me you are 
 innocent.' ' Ah, my liege ! I know that they want 
 my life; and if my death could make England 
 happy, they would be welcome to it. But my death 
 is the prologue only. Thousands, who as yet sus- 
 pect nothing, will die and yet not conclude the 
 tragedy here plotted. I see the Cardinal's malice 
 in his red ferret eyes; Suffolk's brow clouded with 
 hate; I hear Buckingham's sharp tongue unloading 
 his envy; York dogged as ever — York whose ambi- 
 tious arm I have held back from the moon he would 
 grasp — levelling false charges against my life. 
 337 
 
TALES EKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 And you, my sovereign lady ' — he turned to Mar- 
 garet — ' have joined them in stirring up my true 
 liege to hate me. Oh, I have had notice of your 
 meetings, your conspiracies! I shall not lack false 
 witnesses to condemn me ! ' 
 
 Henry stood powerless while the Cardinal's 
 guards hurried away their prisoner; then he moved 
 sadly towards the door. ' My lords, I leave it to 
 your wisdom. Do or undo as if I myself were pres- 
 ent.' 'What?' cried Margaret; 'will your Maj- 
 esty leave the Parliament? ' ' Ay, Margaret; this 
 grief overwhelms me. Gloucester is no traitor; he 
 never wronged you, or these great lords, or any man, 
 that his life should be sought.' He could make 
 pretty, touching speeches about his old friend and 
 counsellor; but what, though King of England, he 
 could not do was to find manhood enough to stand 
 by him. His lamentations proved that he guessed 
 only too well what was threatened; yet in the act of 
 uttering them he was moving towards the door, and 
 betraying Duke Humphrey to his fate. The 
 savage and more intrepid hearts he left behind him 
 in the Parliament House had already decided that 
 fate, and were not long in discovering their agree- 
 ment. Duke Humphrey must die. 
 
 York was spared whatever small dishonour re- 
 mained, after consenting, in actively compassing the 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 murder. "While Gloucester's enemies deliberated, 
 news came of a rebellion in Ireland, and to York 
 was given the task of shipping an army at Bristol 
 and sailing to suppress it. He could have desired 
 nothing better. It removed him out of the way of 
 the popular rage which he foresaw would follow the 
 crime. And it gave him an army, which was pre- 
 cisely what he lacked. The golden opportunity 
 had arrived and he grasped it. He would nurse his 
 army in Ireland and wait, while Suffolk and the 
 rest did his dirty work and incurred the odium 
 of it. 
 
 For Suffolk was short-sightedly eager to strike. 
 He had always made the mistake of undervaluing 
 the opinion of England at large. His strength lay 
 in his favour with Margaret and the influence this 
 gave him in the narrow inmost circle around the 
 King. He forgot, or thought he could neglect, that 
 which no English king, even, has forgotten or neg- 
 lected without disaster. Margaret, as a French- 
 woman, might be forgiven for ignoring this; Suf- 
 folk's ignorance belonged to the tradition by which 
 the great feudal lords treated the commons and their 
 feelings as of no account, and by which they came 
 to their ruin. 
 
 Two murderers hired by Suffolk strangled Duke 
 Humphrey as he lay sick on his bed at Bury. As 
 
 339 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the King took his seat to try the accused, Suffolk, 
 who had been sent to fetch him, returned with a 
 white face. 'He is dead, my lord! Dead in his 
 bed ! ' The King swooned back in his chair. They 
 revived him, and he fell to petulant, weak ravings; 
 poor cries of a heart to which grief is half a luxury, 
 something at least to be tasted. Margaret, who 
 spoke up boldly for her pet Suffolk, would have 
 made short work of this lamblike rage; but as she 
 ended a stronger wrath hammered at the door. A 
 crowd of the commons stood outside. They had 
 heard of the crime, and they had Salisbury and 
 "Warwick to speak for them and exact vengeance. 
 While Henry wept impotently, these two nobles 
 thrust themselves in, bearing the dead body on its 
 bed. ' View it, my liege ! See, the blood black in 
 his face— his eyeballs staring, his nostrils stretched 
 with struggling — look on his hands, spread as they 
 must have grasped for life! And on the sheets — 
 see — his hair is yet sticking ! By the Lord who died 
 for men, this is foul play! This is Suffolk's work 
 — the murderous coward! ' 
 
 Suffolk and Margaret together hotly denied it. 
 The favourite had long ago warned his Queen that 
 the JSTevils would have to be reckoned with; that 
 Salisbury, the father, and Warwick, the son, were 
 no simple peers; but as he now followed Warwick 
 340 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 out to make good his denial by the sword, he found 
 on the further side of the door a more terrible en- 
 emy than the Nevils. The throng there shouted for 
 his blood, and he could not face it. With difficulty 
 Salisbury forced the commons back while he spoke 
 their mind. ' Either Suffolk must be banished, or 
 the crowd would enter and hale him forth to torture 
 and lingering death. It was for the King's own 
 sake they insisted, but the King must choose.' ' A 
 mob of tinkers! ' sneered Suffolk; but the time for 
 sneering was past. These despised commons had 
 fixed his doom for him, and clamoured impatiently 
 while the King seemed to hesitate. He pronounced 
 it at length. Suffolk was given three days in which 
 to quit the kingdom for ever. 
 
 Margaret flung herself on her knees, but in vain. 
 Henry had found a will stronger than even hers. 
 This stormy, masterful woman could love, and she 
 loved Suffolk as he had loved her from the day he 
 wooed her for the husband she could neither under- 
 stand nor respect. Before him she could be weak, 
 and she wept as she took leave of him. He would 
 stay, he swore, and face death rather than cry for 
 death in a foreign land, cry for her to close his eyes 
 and take his last breath on her lips. But no, she 
 insisted, he must go and take her heart with him. 
 Whithersoever he might wander her messengers 
 
 341 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 should find him out. And he went, to an exile 
 shorter than either of them guessed. 
 
 Eor the vengeance of Heaven was not tarrying. 
 Already the Cardinal lay on his death-bed writhing 
 in torments of conscience, clutching and gasping for 
 breath, now blaspheming God and now cursing his 
 fellow-men. Above all, he kept crying aloud for 
 the King; but when Henry was summoned and 
 stood by his bedside the dying wretch failed to 
 recognise him. 'Death? Art thou Death? I'll 
 give thee all England's treasure — enough to pur- 
 chase another such island — only let me live and feel 
 no pain! ' He passed to wilder ravings. War- 
 wick bent and spoke in his ear: ' Beaufort, it is the 
 King come to speak to thee.' ' Bring me to my 
 trial when you will! He died in bed, did he not? 
 .Where should he die? Can I make men live 
 whether they will or no? . . . O! cease torturing; 
 I will confess. . . . Alive again? Show me where 
 he is — I'll give a thousand pounds to have a look. 
 He has no eyes; the dust has blinded his eyes! 
 Comb down his hair! Look! look! it is standing 
 upright! . . . Give me drink, . . . bring the 
 poison. Where is the poison I bought? . . .' 
 
 Henry kneeling and praying for the divine mercy 
 
 on this terrible end, cried to the Cardinal as he sank 
 
 into silence to make some sign — to lift a hand — in 
 Wi 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 token that his 'last thoughts were of heaven. The 
 hand was not lifted. The breathing ceased. ' O 
 God, forgive him! We are sinners and may not 
 judge him. Close up his eyes and draw the cur- 
 tains.' 
 
 Vengeance, passing onward from this bedside, 
 overtook Suffolk as he reached the coast in disguise 
 — he dared not travel openly, knowing the temper 
 of the people. Near Dover he hired a small craft 
 and put out to sea, trusting to be allowed a landing 
 at Calais. He had sailed but a little way when a 
 fleet of armed ships bore down on bim. Forced to 
 heave-to, he was summoned on board the Nicholas 
 of the Tower, and as he climbed up the side the 
 captain received him with the words, ' Welcome, 
 traitor! ' Two days later, as the ship hung off the 
 English coast, a boat came alongside, carrying a 
 headsman, a block, and a rusty sword. This was 
 the end of Suffolk — ' by water,' as had been prophe- 
 sied. 1 His head was conveyed to Margaret, who 
 mourned for it passionately. ' I fear me, love,' 
 remonstrated Henry, ' thou wouldst not have 
 mourned so for me, had I been dead.' ' Nay, my 
 love, I should not mourn but die for thee.' 
 
 The ships which seized Suffolk had put out from 
 
 1 Some found a punning confirmation of the prophecy in the 
 name of his executioner, a certain Walter (or Water) "Whitmore. 
 
 343 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 the Cinq Ports; and the men of Kent, who had fur- 
 nished them, heard whispers that a terrible revenge 
 was preparing. They were fiercely discontented, 
 because they had prospered on the spoil of the 
 French wars and their prosperity was at an end. 
 Under John Cade, a soldier of some experience in 
 those wars, they now determined to be beforehand 
 with the royal anger, and rose in open revolt. There 
 is more than a suspicion that York had a hand in 
 this rising, though by reason of his absence in Ire- 
 land his hand did not appear; but Cade took the 
 name of Mortimer, and although very few even of 
 his ignorant followers believed him to be the true 
 Mortimer, the name was significant. 
 
 They were a rough incoherent crew, having at 
 the bottom of their discontent a dull sense of in- 
 justice — a dull feeling that they were misused, that 
 England was disgraced by misgovernment, and that 
 somehow these two things were connected, though 
 they were quite incapable themselves of reasoning 
 this out. But their sense of it broke out in a brute 
 rage against the governing class. ' It was never 
 merry world in England since gentlemen came up ' ; 
 ' The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.' 
 Yet as happens with men of their class, flashes of 
 mother-wit, narrow but very shrewd and practical, 
 lit up their absurd arguments; as when Cade — him- 
 344 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 self, except in fighting, as ignorant as any of them 
 — proclaimed that his father was a Mortimer. 
 ' That Mortimer,' growled his right-hand man, Dick 
 the Butcher, ' was an honest man and a good brick- 
 layer.' Cade promised a thorough reformation of 
 the realm. ' There shall be in England seven half- 
 penny loaves sold for a penny ; the three-hooped pots 
 shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to 
 drink small beer. When I am king all shall eat and 
 drink and chalk it up to me, and all shall go dressed 
 in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and 
 worship me, their lord.' ' The first thing we do,' 
 suggested Dick, ' let's kill all the lawyers.' ' Nay,' 
 answered Cade, ' that I mean to do. Is not this a 
 lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent 
 lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, 
 being scribbled over, should undo a man? Why, 
 I set my seal once to such a thing and was never my 
 own master since ! ' They brought him a prisoner 
 they had taken. 'Who's this?' ' The Clerk of 
 Chatham; he can write and read and cast accounts.' 
 ' O monstrous ! ' ' We took him setting of boy's 
 copies, ' Here's a villain ! ' To Sir Humphrey Staf- 
 ford, who came with the King's forces to suppress 
 the rising, Cade boldly announced himself a genu- 
 ine Mortimer, and boldly proceeded to prove it. 
 ' Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, married the 
 345 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 daughter of Lionel Duke of Clarence, hey? Well, 
 he had two children, twins, and the elder was stolen 
 away by a beggar-woman and grew up to be a brick- 
 layer. I am his son, and you may deny that if you 
 can.' ' Indeed, sir,' put in a rebel, ' he made a 
 chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are 
 alive to this day to testify it. Therefore you can- 
 not deny it.' But Cade could fight better than he 
 could argue. Stafford, finding persuasion vain, 
 gave battle. His troops were defeated and himself 
 and his brother slain, and the rebels marched tri- 
 umphantly upon London, which they entered with- 
 out resistance, Cade cutting the ropes of the draw- 
 bridge with his sword as he passed. Henry and his 
 court had already escaped to Kenilworth, and for 
 two days the city lay at the rebels' mercy. Their 
 chief rage, now that Suffolk had fallen, was against 
 Lord Say, as the royal adviser most guilty of the 
 surrender of Anjou and Maine. Him they seized 
 in his London house and brought to a rough trial — 
 an old tottering man shaken with the palsy. ' I'll 
 see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no,' 
 promised Cade. He charged Say — who denied that 
 he was chargeable— with the loss of Normandy, be- 
 sides lesser misdemeanours. ' I am the besom that 
 must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. 
 
 Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of 
 346 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 the realm in erecting a grammar-school; and where- 
 as before our forefathers had no other books but the 
 score and tally, thou hast caused printing to be used; 
 and, contrary to the King's crown and dignity, thou 
 has built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face 
 that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a 
 noun, and a verb, and such abominable words as no 
 Christian ear can endure to hear! ' 
 
 Such — a little distorted perhaps in jest — were the 
 charges brought against Lord Say, and from treason 
 of this sort he could hardly be expected to clear him- 
 self. He was led forth and executed; his head set 
 on a pole, and the head of his son-in-law, Sir John 
 Cromer, on another. The rebels enjoyed the brutal 
 sport of making the two heads kiss. 
 
 But the term of Cade's triumph was a brief one. 
 On the third day the Londoners, roused by the pil- 
 lage of their shops and houses, seized London Bridge 
 and held it gallantly for six hours. They were re- 
 lieved by Buckingham and Clifford of Cumberland, 
 a great noble of the north, who came not only with 
 troops but with promises from the King on the 
 strength of which they addressed Cade's rabble and 
 promised pardon to all who dispersed. Cade saw 
 his men wavering. ' Believe them not ! ' he shout- 
 ed. ' What, has my sword broken through London 
 
 gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart 
 
 347 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 in South wark? ' Clifford, however, knew the men 
 he was addressing. The King after all was the son 
 of their adored Harry the Fifth. ' Will you by 
 hating him dishonour his father? Is Cade a son of 
 King Harry, to lead you through the heart of 
 Prance? Or will you quarrel at home till the 
 French pluck up heart to cross over the seas and lord 
 it in London streets? To France! and recover what 
 you have lost! ' ' A Clifford; a Clifford! ' shouted 
 the mob: 'We'll follow the King and Clifford.' 
 Cade turned on them. ' Was ever feather so lightly 
 blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of 
 Henry the Fifth will lead them blindfold.' While 
 his late followers laid their heads together to seize 
 him, he broke through their ranks and escaped, head- 
 ing southwards. After days of hiding in the woods 
 of Kent, hunger drove him to break into the garden 
 of an honest esquire named Iden, who was rambling 
 in his quiet walks when, to his astonishment, he came 
 on this scarecrow intruder. Cade, utterly desperate 
 with famine, showed fight at once, and Iden cut him 
 down before recognising the rebel. Through this 
 chance encounter he found himself suddenly the 
 richer by knighthood and one thousand merks, the* 
 price set on the outlaw's head. 
 
 But the unhappy Henry had a short relief from 
 his troubles. ' Never,' he lamented, ' did a subject 
 343 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 so long to be a king as I long to be a subject.' He 
 was no sooner rid of Cade, than there arrived the 
 worse news that the Duke of York had landed with 
 his Irish troops and was marching on London. 
 York's proclaimed purpose was to remove from the 
 King's side his inveterate enemy, Somerset, whom 
 he declared a traitor. Somerset by this time had be- 
 come a favourite with Margaret, but York's approach 
 was too formidable to be defied, and the King had to 
 send word by Buckingham that his enemy had been 
 removed and committed to the Tower. This left 
 him no excuse but to disband his Irish levies, and in- 
 deed for a while events took away all temptation to 
 use force. To be sure, in 1453 a son was born to the 
 King, and this might well have seemed fatal to the 
 Yorkist chance of succession; but about the same 
 time Henry sank into a state of idiocy which made 
 his rule impossible, and York was entrusted with 
 the business of government under the title of Pro- 
 tector of the Realm. 
 
