K\ 
 
 41 
 
 
 i y/l 
 

 Founded 1828 . Reconstituted 1882 . 
 
 ^freseitfea to 
 
 Heacj Mistress. 
 
 a (/ // j 
 
 ;[aJfal[sl[@JfU| ffiibsummr, ibstjpIojoisiisi 
 
 #] 3 . B. BtSlBiBlB IK. ■•B.B.B «|K I ||| I 8|| US. BlBiBlS. ■.■•SC. iaiB!B:B!B.«in B BIB B ■ a.I ■ 3 ■ B ■■ ■ ■ 1 r ->»■ m m m 
 
 'mmmmw 
 
 !mmb 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Getty Research Institute 
 
 ■m 
 
 https://archive.org/details/girlhoodofshakes00clar_1 
 
THE GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S 
 HEROINES. 
 
 / 
 
 

 
 
 
 
THE GIRLHOOD 
 
 OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES 
 
 A SERIES OF FIFTEEN TALES, 
 
 BY MARY COWDEN CLARKE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “ THE CONCORDANCE TO SHAKESPEARE.” 
 
 A NEW EDITION, 
 
 CONDENSED BY HER SISTER, 
 
 SABILLA NOVELLO. 
 
 WITH NINE ILLUSTRATIONS IN PERMANENT PHOTOGRAPHY , , 
 FROM PICTURES BY T. F. DICKSEE, 
 
 AND W. S. HERRICK. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 BICKERS AND SON, I, LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
CHISWICK TRESS I— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 HE design of this work has been to trace the 
 probable antecedents in the history of some of 
 Shakespeare’s women ; to imagine the possible 
 circumstances and influences of scene, event, and 
 associate, surrounding the infant life of his 
 heroines, which might have conduced to originate and foster 
 those germs of character recognized in their maturity, as by 
 him developed ; to conjecture what might have been the first 
 imperfect dawnings of that which he has shown us in the 
 meridian blaze of perfection : and it was believed that such a 
 design would combine much matter of interesting speculation, 
 afford scope for pleasant fancy, and be productive of entertain- 
 ment in the various narratives. 
 
 Although little or no attempt will be found in these tales to 
 give pictures of the times in which their chief actors may be 
 supposed to have lived, yet it is hoped that no gross violation 
 of probability in period, scene, or custom has been committed. 
 The development of character, not of history, has been the 
 intention. In the case of the only historic personage who 
 figures in these biographic tales — Lady Macbeth — names and 
 facts have been used ; but with as little regard to their strict 
 place in history, as was paid by the poet himself, who took the 
 story from the old chronicles, and modelled it after his own 
 fashion. 
 
 If it be borne in mind that all climax in incident and senti- 
 ment was to be carefully avoided throughout these stories,— 
 inasmuch as they are merely preliminaries to catastrophes 
 already ordained,— the obstacles in the way of giving them 
 
preface. 
 
 startling features of romance will be understood. The aim has 
 
 * supposed to clur 
 
 intereTt.’ ° “ h St ° ry Wth Consistent and appropriate 
 
 be such !), whenTln^find X indulgent readers (and may mine 
 people act an d , ^ d , venturm S to make Shakespeare’s 
 
 bright consummate flowers” which h * w • 1 ™ 
 
 immortal bloom - anfl i Z Z h haS glven t0 us in 
 
 !to V ri’es n :°i PreSU “ Pti0n ’ of mfllriesoi 
 
 Not mine the sweetness or the skill 
 But mine the love that will not tire ; 
 
 And, born of love, the vague desire' 
 
 Inat spurs an imitative will.” 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 Shakespeare himself is my voucher that,— 
 
 . “ Never anything can be amiss 
 
 When simpleness and duty tender it • 
 
 * * * * * * *' 
 
 And what poor duty cannot do, 
 
 Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.” 
 
 Villa Novello , Genoa , 1879. 
 
 Mary Cowden Clarke. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TALE PAGE 
 
 I. Portia ; the Heiress of Belmont ...... i 
 
 II. The Thane’s Daughter ........ 24 
 
 III. Helena ; the Physician’s Orphan 58 
 
 IV. Desdemona ; the Magnifico’s Child . . . . .81 
 
 >V. Meg and Alice; the Merry Maids of Windsor . . . 106 
 
 VI. Isabella; the Votaress ........ 142 
 
 VII. Katharina and Bianca ; the Shrew and the Demure . .169 
 
 VIII. Ophelia; the Rose of Elsinore 195 
 
 IX. Rosalind and Celia ; the Friends 226 
 
 X. Juliet; the White Dove of Verona ..... 253 
 
 XI. Beatrice and Hero ; the Cousins ...... 278 
 
 XII. Olivia; the Lady of Illyria ....... 314 
 
 XIII. Hermione; the Russian Princess 349 
 
 XIV. Viola; the Twin 389 
 
 XV. Imogen; the Peerless . . . . . . . .421 
 
 v 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 Portia, from a painting by W. S. Herrick 
 
 Desdemona, ,, 
 
 ,, T. F. Dicksee 
 
 Katharina, ,, 
 
 >> >> 
 
 Ophelia, ,, . 
 
 „ W. S. Herrick 
 
 Rosalind, ,, 
 
 99 9 9 
 
 Juliet, 
 
 ,, T. F. Dicksee 
 
 Beatrice, ,, 
 
 99 99 
 
 Olivia, ,, 
 
 99 99 
 
 Viola, 
 
 ,, tV. S. Herrick 
 
 Frontispiece, 
 to face page 8 1 
 
 „ 169 
 
 » 195 
 
 ,, 226 
 
 » 2 53 
 
 „ 278 
 
 3i4 
 
 » 389 
 
THE GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S 
 HEROINES. 
 
 TALE I. 
 
 PORTIA ; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 
 
 N the University of Padua, were, once upon a 
 time, two fellow-students, who entertained for 
 each other a more than usually lively regard. 
 This regard seemed to grow out of a peculiar 
 sympathy of feeling, which sometimes exists 
 between two lads of like age, though of dissimilar conditions ; 
 for one of these students was lively, ardent, and prosperous, 
 while the other was calm, reserved, and very poor. But 
 though Guido di Belmonte was the son of a rich Italian Count, 
 and the indulged heir of a fond father, yet his prosperity, 
 instead of rendering him imperious and selfish, did but make 
 him frank and generous ; while Bellario, the other student, 
 the less favoured of fortune, — found cheerfulness in the hope of 
 achieving renown. Thus it came that these two young men 
 found sympathy exist between them, and a warmth of friend- 
 ship ensued, which burnt with a steady and kindly glow while 
 life endured. 
 
 This early friendship was cemented by Guido’s marriage with 
 Bellario’s sister; and the latter spent his time in alternate 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 labour at learned Padua and relaxation at lovely Belmont, 
 until he rose to that position which had so long been the 
 object of his ambition. While still young he was old in fame, 
 and few lawyers of the time ranked in public estimation with 
 the learned Doctor Bellario. Count Guido and his fair wife, 
 Portia, dwelt in uninterrupted happiness on their estate, and their 
 felicity was crowned by the prospect of an heir. In the midst 
 of their joyous anticipation, came an express from Padua to 
 summon Bellario thither, as his presence was required in an 
 important case. 
 
 As he mounted his horse to depart, he waved his hand 
 to Guido and Portia, who stood on the terrace to bid him 
 farewell. “ God bless you, my sister,” he cried. “No son, 
 mind ! Give Belmont an heiress, as you value my brotherly 
 love ! ” 
 
 He rode off hastily, and no foreboding whispered that the 
 farewell had been for ever ; and he was totally unprepared for 
 the blow that smote him some days after, in receiving this ter- 
 rible letter : — 
 
 “Our angel is now an angel indeed. Come and behold 
 what lives to prove her earthly sojourn. An infant Portia is all 
 that is left of our lost one, whose image alone rests in the 
 heart of her miserable husband, 
 
 the most unhappy, 
 
 Guido.” 
 
 The almost equally-afflicted Bellario lost no time in hasten- 
 ing to his friend ; but when he arrived at Belmont, he found 
 even the sad hope of bringing comfort by his presence was 
 denied. As Madame Ursula, the ancient housekeeper, placed 
 the infant Portia in his arms, she informed him that since the 
 hour when the remains of the Countess had been consigned to 
 the grave her unhappy husband had been seen by no one. He 
 seemed suddenly to have vanished from the face of the earth 
 with her whom he mourned. How or when he had disappeared 
 was a mystery, and Bellario could hardly doubt that he had 
 for ever lost a brother as well as a sister. 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 3 
 
 There was one slight circumstance, which alone permitted 
 Bellario to hope that his friend had not madly destroyed him- 
 self. In Guido’s study, he found a fragment of a paper appa- 
 rently addressed to himself, though it was incoherent, abrupt, 
 and written in evident distraction. 
 
 * * * “ She will be your care, I know. All I have is 
 
 hers — your justice and tenderness will be her best safeguard — 
 should I ever return, she may — ” * * * * 
 
 It was on these few last words, that Bellario founded his 
 hope. They were all that remained to dispel his apprehension 
 that his infant charge might be wholly orphaned ; and he took 
 a solemn vow that he would devote himself to her welfare, in 
 the fervent trust that he might one day be permitted to replace 
 her in the arms of a living father. Meanwhile, having ascertained 
 that the affairs of the estate were placed in an advantageous 
 condition for the future benefit of the infant heiress, he re- 
 turned to the duties of his profession at Padua, until such time 
 as she could profit by his presence and immediate superinten- 
 dence. But he would frequently steal a day from his labours 
 to ride over to Belmont, that he might indulge himself with a 
 sight of the child. For in the small unformed features, and 
 diminutive limbs, the force of affection taught him to find 
 traces of his lost sister and friend ; in the mite of a nose, and 
 the wondering eyes, he thought he could read the animation 
 and intelligent fire of Guido’s expression ; in the little dimpled 
 hands, he fancied he discovered the slender fingers of Portia ; 
 and even in the fair golden curls of the little one he dreamed 
 he beheld the raven tresses of her mother. So whimsical is 
 the sweet blindness of love ! 
 
 In the course of some months a period of vacation occurred, 
 and the bachelor-uncle looked forward with absolute pleasure 
 to the thought of spending some time with a mere child ; the 
 grave lawyer had learned to love nothing in the world so well 
 as his little Portia. 
 
 And the little creature repaid his love with a fondness sin- 
 gularly intense in one so young. She seemed to have in- 
 herited her father’s ardour of disposition, with much of her 
 mother’s gentle sweetness. She never tired of being with him; 
 
4 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 and even showed none of the usual restlessness of children, 
 when his serious occupations demanded his attention. 
 
 But these hours of needful stillness, were delightedly com- 
 pensated by the games of romps, the races on the greensward 
 of the avenue, the rides on the shoulder, and the scampers on 
 horseback, that the fond uncle indulged her with, when he had 
 concluded his day’s avocations. Indeed, it is a question whe- 
 ther the indulgence was not as great on one side as the other ; 
 whether, in fact, the learned man did not as fully enjoy these 
 innocent gambols as much as the frolicsome child did. 
 
 One morning, after breakfast, Bellario’s papers and law- 
 books were speedily despatched, and Portia started up from 
 her toys, expecting to be summoned for a ride ; but she saw 
 her uncle take down a book from one of the shelves of the 
 library, loll back and begin to read. 
 
 Now Portia, though so young a child, had already found 
 out the difference between business-reading and pleasure read- 
 ing ; for she knew that when her uncle was leaning over those 
 crackling parchments, and plain-looking books, while his pen 
 occasionally dipped in the ink, and he wrote a few words, and 
 his lips looked grave and unmoved, — he was on no account to 
 be disturbed ; but when she saw him stretch his legs carelessly 
 out, lean back comfortably, and look at his book with happy 
 eyes and smiling mouth, she knew then that she might scramble 
 on to one of his knees, nestle her cheek against his bosom, and 
 then sit on his lap and play with her doll without interrupting 
 him. Nay, at such times of idle reading, she might feel that 
 she was welcome ; for the arm that supported her on his knee, 
 would now and then give her a hug, or the head that bent over 
 hers would press its lips upon her hair, when the leaf of the 
 book wanted turning over. 
 
 She looked at him now, as he sat there reading, and won- 
 dered that he preferred sitting still, and reading on and on, 
 instead of going out for a ride, or a race in the avenue, or a 
 frolic on the lawn. “ I suppose he finds reading very pleasant 
 too : I suppose he likes reading as well as I like playing,” and 
 she presently said abruptly: — “ I wish you would teach me my 
 letters ; I want to read with cugino mio.” 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 5 
 
 Her uncle — or cousin, as she called him — caught her up in 
 his arms with delight at finding that his hope was fulfilled ; the 
 sight of the pleasure derived from reading, had inspired the 
 voluntary desire to taste that pleasure ; of her own accord she 
 wished to learn. 
 
 Thus they became closer companions than ever ; and while 
 Bellario beheld the happy looks, and gay smiles of the little 
 creature, he could scarcely regret that she had no fitter play- 
 mate than a grave bachelor-uncle — a learned doctor of law. 
 
 But though the child and the bachelor-lawyer sufficed thus 
 for each other’s happy companionship, there were times when 
 Bellario thought it might have been better, could his little 
 Portia have had the society of other children. And an oppor- 
 tunity offered shortly after, for carrying out his desire. Madame 
 Ursula confided to him a grievous trouble respecting a sister 
 of hers, who had some time since degraded herself by marry- 
 ing a small tradesman in Venice. “ The miserable girl died ; ” 
 said the dame ; “soon after giving birth to a little girl. As for 
 the poor wretch who dared to marry her, he is just dead, and 
 has left his child without a single bagattino to bless herself 
 with. She must go into service, of course; but she must wait 
 till she is grown up, for that. I thought therefore, I would 
 consult you, Signor Dottore, upon the propriety of letting the 
 child come here and stay at Belmont, until she is old enough 
 to become cameriera to the Contessina Portia. I will promise 
 that the miserable little creature shall be kept strictly within 
 the precincts of the housekeeper’s apartments, and shall not be 
 permitted to intrude upon the presence of either yourself or the 
 Contessina.” 
 
 “ Let her come to Belmont by all means, Madame ; ” an- 
 swered Bellario ; “ and pray do not restrict the children from 
 playing together as much as they please. Your little darling 
 will make a charming companion for mine, I doubt not.” 
 
 A faithful servant, Balthazar, was despatched to Venice to 
 fetch the little Nerissa to her future home ; and Bellario told 
 Portia of the new playfellow who was coming to be with her 
 at Belmont. She answered that she wanted nobody to play 
 with her but her own cugino ; nevertheless he could perceive 
 
6 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 that as the time drew near for the expected arrival, Portia’s 
 eyes were often directed towards the door of the saloon, where 
 they were dining ; Madame, as usual presiding at the head of 
 the table. 
 
 At length they heard a horse’s feet coming up the avenue, 
 and Portia slid down from her chair to peep out of the window 
 at the new-comer. Presently, they heard a child’s voice, and 
 then a peal of joyous laughter; the door opened, and Bal- 
 thazar brought the child in, in his arms, while she was still shout- 
 ing with merriment at some droll story he had been telling her. 
 
 This indecorous entry, scandalized Madame, and she frowned 
 appallingly. 
 
 The little Nerissa, placed suddenly on her feet in the midst 
 of strangers, stood transfixed, gazing at them; and as she 
 scanned these new faces, the smiles faded from her lips, which 
 she began to pull poutingly with one finger, eyeing the group 
 askance. 
 
 “Take your fingers out of your mouth, do, child; and come 
 here,” said Madame Ursula. 
 
 “ No ; ” said the little one, curtly. Then, turning to Bal- 
 thazar, and clutching his skirts, she added : — “ I’ll come to 
 you ; take me on the horse again.” 
 
 Bellario had purposely said nothing, that he might see what 
 Portia would do of her own accord. She now took a cake and 
 some sweetmeats off the dinner-table and went towards the 
 little stranger, holding them out to her, and said: — “Won’t 
 you have some ? ” 
 
 Nerissa looked at Portia for a moment, then took one of the 
 offered sweets, and next held out her rosy mouth, that she 
 might kiss her thanks ; but she still maintained her grasp of 
 Balthazar’s skirt. 
 
 Portia went back to the table for a nectarine, and returning 
 again, stuffed that also into the child’s hand, then holding out 
 her own, she said : — “Won’t you come with me to cugino?” 
 
 The little hand dropped its hold of the attendant’s coat, and 
 was given confidingly to this new friend, who led her in a sort 
 of triumph to Bellario. 
 
 The acquaintance thus begun, went on prosperously. Nerissa 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 7 
 
 looked up to Portia as her protectress in all her encounters with 
 her awful aunt ; while the encouragement which the little lady 
 of Belmont accorded to her new playmate, was accompanied 
 by a gentle feeling of care and tenderness for one younger and 
 more helpless than herself. 
 
 The cheerful temperament of Nerissa caused Bellario to re- 
 joice more than ever at the fortunate chance, which had brought 
 the two children together ; for he felt that it acted as an antidote 
 to the too grave society in which his beloved Portia would other- 
 wise have exclusively passed heryouth. Now he had the delight 
 of hearing the two merry voices constantly echoing through the 
 halls and woods of Belmont in sportive gladness ; and the laugh 
 of l^erissa herself could scarcely ring more clearly and happily 
 than that of his gifted but cheerful-hearted Portia. In playing 
 together, the two children seemed animated by one spirit ; but 
 in one point they differed materially. Nerissa was the veriest 
 little dunce that ever was ; whilst, on the contrary, Portia’s 
 chief delight continued to be the hours she spent with Bellario 
 and his books. She was gay with Nerissa, but she was happy 
 with him. 
 
 Bellario was an enthusiast in his profession ; and Portia loved 
 to hear him dwell at length upon its attributes, its privileges, its 
 powers, and its value. He would descant upon his favourite 
 theme ; and she, well-pleased to listen, would often introduce the 
 subject, and urge and induce him to continue its disquisition. 
 
 Time crept on; and the young girl grew almost into the 
 beautiful woman. Her slight childish figure had rounded into 
 graceful proportions ; her countenance shone with brighter in- 
 telligence ; and her voice and manner had acquired a tone of 
 command and dignity well suited to the lady of Belmont. But 
 the profusion of golden locks which waved upon her shoulders, 
 and the unclouded spirits that bounded in her elastic step, and 
 sparkled in her lips and eyes, bespoke her youth, and her happy 
 . innocent nature. 
 
 It was the morning on which she completed her seventeenth 
 year. She entered the library where Bellario sat, and as she 
 stepped forward to present him with a rare old volume of poetry 
 and a heap of blushing dew-covered flowers which she had just 
 
8 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 gathered as a birthday token, she looked so radiant with happi- 
 ness and beauty, that he involuntarily gazed at her as he would 
 have done at a beautiful vision. 
 
 In acknowledging her birthday gift, Bellario told Portia that 
 he had chosen this occasion for the fulfilment of a desire she 
 had expressed, that a band of household musicians might be 
 added to the retainers of Belmont. He said, they had been 
 appointed to come from Venice on this very day, and he felt 
 somewhat surprised that they had not already arrived. 
 
 “ But we will contrive to spend the day happily, notwith- 
 standing,” added he ; “ we will forego the pleasure of music for 
 one day more ; and meantime we will order the horses and take 
 one of our long rambles together. You cannot remember the 
 time, my Portia, when one horse served well for us both, and 
 you needed no other seat than my saddle-bow ? ” 
 
 “ It seems as though that and all other particulars of the sea- 
 son when your arms were my only support, even from the very 
 moment when I first was placed a mere infant within them, 
 lived in my memory, as truly as it does in my heart’s core,” re- 
 plied she. 
 
 That evening, while the two cousins were pacing the moonlit 
 avenue together, Nerissa’s blithe voice was heard from the 
 terrace, announcing the arrival of the expected musicians. 
 
 “ Come in, madam,” cried she in high glee, “come in quickly, 
 for the love of laughter ! If these same players have as ill-favoured 
 fingers as features, if their instruments yield a sound as coarse 
 as their suits, if they have no better sets of tunes than 
 teeth, or no tones less sharp than their noses, we are like to 
 have but sorry music. But come and see them, and tell me if 
 you have ever seen a more wry-necked, ill-dressed, ugly set of 
 grotesque figures than your ladyship’s musicians elect. There 
 is one fellow’s crooked nose, puckered eyes, puffed cheeks, and 
 pinched lips, that make him look for all the world like a head 
 on the rainspout of a church.” 
 
 The girl hurried back, as she spoke ; and Bellario leading 
 Portia to the terrace- steps, kissed her hand, and told her he 
 would join her in a few moments to try whether they might net 
 forget the plain persons of the musicians in the music they 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 9 
 
 played. Meanwhile, he paced the avenue, full of a thought 
 which had that day pressed heavily upon him. His first per- 
 ception that now his charge was no longer a child, his convic- 
 tion that she had actually grown into a lovely woman, was 
 accompanied with the thought that he had no right to detain 
 her in solitude. He knew that the heiress of Belmont should 
 now be introduced into a wider circle than she had hitherto 
 known, that she might form her judgment of mankind itself, 
 while she matured and enlarged the store of knowledge she had 
 hitherto reaped from books alone. 
 
 “Were her father but here to aid me with his counsel,” 
 thought he. “ Who so proper to lead her among her fit associates? 
 Who so meet to guide her in a still more important choice ? 
 For ^ie will marry — she ought — she must; — so fair, so gifted 
 a creature will one day bless and be blest by a man worthy of 
 her. But how to discover him ? ” 
 
 In a deep reverie, Bellario threw himself upon a low grassy 
 bank that swelled from the turf of the avenue. The bank itself 
 was in the full light of the moon ; but it was near to the 
 trees, which cast a deep shadow within a few yards of where 
 he sat. 
 
 As the thought of his beloved friend again vibrated through 
 his heart with a passionate yearning, he almost articulated the 
 name of Guido in the deep sigh he breathed. 
 
 A sigh still more profound responded to his own. He started 
 up in surprise, that any one should be so near; when a figure 
 emerged from the dark shadow of the trees, and stood mutely 
 before him. Bellario gazed strangely upon the countenance he 
 beheld ; for in no lineament of that pale haggard face could he 
 trace any memorial of the youthful image that dwelt in his 
 heart’s remembrance. 
 
 But when the stranger staggered forward, and muttered 
 huskily “ Bellario ! ” the voice revealed all ; and with the raptu- 
 rous conviction that it was Guido indeed returned, he strained 
 his long-lost friend in his arms, and felt the terrible thirst of 
 years appeased. 
 
 A few hasty words sufficed to tell the story of his absence. 
 In the transports of his despair, he had fled from the scenes of 
 
IO 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 his buried happiness, and had embarked and set sail for the 
 East, where he had dragged on a weary existence, unable to 
 endure the sight of his fellow-men. In latter years the first 
 torture of his grief had yielded to a craving desire to behold his 
 child, which had determined him to brave the torment of re- 
 vived sorrows, that he might satisfy this burning wish. 
 
 “ I long, yet dread to see this child,” he concluded, with a 
 wild sadness in his manner, “show it to me, give it me, 
 Bellario ! Though it killed her, yet it is her child ! Where 
 is it, Bellario ? ” 
 
 “She left me but now,” replied Bellario calmly, trying to 
 soothe his friend’s perturbation ; “ you think of her as a child, 
 forgetful that seventeen years have elapsed. She is now a 
 beautiful woman ; she quitted me but a few moments before I 
 beheld you.” 
 
 “ That fair creature whom you led to the terrace, then, 
 
 was Gracious heaven ! I have seen her ! My child ! 
 
 And are you indeed destined to bestow upon me another 
 Portia ? ” 
 
 A strain of music arose at this moment. Solemn, and exqui- 
 sitely tender was the melody that came wafted towards them upon 
 the night air ; it seemed vouchsafed, consolingly ministrant to 
 the wounded spirit of Guido, that his long-pent heart might find 
 relief in the tears which flowed responsive to these appealing 
 sounds. 
 
 Bellario hailed the benign influence ; but, pointing towards 
 the terrace, he whispered : — “ She comes ; control your own 
 agitation, my friend, that you may spare hers.” 
 
 Guido gazed in the direction indicated ; he beheld one of 
 the windows that opened on to the ground, thrown back, and a 
 flood of light from the saloon, together with a swelling burst of 
 the harmony, accompanied forth a radiant figure that stepped 
 out upon the terrace, and took its way towards them. The 
 white raiment, the floating golden hair, the graceful mien, the 
 spiritual look, made her seem a seraph sent by pitying Heaven, 
 and Guido stretched forth his arms, as towards a celestial har- 
 binger of happiness. 
 
 As she reached the spot where they stood, Bellario took her 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 ri 
 
 hand, and said in his calm impressive voice : — “ Does your 
 heart tell you whose is the face you look upon ? ” 
 
 “ My father ; " she exclaimed ; and the parent and child 
 savoured the ineffable transport of a first embrace. 
 
 Guido thus restored to them, the happiness of Portia and 
 Bellario seemed now complete ; while the Count, in discover- 
 ing the fruitful source of joy existing for him in the person of 
 his child, wondered how he could have voluntarily remained 
 dead to its enjoyment during that dreary period of self-imposed 
 banishment 
 
 His love for his new-found daughter amounted to idolatry ; 
 and in his craving wish to behold her unceasingly, to enjoy 
 her presence exclusively, he would fain have engrossed her 
 thoughts as she absorbed his, and he almost jealously beheld 
 her attention directed to any other object but himself. 
 
 Bellario noted the struggle existing in his friend’s mind, and 
 well knew how to deal tenderly with such a mood of affection. 
 Accordingly he determined to quit them for a time, that the 
 father and daughter might be thrown solely upon each other’s 
 resources, and, might thus learn to find their mutual happiness 
 in one another alone. 
 
 A cause imperatively requiring his personal presence formed 
 sufficient pretext for his absence ; he left Belmont, and retired 
 to Padua, where he had the delight of learning from Portia the 
 complete success of his scheme. 
 
 Guido’s confidence in the love existing between his daughter 
 and himself soon acquired firmness, and as his faith in her love 
 became assured, he called to mind what Bellario had said 
 respecting her introduction in life, and he accordingly con- 
 sulted with her upon the appointment of a day when he should 
 invite all the families with whom his own had formerly held 
 intercourse, to meet at Belmont in celebration of his return 
 and thus to renew those connections which had been broken 
 by his absence. 
 
 And now the thought of this approaching festival engaged 
 every member of the household, that due splendour might pre- 
 side in all its arrangements to do honour to two such interesting 
 occasions, as the return of Count Guido to his patrimony of 
 
12 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Belmont, and the presentation of his beautiful daughter to the 
 ancient friends of the family. Bellario was entreated to be pre- 
 sent, that he might lend weight and honour to the reception 
 of the guests by the illustrious and learned reputation of his 
 name. 
 
 This tender friend himself eagerly seized this occasion of be- 
 holding his Portia’s first entrance upon the arena of life. 
 
 His love for her was no less ardent than her father’s ; and it 
 was with almost equal pride and delight therefore, that these two 
 loving guardians beheld the object of their tenderest thoughts 
 fulfil all that even they could have anticipated of excellence in 
 her own person, while she won universal homage from those 
 around. The ladies commended her modest dignity and self- 
 possession ; the noblemen congratulated the happy father of so 
 fair and accomplished a maiden ; and the young gallants vied 
 with each other in endeavours to attract her regard. 
 
 Among these latter, the foremost was the Marquis of 
 Montferrat. He at once placed himself among the rank of her 
 avowed admirers ; and from the marked courtesy of the recep- 
 tion with which her father had welcomed him, he seemed to 
 have already gained a priority of claim above his fellows. Of 
 this superiority he seemed fully conscious, from the air of 
 triumph that sparkled in his eyes when he addressed her. 
 
 Nerissa, who leaned upon the back of her lady’s seat (which 
 was in one of the alcoves in the grounds, and formed a sort of 
 sylvan throne for her), found early occasion to whisper : — 
 “ Your father’s report of the handsome looks of his friend, is as 
 false as his estimation of his other qualities. The Marquis is 
 scarce better looking than your ladyship’s musicians ; who, 
 like their brethren, the singing birds, have the plainer exterior, 
 the better their song. There is one among the company, who 
 surpasses him in good looks a hundredfold, to my thinking ; 
 the young cavalier in the murrey doublet, yonder, who is lis- 
 tening to something that the Marquis is telling. Do you see 
 him whom I mean, Madam ? ” 
 
 Portia answered not, but Nerissa could see that her mistress 
 had distinguished the gentleman, for she was looking steadily 
 upon his face. 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 13 
 
 Nerissa tripped away to try and learn who he was; and soon 
 heard that he was the Lord Bassanio, one of the friends and 
 associates of the Marquis of Montferrat. 
 
 “ They are two foolish young men,” continued her informant, 
 “ they try who can spend their money fastest and least wisely. 
 Even the princely fortune which the Marquis inherited from 
 his worthy father, is speedily dwindling; and as for the young 
 Lord Bassanio, it is whispered that he must shortly be ruined 
 by such extravagance as he indulges in, to please this friend of 
 his, whom he emulates in all his follies though not in his vices. 
 Bassanio bears an unblemished reputation for honour and in- 
 tegrity, while the Marquis ” 
 
 The old gentleman paused, and Nerissa could extract no 
 further information from him, respecting the objects of her 
 curiosity. 
 
 Before he quitted Belmont, Bellario took occasion to speak 
 to his friend upon the subject of this new acquaintance the 
 Marquis of Montferrat. 
 
 “ He is to be here again in a few days by my invitation ; ” 
 replied Guido. “ I asked him to spend some time with us. 
 He is the scion of a most noble and honourable family, and he 
 himself is an accomplished and right gallant gentleman : if he 
 be all he seems, he would form no unfitting match, even for 
 our Portia.” 
 
 “ He must be worthy indeed, who deserves her ; ” was all 
 Bellario’s reply ; for he resolved to say no more, till he could 
 speak with better knowledge. He therefore took his departure, 
 determined to lose no time in obtaining accurate information 
 relative to the character and habits of the Marquis of Mont- 
 ferrat. 
 
 Belmont had scarcely time to recover its wonted serenity of 
 aspect, after the late festival, when the young Marquis and his 
 train returned, and by their arrival again thronged its tranquil 
 precincts with gay equipages, horses, hounds, hawks, and troops 
 of liveried attendants. 
 
 The increasing scorn with which Portia treated the distasteful 
 assiduity of the Marquis, struck her father as being beyond the 
 gay disdain which ladies are sometimes accustomed to affect 
 
14 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 towards their wooers ; and he was one evening walking in the 
 avenue, his thoughts employed with this subject, when a mes- 
 senger approached at a smart gallop, and seeing the Count, 
 placed a letter in his hands, and rode on. 
 
 Guido read as follows : — 
 
 “ Dear friend and brother, 
 
 “ I possess undoubted proofs that the Marquis is a 
 notorious and confirmed gambler, and an unscrupulous liber- 
 tine. Until I can myself bring you these proofs, believe that 
 this accusation is not made lightly, or without sufficient war- 
 rant. Suffer not such a presence longer to sully the pure 
 atmosphere of Belmont ; nor let a too late heed of my intelli- 
 gence injure our Portia to the latest term of her life. 
 
 “ Your faithfully devoted 
 
 “Bellario.” 
 
 Count Guido remained in bitter reverie. “ So much for my 
 perspicacity,” thought he, “in judging of the qualities of the 
 man I chose for a friend, and whom I might have gone on to 
 wish should be my son-in-law, — my Portia’s husband ! Little 
 has my own poor judgment bested me in my course through 
 life. Better to refer all things to chance, even things of greatest 
 moment, than decide them by so erring, so worthless a guide, 
 as judgment of mine.” 
 
 He lingered in such dark thoughts of self-reproach, until at 
 length his daughter came to seek him, wooing him to return 
 with her to the house, lest too late wandering beneath the trees 
 in the night air should injure his health, which had never been 
 strong since the period of his absence. 
 
 He was perfectly aware of his own declining state ; but his 
 chief anxiety was to prevent it from being perceived by his 
 daughter ; he carefully withheld from her his sleepless nights, 
 and the constant fever that consumed him. 
 
 In order the more effectually to do this, he made a strong 
 effort to carry out a resolution he had for some time entertained, 
 of taking her himself to Venice, to introduce her to several 
 families of distinction there. 
 
 He felt that this would afford him an opportunity of accom- 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 15 
 
 plishing a project which had occurred to him in that self-com- 
 muning he had lately held with regard to chance and judgment. 
 Impetuous ever, in his nature, his sensitive conscience had 
 lately yielded to rash fancies, and he now conceived a scheme 
 as eccentric in its aim, as his former exercise of judgment had 
 been hasty and defective. 
 
 He determined that while he was in Venice he would order 
 to be constructed three caskets, severally made of gold, silver, 
 and lead ; and that on the choice of these caskets should rest a 
 decision of dearest moment. In one of them he resolved to 
 enclose the portrait of his daughter, and whosoever of her 
 suitors should choose the casket containing her picture, should 
 be her appointed husband. 
 
 An early day was appointed for their departure from Bel- 
 mont. Their noble friends vied with each other, who best 
 should contribute to render the welcome of the Count di Bel- 
 monte and his daughter gay and attractive. Each day some 
 new pastime was proposed ; some gay masking, some day-light 
 excursion, or nightly revelry. 
 
 On one occasion, the grand canal presented a scene of un- 
 surpassed brilliancy and animation ; a boat-race was to take 
 place, and all Venice thronged to behold the issue of the con- 
 tention. Boats of all sizes and descriptions crowded hither; 
 craft of every kind pushed and jostled ; gondolas glided to and 
 fro; boatmen shouted and called; gaily-dressed ladies and 
 gallants smiled and flirted ; draperies of every vivid colour de- 
 pended from windows ; balconies were filled with gazers; steps 
 and doorways, like the entrances to bee-hives, supported their 
 clusters, and swarmed with living creatures. 
 
 On the prow of a gaily decorated vessel, there reclined a 
 young Venetian, who was remarkable, even among so much 
 surrounding brightness, for the splendour of his dress, the costli- 
 ness of his boat-decorations, and the whimsicality of his men’s 
 attire. As one in the procession of boats which glided idly 
 backwards and forwards in mid-stream before the race began, 
 his vessel passed and repassed the galley in which the Count 
 di Belmonte and his daughter sat with their friends to behold 
 the pageant ; and in the figure of this young gallant, Portia 
 
16 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 recognized the gentleman pointed out by Nerissa among the 
 company at the Belmont festival as being so superlatively 
 handsome. 
 
 She was so intently watching his return, that she paid little 
 heed to an old lady, who was endeavouring to entertain her 
 with a description of the various persons she recognized. 
 “Yonder is Signor Luigi and his three fair daughters,” said 
 the old lady ; “ they are saluting that grave gentleman in the 
 sober suit, who is no less a personage than Signor Antonio, 
 whom my lord calls the ‘royal merchant.’ They say he is 
 very generous to poor struggling tradesmen, and tender to un- 
 fortunate debtors. Moreover he has good blood in his veins, 
 and is of gentle birth. There goes that pleasant scapegrace, 
 Signor Gratiano; and in the farther boat is young Signor 
 Lorenzo, with two of his friends. Yonder is the galley of his 
 highness the prince of Morocco, who has lately arrived in this 
 city with his train, and who, I understand, is so courteous and 
 pleasant-spoken, that you forget he is black. But for my part, 
 I can’t fancy a black man could be so agreeable as a white man ; 
 I own I have prejudices, and that’s one of mine, — I hate people 
 of colour. Talking of prejudices, there’s that detestable old jew ! 
 How dare he come among us, I should like to know? But 
 that’s one of the drawbacks on such an occasion as this. A 
 paltry trafficker may elbow a magnifico, or a jew usurer as- 
 sociate with us Christians ! They say the villanous dog has a 
 pretty black-eyed daughter whom he keeps shut up in his 
 miserable den of a house, instead of bringing the poor thing 
 out to have a peep at such a sight as this ! Ah, here comes 
 young Lord Bassanio again ; he is a true gentleman ; and my 
 lord says, a brave soldier, and an excellent scholar. I am sorry 
 to hear that he is ruining his fortune with the extravagant course 
 he is running. Why, the equipment of that vessel, I should 
 say, never cost him less than ” 
 
 What the gossip-loving old lady might have gone o.i farther 
 to say, Portia knew not, for at this moment, her father leaned 
 forward to accost the young gentleman, who, seeing who spoke 
 to him, recognized the Count with a respectful earnestness. As 
 the young man stood there with his hat courteously removed, 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 17 
 
 and his attitude full of grace and deference, replying to her 
 father’s salutation, Portia thought Nerissa’s estimate was cer- 
 tainly correct; and when a moment after, the young Venetian 
 happened to raise his eyes to hers, he found them fixed upon 
 him with the complacency inspired by such a thought. Several 
 times again in the course of the day he met that look ; and 
 when at the conclusion of the race, he retired from the con- 
 tention as one of the losers, he felt consoled by the sympa- 
 thetic glance of interest that once more flashed upon him from 
 those expressive eyes. A thought for the first time thrilled 
 through the heart of Bassanio, that had he not injured his 
 fortune by a hitherto spendthrift course, he might have aspired 
 to obtain a far more glorious prize than the one awarded to the 
 winning boat. 
 
 “What if I consult with my friend and kinsman, Antonio, 
 upon the means of repairing my fortunes,” thought he. “ Even 
 were I to entreat of his generosity to bestow upon me a fitting 
 sum to equip me for entering the lists that I might contend for 
 her favour-— his kindness hath that extent, I am certain. I will 
 think of it ; meantime, I vow to undertake a pilgrimage to Bel- 
 mont, at some not very distant day.” 
 