 Margaret, however, who had now her infant, Ed- 
 ward, to scheme for, waited her time. Henry re- 
 covered, and his recovery deprived York of office. 
 She seized this chance to release Somerset from 
 prison and restore him to his old power. ' Eor a 
 thousand Yorks,' she boldly announced, ' Somerset 
 shall not hide his head.' This was too much. York 
 
 349 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 denounced it as a breach of faith, denied the King's 
 fitness to govern, and collecting again his scattered 
 troops, openly took the field, supported by the 
 Nevils. Clifford's great power in the north enabled 
 Margaret and Somerset to get an army together to 
 oppose him and set up the royal standard at St. 
 Albans. 
 
 Upon this camp York marched with Salisbury 
 and Warwick and a force of thirty thousand men. 
 The battle which followed, though ostensibly fought 
 over the question of dismissing Somerset or keeping 
 him in power, was really the first fought to decide 
 whether the English crown should go to the White 
 or the Red Rose, and in the blood of Clifford, whom 
 York slew with his own hand, it sowed a hatred 
 which, inherited by Clifford's son, was to grow to a 
 terrible harvest. The death of Somerset on the 
 field, as the Yorkists swept victorious into St. Al- 
 bans, removed the pretended cause of the quarrel. 
 But York had proved his strength. Henry and 
 Margaret were now in full flight for London, and 
 thither he must follow with speed. In London he 
 would learn how to act, would choose his next step. 
 
 350 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 III 
 
 York had four sons, the fortunes of whom we are 
 to follow — Edward, Earl of March, soon to succeed 
 his father as head of the House of York, and in time' 
 to become King of England and the first soldier of 
 his age; Edmund, Earl of Rutland; George, after- 
 wards Duke of Clarence, the false and fleeting; and 
 Richard, the youngest, a hunchbacked lad, already 
 giving promise of that sinister and malignant genius 
 which was to carry him to the throne of England, 
 and set him there in a white glare of hatred, the 
 master-fiend of her history. In his crooked body, 
 with its colourless, twisted face, eyes which repelled 
 and fascinated, and snarling mouth (he had been 
 born, the tale went, with all his teeth) there dwelt 
 something of the wild animal, a monster hatched 
 out of the worst and corruptest passions of Feudal 
 England, to be its own scourge, and in the end its 
 destroyer. Even as a youth he feared neither God 
 nor man nor devil. He had started for St. Albans 
 with a blasphemy on his lips; in the battle he had 
 thrice rescued the old Earl of Salisbury by his reck- 
 less courage, had cut down Somerset with his own 
 hand, 1 and striking off his head had carried it off 
 
 1 Under the signboard of the Castle Inn in St. Albans. Those 
 who will may see in this a confirmation of the prophecy on p. 383. 
 
 351 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 and flung it down before his father in triumph. 
 York gazed on the features of his lifelong enemy. 
 ' Richard/ said he, ' has done best of all my sons.' 
 ' I hope to shake off King Henry's head in the same 
 fashion/ said Richard. 
 
 For this, as for other things, Richard's time was 
 to come. For the moment he stood in the shadow 
 of another great figure on the side of the White 
 Rose — Richard, Earl of Warwick, the strongest of 
 the strong Nevils, the ' King-maker/ the ' Last of 
 the Barons.' Feudalism was doomed, but in War- 
 wick it died, if not nobly, at any rate magnificently. 
 He was its fine flower and its grandest type. Heir 
 to the earldom of Salisbury, he had doubled his 
 wealth and added the earldom of Warwick by his 
 marriage with the heiress of the Beauchamps. 
 When he rode to Parliament six hundred retainers, 
 wearing his badge of the bear and ragged staff, fol- 
 lowed at his heels. Thousands feasted daily in his 
 courtyard. He could raise whole armies from his 
 own earldoms. In generalship and (some said) in 
 personal courage he might fall short of York's two 
 sons, Edward and Richard, but he was an active 
 warrior none the less, and for intrigue and politic 
 dealing the first head in the kingdom. In the end 
 the two lads outplayed him, but for the present he 
 
 supported their cause, and it was by his support that 
 352 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 in time they found themselves strong enough to 
 challenge him. 
 
 This array of power and ability on the Yorkist 
 side would have left Lancaster weak indeed, had it 
 not been for Margaret. Fierce and implacable as 
 her husband was weak, she took the place of a man 
 at the head of the Red Rose faction. Clifford could 
 fight, but it was Margaret who commanded; and 
 hereafter whenever success falls to the arms of Lan- 
 caster, it is always Margaret who is in the field, 
 fighting like a tigress for the rights of her boy, again 
 and again putting fresh life into her husband, and 
 with undefeated tenacity lifting a beaten cause and 
 renewing the struggle. 
 
 For a brief while after the battle of St. Albans a 
 return of the King's malady gave the two parties a 
 respite. York became Protector again, and Mar- 
 garet pretended, at least, to be reconciled. But 
 once more Henry's recovery raised the question 
 ' Who, after all, is to rule England? ' and in 1460 
 York took the bold course and openly in the pres- 
 ence of Parliament asserted that the crown belonged 
 to him. ' My father was King,' protested Henry, 
 ' and my grandfather was King by conquest.' 
 ' Not so,' answered York, ' by rebellion.' There, 
 of course, lay the weakness of the Lancastrian title. 
 ' But a king may adopt an heir, and Richard in the 
 
 353 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 presence of many nobles resigned the crown to my 
 grandfather.' ' Yes, under force. Now, as well 
 as right, we have force on our side.' Warwick 
 stamped his foot, and the Parliament-house was 
 filled in a minute with soldiers. ' Let me reign 
 for my lifetime,' pleaded Henry, too weak either 
 to be a true king or to resign with a good grace. 
 On this ground a compact was patched up. Hen- 
 ry should be allowed to reign during his life, 
 and the crown should then pass to York and his 
 heirs. 
 
 Young Clifford and the other barons of the north 
 were furious at Henry's faint-hearted bargain, and 
 marched out of the Parliament rather than consent 
 to it. But their fury was nothing to Margaret's 
 when the word came to her that her darling son had 
 been disinherited. ' Wretched man,' she broke out, 
 'would I had never seen thee! "Enforced?" 
 What ! art thou a King and wilt consent to be forced 
 — consent to reign on sufferance with York for Pro- 
 tector, Warwick for Chancellor and lord of Calais, 
 and his uncle Falconberg, in command of the Chan- 
 nel? Had I been there — I, a silly woman — War- 
 wick's soldiers should have tossed me on their pikes 
 before I let them disinherit my boy. Until that 
 compact be repealed, thou art no husband of mine. 
 The northern lords have forsworn thy colours; they 
 354 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 shall follow mine. Come, my son, let us leave this 
 talker! ' 
 
 Poor Henry sat down to write letters entreating 
 Clifford and the rest not to forsake him. But Mar- 
 garet called on their loyalty in a more heroic fashion, 
 and seeing her take the field Clifford raised the royal 
 standard for her in the northern shires while the 
 new Duke of Somerset levied an army in the west. 
 York, leaving Warwick in London to watch over 
 the King, hastily gathered a force and marched 
 northward until he encountered Clifford's army at 
 "Wakefield in Yorkshire. There he found himself 
 outnumbered by four to one, and disaster fell on the 
 White Rose. His second son, Edmund, Earl of 
 Rutland, wandering the battlefield in charge of a 
 tutor, fell into Clifford's hands. While the soldiers 
 hurried away his protector, the poor boy begged for 
 life. But Clifford had taken an oath of vengeance. 
 ' Thy father slew my father,' was the answer, ' so 
 will I kill thee.' And he drove his dagger into the 
 young breast. 
 
 York's hour, too, was at hand. His two sons Ed- 
 ward and Richard, fighting beside him, had made a 
 lane for him through his foes, shouting, ' Courage, 
 father! fight it out!' But as their overmatched 
 troops broke and fled, father and sons were swept 
 apart, and at -length the Duke found himself, faint 
 
 355 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEB 
 
 and alone, hedged around by his deadly enemies. 
 He could hope for no quarter. But Margaret held 
 back Clifford's sword while she made her prisoner 
 taste the full bitterness of death. She enthroned 
 him on a molehill — this man who had reached at 
 mountains. ' Where are your sons now, to back 
 you? — wanton Edward and lusty George, and your 
 boy Dicky, that crook-back prodigy? "Where is 
 your darling, your Rutland? Look, York ' — she 
 held out a crimsoned napkin — ' I dipped this in your 
 boy's blood. If you have tears for him, take this 
 and wipe your eyes.' They called on him to weep 
 for their sport. They brought a paper crown and 
 set it on him. ' Marry, now he looks like a king! ' 
 Clifford, in his father's memory, claimed the priv- 
 ilege of dealing the death-stroke. The doomed 
 man's indignant protest moved even his enemy Nor- 
 thumberland to pity. ' Woman, worse than tiger, 
 I take thy cloth and wash my sweet boy's blood from 
 it with my tears. So, keep it. Go boast of it, and 
 have in thine own hour of need such comfort as thou 
 art offering me! ' Margaret had no pity. She 
 taunted Northumberland's compassionate weakness. 
 With her own dagger she followed up Clifford's 
 stroke. ' Off with his head ! Set it on York gates, 
 and let York overlook his city of York ! ' 
 
 It was in Herefordshire, near Mortimer's Cross, 
 356 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 that news of York's fate reached his sons. Young 
 Edward was hurrying to avenge the reverse at 
 Wakefield with the army collected by Somerset in 
 the west; and the soldiers told of an omen, an ap- 
 parition at day-rise of three suns which, after shin- 
 ing separate for a while in the clear sky, joined and 
 melted into one. The three heirs of York read it 
 as promising them a triple yet united glory, and 
 Edward from that time took three suns for the cog- 
 nizance of his arms. It was Richard who recov- 
 ered first from the blow of the heavy tidings. 
 ' Tears are for babes. I choose blows and revenge. 
 As I bear my father's name, I'll avenge him.' 
 
 In Herefordshire they were met by Warwick, 
 who on learning the issue of the fight at Wake- 
 field, guessing that Margaret's next move would be 
 on London to rescue the King from his keeping, had 
 promptly collected a force of Kentishmen and 
 marched out to oppose her. Eor the second time 
 St. Albans had seen a conflict between the Red and 
 White Roses, but after a fierce day's fighting the 
 Yorkist forces had broken under cover of the night, 
 and Henry fallen again into the hands of his own 
 party. 
 
 Such was the tale brought by Warwick, who had 
 collected his broken regiments and marched post- 
 haste to join with young Edward's fresh forces. 
 
 357 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 The tidings might have been fatal had not Mar- 
 garet paused in her march upon London to indulge 
 her thirst for vengeance in a savage butchery of 
 prisoners and allowed her northerners to scatter for 
 pillage. As it was, Edward had just time to over- 
 throw a body of Lancastrians barring his way at 
 Mortimer's Cross, and hurrying forward to dash into 
 London ahead of her. It was a stroke which proved 
 him a born general. The citizens received him 
 with shouts of ' Long live King Edward! ' as — a 
 gallant handsome youth of nineteen — he rode along 
 their streets. Margaret and her army fell back sul- 
 lenly upon their northern headquarters at York, 
 where Henry winced at the sight of his late enemy's 
 head impaled over the gate. Edward, now secure 
 of the support of the capital, lost no time in hurry- 
 ing with Warwick to compel them to a decisive 
 battle. 
 
 A parley at York between the leaders ended as 
 usual in open threats and defiance, and the two ar- 
 mies met on Towton Field, near Tadcaster, to con- 
 test the bloodiest and most obstinate battle fought 
 in England since Hastings. Together the armies 
 numbered almost a hundred and twenty thousand 
 men, and from daybreak, when the Yorkists ad- 
 vanced to the charge through blinding snow, for 
 
 six hours the tide of success swayed to and fro un- 
 358 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 decisively. At one moment Warwick, as his men 
 gave ground and their commanders began to consult 
 gloomily, stabbed his horse before their eyes, and, 
 kneeling, swore on the cross of his sword-hilt to re- 
 venge his brother (borne down and thrust through 
 by Clifford) or to die on the field. 
 
 As the daylight grew, Henry, the unwilling cause 
 of all this carnage, wandered forth on the outskirts 
 of the fight. Margaret and Clifford had chidden 
 him back out of danger, swearing that they pros- 
 pered best when relieved of his presence. Seating 
 himself on a hummock — just such a molehill as that 
 on which York had been mockingly enthroned — 
 in kingship scarcely less impotent and forlorn, he 
 watched the ebb and flow of the battle. ' Let the 
 victory go to whom God wills it ! Would that, by 
 God's good will, I were dead ! ' Heartily he envied 
 a shepherd's lot in just such a pastoral land as this, 
 which, but for him, had been bloodless and smiling. 
 To sit upon just such a hill, in the hawthorn shade, 
 and carve out rustic dials while his sheep browsed — 
 that to this gentlest of monarchs seemed true happi- 
 ness. And while he sat he saw and understood 
 what this horrible civil war meant for pastoral Eng- 
 land, a war in which, forced by no will of their own 
 to take sides, sons slew their fathers and fathers 
 their sons. While at a little distance slayers such 
 
 359 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 as these lamented over their slain, Henry wept for 
 the unnatural error of it all. 
 
 At length Norfolk arriving with reinforcements 
 turned the scale in favour of the White Hose. The 
 Lancastrians were beaten back to the river which 
 lay in their rear, and there the retreat became a 
 rout. No quarter was given. All that night and 
 through the next day the killing went forward. 
 Clifford, desperately wounded, died before his en- 
 emies could overtake him, but the sons of York 
 seized the body and exulted over the man who had 
 slain their father and brother, and set his head to 
 decorate the gates of York in its turn. Twenty 
 thousand Lancastrians lay dead on the field, and 
 almost as many Yorkists; but the victory made Ed- 
 ward king for the time beyond dispute. Henry and 
 Margaret escaped over the Scottish border, Somer- 
 set into exile. Northumberland was dead. Dev- 
 onshire and Wiltshire followed him as soon as the 
 murderous reprisals began. Edward created his 
 brother George Duke of Clarence, and Kichard 
 Duke of Gloucester. Richard had wished the 
 dukedom of Clarence for himself. ' That of Glou- 
 cester is too ominous,' said he, between earnest and 
 a jesting glance at the fate of Duke Humphrey. 
 He took it, however, and waited his time for some- 
 thing better. 
 
 360 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 Edward was now Edward IV., crowned King of 
 England, and could reign for a time in something 
 like security. Yet Margaret kept up the struggle. 
 Leaving Henry in Scotland, which had been then- 
 refuge after the disaster of Towton, she crossed back 
 over the border and stirred up the north to a new 
 rising, only to be crushed by "Warwick at Hedgeley 
 Moor and again at Hexham. Still indomitable, she 
 set sail for France to beg help from the young 
 king Lewis XL; and there met face to face again 
 with her enemy Warwick, who had come upon a 
 rival mission. 
 
 Warwick by this time had reached the height 
 of his power. He was Lord Admiral of England, 
 and maintained in the Channel ports a fleet devoted 
 to his service. He was Captain of Calais and War- 
 den of the Western Marches. A brother, Lord 
 Montague, ruled the northern border; a younger 
 brother was Archbishop of York and Lord Chan- 
 cellor; while his uncles Lords Falconberg, Aber-^ 
 gavenny, and Latimer had all drawn rich spoils from 
 the Yorkist triumph. 
 
 But if for three years the King-maker seemed all- 
 powerful, the King (as his march on London had 
 proved) was no Henry, but a young man of brain 
 and will, and a leader of men. In private life 
 abominably dissolute, and to all appearance an idler, 
 
 361 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 a lover of costly wines and meats, a follower of 
 vicious pleasures which in the end bloated his body 
 and killed him before his time, amid these pursuits 
 he could scheme as cunningly as Warwick, and when 
 war summoned him it found him always the first 
 general of his age. 
 