 After a gay and pleasant interval spent at Venice, the father 
 and daughter prepared to return ; and Portia had the satis- 
 faction of remarking that the change seemed to have been 
 beneficial to her father. As they proceeded homewards, the 
 Count spoke playfully with his daughter of their late scenes of 
 gaiety ; and in his sprightly tone and cheerful glance, Portia 
 read more healthful symptoms than she had noted for many 
 a day. 
 
 “ And of all those stores of splendour, I have brought you 
 away no richer token than this slight bauble,” said he, placing 
 a ruby ring upon her finger, “but it will serve to remind my 
 Portia of a pleasant holiday with her loving father ; and such 
 thoughts I know she prizes above jewels the most rare and 
 precious that might be found in all Venice.” 
 
 His daughter kissed it fondly, as well as the hand that placed 
 it on hers, and said: — “It shall never quit my finger, dear 
 father.” 
 
 c 
 
18 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 11 Nay, you shall give it some day to him who shall possess 
 the hand itself — to your husband, my Portia.” And the father 
 unconsciously sighed, pressed the hand that lay in his, and 
 looked proudly into the beaming countenance that was raised 
 to his. 
 
 Some days later Portia was sitting by her father’s side in the 
 library, reading to him from one of his favourite volumes, when 
 she suddenly felt his hand, in which hers was locked, twitch 
 convulsively, while his head, a moment afterwards, dropped 
 powerless upon the back of the chair in which he sat. She 
 leaned towards him — he was speechless ; but he gave her one 
 of those mute yet eloquent looks, in which the soul speaks 
 through the eyes. 
 
 She gazed into those speaking eyes which seemed striving 
 to convey some injunction to her, that she might try to read 
 their meaning ; and she once saw him attempt to raise his 
 other hand, as if in the languid endeavour to make some sig- 
 nal, but she could not divine its import. 
 
 She whispered words of tenderness, beseeching him not to 
 exhaust his strength by such efforts, while she continued to 
 bathe his temples, and attempted to summon help. 
 
 At length she heard a sound, at once discordant with her 
 present feelings, and welcome from its assurance of aid — 
 Nerissa’s merry laugh ! Clearly and imperatively Portia called. 
 Nerissa hastened towards her lady’s voice; but the mirthful 
 look and tone with which she entered, were stricken into dis. 
 may by what she beheld. 
 
 Portia, by a steadfast effort, controlled her emotion, while 
 she desired Nerissa to speed for Balthazar and other attendants, 
 to despatch a messenger for medical assistance, and another to 
 Padua to summon Bellario to Belmont. 
 
 “If we could but get my lord to lie down, Madam,” whispered 
 the weeping Balthazar, “ I feel sure that he would be easier. 
 My lord the Count had one of these seizures before — a night 
 or two before you went to Venice ; but he would not permit 
 your ladyship to be informed of it, because it went off by the 
 dawn of morning, and he said it was nothing, and you should 
 not be made uneasy about such a trifle.” 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 19 
 
 Portia repressed the bitter words that arose to her lips, with 
 which she felt inclined to reprove Balthazar for having con- 
 cealed from her so vital a secret ; but she would not permit 
 herself to give one thought to regret, while she could devote 
 them to the present succour of her father. She knelt by his 
 side, and murmured softly : — “ Will my father try if lying down 
 may relieve him ? ” 
 
 There was a look of acquiescence. 
 
 But when Balthazar and another attendant advanced to sup- 
 port him away, the same expression of denial crossed his 
 features as before. 
 
 “Will you not let us place you in bed, dearest father? ” 
 
 The expression remained unchanged. 
 
 “ We think if you were reclining, it would be a better position 
 than as you are now, dear father. Will you not try to lie 
 down ? ” 
 
 His eyes resumed their eager look. 
 
 “I think my father objects to remove from this room, 
 Balthazar, and that he would lie down, if a couch were made 
 for him here.” Portia fixed her eyes upon her father’s, as she 
 uttered these words, and perceived that she had interpreted his 
 wishes aright. 
 
 The attendants speedily arranged one of the library couches 
 for the reception of the Count, and they laid him softly down in 
 a recumbent position; his daughter still with her hand fast 
 locked in his, which could not unclench its grasp. 
 
 She struggled hard with terrible fear, and dropped softly to 
 her knees by her father’s side that she might beseech strength 
 and comfort of her Father in Heaven. As she knelt meekly 
 there, she felt the hand that still held hers slightly relax its 
 grasp; and a moment afterwards, that deep tender tone she 
 knew so well, and which she had almost despaired of ever 
 hearing again, murmured the words : — “ My Portia ! ” 
 
 She arose hastily but quietly, and bent over the couch. 
 
 “ Are we alone, my Portia ? ” he said. 
 
 “We are alone now, dearest father ;” said she. 
 
 “ I have no moment to lose;” said the Count. “This interval 
 of speech and strength is mercifully lent to me, but it may not 
 
20 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 last long, and I dread lest I once more behold myself reduced 
 to my late torture of impotency in speech and action, while so 
 much remains to be said and done for the welfare of my Portia.” 
 
 He proceeded with an eagerness that partook of his old 
 spirit : — 44 Unlock yonder cabinet, my Portia, and bring me the 
 three caskets, with the fold of sealed parchment which you will 
 find beside them.” 
 
 She obeyed his directions. 
 
 “Tell me what words are engraved upon the lid of each of 
 these caskets, my Portia.” 
 
 “ Upon the golden one is inscribed, 4 Who chooseth me, shall 
 gain what many men desire ;’ upon the silver one, 4 Who 
 chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves ;’ and upon the 
 leaden one, 4 Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he 
 hath ;’ ” replied she. 
 
 44 By this parchment deed, which is a will I executed when in 
 Venice, my child, I have provided that on the choice of these 
 caskets shall depend your destiny in marriage. In one of these 
 caskets is locked your picture ; you will find the three corre- 
 sponding keys of gold, silver, and lead, in the right-hand drawer 
 of the cabinet. Of these keys take charge yourself; you will 
 find specified in the will, on what occasions you are to deliver 
 them up. Yes,” continued he, as if to himself, and with a wild 
 earnestness that lighted his fast-dimming eyes, and lent a mo- 
 mentary energy to his half-extinct voice, 44 1 have learned to 
 think that thus chance and judgment may be made to aid each 
 other, and wisely combine to decide what else might never 
 justly be awarded. ’Tis for your sake, my Portia; ’tis best thus, 
 believe it. Will you give me your promise ? Do you pledge 
 your word to dispose of yourself according to the plan set forth 
 in my will ? ” 
 
 44 1 vow solemnly to obey your will in all things, my father ;” 
 exclaimed Portia. 
 
 A serene peace dwelt upon his features at her words, and he 
 feebly stretched his arms towards her. She flung herself upon 
 the bed beside him, and tenderly straining him in the embrace 
 he sought, she heard him murmur: — “Now happily I go to 
 await with her , the future coming of our child — our Portia.” 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 21 
 
 When Balthazar came in with the doctors, they found the 
 father and daughter clasped thus in each other’s arms ; both 
 profoundly still. But the daughter’s was the stillness of a death- 
 like swoon — the father’s, that of death itself! 
 
 When Portia recovered from the fainting-fit in which her 
 senses lay steeped, the first object that met her eyes was Bellario. 
 That dear and tender friend was there watching over her, to 
 lighten her grief by sharing it, to console her by his sympathy, 
 and to strengthen her by his help. 
 
 In his society she learned to encounter the blow which had 
 befallen her, to endure the daily sense of her bereavement, and, 
 in time, to convert its remembrance into a source of hallowed 
 tnemories rather than of bitter regrets. 
 
 When, after more than a twelvemonth of mourning had 
 elapsed, Bellario announced to her that he thought it now be- 
 hoved her to throw open the gates of Belmont for the advent of 
 visitors, she, with her usual good sense and dignity, sought not 
 to delay an inevitable consequence ; but told him that however 
 she might have of herself desired to live still to themselves, she 
 yet perceived the wisdom of his counsel, and was prepared to 
 conform to his suggestion. 
 
 “ And that you may now appear in your true and exclusive 
 right as mistress of Belmont, my Portia,” said he, “ I shall now 
 withdraw myself to my quiet bachelor house at Padua, and leave 
 you to receive these visitors, unsupported, save by your own 
 dignity and noble discretion. It will be wiser for you to accus- 
 tom yourself henceforth to rely firmly upon your own conduct, 
 my Portia, and to relinquish the society of one, who, though 
 most dear to you, I know, is yet one to whom you have been 
 habituated to look for counsel and assistance. For these you 
 may still apply, by letter. Fail not to inform me of yourself 
 constantly, and above all, to send for my help whenever it may 
 avail you in aught of emergency. You know, my Portia, that I 
 have never flattered you. But I have discerned your merits, 
 and honestly tell you that they serve to make you one of the 
 noblest and worthiest of your sex. You have reached an age 
 when a woman is at her most attractive period of life. You 
 have youth, beauty, wealth, virtue, native intellect, a cultivated 
 
22 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 understanding, and a generous, innocent, happy heart. Your 
 intellectual accomplishments will draw the accusation of pe- 
 dantry and unfeminine pre-eminence, from the ignorant and 
 consciously-inferior alone, among men ; when it is seen how 
 modestly and wisely you exercise your faculties. God bless and 
 protect you, my dearest Portia ; omit not to write of all you 
 think, say, or do, to your own true Bellario.” 
 
 Thus proudly confiding did Bellario quit her; and it required 
 all Portia’s judgment and prudence to bid her acquiesce in a 
 measure which deprived her of so beloved a friend. 
 
 In less than a week after his departure, Belmont was once 
 more thronged with visitors. Not only the nobles and magni- 
 ficos of Venice crowded to offer their congratulations to their 
 fair friend, the heiress of Belmont; but suitors of every country, 
 renowned in fame, and illustrious in birth, poured from all 
 quarters, and sought the adventure of the caskets, contesting for 
 the glorious prize therein at issue. 
 
 As the successive competitors tried their fate, and withdrew, 
 one after the other equally unprosperous in his selection, Portia 
 half unconsciously indulged a thought that the right choice 
 might perhaps be reserved for one whom she could prefer. But 
 she would now and then playfully complain to Nerissa of the 
 waywardness of her fate, which placed her disposal at the mercy 
 of a lottery. Nerissa would laughingly attempt to console her 
 by assurances that she would make her own marriage depend on 
 the same chance. 
 
 “ I know,” said she, “ that whenever I may think of a hus- 
 band, I shall make a quick choice ; and, who knows ? perhaps 
 when the right suitor to your ladyship shall select the right 
 casket, the right lover for me may present himself at the right 
 same moment, and so the rites of marriage may give both the 
 gallants a right over us at once from that day forward, and 
 everything may end rightly and happily after all.” 
 
 Bassanio, like every one else, had heard of the heiress of 
 Belmont ; of the adventure of the caskets, and of how it was to 
 decide of her disposal in marriage. His former thought re- 
 curred ; and he now resolved that he would seek assistance of 
 his friend Antonio, and would try his fate at Belmont, where he 
 
PORTIA. 
 
 23 
 
 would commence his suit to Portia by a frank disclosure of the 
 state of his ruined fortunes, and his desire to owe all things to 
 her bounty and her love — could he once obtain confirmation of 
 his hope that he was not wholly indifferent to her. 
 
 Bassanio’s spendthrift course had been rather the result of 
 youth than arisen from a native tendency to extravagance. He 
 was possessed of high qualities, as well as of a handsome person. 
 His love for his friend Antonio was warm and sincere ; and the 
 sense he entertained of the many benefits he had received at the 
 hands of this munificent kinsman took the shape of gratitude 
 and indestructible attachment. He had also an exalted sense 
 of honour, and entertained an utter scorn of falsehood in word 
 or deed. 
 
 But to return to Belmont — to Portia — to Nerissa. 
 
 One day, when there had been as usual a numerous arrival of 
 suitors during the preceding week, and there were then abiding 
 in the house no fewer than six gentlemen, — a Neapolitan prince, 
 a County Palatine, a French lord, an English baron, a Scotch 
 earl, and a German duke’s nephew, — all attracted hither by the 
 fame of the rich heiress, Portia and Nerissa sat at their em- 
 broidery frame in the library. Portia loved this room for the 
 sake of her father, whom she had here beheld for the last time, 
 and for the sake of Bellario, with whom she had here spent 
 some of the happiest hours of her existence. She made it her 
 own peculiar sitting-room, therefore ; and here she sat on the 
 morning in question, chatting gaily with Nerissa in their usual 
 free, pleasant, light-hearted manner. 
 
 And so, in the pretended pouting of a favourite of fortune, 
 Portia said : — u By my troth , Nerissa , my little body is awea?y of 
 this great world f 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act i. sc. 2. 
 
TALE II. 
 
 THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 HE night-wind howled and swept over the heathy 
 plains that surrounded the castle. It drove on 
 shriekingly; then paused; and then the sharp 
 lashings of the rain-storm pelted onward before 
 its fierce will. The distant hills were hung with 
 mist ; and when the flashes of lightning darted a momentary 
 glare upon all around, they served but to illumine the dense 
 dank veil that shrouded castle, hill, and valley. 
 
 Dismally and wailingly the gust panted on, lamenting. 
 
 Round the walls and battlements of the castle, it beat, and 
 tore, and raved ; the rain whirled its sheeted drifts against the 
 stony security, as if mad with impotent endeavours to penetrate 
 the building, and whelm all beneath its washing inundation ; 
 the lightning darted fiery threats amid turret and tower, in 
 vivid, sudden, quick-succeeding flashes ; while the deep-rolling 
 thunder mingled its awful menaces with the howls and com- 
 plainings of the wind. The wrath of nature seemed striving to 
 find voice in the tumult of the vengeful elements; as these 
 storm-ministers still beat, and tore, and raved round the castle 
 walls. 
 
 For within these walls — in one of the upper chambers of the 
 castle— that night a child was born into the world, destined to 
 read a world-wide lesson, how unhallowed desires and towering 
 ambition can deface the image of virtue in a human heart, and 
 teach it to spurn and outrage the dictates of nature herself. 
 
 On her couch lay the thane’s lady. Her eyes were closed 
 — but she did not sleep. The lids veiled them, but beneath 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 25 
 
 the lids the restless eye-balls quivered, and the fringed lashes 
 were not still ; while the pale lips trembled and twitched with 
 emotion that was strong and wakeful. 
 
 Bethoc, the aged nurse, hovered near her mistress, mutely 
 sympathizing with the thoughts which she knew agitated her 
 heart, and caused those sleepless eyes to quiver and tremble. 
 
 The dark eyes open, and meet those of the aged nurse. 
 They are eager, and fraught with solicitude and enquiry of 
 somewhat the lips dare not frame into a question. 
 
 Bethoc answers the look — “ I will bring the babe, and lay 
 her to your breast, my lady.” 
 
 “ Dare not to say ‘ her ! ’ ” 
 
 “ Madam, the bairn’s just a lassie ; I’d ha’ told ye of a man- 
 child, if I could.” 
 
 A groan burst from the lips of the sick lady ; and the teeth 
 were ground, with what sounded a curse ! 
 
 The storm had subsided ; and for many hours the sky had 
 been clear and bright. It was high morning. 
 
 The old thane entered ; and bending over his wife in a 
 transport of honest tenderness, he kissed her forehead, and 
 whispered his joy to see her safe, his proud delight at the 
 1 thought of the child she had brought him — his thanks — his 
 happiness. 
 
 The lady turned her large full eyes upon him, with a look 
 of wonder. 
 
 “ Do you know it is a girl ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Surely replied her husband. “ Dear little creature, she 
 is sent by Heaven to make my age happy, and to comfort her 
 mother when she has laid her old Kenneth in the grave.” But 
 as these words of pious thanksgiving breathed from her hus- 
 band’s lips, the thane’s lady sank back — a corpse. 
 
 The thane pressed the motherless infant to his bosom, and 
 raised his eyes reverently to the Creator, from whose presence 
 the newly-born one seemed but recently come, and prayed 
 that maturity might not sully the pristine whiteness of its 
 innocence. 
 
 The infant, though thus early deprived of her mother, throve 
 under the fostering care of a doting nurse and ministering 
 
26 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 attendants ; but, as soon as she was able to run about by her- 
 self, the little girl found means of evading the nurse’s wish to 
 retain her constantly within her own supervision; and she 
 would stray from the women’s range of apartments, finding her 
 way all over the castle. 
 
 Sometimes she would seek out her father, and take pleasure 
 in seeing the smile that always lighted up his venerable face at 
 the sight of hers, so bright in its youthful beauty. 
 
 And yet there was a latent expression, a something antago- 
 nistic, in the clear beauty of that fair child. Surpassingly 
 handsome she was ; but yet a look there was in those blue 
 eyes, that marred their loveliness of shape and colour. In the 
 mouth, too, round those full and rubious lips, and amid those 
 exquisite dimples, there played certain lines that presented 
 indications of will and unfeminine inflexibility, which might 
 have produced sensations of repulsive surmise to one ac- 
 customed to seek charm in expression rather than in linear 
 beauty. 
 
 But among those by whom she was surrounded, there were 
 no such fastidious analyzers. Her fond father dwelt with rap- 
 ture upon the face of his little girl, and found naught there but 
 loveliness ; and she, gratified with praise, would often come to 
 him that she might enjoy that which he so profusely lavished 
 upon her. But sated with adulation, and accustomed to in- 
 dulgence, she soon tired of so monotonous an amusement, and 
 she lingered less and less by her old father’s side, and strayed 
 farther and oftener in search of more congenial entertainment 
 than his quiet voice, and approving looks could afford. 
 
 She loved to watch the men-at-arms in the court-yard, prac- 
 tising their management of their different weapons, and she 
 would note with unwearied interest the dexterity and skill of 
 the retainers in these warlike sports and exercises. 
 
 There was one man she remarked who was peculiarly skilful. 
 He was a tall, stalwart fellow, singularly uncouth and ugly, 
 with wild shaggy hair, and a ferocious look. His name was 
 Grym. But he uniformly surpassed all his companions in 
 adroitness, and success in his feats of arms. So to this ill- 
 favoured, but triumphant giant, did the child take a strong 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 27 
 
 fancy, and he became a sort of hero, a favourite rallying point 
 for all her wishes and interest in the scene of contention. 
 
 Once, when there arose a dispute as to which arrow had 
 flown the best, and hit the nearest to the centre of the target, 
 several voices contending clamorously for the rival claims of 
 the two most successful bowmen — Grym and Ivan, the little 
 girl suddenly sprang forward loudly and eagerly declaring that 
 Grym was the victor. 
 
 “ Don’t you see ! Don’t you see ! ” she exclaimed, pointing 
 up to the mark, which was high above her head ; “ That’s his 
 shaft ! Right in the clout ! ” 
 
 “ I’ll lift you up, my young lady,” said one of the men ; 
 “and you’ll then see that Ivan’s arrow is just a point nighest.” 
 
 “ Let Grym lift me up ! Here Grym ! Take me up ! Hold 
 me fast ! Here, don’t you see, all of you,” shouted the child in 
 all the excitement of proving her words, and awarding the 
 victory to her hero while with one hand she clung round the 
 neck of the savage-looking archer, and with the other pointed 
 triumphantly to the spot where his arrow rested : — “ Don’t you 
 all see that Grym’s is the best shaft ? ” 
 
 The child’s excitement communicated itself to the men, and 
 they one and all shouted— Ivan and his partizans as eagerly as 
 any — “ Grym’s is the best ! Grym is conquerer ! ” 
 
 From that day Grym was the avowed favourite and playmate 
 of the little lady Gruoch ; and it was strange to see the fair 
 child, a thing of smiles, and beauty, and grace, take a fancy to 
 that grisly man-at-arms, and cling round his great bull-neck, 
 and nestle within his huge stalwart arms, and make him carry 
 her about from place to place to show her all the curiosities of 
 drawbridge, portcullis, and moat, donjonkeep, and fortalice, 
 tower and battlement, platform and rampart, embrazure and 
 loop-hole, outwork, barbican, postern-gate, turret, and but- 
 tressed wall ; all the curious places about a strongly defended 
 castle, that possessed so wondrous an interest for an inquisitive 
 and restless child. 
 
 There was a wood in the vicinity of the castle of Moray, where 
 the little lady Gruoch loved to wander. She would make Grym 
 
28 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 carry her thither, of a bright spring or summer morning ; and 
 here she would play about, attended only by her gaunt favourite, 
 and the young page Culen, who, with a boy’s sagacity in finding 
 out what he liked, and in securing it when found out, always 
 contrived to be of the party, when he saw Grym, with the little 
 lady in his arms, take the path to the wood. Culen soon in- 
 gratiated himself with his young lady-mistress, by a thousand 
 ingenious devices. Now he would bring her a rustic crown 
 and sceptre, woven skilfully of rushes from the margin of the lake ; 
 anon, heaps of wild flowers to adorn her mossy throne in the 
 wood; another time, feathers from the eagle’s wing, or the jay’s, 
 which he would deftly form into a sylvan fan for her ; and some- 
 times he would thread scarlet berries into chains and bracelets 
 to hang around her neck and arms, and twine amid her bright 
 gold hair. 
 
 These boyish offerings were graciously accepted by the little 
 lady, who grew to take pleasure in seeing the page constantly 
 form one in the association that had grown between herself and 
 Grym — but she always treated Culen as a vassal and an inferior, 
 while to Grym she behaved familiarly and almost fondly, as 
 one in whom she recognized that which she could admire and 
 respect. 
 
 And truly there was that in the uncouth Grym which might 
 command both admiration and respect. He was spare and 
 curt in words; but his heart overflowed with honest good- 
 meaning. His bearing was ungain, his features were harsh, and 
 his countenance was forbidding ; but he would not have hurt a 
 fly, and he was incapable of an ungenerous thought or a mean 
 action. 
 
 He was keenly sensible of the fancy the beautiful child, 
 Gruoch, had taken to him, ugly as he was ; and his attachment 
 towards his young mistress was profound and devoted. 
 
 It was like a potent spell, the hold which the young beauty 
 had upon the affections of those around her. The old thane, 
 her father ; Bethoc, the aged nurse ; Grym, the brave man-at- 
 arms ; Culen, the young page ; all doted upon her very footsteps, 
 and yielded implicitly to the fascination which she exercised over 
 their feelings. It seemed impossible to behold that fair brilliant 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER . 
 
 29 
 
 being, and not worship the image of triumphant beauty she pre- 
 sented. Her very habit of command seemed to heighten her 
 charms, and imperatively to claim homage, admiration, and 
 regard. 
 
 She was one day straying in the wood, attended only by Grym, 
 when, on approaching the rustic seat of moss which she was 
 accustomed to occupy as her sylvan throne, Gruoch perceived 
 a figure seated there. It was that of a Highlander. He seemed 
 faint and way-worn, and drooped his head forward upon his 
 hands, so that his face was hidden from them as they approached. 
 At first Gruoch bade Grym go and bid the man retire from the 
 seat which was hers — her throne ; but noting his weary and 
 dejected attitude, she added : — “ Stay, the man seems tired ; 
 let him come to the castle for rest and refreshment. ,, 
 
 The Highlander raised his head slowly. “ There is death in 
 the castle ! ” he exclaimed solemnly. 
 
 Then steadily regarding the lady Gruoch for a few seconds, 
 he added : — “ What is it I trace on that fair young brow ? But 
 such weird shall not be read by me for one that has just proffered 
 rest and refreshment.” And he sank into his former attitude. 
 
 “ Go, Grym, and assist him to rise ; ” said the little girl. 
 “ What does he mean ? Is he sick? ” 
 
 The page came up at the moment, and Grym despatched 
 him for some of his fellows, that they might come to the stranger’s 
 assistance, and support him to the castle. 
 
 “Take me home, Grym,” whispered little Gruoch. “Take 
 me up in your arms, I want to hold by you. I don’t like him ! 
 Take me away ! ” 
 
 Grym felt the child tremble, as he lifted her up in his arms, 
 and bore her from the spot. 
 
 “ What did he mean by ‘ death in the castle,’ Grym ? ” 
 whispered she. 
 
 Grym only shook his head. 
 
 “ Speak, Grym — you must speak — I want to hear your voice,” 
 said the child, grasping his shaggy hair, and pulling his face 
 round towards her own. “ Look at me, and tell me, Grym I” 
 
 “ God grant it be not second-sight ! Some of these High- 
 landers have the gift,” muttered Grym. 
 
30 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ‘ Second-sight ! ’ I don’t know what 
 
 you mean, now, Grym. Speak, speak !” And the little lady 
 tugged and pulled at the shaggy locks, in the vehemence of her 
 eagerness to urge the taciturn Grym to explain. 
 
 “We shall known soon enough, when we reach the castle;” 
 said he. 
 
 Gruoch said no more, for she had fallen into a fit of thought. 
 She could not help dreading that something fatal had happened 
 to her father. 
 
 She had scarcely crossed the drawbridge and court-yard of 
 the castle, than she threw herself out of Grym’s arms, and 
 rushed into the hall where her father usually sat, surrounded by 
 his dogs, near the hearth. There in his wonted place she found 
 him ; and with a warmth of gratitude and love that had never 
 before swelled her heart, she flung herself into his arms, weep- 
 ing and sobbing upon his breast, while she hugged him 
 passionately and repeatedly. 
 
 Surprised and alarmed at the violence of her emotion, the 
 old thane enquired what had happened to terrify his darling. 
 
 Grym stepped forward to relate the encounter in the wood, 
 and her father desired some one to go and fetch Bethoc, that 
 she might soothe and comfort her young mistress ; then bethink- 
 ing himself, he added : — “ No, no, not Bethoc ! Let some one 
 go and bid Eoda and Lula come for their young lady.” 
 
 Soon after Gruoch had been led away by her women, she 
 learned that the reason Bethoc had not been summoned to 
 her aid, was, that the poor old nurse had been seized with 
 sudden paralysis that morning, and had expired not half an hour 
 before her young mistress returned to the castle. 
 
 “ Then hers was the death predicted ! ” thought Gruoch. 
 And in the relief of finding it was not her father’s, that of the 
 faithful Bethoc was comparatively unfelt. 
 
 When those of the household who had been summoned by 
 Culen to the assistance of the Highlander, reached the wood, 
 they found no trace of him. He had departed— vanished from 
 the spot. 
 
 A year or two passed away; and for somewhile after Bethoc’s 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 3i 
 
 death, Gruoch’s interest and attention were drawn towards her 
 old father in a degree that they had never been before. She 
 would sit at her father’s feet, and gaze up into his face, and 
 wonder how it should be, that with the strong attachment which 
 she felt for him — an attachment that had caused her to start 
 with terror from the possibility of losing him — still that there 
 should be withal so little of delight in their being together. 
 And yet that mild face ! That snow-white hair ! Surely she 
 felt very fondly, very pitifully towards so much meekness and 
 softness ? Yes, she did. But it was that very pity that prevented 
 the fulness of a daughter’s love. 
 
 One evening as she sat on a low stool at his feet, gazing as 
 usual into his face, she remembered what Bethoc had told her 
 of her mother’s regret that there should have been so little of 
 martial ardour in his nature, so total an absence of ambition, 
 of thirst for advancement of any kind. 
 
 Her pity for such infirmity almost assumed the poignancy of 
 contempt. “ Where sufferings are so passive,” thought she, 
 “what wonder that the heel of the tyrant crushes?” She 
 thought upon the shame of seeing the wealth of a noble house 
 mulcted to feed the royal avarice (for Malcolm II, the then 
 reigning king, had grown grasping in his old age, and oppressed 
 his nobles with incessant severity) ; she thought upon the bitter 
 degradation of claims unmaintained, of extortions tamely sub- 
 mitted to, of injustice unresisted and unresented, until her eyes 
 sparkled and her cheeks glowed with the burning thoughts that 
 possessed her. Her father happened to look upon her upturned 
 face at this moment, and started at the images he beheld of the 
 brooding wrath and vengeance that rankled at her heart, and 
 cast their reflex upon her countenance. 
 
 “What’s the matter, my darling?” he exclaimed. “Don’t 
 look in that way, darling.” And the old thane passed his hand 
 over his child’s beautiful face, as if to remove the terrible look 
 that marred its loveliness. 
 
 Gruoch held down her head, and thought within herself. 
 
 “ He does not care for anything. He does not care to talk to 
 me. He is contented to sit there quietly, hardly looking at me, 
 with his hand upon my head.” She half withdrew it from be- 
 
32 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 neath his touch, with a suppressed sound of annoyance. “ He 
 strokes my hair, and pats my head, just as he caresses his 
 hounds. I wonder whether he loves me better than one of those 
 dogs ? ” 
 
 After a time, when the train of her reflections had a little 
 softened, she looked up again towards her father’s face. It was 
 serene as usual, and the eyes were closed. He had fallen asleep 
 quietly, with his hand upon his child’s fair head ; there was a 
 look of holy benignity in his aspect, which touched her, as the 
 thought crossed her mind that it was mercifully sleep, and not 
 death, which she gazed upon. 
 
 “ Kind old father ! ” she muttered. “ He does love me ; and 
 I love him ! ” 
 
 And Gruoch stepped softly on to the little stool from which 
 she had risen, and kissed the face of her father as he slept. 
 
 But gradually the old restlessness returned; and Gruoch 
 found the constant companionship of her parent as irksome as 
 ever. She renewed her association with Grym, and learned to 
 add new amusements to those she had formerly found in com- 
 pany with her ungain favourite, and the young page, Culen. 
 
 Once she and Grym were practising with bow and arrows at 
 a mark, that had been set up at one end of the long platform on 
 the ramparts of the castle, which adjoined the women’s range of 
 apartments. She was just in the act of fixing a fresh shaft, and 
 preparing to take aim again, when her eye caught sight of the 
 page, who approached along the range of platform, tossing 
 lightly up and down something which he held in his hand, and 
 which was gay and parti-coloured. 
 
 “ What is that, Culen ? A ball ! And how light, and how 
 well-made ! Is it for me? ” 
 
 “Yes, my lady, it is for you. I made it, hoping you would 
 like to have it.” 
 
 “ It is very handsome ! Thank you, Culen ; I like it very 
 much. How well you have made it ! How bright the colours 
 are ! And how well it flies ! ” 
 
 She continued for some minutes tossing up the ball, and 
 watching the flying gay colours ; while the page stood by, to 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 33 
 
 look upon the bright beautiful face, the graceful form that 
 bounded to and fro in agile pursuit. 
 
 When she ceased for a moment, Culen said : — “ I have some- 
 thing else to show you, that I think will please your ladyship ; 
 I found it out yesterday. There are plenty about the castle 
 heights ; but this one is so near that you can see right into it, 
 and watch the birds.” 
 
 The page stepped upon a stone ledge which formed a kind of 
 seat in a recess of the battlemented outer wall that skirted the 
 platform ; and signed to his young mistress that she should 
 silently follow his example, and peep over. She climbed up by 
 his side; and looked over the ridge of the wall, in the direction 
 of his finger. Upon a slight jutting point, a pair of martlets had 
 built their nest; and the young lady and the page could see the 
 callow nestlings with their gaping mouths ; they could watch 
 the parent birds take short wheeling flights, and return to hover 
 at the opening of the nest, and supply their young ones with 
 food. 
 
 For some time Gruoch continued to watch this pretty sight 
 with interest ; then she stepped down from the stone seat, and 
 began to toss her ball again. Suddenly it swerved in its upward 
 flight, and fell just beyond the wall. 
 
 The page sprang to the spot he had just quitted, and ex- 
 claimed : — “ I see it ! It has lodged just below the nest ! Look! 
 On that frieze just beneath !” 
 
 “ I see it ! I see it ! ” cried Gruoch, who had stepped up 
 again by his side. “ It looks quite near ! What a pity we 
 can’t reach it ! O my beautiful ball ! ” 
 
 “ If I had but a ledge ever so small to set my foot upon, I 
 could get it; I know I could !” exclaimed Culen. “ It’s quite 
 close, I could be over in a moment ! ” 
 
 “Would you venture?” said his young mistress, looking at 
 him approvingly. 
 
 “ That I would ! I could get it in an instant, if I had but a 
 spot to step my foot upon — ever such a point would do ! If the 
 martlet’s nest were not there, now, that would be quite room 
 enough ! ” 
 
 “ But we can soon dislodge the nest, if that’s all ! ” exclaimed 
 
 D 
 
34 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Gruoch. “Here’s one of Grym’s long shafts— that’ll do exactly 
 to poke it off with.” 
 
 “ Oh no ! ” said the page hastily. 
 
 “ Are you afraid ? ” said she, looking at him abruptly. 
 
 “No, not that; but I don’t like — I can’t push the nest off,” 
 said Culen. 
 
 “ Then I will ! Give me the arrow ! ” she exclaimed. 
 
 Gruoch leaned over the edge ; fixed the point of the arrow 
 into the caked mud and earth which fastened the nest to the 
 jutting point ; loosened it ; raised it ; and in another moment, 
 the martlet’s home with its unfledged tenants, spun whirling 
 through the air, and was scattered to pieces, striking against the 
 buttresses and rough-hewn walls. She stayed not to note its 
 career, but turned to the page. 
 
 “ Now, Culen ! It was a brave offer ! Have you courage ? 
 I will hold your hand firm ! Give it me.” 
 
 The page seized the beautiful little hand that was held out to 
 him, and taking the arrow in the other, that he might reach and 
 •secure the soft ball with it, he climbed over the edge of the 
 cuter wall, which was narrower there, on account of the deep 
 recess that was made in its thickness, and formed the ledge on 
 which they stood. 
 
 But when he set his foot upon the jutting point which had 
 lately held the nest, and then planted the other foot on the same 
 spot, and after that, carefully stooped down, and stretched his 
 arm out, so as to stick the arrow into the ball, — he had no sooner 
 effected this, than he suddenly felt his head reel, and his eyes 
 swim at the unaccustomed height over which he hung suspended, 
 merely sustained by that frail support. 
 
 Gruoch felt the spasmodic twitch that these sensations com- 
 municated to the hand she grasped. 
 
 “ Keep firm, Culen ! Hold fast my hand ! I have yours 
 tight ! ” And the small hand never trembled, or wavered, but 
 clutched close, like a vice. 
 
 Her voice did him good ; her tone of resolution inspired 
 him ; her steady grasp encouraged him ; and he was enabled to 
 recall his dizzied senses. 
 
 He looked up, and as he beheld that exquisite face leaning 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 35 
 
 over towards him, wish for his success beaming in every feature, 
 he flung up the ball from the point of the arrow, and strove to 
 regain the top of the wall. 
 
 But on raising his arm to the edge, he found he should not 
 be able to obtain sufficient purchase,— even when he should 
 gain the assistance of the other hand which was now held by 
 Gruoch, — to enable him to draw himself up that height. 
 
 The page cast one look of mute dismay towards his young 
 mistress. 
 
 She perceived his peril. 
 
 “ Keep a brave heart, Culen ! Hold my hand steadily ! 
 You are safe, fear not !” she exclaimed. “Here, Grym! Grym ! 
 Come here ; make haste ! Help, Grym, help ! ” 
 
 The whole scene has occupied some time to relate ; but it 
 had in fact passed so rapidly, that by no means a long time had 
 elapsed since Grym had retreated to the other end of the plat- 
 form to fetch the arrows. 
 
 He soon perceived the emergency ; and hardly giving utter- 
 ance to his thought: — “What have these children been about?” 
 he leaned over the top of the wall, and seizing Culen’s hand 
 from Gruoch in his own herculean grip, he drew him carefully, 
 but readily, from his perilous position. 
 
 The first impulse of the kind-hearted bowman was to hug the 
 lad in his arms ; the next was to shake him by the scuff of his 
 neck, and to ask him gruffly, “ What d’ye mean by playing such 
 fool’s tricks, master page ? Don’t you see how you’ve frightened 
 my young lady, here ? ” 
 
 And as they both looked at Gruoch, they saw her turn pale ; 
 she staggered forward, and would have fallen to the ground, had 
 not Grym caught her in his arms. 
 
 “ Poor lamb !” he muttered, as he bore her gently to her own 
 apartments ; “ She’s as tender-hearted as she’s beautiful.” 
 
 “And she feels thus for me !” whispered Culen’s heart, as he 
 stood rooted to the spot, his cheek flushed, and his chest 
 heaving, at the thought. 
 
 They were wrong. Neither the page nor the man-at-arms 
 guessed that her swoon was the effect of mere physical sym- 
 pathy; a sickening sense of danger past; a reaction of the 
 
36 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 nerves, — braced for the moment by strength of will, with an ob- 
 ject in view, — but suddenly relaxed from their tension, by the 
 native weakness of a frame less powerful than her spirit. 
 
 Years passed on. The handsome girl became a confirmed 
 beauty ; the wilful child became the determined woman ; and 
 Gruoch, still in her non-age, and in person singularly delicate, 
 was yet in spirit, in bearing, in formed opinion, a woman. 
 
 Her affection for her father was the tenderest sentiment she 
 felt. Her partiality for Grym was the most active preference 
 she had. Her liking for the page partook of kindly tolerance ; 
 and she accepted his services as those of a faithful serf, or of an 
 attached and favourite spaniel. She would as soon have 
 dreamed of one of her father’s hounds conceiving a passion 
 for her, as have entertained the most remote suspicion of the 
 one which glowed in the heart of the brave and handsome 
 Culen. 
 
 One evening she had been pacing the castle platform, enjoy- 
 ing the purity of the mountain air, and the pleasant warmth of 
 the sun, which shed a glowing beauty upon all around, — valley, 
 lake, and hill lying steeped in the golden light, ere the setting 
 glory should depart. She was attended as usual by Grym and 
 Culen, with the former of whom she was discussing the inci- 
 dents and success of a falcon-match that they had flown to- 
 gether the day before. From hawking, they went on to talk of 
 other sports. Of strength, and of courage, and of how she 
 marvelled that any one could rank softness and sweetness by 
 their side. 
 
 “ Of what use are these so-called virtues ? ” said she. “ Do 
 they serve to win one high object? Softness, sweetness, meek- 
 ness, gentleness, and a whole tribe of these washy goodnesses, 
 were only styled virtues by knaves who sought to take advan- 
 tage of the easy prey which such a creed would produce them 
 in its professors/’ 
 
 “ Then you, my lady, would not give your vote for our new 
 king Duncan, if monarchy went by election ; ” said Grym. 
 
 “Not I, in faith;” answered the lady. His are carpet 
 virtues, which might show well enough in a clerkly monk, but 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 37 
 
 beseem not a Scottish sovereign ! — And when, pray, is this 
 gracious meekness, this milk-and-water amiability to be 
 crowned ? ” 
 
 “This day se’nnight is appointed for the convocation ol 
 nobles at Scone, my lady ; ” replied Grym. “ The coronation 
 is to be celebrated with great magnificence, they say.” 
 
 “ And how do the people stand affected to the new sovereign?” 
 asked his mistress. 
 
 “Public opinion hath two voices just now;” said Grym. 
 “ Though most men are loud in their praises of the good king 
 Duncan, there are not wanting those who say his cousin 
 Macbeth would have better filled the throne. He is a right 
 valiant gentleman, and hath well-nigh as close claims to the 
 monarchy as the king himself, for Macbeth is the son of the 
 one daughter of our late Malcolm II, as Duncan is of the 
 other.” 
 
 “ Then why not have chosen the valiant knight, instead of 
 the carpet knight ? Why not Macbeth, rather than Duncan, 
 if they possess equal claims ? ” asked Gruoch. 
 
 “ Because Duncan’s mother was the elder of the two sisters ; ” 
 replied Grym. “ Besides, it is whispered that the valour of 
 Macbeth partakes of somewhat more than hardihood and 
 bravery, and that to what his partizans call courage, his enemies 
 might give the harsher name of cruelty.” 
 
 “ The bold and daring never want for enemies among the 
 weak and timid, who are legion ; ” said lady Gruoch ; “ and 
 who stigmatize that which they cannot hope to emulate.” 
 
 While she thus conversed, she had remained half sitting 
 half kneeling, in the recess, and had been leaning upon the 
 ridge of the wall, or rather upon the arm of the page ; who 
 had placed his arm so that she might have its intervention. 
 
 She leaned upon it as she would have done upon a cushion, 
 or upon his cloak, had he folded it into one for the purpose ; 
 totally unconscious that the support she used was human in 
 its sense of her touch, or that there was human passion beating 
 at the heart close beside her. 
 
 “ Were all men of my mind,” continued the lady, “ better 
 befits a sceptre be wielded with harshness and glory, than with 
 
33 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 infructuous mildness. These are no times for milk-sop kings ! 
 All men should be soldiers — and kings, most of all men !” 
 
 “ All men should be soldiers ? ” echoed Culen half uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 “ Ay, master page. Though I thank you for your pains to 
 save my shoulder from the hard edge of this stone wall ; yet 
 methinks I could better like to see your good right arm 
 strike a firm blow in Scotland’s cause, than benumb itself 
 into a cushion for a lady’s back, though the back be mine 
 own.” 
 
 “ And have I your ladyship’s leave to seek service in the 
 field?” asked Culen, his eyes sparkling at the thought of 
 winning favour in hers. “ If my lord, your father, and yourself, 
 sanction my leaving the castle of Moray, I ask no better 
 fortune than the chance of showing my lady that the arm has 
 been nerved to achievement, not ’numbed to inaction, by having 
 had the honour to serve her for a cushion.” 
 
 “ Well said, Culen ; ” said the lady Gruoch, looking at him 
 with a smile of approval ; <£ I will myself obtain my father’s 
 consent to your quitting our inglorious castle of ease. Would 
 my mother’s wish had been accomplished ! Would I were a 
 man to go forth with you ! You should be my trusty squire, 
 and Grym, my faithful man-at-arms ; — and so should the knight 
 of Moray set forth to the field doughtily equipped ! Would I 
 had indeed been born a man ! ” 
 
 In a few days, Culen left the castle of Moray, to seek his 
 fortune as a soldier. In parting with him, the gentle old 
 Kenneth had bestowed a kindly benizon on him ; Grym had 
 growled him some rough but sensible advice; and the lady 
 Gruoch had given him her hand to kiss ; which favour he had 
 knelt to receive, and which had done much to console him for 
 the sacrifice he made in leaving her. 
 
 For some time after Culen’s departure, the castle of Moray 
 seemed to sink into more than the usual state of dullness and 
 stagnation, of which its young mistress had complained. 
 
 But one day its inhabitants were thrown into a state of 
 unwonted interest, by the arrival of two strangers at the gates, 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 39 
 
 who entreated to speak with Kenneth, thane of Moray, and his 
 fair daughter, the iady Gruoch. 
 
 One of these strangers was a Highlander, the other, a young 
 damsel. 
 
 The Highlander said that he was travelling in search of 
 employment for his only child, his daughter Doada ; that she 
 played the harp passing well ; that the monks at the neighbour- 
 ing abbey had told him that she would most likely find enter- 
 tainment and favour at the castle of Moray. That he hoped 
 that the lord of Moray and his fair daughter would give Doada 
 leave to let them hear her skill on the instrument she bore 
 beneath her plaid ; then signing to the damsel, she threw back 
 her tartan screen, and disclosing a face of great loveliness, 
 amid a profusion of golden hair, she began to play. 
 
 The sounds she drew from the instrument were sweet and 
 full ; but when she accompanied them with her voice, chanting 
 songs full of variety, now of pathos, now of animation, the 
 venerable Kenneth listened entranced by the delicious music. 
 
 While her father was occupied with the Highlander and his 
 daughter, the lady Gruoch beckoned Grym to her side, and by 
 a glance indicating the Highlander, she whispered : — “ Is it 
 not he ? ” 
 
 “ It is the same, sure enough ; ” replied the man-at-arms. “I 
 knew him again the moment I cast my eyes on him. Shall I 
 bid him begone, my lady?” added he. 
 
 “ No, no ; I do not fear him now. I was a child then, and 
 dreaded every shadow, I suppose. I will speak to him ; I only 
 wished to be sure that my recollection served me aright.” 
 
 The lady Gruoch rejoined her father ; who was still intent 
 upon Doada and her music. He had promised that she should 
 remain as a companion to his daughter at the castle of Moray, 
 saying that he should be well pleased to add to his retainers a 
 damsel of such merit. 
 
 Her Highland father seemed gladdened by the prospect of 
 such a home secured for his child, and was turning to depart, 
 when the lady Gruoch looked him steadily in the face, and 
 arrested his steps by saying : — 
 
 “ The death you foretold, befell ; and now I would fain 
 
40 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 hear the other weird you were about to read that morning. 
 Speak ! ” 
 
 The Highlander passed his hand across his brow, muttering, 
 as he gazed at the lady Gruoch : — 
 
 “ I remember now ! The castle of Moray ! Ay, there was 
 death there then ! Somewhat else there was, I dimly saw, but 
 cared not to read, to one who had offered help. My hour was 
 then upon me. My hour of darkness and of light. Darkness 
 to the soul, light t© the vision. When my hour is upon me, I 
 see more than is given to ordinary human ken.” 
 
 “ And is not your hour upon you now ? Speak, old man ! 
 Read my weird now ! ” said lady Gruoch. 
 
 The Highlander still gazed upon her; but he shook his head, 
 and laid his finger upon his lip. 
 
 “ How came it, you were no longer in the wood, when assist- 
 ance was sent to you? Who are you? What are you?” asked 
 she hurriedly. 
 
 “ I am a poor Highlandman, my lady. I had wandered 
 across the hills to these parts, on an errand to the abbey near 
 here, where I knew I should find help. I returned forthwith 
 to my mountain home, whence I have never since strayed, till 
 compelled to do so for my child’s sake. I could have borne 
 want myself, but cannot look upon her starvation.” 
 
 “ She shall find a home here,” said lady Gruoch graciously ; 
 “ the pleasure her melody gives to my father, would alone make 
 her a welcome inmate to his daughter. She shall dwell with 
 us.” 
 
 “ And you will let her father’s eyes behold her occasionally?” 
 asked the Highlander, after renewing his thanks. 
 
 “I will myself send her to see you, safely escorted;” said 
 Gruoch. “ Meantime, among my maidens, she shall be 
 nearest to my person, in token of the favour in which her skill 
 is held.” 
 
 The Highlander, blessing heaven for the auspicious prospects 
 of his child, embraced her, bowed lowly, and withdrew. 
 
 The presence of the fair young damsel, and her passing 
 excellence in song, served well to enliven the monotony of 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 41 
 
 existence in the castle of Moray ; but to the lady Gruoch 
 herself, the still life of the castle seemed as irksome as 
 ever. 
 
 However, soon there came tidings of an event that promised 
 to supply food for curiosity and interest to all within the walls 
 of the castle. 
 
 A missive to the lord of Moray from Sinel, thane of Glamis, 
 informed his old friend, that his son, Macbeth, craved leave to 
 pay his respects to the lord of Moray, and to his fair daughter, 
 the lady Gruoch, of whose charms fame had spread report, 
 even so far as to his castle of Inverness. 
 
 The news spread of the expected approach of the renowned 
 visitor ; and all was anticipation among the inhabitants of the 
 castle. Every one desired to behold the illustrious chieftain, a 
 cousin of the king himself. 
 
 Macbeth arrives. The old thane receives him warmly, as a 
 worthy representative of Sinel, his father. The lady Gruoch 
 joins her welcome to that of her parent ; and while the gracious 
 words flow from her lips, Macbeth looks upon her surpassing 
 beauty, and his heart owns he has never beheld charms of 
 equal potency with those of the thane’s daughter. There is 
 something in those azure eyes that enthrals his gaze ; their fas- 
 cination is only rivalled by the brilliancy of her complexion, by 
 the lustre of her golden hair, and above all, by the magic of a 
 commanding presence, which asserts the claim of such a com- 
 bination of beauty to homage and admiration. He is content 
 to submit his senses to this new and intoxicating influence ; 
 content also to find that his gaze nowise seems to distress the 
 object of his fixed regard. She is animated, self-possessed, 
 radiant in conscious charms, performing the duties of hostess, 
 and presiding at the festal supper-table with ease and grace. 
 Her retired life has induced no bashful embarrassment; she 
 seems born a queen. 
 
 By degrees, he discovers yet a new charm amidst so much 
 beauty. He sees a something of answering admiration in the 
 manner in which the bright flashes of those azure eyes met his. 
 The handsome person of the chieftain, the ardour of his man- 
 ner, coming to confirm the impression which his previous 
 
42 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 reputation had created upon her imagination, leads her to 
 regard him with scarcely less admiration than he does her ; and 
 their mutual looks and discourse reveal more and more how 
 each is struck and enchanted with the other. The gentle 
 remarks and kindly speeches of the old thane fall almost totally 
 disregarded, while the attention of the young people becomes 
 every instant more exclusively devoted to each other. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of music is heard. At a signal from the 
 lord of Moray, the Highland maiden strikes a few chords on 
 her harp by way of prelude to the song he has requested. 
 
 “ Doada will sing to us, my lord ; ” said Kenneth to his guest 
 “ Her music is worthy your ear, I can assure you.” 
 
 ‘‘What name did you say? How call you the maiden?” 
 said Macbeth, abruptly regarding her. 
 
 The damsel blushed, at the sudden gaze of one so illustrious, 
 till the blood flew over neck and brow, and her fair skin showed 
 the suffusion so apparently, that a lily seemed suddenly trans- 
 formed to a rose. 
 
 Gruoch’s face flashed scarlet too. 
 
 When the music came to a close, Kenneth canvassed ap- 
 plause for his favourite Doada ; and he drew his guest’s 
 attention to her again by asking if they did not possess min- 
 strelsy in their poor castle of Moray worthy even of royal 
 hearing. 
 
 “Ay, by my faith ;” replied Macbeth. “And the damsel is 
 as fair as she is gifted. I scarce ever beheld hair so beautiful. 
 Golden locks such as are found in the castle of Moray, are 
 rather of heaven than of earth.” 
 
 The chieftain’s look rested again upon the lady Gruoch as he 
 spoke; and found her in heightened colour looking more 
 bright, more beautiful, than ever. 
 
 Before the company retired for the night, Macbeth bade his 
 aged host farewell, saying that he and his retinue would in all 
 probability have left the castle before the old thane would be 
 stirring. When his host expressed regret at parting with him 
 so soon, the chieftain told him that he had hopes of being able 
 to return in a day or two, and lengthen his visit to him and his 
 fair daughter. With mutual interest and liking on all sides, 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 43 
 
 they parted ; and in a short time, all within the castle seemed 
 slumber and repose. 
 
 Yet within the chamber of the lady Gruoch there was neither. 
 Agitated as she had never been before, she paced her room for 
 many a long hour through the night. 
 
 Paramount above all was the image of Macbeth. His martial 
 bearing, his handsome person, his ardour of admiration for 
 herself, all claimed her woman’s preference. 
 
 In every respect he embodied the ideal she had conceived 
 of a hero whom she could love, whom she could seek to win ; 
 and this very hero she dared to believe she already saw won, 
 at her feet, at her disposal, to accept, or to reject. 
 
 Was it indeed so ? Was he indeed so surely won, so entirely 
 hers ? 
 
 And then came the thought that had flashed into scarlet 
 witness upon her cheek, when it had first crossed her mind, as 
 she beheld the glance he gave towards Doada, when he heard 
 her name. Again she felt the pang that darted athwart her 
 heart, as she heard him praise the highland maiden’s golden 
 hair ; and though the praise was followed closely by words that 
 directed the compliment as much to herself — yet the mere 
 thought of sharing his admiration with another was not to be 
 endured, and she muttered with clenched teeth and hands : — 
 
 “She shall go. No minstrel girl, — be her name never so 
 soft, her hair never so bright, — shall come between me and 
 my hope ! She goes !” 
 
 No sooner had Macbeth and his train departed, than the 
 lady Gruoch told the Highland maiden, Doada, that she in- 
 tended to allow her to go and pay the visit to her father which 
 had been promised when he left her at the castle. 
 
 The damsel blushed her gratitude and thanks ; but when the 
 lady Gruoch spoke of her immediate departure, Doada ventured 
 timidly to say that she feared nightfall would set in ere she 
 could reach the hut among the mountains ; and that it was late 
 now to set forth. 
 
 “ But I have provided that you shall have safe escort ; ” said 
 her mistress. “ Grym is to accompany you, maiden ; and he 
 will protect you from all harm, be it by day or by night, and 
 
44 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 place you safely within the arms of your father, with whom I 
 wish you all happiness. Farewell ! ” 
 
 During the long hours of afternoon and eventide, the lady 
 Gruoch heard the murmurs of regret which her old father could 
 not repress, for the loss of Doada and her sweet music. 
 
 “Why was she sent away?” he asked, when his daughter 
 joined him. 
 
 “ I sent her to visit her father in their mountain home ; you 
 know it was so promised, when he left her with us.” 
 
 “ But why should she have gone to-day ? Besides, it is foul 
 weather. Is not that snow, I see yonder, through the oriel 
 window ? She will starve with cold, poor thing ! ” 
 
 “ It was fine when they set forth. I sent Grym with her.” 
 
 “ But why send her to-day?” reiterated the old thane, whom 
 vexation at the loss of his wonted recreation, and uneasiness 
 for the safety of the minstrel maiden, rendered unusually 
 querulous. 
 
 “It was needful she should go;” replied Gruoch in the 
 peremptory tone she knew was always sufficient to decide a 
 question with her father. “ It is well-nigh three months since 
 she has been with us, and her Highland father will be wearying 
 to see his child.” 
 
 Kenneth submitted to the tone which generally closed all 
 points at issue between them. He merely sighed, and resigned 
 himself to his accustomed patting of the dog’s heads, seeming 
 to take refuge in their mute tokens of sympathy and attach- 
 ment. 
 
 When Gruoch bade her father good night, and retired to her 
 own apartment, a sense of shuddering chill and foreboding 
 crept over her, and she made excuses to detain her attendant 
 women about her person somewhat later than usual. 
 
 “Make up the fire well upon the hearth, Eoda; draw the 
 logs together, that the blaze may last ; ” said she. “ Have you 
 made fast the door which leads on to the platform, Lula ? The 
 chamber seems unusually cold. So ; you may leave me. But 
 let the door of the ante-room remain only slightly closed, that 
 I may call you, if need be.” 
 
THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 
 
 45 
 
 When the women had withdrawn, the lady seated herself 
 beside the blaze, and strove to derive cheer from its influence. 
 
 The snow had continued falling fast and thick ; and now it 
 lay in one wide sheet of white, bespreading castle, hill, and 
 valley. The window overlooked the platform, which has been 
 so often alluded to, and to which there was access from this 
 range of apartments through a small door opening from the 
 lady Gruoch’s own chamber. For awhile she gazed forth upon 
 the blank desolation. 
 
 “ I would have her away,” muttered she ; “ why then should 
 I repent that she is away ? The fact crowns my desire, and 
 all is as it should be.” 
 
 She closed the curtain, and flung herself but half undressed 
 on the bed. The lady Gruoch closed her eyes and slept ; but 
 her sleep brought no peace. Her limbs lay stretched in in- 
 action, but the mind was still tossing to and fro in a sea of 
 agitation. The soul was wakefully fighting, while the body lay 
 drowzed and prostrate. The waking soul roused the sleeping 
 body, and constrained it, still sleeping as it was, to perform the 
 deeds of waking. The volition of the spirit made the passive 
 body involuntarily fulfil its promptings, and move mechanically 
 obedient to interior impulse. Asleep in body, yet awake in 
 spirit, the form of the lady Gruoch arose from the bed, and, 
 traversing the apartment, halted near the door, which led from 
 her room on to the castle platform. Some idea of recalling 
 Doada, of concealing her within the castle from the sight of 
 Macbeth, instead of sending her forth into the snow-storm, had 
 taken possession of her soul, and in the strength of its impress, 
 this thought now led her into the open air in the dead of the 
 night, with her thinly-clad slumbering body, and her fighting 
 spirit. The door was unbarred, unclosed, and the lady stepped 
 forth. 
 
 “ You are cold, Doada — come back. You shall not perish;” 
 she muttered. “ Abide in this retired chamber — it is but for 
 awhile — till he is gone. Do as I bid you, maiden, I will have 
 it so ! How cold you are ! Come in, I tell you ! The snow will 
 starve you — and my father will be grieved! Cold — white — 
 dead!” 
 
46 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 The lady Gruoch had crossed the platform ; and as she con- 
 cluded her muttered words, she laid her hand on the stone 
 wall that skirted the rampart. The sharp cold of its touch had 
 startled her senses into consciousness, and she awoke to find 
 herself wandering alone in the inclement air at dead of night, 
 half clothed, half asleep, and shivering with cold and awe. 
 She shrank back to her chamber, hastily refastened the door, 
 cowered beneath the bed-clothes, and summoned the attendants 
 to renew the fire, and watch beside her couch till morning. 
 
 With the light of day her courage returned, and she could 
 teach herself to look back upon the tumult of the past night 
 unmoved. She persuaded herself that Doada was safe. She 
 remembered that Macbeth was possibly to return that day to 
 the castle, and that it behoved her to meet him with smiles and 
 a serene brow, unruffled by traces of the emotions of the past 
 night. 
 
 The thought of his near approach, and of the probable result 
 of his return, helped to wreathe her lip with smiles, give a glow 
 to her cheek, and light her eyes with a glance of fire ; and by 
 the hour when the chief and his retinue reached the castle of 
 Moray, its mistress shone forth with all her accustomed radi- 
 ance of beauty. 
 
 Macbeth soon contrived to lead the lady Gruoch apart, and 
 they leaned, talking together, in the recess of the oriel window 
 of the hall. The old thane noted them as they stood a little 
 apart thus, thinking how handsome they both looked, how 
 happy they seemed, and how well fitted for each other they 
 were ; and then the idea ensued, of how goodly-assorted a 
 couple his daughter and the son of his friend would make in 
 marriage. 
 
 And soon, no doubt of mutual preference remained to mar 
 the joy of either Macbeth or the lady Gruoch. She found that 
 the chieftain thought but of her ; he discovered that he had 
 succeeded in winning her regard. Their attachment was 
 avowed to her father ; and it was agreed that Macbeth should 
 but return to Inverness to impart to his own father his suc- 
 cessful suit ; and that as soon as preparation could be made to 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 47 
 
 receive his bride, he should return to the castle of Moray to 
 claim her, and carry her to her new home. 
 
 The lady Gruoch had scarcely bidden farewell to her new- 
 trothed lord, when Grym returned. He entered the court-yard 
 of the castle, as she was retiring from it, on her way to her own 
 apartment. There was that in the face of the man-at-arms, 
 besides its usual ugliness, — more ghastly than its wonted look, 
 that arrested her steps, and made her pause to hear what he 
 might have to say. 
 
 “ I performed your bidding, Madam;” said he. “I took 
 her to. her home.” 
 
 “ Well done, good Grym ; faithful to thy trust ; ” replied his 
 lady. “ You placed the maid within her father’s arms. ’Tis 
 well.” 
 
 “ I did, Madam ; but ” 
 
 The man-at-arms faltered ; and there was that in his eye and 
 voice that belied his rough exterior. 
 
 The lady cast a searching look upon his face. She read a 
 terrible meaning there; but she said with her firm steady 
 voice : — “You did? ’Tis enough ; thanks, good Grym.” Then 
 staying to hear no more, she resumed her way to her own 
 apartments. 
 
 But not so summary was the enquiry of the old thane with 
 regard to the disappearance of his favourite Doada. He ques- 
 tioned Grym closely concerning the incidents of their journey ; 
 and from the sparing curt speech of the man-at-arms he gathered 
 the knowledge of her sad fate. 
 
 The Highland father had received into his arms, in lieu of 
 his living daughter, a frozen corpse ! 
 
 The lady Gruoch reached her own chamber. Thence, she 
 stepped out upon the platform. She paced to and fro, and 
 resolutely shunned the remembrance of Grym’s face, which 
 seemed to suggest more than she cared to know. 
 
 As she turned in her walk, at one end of the platform, she 
 beheld at a few paces from her, the Highlander, standing 
 immediately in her path. 
 
48 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ How earnest thou hither, good man ? ” she asked : surprised. 
 “ How found you this part of the castle? What has brought 
 you to me ? ” 
 
 “ I am come to read thee thy weird at last ! ” said the High- 
 lander. “ When first I looked upon thee, I beheld a crown 
 spanning the fair young brow — but I beheld it through a red 
 mist, and would not reveal the fearful secret to one who prof- 
 fered aid.” 
 
 “A crown? — a crown, said’st thou?” exclaimed the lady. 
 
 “Ay, a crown, a royal crown — the golden badge of sove- 
 reignty ! I would not then foretell so dread, so fatal a vision. 
 But thou hast sent me my child through the snow-storm, and 
 I read thee thy weird through the red mist. A crown is thy 
 weird ; the red mist is blood ! ” 
 
 “ What matters, so that the weird be a crown ! ” cried the 
 lady Gruoch. “ Methinks to gain that, I could stem torrents 
 of blood ; scarcely heeding though some of my own were shed 
 to mingle with the stream.” 
 
 “ Thine own ? ” echoed the Highlander, with a scoffing 
 laugh ; “ That were too gentle a sentence.” 
 
 “ What mean’st thou ? Speak farther ! ” The lady advanced, 
 as she spoke, towards the spot where the figure of the High- 
 lander stood with folded arms and derisive lips. “Speak, 
 man!” she continued. “Tell me thy knowledge. I will 
 have it ! ” 
 
 In her eagerness, she still advanced, and would have laid her 
 hand upon the folded arms. She touched no substance. She 
 saw the mocking features, and beheld distinctly the chequered 
 colours of the tartan plaid in which his figure was enveloped, — 
 but she felt nothing. No tangible matter met her grasp, and 
 with horror and awe unspeakable she recoiled ; — then plunging 
 desperately forward, she passed through the vivid shadow as if 
 it had been a rainbow ! 
 
 An instant— and the whole thing had vanished; and when, 
 some time after, her women sought their mistress, they found 
 her extended on the ground, senseless. 
 
 Messengers bring tidings of Macbeth. They bear a letter to 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 49 
 
 the lady Gruoch, in which the chieftain tells her that the active 
 service in which he is engaged, not only interferes with the 
 fulfilment of his own wishes, but it likewise employs all his 
 available men, so that he fears he shall scarce be able to send 
 messengers to her so frequently as he desires ; but he concludes 
 with beseeching her to believe him, through all lets to their 
 continued intercourse, to be her true and faithful knight, de- 
 voted to her beauty solely, in the hope of speedily calling it 
 his own for ever. 
 
 Upon this letter, and the attachment it breathes, the lady 
 Gruoch lives for awhile. But soon her thirst for farther tidings 
 of her. betrothed lord rises to a feverish longing, which must be 
 satisfied. 
 
 She resolves to send Grym to the camp of Macbeth ; though 
 she knows the remainder of the men-at-arms who will then be 
 left at the castle of Moray, will afford but insufficient protection 
 for her old father and herself. But the anxiety to obtain news 
 of Macbeth is paramount, and the lady Gruoch despatches Grym. 
 
 He has been gone long enough to warrant expectation of his 
 return. The lady Gruoch begins to look impatiently for it, 
 when suddenly there is an unwonted stir in the court-yard of 
 the castle. The portcullis has been raised ; an armed horse- 
 man has been admitted across the drawbridge, who leads his 
 steed by the bridle through the gates ; the charger bears a 
 wounded man upon his back, who is supported in the saddle 
 by the armed knight that walks by his side, leading the horse. 
 
 In the armed knight, who wears his visor raised, the men-at- 
 arms of the castle of Moray have recognized their former com- 
 panion, Culen; in the wounded man, they have beheld their 
 fellow-retainer, Grym. 
 
 The unusual stir in the court-yard attracted the attention of 
 the lady Gruoch, and brought her forth to see w'ho the wounded 
 man might be. 
 
 “ It’s Grym, our Grym, madam,” whispered the men, as they 
 made way for their lady to come near. “ He is wounded ; and 
 it seems mortally. For he stirs not ; and speaks not.” 
 
 “ Grym ! my faithful Grym ! ” exclaimed the lady Gruoch, as 
 she bent towards the bleeding soldier. “What, rouse thee, 
 
 E 
 
50 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 man ; art thou indeed so sorely hurt ? ” The dying man raised 
 his eyes by an effort. “ That’s well ; cheerly, good Grym. 
 And what news, my trusty Grym ? Hast thou the packet ? 
 Hast thou no letter for me ? ” she added. 
 
 There was a visible struggle. The faithful man-at-arms strove 
 to speak; but blood gushed from his lips instead of words; 
 and he could only faintly attempt to lift his hand towards the 
 breast of his buff doublet. The lady at a glance understood 
 the movement, and eagerly withdrew the desired packet, to 
 bring which he had forfeited his life-blood. Some of this same 
 life-blood soiled the fair hands that were searching the bosom of * 
 the dying servitor for that which he had died to preserve for her. 
 
 “Faithful unto death 1” she cried, as she transferred the 
 precious packet from his bosom to her own. “ But must thou 
 indeed die, my faithful Grym ? Can no leech save thee ? Half 
 my possessions I would gladly give to him who might restore 
 thee to life, to thy mistress. Who may I ever hope to attach 
 to me, as thou hast been devoted to me? Devoted unto death; 
 my faithful Grym ! ” 
 
 The dying man’s eyes looked fondly at her as she uttered 
 these expressions of regret at his loss. To him they conveyed 
 no particle of the self-consideration that was betrayed in every 
 word. 
 
 He expired with the belief that his mistress held him dearly- 
 valued, and he died contented, proud, happy, in the conviction 
 of her regard. 
 
 The lady Gruoch looked upon the uncouth visage of the 
 dead man with sincere (because selfish) regret. Then she 
 withdrew from his side, that the attendants might remove the 
 body of their comrade ; and she heaved one deep sigh, while a 
 voice near her said : — “ I could find it in my heart to envy Grym, 
 to be so mourned ! ” 
 
 The lady turned to look upon him who spoke; and she then 
 perceived, for the first time, that the armed figure beside her was 
 Culen. But Culen so changed in bulk and stature — so altered 
 in look and bearing ; no wonder she failed to recognize him. 
 
 The slight figure of the youth she once knew had acquired 
 both breadth and height, and displayed stalwart proportions 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 5i 
 
 beneath his cuirass and breast-plate of burnished steel. The 
 light flaxen curls which had formerly been allowed to revel in 
 luxuriance around the page’s countenance, were now close- 
 trimmed and showed little beside the beard and moustache that 
 gave additional vigour to the knightly face. 
 
 “ It is to your prowess I owe the rescue of my faithful Grym, 
 I doubt not, sir knight;” said the lady Gruoch. 
 
 “ The arm that you redeemed from a service of luxurious 
 ease,” said Culen, elated by her praise, “ has learned strength ; 
 only too proud if it may return to devote its allegiance in the 
 same behalf. Let me still serve my lady, but as her knight now 
 — not as her page.” 
 
 “ A trusty squire of dames sir Culen will ever be, I doubt 
 not,” replied Gruoch. “ But let him not think I esteem his 
 championship lightly, when I enlist it henceforth in behalf of 
 my father rather than myself. I trust to you, good Culen, to 
 faithfully serve him, when his daughter leaves him. Meanwhile, 
 receive my earnest thanks for your valorous assistance to my 
 lost Grym.” 
 
 The lady turned to quit the court-yard as she spoke ; and in 
 the act of retiring, her hand was once more raised to her bosom, 
 to clutch the secured letter. 
 
 “ ‘ When his daughter leaves him ! ’ ” unconsciously repeated 
 Culen half aloud. 
 
 “ Ay, master Culen,” replied one of the retainers, who, 
 happened to overhear him. “ Have you been abroad in the 
 world, and have not heard that our young lady is to wed the 
 valiant Macbeth ? Why, that was the letter of her betrothed 
 husband, that she seized so eagerly from Grym’s bloody doublet. 
 A lady’s impatience regards not bedabbling its dainty fingers, 
 when a lover’s letter is in view, I warrant me ; and yet I doubt 
 if the omen be canny.” 
 
 Culen remained an instant in mute despair at what he had 
 heard. Then exclaiming, “ Farewell ambition, fame, hope, life 
 itself ! ” he flung himself into the saddle, and galloped full speed 
 away from the castle of Moray for ever. 
 
 The letter from Macbeth brought welcome tidings indeed. 
 
52 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 By the time that the letter reached the hands of the lady Gruoch, 
 she might daily expect his approach. 
 
 The chieftain and his retinue arrive. The venerable thane 
 greets the betrothed husband of his daughter with affectionate 
 welcome. That which the lady Gruoch extends to her expected 
 lord is no less warm. Proudly, exultingly, she prepares to 
 unite herself with this noble warrior, this king-descended hero. 
 A new existence is opening for her ; a life of hope, glory, and 
 ambition, to be shared in acquirement and fulfilment with the 
 man of her preference. One with whom she may feel alike in 
 ardour, activity of spirit, and daring aspiration. 
 
 In her, Macbeth beholds imperial beauty. In her there is 
 that which at once captivates his senses, and commands his ad- 
 miration and esteem. He is proud to call such beauty his own; 
 proud to submit himself to its influence ; proud to share with 
 her his hopes, his life — to make her the partner of his greatness. 
 Proud were they of and in each other; and joyfully did they 
 link their lives in one, accepting a joint fate from that time 
 forth. 
 
 The existence of the newly-married chieftain and his lady, in 
 their castle of Inverness, fulfilled the anticipations which the 
 prospect of their union had excited in each. They found their 
 mutual satisfaction as ample and complete as they had hoped. 
 In all her husband’s pursuits, schemes, and views, lady Macbeth 
 demonstrated an eager and intelligent participation. 
 
 Achievement followed achievement; promotion ensued to 
 promotion; instances of royalfavour were heaped upon the chief- 
 tain ; and to this large share of royal favour, was added increase 
 of rank ; for, not long after his marriage, Macbeth, by the death 
 of his father, Sinel, became thane of Glamis. 
 
 These rapid and accumulated circumstances in the rise of 
 Macbeth’s fortunes, made the long-hoarded secret hope of his 
 own and his wife’s ambition assume a palpable form. Macbeth 
 could not but remember that his own mother was no less nearly 
 descended from the late king, than she through whom the 
 reigning monarch derived his royal seat, while his wife could 
 not but sometimes allow her fancy to muse on that predicted 
 
THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 circumstance in her fate, which afforded confirmation of all 
 that now seemed ripening to a fulfilment. 
 
 To inherit their present growing dignities, — and that crown- 
 ing one which might be in store for them, a son was born to 
 them ; and Macbeth beheld the beauty of his mother, while 
 she beheld the representative of his father’s honours, in the 
 infant Cormac, who thus enhanced the joy of both parents. 
 
 A secret faction arose. A party of the insurgents had the 
 hardihood to plan an attack upon the castle of Macbeth, think- 
 ing the thane himself to be absent on State affairs. But he had 
 returned suddenly to Inverness, and was unexpectedly on the 
 spot to sally forth and repel the invaders. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, anxious for her husband’s safety, ascended 
 to the battlements with her infant son in her arms, that she 
 might watch the fight. She endeavoured to distinguish her 
 lord’s figure among the combatants, and her solicitude for his 
 safety, soon yielded to admiration at his valour. 
 
 She smiled as she surveyed the scene of contest, with a sense 
 of prospective victory.* She heeded not the danger of her own 
 position, in the satisfaction of observing the bravery of her 
 husband ; she saw not the peril that surrounded both himself 
 and her, in the thought of their approaching triumph. 
 
 For the portion of the battlements where she stood, was not 
 entirely sheltered from the flying arrows of the besiegers ; and 
 at any moment one of these missiles might reach her, as she 
 stood there with the child in her arms, marking the progress 
 of the skirmish. 
 
 But close beside her — watching her, as intently as she was 
 watching the field, — crouched a queer, shambling, rough, bent 
 figure. It was that of Indulph, a poor dumb creature, a dis- 
 torted, half-wild being, who had sought service among the 
 underling retainers of the household, and who had shown a 
 singular hankering after the presence of the lady of the castle, 
 and an especial fondness for her baby son, Cormac. 
 
 And there, at that time, he lay, stooped and crouching, close 
 to the ground, a yard or two from the portion of the battle- 
 mented wall where she stood. Upon her and the child he 
 
54 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 keeps his eyes fixed, gleaming from amidst the shaggy elf-locks 
 of ochrey red that hung about his face, and left but little of his 
 features to be distinguished, save those eager wild eyes that 
 never strayed from the objects of their regard. 
 
 The battle rages on, more fiercely and more near, and in her 
 increased interest in the contest, lady Macbeth holds her little 
 son half unconsciously, clasping him to her bosom, without 
 withdrawing her eyes from the fight. 
 
 The combatants press more closely. The besiegers rally. 
 A shower of arrows is discharged, and a few of them flying 
 higher than the rest, reach the battlements on which the lady 
 stands. 
 
 Indulph springs from his lair. He makes wild and vehement 
 gesticulations to his lady that she should retire from the danger- 
 ous station she is occupying. But she is intent upon the affray, 
 and heeds him not. 
 
 An arrow alights near the spot. Then another. In despair 
 at her peril, Indulph exclaims : — 
 
 “ For your boy’s sake, if not your own, stand back, madam !” 
 
 The lady starts, and looks round in amazement. 
 
 “ Indulph ! Can the dumb speak ! And with that voice, 
 too ! I surely know that voice ! ” 
 
 She fixes her eyes upon the stooping, crouching, dumb 
 savage, now erect, alert energetic, eager, imploring her to with- 
 draw from her perilous situation. 
 
 In another instant, he darts forward, covers her son and her- 
 self with his interposed body, while the threatening arrow 
 pierces his own throat, and he falls at her feet. 
 
 The locks of red hair are scattered back from the dying face, 
 and lady Macbeth recognizes without a doubt, the features of 
 Culen. 
 
 She bends over him, and utters his name with wonder and 
 pity. 
 
 “ I no longer envy Grym ; ” he murmurs. 
 
 “ But how came you hither ? What means this disguise ? ” 
 she said. 
 
 “ I could not live without beholding you. I had lost all hope 
 — I relinquished fame as worthless. I crept hither, hiding 
 
THE THANE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 55 
 
 stature, features, voice, beneath the stoop, the stained hair, and 
 the eternal silence of the dumb crouching Indulph, in the single 
 thought of again living in your presence — and it might be, of 
 dying in your service. I am blest, that it is thus.” 
 
 The secret lay revealed before her. Love for her— a pas- 
 sionate devotion to herself, had then inspired this heart, that 
 was fast ebbing forth its last tide at her feet. But the thought 
 of how this would appear to Macbeth, were he to come to a 
 knowledge of this passion, beset her v/ith a sense of annoyance. 
 She felt mortified rather than exalted by the discovery of this 
 fervent attachment ; and a stern look settled upon her face, as 
 she watched the blood that oozed from the death-wound. 
 
 Footsteps approach. Macbeth hurries towards the spot 
 where she stands, that he may tell her their enemies are de- 
 feated — that the day is their own. 
 
 “ But how comes this wounded man here ? ” said her lord, 
 when he had received her proud congratulations. “ A stranger ! 
 Perhaps a traitor !” added he. “ Do you know who or what 
 he is, dearest chuck ? ” 
 
 The dying eyes mutely entreat her, that he may have the 
 bliss of hearing her acknowledge his lifelong faithful attach- 
 ment. But hers are averted — she will not meet his look — she 
 will not see his last request. 
 
 “ It is Indulph, the dumb helper, my lord,” said one of the 
 by-standing attendants. “ He is wounded in the throat — 
 mortally, I think.” 
 
 “He saved our boy’s life, by the loyal intervention of his 
 person, my lord,” said lady Macbeth ; “ thank him for us 
 both.” 
 