 Sooner or later between these two strong men the 
 struggle was bound to come. It began silently, and 
 Edward struck his first blow when Warwick was 
 absent in France negotiating for him a marriage 
 with the Lady Bona, sister of the French Queen. 
 Lewis found himself between two petitioners; on 
 the one side Margaret, passionately pleading for 
 aid to restore her boy to the throne; on the other 
 Warwick, temptingly offering a rich alliance 
 with the actual King of England. Even poor 
 Henry in his Scottish hiding could forecast how 
 the contest would go. Margaret had come to 
 beg, Warwick to give. Lewis might pity the 
 weaker side, but he would surely decide for the 
 stronger. 
 
 So indeed he did, but in the act of deciding he 
 was interrupted by news from England. Edward 
 had flouted Warwick and made his mission idle by 
 privately marrying Dame Elizabeth Grey, the 
 widow of a slain Lancastrian and daughter of a 
 
 knight named Woodville. The King's brothers 
 362 
 
KING HENKY THE SIXTH 
 
 resented the match; but while Clarence openly in- 
 veighed against it, Richard kept a stiller tongue in 
 his head. An heir to Edward, should one be born, 
 would be one more life between him and the crown 
 on which he had set his heart; but what was done 
 could not be undone. He would have the crown, 
 with time and patience. 
 
 To the Lady Bona, and through her to the French 
 King, this marriage was a deliberate insult. Nor 
 did it improve the temper of the befooled Warwick 
 that Edward at once began to shower favours on the 
 Woodvilles, the greedy and vulgar-minded family 
 of his new wife, and raise them to power in opposi- 
 tion to the proud Nevils. The King-maker and 
 Queen Margaret whom he had ruined now discov- 
 ered that they had a common cause, and King Lewis 
 in his anger was ready to back them. They swore 
 alliance, and to cement it Warwick betrothed his 
 eldest daughter, the Lady Anne Nevil, to Margaret's 
 boy, the young Prince of Wales. 
 
 Warwick thus stood pledged to unmake the king 
 he had made, and restore the House of Lancaster 
 to the throne, in the person either of the young 
 prince or of the deposed Henry who — tossed to and 
 fro like a shuttlecock in the game — had once more 
 passed abjectly into his enemies' hands. Stealing 
 across the Scottish border to indulge in the sorrow- 
 
 363 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ful luxury of gazing on the realm he had lost, he 
 blundered upon a couple of deer-keepers, who 
 promptly secured and marched him to London, 
 where, on horseback with his feet tied to the stir- 
 rups, he was paraded thrice round the pillory and 
 then cast into the Tower. 
 
 Warwick could feel no real affection for anyone 
 of the House of Lancaster. He had a second daugh- 
 ter, Isabel; and, while playing with the hopes and 
 demands of the Lancastrians, he gave her in mar- 
 riage to the discontented Clarence, whom he secretly 
 proposed to set on the throne in Edward's place. 
 Clarence had no scruple now in betraying his 
 brother. He left the court and raised a revolt in 
 the midlands. Edward marching hurriedly to cope 
 with it, was surprised by Warwick and Clarence one 
 night in his own camp, made prisoner, and confided 
 to the keeping of Nevil, Archbishop of York. 
 From this captivity he was cunningly stolen by 
 his brother Richard, and Warwick's schemes for 
 crowning Clarence were defeated by the Lancas- 
 trians, who demanded Henry's restoration and would 
 do nothing under that price. In the following 
 spring a new revolt broke out in Lincolnshire, but 
 this found Edward better prepared. Marching 
 northwards, he crushed the rebels and turned 
 swiftly on their abettors. Clarence and Warwick 
 364 
 
KING HENEY THE SIXTH 
 
 could gather no force to meet them, and were forced 
 to escape over-sea. 
 
 Desperate now of setting up Clarence, Warwick 
 calmly abandoned him and fell back on the plan — 
 which he had taken so long to stomach — of staking 
 all on Margaret's side. To her he engaged bis word 
 to liberate Henry, and crossing once more to Eng- 
 land at a moment when a fresh revolt had drawn 
 Edward off to the north, he pressed on his heels with 
 an army which gathered so ominously that Edward 
 in turn was glad enough to escape out of the king- 
 dom and take shelter in Elanders. 
 
 He retreated, however, but to return and strike 
 effectively. Warwick had indeed liberated Henry 
 and led him from his cell to the throne, but the un- 
 happy King enjoyed a very brief freedom. He 
 asked no more than to place the substance of power 
 in the joint hands of Warwick and Clarence. The 
 shadow was enough for him, might he share it with 
 Margaret and his son, whom he summoned from 
 France, where King Lewis was providing fresh 
 troops to uphold the advantage which Warwick had 
 gained for them. 
 
 But before they could obey, Edward — whom the 
 
 Duke of Burgundy had supplied with an army — 
 
 landed at Bavenspurgh and came marching down 
 
 the length of England, making proclamation that 
 
 365 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 he had surrendered his claim to the crown and 
 sought only to be restored to his dukedom. But the 
 name of Bavenspurgh and the terms of his procla- 
 mation sounded ominously to those who recalled 
 where and how, and under what pretext, Boling- 
 broke had landed and wrested the sceptre from 
 King Eichard II. By the time he reached Not- 
 tingham sixty thousand men marched under the 
 White Eose. Warwick, rallying his supporters un- 
 der the Eed Eose banner at Coventry, waited long 
 but waited in vain for Clarence to join him. Ox- 
 ford, Montague, Somerset, one after another, came 
 trooping in with their drums and colours; still Clar- 
 ence tarried. He had deserted back to his brother 
 as lightly as he had deserted from him. Edward 
 knew his levity; and, too cold perhaps to feel any 
 deep resentment, certainly too politic to show it at 
 this moment, gave him an affectionate greeting. 
 Eichard echoed it with a sneer—' Welcome, Clar- 
 ence; this is indeed brother-like! ' 
 
 The brothers, once more united, marched rapidly 
 on London, the gates of which were opened to them; 
 and for the last time Henry passed back from the 
 throne to the Tower. Warwick followed, and the 
 deciding battle was fought at Barnet, on the north 
 side of London, April 14th, 1471 (Easter Sunday). 
 
 Three hours of furious and confused slaughter, in 
 366 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 which the Lancastrians amid flying rumours of 
 treachery and desertion scarcely knew their friends 
 from their foes, left Warwick, Montague, and all 
 their ablest leaders dead on the field. The cause of 
 the Red Rose was lost. 
 
 Somerset and Oxford escaped and fled westward 
 to join Margaret, who on that very day had landed 
 with her son at Plymouth. Three weeks later, as 
 they marched to join the troops which the Earl of 
 Pembroke was raising in Wales, their army was over- 
 taken at Tewkesbury by Edward, who by a brilliant 
 piece of strategy had hurried from Windsor to inter- 
 cept them. Footsore and weary, they reached 
 Tewkesbury on May 3d, and took ground in a strong 
 position close by the Abbey there. From this, on 
 the following day, they were enticed by Richard, 
 cut to pieces and slaughtered like sheep. Hundreds 
 ran screaming into the Abbey for sanctuary, were 
 seized, dragged forth, and executed in batches at the 
 town cross; hundreds were chased down into the, 
 River Avon and drowned. Margaret and her son 
 were taken and brought before Edward, who, 
 angered by the gallant boy's defiance, smote him 
 across the mouth with his iron glove. The daggers 
 of the three brothers silenced him more effectually. 
 Edward struck first. ' What, sprawling? ' sneered 
 
 Richard. ' Take that, to end your agony.' ' And 
 
 367 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 that,' added Clarence, ' for twitting me with per- 
 jury.' ' Kill me too ! ' pleaded Margaret, broken 
 at last, as his blood ran from their daggers. ' Marry, 
 that will I.' Richard was ready, but Edward held 
 his hand. When she recovered from her swoon and 
 would have besought him again, Richard had gal- 
 loped from the field. ' The Tower! The Tower! ' 
 had been his last whisper in Clarence's ear. ' He's 
 sudden, when a thing comes into his head,' was Ed- 
 ward's cynical comment when Clarence told him. 
 
 Henry sat reading in his cell in the Tower, when 
 Richard was announced and entered with a sneering 
 smile. The sad King knew his errand at once. 
 His eyes were opened; he saw that death had en- 
 tered with Richard and stood behind his crooked 
 shoulder; and he saw in that crooked figure incarnate 
 the final curse begotten in the long struggle and bred 
 for the blight of all its shadow was to fall upon. 
 His lips were opened too, and he prophesied. Rich- 
 ard leaped on him with his dagger. ' Eor this I was 
 ordained — among other things! ' he snarled, and 
 drove home the blow. ' Ay, and for much more 
 slaughter to come,' gasped Henry: ' God forgive 
 my sins, and thee! ' He was dead; but Richard, 
 like a wild beast mad with the taste of blood, struck 
 again and again. ' Down — down to hell, and say 
 
 I sent thee ! ' he growled over the body. 
 368 
 
KING HENRY THE SIXTH 
 
 Richard II. was avenged. The curse against 
 which Henry V. prayed before Agincourt had over- 
 taken the House of Lancaster at length, and was ful- 
 filled. But the curse on the House of York was yet 
 to fall. At "Westminster, Edward could feel him- 
 self secure; could turn all his thoughts to pleasure 
 and courtly shows. Margaret was banished; his 
 strong foes, from "Warwick downward, were dead 
 one and all. A son had been born to inherit his 
 crown. He bade his two brothers kiss their nephew. 
 Clarence and Eichard bent over the child in turn. 
 We shall see that child again with Richard's shadow 
 bent above him and over-arching. 
 
 369 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 At length England was at peace. The long strug- 
 gle of the Roses had exhausted her and drained her 
 of blood. When the great peers met in Parliament, 
 the long empty benches told them at what cost 'to 
 their order they had fought. They, the survivors, 
 sat as it were with ghosts, representing the shadow 
 only of those civil liberties their ancestors had won, 
 had abused, and had lost again. In his palace King 
 EdwapTOtfould give himself up to indolence and 
 pleasure ; and he did so in the sight of all men, but 
 he did also many things which they failed to mark. 
 Eew understood this curious cynical King who so 
 carelessly cast his handsome body away to perdi- 
 tion, yet all the while was patiently and cunningly 
 strengthening the monarchy, and making it all but 
 absolutely powerful. In war he had never lost a 
 battle; when it came to treachery, he had outplayed 
 his master, the great "Warwick; at one time and an- 
 other almost one-fifth of the whole land in the king- 
 dom, stripped from the nobles, had fallen into his 
 370 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 hands; and now while he appeared to take his ease, 
 content only to be gay and popular, his eyes under 
 their drooped lids never relaxed their vigilance. 
 Stealthily, surely, his toils closed around new 
 sources of wealth; his ships multiplied on the seas; 
 his spies were everywhere; his will made itself si- 
 lently felt in every court of law. 
 
 So his masterly brain went on working; but for 
 himself he was weary of soul. He had reached his 
 own ambition early. The most selfish of men, when 
 it occurred to him to desire a thing he heeded no 
 opposition. It had been his fancy to marry Dame 
 Elizabeth Grey, and he did so though it insulted the 
 King of France and mortally offended "Warwick. 
 Her kinsfolk, the Woodvilles, were a base and 
 greedy crew. Edward ennobled and enriched them 
 one after another, enjoying the disgust of Clarence 
 and "Warwick and the great families, and afterwards 
 watched with contempt, half -amused, half -tired, the 
 vulgarity of these newcomers as they intrigued 
 about him. Eor his children, indeed, he was 
 anxious and even over-anxious; he had two sons and 
 five daughters and from their cradles he schemed 
 to make marriages for them. Oddly enough while 
 his other projects succeeded these always failed. 
 For the rest, he had come to the end of his desires; 
 
 nothing remained but to fall back on eating and 
 
 371 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 drinking and coarse bodily pleasure, and with these 
 he wore himself out. 
 
 While he was doing it, still, as always, his brother 
 Richard stood by his side watching, waiting. He 
 had not reached the end of his ambitions. 
 
 Our tale has brought us to a time when the dark- 
 ness of the middle ages was breaking up. Already 
 Caxton had set up his printing-press at Westmin- 
 ster, and soon, as the Turks took Constantinople and 
 its Greek scholars fled for refuge to Italy, a flood 
 of old Greek learning was to come pouring over the 
 west of Europe. In that queer twilight, while the 
 old faith was dissolving and before a new one had 
 fairly dawned, there were born — it is one of the 
 wonders of history — numbers of men with utterly 
 pagan souls. They disbelieved in God and scoffed 
 at him; they were wicked, knew themselves to be 
 wicked, rejoiced in it, and took a pride in their 
 wickedness as if it had been a sort of fine art. 
 Nowadays a wicked man usually tries to persuade 
 himself that he is not so bad after all, that the world 
 has used him ill, that he is ' more sinned against than 
 sinning ' ; but these men were wicked from choice 
 and strove to be devilish. In the history of Italy 
 about this time you may find many such. In Eng- 
 land for several reasons this deliberate villainy has 
 
 never been common; but if there ever lived in Eng- 
 -372 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIED 
 
 land a deliberate villain, by all accounts Richard 
 was he. 1 
 
 Let this be said for him — though it does not ex- 
 cuse him: it was no fault of his that Nature had 
 made him so monstrous to the eye that the very dogs 
 in the street barked at him. He felt his deformity 
 keenly. 'Very well,' he resolved; 'men shrink 
 from me in loathing. They shall find me what 
 they expect.' He had still to learn that his terrible 
 face could fascinate as well as repel. 
 
 He learned it in this way. The corpse of King 
 Henry VI. after lying in state in St. Paul's was 
 being conveyed to the river-side, thence to be car- 
 ried by boat to Chertsey in Surrey for burial. Rich- 
 ard strolled out into the street to feast his eyes on 
 the small procession — the body of his victim, the 
 
 1 1 say ' by all accounts ' ; but it is possible or even likely that 
 if the truth about Richard had ever been allowed to come down 
 to us we should hold quite another opinion of him. When the 
 first Tudor King slew him and took his crown, it became the 
 business of the Tudors to blacken his memory and represent him 
 as a fiend in human shape ; and the Tudor historians did this 
 handsomely. It is believed that Henry VII. 's chronicler, Poly- 
 dore Vergil, destroyed documents wholesale with his master's 
 connivance to remove all that might tell in Richard's favour. 
 This was overshooting the mark. It left the picture too black to 
 be credited when in course of time Tudor prejudice disappeared. 
 But Shakespeare wrote under a Tudor Queen and for a preju- 
 diced audience ; and lacking the means to correct it, we must 
 take what he gives us — with more than a grain of salt. 
 
 373 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 bier, the few gentlemen of birth walking with hal- 
 berds beside it and one only mourner — the Lady 
 Anne, daughter of the Kingmaker, and widow of 
 the young Prince of Wales over whose death agony 
 the Yorkist brothers had gloated at Tewkesbury. 
 
 While she walked lamenting, cursing the man 
 who had murdered father as well as son, the 
 procession halted and Richard himself stood be- 
 fore her. 
 
 ' Set down the corpse,' he commanded; and as 
 the halberdiers hesitated, ' By St. Paul, I'll make 
 a corpse of any man of you who disobeys ! ' 
 
 ' My lord,' entreated one of the gentlemen, ' stand 
 back, and let the coffin pass.' 
 
 ' Stand thyself, thou unmannerly dog! Lower 
 thy halberd, or, by St. Paul, I'll strike thee down 
 and trample on thee.' 
 
 The Lady Anne came forward. ' What, gentle- 
 men! Are you trembling? Are you all afraid? 
 I cannot blame you, alas! — that your mortal eyes 
 cannot endure such a devil.' She turned on Rich- 
 ard. ' Hence ! minister of hell ! Thou hadst 
 power over his mortal body, but his soul thou canst 
 not have.' 
 
 ' Be not so shrewish, sweet saint; ' Richard leered 
 
 on her. In truth a wild scheme had come into his 
 
 head, and he stood with his eyes on her and a smile 
 374 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 twisting his face while she cursed and accused him, 
 pointing to Henry's wounds. 
 