 “It is too late; the brave fellow’s dead;” said Macbeth, 
 looking at the expiring throe with a soldier’s experienced eye, 
 and with the indifference to death proper to one bred amid 
 scenes of slaughter. “ Come, my dearest love, let you and I, 
 in to the castle. A feast shall be held in honour of our victory ; 
 and this young hero’s escape shall be celebrated in flowing 
 wine-cups. You breed our boy well, sweet wife, in teaching 
 him thus to look upon a battle-field betimes. Thou art truly 
 fit to be mother to a race of heroes ! ” 
 
56 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Not long after Macbeth thus felicitated his wife and him- 
 self on the salvation of their son, Fate has decreed that 
 the boy shall not live; the little Cormac is carried off in his 
 infancy. 
 
 In the midst of her fierce pang for the loss of her offspring, 
 lady Macbeth receives tidings of her old father’s death ; but 
 she bears both strokes with her stern composure, that she may 
 stimulate her more impressible husband, whose duty calls him 
 from Inverness. 
 
 Lady Macbeth fails not to remind her lord of how closely his 
 own interest is concerned in preserving the throne from as- 
 sailants ; its present occupant being of his own line, and scarcely 
 maintaining tenure by a nearer claim of blood than that which 
 he himself possesses. Between the husband and wife, the 
 question of this equally near claim, and its possible results, has 
 been discussed; but with scarce-uttered, scarce-conceived in- 
 tentions. Their imaginations are fired with the same thought ; 
 but they hardly permit its burning image to be visible to each 
 other. Dimly, luridly, it lurks latent, fed with foul vapours of 
 unhallowed desire ; only vaguely, dare they permit themselves 
 to shape its existence in words ; — but they know and feel, that 
 a crown, — even though it be gemmed with bloody drops, — is, 
 in fact, that one glowing thought. 
 
 The thane departs. 
 
 Lady Macbeth receives tidings of her husband’s progress from 
 time to time ; for he has no dearer thought than that of sharing 
 his successes with her. 
 
 Exultingly expectant, lady Macbeth abides in the castle of 
 Inverness; and each fresh letter that she receives, confirms 
 by its prosperous intelligence, the fulfilment of her aspiring 
 hopes. 
 
 News reaches her of the successful issue of the combat 
 between her lord and the rebel Macdonwald, whose traitor head 
 is fixed upon the royalist battlements. 
 
 Close upon the heels of that messenger arrives another, who 
 brings word of the encounter at Fife, wherein the invading army 
 of Sweno, the Norway king, is put to the rout and defeated, 
 and the victory secured, by Macbeth, who is to be invested im- 
 
THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 
 
 57 
 
 mediately with the forfeited title and estates of the thane of 
 Cawdor; he having disloyally fought beneath the Norwegian 
 banner. 
 
 Scarcely has lady Macbeth welcomed these tidings, when a 
 letter is placed in her hands by a trusty envoy from her lord, 
 wherein she reads words of wondrous import, that kindle into 
 flame the smouldering fire of her thought. 
 
 Her self-communing upon this perusal, begins in these words 
 of apostrophe to her lord : — 
 
 “ Gla?nis thou art , and Cawdor; and shalt be 
 What thou art promis'd.” 
 
 Macbeth, Act i. sc. 5. 
 
TALE III. 
 
 HELENA ; THE PHYSICIAN’S ORPHAN. 
 
 OCTOR GERARD was an enthusiast in his pro- 
 fession. He believed the art of healing to be a 
 science divine. His skill, his tenderness, his 
 charitable care, made him renowned among the 
 destitute population of Narbonne; although he had 
 as yet obtained little fame or employment among its wealthier 
 inhabitants. But his time was so fully occupied with atten- 
 dance upon his patients, that it was fortunate for his wife that 
 her little girl’s society afforded a great resource from the 
 solitude to which the incessant preoccupation of her husband 
 would otherwise have condemned her. 
 
 There was a spacious public-garden a little way out of the town 
 of Narbonne, where Madame Gerard, with little Helena by her 
 side, often spent a large portion of the day. Here, with a view 
 to her child’s health, would Gabrielle and her little girl sit ; the 
 mother working, or hearing Helena say her lessons. Sometimes 
 the child would clamber about the back and sides of the seat 
 — which was a sort of long wooden chair with arms, that might 
 have accommodated half-a-dozen persons ; sometimes, a game 
 of ball, or battledore, or bilboquet, would engage the attention, 
 and exercise the limbs of the little Helena ; while the mother 
 watched her active happy child, her fingers employed in knitting 
 some winter comfort for its father. 
 
 One afternoon, when Gabrielle and Helena had stationed 
 themselves in one particular corner of the long wooden seat, 
 which was shadily situated under a tree — a bonne and her 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 59 
 
 charge, a fine little boy about a year or two older than Helena, 
 approached the spot, and sat down near them. 
 
 Gabrielle’s basket, knitting-ball, and one or two other articles 
 belonging to her, lay on the seat beside her. She would have 
 drawn them towards her, to make room for the strangers, but 
 as there was plenty of space beyond, she left all still. 
 
 Presently the little boy collected a quantity of pebbles from 
 the gravel path, and came towards the bench with his treasure 
 in his arms. He deposited the heap on the seat, and then 
 commenced clearing a space farther on, by brushing away 
 Gabrielle’s basket, ball, &c., with his arm, taking no heed that 
 the articles were suddenly tumbled on to the ground by this 
 unceremonious proceeding on his part. 
 
 For some time, little Helena contented herself with silently 
 remedying the mischief, by picking up her mother’s scattered 
 property, and replacing it on the seat ; but after repeating this 
 process once or twice, and finding that it by no means 
 mended matters, as the boy invariably brushed them down 
 again, she said : — “ Take care, little boy ; mamma’s basket will 
 be broken.” 
 
 “ I want room to build a castle ; ” replied the boy, giving 
 another clearing nudge. Gabrielle removed the basket to the 
 other side of her, and put the knitting-ball into her apron-pocket, 
 without speaking, that she might observe the children. 
 
 “ What pretty hair you’ve got !” said Helena next; after having 
 looked with admiration at the boy’s curls, which hung down, 
 glossy, dark, and thick, upon his shoulders. “ How bright, and 
 how long, and how soft it is ! n added the little girl, touching it, 
 and smoothing it down with her fingers. 
 
 “ Don’t ! you’ll tangle it ; ” said the boy, drawing away his 
 head. 
 
 “ Fie, master Bertram ! ” exclaimed his bonne ; “ let the little 
 girl admire your beautiful hair ! ” 
 
 “ I shan’t ! Let it alone ! ” replied master Bertram. 
 
 After a pause, during which Helena had shrunk to a little 
 distance, whence she tried to peer at what he was doing, she 
 said : — “ Are you building a castle ? ” 
 
 “Yes; don’t you see I am?” 
 
6o 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ I can’t well see so far off ; may I come nearer ? ” asked 
 she. 
 
 “ Take care you don’t jog, then ; ” said the boy. 
 
 Helena comes a little closer ; becomes greatly interested in 
 the tottering fortalice, which with much careful piling together 
 of pebble-stones is gradually rearing its walls beneath the boy’s 
 hands. She leans forward, watching breathlessly ; when, being 
 a little too near for master Bertram’s convenience, his sturdy 
 little elbow is suddenly stuck in her chest, to remind her to keep 
 farther back. 
 
 She obeys the warning for an instant ; but forgetting caution 
 in her eagerness to watch the progress of the castle, she leans 
 too forward, and again receives a hint in her chest that she is in 
 master Bertram’s way. The blow this time is directed with 
 such unmistakeable earnestness of reproof, that the little girl 
 reels back, falls, and bruises her arm. The bonne exclaims; 
 Helena’s mother picks her up, and asks her if she’s hurt. 
 
 “ No, he didn’t mean it ; did you, little boy? Here, kiss it, 
 and make it well ! ” said she, holding out her arm. 
 
 “ It’s bloody and dirty ; indeed I shan’t kiss it,” said the boy, 
 turning away to finish building his castle. 
 
 Again the bonne said : — “ Fie, master Bertram ! ” And 
 again she was satisfied with saying it, and with the slight effect 
 it produced upon master Bertram himself. For presently, 
 Bertram was as busily engaged as ever in the erection of the 
 pebble stronghold, and Helena was again leaning over him, 
 forgetful of the late consequences of her vicinity to the sturdy 
 little elbow. The boy at length said : — “ Don’t worry, little 
 girl. Don’t jog so. Go and pick up some more stones forme. 
 I shan’t have half enough for the high tower I mean to build 
 here.” 
 
 And accordingly, Helena patiently trotted to and fro collect- 
 ing stones in the skirt of her frock, and bringing them in heaps 
 to Bertram, who signified his approval of this state of things by 
 graciously accepting her contributions, bidding her deposit 
 them on the bench ready to his hand, and then to go for more. 
 
 The two children went on thus for some time, until the castle 
 was completed to master Bertram’s satisfaction ; when Helena’s 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 61 
 
 proposal to cut out some paper dolls with her mother’s scissors, 
 and to place them inside the pebble fortress as its Baron and 
 Baroness, and suite of retainers, was negatived by master Ber- 
 tram’s “No, no; that’s stupid work; dolls are only fit for girls ! 
 What’s this?” 
 
 “ That’s my bilboquet ; you can have it, if you like, to play 
 with. And here’s a ball ; or here’s a battledore and shuttlecock ; 
 if you like them better.” Master Bertram seized the offered 
 toys; and became very amicable with his new acquaintance; 
 letting her be his playmate, by permitting the little girl to run 
 and fetch his ball when he tossed it up high, and it fell at an 
 inconvenient distance ; or to pick up the shuttlecock, when it 
 dropped upon the ground in consequence of his failing to hit it, 
 and by other such little sociabilities, and condescending equali- 
 ties which he established between them in the games they had 
 together. 
 
 Meantime, while familiarity was growing between the two 
 children, the bonne seated herself nearer to Gabrielle and 
 began conversation with the theme always most agreeable 
 to a mother’s ear. 
 
 “ Ah, madame,” said she, “what an amiable child is your 
 little daughter ! What grace ! What sprightliness ! And 
 what beauty ! An absolute nymph ! And what goodness ! 
 What sweetness ! What patience and forgiveness of pain and 
 injury ! An absolute angel ! Ah, madame ! How fortunate 
 you are, to possess so much loveliness, and so much virtue 
 united in the person of that seraph, your child ! How rare is 
 such a union ! There is master Bertram, for instance. He is 
 beautiful as the day, but his temper is deplorable. He has the 
 adorable grace and loveliness of Cupid himself, but he has not 
 that gentleness, that softness which inspires love ! Alas, no ! 
 he is rough and selfish ! ” 
 
 The sentimental and sententious bonne went on to explain 
 to Gabrielle, that her charge, master Bertram, was sole heir of 
 an ancient family, and only child of the count and countess of 
 Rousillon. That he was inordinately indulged, and that, in 
 consequence, his natural defects, — those of pride, self-will, 
 want of generosity, and disdain of those beneath him in birth, — 
 
62 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 had been enhanced rather than repressed. She spoke of his 
 mother, the countess, as a virtuous gentlewoman ; and of his 
 father, the count, as a noble gentleman, in high honour at 
 court, possessing the confidence and friendship of the king 
 himself. She told Gabrielle that his lordship, the count of 
 Rousillon, was at present suffering from a disorder which had 
 originated in a severe wound in the chest that he had received 
 on his first battle-field, some years since ; and that he had 
 quitted his chateau in Rousillon to sojourn for a time at 
 Narbonne, in the hope that he might receive benefit from the 
 change of air. The count had been accompanied hither by 
 his countess, and by his little son, from whom his parents 
 could not bear to be separated. 
 
 Many times, after that day, Gabrielle and Helena met the 
 bonne and her charge in the public garden; and, Gabrielle’s 
 pleasant manners soon winning the good graces of the bonne, 
 as little Helena’s good-humour rendered her an agreeable play- 
 fellow to master Bertram, it came to pass that the countess, ere 
 long, heard a good deal from her son of the little girl he had 
 found in the gardens, and from her bonne of the little girl’s 
 mother, who seemed to be quite a superior kind of person — 
 quite a lady, indeed, though only a poor physician’s wife, as 
 she had by chance discovered her to be. 
 
 The countess of Rousillon, whom anxiety for her husband’s 
 recovery, made eager to seize any chance of cure, was struck by 
 hearing that the stranger’s husband was a clever physician ; and 
 resolved to lose no time in applying to him for advice. 
 
 Gerard, upon being consulted on the count of Rousillon’s 
 case, modestly said, he thought he could undertake to relieve 
 suffering, and avert immediate danger. 
 
 The result was the fulfilment of his promise ; and the count, 
 restored to more robust health than he had ever dared to hope 
 might again be his, was enabled to return with his wife and 
 child to their estate at Rousillon. 
 
 The noble family, on taking leave, testified their gratitude to 
 their benefactor, and expressed a hope of seeing him at no 
 very remote period, as a guest at the chateau de Rousillon. 
 
 Soon after this event, Gabrielle Gerard died, leaving the 
 
HELENA ; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 63 
 
 little Helena forlorn indeed. Her father, utterly absorbed in 
 his professional pursuits, tardily perceived that his little girl’s 
 solitary grief had preyed on her health ; and in alarm lest 
 another victim should be the consequence of his neglect, he 
 wrote to his friend and patroness the countess of Rousillon, 
 enlisting her sympathy in behalf of his motherless child, and 
 entreating her counsel and aid. He begged that she would 
 extend her former kind intention towards himself to Helena, 
 by receiving her for a time, at the chateau de Rousillon, that 
 change of scene might efface the sad impression which had 
 been made on her young mind, and rescue her from association 
 with a broken-hearted man, lost in his own eternal regrets. 
 
 The countess’s reply was a warm compliance, brought to 
 Narbonne by Rinaldo, her steward, who was charged to escort 
 Helena back to the chateau de Rousillon. On the arrival of 
 her young guest, the countess could not avoid being struck 
 with the change that had taken place. The lively, chubby, 
 rosy child, had grown into the pale quiet girl, — fast-growing, 
 hollow-eyed, and lank. Traces of premature care and suffering 
 sat upon the young face, and the effect of her white cheeks, 
 and thin arms, was touchingly heightened by the contrast with 
 the mourning frock she wore. 
 
 The lady of Rousillon received the poor motherless girl with 
 a gentleness and pity that went straight to Helena’s heart ; and 
 the young girl was still hovering near her kind new friend, when 
 Bertram entered the room. He had been out in the park, with 
 his dogs, one or two of which followed him into the saloon 
 where his mother sat. 
 
 He was now a fine tall lad ; and swung into the room, glowing 
 with exercise, in high spirits and good humour, flinging his hat 
 off, and discovering a face sparkling with animation, and hair 
 bright, thick, and curling. 
 
 As his mother’s eye rested upon her handsome son, — a picture 
 of healthful beauty, her heart swelled with happy pride ; she 
 thought of the contrast he presented with the poor little pale 
 thin creature at her side, and she drew her kindly towards 
 her. 
 
 “ Come here, Bertram said his mother. “ See who is here. 
 
64 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Do you not remember your acquaintance of the Narbonne gar- 
 dens, little Helena?” 
 
 “ Is that little Helena ! ” said Bertram. “ P should never 
 have known her ! ” 
 
 “ I was absurd enough to think of you just the same as you 
 were;” continued he. ££ I somehow fancied, when I heard you 
 were coming to Rousillon, that I should see just the same rosy 
 dumpling of a child that you were then, forgetting that of 
 course you would be altered, as I am.” 
 
 ££ I don’t think you’re altered ; I should have known you 
 anywhere said she. “ I remember your hair exactly ; and the 
 high eye-brows — and the colour of your eyes, just as I recollect 
 them, when you used to be watching the shuttlecock fly into 
 the air.” 
 
 Helena, in looking at Bertram, was hardly aware of what 
 made her wince, and shrink, as the two large dogs which had 
 accompanied him into the room, were now sniffing and snuffing 
 and trying to make acquaintance with the strange little girl, by 
 poking their cold noses against her bare arms, and pushing 
 their rough snouts up to her chin, and other slight amenities, 
 somewhat startling to a child of her age, unaccustomed to the 
 proximity of large hounds almost as big as herself. 
 
 ££ Bertram, my dear,” said his mother, “ hadn’t you better 
 send these dogs out of the room, or call them off, for I think 
 they’re annoying our petite amie here? ” 
 
 “Here, Nero; come here, sir; lie down, Juba;” said Ber- 
 tram, slightly whistling to his favourites. ££ Are you afraid of 
 dogs ? An’t you fond of ’em ? ” added he to Helena. 
 
 “ Are you ? ” said she. 
 
 “ Fond of them ? Oh yes ; I like to have them always with 
 me. That’s why I like to be out in the park, because there 
 nobody minds ’em ; the saloon isn’t thought their fit place, is it 
 mother ? I know you only allow them to be here, because you 
 love to please me, more than you care about the dogs, like a 
 good kind mother as you are. Don’t you ? ” 
 
 His mother smiled ; but after a little lounging about, Ber- 
 tram swung out of the room again, whistling his dogs after 
 him : and Helena sat reproaching herself with having driven 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 65 
 
 him away, by her folly in being unable to help starting when 
 the dogs touched her. She resolved to break herself of such a 
 stupid trick, and to try and make friends with the noble animals 
 on the first opportunity. 
 
 The count Rousillon was absent from the chateau at this 
 period. A few days after Helena’s arrival, a messenger came 
 to Rousillon from the count, bearing letters to his countess, 
 with a present to his son of a handsome fishing-tackle, which 
 had often been the object of Bertram’s wishes. 
 
 There was a fine piece of water which adjoined the chateau, 
 and which in one part of its stream formed the moat that sur- 
 rounded the turreted irregular walls. Bertram had frequently 
 expatiated to his father on the capabilities afforded for angling 
 in this spot ; and the indulgent parent now remembering his 
 son’s desire, sent him the means of its gratification. 
 
 When Helena learned what the packet from Paris probably 
 contained, she begged of the countess that she might have the 
 privilege of carrying it at once to Bertram, who was out in the 
 park. 
 
 The countess nodded and smiled, and away went Helena. 
 
 “ See what I have here for you ! ” she cried from a distance, 
 as she perceived Bertram among the trees. “ My lord, your 
 father, has sent Baptiste from Paris with this box for you ! And 
 we think it must contain the fishing-rod and flies you wished 
 for so much ; and my lady allowed me to bring it to you, that 
 you might open it at once, and see what it is.” 
 
 “Set it down on the grass, and undo the fastenings said 
 Bertram. “ I hope it really is the rod ! Oh yes ! And what 
 a capital one ! And what a good line ! ” 
 
 “ And look at these curious flies! ” exclaimed Helena. 
 
 “ I’ll put one on the line directly ; ” said Bertram. “ I must 
 have a throw. I know there must be millions of trout here. 
 Hush, don’t make a noise ; don’t talk. Hush, Helena.” 
 
 A moment after, he himself loudly exclaimed at his dogs, who 
 were snuffing to and fro, taking a busy interest in all that was 
 going on, and at length uttered the sharp bark of excitement 
 and sympathy with their master’s new pursuit, which had pro- 
 voked his ire at the interruption to his sport. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Confound those dogs ! ” he exclaimed, “ I wish they were 
 hanged or drowned out of the way. It’s impossible to fish, 
 while they’re yelping about one.” 
 
 “ Mightn’t they be put out of the way, without hanging or 
 drowning? ” asked Helena, with a smile; “ you may want them 
 to-morrow, you know, when you’re tired of angling ; and then 
 you would rather find them safe in their kennel, wouldn’t 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ How you talk, Helena ; ” said he. “ If they’re to be taken 
 to their kennel now, I must go with ’em, and leave my fishing ; 
 for they won’t mind any body but me ; and they won’t leave 
 me for any body else’s bidding.” 
 
 “Won’t they ? ” said she ; “ let’s try.” 
 
 The young girl uttered a little melodious whistle which she 
 had practised in imitation of the one she heard Bertram use in 
 calling his dogs. Then she went a short distance, slapping her 
 frock as she had seen him do upon his knee, and mimicking 
 as well as she could the imperative “ Here, Juba, here ! Hie 
 along, Nero !” with which Bertram was accustomed to enforce 
 their obedience. Finding that they still lingered round their 
 master, she drew from her pocket a piece of rye-cake which she 
 had found effectual during her late assiduous training of the 
 dogs and herself to a mutual good understanding. In the 
 present instance the lure proved successful ; for wagging their 
 tails, and following Helena with wistful eyes, they drew off the 
 field, leaving Bertram in peaceful possession of the banks of 
 the stream. 
 
 Here she found him, on her return, engrossed in the pursuit 
 of his new pleasure. And during the whole afternoon, and for 
 many following days, he still eagerly enjoyed the sport ; Helena 
 lingering by his side, helping him to fix his flies, to watch the 
 bites, to land the fish, to carry home the basket, and in a 
 thousand ways rendering herself an acceptable companion. 
 
 One morning, they had just succeeded in hooking and land- 
 ing a fine trout, and Helena had secured the flapping victim 
 in the basket, anticipating the pleasure of Bertram’s displaying 
 this prize to his mother; when, having adjusted a fresh bait, 
 and thrown his line again across the stream, he suddenly uttered 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 67 
 
 an exclamation, which caused his companion to look round. 
 She found that the end of the rod, with its appended line, 
 had snapped off, and was now floating away towards a plot of 
 rushes and river-weeds that grew in the water near to the oppo- 
 site bank, at a considerable distance from the spot where they 
 stood. 
 
 “ Oh, it will be lost ! ” exclaimed Helena. “ Your rod will be 
 spoiled, and useless without the top. Let us try and get it 
 back. How can we manage? What had we best do?” 
 
 “ It’s gone — it’s hopeless ! ” said Bertram. “ It will be quite 
 floated away by the time we can get round to the opposite 
 shore ; or lost among those flags and weeds. Provoking ! ” 
 
 “ The count’s kind gift ! His beautiful present ! ” said 
 Helena. 
 
 “Well, it can’t be helped, at any rate ; ” said Bertram, as he 
 walked away, adding : — “ I’ll go and take Nero and Juba out 
 for a good long walk. I haven’t had a ramble with them this 
 many a day ; ever since I’ve been looking after the trout.” 
 
 Helena remained for a few minutes longer, still looking in- 
 tently across the stream, which spread broad and far just there 
 forming a small lake among the grounds of the chateau ; and 
 then hastened on to a spot in the park, where she knew a 
 small pleasure-boat was moored. She soon succeeded in un- 
 doing the fastenings, and in paddling herself across the stream, 
 back to the plot of rushes. Here she spent some time in 
 searching minutely among the flags, and at length she became 
 unwillingly convinced that the missing rod was not there. 
 
 She was reluctantly turning the head of the boat to re-cross 
 the stream, when its current drew her attention to the fact that 
 the rod had probably floated on farther, quite away from this 
 spot. “ The stream flows from the torrent in the dell, across 
 this broad piece of water towards the moat;” thought she. “ I’ll 
 follow the course of the stream ; perhaps I may find Bertram’s 
 rod still.” 
 
 She pushed the boat on in that direction, peeping into all 
 the sedgy nooks, and grassy crevices, along the shore in vain ; 
 until she entered the moat which washed the walls of the 
 chateau, entirely surrounding them. These walls were built 
 
68 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 irregularly ; forming all sorts of odd angles, and crannies, and 
 close recesses. In one of these, floated by the current, and 
 washed far inwards, lying in a tangled heap, Helena spied the 
 lost line, with the fragment of rod. She steadied the boat as 
 well as she could across the narrow inlet, which was formed by 
 two meeting angles of the edifice ; for the space thus left be- 
 tween the walls that rose sheer from the water, was too small to 
 admit the head of the vessel, Helena stretched herself as far 
 over the side as possible ; but she could not nearly reach the 
 floating object, even with the tips of her fingers. How tantaliz- 
 ing it was, to see it lie there within a few feet of her, but as 
 much out of her power, as when out of sight ! 
 
 She seized the oar with which she had paddled herself 
 thither ; but she not only nearly lost her balance, trying to wield 
 so heavy an object, but she had the mortification to perceive 
 that instead of gaining any hold of the line with the unmanage- 
 able end of the oar, she only succeeded in pushing it farther 
 than ever beyond her reach, until it washed away right up to 
 the extreme end of the recess, where it lay bobbing and float- 
 ing in coy retirement — obvious, yet unattainable. 
 
 Helena felt so frustrated and baffled in the very view of suc- 
 cess, that she could have shed tears of vexation ; but recollect- 
 ing just in time for the honour of her childish wisdom, that such 
 a proceeding would advance her no jot — at the very same for- 
 tunate moment popped into her head another idea no less 
 sagacious. This was, that she would try and make one of the 
 dogs swim across the moat and fetch the line out of the recess. 
 Then remembering that she could hardly make the dog com- 
 prehend what he was to seek, she determined to row back and 
 bring the dog with her in the boat to the spot, where she 
 might point out to him the precise object she wanted him to 
 fetch. 
 
 Her experiment was crowned with complete success. She 
 returned, accompanied by Fanchon, one of the smaller dogs, 
 Bertram having taken with him his two favourites ; and with its 
 help, she succeeded at length in securing the top of the fishing- 
 rod and line. Her first impulse was to take them to their owner, 
 in the hope of pleasing him by the news of their recovery ; but 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN 69 
 
 remembering that his zest for angling had suffered an abatement, 
 she resolved to keep them quietly for the present. 
 
 Another letter arrives from the count, stating that he is still 
 detained from rejoining his family. The count speaks of a 
 valued friend of his, the lord Lafeu, who has been sent by his 
 royal master on a diplomatic mission to some neighbouring state. 
 This friend being anxious, during his absence, to obtain honour- 
 able protection for his daughter Maudlin, the count has invited 
 the young lady to pass a few weeks at the chateau de Rousillon, 
 on a visit to his countess. 
 
 Mademoiselle Lafeu arrived and was greeted with all distinc- 
 tion and affectionate welcome. She proved to be a lively girl, 
 with an air of decision and court-bred ease about her manners 
 that bespoke her to be an inhabitant of the capital. 
 
 She formed a striking contrast with the provincial-bred Helena, 
 who was quiet, retiring, and undemonstrative in speech. 
 
 In externals there was the same dissimilarity between the 
 two young girls. Maudlin was brilliant in complexion, had 
 eyes bright and restless, with lips wreathed in smiles; while 
 Helena was pale, her eyes were soft and thoughtful, with a look 
 of steadfastness in resolve, and her mouth was sedate, though 
 the lips were full, and so coral red, that they afforded the point 
 of colour, in which her face would otherwise have been de- 
 ficient. 
 
 To complete the contrast, Maudlin was dressed in the height 
 of the then Parisian fashion, a rich father’s liberality enabling 
 her to indulge in every extravagance of adornment; while 
 Helena, a poor country physician’s daughter, wore a simple 
 black frock of the plainest make, and of the least costly 
 material. 
 
 On the morning after Mademoiselle Lafeu’s arrival at Rou- 
 sillon, the countess, having done the honours of the house, by 
 showing her young guest over the chateau, deputed her son to 
 escort her through the park and the rest of the domain, which 
 was extensive, and very beautiful. 
 
 With more eagerness of manner than he usually displayed, 
 when the gratification of any other than himself was in question, 
 Bertram complied. He led the way, talking animatedly with 
 
7o 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the young lady, who, interrupting him in the midst of something 
 he was saying, turned to Helena, with : — “ Will not you come 
 with us ? ” 
 
 “ Go, ma petite said the countess, in answer to the mute 
 enquiry of Helena’s eyes. 
 
 They crossed the drawbridge over the moat, and entered the 
 park, Bertram dwelling with much complacency upon the noble 
 growth of the trees, upon the valuable timber they would yield, 
 upon the beautiful site of the chateau, its picturesque structure, 
 its best points of view, and upon the territorial grandeur of the 
 estate generally. 
 
 “ This is so beautiful a place, I can hardly fancy sighing to 
 leave it, even for dear delightful Paris ! ” said Mademoiselle 
 Lafeu. “And you must have plenty of amusement here, too, 
 to compensate for the court gaieties, and the society of the 
 capital. What a fine place for a gallop on horse-back, a row on 
 the lake, a falcon match, a trial with the bow and arrows, or for 
 hunting or fishing, or the thousand enjoyments which you 
 country gentlemen can command. There must be capital fish- 
 ing in that piece of water. Do you know, I’m a bit of an angler 
 myself? When I have been en campagne with my father, at our 
 house at Marly, he has taught me to bait a hook and throw a 
 line, so that I should scarcely be afraid to challenge such pro- 
 ficients as you and Mademoiselle Helena doubtless are.” 
 
 “You like angling?” said Bertram. “How vexatious that I 
 should have no rod to offer you. Mine is broken — but — how I 
 wish I had it now ! ” 
 
 “ I have it safely for you, I’ll fetch it said Helena eagerly. 
 “ I got it back — it’s mended; I’ll bring it to you directly.” 
 
 “ Do, do, Helena ! But how on earth do you mean? How 
 did you get it back ? ” said he. 
 
 In a few' words, she explained her recovery of the detached 
 portion of his rod and line, and then hurried aw r ay to fetch 
 them. 
 
 Highly pleased, he began to question Mademoiselle Lafeu on 
 her knowledge of the sport, and to express his delight at the 
 prospect of enjoying it with her. She answered by dwelling 
 upon Helena’s having taken such pains to gratify him, and by 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 7i 
 
 reproaching him for the slender gratitude he had shown for her 
 friendly zeal. 
 
 “ If you go on praising it so, you’ll make me detest it, instead 
 of teaching me to feel grateful for it said he, “ I hate things 
 or people that are belauded and cried up by every one. My 
 mother tells me so much of Helena’s good behaviour that I’m 
 rather sick of it ; and now you are doing the same, and giving 
 me a downright surfeit of her merits. She’s well enough, but 
 she’s no such paragon, as you’d all make her out to be.” 
 
 “ You are a spoilt young man, and have your own way too 
 much, and are too little contradicted, I see;” said Mademoiselle 
 Lafeu. “ If I were to take you in hand, I would soon effect a 
 reform.” 
 
 “ I think I am very well as I am, and want no reform said 
 Bertram laughing ; “ but still, you may take me in hand, if you 
 like; I don’t know that I should object to that; especially 
 when the hand that is to take me in it, is so white and so soft,” 
 said he, with another boyish struggle between admiration and 
 embarrassment, as he took her hand, and attempted to kiss it. 
 
 “ One of the first things I should expect you to alter, would 
 be your conduct to women,” said Mademoiselle Lafeu, with the 
 little air of superiority which girls of her age allow themselves to 
 lads of his ; “ you should be less forward to me, and more 
 polite to Helena. See, where she comes, with your fishing- 
 tackle ; and yet you do not hasten to meet her, and relieve her 
 of the burthen. You a cavalier fit for a Paris circle, and so in- 
 sensible to a woman’s due ! ” 
 
 “ On the contrary,” said Bertram, with his careless laugh ; 
 “ I’m quite sensible of her peculiar excellence ; I’m thankful to 
 her, as I am to my dogs, for what they do for me ; I’m bound 
 to acknowledge her ministry, as I am to my hounds for their 
 attachment, and their faithful fetching and carrying. I’m a judge 
 of dogs, you know, — and she’s a good spaniel.” 
 
 During the visit of Maudlin Lafeu, Bertram heard a good 
 many truths with respect to his haughty conduct, told him with 
 no sparing of his self-love by the young Parisian ; but they 
 served little else than to pique him into extra admiration of her- 
 self ; while they rather increased than diminished his contempt 
 
72 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 of Helena, whose modest zeal showed like servility against 
 Maudlin’s freedom. 
 
 Time passes on. Bertram’s boyish desire to visit Paris is yet 
 unfulfilled ; for his father, firm in his conviction that a court is 
 an unfit school for youth, has sent him to college for a few 
 years. 
 
 The king still frequently detains his favourite by his side ; 
 and the count, anxious to secure for his wife affectionate com- 
 panionship in her solitude at Rousillon, undertakes the entire 
 charge of Helena. He writes to her father, entreating him 
 to commit her to the countess’s and his own care, engaging 
 to provide her with masters and all requisites for a solid edu- 
 cation. 
 
 Helena accordingly remains at the chateau de Rousillon, 
 growing in knowledge, accomplishment, and virtue, while the 
 improvement in her health, spirits, and mental culture, brings 
 corresponding increase of beauty ; and, on the verge of woman- 
 hood, she possesses as many attractions of worth and excellence, 
 as she presents those of person and matured loveliness, which 
 her early childhood promised. 
 
 Helena’s nature was full of the gentlest strength of love ; the 
 most unflinching capability of sacrifice; the deepest tenderness, 
 and the bravest courage, the maidenliest diffidence, with the 
 most lavish generosity ; the truest and most steadfast affection, 
 with the most passionate warmth. 
 
 But as yet, little occasion for the development of these quali- 
 ties in Helena presented itself. Till such occasion should 
 arrive, she seemed a quiet, earnest, obliging girl, faithfully 
 attached to the countess, who ever treated her with well-nigh a 
 mother’s regard. 
 
 Bertram, on the recurrence of his vacations, spent them, by 
 his parents’ wish, at Rousillon ; and on each of these occasions 
 he failed not to call upon Helena for her sympathy with his 
 own indignation at being compelled still to defer repairing to 
 Paris, where he might spend his holidays so much more to his 
 liking. 
 
 True to her friendship, at the expense of her growing love, 
 Helena failed not to condole with him on these repeated dis- 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 73 
 
 appointments, and even to help him all she could to obtain the 
 desired permission, although it would destroy her own fondest 
 prospect, — that of seeing him at Rousillon. For the intervals 
 when he was absent, were occupied in thoughts of his last visit, 
 of what he had said, of how he had looked, of what he had 
 chiefly liked ; or in dreams of his next-approaching one, of 
 what he would say, of how he would look, and of what he 
 might like, that she might prepare it for him against his 
 coming. 
 
 At length a period arrives when she is able to greet him with 
 something that she knows will please him. She is so eager to 
 give him this gratification, that she watches by the park-gates 
 for his arrival during the whole morning that he is expected at 
 the chateau. The welcome sound of his horse’s feet reaches 
 her ear; she springs forward, when the abruptness of her 
 appearance startles the mettled animal, who rears, and plunges, 
 and it requires all Bertram’s good horsemanship to keep him- 
 self firm in his seat. 
 
 “ Is that you, Helena ? How could you be so absurd as to 
 start out in that sudden way just before him ? Any horse would 
 have shyed at such a thing, especially a skittish high-blooded 
 creature like this. So then, so then, my beauty ! ” said he, 
 patting the arching neck of his favourite, that still quivered and 
 throbbed in every one of its swelling veins. 
 
 “ I had some tidings for you, that I knew would please you 
 — and I could not help coming out here to be the first person 
 to tell them to you. It was very rash and foolish of me, to rush 
 out so unawares upon poor Charlemagne. Poor fellow ! Poor 
 fellow ! ” And she patted the horse on the same spot where his 
 master’s hand had so lately been. 
 
 “Well, but what are your tidings, Helena? You don’t tell 
 them to me, after all ; ” said he, as he rode on slowly, she 
 walking by his side. 
 
 “My lord the count arrived here from Paris, yesterday, 
 and ” 
 
 “ My father at Rousillon !” exclaimed Bertram; “ why didn’t 
 you say so before, Helena ? ” And the young man was about 
 to ride on impetuously. 
 
74 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 But Helena called to him that he had not yet heard what 
 she had to tell ; and with a muttered “ pshaw,” he checked his 
 horse, until she should come up with him. 
 
 “ I heard the count tell my lady yesterday, that he had lately 
 made the acquaintance of two young men, whom he thought 
 would make admirable friends for his son. They are brothers, 
 of the name of Dumain, and from what more fell from him on 
 the subject, I cannot help thinking, my lord means to remove 
 you from college, and introduce you at court, the very next 
 time he returns to attend the king.” 
 
 “ Do you really think so, Helena?” said Bertram with spark- 
 ling eyes and heightened colour. “ This is indeed good news ! 
 I long to see my father, and learn if it be true.” 
 
 He flung himself off his horse, as he approached the chateau, 
 and throwing the bridle to Helena, said : — “Just lead Charle- 
 magne round to the stable for me ; I cannot lose a moment in 
 seeing my father.” 
 
 Bertram hurried away ; while Helena kept her eyes fixed 
 upon his handsome agile figure as long as it was in sight, and 
 wondered at the blank that seemed to fall upon her spirit as he 
 disappeared. 
 
 “ Why am I so unhappy, when he is so elate ? ” thought 
 she ; “ought I not to rejoice that he is pleased? What delight 
 shone in his eyes as he bent their hawk glance upon me while 
 I spoke the words. And what eyes they are ! ” She threw her 
 arm over the saddle where he had lately sat, and looked up as 
 if she could still see the eyes dancing and sparkling with joy at 
 her tidings. “ He is happy to go ; how selfish of me then, not 
 to feel glad that he is going. Glad that he is going ! Glad at 
 his absence! Ah, how can I? Glad!” she repeated in a 
 soft sad murmur, as she hid her burning cheek against the neck 
 of the horse. 
 
 The noble animal turned its head towards the young girl, as 
 if in dumb sympathy with the low sobs she uttered, and the 
 tears she could not repress, which trickled down the glossy 
 skin of its throat. 
 
 The countess’s page at this instant came running to- 
 wards Helena, bidding her hasten in to his lady, who was 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 
 
 75 
 
 in sad distress at a sudden attack of illness which had seized 
 the count Rousillon, only a few minutes after his son’s 
 arrival. 
 
 Giving Charlemagne’s rein to the page, Helena hurried to 
 the chateau, where she found the late tranquillity in which she 
 had left it, exchanged for a scene of the greatest confusion and 
 anxiety. Messengers were despatched post-haste to summon 
 Doctor Gerard, whose skill, together with the powerful reme- 
 dies he brought with him from Narbonne, served temporarily 
 to restore, but were ineffectual to rescue or to save ; the count 
 Rousillon expired, surrounded by those he loved, and respected 
 by all who knew him. 
 
 Doctor Gerard returned alone to Narbonne, the countess 
 having entreated him to leave Helena with her to be the com- 
 panion of her widowed solitude. But soon Gerard himself was 
 struck down by mortal illness. Before his death he consigned 
 to Helena a medicine chest containing many valuable secrets, 
 the hoarded sum of many years experience and practice. “ It 
 is the fitting inheritance,” he wrote, “ of a poor physician’s child. 
 May its bequeathed treasures, the sole ones I have to bestow 
 upon her, prove the basis of good fortune and source of felicity 
 to my Helena ! ” 
 
 The period of mourning passes in acts of charity and kind- 
 ness towards those without the walls of the chateau, and in 
 gentle words and deeds among each other, the surviving home- 
 circle withinside. 
 
 The months creep by, and the time approaches for the 
 departure of Bertram. Helena’s sorrow is twofold ; but 
 although grief for her father’s loss serves to screen that which 
 she feels prospectively, yet conscious love bids her hide the 
 tears which have so natural and so obvious a source, lest their 
 double origin be suspected. 
 
 She seeks every pretext for keeping her chamber ; or wanders 
 away solitarily through the park, where she may indulge her 
 melancholy with unobserved sighs and tears, and unheard 
 plaints at her lowly fate, which forbids the hope of linking it 
 with one so far above her. 
 
 Helena was strolling in the park while thus she mused, 
 
76 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 lamenting ; the deer gathered round her in expectation of their 
 accustomed notice ; but she paid little heed to them now, so 
 occupied were her thoughts. 
 
 Presently she heard approacning footsteps; and on raising 
 her head, she was aware of an extraordinary figure that made 
 its way towards her, bowing, and congeeing, and recommend- 
 ing itself to her notice. 
 
 It was that of a personage equipped in the most extravagant 
 fashion. His suit was of saffron-coloured taffeta, snipped and 
 slashed, and guarded with showy gilt lace, and hung with a 
 profusion of glittering buttons and gaudy scarfs. A pair of 
 bright red hose garnished his legs, which, with his arms, were 
 bound with fluttering bows and ends of ribbon, that made all 
 his limbs seem gartered alike. By his side hung a long sword; 
 in his belt stuck a dagger ; and he wore a plumed hat very 
 much on one side, with a spruce defiant air, as if announcing 
 the reckless, roystering, bold soldado. 
 
 “ Madam,” said he, raising his hat, and advancing towards 
 the spot where Helena stood ; but cautiously and dubiously, 
 with an eye cast upon the stags and their towering antlers, 
 which plainly indicated the source of his hesitation ; “ may I 
 beseech of your ladyship’s goodness to inform me whether 
 this be the chateau and domain of count Rousillon ? ” 
 
 “It is, monsieur;” answered she. 
 
 “And may I crave farther to know of your fair grace, whe- 
 ther his lordship, the count Rousillon, be at present at the 
 chateau ? ” 
 
 Helena was about to reply, by mentioning the count’s death; 
 but bethinking her that Bertram was now count of Rousillon, 
 she answered : — “ Unless the count have ridden forth, since I 
 left the chateau, he is probably at home now ; — but if you pro- 
 ceed to the gates, sir, the servants will inform you whether his 
 lordship is able to receive you.” 
 
 “I am charged with a letter to him from a dear college 
 friend of his, madam, introducing to his acquaintance my poor 
 self, whom you are to know by name as Parolles, and by pro- 
 fession as a soldier. Of appertaining accomplishments which 
 may claim your ladyship’s favour, I shall say nothing, as I trust 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN’S ORPHAN 
 
 77 
 
 to time for their discovery, or of deeds, as I think fame may 
 one day blow their record hither ; but I will rest my present 
 hope of a gracious reception, on your ladyship’s own indul- 
 gence, ©f which I behold assurance in that fair form and 
 benignant aspect.” 
 
 Helena bowed somewhat loftily to this flourish. 
 
 “ I would crave permission to tender my homage at once on 
 your ladyship’s fair hand,” said Monsieur Parolles, “ but that 
 I cannot reach you, surrounded as you are by those antlered 
 deer, in manner of Diana, the huntress-goddess. My warfare 
 has hitherto been with man, and not with stags; with ramparted 
 fortalices, not with embattled antlers ; otherwise I would make 
 my way to you, through these living defences, with my own 
 good sword.” 
 
 “ You might not be permitted to assault the inoffensive herd, 
 monsieur;” she said. “The deer are held protected at Rou- 
 sillon. You may pass on, monsieur, there is nothing to fear ! ” 
 
 “Fear, madam!” exclaimed Parolles, as he hastily picked 
 his way forwards ; “ fear ! but I shall find meeter opportunity, 
 I trust, of convincing you that fear and I are unacquainted, 
 save as I inspire it to my foes.” 
 
 “ I have a notion that monsieur is less to be dreaded as a foe 
 than as a friend ; ” thought Helena, as the soldado dis- 
 appeared. “ It is not the friendship of such a man as that, or 
 I’m greatly mistaken, that the count would have sought for his 
 son.” 
 
 Monsieur Parolles, having recovered greater dignity of step, 
 after he had lost sight of the deer, lounged on until he came to 
 the drawbridge, against a side-post of which leaned a tall gangling 
 lad, eating grapes with great voracity, and chucking their stalks 
 into the moat ; while near to him stood a bright-eyed, chcrry- 
 cheeked damsel, who was holding the basket of fruit which sup- 
 plied the lad’s enjoyment. 
 
 “ Now rest thee content, Isbel,” he said, while he slightly 
 varied his occupation of chucking the grape-stalks away, by 
 chucking the damsel under the chin ; “ be not impatient ; I 
 have promised to ask my lady’s good leave ; and it shall not be 
 my fault, if I do not shortly marry thee.” 
 
78 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 The damsel was about to reply, but looking up suddenly, 
 and seeing Parolles approach, she tripped away abruptly, 
 while the grape-eater turned to see the cause of her startled 
 withdrawal. 
 
 “ Save you, fair sir ; ” said he to the advancing stranger. 
 
 “ Save you, good fellow; ” replied Parolles. 
 
 “ None of mine, sir; ” said the tall lad. “ I hope I know my 
 place better than to claim fellowship with such a sober-suited 
 gentleman. My bauble and coxcomb would sort but ill with 
 such apparel as that ; ” said he pointing to the frippery which 
 decorated the person of Parolles ; who replied : — 
 
 “ I see, friend, now ; thou’rt the fool here.” 
 
 “Ay, sir;” said Lavatch; “and no great argument of your 
 wit that you found not that out before. It is the part of wit to 
 find out its counterpart in others, giving it honour where it 
 exists ; as well as readily, though pityingly, to discover its lack, 
 where it exists not. I warrant me now, the fool could sooner 
 track out what amount of folly lies in the gallant soldier, than 
 you, the gallant soldier, can perceive folly where it dwells 
 openly, — in the fool.” 
 
 “ Go to, thou’rt privileged ;” was Parolles’ only answer. 
 
 “ Marry, sir, and the privilege of a jester is like to have good 
 scope when such visitors approach the chateau ; ” returned the 
 clown. “ We have been dull enough of late ; mourning the 
 dead is no season for jesting. When good men die, and sin- 
 cerity mourns, light-hearted folly hangs it head for lack of 
 employment, and takes to weeping for company.” 
 
 “ I met one pale face in the park, that bespoke true sadness 
 at heart, matching the outward garb ; ” said Monsieur Parolles. 
 “ It was that of a young lady. Daughter or niece to the late 
 lord of Rousillon, I take it ? Though I never heard that the 
 young count mentioned a sister. He spoke but of a mother.” 
 
 “ Marry, sir, the lady you met was no relation of our house. 
 She claims no title to the name of Rousillon. All her having 
 is, that she’s good and fair ; all her descent is, poverty and an 
 honest name ; all her title is, Helena, the doctor’s daughter.” 
 
 “Poor! A doctor’s daughter !” exclaimed Parolles ; “truly, 
 she gave herself as many airs as though she had been Croesus’ 
 
HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 
 
 79 
 
 heiress ; and could not have spoken more haughtily, had she 
 owned, not only the whole herd of those confounded horned 
 beasts — those outlandish branch-headed animals — but the park 
 where they range. 
 
 “But I have not time to stay dallying here with thee, fool;” 
 said Parolles. “ I will find fitter time to argue conclusions 
 with thee. For the present, I shall desire thee to convey this 
 letter to thy young master, count Bertram of Rousillon; and to 
 inform him that its bearer is monsieur Parolles, a gentleman 
 and a soldier.” 
 
 Monsieur Parolles’ letter of introduction, — which set him 
 forth as a valiant and experienced soldier, a man of great 
 knowledge, versed in several languages, and a generally accom- 
 plished person, — was favourably received by the young count ; 
 who welcomed his visitor with warmth accordingly, retaining 
 him at Rousillon as his friend and companion, until his depar- 
 ture for Paris, and inviting him to go thither also. 
 
 After Helena’s first meeting with the new visitor at the 
 chateau, she was a little surprised at the alteration in his mode 
 of accosting her, which was now as impertinently familiar, as it 
 had then been deferential ; but divining the true source of the 
 change, she was as much amused as surprized. 
 
 Some days elapsed ; and then the lord Lafeu arrived, bring 
 ing with him a gracious mandate from the king, containing his 
 majesty’s desire to see the young count Bertram of Rousillon at 
 court. 
 
 The countess receives the valued friend of her husband with 
 highest tokens of respect, although he is come with the express 
 purpose of taking away her son, so doubly dear to her now, 
 since she has lost his father, whose image he is in shape and 
 feature. 
 
 Previously to their setting forth, the whole company assem- 
 bles in the saloon at Rousillon. The countess presents her 
 favourite Helena to the excellent old lord Lafeu, who speaks 
 kindly and encouragingly to the maiden. 
 
 For poor Helena is endeavouring to master her emotion, to 
 conceal her overwhelming grief. Now that the time is actually 
 come, for parting with the object of her secret passion, she 
 
So 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 knows not how to suppress her sobs and tears ; and is relieved 
 when the countess’s timely allusion to her father’s loss, affords 
 a pretext for allowing them to flow unrestrainedl} r . 
 
 She weeps, and says : — 
 
 “ I do affect a sorrow , indeed , and yet I have it too.” 
 
 All’s Well that ends well, Act i., sc. i. 
 
■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
TALE IV. 
 
 DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO’S CHILD. 
 
 HE gondola glided on. Beneath its black awning, 
 — extended at full length upon its black leather 
 cushions, — lay a young man, clothed in a suit of 
 deep mourning. But in his face there was nothing 
 that assorted with these swart environments. No 
 shadow, save the one from the sad-coloured curtains, darkened 
 the countenance, which was radiant with hopeful happy thoughts. 
 For though the suit he wore was for a father, yet so unreason- 
 able a tyrant had that father been, that his recent decease was 
 felt to be emancipation from slavery, rather than a loss and a 
 sorrow. In deference to his father’s will, in dread of his 
 father’s power, — this young man had carefully concealed his 
 marriage with a very beautiful girl of humble fortunes. But 
 now, that he was free to avow his choice, — he hastened to his 
 Erminia, his wife, and the child she had just brought him. 
 
 The very first hour she could bear removal, Brabantio’s 
 impatience to see her his acknowledged wife, and installed in 
 the rank and the dignity which belonged to her of right through 
 him, caused her to be conveyed with their infant daughter to 
 the palace on the grand canal ; and on that very night a costly 
 entertainment was given by Brabantio in honour of the infant 
 Desdemona’s baptism. 
 
 The Magnifico chose that the splendour of the lady 
 Erminia’s household, the lady Erminia’s retinue, the lady 
 Erminia’s garments and jewels, should surpass that of any 
 other lady in Venice, because the lady Erminia was the spouse 
 of Signior Brabantio. But in Erminia’s heart lurked a feeling 
 
 G 
 
82 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 that she would have been contented with far less glare and 
 ostentation in her lot, for she was by nature gentle and 
 modest. 
 
 She had given her child, the little Desdemona, as nurse, a 
 woman, whom she had known in her humbler days, and whom 
 she took to her new home, together with her two children ; and 
 allowing Barbara and Lancetto to run about the house as play- 
 fellows to her infant daughter, who throve under their fostering 
 love. 
 
 Barbara, one of the most frolicksome sprites that ever flew 
 about in the shape of a young girl, skipped around baby 
 Desdemona ; singing blithesome songs, and gay ballad rhymes. 
 Lancetto, the boy, was more quiet in the entertainment he was 
 able to afford the child ; for he had been deaf from infancy. 
 
 Yet he spared no pains to entertain the little creature to the 
 utmost of his ability ; and would often persuade his mother to 
 let him take her and her young charge abroad upon the waters 
 of the lagunes, in a gondola ; which he had early learned to 
 manage with skill. 
 
 As the child grew in years, more of her time was spent with 
 her mother, and less with her nurse. 
 
 In educating her child, there was one thing, which it had 
 been well, could the lady have instilled ; it was the one thing 
 needful in her own nature, as it was that qualification in her 
 daughter which was alone wanting to make her as perfect a 
 being as ever existed. Could the lady Erminia have taught 
 her the unflinching candour which ought to belong to good- 
 ness and greatness,- — have inspired the courage of transparent 
 truth, she would have invested her daughter with a panoply 
 that would have proved her best protection against the diabo- 
 lical malignity by which she was one day to be assailed, and 
 borne her scathless through the treachery which wrought her fate. 
 
 The same exquisite gentleness formed the characteristic of 
 the daughter, as of the mother ; and that which might have 
 been stimulated and strengthened into consummate beauty of 
 character, was, by example, suffered to degenerate into the 
 single point of weakness which marred its perfection. 
 
 Accustomed to see her mother yield in silence even to 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD . 
 
 83 
 
 things in which she did not acquiesce ; to see her avoid doing 
 what she tacitly seemed to agree to ; the little girl insensibly 
 acquired just such a system of conduct. Brabantio remained 
 paramount in the affections of his wife and daughter, but he 
 did not possess their confidence. 
 
 Erminia contented herself with pursuing her own quiet way, 
 carrying comfort and relief to many a destitute family, while 
 she took care so to time her charitable visits, as that they 
 should neither interfere with the hours which Brabantio passed 
 in her society, nor in any way come to his knowledge. 
 
 On these pious errands she was frequently accompanied by 
 her young daughter, thus initiating her in the sweet comforts 
 that are to be drawn from bestowing comfort on others. 
 
 The little Desdemona repaid this devotion with her whole 
 heart. She never voluntarily quitted her mother’s side ; and 
 hour by hour would she sit close to her, getting her to tell the 
 long stories she loved so to hear of those old bygone times, 
 when her gentle mother had been a girl herself, and had lived 
 in retirement and even penury, with her old blind father and 
 her sailor brother ; and then Desdemona would utter longing 
 wishes that she could behold and know the gallant sailor-uncle 
 so long absent and unknown to her, but whom she loved for the 
 sake of her mother. 
 
 But years passed on, and still they saw or heard nothing ot 
 Gratiano. 
 
 On the death of the nurse, Marianna Marini, her daughter 
 had been promoted to the post of handmaiden to the lady 
 Erminia. Like many vivacious people, Barbara felt sorrow 
 keenly ; but she gradually recovered her spirits, cheered by the 
 gentle kindness of the lady Erminia and her daughter, and 
 once more her song was heard blithely ringing as she tripped 
 about the house, sweet and subdued in her lady’s presence, or 
 cheerily carolling as her lay kept time to her fingers in her silk 
 spinning. 
 
 She had fallen in love. There was a certain handsome 
 young gondolier, named Paolo, who had found out that Bar- 
 bara had not only the sweetest voice, but the neatest figure, 
 the trimmest ankle, the most sparkling eye, to be found in all 
 
84 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Venice; and some such sentiment — slightly incongruous as it 
 might be in its expression, — he contrived to put into easy 
 singing verse — Italian in its ease, its singing chime — amore 
 and cuore — bellezza, dolcezza — doloroso, amoroso — vezzosa, 
 graziosa — & c. &c. ; and then he sang them and thrummed 
 them beneath a certain window that he trusted might be hers. 
 By good fortune the window not only proved to be Barbara’s, 
 but the voice, the guitar, the sense — or nonsense — of the 
 rhyme, and the good looks of the singer altogether appealed 
 so irresistibly to the young girl’s fancy, that she became as 
 much enamoured as himself ; and it was an understood thing be- 
 tween them that as soon as Barbara should have her mistress’s 
 sanction to her marriage, they would be united. 
 
 Pleased to see her favourite restored to her native gaiety, the 
 lady Erminia took kindly interest in the affection that subsisted 
 between the young couple, and would sometimes rally her at- 
 tendant upon having won the liking of the best-looking youth 
 in all Venice, and smile at the dimpling and blushing with 
 which Barbara acknowledged that she thought so too, even 
 while she coyly pretended to care little for good looks, not she ; 
 but that she pitied him for being so desperately in love with 
 herself; for she understood that while half the girls in Venice 
 — forward creatures ! — were plaguing him with their admiration, 
 and running after him, yet that he couldn’t forsooth fancy any 
 body but his own little Barbara. 
 
 There was a good deal of truth in what had been playfully 
 said, touching the extended influence of the handsome young 
 gondolier’s eyes. They had caused man)' - a heartache among 
 the damsels of his acquaintance. He was by no means a flirt ,• 
 and it was therefore hard upon him, that the liking of one 
 among these damsels was so pertinacious, that no pointed 
 indifference on his part, could suffice to discourage her from 
 persecuting him with evidences of the attachment she felt. 
 This girl, Nina, had all along made no secret of her hope, that 
 by the constancy of her own passion, she should in time win 
 him ; and it was therefore with dismay that she learned he was 
 not only still indifferent to herself, but that he had fallen in 
 love elsewhere. 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 
 
 85 
 
 She now dogged his steps with no less pertinacity than be- 
 fore — though with quite a different motive. She had fully 
 resolved rather to kill him than to see him wedded to an- 
 other. 
 
 “ Why delay it ? ” she muttered ; “ it must and shall be done ; 
 why then delay? Can I ever have better force than now, 
 while the recollection of his scorn burns fresh within me? 
 This is the very hour, I know, when he visits his minion. 
 There, I shall make sure of him.” 
 
 She glided swiftly along; making her way by some of the 
 narrow alleys and passages that thread an obscure footway 
 through Venice; until she reached the landing leading up into 
 the corridor, at the back of Brabantio’s palace. She made 
 sure that the long gallery was empty ; she sped along it, and 
 concealed herself among the folds of a tapestry curtain, which 
 was occasionally drawn across a doorway leading into the 
 vaulted hall, but which now hung in dark heavy drapery on 
 one side. Here she paused ; her heart beating high ; her 
 breath held, but coming short and quick ; her pulse throbbing ; 
 her feet contracted ; her hands clenched. 
 
 Presently there was a light step ; it came through the hall, 
 and tripped along the corridor, — the person whose step it was, 
 passing so close to Nina, as to brush the folds of tapestry that 
 enveloped her. There were voices ; a hurried meeting ; a 
 light word or two, exchanged for an anxious enquiry; and 
 then Nina plainly heard the words : — 
 
 “ No time for mocking jest, indeed ! How pale you are, 
 Paolo ! And how hot and feverish your hands ! Your lips are 
 parched — you are ill ! ” 
 
 “ I have been lounging too long in the heat, I believe, with 
 my head uncovered ; but never fear, Barbara ; not quite a sun- 
 stroke ! I’m only a little giddy — it will pass. Put your cool 
 hand to my forehead — that will cure me in a trice.” 
 
 “Stay, I will fetch you a draught of iced water; that will re- 
 fresh you. I won’t be gone many minutes.” 
 
 The light quick footsteps came back ; the figure repassed 
 through the curtained doorway ; and again, all but touched the 
 hidden Nina. 
 
86 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Now is the very moment ! Now, Nina, nerve thy heart and 
 hand for one sure blow !” 
 
 For one instant she looked forth. He was standing alone, 
 partly turned from her, beside one of the long range of windows 
 which gave light to the gallery on one side, overlooking the 
 canal. He leaned against the embrasure, and had one hand 
 raised to his head ; his hair was put back from his face, and 
 showed it wan and suffering. 
 
 Not allowing herself to note his look, she only perceived he 
 was alone, and off his guard. Darting from her concealment, 
 she made towards him ; but whether some unconscious check 
 to her speed had reached her in the glimpse she caught of his 
 white face, or whether the space she had to traverse, afforded him 
 some instant warning of her approach, he just had time to turn 
 ere she attacked him. He caught at her upraised arm, and at- 
 tempted to seize the knife from her ; but she was desperate, and 
 clutched it tight, and struck madly at his face with it. Twice 
 he had tried to grasp her wrist, and both times she had twisted 
 it from him, and thrust again at his throat — his face ; until 
 goaded by such pertinacious assault, he put forth his strength, 
 and forced her to give back. 
 
 She stumbled against the open window — lost her balance — 
 fell out, dropping the knife at his feet. 
 
 Horror-stricken he gazed out after her. He saw the head 
 strike against the side of the gondola; and then, her body plunge 
 into the water. Once again he beheld the face, as she rose to 
 the surface. It was turned towards him with a look — one look 
 — such a look ! — it turned him to stone. 
 
 He remained there, hanging out of the window, unable to 
 stir; his eyes staring from the sockets, and fixed upon the waters 
 where they had closed upon the upturned face — his mouth 
 agape and rigid — his arms nerveless — his body incapable of 
 moving— powerless— helpless. 
 
 He was found thus by Barbara, when she returned with the 
 draught of water. 
 
 On her approaching him, he did not turn towards her ; he 
 neither spoke, nor moved. In great alarm she addressed him, 
 and besought him to answer — to look at her. At the sound of 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 
 
 87 
 
 her voice, he stared round vacantly, and then fixed his eyes with 
 a mournful gaze upon hers. In piteous accents she implored 
 him to speak — to tell her how it was with him ; and then she 
 pressed him to drink of the cool draught she had brought, to 
 revive him. 
 
 He waved the glass from him ; and with his eyes still mourn- 
 fully fixed upon hers, he said : — “ And so you would have me 
 swallow that, would you, Nina? You cannot stab me — you 
 would offer me poison, would you ? ” 
 
 He laughed a low unnatural laugh, that thrilled Barbara to 
 hear. 
 
 “ Dear Paolo ! ” she said soothingly ; and would have laid her 
 hand upon his arm ; but the instant he felt her touch, he pushed 
 her back roughly, and said, with sparkling eyes, “ I would fain 
 not hurt you — you’re a woman ; but do not tempt me — do not 
 urge me too far.” 
 
 “Dear, dear Paolo,” again she said, weeping; “do you not 
 know me ? Will you cast off your own Barbara ? ” 
 
 “ I know you, Nina; I know you ! You cannot beguile me 
 I cannot love you — I tell you plainly — I can love none but 
 Barbara!” 
 
 “ I am Barbara — your own poor little Barbara. O Paolo ! 
 Do you not indeed know that it is I ? ” 
 
 She wrung her hands ; and once more would have approached 
 him to throw her arms about him, that she might strive to soothe 
 him with those caresses, one of which he had so often vainly 
 entreated, in some of their happy courting times, when she would 
 play the sportive tyrant. 
 
 But again, the moment she attempted to touch him, he flung 
 her from him ; and this time with such violence, that she reeled, 
 and could not help screaming aloud, with the fright and pain 
 of receiving so heavy a blow from that hand. 
 
 “ I warn you — keep back, Nina ! Or I cannot answer for 
 myself ! ” he exclaimed. 
 
 Just then, her brother Lancetto entered the corridor. He 
 had of course heard nothing of Barbara’s cry, but a glance at 
 her disturbed countenance, and that of Paolo, told him that 
 s 'unething fearful was the matter between them. 
 
88 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 His sister hastily communicated to him, by means of the 
 signs which were in use between them, that Paolo had been 
 seized with a sudden illness, which seemed to bereave him of 
 his senses ; that he did not know her ; that he took her for some 
 one else. 
 
 Lancetto went towards the unhappy young man, and spoke 
 some gentle words to him : Paolo seemed somewhat calmer at 
 the lad’s voice ; but when Lancetto attempted to lead him 
 towards Barbara, he drew back, shuddered, and pointing at her 
 said in a hissing whisper : — “ You don’t know what she has 
 done — she would have used her knife upon me ; but it lies 
 yonder ; best pick it up, lest she recover it, and strike at me 
 again.” 
 
 Paolo quietly gave the knife into Lancetto’s hand, still, how- 
 ever, maintaining an eye upon Barbara, saying : — “ Keep it 
 securely ; let her not know where you hide it — and then we 
 shall be safe from her. Come away ; let’s leave her ; if she 
 follow us, we’ll use her own knife upon her. She shall not come 
 between Barbara and me — I’ve told her so, plainly ; let her not 
 tempt me again.” 
 
 Scowling upon the miserable girl, he drew her brother away ; 
 who, yielding to his movement, contrived to whisper to Barbara, 
 that he would but lead Paolo home, and then return to comfort 
 her. 
 
 But comfort there was never more to be for Barbara. 
 
 Nothing could divest the unfortunate Paolo of the impression 
 he had first conceived after the shock his brain had undergone 
 from that fatal accident, occurring as it did so immediately upon 
 long exposure to the noonday sun. Nothing could do away 
 with his conviction that Barbara was Nina; and he shunned her 
 with no less abhorrence now, than he had formerly sought her 
 with fondness. 
 
 This distempered fancy, and strange aversion of her lover, 
 broke poor Barbara’s heart. She bore it patiently, bravely, 
 at first, trusting that he might yet recover. She would not yield 
 all hope — until all hope was snatched from her. Her brother 
 Lancetto, from the very first day of Paolo’s distraction, had 
 devoted himself to his friend; he took up his abode with 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO’S CHILD . 89 
 
 him ; kept near him through the day ; watched him through the 
 night ; and was indeed a brother to his sister’s unhappy lover. 
 But one night he had leaped into his boat, and disappeared over 
 the dark waters. 
 
 After that night he was seen no more — he never returned ; 
 and after that night, Barbara never lifted up her head. She 
 went about, a forlorn, dejected, listless creature. She, once so 
 gay and chirping now slunk to and fro, joyless, hopeless — her 
 heart had broken. 
 
 Her early merry tunes and happy airs were all forsaken ; she 
 never sang at all, save one plaintive old ditty that seemed to 
 haunt her fancy ; for she hummed it well-nigh incessantly ; she 
 crooned it in her sleep ; she would let her spindle lie idly on 
 her knee, while she gazed vacantly into the cloudless heavens, 
 murmuring its simple burden of “ willow, willow, willow ; ” and 
 when the myriad brightness of stars shone forth in the blue 
 depth of a Venetian night, Barbara’s sad “ willow, willow; sing 
 all a green willow,” would steal from her lips in faint despon- 
 dent cadence. 
 
 She lacked neither attention nor sympathy. Her kind-hearted 
 mistress, the lady Erminia, and the young Desdemona, left no- 
 thing untried, to comfort, to restore her. 
 
 But no kindness could console — no care restore; nothing 
 could avail to revive the drooping girl. She literally pined to 
 death before their eyes, still chanting, “willow, willow, wil- 
 low.” 
 
 This young girl’s sorrow and untimely death made a profound 
 impression on Desdemona. It saddened her to a degree, of 
 which no less gentle a nature than hers would have been capable. 
 She fell into a dejected spiritless mood, which alarmed her 
 mother, who imparted her uneasiness to her lord, and besought 
 his permission to take their child for a short time from a spot 
 which was evidently fraught with too painful association for her 
 young heart. 
 
 Brabantio caught his wife’s alarm. He gave immediate 
 orders for their removal to a villa he possessed on the Brenta, 
 that change of scene might give a turn to the thoughts and daily 
 
90 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 habits of his child. He appointed a proper retinue to attend 
 the lady Erminia and her daughter thither ; prescribed the es- 
 tablishment of a numerous household, in his usual style of pomp 
 and magnificence ; and promised to join his wife and daughter 
 there, as soon as the affairs of state should permit his absence 
 from Venice. 
 
 The prospect of change is seldom without its attraction for 
 childish fancy ; and already the thought of going to spend some 
 time in a country-house with her mother, gave evident pleasure 
 to the young Desdemona, and awakened a look of interest and 
 expectation in her face, which it had not worn since poor Bar- 
 bara’s death. 
 
 In the beautiful villa Belvista, on the Brenta, Erminia spent 
 some very happy time. She had the joy of seeing the bloom re- 
 turn to her daughter’s cheek ; the look of health revisited the 
 face, and the lady felt that her child was spared to her. 
 
 But while her daughter grew in beauty, health and accom- 
 plishment, the lady Erminia gradually declined in strength : yet 
 it was not until her daughter was on the verge of womanhood, 
 that the lady Erminia died. When her hour came, it found 
 her calm, peaceful, resigned. Her death was serene, gentle, 
 as her own nature. She sank into rest. She slept, never more 
 to awake. 
 
 Her mother’s death was severely felt by Desdemona. But it 
 produced no such effects as the shock of Barbara’s early fate. 
 Her character had since acquired the sobriety and calm of added 
 years, as well as of holy teaching. Instead therefore of yield- 
 ing to despondency, Desdemona strove to derive consolation 
 from a more correct fulfilment of her duties ; she devoted her- 
 self to her father’s will and pleasure, and studied how she might 
 best conduce to his happiness ; she resumed those errands of 
 charity and benevolence, which she had first learned to per- 
 form in the company of her beloved mother. She confided to 
 no one her aspirations, her duteous endeavours ; she found 
 what comfort she could from them, but she savoured them 
 silently, secretly, with no other guide than her own spirit of 
 love and gentleness. 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 91 
 
 Her father had brought his daughter back with him from 
 Belvista to Venice on the death of her so dear to them both. 
 Now it was that he for the first time learned the full value of 
 the treasure he had lost, and of the treasure his Erminia had 
 bequeathed to him. In his child, Desdemona, he found re- 
 newed all those gentle virtues that distinguished her mother ; 
 and he grew to love her with a double love — for her own sake, 
 and for hers of whom she reminded him. 
 
 But though he thus recognized and worshipped gentleness in 
 the characters of his wife and daughter, his own nature gained 
 nothing of corresponding suavity. He was still the same imperious 
 Brabantio; proud, harsh, despotic. He was fond of his daughter 
 for her attention and submission to him ; he took pleasure in her 
 beauty, her accomplishments; he was intensely conscious of her 
 grace and loveliness ; he indulged her in every desire she could 
 form of taste or luxury. But he was as far as ever from any power 
 of winning her confidence, or responding to the sympathies and 
 hidden instincts of affection and imagination which lurked 
 within her heart. She was hardly aware of them herself; but 
 had she known them ever so palpably, she would all too surely 
 have felt they could meet no response from him. What aspi- 
 rations she was imperfectly conscious of, therefore, she locked 
 close within her own thoughts, and let the only satisfaction they 
 sought, be found in secret and in silence. 
 
 It might be, that she was swayed by a spice of that romance 
 which had, in his youth, led her own father to take a sort of 
 delight in the mystery attending his secret marriage with 
 Erminia ; certain it is, that, inherited or not, there was a strong 
 tendency to the imaginative and the romantic, in Desdemona’s 
 disposition. Her fancy had always been strangely excited about 
 that absent sailor-uncle of hers ; his probable adventures had 
 always possessed a singular charm of wonder and speculation 
 for her mind, and had occupied many an hour of solitary 
 musing. The fascination which all that presented food for her 
 imagination had for her, might thus have been one source of 
 the unobserved way in which she chose to pay her visits — both 
 of piety and charity. But the main-spring of her reserved 
 conduct, was undoubtedly, awe of her father. 
 
92 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 One morning, soon after her return to Venice, Desdemona 
 had gone forth to the old church close by. It was situated on 
 the banks of a narrow, bye-canal, and was not many paces from 
 the Brabantio palace j so that, plainly dressed and veiled, the 
 lady could readily reach it unobserved. 
 
 She had been so engrossed with her devotions, that she did 
 not remark a lad who was kneeling not far from the spot 
 where she had taken her place ; but when she arose, and passed 
 near to where he still crouched upon the pavement, she 
 looked upon the face more attentively ; and saw that, how- 
 ever altered by illness and suffering, it was no other than 
 Lancetto’s. 
 
 She uttered his name in a tone of pity and surprise. The 
 lad could not hear the sound ; but he saw that he was recog- 
 nized. 
 
 Desdemona, by signs, asked what had befallen, since he 
 had left the Brabantio palace ; expressing regret for the want 
 and misery betokened in his looks ; for, haggard eyes, pale 
 cheeks, ragged clothing, spoke a plain tale. 
 
 He told her all his little history. How, upon his dismissal 
 under Brabantio’s displeasure, he had gone back to the old 
 place where Paolo had lodged, and where he had watched and 
 tended him in his distraction. How he had lingered there, 
 reckless of what became of him, after being turned away from 
 the only roof where he had known happiness ; and how, that on 
 creeping along by a low deserted mud-bank, skirting one ex- 
 tremity of the city, he had perceived an empty boat drifting 
 along near in shore. That he had been struck with a look 
 about the craft, which he thought he knew ; that he had suc- 
 ceeded in drawing it to land ; when, upon examination, he had 
 recognized it surely for Paolo’s boat, which he had first sus- 
 pected it to be. 
 
 He went on to say, that, though the finding of the boat had 
 occasioned him much grief, — as affording but too clear evidence 
 of the fate of his friend, — yet that eventually it had furnished 
 him with the means of livelihood ; bare and scanty it is true, 
 for there was great difficulty in getting any one to hire a gon- 
 dolier who had the inconvenient misfortune of being deaf ; but 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MA GNIFICO'S CHILD. 
 
 93 
 
 still, by plying constantly, and endeavouring to recommend 
 himself by patience and assiduity, he had contrived to ward off 
 absolute famine. 
 
 One of Desdemona’s first works of charity, was to establish 
 this poor lad in comfort in the old lodging that had been his 
 friend’s ; while she crowned his content, by herself using his 
 gondola whenever she required transport to and fro on her 
 benevolent visitations to the sick, and the afflicted. By this 
 means, too, the privacy she so much desired, was ensured ; for 
 Lancetto could bring his gondola to the small water-entrance 
 at the back of the palace ; and Desdemona, muffied in the 
 quiet black dress, veil, and mask, which formed the ordinary 
 out-door dress of a Venetian lady, could step into the boat at 
 any hour she chose, without attracting other observation than 
 that of her own women, who were too much attached to their 
 gentle mistress, and too well acquainted with her virtues, to 
 doubt the propriety of anything she chose to do, even had not 
 the dread in which they held the magnifico, her father, pre- 
 vented their mention of any circumstance that took place in 
 his household unknown to him. 
 
 But thus it happened, through the disposition of Brabantio, 
 and the soft timidity of his daughter, that a clandestine air was 
 given to actions not only perfectly innocent, but even virtuous 
 and praiseworthy ; and that one of the most pure of women 
 insensibly allowed herself a kind of tacit deception, and 
 equivocal procedure in conduct. 
 
 Very little short of an angel upon earth seemed this gracious 
 lady to her faithful attendant, Lancetto, as he conveyed her 
 about the city on her missions of beneficence. He looked at 
 her with the reverence with which he would have gazed upon 
 a saint, as she sat there beneath the black awning of the gon- 
 dola, muffled in her black dress and veil, yet through all which 
 seemed to pierce the radiance of her grace, her goodness, her 
 benign beauty. 
 
 It is broad noon — the full meridian blaze of an Italian sun — 
 when a squadron of noble war-galleys sail up the blue Adriatic, 
 and cast anchor at the port of Venice. The fleet brings news 
 
94 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 to the state, of recent conquest against the Turkish force ; and 
 soon, all is welcome and triumph. Among the crowds who 
 are hurrying ashore from the vessels, there is one solitary man 
 whom no one welcomes, no one hastens to meet. He is 
 dressed like a Venetian naval officer ; and as he prepares to 
 quit the ship in which he has just arrived, he turns to wring 
 the hand of the captain, with warm thanks for his aid since he 
 redeemed him from captivity; he no sooner touches land than 
 he quits it again for a gondola, desiring the boatman to convey 
 him as speedily as may be to the Brabantio palace. 
 
 “You will do well, signior capitano, to use some little cere- 
 monial in addressing yourself to the signior Brabantio, if you 
 are not intimately known to him ; ” returned the gondolier. 
 “ The magnifico is high and mighty, and does not readily admit 
 strangers to his presence without credentials of their deserving 
 the honour. However, there are not wanting people who’ll 
 tell you he hasn’t quite so much of the devil’s graces, — pride 
 and haughtiness, — as he used to have, before his wife’s death. 
 Santa Madre di Dio ! What makes you turn so pale, signior 
 capitano ? ” added the man, as he witnessed the effect of his 
 last words upon the stranger’s countenance. 
 
 Gratiano, — for it was no other than Erminia’s long-absent 
 brother, — now too surely learned the fact of his sister’s recent 
 death ; and found that his return had been too late, by a few 
 months only. So bitterly did he feel this severing of the only 
 tie that bound him to Venice, that it seemed as if his redemp- 
 tion from captivity were valueless, now that she no longer lived, 
 who would the most delightedly have hailed his return. He 
 cared not to present himself at Brabantio’s palace, but fed his 
 grief by repeated visits to the church where Erminia’s remains 
 were deposited ; and for some time her image solely occupied 
 his thoughts. 
 