 ' Fair but most uncharitable lady,' he answered 
 at length, ' give me leave to excuse myself.' 
 
 ' Excuse ! Foul beyond power of thinking, what 
 excuse canst thou give but to hang thyself? thou 
 slaughterer ! ' 
 
 ' Ay; but suppose I slew them not? It was not I 
 who killed your husband, but Edward.' 
 
 ' Liar! Margaret saw thy dagger hot in his blood; 
 nay, and it was turned against her own breast when 
 thy brothers beat it aside.' 
 
 Richard shrugged his shoulders. ' She pro- 
 voked me, with her tongue.' 
 
 ' Thine own bloody mind provoked thee. Didst 
 thou not kill Henry, here ? ' 
 
 ' I grant it.' 
 
 ' You grant it? Then God grant me thy soul's 
 damnation for that wicked deed! Oh, he was gen- 
 tle, so mild, so virtuous ! ' 
 
 ' And the fitter to go to heaven. Heaven will 
 suit him better than earth,' Richard sneered. 
 
 ' Thou art unfit for any place but hell.' 
 
 ' I grant it again. But let us be reasonable, 
 gentle Lady Anne ! Is the executioner of these un- 
 timely deaths more blameworthy than the cause of 
 
 them? ' 
 
 375 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' Thou wast the cause of them.' 
 
 ' Not so.' He fixed his eyes more intently upon 
 hers. ' Your beauty was the cause,' he said slowly; 
 then with a sudden passionate haste, ' Your heauty, 
 which has haunted my sleep, bidding me murder 
 all the world if only to live for an hour on your 
 sweet breast.' 
 
 Anne shrank back, putting up her hands to cover 
 her eyes; her fingers pressed the flesh until they left 
 white marks. ' If I thought that,' she gasped, 
 ' these nails should tear that beauty away.' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Richard coaxingly, ' not while I 
 stood by. I could not see the light of my life so 
 blemished.' 
 
 But Anne recovered herself, loathing herself that 
 she could not free her eyes from his gaze. Break- 
 ing into curses again, she spat at him. ' Would it 
 were poison ! ' she panted. ' Oh, if these eyes could 
 but strike thee dead! ' 
 
 ' I would they might,' Richard went on blandly, 
 his own playing with them as a cat with a mouse; 
 ' then I should die at once : now they are killing me 
 with a living death. They have drawn salt tears, 
 lady, from mine — mine, which had no tears even 
 when Rutland, my tender brother, moaned under 
 Clifford's sword: none even when thy father, war- 
 like Warwick, told us like a child the sad story of 
 37G 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIED 
 
 my father's death, and twenty times broke down in 
 sobs while his hearers wept with him.' Again Anne 
 drew herself up and forced her mouth to smile 
 scornfully; but he held her eyes. ' Teach thy lips 
 no such scorn, lady; they were made for kissing, not 
 for contempt. If thou be too full of revenge to 
 forgive me, see ' — he drew his sword and kneeling 
 tendered it to her by the blade — ' plunge this in 
 this true breast, and let forth the soul that adores 
 thee.' 
 
 She took the sword by its handle : still kneeling, 
 still with his eyes on hers, he pulled open his shirt. 
 She pushed forward the point, then wavered. 
 
 ' Nay, pause not. I did kill King Henry — but 
 it was thy beauty provoked me; I did stab young 
 Edward — but it was thy heavenly face set me on.' 
 
 The sword dropped from her hands with a clang. 
 Still Eichard knelt. 
 
 ' ISTay, take it up again, or take me.' 
 
 ' Rise,' stammered the poor woman. ' I wish 
 thy death, but I cannot kill thee.' 
 
 ' Then bid me kill myself. I will do it.' 
 
 ' I have done so.' 
 
 ' Tush, that was in thy rage. Come, say it again ; 
 
 and the hand which for thy sake killed thy love 
 
 shall for love of thee kill a far truer love, and thou 
 
 shalt be accessory to both murders.' 
 
 377 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 She peered at him shuddering. ' I wish I could 
 read thy heart.' 
 
 ' My tongue utters it.' 
 
 ' Well, well,' she sighed hopelessly; ' put up thy 
 sword.' 
 
 ' Tell me then that my peace is made.' 
 
 ' You shall know hereafter.' For the moment 
 she was vanquished, yet still she fought for time. 
 But he stepped to her, caught her hand and slipped 
 his ring on her finger. ' So,' he persisted, ' thy 
 breast encloses my poor heart. Wear both, for they 
 both are thine. For the moment I beg but one 
 thing more: leave to me these sad rites, go quickly 
 to my palace in Bishopsgate ; and when I have seen 
 King Henry interred at Chertsey monastery, I will 
 repair back thither with all the swiftness of my 
 regard. Grant this: I have reasons for asking 
 it.' 
 
 And Anne obeyed. Under his will she was pow- 
 erless: it thrilled her, yet to be mastered in this 
 fashion was not all unhappiness. 
 
 ' Bid me farewell,' Bichard commanded. 
 
 She, poor soul, could even play at archness, or 
 perhaps caught at it to steady herself. ' 'Tis more 
 than you deserve,' said she; ' but since you must 
 teach me to flatter you — imagine that I have done 
 so already.' 
 
 378 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 Richard watched her along the street, then turned 
 abruptly to the bearers. ' Sirs, take up the corpse,' 
 he commanded. 
 
 ' Shall we bear it on to Chertsey, my lord? ' asked 
 one. 
 
 ' No; to Whitefriars. Wait for me there at the 
 river-side.' 
 
 The mourners lifted the bier and passed on, leav- 
 ing Richard alone. It had been the strangest woo- 
 ing. ' Was ever woman wooed or won in this hu- 
 mour? ' he mused. ' I'll have her! ' he paused, and 
 added, ' but I will not keep her long.' 
 
 Why had he wooed her? That answer at any 
 rate is simple. She was one of the richest women 
 in England. She and her sister, his brother Clar- 
 ence's wife, were heiresses of all the vast possessions 
 of their father, the Kingmaker. Clarence would 
 be a heavy loser by this, and his wrath something 
 worth witnessing. Well, Clarence would have to 
 be dealt with. 
 
 But — it was wonderful! It amazed Richard 
 himself. ' What! I who killed both her husband 
 and her father, to take her so in the moment of her 
 bitterest hate, with curses in her mouth, with tears 
 in her eyes, over the very body of Henry; with God 
 and her conscience and all these witnesses against 
 me, and I with nothing to back my suit but the 
 379 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 sheer devil in me and a few dissembling glances; 
 and to win nevertheless against every odds! Ha! ' 
 He took a long breath. He had learnt something 
 — a power of mastery in him beyond his dreams. 
 He had proved it in these few minutes; and yet, 
 so wonderful was it, he glanced down his withered 
 body as though prepared for a surprise there. ' Has 
 she already forgotten her Edward, young, gallant, 
 and royal, whom I stabbed not three months ago? 
 And can she condescend to be taken by me — poor, 
 limping, misshapen me ?. Upon my life, I must be 
 mistaken in my person. She must find me a mar- 
 vellous good-looking fellow. I wish / could; but 
 it seems I must buy a looking-glass.' 
 
 But if he meant to marry Anne there would be 
 Clarence to reckon with. This would not be hard. 
 In his heart Richard despised Clarence wholly. 
 Richard, with all his faults, had ever stood loyally 
 by Edward's fortunes; whereas Clarence had be- 
 trayed him once in a baffled attempt to grasp the 
 crown for himself and his children, and was even 
 now scheming again. 
 
 This was the card which Clarence held or sup- 
 posed himself to hold. — When Edward had first de- 
 clared his intention of marrying Dame Elizabeth 
 Grey, his mother, who (like the rest of his kin) hated 
 the match, tried to prevail on a certajn Lady Eliza- 
 380 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIED 
 
 beth Lucy to come forward and swear that she had 
 been privately married by the king. When it came 
 to the point, however, the lady had to admit that 
 the contract was not a regular one. Of course if 
 it could be proved valid, Edward's second marriage 
 would be void and his children illegitimate, and the 
 crown on his death must go by law to his next 
 brother Clarence and to Clarence's heirs. That 
 there was more in it than Edward owned was made 
 the likelier by his touchiness on the subject; which 
 went so far that once having heard that a London 
 grocer who plied his business under the sign of 
 ' The Crown ' had jestingly spoken of his son as 
 ' heir to the Crown,' he had the unhappy tradesman 
 hanged for his joke. 
 
 So when Clarence became troublesome, Eichard 
 had to his hand an easy means of removing him. 
 He had simply to go to the King and report that his 
 brother was prying into this business and raking 
 up the old scandal. Edward, who as he felt his end 
 near grew more angrily suspicious than ever of any 
 hint against his children's legitimacy, was worked 
 into a greater rage by the production of a prophecy 
 which said that ' G ' should disinherit the King's 
 heirs. Now Clarence's name was George, and 
 George begins with a G. (So, by the way, does 
 Gloucester, but Eichard did not point this out.) As 
 381 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 for the Queen and her kinsfolk, they were furious, 
 as was only natural. 
 
 ' So much the better,' thought Richard; ' Master 
 Clarence, when he suffers, will put it down to them 
 and never suspect me.' 
 
 Everything fell out as he planned. Clarence was 
 arrested and marched off to the Tower. 
 
 Richard lay in wait for him on his way thither 
 and expressed a painful surprise. ' This is the 
 Queen's — that woman Grey's — work, with her pes- 
 tilent kin,' he declared; and when told by Sir Robert 
 Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower, that speech 
 with the prisoner could not be allowed, ' We are the 
 Queen's abjects,' sneered he, slurring over the two 
 words so that Brakenbury might hear it as ' the 
 Queen's subjects' if he chose: 'We must obey'; 
 And he sent Clarence away with a promise that he 
 would leave no stone unturned to obtain a release. 
 Having watched him down the street he hurried to 
 the palace where Edward, sick and alarmed, desired 
 his presence, hoping to reconcile him with the 
 Queen and her party so that when the end came 
 they should all stand together and support the 
 young heir to the throne. 
 
 Could the King have looked into the antecham- 
 ber where presently they assembled he might have 
 known how vain was that hope. The Queen was 
 382 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIED 
 
 there, restless with apprehension; her hrother, Earl 
 Eivers; her two sons by her first marriage — Thomas, 
 newly created Marquis of Dorset, and Eichard, 
 knighted as Sir Eichard Grey. With them were 
 Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain, but newly released 
 from an imprisonment he owed to the Queen's ha- 
 tred; Buckingham, Eichard's most thorough-going 
 and least scrupulous supporter, himself of the blood- 
 royal by descent from Edward III.'s youngest son 
 Thomas of Woodstock; and Stanley, Earl of Derby, 
 a politic peer with an opportunity ahead and wait- 
 ing for him. Eor out of the wreckage of the House 
 of Lancaster there survived only one child, for the 
 time safe in Brittany, who might in time be able to 
 challenge the right of the House of York to the 
 throne. This was the young Henry, Earl of Eich- 
 mond, son of Edmund Tudor and Margaret Beau- 
 fort, and through her descended from John of 
 Gaunt. 1 And on Edmund Tudor's death Stanley 
 had married the widow. But as yet he served the 
 House of York, not guessing the fortune in store for 
 his stepson. 
 
 Such was the incongruous company found by 
 Eichard in the anteroom. His line for the moment 
 lay in a fine show of grievance against the Queen 
 and her kinsfolk (as if they, and not he, had com- 
 
 1 See Genealogical Table (Appendix). 
 383 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 passed Clarence's ruin), and before such hearers 
 as Buckingham and Hastings he could afford to let 
 them feel the rough side of his tongue. ' A pretty- 
 state of things,' he grumbled, ' this tittle-tattling to 
 the King! Who are they who spread such com- 
 plaints? Cannot a plain man go his own way and 
 think no harm of anybody, but his honest meaning 
 must be abused by a lot of sly, insinuating upstarts? ' 
 
 ' To whom in the room is Your Grace speaking? ' 
 Rivers incautiously asked. 
 
 ' To thee,' snapped Richard. ' And to thee — 
 and to thee,' turning from one to another of the 
 Queen's party; and, fairly started, he rated them 
 high and low for a set of low-born vulgar schemers 
 until, after a worse taunt than the rest, the Queen 
 protested she would stand it no longer; she would 
 acquaint the King with these gross insults; she had 
 rather be a country servant-maid than a queen on 
 such terms. 
 
 But while they scolded there had stolen into the 
 room a dark figure which, unperceived by them, 
 hung back against the dim arras. It might have 
 been taken for a ghost. In a sense it was indeed a 
 ghost — the spectre of a terrible past crept back from 
 exile — Margaret, once Queen of England. And 
 yet it was no longer Margaret; no longer the fierce 
 woman who had traversed England with troops and 
 384 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 banners battling desperately for her child; nor even 
 a childless widowed woman; but a body from which 
 love, hope, ambition had departed, leaving only hate 
 to burn in the wasted frame and keep it alive. She 
 in whose arms, years ago, the ambitious Suffolk had 
 prayed to die, had now no interest tying her to earth 
 but to stand by and gloat over Heaven's vengeance. 
 Upon all in the room lay the shadow of that ven- 
 geance ; from each in turn the penalty would be ex- 
 acted; and while they bickered she cursed each in 
 turn under her breath, and having done, stepped 
 forward before their faces. ' Hear me, you wran- 
 gling pirates ! you that fall out in sharing what you 
 have pillaged from me. Yes, tremble; if not as 
 subjects before their reigning queen, then as rebels 
 before their deposed one ' 
 
 Richard was the first to recover speech. ' Foul, 
 wrinkled witch! what hath brought thee here? 
 "Wast thou not banished on pain of death? ' 
 
 ' I was, but for me death has no pains.' She 
 turned from one to another. ' Where is my hus- 
 band? my son? my kingdom? Yours should be 
 the sorrows I bear.' 
 
 ' Thou bearest the curse laid on thee by my father 
 
 in that hour when thou didst crown him in mockery 
 
 and offer, to dry his tears, the kerchief steeped in his 
 
 child's innocent blood. God, not any of us, has 
 
 385 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 scourged thee.' And all forgot for a moment their 
 quarrels and joined in cursing their common en- 
 emy. 
 
 ' What ! You were snarling, all of you, till I 
 came. You were ready to fly at each other's throat, 
 and now you turn all your hatred upon me ! Curse, 
 can you? and believe your curses reach the ear of 
 heaven? Nay, then, listen to mine.' She faced 
 upon the Queen, ' May Edward thy son, now Prince 
 of Wales, die for Edward my son who was Prince 
 of Wales — and die young and by violence ! Mayst 
 thou outlive thy queenly glory as I have done, and 
 live long to lament thy children as I lament mine; 
 live, as I live, to see another decked in thy rights, 
 and so end — neither mother, nor wife, nor Queen 
 of England! Rivers and Dorset, you stood by — 
 and you, too, my Lord Hastings — when my boy was 
 stabbed. I pray God that none of you live to reach 
 your natural end ! ' 
 
 'Have done! ' Richard commanded. 
 
 ' What, and leave thee out? Stay, thou dog, for 
 thou shalt hear me. If God have in His store any 
 punishment exceeding the worst I can wish for thee, 
 I pray Him to keep it until thy sins be ripe and then 
 visit thee, thou troubler of the peace of this poor 
 world! May the worm of conscience then gnaw 
 thy soul ; mayst thou suspect thy friends for traitors, 
 386 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 and take traitors for thy friends; let no sleep visit 
 thee save with dreams of devils in torment — thou 
 twisted, monstrous, rooting hog, sealed at thy birth 
 to be hell's own son ! Thou ' 
 
 Richard alone had courage to interrupt her curse 
 with a jeering laugh; the others cowered before her. 
 ' Have done! ' protested Buckingham; ' for shame 
 if not for charity's sake ! ' 
 
 She turned upon him, too, but without anger. 
 ' I have no quarrel with thee, princely Buckingham. 
 Fair befal thee and thy house! Only beware of 
 yonder dog ' — she pointed a finger at Richard — 
 ' When he fawns, he bites ; when he bites his tooth is 
 poisonous, and the wound mortal. Beware, have 
 not to do with him; for sin, death, hell, have set their 
 marks on him, and all their ministers wait on him. 
 What? ' — for Buckingham shrugged his shoulders 
 — ' you scorn my warning? O, but remember it in 
 the day coming when he shall split your heart with 
 sorrow! Then say that Margaret was a prophet- 
 ess ! ' In one long final gaze of hatred she gathered 
 up all the others. ' To Richard's hate I commit 
 you, and Richard to yours, and all of you to God's! ' 
 
 They stared after her in silence, or muttering that 
 such curses made the hair stand on end. ' Poor 
 soul! ' Richard heaved a sigh, ' she hath been heav- 
 ily wronged, and I repent my share in her wrongs.' 
 
 387 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 The others suspected no mockery in his creaking 
 voice. ' I never did her any wrong to my knowl- 
 edge/ the Queen protested. ' But you have all 
 profited by her wrongs,' Richard answered. ' For 
 my part I was too hasty to help some one who seems 
 to have forgotten my help; while as for Clarence ' 
 — he sighed again — ' he is near his reward. May 
 God pardon them who was to blame for it! ' 
 
 With this most Christian conclusion, while the 
 others passed in to the sick King's room, Richard 
 lingered to give audience to two ruffians whom he 
 had kept in waiting. In a few words he gave them 
 their instructions, with the warrant for Clarence's 
 death, and then he too passed into the sick-chamber. 
 
 In his cell in the Tower Clarence still trusted that 
 Richard would gain his release. He guessed noth- 
 ing of this treachery, or of the doom surely ap- 
 proaching. Yet horrible dreams haunted his sleep. 
 ' O,' he confessed to Brakenbury, who came in the 
 morning to wake him, ' I have passed a miserable 
 night ! — a night of dreams so hideous, so full of dis- 
 mal terror, that, as I am a Christian, I would not 
 spend such another were it to purchase a whole world 
 of happy days.' 
 
 Brakenbury begged him to recount his dream. 
 
 ' I dreamed,' said Clarence, ' I had broken from 
 the Tower here and taken ship to cross over to Bur- 
 388 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 gundy; and that my brother Gloucester was with me, 
 and tempted me from my cabin to walk on the 
 hatches, on the poop. Standing there we looked 
 back upon England, and called up in talk the thou- 
 sand times we had stood in peril during the wars 
 between York and Lancaster. As we paced side by 
 side on that giddy foothold methought Gloucester 
 stumbled, and in falling, as I tried to save him, 
 struck me overboard into the billows. God! what 
 pain it seemed to drown ! What dreadful noise of 
 waters roared in my ears! What ugly shapes of 
 death passed in my eyes ! Brakenbury ! I saw there 
 a thousand fearful wrecks — ten thousand bodies of 
 men on whom the fishes were gnawing — wedges of 
 solid gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, gems, and 
 jewels beyond price scattered on the floor of the 
 sea. Some of these lay in dead men's skulls, shin- 
 ing in the sockets where eyes had been, and leering 
 on the dead bones strewn by them along the slimy 
 bottom.' 
 
 ' What ! In the moment of death you had leisure 
 to mark these things? ' 
 
 ' It seemed so; and often I strove to yield up the 
 ghost, but the flood held in my soul, and would not 
 suffer it to escape forth on the empty wandering 
 air, though I choked and panted to cast it free. Nor 
 with this was the horror ended. For when my soul at 
 
 389 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 length burst free and passed across the ferry of death 
 and stood shivering and strange on the dark bank 
 beyond, the first to greet me was my great father-in- 
 law, Warwick; and he cried aloud, " What scourge 
 can hell afford for Clarence, perjured Clarence?" 
 So he vanished: and then came wandering by a shade 
 like an angel, with bright hair dabbled in blood, and 
 lifted a thin voice crying, " Clarence is come ! 
 False, fleeting, perjured Clarence is come, who 
 stabbed me in the field beside Tewkesbury ! Furies, 
 seize on Clarence and drag him to your torments ! " 
 And with that a legion of foul devils were about me 
 howling in my ears so shrilly that with the noise I 
 awoke trembling, and for a while could not believe 
 but that I was truly in hell.' 
 
 ' My lord, I cannot marvel that you were fright- 
 ened; for it frights me even to hear.' 
 
 ' O Brakenbury,' groaned Clarence, ' I have done 
 those things, which now bear witness against my 
 soul, for my brother Edward's sake. See how he 
 requites me ! Yet, O God, if my prayers come too 
 late to appease Thee, and for me there is no forgive- 
 ness — yet spare my innocent wife and my poor chil- 
 dren! ' He begged Brakenbury to sit by him; and 
 Brakenbury drew a chair beside the bed and watched 
 until the eyes of the unhappy man closed and he 
 slept. 
 
 390 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 Brakenbury was still watching when the sound 
 of a harsh voice startled and fetched him to his feet. 
 In the open doorway of the cell stood two ruffianly- 
 looking men. ' In God's name,' the Lieutenant 
 asked, ' what are you, and how came you hither? ' 
 They handed him a warrant. It briefly command- 
 ed him to deliver over to the bearers the person of 
 the Duke of Clarence. ' I must not ask,' said he, 
 ' what is meant by this ' — though he knew only too 
 well: ' Here are my keys; there lies the Duke sleep- 
 ing.' He left to report to the King that he had 
 resigned his charge. 
 
 ' Shall we stab him while he sleeps? ' They were 
 in two minds how to do it when Clarence awoke and 
 sat up, rubbing his eyes. ' Keeper, a cup of wine ! ' 
 he called; and his eyes falling on the intruders, he 
 demanded, as Brakenbury had done, ' In God's 
 name, who are you? — Who sent you hither, and 
 why? ' As his eyes sought theirs and the two men 
 stammered, he read their purpose. ' To murder 
 me? ' 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' growled the pair. 
 
 ' But how, friends, have I offended you? ' 
 
 ' You have not offended us, but the King.' 
 
 ' I shall be reconciled to him.' 
 
 ' Never, my lord. You had best prepare to die.' 
 
 'But what is my offence?' the Duke pleaded. 
 391 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 They could answer little but that they were obeying 
 the King's orders. ' I love my brother Edward,' 
 he insisted: ' If you are hired to do this thing, go 
 back, seek out my brother Gloucester. He shall 
 pay you better for my life than ever the King will 
 to hear of my death.' 
 
 ' You are deceived,' said the softer-hearted of the 
 two. ' Your brother Gloucester hates you.' 
 
 But Clarence would not believe this. ' When I 
 parted with him he hugged me in his arms, and with 
 sobs swore that he would labour to set me at lib- 
 erty.' 
 
 ' My lord, make your peace with God,' command- 
 ed the sterner ruffian. But the other was moved by 
 pity and more than half regretted his errand. Clar- 
 ence read this in his looks and turned to him with a 
 piteous appeal, thus giving his back to the resolute 
 one, who crept up knife in hand. ' Look behind 
 you, my lord! ' cried the man he addressed. But it 
 was too late. Before Clarence could turn, the knife 
 entered his back and he dropped without another 
 word. In the next room there stood a butt full of 
 Malmsey wine. ' He called for wine,' said the mur- 
 derer grimly; ' and he shall have it.' He dragged 
 out the body and plunged it into the butt. The 
 other stood conscience-stricken. ' Take the full 
 
 fee,' he told his comrade; ' I will have none of it.' 
 392 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 Nor was lie alone in repenting the deed. Ed- 
 ward, feeling his end near, had already sent to re- 
 voke his warrant. He wished to die in peace with 
 all men, and to leave them in peace one with an- 
 other; and the court factions had met beside his bed 
 and been reconciled, at any rate to all appearances. 
 Hastings had shaken hands and embraced with Riv- 
 ers, Dorset and the Queen. Buckingham, conjured 
 by Edward to join this league of amity, had sworn 
 to the Queen an oath which she and he had after- 
 wards good cause to recall. ' Madam,' said he, ' if 
 ever I fail to cherish you and yours with all duteous 
 love, may God punish me with the hatred of those 
 to whom I look for love ! When I have sorest need 
 of a friend and turn to him most confidently, may 
 he prove hollow, treacherous, guileful. This is my 
 prayer to God if ever I am cold in zeal to you or 
 yours.' 
 
 While he spoke, Gloucester entered; and he too 
 
 entreated to be friends with all assembled. ' I do 
 
 not know an Englishman living with whom I have 
 
 more quarrel than a new-born infant. I thank God 
 
 for my humility,' he concluded unctuously. Said 
 
 the Queen : ' This shall be kept hereafter as a holy 
 
 day. I would to heaven that all quarrels were 
 
 healed, and I beseech your Majesty to take our 
 
 brother Clarence back to your loving favour.' 
 
 393 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Kichard gave a start of well-feigned indignant 
 surprise. ' Madam, have I offered love for this — 
 to be mocked in the King's own presence? Which 
 of you knows not that Clarence is dead? ' It was 
 now their turn to start. There was not one in the 
 room but turned pale at the word. ' You should 
 not insult a corpse,' he added quietly. 
 
 'Dead?' 'Clarence dead?' They stared at 
 each other. 
 
 ' Clarence dead? ' gasped the dying King; ' But 
 the order was reversed.' 
 
 ' Ay, my lord: but the second messenger ran too 
 slowly. God grant that some, less noble than he 
 and less loyal, nearer in thoughts of bloodshed if not 
 so near in blood, deserve no worse than poor Clar- 
 ence and yet escape suspicion! ' 
 
 Now while they yet stood aghast, Lord Stanley 
 came hurriedly into the presence-chamber and with- 
 out observing their faces cast himself at the King's 
 feet. He had a boon to beg. A servant of his had 
 slain a gentleman in the Duke of Norfolk's service, 
 and he had come hastily to plead for the man. 
 
 ' Oh, peace ! ' groaned the King. ' Can'st thou 
 not see that my soul is full of sorrow? ' But Stan- 
 ley could not see how untimely his interruption 
 was, and refused to rise. Edward groaned again. 
 
 ' And I who doomed my brother to death must with 
 394 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 the same tongue pronounce pardon on a slave ! My 
 brother slew no man; yet he is dead, and who sued 
 for his pardon? Who kneeled at my feet and bade 
 my rage be better advised? Who spoke of brother- 
 hood or of love? Who reminded me how the poor 
 soul forsook Warwick to fight for me? or how he 
 rescued me at Tewkesbury from under Oxford's 
 sword? or of the night when we lay side by side in 
 the open field, half-frozen, and he plucked off his 
 own garments and wrapped me in them while he 
 shivered? All this my wrath took from my re- 
 membrance, and not a man of you had the grace to 
 put me in mind of it. But when your carters or 
 serving-men have done some drunken murder and 
 defaced Christ's image, then you are on your knees 
 at once crying " Pardon, pardon " ; and I, as unjust 
 as you, must grant it ! But for my brother not one 
 of you had a word; no, nor had I a word to plead 
 with myself for poor Clarence. God, I fear Thy 
 justice will seize on us and on ours for this ! ' And 
 moaning, 'Clarence! O poor Clarence!' Edward 
 was borne to his chamber, never to leave it alive. 
 
 The Queen herself carried the news of his death 
 a few days later to the old Duchess of York, Ed- 
 ward's mother, as she sat in her own apartments 
 mourning for her other son Clarence, with Clar- 
 ence's children beside her. Elizabeth's younger 
 
 395 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 boy, Richard Duke of York, was at home in Lon- 
 don; but the elder, Edward Prince of Wales and 
 now heir to the throne, had been sent to Ludlow 
 Castle in Shropshire. Thence he must now be 
 fetched home to be crowned, and Gloucester, who 
 had whispered his plans to Buckingham, undertook 
 this duty. ' We had better bring him with a small 
 escort,' Buckingham suggested. 
 
 ' Why with a small escort? ' asked Rivers. 
 
 ' Because, my lord, in times so unsettled a multi- 
 tude would merely provoke enemies and give them 
 moreover a dangerous suspicion that we are afraid.' 
 
 ' I hope,' put in Richard with meaning, ' the King 
 made peace between all of us. I at any rate abide 
 by my pledged word.' 
 
 Rivers agreed. ' Yes, as you say, a big escort 
 would suggest strife, and so I vote with my lord of 
 Buckingham for a small one.' He was the better 
 pleased that this small escort included by arrange- 
 ment all the young prince's uncles — himself and 
 Grey as well as Gloucester. And so they set 
 out. 
 
 But two of the uncles never returned. While 
 the Queen sat expecting news at Westminster, and 
 with her Archbishop Rotherham of York, the Chan- 
 cellor, waiting to surrender the Great Seal to the 
 new King, there arrived a messenger with the heavy 
 396 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 news that Kivers, Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan, 
 another kinsman of the Woodvilles, had been ar- 
 rested at Northampton and sent under guard north- 
 ward to Pomfret Castle. Richard and Bucking- 
 ham had struck their first blow. At once Eliza- 
 beth's heart told her of other and worse blows to 
 come. ' I see the downfall of all our house,' cried 
 she; and taking the Seal from the hands of the 
 Archbishop she fled with her younger son to the 
 Abbey for sanctuary. 
 
 The young King was sad and dispirited as he drew 
 near the capital, as though he felt himself stepping 
 into the shadow of doom. He missed his uncles 
 Kivers and Grey. ' You have not yet fathomed 
 this world's deceit,' Gloucester assured him ; ' those 
 uncles of yours were dangerous. God save your 
 Majesty from all such false friends ! ' 
 
 ' God keep me indeed from false friends! ' sighed 
 the boy ; ' but they were none.' 
 
 Nor could he hide his dejection when the Lord 
 Mayor came out in full state to welcome him. ' I 
 thank you, my Lord Mayor, and all of you. I 
 thought my mother and my brother would have met 
 us on the way long before this. And where is 
 Hastings, who should bring news of them ? ' 
 
 At this moment Hastings appeared, but with ill 
 news. ' Your mother and your brother York have 
 
 397 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 taken sanctuary in the Abbey. The young duke 
 wished greatly to come, but his mother would not 
 allow it.' 
 
 ' What peevish caprice is this of the Queen's? ' 
 exclaimed Buckingham, and turned to the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Bouchier. ' Will 
 your Grace persuade her to send the Duke of York 
 at once to the Prince, his brother? If she refuse 
 — my Lord Hastings, go you with the Cardinal and 
 take the child from her.' 
 
 The Cardinal shook his head. ' My lord of 
 Buckingham, if my weak oratory can persuade her, 
 you may expect the Prince; but I cannot, for all this 
 land is worth, be guilty of infringing the holy priv- 
 ilege of sanctuary.' 
 
 ' You stand too much upon ceremony, my lord 
 Cardinal. These times call for blunter methods. 
 The benefit of sanctuary is granted to those who 
 either deserve it or have the wit to claim it. But 
 of a child's claiming or deserving it I never heard 
 yet.' 
 
 The Archbishop accepted the argument and de- 
 parted on his cowardly errand. 
 
 ' Say, uncle ' — the boy-King turned to Glouces- 
 ter — ' if our brother comes, where will you lodge 
 us until our coronation? ' 
 
 ' Wherever your Majesty pleases. If I may ad- 
 398 
 
KING EICHABD THE THIED 
 
 vise, though, let it be the Tower for a day or two, 
 and thereafter in whatever place you choose as best 
 fitting your Majesty's health and recreation.' 
 
 ' I do not like the Tower of all places. Did not 
 Julius Caesar build it, my lord? ' 
 
 ' He began the building of it, my gracious lord,' 
 Buckingham answered; ' later ages have rebuilt and 
 added to it.' 
 