 On a certain evening after one of these mournful visits he 
 was turning to leave the quiet church, when he perceived one 
 figure still kneeling there. It was a lady, attired in black, and 
 closely veiled ; who seemed so completely abstracted, and 
 absorbed in her private devotions, as to be unaware that every 
 one else was retiring. He could not help lingering a moment. 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD . 95 
 
 in the half-formed hope of seeing her more nearly ; but finding 
 that she stirred not, he felt the indelicacy of staying to watch 
 her, and withdrew. 
 
 He was surprised to find that the remembrance of this kneel- 
 ing figure haunted him afterwards. He went for several suc- 
 cessive days to the same church, but he never saw her there 
 again. As he lingered near, a party of brother officers came 
 by ; who, seeing their comrade, hailed him, and asked him to 
 go with them to a grand parade, to be held that morning in 
 the Piazza St. Mark, whither they were all repairing. He de- 
 clined ; but they persisted. 
 
 “ Come with us, man. All the world will be at St. Mark’s— all 
 the Venice world her proudest nobles — her brightest ladies.” 
 
 “ Have with you, gentlemen ! ” exclaimed Gratiano, finding 
 there were no other means of ridding himself of their impor- 
 tunity, than by accompanying them. 
 
 They were now full of the expected advent of their general, 
 the warlike Othello, a noble Moor, high in the confidence and 
 employ of the Venetian state. 
 
 Great preparations were making to receive the Moorish gene- 
 ral with the honours due to *one who had achieved accumulated 
 renown to the state ; and his officers were among those who 
 expected his arrival with the greatest eagerness. In all this, 
 Gratiano took the natural interest belonging to his profession! 
 But his thoughts, do what he would, often reverted to the veiled 
 lady, with a yearning inexplicable to himself. 
 
 And now took place the event to which all Venice had been 
 eagerly looking forward. The Moorish captain, Othello, gene- 
 ral in the army of the Venetian state, made his entry into the 
 city. He was received from on board his galley, by the duke 
 himself, and all the members of the senate. There was a pub- 
 lic entertainment given in the open air, in St. Mark’s place, at 
 which the magnificos, the chief families, the most distinguished 
 members of illustrious houses, and all the highest nobility of 
 Venice were present, to welcome with due honour, the return 
 of the victorious warrior. 
 
 In virtue of his naval rank, Gratiano was one of the guests. 
 
96 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 In all that fair assemblage, as may be supposed, the individual 
 who most attracted his attention, was the valiant Moor, Othello. 
 He had heard of him at Rhodes, Aleppo, Cyprus, and other 
 places, where his vicissitudes in the service of his country had 
 taken him ; and everywhere, he had heard the general spoken 
 of with one accord, as truly noble, an accomplished soldier, a 
 skilful commander, an honourable man, high in virtue as in re- 
 nown. All that he now saw of the man’s bearing went to con- 
 firm the character which fame had given him. He seemed 
 noble among nobles ; distinguished among the distinguished. 
 By the side of even ducal magnificence, and senatorial great- 
 ness, he looked princely and majestic — heroic in soul, as in 
 achievement. 
 
 Next to the Moor, there was another person who chiefly 
 interested Gratiano. This was the senator, Brabantio ; his 
 brother-in-law. With what mingled sadness and pity did he 
 look upon the face once so handsome, so fiery, so animated, 
 which had won the heart of his sister Erminia, now worn, and 
 thoughtful, with a furrowed brow, and a contracted lip ; the 
 hair, once bright and thick, now thinned, and greyish ; the 
 frame, before so erect — so full of energy, now somewhat bent, 
 and enfeebled. Years had left their traces upon the haughty 
 nobleman. At the thought, that it might be regret for Erminia, 
 which had helped to effect this change in the person of her 
 husband, her brother resolved that he would seek Brabantio in 
 his own house, and would mourn her with him in kindness and 
 sincere affection. Henceforth, they should be brothers. 
 
 There was another motive too, that drew Gratiano’s heart to- 
 wards him. Beside the magnifico sat a young lady of exqui- 
 site beauty, who, he felt could be no other than Erminia’s 
 child. 
 
 “ And that supremely beautiful creature is my niece — my own 
 niece ! ” was the thought that continued to fill him with pride 
 and joy as he looked upon her. 
 
 “You are fascinated, signior, by the beauty of the lady Des- 
 demona, signior Brabantio’s daughter said an elderly gentle- 
 man, who happened to be close beside Gratiano, and observed 
 the direction in which his gaze was fixed. “ She certainly looks 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO’S CHILD. 
 
 97 
 
 transcendently lovely to-day in that satin robe of virginal 
 white, and with those orient pearls hanging upon throat and 
 arms not less pure in hue than themselves. I don’t wonder 
 at your admiration ; it is shared by us all ; young or old, it is 
 just the same; we can none of us resist the charm of her 
 beauty.” 
 
 “ But see, there is a stir among the group yonder;” said the 
 old gentleman, interrupting himself. “ The duke is presenting 
 the general to some of his particular friends among the magnates 
 of the state. Now he approaches signior Brabantio, and intro- 
 duces the valiant Moor to him, and to his fair daughter. With 
 what a modest sweetness she curtsies. No wonder the general 
 looks upon her with such eyes of admiration. I told you so ; 
 we all do ; — young or old — soldier or civilian — native or 
 foreigner — fair or dark — it’s all one ; and the Moor, for all his 
 swarthy cheek, and his warlike visage, — that has seen many a 
 stormy year of siege and bloodshed, I take it — hath yet a fire 
 in his gaze that shows neither years nor wars have blinded him 
 to the beauties of a fair Venetian lady, when she stands before 
 him in her full perfection, as she now does in the person of the 
 divine Desdemona. You will smile at my raptures, signior; 
 but in truth, the lady Desdemona is worthy of all enthusiasm.” 
 
 “ The lady is indeed a rare creature ;” replied Gratiano. 
 
 And once more he repeated within himself — “ and she is my 
 niece — Erminia’s child — my own niece ! ” 
 
 His eagerness to claim affinity with her, however, yielded to 
 his disinclination to do it on so public an occasion as the pre- 
 sent. He resolved to content himself with gazing upon her from 
 a distance, as a stranger, for to-day; but on the morrow he pro- 
 mised himself, he would indemnify his patience under the 
 delay, by seeking her and her father so early and so quietly, as 
 should ensure to their meeting all the affectionate unreserve of 
 privacy. 
 
 But that same night, as he was passing through one of the 
 smaller canals, a boat approached his own ; four men, armed 
 and masked, leaped out upon him, bound, gagged, and blind- 
 folded him, and then forced him into their boat, which they 
 proceeded to push in silence from the spot ; not many minutes 
 
 H 
 
98 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 elapsed before the motion of the vessel ceased, and then 
 Gratiano was guided to the edge of the boat, and forced . to 
 get out. He felt that he was conducted down some stairs. 
 Then he heard the application of a key, the grating of a heavy 
 door, through which he seemed to pass; then came a silent un- 
 binding of his arms ; and then, the withdrawal of the bandage 
 from his eyes. He felt the men withdraw from around him, 
 and then heard the re-closing of the heavy-grating door, 
 succeeded by the turning of the key, which told him he was 
 now alone. 
 
 The stories he had heard, of men mysteriously made away 
 with, for a whim of state policy; the secret system of the Vene- 
 tian tribunal ; all now came into Gratiano’s mind, and he could 
 scarcely doubt but he was a victim to authorized tyranny, which 
 made sinister accusation and arrest, summary condemnation and 
 execution, a right of rule. 
 
 While these terrible suggestions crowded on his imagination, 
 Gratiano heard a bolt drawn back, as if by a stealthy hand ; 
 then another ; then the key tried, and unlocked ; then the door 
 pushed slowly open; and then in the space it left, stood a figure 
 he well knew. 
 
 He recognized it instantly, though it was revealed only by the 
 light of a small lamp, carried in the hand. 
 
 It was the lady in black. She was closely masked, and the 
 folds of her veil fell thick and shroudingly round her figure, as 
 usual. She spoke no word, but beckoned; signing Gratiano to 
 follow her forth. He lost no time in obeying ; and was about 
 to utter some eager question, when she enjoined silence by 
 placing her finger on her lip. His guide led the way along a 
 gallery, up a winding stone-staircase. On reaching the summit 
 of which the lady opened a door, and said in a whispered 
 tone ; — “ You can proceed with safety alone, now, signior ; go 
 through the opposite entrance, leading out upon a landing- 
 place. At the landing-place, you will find a boat ready to 
 convey you to a place of safety. Farewell !” 
 
 Gratiano would have poured forth some expressions of grati- 
 tude ; but, with her finger again and yet more impressively laid 
 upon her lip, she murmured : — “ Stay not to speak, I beseech 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD . 
 
 99 
 
 you, signior; every moment increases your peril — my own. 
 Once more, farewell.” 
 
 He reached the landing-place, as she had directed, and found 
 the boat awaiting him. The gondolier, on seeing Gratiano 
 appear at the low portal, started up, as if expecting him ; and 
 upon his stepping into the gondola, pushed off silently, as if in 
 pursuit of previously-received orders. Gratiano could not resist 
 the temptation of addressing a question to his gondolier, before 
 they parted; but he received no other reply than a slight shake 
 of the head, a shrug of the shoulders, and a look of expectation 
 that he would land. He did so ; and the gondola, with its silent 
 gondolier, glided swiftly away. 
 
 The sun arose gloriously. As its beams put to flight the 
 darkness of the past night, so did the thought of that inter- 
 view which Gratiano had promised himself should take place 
 on the coming morning, displace the recollection of the last 
 few hours, and the events they had witnessed. 
 
 His reception by Brabantio was as full of cordiality as he 
 could have desired ; and he soon perceived that time had done 
 nearly as much in softening the magnifico’s manners, as it had 
 wrought change in his appearance. He showed an affectionate 
 pleasure at beholding one so dear to Erminia, and evinced 
 regret that Gratiano had quitted them, by the warmth with 
 which he greeted his return. 
 
 “ Come hither, jewel ; ” said Brabantio to his daughter Des- 
 demona, as she entered. “ What wilt thou say to me, an’ I 
 give thee another father, who will love thee scarce less fondly 
 than my foolish old self? We will make him so welcome, will 
 we not, my girl, that he shall ne’er think of running away from 
 us again. We will try and persuade him to give up a sea- 
 faring life, and sit down contented with us in our sea-girt city. 
 Look upon this gentleman, — my brother Gratiano ; and bid 
 thy uncle, thy second father, welcome, Desdemon ! ” 
 
 His daughter advanced ; the blood mantling in her cheek, as 
 she murmured a few words of gentle yet earnest welcome. But 
 low as the murmur was, — there was no mistaking that voice. 
 Gratiano felt that the lady in black stood before him ; that the 
 
ioo GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 radiant beauty of the day before, in her virginal white and 
 pearls,— and the mysterious figure, black-robed, veiled, and 
 masked, were one and the same person. 
 
 “ Your uncle has the advantage of us, my girl; he has seen 
 us before ; he tells me he saw us yesterday at the duke’s feast. 
 I wonder we did not note him among the guests. The signior 
 capitano’s is no figure to pass unobserved.” 
 
 Desdemona uttered a few words of assent to her father’s 
 compliment ; but she said nothing of having herself seen 
 Gratiano before ; and her uncle forbore to make any allusion 
 to what she evidently did not intend mentioning. He could, 
 however, see that she was no less aware than himself of their 
 having previously met ; for the colour of her cheek varied, and 
 there was consciousness in her eye. 
 
 “ But,’ I believe, we none of us, yesterday, had eyes and ears 
 save for him, our victorious general ; ” continued Brabantio. “ I 
 have entreated him hither, as often as he will pleasure me with 
 his visits. He has promised me to come to-morrow. Let thy 
 ordering of the banquet for the occasion do credit to thy house- 
 wifery, good my daughter. The valiant Moor has done brave 
 service to the Venetian state; and it is fitting her senators 
 should show him all countenance and approval.” 
 
 “ My best care shall be given, to further your wish, my 
 father ; ” she answered. 
 
 “And while we are on the subject of household discussion, 
 gentle mistress,” continued Brabantio, “ see that the green and 
 gold suite of apartments be appointed for the occupation of 
 thine uncle Gratiano. He has consented to grant us his 
 society, and take up his abode here altogether.” 
 
 Gratiano had not long been domesticated with Brabantio 
 and his daughter, ere he discovered that the softening in the 
 magnifico’s manner, was a softening of manner only ; as long 
 as nothing thwarted him, as long as he had his own will uncon- 
 tradicted, he was all courtesy, affability, and bland condescen- 
 sion ; but once cross his humour, or oppose his wishes, and 
 he was as haughty, as irascible as ever. Gratiano perceived 
 that this was the reason of his daughter’s conduct. It was the 
 origin of her silent acquiescence in whatever her father ad- 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 101 
 
 vanced ; whether true or not, that mattered less, than that he 
 should remain uncontradicted. 
 
 Gratiano told her how he had first seen her ; how he had 
 become interested in her, little thinking the tie which really 
 existed between them. 
 
 And then, Gratiano drew from her an explanation of that 
 mysterious night-adventure, when she had been his protectress, 
 and rescuer from captivity. 
 
 He learned that she did not even know who the prisoner 
 was. But that one of her women had informed her of what 
 she had overheard from some of the retainers, about a man 
 that was to be seized by order of signior Brabantio, and con- 
 veyed into one of the subterranean range of strong rooms 
 belonging to the palace. That the girl had afterwards heard 
 the man telling of a mistake that had been made in the person 
 seized ; that they determined to make farther search for the 
 right man ; and as for the poor devil who had been caught bv 
 mistake, he might remain where he was, quietly, as he could 
 tell no tales through stone walls, that would reach signior 
 Brabantio’ s ears. That on hearing this from her scared damsel, 
 Desdemona had determined to take upon herself the quiet 
 evasion of the prisoner ; and that since, she had been much 
 diverted by the girl’s report, of how the men had found the 
 captive escaped, the untouched locks and bolts on the outside 
 of the dungeon door plainly indicating that he owed his rescue 
 to the intervention of the Madonna, or to his own wicked 
 dealings with the infernal powers. 
 
 As they conversed, Brabantio entered the apartment, bring- 
 ing with him the Moorish general, Othello ; who was now a fre- 
 quent visitor at the senator’s palace. 
 
 The conversation fell, as was usually the case, upon the 
 general’s adventures ; Brabantio loving to hear him relate them, 
 as often as he could draw Othello upon the theme. 
 
 Gratiano listened, too, with interest, to a history delivered by 
 its own hero, with as much modesty as eloquence ; and he 
 thought he could perceive that his niece was a no less attentive 
 hearer than either her father or himself. 
 
 She would sit at her embroidery-frame in the window, while 
 
102 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 he conversed with her father and uncle; but the latter observed, 
 that as the story proceeded, her needle would forget its office, 
 and the stitch remain unset, until some perilous circumstance, 
 or hair-breadth escape were passed; and that then a sigh 
 of relief accompanied the suspended drawing through of the 
 silk. He noticed too, that if anything occurred to interrupt 
 the discourse she would ingeniously contrive to bring it 
 back to the same subject ; or if, by chance, called forth her- 
 self, by some domestic duty, she would return in so short a 
 space of time, as plainly bespoke her eagerness to lose no 
 word. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding that he discovered these tokens of the 
 interest which Desdemona took in the conversation of her 
 father’s guest, her uncle did not see that she showed any parti- 
 cular favour or attention to that guest himself. He noticed 
 that she was more shy, more distant, when Brabantio was by ; 
 that she insensibly became less frank and artless before him. 
 To have seen her bid good morning to the Moor on his arrival, 
 or say farewell on his departure, the lady might have been 
 thought almost to feel repugnance towards him, so shrinkingly 
 and tremblingly she curtsied, so reluctantly her hand seemed to 
 meet his ; and yet, when seated behind her father’s chair, at 
 her embroidery-frame, there was a colour in her face, a warmth 
 and glow of interest in her very silence, that told the avidity 
 with which she devoured every word that was falling from the 
 speaker’s lips. 
 
 These evidences of imperfect sincerity, of a want of candour 
 in the character of the otherwise perfect Desdemona, gave her 
 uncle inexpressible pain. He could but too well account for 
 them. He saw, that the overbearing temper of Brabantio had 
 induced this undue timidity in his daughter ; had taught her a 
 shrinking terror of giving offence, which almost inevitably de- 
 generated into dissimulation. By tenderness, by confidence, 
 the gentle Desdemona might have been won to extreme of 
 openness and sincerity. As it was, that one fatal defect but too 
 certainly existed. 
 
 Once, at taking leave, her timid withdrawal had been so ob- 
 vious, on the general’s respectfully saluting her hand, that the 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 103 
 
 moment his guest was gone, her father rallied her upon her 
 coyness. 
 
 “ Why, I fear me, Desdemon, thou hast inherited more 
 than a fair share of that pride which has always been imputed 
 as an attribute of our house. And so, thy noble Venetian 
 blood recoiled from granting a favour to a barbarian, did it? 
 But let me tell thee, gentle mistress, for all thy lily hand dis- 
 dained to linger within that dusky palm, it is a brave hand, a pre- 
 vailing hand, one that has wielded its good sword right valiantly 
 in the service of thine own Venice, and therefore is deserving 
 of favour from all her fairest ladies. Nevertheless, I had rather 
 see thee over-proud than over-free to any one, my girl ; it sorts 
 best with our family feeling or failing, whichever they will have 
 it to be. Brabantio’s daughter cannot hold herself too high 
 to please her old father — well thou know’st that.” 
 
 And thus was Desdemona’s course of conduct confirmed. 
 
 Months flew by ; and still Gratiano thought that he could 
 see growing proof of the difference he perceived in his niece’s 
 conduct to the Moor, and her feeling towards him. 
 
 “Yet why, after all, should I fear to find that she has be- 
 stowed her regard upon such a man ? ” mused Gratiano. “ I 
 believe, it is chiefly, in dread of the rage, the grief, which 
 would be her father’s, on the discovery that his fair child had 
 given her heart to this Moor. And am I sure that it is so ? 
 May not my surmise be false — utterly baseless ? ” He ap- 
 proached their usual sitting-room, where he had left Brabantio, 
 his daughter, and their guest. 
 
 When he entered the apartment, however, he at first thought 
 it empty ; but presently he perceived Desdemona there, alone, 
 leaning amongst the folds of a curtain that draperied the win- 
 dow which led out into a balcony over-hanging the grand canal. 
 She was not looking forth ; her eyes were fixed upon a curiously- 
 wrought handkerchief that she held in her hand, and more 
 than once pressed to her lips in a fond, passionate manner. 
 Her eyes gave evidence that she had been weeping ; but there 
 was that in their expression, which told of deep-seated happi- 
 ness, far more eloquently than the brightest lustre that had 
 ever sparkled in them. A slight noise he made, attracted her 
 
104 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 attention, and he saw her hastily conceal the handkerchief 
 among the folds of her robe. Shortly after, on some slight 
 pretext, she herself withdrew. 
 
 And yet once again he saw her caress this same handkerchief. 
 She was sitting bending over her embroidery-frame, with her 
 back towards him, as he entered ; and he had advanced some 
 feet within the room, before she heard the approaching step. 
 Then she thrust the kerchief into the case which held her 
 coloured silks ; but not before the curious arabesques of the 
 flowered border, and the strawberries spotted over the centre, 
 had shown her uncle, that it was the one he had before beheld. 
 
 Had he not seen this, — had he not witnessed these endear- 
 ments, lavished in secret upon a token which he could not but 
 associate with the Moor, as his gift, from its oriental look, and 
 yet more from the fondness with which Desdemona regarded it, 
 — Gratiano would have been more surprised than he actually 
 was, upon being, one night, hastily aroused from his bed, and 
 hearing that his brother was distracted with the news that his 
 child was gone ; that Desdemona had fled from her father’s 
 house ; that it was whispered, she had left the palace secretly, 
 with the Moorish general ; that it was reported she was married 
 to Othello. 
 
 All this news, disjointedly poured into his ear, as he hurried on 
 his dress, seemed to reproach him with having taken part in her 
 clandestine act, by preserving silence so long. He hastened to 
 his brother, but found that Brabantio had already left the palace ; 
 that the senators were assembled in council ; that there was a 
 talk of sudden and warlike preparation against the Turks. 
 
 Amidst all these flying rumours, there was one that caught 
 Gratiano’s ear, and caused him to hasten to the Sagittary. It 
 was here that Othello, and the other military then in Venice, 
 were stationed ; and here, it was said, he had conveyed his new- 
 made wife. 
 
 Gratiano reached the Arsenal, just as Desdemona was being 
 conducted from the Sagittary, by order of the senate, to the 
 ducal palace. Her uncle hastened to give her the support of 
 his presence. She looked pale, but collected ; and as if resolved 
 to assume her utmost firmness. 
 
DESDEMONA ; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD . 105 
 
 On her entering the assembly of senators, the duke spoke ; 
 then her father ; and then her uncle heard her soft voice — gentle 
 and low, but wonderfully calm, as if she willed it not to tremble 
 — utter these words : 
 
 “ My noble father , 
 
 I do perceive here a divided duty : 
 
 To you , I am bound for life , and education ; 
 
 My life , and education , both do learn me 
 How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty, 
 
 I am hitherto your daughter. But herds my husband ; 
 And so much duty as my mother showed 
 To you, preferring you before her father, 
 
 So much I challenge that I may profess 
 Due to the Moor f my lord A 
 
 Othello, Act i. Sc. 3. 
 
TALE V. 
 
 MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS 
 OF WINDSOR. 
 
 AVE ye heard the news, mother ? ” said a girl 
 about twelve years old, bouncing through the 
 open door of a cottage where sat her parents, 
 gaffer and gammer Quickly; “have ye heard 
 that mistress May and mistress Gay have both 
 been brought to bed this morning — and that they have a goodly 
 girl apiece ?” 
 
 “Girls; pshaw!” ejaculated John Quickly. 
 
 “And why shouldn’t they be girls, if they like it, John? 
 And why shouldn’t girls be as good as boys ? ” asked Gilian, 
 his wife ; “ I know you were like one wood, when ye learned 
 that your own children were both wenches ; but for my part 
 I’d never ha’ changed our Nell and Poll for any knave-bearn 
 of them all.” 
 
 “ In the first place, boys can work ; and girls are of no 
 use;” quoth John. 
 
 “Of no use! Can’t they be 'good housewives, John?” 
 asked his wife. 
 
 “ Can be ? Ay. But are they ? eh ? Seldom, I wot ; ” 
 grumbled John. “There’s our Nell. What did she do, trow? 
 — but as soon as she grew to be a likely wench in her teens, 
 wasn’t she teen enough to me ? Wasn’t she always gadding 
 about, running after the fellows, and never content, till she got 
 her cousin Bob Quickly to marry her ? And now haven’t they 
 set off to London to get their living there? And much good 
 I’ve got out of my eldest girl, haven’t I ? ” 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 107 
 
 “Why, I think she’s done very well, John; she might ha’ 
 done worse;” said the philosophic Gilian. “She’s married 
 the lad of her choice ; she’s gone up to London, to live among 
 ladies, if she is not a lady herself. Didn’t Jem Wainrope, the 
 waggoner, bring us word that they’ve taken a tavern in East- 
 cheap, and that they’ve called it the Boar’s Head ; and that 
 they’re like to drive a thriving trade there ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, that’s all very well for them ; but what’s the good of it 
 to me ? ” growled gaffer Quickly. “ If Nell be making her 
 fortune as a hostess in London, that don’t do me any service 
 here, in Windsor, do it, wife ?” 
 
 “Well, there’s our Poll left to us, John,” said gammer Quickly; 
 like many another philosopher, shifting her ground, when she 
 found herself worsted in one part of the argument; “there’s 
 our Poll ; I’ll warrant her, she’ll never leave her old father and 
 mother ; but stay and take service in Windsor, if we get her a 
 good place, won’t ye, Polly ? ” 
 
 “I’ll tell ye what, wife,” said John Quickly, interrupting 
 whatever reply his daughter might have been about to make ; 
 “ it’s my notion that our Poll is going on, much the same road 
 that her sister Nell took. Good housewife, quotha? I see 
 little of the good housewife about her, as yet ; nothing that’ll 
 get her a good place, or fit her for useful service. I see nought 
 but flitting hither and thither; gossiping with neighbours; 
 idling away her mornings; chattering away her afternoons; 
 busybodying, prating, meddling and making in everybody’s 
 concerns. There isn’t a bride-ale, or a burial ; a harvest-home 
 or a sheep-shearing ; a Christmas revel, or Hock-holiday, that 
 our Poll doesn’t take good care to be among the foremost in 
 them; Plough-Monday, Shrove-Tuesday ; May-morning, Mid- 
 summer-eve ; Whitsuntide, Martlemas, Candlemas, — all’s one 
 to Poll ; she’ll take right good heed not to lose a single chance 
 for gossipry, and idling of any sort ; and how’s she to learn 
 good housewifery in all that play-making, I should like to 
 know ? ” 
 
 “Our Poll’s but young, John; ’’said his wife; “she’ll be 
 steadier by and bye ; won’tee, Polly ? ” 
 
 “To be sure, mother;” replied the daughter. “ But you 
 
108 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 haven’t heard the best part of my news yet. Farmer Gay and 
 Farmer May are about to give their christenings together, that 
 there may be a right goodly feast, to do honour to their two 
 little girls ; and every body’s to be bidden to’t ; and there’s to 
 be such holiday doings as never were known in Windsor before, 
 at a farmer’s table, they say.” 
 
 “ I know’d it was a holiday o’ some sort that had set our 
 Poll agog in this way ; ” said gaffer Quickly. 
 
 “ And so there’s to be a grand feast, is there ? ” added he 
 presently. 
 
 “Ay truly, is there, father;” said Polly; “and you know, 
 well as I love a morris-dance, a mumming, a May-pole measure, 
 or a game of barley-break, where I may lighten my heels and 
 my spirits, footing it or sporting it away by the hour together, 
 you are to the full as content with a holiday that promises 
 plenty of good fare and humming ale.” 
 
 “ I ben’t churlish,” grunted John ; “ I shan’t refuse to go to 
 the christening.” 
 
 “ If we’re asked, John ; ” said his wife. “You know we ben’t 
 such well-to-do folks as the Gays, or the Mays either.” 
 
 “ I know that, fast enough, wife, without your ’minding 
 me on’t ; but that’s the way with you women ; a man’s never 
 inclined to be jolly, and sociable like, and willing to take you 
 out for a bit of pleasure, but you’re sure to damp him with 
 some of your confounded meeknesses, or prudences, or non- 
 senses of some kind or another, that none of us wants to hear.” 
 
 “ But mayhap they will ask us ; ” said Gilian ; “ for Poll says 
 all Windsor’s to be there. And more nor that, Poll’s main 
 clever at getting asked to every merry-making she has a mind 
 to go to, and ” 
 
 “ And that’s to every one of ’em ; ” growled John. 
 
 “ And so,” continued his wife, regardless of the interruption, 
 and anxious to make up for the ill-timed remark which had 
 roused her husband’s ungracious mood ; “ and so, our Poll 
 shall manage to get us asked to the christening, as well as her- 
 self. Step up to farmer Gay’s, child, and see if they want any 
 one to hold the baby ; or to farmer May’s, and see if they need 
 help for Joan cook. They’ll be busy enow, I’ll warrant me, at 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERE Y MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 109 
 
 both houses, just now, to make a handy girl like you, quite a 
 treasure to ’em. Run, Poll.” 
 
 And Poll Quickly went ; and Poll Quickly contrived so well, 
 she was so zealous, and so busy, and so at every body’s beck 
 and call, during the time of preparation, when all hands were 
 in request at the farm-houses, that it was soon an understood 
 thing, that her father and mother as well as herself were to be 
 among the guests at the christening. 
 
 For the company included almost all grades, from the sub- 
 stantial yeomen, — among which class were the two hosts them- 
 selves, — down to the labourers and hinds that were employed 
 on their farms. Indeed there were not wanting, to grace the 
 feast, personages of a still higher rank, who vouchsafed the 
 honour of their presence on this festive occasion. There was 
 a neighbouring franklin or two, — wealthy country gentlemen, 
 who, with their wives, thought it not beneath their dignity to 
 appear among the train of guests assembled by such respectable 
 townsmen as farmer Gay and farmer May. There was the 
 London merchant, whose dealings for wools and fleeces brought 
 him into communication with farmer Gay. There was the great 
 metropolitan corn-factor, whose accounts for wheat and barley, 
 and oats, and beans, were considerable with farmer May. 
 There were a few smart foplings and fine city gentlemen, now 
 in attendance on the court staying at Windsor, who thought 
 it worth while to give the distinction of their presence, in return 
 for the entertainment of a rustic feast on a scale of rather un- 
 usual magnitude. There was the good curate, Sir Paul Pureton ; 
 the worthy schoolmaster, Peter Scriven ; the burly brewer, 
 Ralph Barleybroth; the merry maltster, Nat Kilnby; the roar- 
 ing butcher, Dick Cleaveholm ; the hearty miller, Guy Nether- 
 stone ; the little barber, Will Patterly ; beside many other 
 townsfolk, and numerous country acquaintances for some miles 
 round about Windsor, together with labourers, hinds, farm and 
 household servants, and their respective friends and gossips, 
 forming a goodly company in all. 
 
 In order that fitting respect should be paid to those guests of 
 superior rank who had honoured the feast by their presence, a 
 temporary dais was fitted up at one end of the large hall where 
 
IIO GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the tables were laid, and a cross board was spread for their 
 especial accommodation, while the boundary salt-cellar was 
 placed on each of the lateral ones ; but for the most part, ease, 
 good-humour, frank and friendly bearing towards each other, 
 was the order of the day; mutual kindliness, warmth, and 
 heartiness of manner prevailed. Where so much mirth and 
 good cheer abounded, there seemed no room for stiffness, 
 haughtiness, or pride ; they seemed by general consent to be 
 banished, and genial fellowship to be convoked in their stead, 
 that nothing might be wanting to the perfect enjoyment of the 
 whole company. The stout oak tables, were far too stout, and 
 too English of heart, to groan beneath the burden of good things 
 with which they were laden ; but they well-nigh split with laugh- 
 ing, and cracked their sides, at the heaps of substantial dainties 
 which were piled, and close-jammed, and wedged together, 
 with not a hair’s-breadth space between, in pitiless profusion 
 upon their broad plane. Dish after dish smoked upon the 
 board; and still dish after dish came smoking along the hall, 
 borne by grinning trencher-men, handed by red-cheeked dam- 
 sels, and placed in endless succession upon the tables. 
 
 First came the lordly boar’s head with the lemon in its 
 mouth, racy and piquant ; then the noble sirloin of beef gar- 
 nished with boughs and rosemary ; haunches of red and fallow 
 deer ; sucking-pigs fed daintily on dates and muscadine, and 
 stuffed with rich puddings ; capons, barn-door fowls, turkeys, 
 geese, and boiled mallards ; a shield of brawn with mustard ; 
 roasted neat’s tongue, and chine of beef ; a goodly and Chris- 
 tian gammon of bacon, that no suspicion of J ewish taint might 
 be there. Nor was the cook’s skill wanting in the various dishes 
 of quaint device ; as the red herring o’ horseback, wherein her 
 craft had shown the likeness of a rider galloping away through 
 a green field, which was cunningly represented by a corn 
 salad; pies of divers kinds, as warden-pie, olive-pie, pippin- 
 pie, mince-pie, and baked chewets ; hog-liver puddings, veal- 
 toasts, carponadoes, pamperdy, links, fritters, tansies, and 
 quelques-choses ; jumbals, leach-lombards, custards, ordowsets; 
 suckets, wet and dry ; March-pane, sugar-bread ; jellies of all 
 colours, marmalades, and florentines ; as well as juncates, 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR, in 
 
 and dainty confections, spiced and richly sweetened, of quinces, 
 pomegranates, oranges, and other fruits, with cream or sugar. 
 
 That all space might be given to the dishes, the various 
 drinks were placed on a sideboard, whence the guests were 
 supplied with whatsoever they might choose to call for. There 
 were generous wines of many vintages ; those quaffed plain in 
 their native excellence, — from the foreign luxuries of princeliest 
 sack of Xeres, strong sacks of Canary and Malaga, and rich 
 muscadine, to the home-made delicacies of Ypocras, Clary, and 
 Bracket ; those concocted, to suit other palates ; some sweet- 
 ened with sugar ; some seasoned with lemon and spices ; some 
 brewed into possets, with eggs ; the two kinds of raisin-wine, 
 brown and white bastard ; with good store of distilled liquors, 
 such as rosa-solis, and aqua-vitae. Ale and beer were in pro- 
 fusion j from the stately March ale, to simple small beer ; there 
 was double beer, double-double beer, mum, and dagger-ale ; 
 there was the popular huffcap ale, dear to the common lip by 
 such familiar titles as “ mad-dog,” “ angel’s food,” and “ dra- 
 gon’s-milk.” These different malt drinks were also to be found 
 choicely compounded, as well as the wines ; spiced and sugared, 
 with a toast floating, — warm, and mellow, and cordial. There 
 was not absent the favourite bowl of spicy nut-brown ale, called 
 Lamb’s wool, with its bobbing, hissing, roasted crabs, or apples, 
 and the sprig of rosemary to stir and impart a flavour. The 
 fruity beverages of cider and perry, were there for those who 
 chose them ; and though the honey-made metheglin had fallen 
 into disrepute, some calling it “ little better than swish-swash,” 
 yet as a Welsh family of the name of Evans had lately come to 
 settle at Windsor, and were expected to be present, it was 
 thought well to have metheglin provided, out of due regard to 
 the well-known national predilection. 
 
 The feast was at its height ; the dishes were all set on table ; 
 the door that had so frequently opened and given to view the 
 busy cook and her helpers, the roaring fire, the laden spits, the 
 steaming pans, the whole paraphernalia of the glowing kitchen, 
 was now closed ; the trencher-men and damsels ceased going 
 and coming across the hall with dishes, and confined their 
 attention to the tables, round which they perpetually hovered, 
 
1 12 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 leaning over the backs of the guests, reaching platters, handing 
 trenchers, serving drinks; carving, helping, pouring wine, 
 frothing ale ; now jesting, and laughing, with the guests, when 
 they good-humouredly addressed some facetious remark to 
 them ; now shouting and bawling directions to each other. At 
 its height was the jingling of glass and china, and the clinking 
 of silver flagons and goblets, and tankards, at the dais-table ; 
 at its height was the clatter of pewter platters, and dishes, and 
 measures, of wooden trenchers, of beechen cups, of treen ladles, 
 of horn spoons, at the long tables, — especially below the salt, 
 for noise is inseparable from enjoyment among the less well- 
 bred ; at its height was the mirth and uproar of the feasters, 
 when Poll Quickly said to her father and mother, — or rather 
 screamed to them, for it was as difficult to make a person hear 
 amid all that riot and confusion, as the remark was safe from 
 chance of reaching the ears of any one but him or her immedi- 
 ately addressed : — “ Said I not sooth, father, when I told ye 
 ’twould be a brave feast ? ” 
 
 “Ay, ay, brave enough ! It’s well for a farmer to get on thus 
 in the world. Lord warrant us ! See the china dishes, and the 
 silver goblets, and the pewter service, that have taken the place 
 of the treen platters and plain gear that would ha’ served an 
 honest man’s turn in my young days, e’en at the upper end of 
 the table; now, they must needs be used but by us below the 
 salt,” grunted John, though he was compelled to growl a little 
 above his usual key that he might be heard in reply. 
 
 “ O, but most part o’ they fine things, the plate, and the 
 china, and the glass, are borrowed from their great friends,” 
 said Poll Quickly ; adding, with all the precision of a gossip 
 proud of the accuracy of her information, “the parcel-gilt flagon 
 came from Sir Mark Pursey’s ; the six tankards from Arden 
 Hall ; that great china charger was lent by lady Fragilhurst ; 
 and the cut-glass goblets, and biggest salt-cellar by ” 
 
 “ I care not whence they came, nor who lent ’em, lass ; ” said 
 her father ; “ I can see well enow that the Gays and the Mays 
 are rich and well to do, setting aside the finery of the tables.” 
 
 “ The pewters’s all theirs, I know for surely ; ” persisted 
 Poll ; “ dishes, platters, bowls, spoons, all the whole service, for 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 113 
 
 I helped to scour and brighten it myself ; they use it every day ; 
 the treen set, and the horn spoons are only for the servants. 
 But just look at Mistress Barleybroth, mother ! There’s a coif 
 and pinners ! Flanders lace ; no less, I assure you ! And see 
 what a flaunting ship-tire Lady Pursey wears ! Ribbons enow 
 to stock a mercer’s booth ! And only see that gaunt lad, the 
 Welshman’s son, Hugh. They say he’s a parlous scholar, and 
 knows all sorts of Latin and Greek ; it is thought that if he goes 
 on as he’s begun, he’ll be fit to do both Sir Paul Pureton’s 
 work, and Peter Scriven’s, together, — priest and schoolmaster in 
 one. If he’s as sprag at learning, as he is at eating, marry, I’ll 
 ensure him the place, when time comes for the two old men to 
 die, and leave him to stand in their shoes. Do but look at the 
 lumps he puts in his mouth ! It’s like loading a hayloft. 
 There’s trusses of beef and salad for you ! Mighty different to 
 Will Patterly ! He can’t eat for watching everybody else. He 
 keeps as fidgetty a look out as a bird pecking grain ! But he’s 
 a good soul ; he has only one fault ; he prates too much.” 
 
 At this moment, a loud voice rang thro’ the hall, enjoining 
 silence ; and then the principal guest, who was one of the 
 sponsors, arose, and proposed a toast to the health of the two 
 mothers, Mistress Gay, and Mistress May ; and then the other 
 godfather arose, and proposed that health, happiness, and long 
 life to the two new-made Christians should next be drunk ; and 
 then amidst the waving and doffing of hats (for it was at that 
 time esteemed no ill-breeding to sit covered during meal time) 
 the toasts were pledged and drunk with hearty good wishes and 
 much enthusiasm. 
 