 ' That Julius Ctesar,' mused the boy, ' was a 
 famous man.' His eyes brightened; ' I'll tell you 
 what, cousin Buckingham ' 
 
 ' What, my gracious lord? ' 
 
 ' If I live to be a man, I'll win back our ancient 
 rights in France, or else die a soldier ! ' 
 
 ' Short summers have forward springs,' muttered 
 Gloucester under his breath. 
 
 Young Richard of York, whom Hastings and the 
 Archbishop now brought from the Abbey, was for- 
 ward in a different way. Less melancholy and re- 
 flective than his brother, he had a sharper tongue, 
 and made no secret of his dislike for his uncle 
 Gloucester, who in return listened to his childish, 
 pert sayings, and answered them with grim humour. 
 ' Will it please you to pass along, my lord? ' he said 
 at length ; ' my cousin Buckingham and I will go 
 to your mother and beg her to go to the Tower and 
 
 welcome you there.' 
 
 399 
 
TALES PEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 'The Tower!' The poor lad turned to his 
 brother. ' "What, are we to go to the Tower? ' 
 
 ' Our uncle will have it so,' said Edward sadly. 
 
 ' I shall not sleep quietly in the Tower/ young 
 Richard declared. 
 
 'Why? what should you be afraid of?' asked 
 Gloucester. 
 
 ' Marry, of my uncle Clarence's ghost. My 
 grandmother told me he was murdered there.' 
 
 ' That boy is his mother's own child,' Gloucester 
 growled, as the procession moved on. He would 
 deal with these boys in time; for the moment it suf- 
 ficed to have them safe under lock and key while he 
 turned to a preliminary piece of work. Bucking- 
 ham — he was not quite sure how far Buckingham 
 would go in the end — but Buckingham would help 
 in this. He thought he could count too on another 
 accomplice present, one Catesby, a lawyer, who had 
 owed his rise to Hastings, and was known to have 
 Hastings's confidence. Buckingham had already 
 sounded Catesby on Richard's behalf, and had as- 
 sured himself the man was ready to turn traitor to 
 his old master; and now on Richard's behalf he put 
 the all-important question, ' Will it, think you, be 
 an easy matter to persuade Lord Hastings to join us 
 in setting the Duke of Gloucester here on the 
 
 throne ? ' 
 
 400 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIED 
 
 ' It will not,' Catesby answered confidently. 
 ' The Lord Chamberlain loves the young King for 
 his father's sake, and cannot be won to move a finger 
 against him.' 
 
 'H'm . . . and Lord Stanley? ' 
 
 ' Lord Stanley will follow Lord Hastings.' 
 
 ' Well, well, no more of this then. Go you and 
 sound Lord Hastings discreetly, and bid him attend 
 a Council to-morrow at the Tower. Be cautious 
 with him and bring us word. There will be two 
 Councils to-morrow, Catesby; and you shall have an 
 important share in them.' 
 
 ' Ay,' said Richard, breaking silence at length, 
 'go, Catesby; commend me to my Lord Hastings, 
 and tell him from me that his old enemies the 
 Woodvilles will be let blood to-morrow at Pomfret 
 Castle.' 
 
 Catesby hurried off with a promise to return ere 
 evening and report. Buckingham gazed after him. 
 ' My lord,' he turned to Kichard, ' what shall we do 
 if Hastings prove stubborn? ' 
 
 ' Chop off his head, man,' was Eichard's short 
 answer. 'And look you here; when I am King 
 you may claim of me the Earldom of Hereford with 
 its properties which the late King, my brother, en- 
 joyed.' 
 
 ' I will claim that promise,' said Buckingham, 
 401 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAKE 
 
 and the pair went off to arrange the plot over 
 supper. 
 
 That night, while Hastings lay asleep, there came 
 a knocking at his door and a messenger entered from 
 Lord Stanley. Stanley had been troubled by an 
 ugly dream, and some news which might or might 
 not be uglier. In his dream he had encountered 
 with a wild boar, and the brute had shorn away his 
 helm with its tusks. JSTow a wild boar was the Duke 
 of Gloucester's private badge. The news was that 
 two Councils had been determined on for the mor- 
 row. ' My master,' said the messenger, ' fears that 
 one Council may determine that which may make 
 him and you rue attending the other; and he sends 
 to know if you will take horse at once and post 
 northward with him out of danger? ' 
 
 Hastings laughed at these fears. ' Return to 
 your master and bid him not be afraid of these sep- 
 arate Councils. He and I will attend the one, and 
 my servant Catesby the other, who may be trusted 
 to report anything which concerns us. His dream 
 is a foolish one. Bid him rise and come to me and 
 we will go to the Tower together.' 
 
 The messenger had scarcely departed when Cates- 
 by entered. 
 
 ' Ha, Catesby? You are an early riser. What 
 
 news of this tottering state of ours? ' 
 403 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIED 
 
 ' It is a tottering state indeed,' said Catesby 
 gravely; and then with a sharp look at his master, 
 ' I believe it will never stand upright again until 
 Richard wear the crown of England.' 
 
 ' How! Eichard the "King of England? I'll lose 
 my head first. Is that what he aims at, think you? ' 
 
 ' I am sure of it; and, moreover, he hopes for your 
 good help, and on the strength of it sends you word 
 that this very day your enemies, the Queen's kins- 
 men, are to die at Pomfret.' 
 
 ' Well, I am not sorry to hear it; they were al- 
 ways my enemies. But if Eichard thinks I'll help 
 him to oust my late master's true heirs, God knows 
 I'll die sooner.' 
 
 ' And may God keep your lordship in that mind,' 
 said Catesby. Hastings suspected no irony. His 
 mind was running on the fate of his old enemies. 
 ' I shall laugh at this a year hence. To think that 
 those who once thrust me out of my master's favour 
 have come to this, and I live to see it. Catesby, I 
 tell thee that before I'm a fortnight older I shall 
 send some folks packing who little expect it.' 
 
 ' It is a vile thing to die, my lord,' said Catesby 
 musingly, ' when it takes men unprepared.' 
 
 But the confident Hastings still suspected noth- 
 ing. Indeed for a moment he saw no bearing in the 
 remark. ' Eh? Oh, monstrous, monstrous! And 
 
 403 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 so it happens to Rivers and Vaughan and Grey ; and 
 so it will happen — mark my words — with some oth- 
 ers who think themselves as secure as you and I, 
 friends as we are with Richard and Buckingham.' 
 He looked up to welcome Lord Stanley who entered 
 at this moment, and to rally him. ' Come on, come 
 on; why, man, where is your boar-spear? ' 
 
 ' Good-morrow, my lord; good-morrow, Catesby. 
 You may jest as you will,' said Stanley, ' but for my 
 part I don't like these separate Councils.' 
 
 But Hastings pooh-poohed his fears, even when 
 reminded that the Queen's kinsmen had been jocund 
 and confident too as they rode from London. He 
 set forth in the highest spirits. On his way to the 
 Tower he ran against a pursuivant who had once es- 
 corted him prisoner along this very road. ' I am 
 in better case, man, than when last I met thee. 
 Then I was going to prison through the malice of 
 the Queen's party; to-day — hark ye, and keep it to 
 yourself — those enemies are to die and I am in bet- 
 ter state than ever.' He flung the fellow a purse. 
 A little further he met a priest, and stopped to ar- 
 range with him for a service in his private chapel. 
 Buckingham coming along the street just then found 
 them conferring. 
 
 ' What, talking with a priest, my Lord Chamber- 
 lain? Your friends at Pomfret will be needing a 
 404 
 
KING RICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 priest this morning; but you surely have no need for 
 shriving.' 
 
 ' Faith now,' said Hastings, as they walked on 
 towards the Tower together, ' when I met the holy 
 man those you mention came into my head.' 
 
 Up in Yorkshire in the same cold dawn Rivers, 
 Grey, and Vaughan were being led out to die; Riv- 
 ers calm, Grey reviling, Vaughan prophesying a 
 retribution to come, but all remembering Margaret's 
 curse and hugging in their last hour the remem- 
 brance that with them she had cursed others — 
 Hastings, Buckingham, Richard . . . ' O God, re- 
 member her prayers for them as for us ! ' 
 
 In London the Council — the second Council — 
 had met. Buckingham, Hastings, Stanley were 
 there, with Morton, Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff and 
 Lovel (two partisans of Richard), and others. Rich- 
 ard himself was late, and they fell to business with- 
 out him. They had to decide on the young King's 
 coronation; or, rather (said Hastings, coming to the 
 point at once), to fix the day for it. 
 
 ' Is everything ready for it? ' asked Buckingham 
 casually. 
 
 ' Certainly,' answered Stanley, reading no second 
 meaning in the question; ' the day only needs to be 
 
 named.' 
 
 405 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 ' To-morrow, then, seems to me none too soon,' 
 said Bishop Morton. 
 
 Buckingham glanced round. ' I wonder now if 
 any one knows the Lord Protector's mind on this 
 matter? Who is most in the Duke of Gloucester's 
 secrets? ' 
 
 ' "We think your Grace should know his mind 
 sooner than anyone,' said Morton. 
 
 ' Who? I? He and I know each other's faces, 
 my lord; but as for our hearts, he knows no more 
 of mine than I do of yours; nor I more of his than 
 you of mine,' — and this was truer than the speaker 
 guessed. ' Lord Hastings, you have his loving con- 
 fidence.' 
 
 ' Well, I believe so,' agreed that deluded man. 
 ' It is true that I have not sounded him on this mat- 
 ter; but if you will name the time, my lords, I will 
 take it on myself to agree in the Duke's name and 
 feel sure he will approve.' 
 
 But at this moment Richard appeared in the door- 
 way with a smile on his face. With an apology and 
 a light compliment to Hastings, he turned towards 
 the Bishop, ' My lord, when last I was in Holborn I 
 saw some famous strawberries there in your garden. 
 Might I beg you to send for some? ' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' said the Bishop, and went off 
 
 to give the order. No sooner was his back turned 
 406 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIKD 
 
 than Richard drew Buckingham aside and whis- 
 pered to him what he had heard from Catesby — 
 that Hastings would not join them against the young 
 King. The pair left the Council together. 
 
 So when Bishop Morton returned, having sent for 
 the strawberries, he looked around and inquired 
 what had become of the Lord Protector. ' He looks 
 in good temper to-day, does he not? ' said Hastings; 
 ' I believe there's no man whose face hides his love 
 or hatred less than his Grace of Gloucester's.' The 
 fond man was rubbing his hands with satisfaction 
 when Richard and Buckingham came hurriedly 
 back into the room, and this time Richard's face was 
 twisted with passion. ' Tell me,'— his vicious eye 
 swept the Council—' what do they deserve who are 
 caught planning devilish witchcraft against me, and 
 have actually prevailed upon my body with their 
 hellish charms? ' 
 
 In the general astonishment, Hastings was the 
 first to find his tongue. ' The love I bear your 
 Grace makes me most forward to speak. I say that 
 such persons deserve death.' 
 
 ' See here, then.' Richard pulled up his sleeve 
 and showed his withered arm; he was making his de- 
 formity help him now. ' See this arm of mine 
 shrivelled up like a blasted sapling! It is Edward's 
 wife who hath done this — that monstrous witch! ' 
 
 407 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEABE 
 
 , * If they have done this, my lord — ' stammered 
 Hastings. 
 
 'If! Thou talkest of "ifs"! Thou art a traitor! 
 Lovel and Ratcliff, off with this fellow's head! By 
 St. Paul, I will not dine till I see it. You that are 
 my friends here, rise and follow me ! ' 
 
 He dashed from the room. Too late the befooled 
 man saw the trap, and repented his vain confidence, 
 and called out upon his murderers. With a brutal 
 jest, Katcliff and Lovel hurried him to the block. 
 Meanwhile Richard and Buckingham had sent 
 Catesby in hot haste for the Lord Mayor, and em- 
 ployed the interval in disfiguring their clothes until 
 they looked like men under some blight of witch- 
 craft. The Lord Mayor came hurrying as fast as 
 his legs would bring him, and not in the least know- 
 ing why he was summoned. They called to him 
 from the walls, and claimed his protection. They 
 were in danger — victims of a plot. ' Look behind 
 thee ! ' called Bichard, as the Lord Mayor halted by 
 the drawbridge completely puzzled. ' Here are 
 enemies! ' But the newcomers were Lovel and 
 Batcliff bearing the head of the unhappy Hastings. 
 Bichard heaved a mock sigh of relief. ' I loved the 
 man so dearly, I must weep. I took him for the 
 plainest, most harmless creature — ' Buckingham 
 
 caught up the cue : ' He was the subtlest most covert 
 
 408 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 traitor that ever lived! "Would you believe it, my 
 Lord Mayor, were it not that by a miracle we have 
 escaped to tell it, that traitor had plotted to murder 
 me and the good Duke of Gloucester to-day in the 
 Council-house?' 
 
 'Eh? What? Had he indeed?' The Lord 
 Mayor could only stammer astonishment. 
 
 ' What? Can you think for a moment we would 
 have had the villain executed without form of law 
 had not the instant peril to us and the peace of Eng- 
 land compelled us? ' Richard was virtuously in- 
 dignant. 
 
 ' Dear me, dear me ! No doubt you did well and 
 he deserved it,' agreed the Lord Mayor. 
 
 ' And yet,' Richard went on, ' we had not in- 
 tended that he should die until your lordship should 
 be present to witness his death. The zealous rage 
 of our friends here somewhat outrun our intention. 
 We wished, my lord, that you should hear him con- 
 fess his treason, and report to the citizens, who may 
 perhaps misconstrue what we have done.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said this very foolish Lord Mayor. 
 ' Your Grace's word shall serve as well as though 
 I had been here and heard him confess. Be assured 
 I will acquaint our dutiful citizens with the step you 
 have justly taken.' And he departed on this er- 
 rand. 
 
 409 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Now was the moment for action. The pair had 
 prepared their plans well — and almost too well, since 
 it was discovered later that although the indictment 
 of Hastings was published within five hours after 
 his arrest, the scrivener employed to draw it up had 
 done his work so elaborately and in such beautiful 
 penmanship that the veriest child could see it had 
 taken twice that time at least to prepare, and there- 
 fore that the whole plot must have not been ar- 
 ranged long beforehand. But just now men did 
 stop to think. Richard was ready with his trump- 
 card — Edward's early contract of marriage and the 
 consequent illegitimacy of the two young Princes. 
 He was of course too clever to play it himself. He 
 sent Buckingham off on the Lord Mayor's heels to 
 hint it to the assembled citizens in the Guildhall; 
 he had provided eloquent preachers — notably two 
 named Doctor Shaw and Friar Penker — to proclaim 
 it publicly; and having fired the train he withdrew 
 quietly to his mother's house, Baynard's Castle by 
 the Thames' side, to await results and plan a further 
 piece of villainy which he doubted might be too 
 strong even for Buckingham. 
 
 And yet the business did not proceed quite so 
 
 smoothly as he had hoped. Buckingham in the 
 
 Guildhall cast away reserve, and spoke boldly of 
 
 Edward's early contract of marriage, winding up 
 
 410 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 with ' God save King Richard ! ' — but the citizens 
 were dumb. They desired above all things peace; 
 they feared that under a boy-king the country must 
 be torn by new dissensions; the Wars of the Hoses 
 had exhausted and wearied them utterly. It would 
 be a blessing to be ruled by a strong man. And yet 
 they had liked Edward and guessed that injustice 
 was intended against his children. 
 
 Buckingham demanded the reason why they kept 
 silence. The Lord Mayor answered that the citi- 
 zens were accustomed to be addressed through the 
 City Recorder, and did not understand being talked 
 to by a stranger. So the Recorder was brought for- 
 ward and rehearsed the arguments, not as his own, 
 but as Buckingham's, speaking in his most formal 
 voice — ' The Duke says this,' ' The Duke argues so 
 and so.' At the conclusion some hired followers of 
 Buckingham at the lower end of the hall tossed up 
 their caps and cheered for Richard. It was little 
 enough, but Buckingham made the most of it. 
 ' Thanks, my friends — thanks, gentle citizens! ' said 
 he, bowing; ' this general applause proves your wise 
 affection for Richard,' and with this he managed to 
 bring the Lord Mayor with a considerable follow- 
 ing to Baynard's Castle. 
 
 The position was ticklish; but the pair were clever 
 enough to save it. When the Lord Mayor craved 
 
 411 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 audience, Eichard at first sent Catesby to refuse it. 
 The Duke of Gloucester (so ran the message) was 
 at his devotions with two reverend fathers of the 
 Church. He was loth to be disturbed on a matter 
 of worldly business. Could not his lordship defer 
 it to some other day? Buckingham sent Catesby 
 again with word that the matter was urgent, and 
 used the interval to dwell on Richard's godly graces 
 — so different from the idle wantonness of their late 
 King! At length, with feigned reluctance, Rich- 
 ard made his appearance on a balcony above, stand- 
 ing between two bishops and with a book of prayer 
 in his hand. This mightily impressed the Lord 
 Mayor. Buckingham began with an apology for 
 interrupting his Grace's devotion, and went on to 
 press him to accede to the popular wish and accept 
 the crown. Gloucester gravely rebuked him. He 
 would depart in silence, but for the fear that his 
 silence might be misconstrued. He thanked them 
 for their affectionate zeal; but felt himself unworthy 
 of it. He was poor-spirited, perhaps; conscious of 
 his defects, at any rate. But, thank God! he was 
 not needed. The late King had left an heir — 
 young, no doubt, but time might be trusted to bet- 
 ter that. And in short he would not wrest the 
 child's right from him. 
 
 Buckingham plunged into a speech arguing 
 412 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 against young Edward's legitimacy, and wound up 
 by offering the crown again. The Lord Mayor 
 joined in the petition. Again Richard refused. 
 ' Then whether you accept or no, your nephew shall 
 never reign King of England. Come, citizens; I'll 
 entreat him no more! ' Buckingham flounced out 
 with an oath. ' Nay, my lord of Buckingham, do 
 not swear,' — Richard was piously shocked — hurt 
 even. Well, Buckingham was gone; but Catesby 
 and others implored the arch-hypocrite to call him 
 back. ' Will you force me to bear this grievous 
 burden? ' he sighed. Buckingham was recalled, 
 and came with his following. 
 
 ' Cousin, and you other sage, grave men, since 
 you will bind this load upon me, I must find patience 
 to bear it. Should scandal arise from my accept- 
 ance, remember that you forced it on me. For God 
 knows, and you in a measure must see, how far I am 
 from desiring it.' 
 
 The Mayor and his silly crowd waved their hats 
 and, led by Buckingham, cheered for King Richard. 
 He should be crowned on the morrow, Buckingham 
 proposed. ' When you please, since you will have 
 it your own way,' said Richard, and turning to the 
 bishops — 'Come, it is time we applied ourselves 
 again to our holy task.' 
 
 Early next morning two separate trains of ladies 
 413 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 met at the Tower gate. They were on the one side 
 the Queen and the old Duehess of York, escorted by 
 the Queen's son, Dorset; and on the other the Lady 
 Anne, now Richard's wife, leading with her the 
 young daughter of Clarence. Both companies had 
 come to wish joy to the young Princes; both were 
 ignorant of what had happened at Baynard's 
 Castle. 
 
 Brakenbury came out to meet them. ' Pardon, 
 madam,' said he, addressing the Queen, ' I may not 
 allow you to visit the Princes. The King has given 
 strict orders to the contrary.' 
 
 'The King! why, who's that? ' 
 
 ' Your pardon, madam, again — I should have 
 said the Lord Protector.' 
 
 ' The Lord protect him from being King! I am 
 their mother.' 
 
 ' And I their father's mother,' said the Duchess. 
 
 ' And I,' said Anne, ' their aunt-in-law, but I love 
 them as a mother. Take us to them, sir, and I will 
 take to myself the blame.' 
 
 Still Brakenbury shook his head; and, looking up, 
 the ladies were aware that Lord Stanley stood before 
 them with a message to deliver. 
 
 ' Madam,' said Stanley, addressing Anne, ' I am 
 sent to conduct you to Westminster, there to be 
 crowned Bichard's Queen.' 
 414 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIRD 
 
 Then Elizabeth understood. For the moment 
 half-stunned by the news, she recovered, and turned 
 on her son Dorset. , ' Fly ! ' she panted. ' Thou too 
 art my child, and my name is ominous to my chil- 
 dren. Quick — cross the seas and seek shelter with 
 Richmond. Fly from this slaughter-house, lest 
 thou be added to the number of the dead, and I bow 
 to the full curse of Margaret, and die neither Queen 
 nor wife nor mother.' 
 
 ' "Wisely counselled,' said Stanley. ' Make haste, 
 my lord, and you shall take from me letters to my 
 son Richmond.' He turned to Anne, ' We too must 
 hasten, madam, — to Westminster.' 
 
 And the poor lady went unwillingly enough, un- 
 envied even by the Queen whom she was to super- 
 sede. ' Ah,' she confessed, ' wheu beside Henry's 
 corpse I set eyes on the man who is now my hus- 
 band, I cursed him and the woman who should 
 marry him. " May she be made wretched as I am 
 wretched," I prayed; and before I could repeat it 
 his tongue had beguiled me and I had basely sur- 
 rendered — to be his wife — to inherit my own curse ! 
 I swear to you that never since then have I enjoyed 
 one quiet hour, one hour of easy slumber beside 
 him. He hates me; soon, I know, he will murder 
 
 me.' 
 
 So they parted; one to be crowned, the other to 
 415 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 forget that ever she had been a queen, yet the one 
 as heavy of heart as the other. The old Duchess 
 after eighty years of calamity was almost past griev- 
 ing. As they started to go their sorrowful ways 
 Elizabeth suddenly stood still. ' Stay,' she cried, 
 ' look once back with me ! ' She pointed towards 
 the walls of the Tower. ' O have pity, you ancient 
 stones, on those tender babes by envy immured be- 
 hind you. Rough cradle are you for such little 
 pretty ones. Harsh and rugged nurse — old and sul- 
 len playfellow — ah, use my babies kindly! ' 
 
 So Richard had reached his ambition, and was 
 Xing of England ; yet he could not feel safe while 
 the boy lived who was King by right. Would 
 Buckingham help him to get rid of Edward ? Rich- 
 ard was not sure. He dropped a hint or two, eyeing 
 his fellow-conspirator stealthily; but somehow 
 Buckingham was less quick than usual in taking a 
 hint. Perhaps he was considering that the time 
 had come to be thinking of his own reward. 
 
 ' Cousin,' said Richard sharply, ' you were not 
 wont to be so dull. Must I say it plainly? "Well 
 then, I wish the boys dead, and quickly. "What say 
 you? Come — promptly, man! ' 
 
 1 Your Grace may do as you please,' Buckingham 
 answered evasively. 
 
 416 
 
KING EICHAKD THE THIKD 
 
 ' Tut, tut; your zeal must be cooling. Yes or no, 
 do you consent to their death? ' 
 
 ' Your Grace must give me time — some little 
 time — before I can answer positively. I will think 
 of it and bring my answer without delay,' — and so 
 Buckingham made his escape. 
 
 Richard frowned. 'H'm; ambitious Bucking- 
 ham is growing circumspect.' It was as he had 
 more than half guessed. There were limits to 
 Buckingham's wickedness, and he lacked either the 
 heart or the nerve for this. Richard took account 
 of all the dangers ahead. To begin with, there were 
 the Princes; well, he could manage them without 
 Buckingham's help. But their death would leave 
 the succession to their sister, the young Princess 
 Elizabeth; and after her came Clarence's children, 
 a boy and a girl. The boy was half-witted and not 
 dangerous; the girl could be married to some one 
 of mean birth, which would keep her out of the way. 
 But what about young Elizabeth? He considered, 
 and his brow cleared. Why might he not marry 
 her himself? She was his niece, and he had a wife 
 living. Well, Anne must die. He called Catesby, 
 and ordered him to have it rumoured about that she 
 was dangerously ill — he would see to the rest. 
 Even Catesby was staggered, but obeyed. 
 
 This marriage with a niece would be monstrous. 
 417 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ' Murder her brothers and afterwards marry her ! ' 
 Richard muttered it over in a kind of awe of him- 
 self; but if awed he was not afraid. He made in- 
 quiry and learned of a man likely to suit his pur- 
 pose — a gentleman by birth and by name Tyrrel, 
 poor, discontented, and ready to sell his soul for 
 money. Richard sent for him. Their conference 
 was short. That night Tyrrel, with two accom- 
 plices, named Dighton and Brobyn, entered the 
 Tower and crept to the room where the young 
 Princes lay in bed, cheek to cheek, their arms 
 girdling each other, the book of prayers in which 
 they had both been reading open on the pillow be- 
 side them. The sight almost melted the murder- 
 ers' hearts; the wretches wept afterwards when they 
 told what they had done — how they had drawn the 
 pillows tight over the young lips and smothered 
 them. Tyrrel handed the bodies over to the chap- 
 lain of the Tower, who buried them secretly, and 
 dying soon afterwards took the secret to the grave 
 with him. 1 
 
 Tyrrel had scarcely left the King's presence be- 
 
 1 Two hundred years later, in 1674, in the course of some al- 
 terations in the White Tower the -workmen discovered the bones 
 of two children. These were at once guessed to be the bones 
 of the two Princes, and by Charles the Second's orders they 
 were removed to Westminster Abbey and placed in Henry the 
 Seventh's Chapel there. 
 
 418 
 
"11 king eichaed the thied ^ 
 
 fore Buckingham returned. He found Richard in 
 talk with Stanley, who had come to report that Dor- 
 set had escaped to join Richmond. 
 
 ' My lord,' began Buckingham, ' I have consid- 
 ered the suggestion concerning which you sounded 
 me.' 
 
 ' "Well, well, let that pass,' Eichard was no longer 
 interested. ' Dorset has escaped to join Rich- 
 mond.' 
 
 ' So I hear, my lord,' said Buckingham; and 
 would have said more, but the King turned to Stan- 
 ley. 
 
 ' My lord Stanley,' said he, ' Richmond is your 
 wife's son. You had best be careful.' 
 
 Buckingham was not rebuffed. ' My lord, I have 
 come to claim my reward, the Earldom of Hereford, 
 which you faithfully promised me.' 
 
 ' Stanley,' pursued Richard, ' look to your wife. 
 11 she be found conveying letters to Richmond you 
 shall answer for it.' 
 
 ' May I have your Highness's answer to my de- 
 mand? ' Buckingham persisted. Richard paid no 
 heed to him, but still addressing Stanley began to 
 discuss the prophecy once uttered by the unhappy 
 Henry the Sixth that Richmond should one day be 
 King of England. 
 
 Still Buckingham persevered, until the King 
 419 
 
TALES FBOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 turned on him sharply: ' You annoy me with your 
 interruptions. I am not in the giving vein to-day.' 
 He walked out and left Buckingham standing. 
 ' And it was for this I made him King! ' muttered 
 the disappointed man. Suddenly there came into 
 his mind the thought of Hastings — of his confidence 
 in Richard's favour, and of his fate. He took horse 
 in haste and posted away towards Wales and his 
 manor of Brecknock. 
 
 Wow Morton, Bishop of Ely, lay in prison in 
 Brecknock, having been removed by Richard as an 
 obstacle in his path and put there under Bucking- 
 ham's custody. Prisoner and gaoler had now a 
 common cause; and the bishop presently escaped 
 over sea to Richmond, but not before arranging the 
 half of a dangerous plot. Buckin gham w as to rais e 
 a revolt- in Wale&^ Richmond to sail_frojnJBrittany 
 -mitT^pTi JTwarKiig many, and on reach ing Engla nd, 
 
 to "n-nGrm Tn'a Rft1 T|p W >ia±^feiTrHy-rit1p 1 to the thron e 
 
 by marrying the youngJMncess Elizabeth. 
 
 "We shall see how the revolt fared. As we know, 
 Richard had resolved to forestall one dangerous 
 move in the plot by marrying the Princess himself; 
 
 1 His Lancastrian descent was derived from John of Gaunt's 
 marriage with Katherine Swynford ; and the issue of that mar- 
 riage had been expressly debarred from the succession. See 
 p. 317. 
 
 420 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 and before many days had gone by the country 
 learned that the unhappy Anne was no longer liv- 
 ing. Murders by this time were crowding thick and 
 fast. Even Margaret as she haunted the court, 
 hungry for revenge, could say that her appetite 
 was almost cloyed. Margaret, Elizabeth, the old 
 Duchess — these three had passed beyond hatred; 
 they could seat themselves on the ground together, 
 and recount and compare their woes, too far crushed 
 under calamity to bandy reproaches. Only Mar- 
 garet, whose wounds were older, could now and then 
 break out into taunts. ' Ah, triumph no more in 
 my woes, thou wife of Henry! ' pleaded Elizabeth; 
 ' God is my witness that I have wept for thine.' 
 ' Bear with me,' Margaret answered; ' only Richard 
 remains now, and his time is drawing near. Dear 
 God, grant me life until I can say that dog is dead ! ' 
 ' Ay, thou didst prophesy the time when I should 
 call on thee to help me in cursing him. Do not 
 leave me, thou who art so skilled in cursing; stay, 
 and teach me how to curse.' ' Shall I teach thee 
 how? Put away sleep at night; fast by day; com- 
 pare thy dead happiness with thy living woe; think 
 upon thy lost babes — deem them fairer than they 
 were, and their destroyer even fouler than he is. 
 That,' said Margaret, ' is the way to learn to curse.' 
 ' My words are dull,' wailed Elizabeth; ' oh, put life 
 
 421 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEAEE 
 
 into tliem with thine ! ' ' Thy woes will make them 
 pierce,' said Margaret, and left the two women 
 alone. "While they sat, Eichard came by in state, 
 and they lifted their accusing voices together — 
 'Where is Clarence? Where is young Edward? 
 Where are Hastings, Eivers, Vaughan, Grey? ' 
 
 ' Silence ! ' snarled Eichard, and turning com- 
 manded the drums and trumpets to sound and drown 
 their cries. ' Now then,' he said, as the hubbub 
 died down, ' either speak to me fair or your voices 
 shall be silenced again.' 
 
 The old Duchess, his mother, arose and pointed a 
 finger at him. ' Grievous thy birth was to me; thy 
 infancy peevish and wayward; thy school-days 
 frightful, desperate, furious; thy prime of manhood 
 daring and venturous; thy full age proud, subtle, 
 bloody, treacherous, milder but more dangerous, 
 masking hatred with kindly looks. Canst thou 
 name one hour in which I have had joy of thee? 
 Eay, let me speak — for the last time. Thou art go- 
 ing to a war, and either thou wilt die in it, or I shall 
 be dead of age and sorrow ere thou returnest. 
 Therefore take my heaviest curse with thee, and in 
 the day of battle may it weigh thee down more than 
 thy heaviest armour. My prayers go with thy en- 
 emies : may the . little souls of Edward's children 
 whisper success to them and cheer them to victory! 
 423 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIED 
 
 Bloody thou art; bloody shall be thy end, and shame- 
 ful as thy life hath been shameful! ' 
 
 She tottered away and left Richard and Elizabeth 
 face to face. Was it dogged defiance of shame — or 
 was it faith in his star — that he stopped Elizabeth 
 ■as she too turned away, and began to woo her for 
 her daughter, very much as he had once wooed the 
 Lady Anne for herself? Was it owing to this dif- 
 ference — that he now wooed a woman for her daugh- 
 ter, not for herself — or was it through some failure 
 in his own hateful fascination — that success this 
 time eluded him? And yet he seemed to be re- 
 peating his success. Again the woman cursed and 
 the man cajoled; again the woman seemed to weaken 
 while against all odds, in the face of hatred and 
 loathing, his hands red with the blood of her dear- 
 est, the man fought and fought for his end with an 
 unwearied persistence such as benumbs a rabbit and 
 forces it in the end to lie down and wait for the 
 weasel. And again the woman to all appearance 
 yielded. She left him with a promise to bring her 
 daughter round to his mind. 
 