 And then, the two babes themselves were brought in, wrapped 
 in their white chrisom-cloths, looking very red-faced, and staring, 
 as if wondering at their baptismal honours ; and then, the 
 twelve apostle-spoons, given to little Margaret Gay by her god- 
 father, and the four evangelist-spoons, with a silver-gilt cup, 
 given to little Alice May by hers, were handed round for the in- 
 spection and admiration of the company. And then, once again, 
 all became uproar and clamour of tongues and utensils ; laugh- 
 ing and jesting, and eating and drinking, proceeded as before. 
 
 Next succeeded singing, and merry tale-telling, flirting, gos- 
 
 1 
 
ii 4 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 si ping ; and then the tables were cleared, that dancing, and 
 sportive games, and all the more active species of merry-making 
 might conclude the day. At a late hour, well pleased, the 
 company broke up ; and, for long after, the christening of 
 Margaret Gay and Alice May, was cited as one of the most 
 notable amongst remembered Windsor festivities. 
 
 Master Ford was a thriving lawyer of Windsor. He made 
 round sums, and put them by carefully ; so that he grew to be 
 very rich ; and men said he deserved his gains, for they were 
 made not only cleverly, but honestly. He resolved that his 
 eldest boy, Frank, should have the advantage of a university 
 education, that he might be fitted for following his own pro- 
 fession, or any other he might prefer. 
 
 Master Page was a substantial yeoman ; he was bailiff to 
 Sir Marmaduke Ducandrake, who owned the finest estate 
 thereabouts. It was whispered that he was worth a mint of 
 money, and that he could have bought his employer over and 
 over again ; for Sir Marmaduke was a spendthrift and a gambler. 
 
 Master Page was no less able than his neighbour master 
 Ford to have sent his son to the university ; but the worthy 
 agriculturist resolved that George should be nothing more nor 
 less than a farmer, like his father before him. . 
 
 Frank Ford was not a little proud of the distinction conferred 
 by his father’s determination to send him to college. His 
 young Windsor friends thought he gave himself airs upon it, 
 and that he treated them a little cavalierly, when he returned 
 home for the vacations; but George Page, his warm friend, 
 maintained that Frank was the same good fellow as ever. Not 
 so, Margaret Gay and Alice May, — who thought their former 
 playmate had no right to assume the tone of superiority, which 
 they chose to discover in him. 
 
 “ I’ve no patience with him, I declare !” said Margaret Gay, 
 « A puffed-up jackanapes \ A conceited puppy ! To give 
 himself such airs ! 
 
 “ How you rave, Meg ! ” said Alice, smiling.. 
 
 “I’ll not rave more than I’ll brave;” said Meg. “Im 
 determined I’ll plague him for his boy-pedantry,— ridiculous in 
 a young fellow like him, with scarce more down on his lip, 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 1 15 
 
 than you or I have. Let me see ; let me see ; Fll get Hugh 
 Evans, the young Welshman, to write out my script for me— 
 and I’ll get Polly Quickly to bear it. Yet stay, that won’t do 
 either— he knows her, and will suspect something— maybe, 
 question her ; and her magpie tongue will blab all out. No, 
 no, I’ll trust no one but myself. Let me see ; let me see.” 
 
 Next evening, as Frank Ford was sauntering down a close 
 lane, that was thick embowered with hedge-rows of hawthorn, 
 dog-rose, briony, and brambles, with many a peeping fox-glove, 
 harebell, and cowslip beneath, and many a fair young towering 
 oak above ; suddenly there dropped at his feet a green ball, of 
 moss, grass, and twigs, curiously enmeshed and intertwined, 
 that looked like two birds’ nests joined together. 
 
 Frank picked it up. “ A fairy-favour ! ” he exclaimed half- 
 aloud ; but looking, as he spoke, among the branches overhead, 
 and through the hedge that skirted the lane, to see what mortal 
 hand had thrown it there. 
 
 He began mechanically to untwist some of the fibres of grass 
 and withy, that compacted the ball; and, to his surprise, per- 
 ceived that it contained a scrap of parchment, upon which were 
 inscribed odd crooked characters, which after some careful 
 decyphering, he found to run thus 
 
 If you’d find a marv’llous treasure, 
 
 Book of lore and wond’rous pleasure ; 
 
 By to-morrow’s earliest sight, 
 
 In Windsor Park, by cock-crow light, 
 
 Beneath the moss-grown beech’s root, 
 
 (Mark’d with crosses three its bark), 
 
 Firm of heart, of hand, of foot, 
 
 Dig from sunrise until dark. 
 
 “Pshaw!” said Frank; “how should this be? A book; 
 buried beneath a tree ! Are there indeed such fairy-gifts ? Our 
 Windsor Park is said to be the haunt of beings more than mortal. 
 If such a book be there in truth, ’twere well worth the digging for.” 
 
 At night, when he laid his head upon the pillow, his last 
 thought was : — “ What if I were to go there, and see the place? 
 No harm in that. I’ll sleep upon it.” 
 
 He woke before the dawn. “ I’ll go look for the. tree, at all 
 
n6 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 events, and see whether it bear the three crosses.” He arose ; 
 but before he left home, he took a spade from an out-house. 
 He shouldered it, and thought “ Nobody will know of my 
 folly, even I should have the folly to put so much faith in this 
 scroll, as to use my spade.” Passing master Page’s farm in his 
 way to the forest, he encountered George, who was up, with 
 his father, looking after the men, and setting them to work. 
 
 “Is that you, Frank?” said George; “whither away so 
 early?” 
 
 “ Hush ! never mind ; now you have seen me, come with 
 me, if you will;” said Frank; “I’ve got something in hand, 
 that I care not should be talked of by thy father’s hinds, and 
 so get over half Windsor.” 
 
 He walked on, saying no word more. When he reached 
 the forest, he plunged into the thick of the trees, and still 
 walked on. 
 
 “ What seek you ? A coney, a hare, or a squirrel ? ” said 
 George Page, laughing, and striding after Frank. “Or is it a 
 buck-royal that you have come hither to knock o the head with 
 that spade, and so bring me with ye to bear part of the blame 
 of deer-stealing?” 
 
 “ Pr’ythee, peace;” said Frank, peering about among the 
 boles of the trees. 
 
 They had reached a tangled thicket ; far and wide reputed 
 as a fairy-haunt. In the midst stood a venerable, moss-grown 
 beech-tree, hollow with age, and but few leaves left fluttering 
 on its rugged arms. The rising sun sent its penetrating beams 
 through the neighbouring oaks, and elms, and beeches ; and, as 
 the stream of light fell on this centre grand old tree, three 
 crosses were distinctly visible, carved upon its smooth trunk. 
 
 “ By the mass, there they are ! ” exclaimed Frank. . 
 
 “What, are where?” said George, amazed at his friend’s 
 excited manner. 
 
 For all answer, Frank pointed to the three marks ; thrust the 
 bit of parchment into George’s hand; hastily threw off his 
 doublet ; and began digging vigorously. 
 
 George examined the queer characters of the script ; spelt 
 them over and over; and then said : — u I m no great scholar, 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 117 
 
 but I can make enough out, to find that you’re digging in hope 
 of a promised book.” 
 
 “Just that ; ” said Frank, lustily continuing his labour, though 
 it made the beads stand upon his brow. 
 
 “You’re less accustomed to handle a spade than a pen, 
 Ford ;” said George ; “give it to me, and let’s see how many 
 spits I can heave to your one.” 
 
 Frank Ford was about to yield the spade : when he suddenly 
 resumed plying it, as eagerly as before. 
 
 “Laugh at me if you will;” said he; but I’m determined to 
 carry out this adventure myself; who knows but the charm 
 consists in being worked out by him alone, who’s destined to 
 find the book ? ” 
 
 A very soft titter, — scarce more than the twitter of a young 
 bird, might have been heard at this moment ; but it was un- 
 heeded by either Frank or George. 
 
 “You have faith in the charm, then?” said George. “1 
 thought you book-men held fairies and fairy gifts to be little 
 better than old wives’ tales.” 
 
 “ I hardly know what I believe ;” said Frank ; “ the more we 
 scholars learn, the less we rely upon our own wits. However, 
 I’m resolved in this search I’m about, e’en if I dig here till set 
 of sun.” 
 
 The soft titter trilled forth once more ; while Frank continued 
 to throw out spadeful after spadeful of earth from the hole, — 
 which was by this time pretty deep,— as if he had been tossing 
 linen out of a basket ; for, sooth to say, he was more impetuous 
 than skilful. 
 
 George Page stood watching him; turning over the bit of 
 parchment and considering. Suddenly he said . — Frank, what’s 
 the day of the month ? ” 
 
 “I know not, — neither do I care;” said. Frank Ford hastily, 
 digging away as strenuously as ever. 
 
 “ But it may make some difference in your charm, you 
 know ;” said George, slily. “I do believe, it’s the first day of 
 April !” 
 
 The spade dropped from Frank Ford’s hand ; he stood aghast, 
 up to his knees in the hole he had dug ; while there was an un- 
 
IIS GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES. 
 
 controllable burst of tittering, as if a whole brood of young 
 birds were clamouring in their nest for food. 
 
 George Page put his finger on his lip, as he looked at his 
 friend, and then stepped close to the beech-tree. 
 
 “ I’ve found the fairies,” cried he, peeping and discovering,— 
 as he expected —the crouching forms, and laughing faces of the 
 two merry maidens, Meg and Alice ; “ but since they’ve been 
 pleased to play their elvish tricks upon us, we’ll not let them 
 pass without paying the penalty — a kiss a-piece; shall they, 
 Frank?” 
 
 “ A kiss is the least I deserve for my hard digging,” said 
 Frank Ford, leaping out of the pit, and placing himself beside 
 George to prevent the escape of their rogues of prisoners. 
 
 “ Let’s promise the kiss a-piece, and trust to our fingers for 
 ridding us, by the exchange of a box o’ the ear each;” whis- 
 pered Alice to Meg. “ Come, come ; let us pass,” she added 
 aloud. 
 
 “ Well then, you promise?” said the two youths. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ; we promise, of course ;” said the girls ; but the in- 
 stant they had both got clear of the hollow tree, they took to their 
 heels, and would have scampered off scot-free ; had not Frank 
 and George,— half prepared for such an attempted cheat,— 
 caught them before they had run many paces. Then a scuffle 
 ensued, such as the prize in question generally brings about 
 between rustic lads and lasses. There was much struggling, and 
 cuffing, and bending of waists, and bobbing of heads, on the 
 part of the girls, to avoid the clasping arms, and adventurous 
 lips that sought a victory; the which gained, the girls darted 
 off. 
 
 The next time the young people met, George Page said: 
 “ Pray come, all of you, to father’s ; he bade me bring as many 
 of the lads and lasses of Windsor, as I could muster, this 
 evening, to our old barn ; where we’re to have an Easter-tide 
 dance and supper. So you, Frank, take Meg and Alice there, 
 while I go beat up for more guests, who have heels as light as 
 their hearts. We’ll have a merry night on’t ! ” 
 
 During that evening’s revels, the young scholar, Frank Ford, 
 attached himself almost wholly to the side of Alice May. 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 119 
 
 When the coloured eggs, proper to this holiday season, were 
 handed round, he presented her with some as a keepsake ; he 
 secured her as his partner in well-nigh every measure they 
 danced ; he ministered to her plate at supper, he pledged her 
 in the foaming nut-brown ale ; he drank out of the glass from 
 which she had sipped ; and while showing her all these atten- 
 tions, he found himself thinking of the sweet fairy-favour he 
 had won from that rosy lip of hers, in the early April morning 
 among the old park trees. “ She has the blithe humour of the 
 simple country-girl, with the refined look and air of a high-bred 
 maiden thought he ; “ she might have been born a lady, and 
 would do honour to the choice of a gentleman. What a wife 
 she will make for a man of taste and breeding, in a few years’ 
 time ! ” 
 
 Meanwhile, George Page had been indulging somewhat 
 similar ruminations with regard to Margaret Gay. “What a 
 frank, free-hearted creature she is ! ” thought he. “ What a 
 good-humoured, comely face, she has ! What a joyous laugh ! 
 What a happy husband she would make of him she might love ! 
 What a cheerful, hopeful companion, what a true friend would 
 he have in such a wife ! ” 
 
 Next day, Meg and Alice were chatting together over their 
 spinning-wheels, which they had brought out into the porch of 
 farmer Gay’s house. 
 
 “ Tell me, Meg, is this true, I hear that mistress Barleybroth 
 asked your good mother whether she thought you could love 
 her son Ambrose. 
 
 “Yes, yes, it’s true enough;” said Margaret Gay, laughing; 
 “ true enough that young master Ambrose was too sheepish to 
 court for himself, and so got his mother to get him a wife 
 ready-wooed.” 
 
 “ Then you wouldn’t have him ? ” said Alice. 
 
 “ Have him ? What should I do with him, when I had him ? 
 Set him to mind father’s geese ? — or to hold my distaff? But 
 even these offices, I fear me, would prove beyond him. A 
 young fellow that hasn’t courage to look a girl in the face, or 
 wit to tell her his liking, would let the geese stray, and the flax 
 tangle.” 
 
120 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Poor Ambrose ! ” laughed Alice. 
 
 “ But see who comes here ! That tattling gossip, Poll 
 Quickly.” 
 
 “A fair evening, and a many of ’em, to the two merry 
 maidens of Windsor ; ” said Poll, approaching the porch ; “ the 
 wheel flies swift, and the yarn lengthens, when spinning is done 
 out of doors such evenings as these, and by such fingers as 
 those.” 
 
 “ Hast thou been among the courtiers, up at the castle, good 
 mistress Poll, that thou hast learnt such flattering words ? ” 
 asked Alice. 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I flatter not; I but repeat what others say, when I 
 avouch that the two merry maids have fingers both nimble and 
 fair ; ” said Poll. “ And as for gill-flirting among the courtiers 
 up yonder, I protest, as I’m an honest maid, I’m above such 
 doings. No, all can be said of Poll Quickly is, that she minds 
 her modest calling of barmaid, and does its duties soberly, I 
 thank Heaven for it.” 
 
 “ Thou still keep’st thy place at the Star Inn, then ? ” said 
 Margaret Gay. 
 
 “ Ay, that I do, i’faith ; ” replied Poll ; “ though hard’s the 
 softest words I have there, and heavy’s the lightest work I have, 
 Lord knows ! Up with the lark, and down with the lamb, is 
 my latest lying-abed, I’ll warrant ye. At work by cock-crow, 
 and only half done by the time the chickens go to roost, is my 
 daily labour. A bar-maid at the Star has her hands full, I can 
 tell ye; and the place isn’t a bed stuffed with pullet-down.” 
 
 “ But who do you think I’ve just parted with, in the fields, 
 yonder ? ” continued Poll Quickly, who had crossed her arms 
 leisurely on the top of the wicket-gate, a few paces from the 
 porch where Meg and Alice sat, and had evidently taken up 
 her position for a lounging talk ; “ I’ll give it ye in ten, I’ll give 
 it ye in twenty — though two you’ll not guess, ere you hit upon’s 
 name, I warrant me. Well, Heaven be praised, young men 
 will be comely, and young women will have eyes ; and so for 
 the matter of that, have young farmers; and a keen eye, and a 
 handsome eye he has, and a roguish eye for a pretty girl, I’ll 
 be his surety.” 
 
121 
 
 MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAWS OF WINDSOR. 
 
 “ Of whom art thou talking ? ” said Margaret. 
 
 “ Lord > lord ! t0 see how crafty-modest young maidens can 
 be ! ” exclaimed Poll ; “ As if, forsooth, you didn’t know, both 
 of ye, as pat as a pancake to Shrove Tuesday, or a coloured 
 egg to Easter, that the young farmer I’m telling you of, is none 
 other than master George Page.” 
 
 And what of him ? ” asked Alice ; for Margaret was at that 
 instant busy, untwisting a knot that had somehow got into the 
 yarn she was spinning. 
 
 “ Ah, you’re a daughter of grannam Eve, mistress Alice, 
 like us all, Lord forgive us ! ” exclaimed Poll Quickly. “ Now’ 
 I warrant me, you couldn’t guess, not you, that master Page’s 
 talk was nought but of a certain young maiden, that sits nearer 
 to me, than I am to London town ; and if I was to say she’s 
 one of the two who are known for the merriest maids in all 
 Windsor, you wouldn’t think that, either, would you ? ” 
 
 “ And pr’ythee what was his talk of us ? What found he 
 new to say of his two old playmates and neighbours ? ” said 
 Alice. 
 
 “ W by, be S£dd — be said — that he loved them both dearly ; ” 
 stammered Poll Quickly ; who, when thus called upon to repeat 
 what master Page had actually said, could recollect nothing 
 more definite in his laudation. 
 
 The two merry maidens burst into a gay laugh. “ Is that all 
 the mystery thou hast to tell ? That’s nothing new. We know 
 full well that we are favourites of his, as two friends of such 
 long standing needs must be ; ” said Alice. 
 
 “Ay, but his favourite one of the two of ye— which is she, I 
 wonder ? ” said Poll Quickly slyly, and rallying ; for she was not 
 long to be disconcerted. 
 
 “ Ay,— which ? — I wonder, which ? ” said Alice. 
 
 Troth, mistress Alice, you’re a sly bird ; but there’s a fowler 
 lying in wait for you, or I’m much mistook, that’ll lure you into 
 his net some of these fine days, and make you his turtle-dove • 
 he’ll springe ye, he’ll ring-fence ye, he’ll cage ye, I’ll warrant; 
 which heaven send, I pray.” So saying, with many a nod, and 
 wink, and chuckling laugh, Poll Quickly left the wicket-gate, 
 and pottered away. 
 
122 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 About this time, Sir Marmaduke Ducandrake returned to 
 his estate at Windsor, after a lengthened sojourn in London, 
 where he had contrived to fool away larger sums of money 
 than ever. 
 
 On his arrival home Sir Marmaduke sent for his bailiff, 
 farmer Page, and told him the occasion he had for various sums ; 
 and among others, he mentioned that he had given his note of 
 hand for money borrowed from a certain Robert Shallow, Esq., 
 of Gloucestershire, and desired Page would find a trustworthy 
 messenger to convey the amount of his debt to Gloucestershire. 
 The farmer undertook that his own son should execute the 
 knight’s commission ; and accordingly George Page was desired 
 to be ready by the following morning, to set out upon his 
 journey. 
 
 Now, a journey of some seventy miles, through Berkshire 
 woods, and meadows, and among Gloucestershire uplands and 
 hills, in lovely summer weather, on horseback, should seem no 
 such irksome task ; and yet, when it was first proposed by farmer 
 Page to his son, George did not feel much glee in its prospect. 
 But he took his father’s directions, and prepared to set forth 
 with his usual frank good humour and unclouded brow. 
 
 The cause of his unwillingness might be gathered from the 
 words he muttered to himself, as he saddled his horse at an 
 early hour next day. “ Well, I should have carried a lighter 
 heart into Gloucestershire could I have told its secret to Meg 
 before I went ; I should be a coxcomb to fancy that hers will 
 be heavy at my going away without a word ; but yet, I would I 
 had seen her ere I left Windsor.” 
 
 The air was scented with many a haycock and bean-blossom, 
 as it wafted over field and meadow ; its stillness was marred 
 by no ruder sound than the soaring lark’s song, the lowing 
 of herded kine, the hum of insects, the rustle of leaves 
 stirred by its light summer breeze. All nature seemed filled 
 with sweet and hopeful things; while still the burden of 
 George Page’s thought was : — “ yet I would I had seen her ere 
 I left Windsor.” It had not been repeated to himself above 
 twenty-five times, — when, suddenly his ear caught sound of 
 a blithe voice carolling some rustic ballad, and his eye fell 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 123 
 
 upon the very form which of all others he had been longing 
 to see. 
 
 Yes; there was Margaret Gay singing as clear as a black- 
 bird, carrying a basket on her arm, and stepping at a smart 
 pace along the hedge-row footpath, which skirted the bridle 
 way. 
 
 “ Why, what in the name of blest fortune brings thee abroad, 
 and so early ? ” said George Page. 
 
 “ I am going across the fields to Ashleigh farm ; there’s a 
 cotter there, who was once a hind at my father’s. Mother 
 heard that his poor wife, and two of his children, are sick of 
 the hay-fever, so she sent me over to take them a couple of 
 pullets to make broth of, and some new-laid eggs. And what 
 may take you this way ? On horseback, too ; it must be some 
 distant errand.” 
 
 “ I go, at my father’s bidding, into Gloucestershire answered 
 George Page ; “ but I can’t tell thee well all about it, thou 
 walking, I riding. Either I’ll dismount, and sit beside thee 
 awhile under the hedge ; or thou shalt get up with me, and let 
 Daisy carry thee to Ashleigh farm, round by the road-way, 
 which, with the help of her back, will be as near as the path 
 over the fields.” 
 
 “ I’ll not be the means of making George Page loiter on his 
 errands ; and so, mayhap, get his father’s ill-word ; ” said Meg. 
 
 “ Give me thy hand, then ; set thy foot firm on my instep ; 
 now give a spring, and up thou art ! ” And thus she was lifted 
 to his saddle-bow. 
 
 “ Meg, my father sends me on business of Sir Marmaduke’s, 
 to one justice Shallow. I shall be gone a bare fortnight, I 
 fancy ; but meanwhile I’m glad to have seen Margaret Gay 
 before I set forth, though it be to say farewell.” 
 
 “ ‘Farewell’ for so short an absence is no hard way to say;” 
 said Margaret Gay. “Better have to say ‘farewell’ for a 
 fortnight’s ride, than ‘ God be wi’ you’ for a year and a sea- 
 voyage.” 
 
 “ I am glad to hear thee say thou had’st rather part with me 
 for a fortnight than a year, Meg. But let me ask thee a plain 
 question or two.” 
 
124 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Thou’rt like to get but wry answers to thy plain questions, 
 if thou hold’st me so tight, George;” said she; “prisoners, 
 thou know’st, are apt to be crabbed in reply to their jailers.” 
 
 “ I am no jailer ; I would be none to thee, Meg ; I would be 
 thy husband;” said George Page. 
 
 “ My husband? cry you mercy, what is that but a jailer?” 
 replied she. 
 
 “ I’ll shew thee what else, if thou’lt make thee mine, dear 
 Meg ;” he said. “No grim jailer; but a warm friend, a loving 
 spouse, shalt thou have of me, if thou wilt have me for a hus- 
 band. Thou should’st never know crueller usage than this.” 
 The last word was accompanied by something that rhymed to 
 it ; while Meg said ; — “ If you neglect the bridle thus, master 
 George, I fear me, Daisy will take her own pace, and we shall 
 never reach Ashleigh farm to-day.” 
 
 “ I care not how long we are going thither ;” said George 
 Page. 
 
 “ Is it thus you obey your father’s bidding to speed into 
 Gloucestershire?” asked Meg. 
 
 “ He bade me ride, not speed ; and I am resolved I will not 
 on thither, until I carry with me thy promise to be my wife on 
 my return, Meg. “ I’ve set my heart on it.” 
 
 “ If so I can but give thee the promise thou desir’st, George ; 
 and to make it better worth the carrying, suppose I let thee 
 know that my heart goes with it ? ” said Meg. 
 
 The storm of kisses with which her frank words were greeted, 
 may be inferred from Meg’s exclamation of “ George, you’ll 
 frighten the very birds off the trees ! See how farmer Ashleigh’s 
 sober cows are staring at us ! But there’s Miles Swinkley’s 
 cottage. Now set me down in earnest, George. God bless 
 thee ; and farewell ! ” 
 
 With one parting hug, the lover let his mistress dismount ; 
 and then he set forward at a pace that should make up for the 
 time he had so pleasantly lost. 
 
 Not long after George Page had returned home from Glou- 
 cestershire, Frank Ford also returned to Windsor. He too 
 travelled on horseback, and as he rode into the town, he 
 stopped at the Star inn, for a glass of small ale after his hot 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERRY MAIDS OR WINDSOR. 125 
 
 and dusty ride. Poll Quickly, the barmaid, who had handed 
 it to him, dropped him a deferential curtsey, and bid him wel- 
 come back. 
 
 “ Well, and what is the best news with you, mistress Polly ; 
 and what is the newest among the Windsor folk?” 
 
 “’Faith, bad’s the best of my news, master Ford, good as it 
 is of you to ask that;” she replied. “A barmaid’s life is not 
 the life of a lady. Travellers are few of them lords, fewer of 
 ’em angels ; and fewer still, have any angels to bestow on the 
 barmaid ; a paltry tester is the oftest coin that finds its way to 
 her hand, from travellers’ pockets ; and seldom have they eyes 
 to see that her coif would be all the better for a shilling’s worth 
 of ribbon; but that’s neither here nor there.” 
 
 “ I would not so disparage the coif thou wear’st now, as to 
 say that it needs a new ribbon ; but here’s a shilling that will 
 replace the bright one thou hast, when it fades;” said Ford 
 smiling, as he took the hint so palpably aimed. “ And now 
 for the rest of thy news.” 
 
 “ First and foremost, there’s Sir Paul Pureton’s news ; he’s 
 dead ; ” said Poll Quickly ; “ then master Hugh Evans, the 
 Welsh Latin scholar, is to be reader in his place, which will 
 make him Sir Hugh, of course ; then there’s little old Will 
 Patterly, the barber; he’s joined hands in the dance of death, 
 too; but he was past his work, so there’s no great loss to 
 Windsor, and but small gain to the worms, for such a starve- 
 ling body as he was, will make but a spare meal for ’em. A 
 plumper morsel they’ll get in Dick Cleaveholm, the butcher, 
 who, they say, is well-nigh off the hooks, and can’t last a week. 
 A many’s the carcass he’s chopped up, and now he’s to be cut 
 off himself! Well, Heaven’s above all !” 
 
 “What a catalogue of deaths thou hast to tell me, good 
 mistress Polly !” exclaimed Frank Ford; “ is there no pleasant 
 news stirring? Nothing but dismal tidings in Windsor?” 
 
 “ Ay now, I warrant me, it’s weddings, and not funerals, you 
 young folks love to hear of ;” said Poll ; “ well, there’s some- 
 thing going on that’ll lead to weddings, or Pm much mistook.” 
 And she nodded her head mysteriously. 
 
 “What ‘something’? I pr’ythee,” said Ford. 
 
126 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Well then, both the long and the short of it, and the very 
 yea and the no is, that master George Page is in love with one 
 of the merry maids of Windsor — and you know well enough 
 who are the two that bear that nay-name.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay ; I know well enough ! And which of them is 
 George’s choice ? ” said Frank Ford, hurriedly. 
 
 “ Well, as I told you, I have an eye to see, and an ear to 
 hear ; and though he beat about the bush, and wouldn’t have 
 had me see which of ’em he had the best mind to, yet as clear as 
 eggs is eggs — speciously new-laid ones, — I could make out that 
 he asked the most direct questions about mistress Alice May.” 
 
 “I thought as much;” muttered Frank Ford between his 
 ground teeth. “ It’s but too clear ; I ever dreaded this. Who 
 could see her, and not love her ? And he has seen her and 
 known her from childhood thought Frank Ford. 
 
 “ And now, I’ll warrant, we shall have you making up to the 
 other merry maiden ; and so, we shall have a double wedding; 
 Lord forgive us ! ” said Poll Quickly. “ And a comely bride 
 she’ll make, will mistress Margaret ; and a merry wooing and a 
 speedy wedding may you have of it with her, I say, and I pray 
 too.” 
 
 “ It is kindly meant, and kindly wished; I thank thee for thy 
 wish, mistress Polly;” said Frank Ford, as he took his leave of 
 the Star hostelry, and its communicative barmaid. 
 
 That evening there was to be a merry-making at farmer 
 Page’s, to celebrate the return of his son from Gloucestershire. 
 All the young people of the neighbourhood were to be there ; 
 and when it was found that Frank had also come home from 
 college that very day, an invitation was despatched, begging 
 him to join the party. He was in no mood for mirth; he 
 thought of pleading fatigue from his ride, a headache, — any- 
 thing — to excuse him from going among his friends, two of 
 whom he dreaded to meet. Then he thought the pain of seeing 
 them together, and of witnessing the tokens of their attachment, 
 would be even less agony than the tormenting tricks which his 
 fancy now played him. 
 
 With his heart full of such thoughts, it may well be con- 
 ceived that Frank Ford’s manner of greeting his old friends, 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 127 
 
 when he went among them that evening, was not particularly 
 gracious. 
 
 On his arrival at farmer Page’s, he found all the guests as- 
 sembled ; the dancing had already commenced with great 
 vigour, in the largest barn ; and the first thing Frank Ford’s 
 eyes encountered there, was the lithe figure of Alice May, led 
 by George Page, as the young couple performed together with 
 great spirit the evolutions of a country-dance. 
 
 He thought he had never seen her look so beautiful, so 
 happy. The fact is, her partner was just whispering in her ear 
 the news that Frank Ford had arrived in Windsor that morning, 
 and that he might be expected among them every moment. 
 
 “You take so strong an interest in the dancing, though but 
 a looker-on as yet, Master Ford,” said a cheerful voice near 
 him, “ that you have not had time to greet your old friend and 
 neighbour. Come, suppose you lead me to the lower end of 
 the floor, and let us join the dancers together ; as neither you 
 nor I have met with a partner, let us take pity on each other, 
 what say you ? ” 
 
 Thus challenged by Margaret Gay, Frank Ford could not 
 refuse, and they accordingly took their places below the rest of 
 the couples, to dance their way gradually up to the top of the 
 set. 
 
 But it was not long before Margaret perceived the abstraction 
 of her partner, and shrewdly guessed its cause. 
 
 “ So, so ; my gentleman is jealous, is he ? And of poor 
 George, too ! He little knows” — and her thought ended with a 
 smile. 
 
 Presently, she perceived that, in the course of the dance, 
 Frank had had occasion to take Alice’s hand; that he had 
 sought to retain it ; but that the figure requiring a quick change 
 of hands, Alice had been compelled to withdraw it hastily from 
 his, that she might return it to her partner; and after this, 
 Margaret saw Frank’s face cloud over more moodily than 
 before. 
 
 “You would have me believe in the lasting existence of kind 
 feeling, Margaret ;” he said, biting his lip, “ and here I find a 
 friend whom I have known from childhood, snatching away her 
 
128 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 hand, as if I had been an adder among violets she stooped to 
 gather.” 
 
 “ In the ardour of dancing, friendship is forgotten she an- 
 swered, smiling; “to the claims of a figure, even those of an 
 old friend must give way.” 
 
 Just then, the dance concluded ; and George Page came up, 
 with his usual hearty manner, to shake hands with Frank Ford, 
 and bid him welcome back to Windsor. 
 
 There was no resisting his cordial frankness, and for a few 
 moments, Ford forgot all, in the pleasure of finding his hand 
 once more within the grasp of his old friend and companion. 
 
 But when George Page turned towards Alice, who was leaning 
 upon his arm, and put her hand within Ford’s, saying : — “ Here 
 is another Windsor favourite of yours ; you must dance with 
 Alice May the next measure ; ” Frank saw in this but the action 
 of an engaged lover, who permitted his mistress to dance one 
 dance with the new-comer ; and, in consequence, all his former 
 moody coldness returned upon him. 
 
 This was terribly apparent to Alice, during the silent progress 
 through the dance which they made together. At length, the 
 dance came to an end ; and, leading her to a seat, which hap- 
 pened to be near Margaret Gay, he bowed coldly, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 “ Why sweetheart, why Alice ! ” whispered her friend, “ look 
 not so shame-faced and downcast, as though thou wert to blame, 
 not he. Out upon it ! Here’s a trembling white lip, and a 
 glistening eye ; and all for what, forsooth ? Because a young 
 moon-stricken simpleton chooses to come home and fancy a 
 thousand things, instead of seeing the plain one, straight before 
 his nose.” 
 
 George Page now came towards them to say that a game of 
 barley-break had been proposed ; and that the sport was about 
 to commence in the home-paddock. 
 
 Margaret Gay hastily found means to inform Page of Frank’s 
 jealous freak, of her plan to convince him of his error by allowing 
 him to continue in it for a few hours, and then shewing him its 
 absurdity by confessing their own mutual engagement. 
 
 George Page laughed at her eagerness, but suffered himself 
 
129 
 
 MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 
 
 to be persuaded to act the part of a favoured lover towards 
 Alice for a short space, on condition that the period of Frank 
 Ford’s torment should not be unreasonably protracted. 
 
 Never fear, never fear ; do you and Alice play your parts 
 truly, and I’ll engage for a happy ending. Here, take her hand, 
 and lead her away to the home-paddock, while I go and seek 
 my crotchety student.” 
 
 Margaret Gay hurried away, and found Frank Ford already 
 upon the ground, standing a little apart from the gay party who 
 " ere forming themselves into groups and couples, preparatory 
 to a bout at their favourite game of Barley-break. 
 
 Margaret stood near to Frank Ford’s side, and it was scarce 
 difficult to read in his troubled brow, the thoughts that occupied 
 his heart. “ They have made up all the couples, beside our- 
 selves, master Ford;” said Margaret; “let us take our stand 
 together, or we shall not find a place, save in the centre divi- 
 sion, and you know what that’s called ! ” 
 
 “ A y> it is called ‘ hell ” replied he ; then added in a mutter ; 
 “lam there already, methinks, watching them.” 
 
 “ Are you one of the sober-minded youths who think Barley- 
 break a naughty sinful game, and an ill mode of passing time, 
 master Ford ; asked Margaret Gay, with a sly smile, and a 
 glance at his gloomy look ; “ I’m told there are such ; may- 
 hap, your books have taught you to turn Puritan, orBrownist.” 
 
 Pshaw ! exclaimed Ford, as he led the laughing girl to 
 join the players ; as much to put a stop to her banter, as that 
 he had any mind to take part in what was going forward. 
 
 And now the sport began. As may be imagined, infinite 
 were the scufflings, the hustlings, the shriekings, the pushings, 
 the pullings, the dodgings, the dartings, the screamings, the 
 evadings, and the seekings to be caught, on the part of the 
 several runners engaged in the different sets of players ; for, as 
 there were but three couples to each game of Barley-break, so 
 there had to be several sets or games made up in different parts 
 of the field. 
 
 The chances of the game now threw Frank Ford and Alice 
 May within the centre compartment together. Thus coupled,, 
 thus linked with her, hand-in-hand, all his stern resolutions, his 
 
 K 
 
130 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 anger against her, were put to flight ; it was impossible to 
 harbour resentment against one whose hand trembled within 
 his own, and whose soft blue eyes seemed seeking pardon of 
 his ; and soon, his only thought was how to prolong the time 
 of their remaining together within this boundary, which now 
 he found to be anything but 4 hell ’ to him. As this state of 
 feeling somehow communicated itself to Alice, it naturally 
 befel that they relaxed in their attempts to capture the rest of 
 the couples, and it as naturally ensued that the game lan- 
 guished and was broken up ; the players dispersed, in groups, 
 to the orchard, where, beneath the cherry-trees, a supper was 
 spread, while still so early that it might be eaten by the glow 
 of the western sun. 
 
 Margaret Gay’s quick eye glanced round the table, and she 
 whispered George Page who sat beside her : — “ I see neither 
 Alice May, nor Frank Ford. My life on’t, that little traitress 
 has dropped the mask, thrown up her part, and left the play 
 unplayed out.” 
 
 “ I shouldn’t wonder ; ” said George Page with his quiet 
 smile. 44 I saw Frank Ford lead her apart, when the sport 
 broke up ; they took the path towards the meadows ; and if 
 Frank Ford’s the man I take him for, and Alice May the gentle 
 girl I know her to be, why then he has not rested, nor she 
 stinted, till he won her to tell him the secret of your play, as 
 you call it ; which, I take it, has been a tragedy to him.” 
 
 44 Serve him right ! She’s a silly wench if she let him off so 
 easy,” said Margaret ; 44 after so wild and groundless a jealousy 
 as his. He’ll plague her with some of these yellow whims, by- 
 and-by, if she take not good heed ; mark my word. But see ! 
 here come Frank and Alice. Alack, for my play ! It is played 
 out indeed ! Who can fail to read 4 impending matrimony ’ 
 writ in both those tell-tale faces ? ” 
 
 George Page hastened towards them, to perform his duty of 
 host in securing Frank and his blushing companion a seat at 
 the supper-table ; and as he did so, he contrived to convey by 
 his expressive look and his hearty shake of the hand, his con- 
 gratulation on the right understanding to which all of them had 
 happily come. 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERE Y MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 131 
 
 On the following day, Frank Ford asked Alice of her father, 
 in form ; and while he stepped into farmer May’s house to do 
 this, he left his mistress in company with George Page and 
 Margaret Gay, having all four been walking together. Of 
 course it was by the merest chance that the young people had 
 met ; but as they had fallen in with each other, it was agreed 
 between them that they would saunter on for an hour or two 
 through the pleasant glades of Windsor park, so soon as Frank 
 should rejoin them. 
 
 During his absence, Alice May had walked on a few paces, 
 in rustic goodnatured fashion, leaving the lovers to follow by 
 themselves ; but George Page overtook her, and passing her 
 arm within his own, while on his other arm he had Margaret 
 Gay, he declared that love should not make him so unsociable 
 as to let Alice May walk on by herself ; and that he insisted 
 on escorting them both, until her rightful companion re- 
 turned. 
 
 Now it happened, that as the young farmer was proceeding 
 thus, with a merry maiden under each arm, all three gaily 
 laughing and chatting, reckoning over the many pleasant 
 neighbourly hours they had all spent together, and looking 
 forward happily to the many more they still hoped to spend 
 thus, who should come by that way, but mistress Poll Quickly, 
 with a large basket on her arm, coming over the fields from 
 Frogmore, where she had been to fetch some cream and butter 
 that was wanted. 
 