 'Relenting fool! shallow, changing woman!' 
 sneered Richard as he gazed after her. But in fact 
 she had overreached him; or rather he had over- 
 reached himself. He had killed too much in Eliza- 
 beth; killed the ambitious intriguing woman and 
 
 423 
 
TALES FKOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 left only the woman with a mother's heart. It was 
 the old Elizabeth to whom he had been appealing; 
 the new Elizabeth — the woman he had made — lis- 
 tened and promised and went her way — to give her 
 daughter to Richmond. 
 
 For Richmond was on the seas, intending to land 
 on the coast of Devon, and win a kingdom. The 
 men of Devon and the men of Kent were ready to 
 rise, and by agreement Buckingham marched in 
 open rebellion to cross the Welsh border. This was 
 in October 1483. As he started, a heavy and ex- 
 traordinary storm broke over the country. It 
 rained and blew for days. He reached Severn only 
 to find it sweeping in a flood which is spoken of to 
 this day as ' The Great Water,' or ' Buckingham's 
 
 * 
 
 Water.' The King's supporters had broken down 
 the bridges; and he found it hopeless to think of 
 uniting his Welsh forces with the insurgents from 
 Devon, for the whole country down to Bristol was 
 under water. The same gale drove Richmond's 
 ships back towards France. An eclipse of the moon 
 terrified Buckingham's Welshmen still further, and 
 the army melted away. The rebellion had been 
 drowned out. Buckingham fled to the house of a 
 retainer named Bannister, was betrayed — some say 
 by his host — and executed in the market-place of 
 Salisbury. 
 
 424 
 
KING EICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 He had begged — but in vain — to see Eichard; it 
 is believed, in the hope of a chance of stabbing him. 
 The day of his execution was All-Souls' Day (Nov- 
 ember 2d), and as he was led forth he thought on 
 the many souls hurried out of this life by his wick- 
 edness and remembered Margaret's curse. ' All- 
 Souls' Day is my body's doomsday. This is the day 
 I wished might befall me when I was found false to 
 Edward's children and his wife's kin. All have 
 perished with my aid, and the curse has come upon 
 me.' He went to the block muttering the words of 
 Margaret's warning. 
 
 So ended the man who had been Richard's most 
 useful friend. Eichard, the incarnate curse of the 
 House of York, had fulfilled his terrible mission ; in 
 him the House of York had devoured its own chil- 
 dren; he had executed judgment, he stood alone on 
 the stage he had drenched with blood, and now 
 Heaven had no further need of him and his own 
 hour was at hand. 
 
 Eichmond, driven back on the French coast, bid- 
 ed his time, and in 1485 sailed for England again. 
 His voyage prospered, and on the 1st of August his 
 ships dropped anchor in Milford Haven. Eichard, 
 warned that he had started, had pitched his camp 
 at Nottingham as a central point of the king- 
 dom, and horsemen sat in saddle along all the 
 
 425 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 chief roads to gallop with tidings of the invader's 
 approach. 
 
 Treachery was now what he had most to fear, and 
 on Stanley, as Eichmond's step-father, his suspicions 
 rested heaviest. He had good grounds for them; 
 but Stanley was the wiliest fox in England. He 
 detested Richard, he knew himself suspected, and 
 yet he had lived among bitter enemies and never 
 given the King a fair excuse to lay hands on him; 
 had kept his level head on his shoulders, and seen 
 Rivers, Vaughan and Grey, Hastings and Bucking- 
 ham each fall in his turn. His sympathies lay with 
 Richmond, but he could not declare himself since 
 Richard held his son George Stanley as hostage, and 
 would have chopped off his head at the first sign of 
 revolt. So the father followed his master for the 
 moment and bided his time. 
 
 In a fortnight after Richmond's landing the two 
 armies came face to face on Bosworth Field to the 
 south of Market Bosworth in Leicestershire. De- 
 sertions had weakened the King's army in spite of 
 his savage watchfulness. Yet he kept the advan- 
 tage of numbers and his old untameable courage. 
 There was this difference, however, that he, who 
 all his life long had feared neither God nor man 
 nor devil, was beginning at last to be uneasy about 
 God. On the eve of the battle he left his supper 
 426 
 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 untasted, but drank great bowls of wine. Catesby, 
 Ratcliff, and Lovel remained faithful to the master 
 they had served so wickedly; better men stood by 
 him in the staunch old Duke of Norfolk and his son 
 the Earl of Surrey. "With a parting injunction that 
 Stanley should be watched and ordered to parade 
 his troops before sunrise, and some commands about 
 preparing his armour and saddling his charger 
 White Surrey for the morrow's battle, Eichard dis- 
 missed his friends and flung himself on the bed to 
 sleep. 
 
 Hideous dreams haunted his sleep; visions of his 
 many victims passed by the bed, and leaning over it 
 bade him despair. There stood young Edward, 
 stabbed at Tewkesbury, dabbled in blood, pointing 
 to his wounds; there stood Clarence; there stood 
 Rivers, Grey, Vaughan; there stood Hastings; there 
 stood the two murdered Princes; there stood his wife 
 Anne; there stood his first friend and last victim, 
 Buckingham. ' Let me sit heavy upon thy soul to- 
 morrow ' — ' Let me ' — ' And me ' ; one after the 
 other took up the terrible imprecation. ' To-mor- 
 row — despair and die! ' 
 
 ' Jesu, have mercy ! ' — Richard started from the 
 bed in a bath of terror. The candles burned blue 
 by the bedside, but the tent was empty. ' I was 
 dreaming . . . conscience it is afflicting me. Oh, 
 
 427 
 
TALES FEOM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 I am a villain ! . . . No, it is too late to repent, to 
 face the truth ... I am no villain! . . . Fool! 
 do not flatter thyself, when conscience has a thou- 
 sand tongues and each one denounces thee vil- 
 lain . . . Perjury, murder, sin upon sin thronging 
 to the bar, each crying " Guilty! guilty! "... I 
 must despair; not a creature loves me; and if I die 
 not a soul shall pity me.' 
 
 He was wiping the sweat from his brow when a 
 hand lifted the flap of the tent. 
 
 ' My lord! ' said a voice. 
 
 ' 'Zounds! ' Richard swung around fiercely. 
 'Who is there?' 
 
 ' It is I, my lord — Eatcliff. The cocks are crow- 
 ing, and thy friends buckling on their armour.' 
 
 ' O Eatcliff, I have had fearful dreams! Will 
 our friends prove true to us, think you? ' 
 
 ' I have no doubt of it, my lord.' 
 
 * Yet Eatcliff, I fear— I fear ' 
 
 ' Nay my lord, do not fear shadows.' 
 
 ' By Saint Paul, shadows have done more to-night 
 to frighten the soul of Eichard than can ten thou- 
 sand armed soldiers led on by that shallow Eich- 
 mond.' 
 
 He did on his armour. The day hung back dark 
 and ominous as he set his battle in order and rode 
 down the ranks. He heard the advancing drums of 
 428 
 
KING EICHAED THE THIED 
 
 the enemy and looked around him. 'Where is 
 Stanley? ' he demanded. 
 
 ' My lord,' said a messenger, < Lord Stanley will 
 not come.' 
 
 ' Off with his son George's head! ' shouted Rich- 
 ard; but the enemy had already crossed the marsh, 
 and Norfolk who led the King's van pointed out that 
 there was no time now for small revenge. The 
 troops swung forward, and then it grew clear that 
 Stanley was not the only deserter. The Earl of 
 Northumberland drew his men out of call and so 
 passed over, foot and horse, to the invader. ' Trea- 
 son! treason! ' shouted Kichard, and dashed into the 
 thick of the fray seeking for Richmond. He had 
 never fought so splendidly, because never so des- 
 perately. 'White Surrey was stabbed and sank un- 
 der him. ' Another horse! ' he yelled; ' my king- 
 dom for another horse ! ' While his men gave 
 ground, he yet pressed forward; hewed his way to 
 the Lancastrian standard, tore it from its pole, trod 
 the pole in the ground, and still fought forward like 
 a demon into the very presence of Richmond. And 
 there — a foot or two only dividing them — as he 
 aimed a murderous stroke at his rival, a score of men 
 rushed on him together and bore him to the ground 
 by sheer weight of numbers. Under that strug- 
 gling mass he took his death-stroke. They drew 
 
 429 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 off; the body did not move. They had pulled the 
 wild boar down at last, and the great curse was 
 ended. 
 
 As he went down the crown had fallen from his 
 head and rolled beneath a hawthorn bush. Stan- 
 ley picked it up and set it on the brows of the 
 conqueror. 
 
 430 
 
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 ll| 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 The claim of the House of York to the throne can 
 be worked out with fair ease, I hope, from the fore- 
 going table. It is set forth clearly by Shakespeare 
 in a conversation between Eichard, afterwards Duke 
 of York, and the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick 
 {Henry VI. Part II. Act ii. Scene 2) : — 
 
 York. Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons; 
 The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales; 
 The second, William of Hatfield; and the third, 
 Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom 
 Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster; 
 The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; 
 The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Glouces- 
 ter ; 
 William of Windsor was the seventh and last. 1 
 Edward the Black Prince died before his father, 
 And left behind him Richard, his only son, 
 Who after Edward the Third's death reign'd as king; 
 Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, 
 The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, 
 
 1 Shakespeare reverses the order of these two. Thomas of 
 Woodstock was Edward's youngest son. 
 
 433 
 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth, 
 Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king, 
 Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came, 
 And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know, 
 Harmless Richard was murder'd traitorously. 
 
 Warwick. Father, the duke hath told the truth ; 
 Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. 
 
 York. Which now they hold by force and not by 
 right; 
 For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead, 
 The issue of the next son should have reign'd. 
 Salisbury. But William of Hatfield died without an 
 
 heir. 
 York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose 
 line 
 I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter, 
 Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March : 
 Edmund had issue, Roger, Earl of March ; 
 Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor. 
 Salisbury. This Edmund, in the reign of Boling- 
 broke, 
 As I have read, laid claim unto the crown; 
 And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, 1 
 Who kept him in captivity till he died. 2 
 But to the rest. 
 
 York. His eldest sister, Anne, 
 
 My mother, being heir unto the crown, 
 
 1 An error. The Edmund Mortimer taken prisoner by Glen- 
 dower was an uncle of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the 
 true heir to the throne (see p. 163). 
 
 5 Salisbury ia again mistaken. This happened, not to Mor- 
 timer, but to another captive and son-in-law of Glendower's — 
 Lord Grey of Ruthven. 
 
 434 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 Married Richard Earl of Cambridge; -who was son 
 To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son. 
 By her I claim the kingdom : she was heir 
 To Roger Earl of March, who was the son 
 Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, 
 Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence : 
 So, if the issue of the elder son 
 Succeed before the younger, I am king. 
 
 Warwick. What plain proceeding is more plain than 
 this? 
 Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, 
 The fourth son ; York claims it from the third. 
 Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign : 
 It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee 
 And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. 
 Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together ; 
 And in this private plot be we the first 
 That shall salute our rightful sovereign 
 With honour of his birthright to the crown. 
 
 THE END 
 
 435 
 
A New Novel by " Q " 
 
 The Ship of Stars 
 
 By ARTHUR T. QUILLER-COUCH 
 
 With Frontispiece, izmo, $1.50 
 
 ^ LOVE story of the Cornwall 
 coast, full of beautiful and 
 tender color — the sea, old houses, 
 old families, quaint characters, and 
 strange, stirring happenings — with 
 a bit of Oxford life. Beginning 
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 " Mr. Qitiller-Couch excels in the simple telling of 
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 door. He has a touch of George Eliot's great power." 
 — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers 
 New York 
 
Uniform Series of Novels and 
 Stories by " QJ' 
 
 Nine Volumes 
 Each, i2mo, $1.25 
 
 The Splendid Spur The Blue Pavilions 
 
 The Delectable Duchy Troy Town 
 
 Wandering Heath Dead Man's Rock 
 
 I Saw Three Ships Noughts and Crosses 
 
 Adventures in Criticism 
 
 ARTHUR T. QUILLER- COUCH was 
 chosen from among all the writers of the 
 day as best fitted to conclude " St. Ives," the 
 late Robert Louis Stevenson's unfinished romance. 
 That fact gives some idea of how he is regarded by 
 the foremost literary men of his time. But not- 
 withstanding this, and notwithstanding his great 
 reputation in England, where he is as widely read 
 by the public as he is highly praised by critics and 
 fellow-craftsmen — especially by his early and dis- 
 cerning admirer, J. M. Barrie — there are many 
 lovers of good books in this country who have yet 
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 ous Cornishman. He has done for the rugged 
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 romantic history what Thomas Nelson Page has 
 done for Virginia and Miss Mary E. Wilkins for 
 New England. He has made for himself an en- 
 viable reputation as the writer of "crisp, strong 
 
stories in which no fog, moral or physical, finds 
 any shelter"; and the uniform excellence and 
 interest of his tales, the compression and the care 
 for the story as the first consideration, have made 
 any book with his now familiar non de plume 
 on the title page "sure of a hearty welcome." 
 These nine volumes, therefore, comprise the first 
 definitive and uniform edition of the works of a 
 writer who has won his place " among the most 
 imaginative and poetic of the later English novelists," 
 and whose romances invariably have a quality and 
 a flavor impossible to duplicate. 
 
 "He is highly esteemed as among the most 
 imaginative and poetic of the later English nov- 
 elists." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
 
 la : A Love Story 
 
 PUBLISHED ONLY IN THE IVORY SERIES 
 
 i6mo, 7_5" cents 
 
 "At first acquaintance 'la' suggests, bv her 
 splendid animal freedom, one of Hardy's heroines ; 
 but the development of her character exalts her 
 into a noble type of womanly sacrifice and devo- 
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 " A .very strong story of very strong womanly 
 love. A wholesome, vigorous, and altogether de- 
 lightful love story. ' ' — Boston Journal. 
 
 " No story was ever more fearlessly and more 
 thoughtfully aimed at the very heart of life." 
 
 — The Bookman. 
 
Some Critical Opinions of "Q's" Books 
 
 " No one else writes of Cornwall and its 
 people with the knowledge and skill of Mr. Quiller- 
 Couch." — Philadelphia Times. 
 
 " Mr. Quiller-Couch has qualities that render 
 him incapable of producing a dull, trivial or un- 
 wholesome book." — Boston Beacon. 
 
 "Of all the short-story writers we are inclined, 
 in many respects, to give Mr. A. T. Quiller-Couch 
 the first position." — New York Times. 
 
 "The various tales suggest Mr. Kipling's 
 stories, but are free from any imitation of them ; in 
 pathos, strength, and simplicity of style they are far 
 superior." — Literary World. 
 
 " He has a clear, rapid, manly style, an inex- 
 haustible fund of incident, and the capital and 
 indispensable knack of making his people interest- 
 ing." — The Critic. 
 
 "He is a realist, in the sense of being a close 
 observer of the human document. He has none of 
 the pessimistic or cynical tendencies of the age ; 
 rather, he seems to find that * somehow the light of 
 every soul burns upwards,' even in such an abject 
 specimen of humanity as ' These-and-That,' the 
 subject of one of his ' Noughts and Crosses. ' It is 
 well that this kind of realism should not go without 
 its artistic expression in literature, and in recent 
 years it has found no such powerful exponent as in 
 the author of 'The Delectable Duchy.' " 
 
 — The Bookman. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers 
 
 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York 
 
p II