 She spied Page from a distance ; and also saw clearly enough 
 who were his companions, and how familiarly they were all 
 Jinked arm-in-arm; and she said to herself “ Lord, Lord, if 
 that wicked young fellow be not in sober verity, no less in love 
 than he said he was, with the merry maids, two at a time ! To 
 think of him ; and to think of them, letting him bring ’em into 
 such a canaries, is what I should never have thought of two 
 such seeming innocents.” 
 
 As she approached the group, however, some of her virtuous 
 horror oozed out ; giving place to that easy tolerance, which 
 her desire to be on popular terms with everybody, made second 
 nature to her. 
 
132 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “A goodly company, and a fitting, for such a fine warm 
 morning as this ; ” she said, as she came up with the party, 
 dropping a curtsey, and smirking at them. “ It’s well to be a 
 heathen Turk, and a Christian farmer all in one, when a hand- 
 some young Englishman would fain look well in more than one 
 fair pair of eyes ; and as long as virtuous maids are willing to 
 be friendly and peaceable, and rather agree in their liking, than 
 fall out and pull caps because one man happens to please 
 ’em both, why, such amical doings is a blessing, I say ; and 
 long may you all go on kindly together, I pray.” 
 
 “ I’m afraid I shan’t be able to persuade both my sultanas 
 to marry me, Turk as I may be ; ” said Page, laughing ; ‘‘but I 
 hope I may say, I think they both like me well ; and I swear 
 that shall content me.”' 
 
 “ That we do, mistress Polly ; we both love George Page 
 dearly and heartily, and he loves us ; dost thou not, master 
 Page ? ” said they. 
 
 “ Right truly, on the faith of an honest man and a farmer — 
 an Englishman, and no Turk ! ” he replied. 
 
 “Well, rest ye merry, good gentlefolks ;” said Poll Quickly, 
 bobbing a parting curtsey, and feeling rather baffled by their 
 unconstrained manner and laughing words. “ But if black 
 swans are not white angels to those two merry maids, (Heaven 
 forgive me for saying so !) ” she continued to herself, as she 
 pursued her way, “why then I’m no judge of birds and angels, 
 or maids either— shy birds and sly birds as mistress Alice May 
 and mistress Margaret Gay both are.” 
 
 Presently she met Frank Ford; who having prospered in his 
 suit, and obtained farmer May’s joyful consent to wed his 
 daughter, was coming along with an alert step, and a beamingly 
 happy face. 
 
 “ Poor young man!” she thought, as he approached, and she 
 observed his well-pleased air, “ he would’nt look so cheerly, an’ 
 he knew what games his sweetheart’s going on, when his back 
 is turned. I’ve a month’s mind to help him to an inkling. 
 “Give ye good-morrow, master Ford;” she said aloud, as she 
 came up to him; “you’ll be for taking a stroll through the park, 
 this fine morning. I warrant me ; and if you take the glade leaving 
 
MEG AND ALICE; I HE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 133 
 
 the castle to your left, I shouldn’t wonder but you’d stumble on a 
 sight that’ll make your eyes open as wide as from now till Martle- 
 mas. Troth, master Ford, it’s a sight for a good man to see; a 
 young girl hanging on one man’s arm, when if she’s an honest 
 girl she should be in another man’s arms. And what should you 
 say, master Ford, it I was to tell ye, that such a young girl’s 
 name is Gay; and that the young man’s name with the arm she 
 is leaning on, is no other than Page ; and that he’s not even 
 content with that, but he must be having two of ’em at once, like 
 a dog in the manger as he is— a merry maid tucked under each 
 arm ; Lord forgive us ! What say you to that ? ” 
 
 “ I think it’s very hard he should get both the merry maids of 
 Windsor to his share ;” said Ford, laughing. « I’ll after him, and 
 see if he won’t give me up one of them.” 
 
 “ Alas, master Ford ! Would you take up with his leavings?” 
 asked Poll. 
 
 “ I mean not that;” answered Ford. “I shall take one of the 
 merry maids from him, and leave him the other; and then, thou 
 know’st, he will have my leavings.” 
 
 With a laughing nod of farewell to her, he ran on to overtake 
 his friends. 
 
 It was not long, ere the two pair of lovers agreed upon the 
 day which was to make them joyful husbands and wives. And 
 when the day arrived, — the friends and relations on all sides 
 assembling and forming a goodly procession ; the two brides 
 attired alike, with knots of memorial rosemary fastened to their 
 sleeves, as was the wont ; and a rich bride-cup of silver-gilt, in 
 which was a branch of rosemary gilded brightly, and hung about 
 with ribbons, borne before them ; — it was allowed on all hands 
 that two more comely bridegrooms, than young master Ford 
 and young master Page, two fairer brides than young mistress 
 May and young mistress Gay, had not been wedded in the old 
 church for many a day. 
 
 Thus, the two merry maids became the merry wives of 
 Windsor ; for with their new dignity came no shadow to cloud 
 their spirits. Years flew by, and scarce brought any change in 
 their good looks — none at all, in their good-humour and merry- 
 hearted cheer. 
 
134 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Somewhat more crumby, plump, and buxom, perhaps, they 
 had become in their fair proportions ; the white shoulders were 
 more ample ; the arms rounder ; the cheeks had a fuller out- 
 line ; wddle neither of their waists were quite so remarkable for 
 slenderness as they had been ; yet still, when there was a dance 
 in the old barn, or a game on the green-sward, Meg and Alice 
 were still as alert as ever, and their husbands were to the full as 
 well-pleased to see them there as formerly, and never found that 
 their figures had become more portly, or their steps less active. 
 
 Frank Ford had been, in the course of time, left so well off 
 by his father, that he was able to maintain his wife as a gentle- 
 woman, without any necessity for his following his father’s 
 profession of lawyer ; while George Page, when his father died, 
 determined from choice, to follow his vocation, as farmer and 
 land- steward to Sir Marmaduke Ducan drake. Both the friends 
 lived in ease and comfort, while their wives had money and time 
 entirely at command, to spend as they pleased. 
 
 Mistress Page had, a year after marriage, brought her hus- 
 band a little girl 3 who became the pet and darling of the whole 
 family. 
 
 But she was a good little soul, a sweet simple child ; one of 
 those pleasant natures, that it is well-nigh impossible to render 
 less pleasant, even by the most inveterate spoiling that a tribe 
 of doting relations can inflict. Nothing could prove this better 
 than the birth of her little brother William. After eight or nine 
 years of undisputed sovereignty, another child appeared to 
 share her rule over the hearts of the fond parents and relatives. 
 
 But far from seeming to regard this little one as an intruder, 
 no one welcomed the baby boy with greater delight than 
 Anne, — now no longer baby Anne, but sister Anne. She 
 nursed him, she hugged him, she lugged him about, and would 
 fain have had him never out of her arms, in spite of the hint 
 which mistress Quickly once gave her mother, to the effect that 
 “ If little mistress Anne was allowed to bear about young master 
 in that sort, from pillar to post, alas, no ram’s horn, nor no curly- 
 tailed pig which would be crookeder than that child’s shoulder, 
 good heart ! ” 
 
 When it became high time that William should be placed 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 135 
 
 under more erudite tuition than a sister, — however devoted, — 
 could supply, Anne still took charge of him as far as possible. 
 He was sent to school with Sir Hugh Evans, — now become 
 village schoolmaster in place of Peter Scriven deceased ; and 
 every morning might Anne Page be seen, leading her little 
 brother by the hand, carrying his satchel for him, and beguiling 
 the way, as he leaped and jumped at her side. 
 
 Both the children liked parson Hugh; all the children in 
 Windsor liked him ; he was good-humoured, fond of his pupils, 
 and more peppery in manner than really strict or severe. He 
 loved better to give them a holiday at some good-natured 
 friend’s asking, than to scourge or even scold them for non- 
 attendance, or non-attention at their lessons. 
 
 He was proud of his acquaintance with Robert Shallow, Esq. 
 justice of the peace in the county of Gloucestershire. Could 
 not forbear boasting to the boys of his having been to the same 
 school with that worshipful personage ; told them his friend the 
 justice had promised to pay him a visit at his poor school-house 
 at Windsor some day or other; and that if ever such an 
 auspicious event should occur, he would grant them a holiday 
 on the strength of it. At which, all the boys would set up a 
 roaring huzza, and cry, “ Long live parson Hugh and his noble 
 friend justice Shallow ! ” 
 
 The friendly relations between this last-named worshipful 
 gentleman, and master George Page, had also been kept up 
 during the years that had elapsed since his first visit to the 
 squire’s. Master Robert Shallow did not forget that it was Page 
 who had brought him the sum of money, which, after the first 
 enthusiasm of obliging a court knight with its loan, he had had 
 misgivings he might never see again. 
 
 Presents of game, a fine buck in season, or a goodly cheese 
 of Gloucester, would often travel up by wain from the knight’s 
 seat for master Page’s acceptance ; while courtesies of acknow- 
 ledgment in the shape of some new recipe or hint in farriery, 
 some dog of superior breed, a good pointer, or handsome fallow 
 greyhound, would be sent in return from Windsor to the squire, 
 or to young master Slender. 
 
 On the squire’s side, there were the reasons above-stated, for 
 
136 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the friendly feeling he preserved towards master Page ; and on 
 the other, the good yeoman sometimes found himself reflect- 
 ing that the justice’s cousin, master Slender, would come into a 
 round sum of money at his mother’s death ; and then he would 
 speculate upon the possibility of securing such a match for 
 his daughter, by bringing about a marriage between her and 
 master Abraham Slender. 
 
 Meanwhile matters were taking place in Gloucestershire, 
 which were likely to bring about his wish. 
 
 Justice Shallow had been made somewhat uneasy by symp- 
 toms of a preference springing up between his cousin, Abraham 
 Slender, and a certain Alice Shortcake, a baker’s daughter, who 
 lived in the nearest village to Shallow Park. The old gentle- 
 man would never have had the perspicacity to make this dis- 
 covery for himself, but the lyn!l eyes of a mother had acquainted 
 mistress Slender with some particulars which she thought be- 
 tokened the fact, and she forthwith consulted her cousin Shal- 
 low upon what had best be done to save her son, and the darling 
 of them both, from the ignominy of such a match. 
 
 The worthy justice promised his potent aid ; but just at that 
 time, it happened, that his attention was diverted from the sub- 
 ject of his young cousin’s possible enthralment, by the unex- 
 pected advent of one of his old town acquaintance, Sir John 
 Falstaff, who, with three of his retainers, came down to Glou- 
 cestershire on a long-promised visit. 
 
 This visit proved anything but agreeable to the host. Matters 
 were carried with so reckless a hand by the knight and his 
 riotous followers— they committed so many extravagances— and 
 behaved with so little regard to decency, that instead of the 
 amicable terms on which the two gentlemen had hitherto main- 
 tained their intimacy, they parted this time, with threats of seek- 
 ing redress on the one side, contemptuous defiance on the 
 other. 
 
 Master Robert Shallow brooded on these wrongs, and medi- 
 tated means of obtaining the vengeance he sought. He thought 
 he would go up to Windsor, where the court at present was, 
 and state his wrongs in the proper quarter; he bethought him 
 that thus he might enjoy the pleasure he had often promised 
 
MEG AND ALICE; THE MERR Y MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 137 
 
 himself of seeing master Page again, and at the same time fulfil 
 an engagement of long-standing with Sir Hugh Evans, who 
 looked forward with pride to having him under his roof. He 
 had just made up his mind (the word slips in unadvisedly, 
 speaking of the worthy gentleman) on the many eligible features 
 of the plan, when one more circumstance was added, which 
 made him decide upon the Windsor expedition as the wisest 
 possible device, to obtain his own wishes, and to remove his 
 cousin at once from a dangerous vicinity. 
 
 It happened that justice Shallow, while making the above re- 
 flections, was pacing up and down a sunny open space in his 
 deer-park near to the high road, when he heard voices ; one of 
 which was a woman’s, and the other he recognized as his cousin 
 Slender’s. 
 
 “ Nay, but master Slender,” he heard the damsel’s voice say, 
 “ I’m sure your worship won’t refuse me so very a trifle as a 
 puppy. I’m sure I couldn’t refuse you a dog, or anything else 
 that you asked of me, master Slender.” 
 
 “ But you have no dog — and I ask no dog of you, mistress 
 Alice ; ” said Slender. 
 
 “ But is there nothing else you would care to have of me, 
 master Slender ? I would fain show you I can refuse you nothing, 
 if I may coax you to part with the dog, for I’ve taken a fancy 
 to him.” 
 
 “ He’s a gift of master Page’s, and I daren’t give him away, 
 lest my cousin Shallow should chide;” said Slender; “and as 
 for aught else I could wish of you, beside a dog — there might 
 be something I could fancy, but that I overheard Yead Miller 
 once say, if any man ever took such a thing of you, he’d take 
 him a blow of his cudgel should last him his life.” 
 
 “ And what was it no man was to get of me without Yead 
 Miller’s good leave, I trow ? ” 
 
 “Marry, no less than — a — a — kiss;” faltered he. 
 
 A little shrill scream followed, which seemed to scare master 
 Slender, and which he hastened to appease, by exclaiming : — 
 “Nay, it was his word, not mine, and I’ll sooner be hanged 
 than make it my deed, if you’ll only cease screaming, and tell 
 me you’re not angered !” 
 
133 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Pshaw ! ” muttered the voice of the damsel, as she seemed 
 to fling from him, and quit the spot. 
 
 Presently, the long legs of master Slender appeared above 
 the top rail of the stile which divided the park from the road; 
 and in another moment, himself came into the open space 
 where his cousin Shallow was, who said, as he approached : — 
 “ What woman was that you parted with just now, coz?” 
 
 “Woman? I know of no woman;” said master Slender, 
 with more than his ordinary sheepishness of aspect. 
 
 “ Come, come, that shall not serve, cousin. Come cousin, 
 come cousin, confess, confess.” 
 
 “ I know not what to confess ; ” said master Slender. 
 
 “ Confess that you care more for that wench, than you’d have 
 me know of, coz. But it would not sort well with the honour 
 of an old family like ours, coz, — that may quarter, and write 
 himself esquire, coz, — for master Abraham Slender to wed with 
 Alice Shortcake, the baker’s daughter.” 
 
 “You know her then, uncle ?” faltered master Slender. 
 
 “ Marry, that I do ; and I will pardon all, if thou wilt plea- 
 sure me, coz, by going with me to Windsor; where Sir Hugh 
 Evans, a worthy friend of mine, shall show thee, as a good 
 churchman should, the sin and wickedness of marrying beneath 
 your degree, and the weakness of trifling with a girl’s hopes. 
 It is very wanton dealing, both.” 
 
 “ But, ere I go with you to Windsor, uncle, I would fain get 
 back a book of mine, that I lent to Alice Shortcake. It’s a 
 choice garland of riddles that I took with me to make merry 
 with, at the All-hallowmas feast ; she wouldn’t be gainsaid but 
 that I should let her have it for a while. We so laughed over 
 it together, that it passed.” 
 
 “ Well, coz, thy man Simple shall go over, and ask her for it 
 in thy name; ” said Justice Shallow. “ Peter Simple shall fetch 
 it thee. Never fear, never fear. Andby’rlady, ’tiswell thought on, 
 and ’tis well thought on, indeed; thy man Simple shall attend us to 
 Windsor. We shall need a trusty varlet; and he is one, he is one.” 
 
 And thus the journey to Windsor was settled. 
 
 There, meantime, some changes had taken place. Sir Mar- 
 maduke Ducandrake died; the estate fell to his nephew, a 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 139 
 
 young man about town, with a slender purse, and expensive 
 tastes. He came down to take possession, bringing in his 
 train, a number of idle young companions, whose gay manners 
 and congenial pursuits had won his liking. The young gentle- 
 man left the management of his affairs still with master Page ; 
 merely renewing his engagement as bailiff to the estate. 
 
 Among the young gentlemen who had accompanied the new 
 sir Marmaduke down to Windsor, was one master Fenton. He 
 was gay, but not heartless, like the rest. He was of gentle 
 birth ; had somewhat wasted his patrimony in town pleasures, 
 thinking some day to repair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage; 
 but possessed a nature capable of being touched by excellence. 
 He had met Anne Page more than once by chance, coming 
 with her little brother from school ; had been struck with her 
 simple beauty ; had formed acquaintance with her, and begun 
 to flatter himself that she found nearly as much pleasure from 
 it as himself ; while gradually it struck young William, that his 
 sister left him oftener and oftener to find his way to and from 
 school by himself, unless his mother would be his companion, 
 which she frequently was. 
 
 On one of these occasions, when Anne Page had forgotten 
 that it was the hour for fetching her brother, because she hap- 
 pened to be walking with master Fenton in the meadows, whom 
 she had by the merest accident met there, it befel that mistress 
 Quickly came upon them, just as the young people parted. 
 
 “ A fair day to fair mistress Anne, is a fair wish, and it is 
 mine, in good sooth ; ” said she ; “ I need not wish her fair 
 company, for that she has just parted with, I see added she, 
 with a sly glance in the direction of master Fenton’s retreating 
 figure. “ But I hear there’s to be grand doings on your birth- 
 day, next week, mistress Anne. A goodly feast it’ll be, I 
 warrant me. And you’ll be sixteen years of age, I give Heaven 
 praise.” 
 
 “ And thou must come to the feast, mistress Quickly ; ” said 
 Anne Page, “ Thou wast at my christening, thou know’st, and, 
 if all be true, at my mother’s, before me.” 
 
 “ Troth, mistress Anne, that I was ; and a specious christening, 
 both of ’em, I warrant ye. But I must be going. Out upon it ! 
 
140 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 My master will be home before me ; and then there’ll be no end 
 to frowns, and cracked English, and hub-bub, and find-fault, 
 and to-do ! ” said mistress Quickly, with so sudden a recollec- 
 tion of her domesticities, as might have led to the suspicion, 
 that having gained her object — an invitation to the birthday 
 feast, — she had leisure to remember her duty. 
 
 The feast was no less magnificent, than had been mistress 
 Quickly’s anticipations touching its probable arrangements. 
 
 Among the guests, were young Sir Marmaduke, and the troop 
 of friends he had staying with him, including master Fenton; 
 there were also some late arrivals in the town, hangers-on of 
 the court, gentlemen with whom Page had from time to time 
 made a slight acquaintance. Of these latter, happened to be 
 Sir John Falstaff. Sir Hugh Evans was there, who mentioned 
 to master Page a letter, which he had received from their friend 
 justice Shallow, announcing his intended visit to Windsor. 
 
 Master Page told Sir Hugh he was glad of this, as Falstaff 
 being at present there, it might lead to a reconciliation between 
 the justice and the knight, which he should do his utmost to 
 bring about. 
 
 Sir Hugh promised “ to use his pest discretions and benigni- 
 ties ” to help on so amicable a project ; but as for Sir John, when 
 he heard who was expected, he only said : — 
 
 “What, justice Shallow? Poor devil ! He’ll hardly care to 
 meet me, or look me in the face ; he owes me money — some 
 thousand pound strong ; or so. But he needn’t fear me ; I’ll 
 not press the debt. He shall have time. I’m a moderate man 
 — save in the girth ; exacting only in the span of my sword-belt. 
 My body craves amplitude of doublet ; but for mine own desires, 
 they are limited — to excess.” 
 
 Master Robert Shallow and his cousin Slender arrive in 
 Windsor. They are welcomed by their friends. 
 
 Master Page’s scheme for a son-in-law assumes form and 
 substance. 
 
 Mistress Page has still her own project for Anne’s future 
 husband ; but meanwhile her attention is distracted from the 
 subject by a strange proposal on her own score, which forces 
 from her the exclamation : — 
 
MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERE Y MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 141 
 
 “ What ! have I 'scaped love-letters in the holiday time of my 
 beauty , and am I now a subject for them ? Let me see." 
 
 She has no sooner re-read the paper, than to her comes 
 mistress Ford, saying : — 
 
 “ Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going to your house ! ” 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act. ii. Sc. 1. 
 
TALE VI. 
 
 ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 LL the Vienna world was abroad, and gay, and 
 ' well-dressed, and bent on pleasure ; for it was the 
 first of May, — when every Viennese puts on new 
 clothes, and sallies forth, and makes holiday ; and 
 the city becomes a scene of colour and animation. 
 
 Through the public thoroughfares the crowd streamed on ; 
 wending to see the foot-racing on the Prater. 
 
 Among the pedestrians, was one couple, who, as they lounged 
 along, were not sparing of their remarks upon the rest, and 
 who uttered them in a loud jeering tone, regardless of giving 
 offence. 
 
 The man, — a short, thick-set fellow, with a ferocious mous- 
 tache, and a cruel eye ; a skin that bespoke double daily drink 
 to daily bread, — held on his arm a young girl, who was young 
 only in years, for her face had in it that which betokened an 
 age of horrible experiences. 
 
 In the midst of their boisterous mirth, it suddenly received a 
 check, by one of the horses starting from the line of cavalcade, 
 and plunging and rearing violently in their immediate vicinity; 
 his hoof struck the girl, before she could get out of his way. 
 She recoiled with a scream of pain ; while her companion sprang 
 forward, with an oath, to seize the horse’s rein, and to revenge 
 himself on the rider. But the animal dashed past him, and 
 bore his master away, leaving the other pouring forth a volley 
 of curses and vows for vengeance. 
 
 “ Don’t heed it — I’m not much hurt said the girl with 
 difficulty ; for she was struggling to hide the pain she was in. 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 143 
 
 “Not much hurt!” with another oath; “you mi<dit have 
 been killed !” 
 
 “ Take me out of the crowd for a minute or two, and I shall 
 be right enough soon.” 
 
 The man led her up a quiet by-street. 
 
 “Here, sit you down here, Nanni, my girl;” said he, as he 
 turned through the gates of a little old church-yard; “sit 
 upon one of these mounds, and get your breath.” 
 
 “Not here;” said the girl shuddering, and looking round. 
 “ I can’t sit here. You said just now, I might have been killed ; 
 so I might — and have been brought and laid here.” She 
 looked round upon the graves ; she looked up at the old church- 
 tower ; up into that sky beyond, and a dark troubled expression 
 settled on her brow. 
 
 “ Why what a plague’s come to the wench ! ” exclaimed the 
 man, as he watched her disturbed look and quivering lip, 
 “you’re no coward, are you, Nan, to shiver and shake after the 
 danger’s over ? ” 
 
 “0 1 don’t know— nothing ;— nothing’s come to me; I’m 
 better now;” said the girl hurriedly. “ But what’s that— over 
 there — sitting among the graves — all in white ? see ! ” 
 
 I suppose you think it’s a ghost ! What the devil’s come 
 over you?” And Ugo Branz invoked condemnation on his 
 eyes and limbs, as well as body and soul. 
 
 “A ghost? No; more like an angel!” said she. “It’s a 
 child. See how it sits, like a marble image ; with its folded 
 hands and drooping head.” 
 
 “I’ll tell you what, my girl,” said the man, “ if you’re going to 
 stay here all day in this mouldy old church-yard, fancying ghosts, 
 and spirits, and angels, and all that sort of rubbish, you may 
 stay here by yourself ; for I shan’t, I promise you.” 
 
 He flung out of the churchyard, and the girl crept away, 
 giving a free course to the tears of suffering she had till then 
 suppressed ; she occasionally put her hand to her bruised side 
 as if it gave her great pain, and wandered away from the crowded 
 Prater to a quiet unfrequented path down by the river. 
 
 She threw herself down on the raised path by the way side, 
 
 where she sat rocking herself to and fro. 
 
144 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Presently a little footstep approached. A child, of but a few 
 years old, came in sight, walking along the road by itself, 
 looking about, yet keeping steadily on without stopping. 
 
 Nanni watched the child involuntarily ; and as it came near 
 to the spot where she sat, she could not help saying 
 
 “ Why, you’re a bit of a thing to be wandering here by your- 
 self. Where are you going to?” 
 
 “To Heaven,” said the little one. 
 
 “ Bless the child ! ” was the startled rejoinder. 
 
 “ I’m trying to find my way there. There must be some way 
 to get there ; and I want to go up — up there — to her ! ” And 
 the child pointed up into the blue sky with its baby finger. 
 
 “ Where do you come from ? ” 
 
 “ From the church-yard.” 
 
 Nanni eyed the child, as if she would have scarce been sur- 
 prised to see a pair of wings spread themselves, and bear it 
 soaring away from her sight ; but in another moment she recog- 
 nized it for the same she had beheld sitting upon one of the 
 graves, when she was led into the churchyard by Ugo Branz. 
 
 “ Do you know the way to Heaven?” resumed the child. 
 
 “ I might have known it, perhaps, one time ” — replied the 
 girl, hurriedly ; “ I’ve forgotten it, I suppose.” 
 
 “ I wish I’d met you before you forgot it,” said the child 
 earnestly. 
 
 Suddenly she held out her hand to Nanni, and said : — “ Come 
 with me ; we’ll try and find the way together, shall we ? ” 
 
 The girl burst into a passion of crying. “Too late, too 
 late ! ” She exclaimed wildly ; and beat her hands together, and 
 clenched them among her hair. 
 
 The child, disconcerted, drew back ; and went upon her way, 
 regretting the poor woman would not come and help in the 
 search. 
 
 And for hours still that unhappy woman sat there, her whole 
 attitude expressive of the despondency that possessed her. At 
 length she rose, and hurried along the river side. 
 
 “ Rejected of man — let me seek mercy of God ! ” she mur- 
 mured, turning to the river. 
 
 But in turning, her eye caught sight of something white that 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS . 
 
 HS 
 
 lay among the rank grass, at a little distance. It was the child 
 whom she had twice encountered that morning, lying upon the 
 ground, in a fast sleep. 
 
 It seemed tired and foot-sore ; for its shoes were dusty and 
 worn— so worn, that one little foot peered through the broken 
 sole, and was slightly stained with blood. Helpless as it lay 
 there, it seemed to embody so powerfully the spirit of purity, 
 that Nanni felt as if she could have knelt and worshipped the 
 presence she involuntarily recognized. 
 
 Reverently she stooped, and drew off the little shoes ; then 
 tearing her handkerchief into strips, she bandaged the wounded 
 feet, after having bathed them in some water fetched in the 
 hollow of her hand from the river. 
 
 The child sat up and smiled, while it sleepily watched the 
 operation. 
 
 “ Thank you ! How kind you are ! How nicely you have 
 bound up my feet ! They were very sore with walking so far. 
 
 I was very tired, I believe, and fell asleep said the child. 
 
 “ How far do you live from here ? ” asked Nanni. 
 
 “Oh, a great far away off from here. Oh, in Vienna I 
 
 should know the house if I saw it — but I don’t know the street ; ” 
 said the child. “ I live with Frau Leerheim.” 
 
 “ r11 tr y an d find it for you, if you like ; I think I know where 
 she lives,” said Nanni. 
 
 “ I like ; ” answered the child, taking Nanni’s hand so com- 
 posedly, and walking on with so decided a step, that the girl, 
 although the grown-up person, submitted to the guidance of the 
 little creature, as to that of a superior intelligence. 
 
 They had reached the suburbs of the city, and were making 
 their way through the low miserable houses that straggled on 
 either side of the way, leading into Vienna ) when Nanni per- 
 ceived that the little Isabella limped as she walked. 
 
 “ I wish you would let me carry you,” said Nanni. 
 
 “ No, oh no ; ” said Isabella. “ I would rather not be car- 
 ried ; but I should like to sit down and rest ; and then I could 
 walk on again, very well.” 
 
 Nanni looked about her with a disturbed look ; and then 
 seemed to debate some point with herself. “ I ought not to 
 
 L 
 
1 46 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 take her there— nor I would not — but she must have rest and 
 food ; yes, yes, she must.” 
 
 So concluding, she turned down among some houses, at one 
 of which she stopped, and taking a key out of her pocket, un- 
 locked the door, and led the way in. 
 
 They entered at once into a kind of parlour, of mean appear- 
 ance, with sanded floor, checked window-curtains, and tables 
 and chairs of commonest wood. 
 
 Two of the latter Nanni speedily made into a kind of couch, 
 upon which she spread her shawl, and a folded quilt ; then she 
 placed the child carefully on these temporary cushions, to rest 
 at full length. Then she brought some bread, which she cut 
 into slips, and an egg, which she beat up with a little wine and 
 sugar ; and then she set the whole on a small table, which she 
 brought close beside Isabella’s couch, and begged her to eat. 
 
 “ And you are going to have some with me ? ” said the 
 child. “ How nice this is ! And what a comfortable sofa 
 you’ve made me ! Dear kind Nanni, come and sit here by me 
 — no, not on this side — come round to the other.” 
 
 The girl, in obedience to her signal, took her seat on the 
 right hand ; when Isabella, raising herself upon her knees on 
 the couch, threw her arms round Nanni’s neck, and hugged 
 her affectionately, and said : — “ Thank you, thank you, dear 
 Nanni, for all your kindness to me ! ” 
 
 As the childish arms twined around, and the little body 
 strained against her, and the fresh rosy lips were pressed to her 
 cheek in hearty true caresses, the tears gushed from the girl’s 
 eyes. 
 
 “Do I hurt you, dear Nanni? I thought it was the other 
 side that was bruised, or I would not have pressed so hard.” 
 
 “ It is not that — you don’t hurt me— you do me good — you 
 make me happier than I ever expected to be again — dear, 
 blessed, little creature — dear little angel”— she repeated, as 
 she ventured timidly to return the embraces that were being 
 lavished on her. 
 
 “ Do I do you good ? I am glad of that — you have been 
 very good to me ; you have done me good ; ” said the child. 
 
 " Good ? Have I been permitted to do good ? ” was the 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. i 47 
 
 thought that thrilled through the heart of the castaway ; while 
 the nearest approach to a gracious feeling which had swelled 
 that heart for many a day, now caused it to throb with grateful 
 emotion towards Him who had vouchsafed the permission. 
 
 But I must not keep you here ; ” said Nanni, rousing her- 
 self from this trance; “your friends will be uneasy; the night 
 is coming on; Frau von Leerheim will be alarmed at your 
 being so long away, and will wonder what is become of you.” 
 
 They entered the street where Nanni guessed that the widow 
 Leerheim lived. The child pointed out the house, and was 
 running towards the door, when the girl said rapidly : — “ Bid 
 me good-bye now, dear ; I can’t go in — say good-night now.” 
 
 She caught the child’s hands in hers, and covered them with 
 kisses, while Isabella said in the simple nightly words she had 
 been taught by her dead mother “ Goodnight ! God bless 
 you ! ” And then Nanni turned suddenly, and hurried from 
 the spot. 
 
 But that night, when the darkness had yielded to the rising 
 moon, and her beams fell upon a certain small casement in a 
 low-roofed house, there was one sat at the casement, who 
 breathed an unwonted prayer and thanksgiving— for that she 
 had been spared the crowning sin of self-destruction— for that 
 an act of grace had been permitted and accepted at her un- 
 worthy hands— and for that a blessing from the lips of spot- 
 less purity had been granted to rest upon her outcast head. 
 
 Frau Leerheim was what is generally called “ a well-meaning 
 woman.” She was so well-meaning, that she contented herself 
 with meaning to do well, instead of doing well ; and her friends, 
 when they could find nothing of any consequence to praise in 
 her well-doing, gave her all the more credit for well-meaning, 
 finding that that was the great end of her life, at which she 
 constantly stopt short. 
 
 Being so particularly well-meaning, she was of course the 
 most fit person in the world to have the charge of children ; 
 and accordingly when the father of Claudio and Isabella was 
 left a widower, and was compelled to quit Vienna, he was per- 
 suaded by his friends, that he could not possibly find a more 
 
148 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 proper person to take care of his motherless children during 
 his probably long absence than Frau Leerheim. 
 
 Claudio, having Madame Leerheim’s house as a home when- 
 ever his vacations at college made him need one ; and Isabella, 
 the little girl, remaining at the widow lady’s constantly, but 
 
 subject to little controul there. 
 
 The young Isabella went and came pretty much as she liked : 
 roaming about the house, which was spacious, at her own 
 will, and out of doors, even as far as the churchyard where her 
 mother’s grave was ; for she generally came back about meal-time 
 —and so that Frau Leerheim saw her in her usual place at table, 
 she was quite satisfied as to the general whereabout of the child. 
 
 But on the day when Isabella’s fancy to seek her mother m 
 Heaven led her to stray so far, and when the dinner hour passed, 
 and still she did not return, Frau Leerheim said “ I wonder 
 where that child can be ! I wonder she don’t come home ! I 
 wonder they take her out for so long a walk ! Fritz, ask Bertha 
 which of the maids it was who took the child out for so long a 
 
 wa lk it was very thoughtless whoever it was — but servants are 
 
 so thoughtless.” 
 
 When she heard that Isabella had gone out by herself she 
 exclaimed : — “ O, but really now, they should not allow that 
 child to go out by herself — she might get into mischief. Tell 
 them so below, Fritz. And Fritz ! Be sure and let me know 
 the instant the child does return— for I don’t know what I 
 should do if any harm were to come to it. What would her 
 poor father say ! ” 
 
 And when, late in the evening, Fritz informed her that the 
 little girl had come home, very tired from having lost her way, 
 Madame said with the slightest possible curl of the mouth (it 
 might be a smile, it might be a yawn) 
 
 “ Poor little thing! I’m so glad she’s come safe home! 
 But if she’s tired, poor thing, don’t let her come to me this 
 evening ; tell Bertha to have her undressed, and put to bed at 
 once ; and give her some fruit and bread, or something, before 
 she’s put to bed. I hope they’ll see that she’s made com- 
 fortable, poor thing ! ” 
 
 “They” was a favourite word with Frau Leerheim. It was 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 149 
 
 so convenient a compromise with her conscience. It acted at 
 once as offender and reformer. It might bear blame when she 
 had occasion to say “ But really they should not, &c., &c., 
 &c.,” or prove a source of expected rectifying and amendment 
 when she said: — “But why don’t they, &c., &c., &c.” No 
 wonder that “ they ” was a word which found favour with this 
 well-meaning lady. 
 
 The next day, Frau Leerheim met her young charge at 
 breakfast. 
 
 “And so you lost your way yesterday, did you, Isabella? 
 Poor child ! But how came they to let you go out so far by 
 yourself? That was a sad mistake ! ” 
 
 “ I wanted to find my way to Heaven, and I’m afraid it’s a 
 great way off ! ” said Isabella. 
 
 “ La child ! ” exclaimed the widow-lady. 
 
 “ Is it ? ” said the child. 
 
 Is it what?” said Frau Leerheim, in a somewhat more 
 peevish tone than her usual vapid amiability allowed her to 
 use. 
 
 “Is it a great way off?” said Isabella. 
 
 “What a strange child you are — what questions you do 
 ask ; ” said the Frau, looking about her perplexedly, as if in 
 search of somebody, who she thought really should make this 
 child less strange, and tell her not to ask such absurd ques- 
 tions. 
 
 It must be ; said the child ; “ for nobody seems to know 
 whereabouts it is. Still, I don’t think it can be so far, that I 
 shall never find it if I try,” said Isabella, thoughtfully ; “ for 
 my own mamma told me I should come to her there one day.” 
 
 I can t conceive why people put such notions into children’s 
 heads ; muttered Frau Leerheim. “ They really shouldn’t ; 
 it s positively quite wrong — absolutely wicked — to fill their 
 poor little heads with such fancies, making them tiresome and 
 troublesome.” 
 
 “What do you think about it, ma’am?” asked Isabella, 
 after a pause. 
 
 “About what, child?” said the Frau. 
 
 “ About Heaven — about where it is ; ” said Isabella. 
 
150 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ I don’t think at all about it ;” said the widow lady, hastily ; 
 
 “ that is,” added she, correcting herself— “ I think a great deal 
 about it, of course; we should all think constantly about 
 Heaven, you know ; but really, I can’t say— I don’t know— 
 you’re such a little child. Suppose you go to Bertha, now, 
 Isabella, my dear ; and see if she won’t show you some pic- 
 tures, or some toys, or something or other, that will amuse you ; 
 so run away, there’s a dear child : good-bye, good-bye. She 
 nodded her out of the room, half smiling, half gaping at her, as 
 Isabella obediently disappeared. 
 
 But instead of going to Bertha, the child went up into the 
 lonely suite of chambers above, where she loitered about among 
 the old pictures in their worm-eaten frames, antique commodes, 
 and spiral-legged tables, and carved chairs, and dim Venetian 
 mirrors; her thoughts rambling among subjects as odd, ob- 
 scure, crooked, and puzzling, as these objects that surrounded 
 her. 
 
 Isabella sat, in one of the deep-recessed windows, leaning 
 her elbow upon the sill, and looking straight before her, with- 
 out seeing anything, so deeply absorbed was she in her train of 
 thought. But at length, glancing through the open casement 
 at which she sat, her eyes rested upon a certain quiet shady 
 plot of ground, which, though surrounded by a high wall, 
 could, from that particular upper window be overlooked. 
 
 This green, retired spot, had peculiar charms for the solitary 
 child. It was a solemn, almost a gloomy-looking garden; and 
 yet to the eyes of that lonely child it was a green bower of 
 delight. It was a convent-garden ; and Isabella found a strange 
 mysterious pleasure in seeing those dark figures moving to and 
 fro, with sombre flowing garments, and black veils, and bent 
 heads, and measured pace, beneath and among the trees. 
 
 There was one nun, an especial favourite with her ; one, for 
 whose appearance she watched with eagerness, and whom, 
 when she did appear, the child followed in every movement 
 with peculiar interest. 
 
 This nun seemed to share her little observer’s fondness for 
 the garden ; for rarely did she come there, without some imple- 
 ment in her hand, with which she sedulously applied herself to 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 I5i 
 
 trim the edges of the lawn, to prune stray twigs, or tend the 
 few flowers that were sparingly allowed to adorn the place. 
 
 On the morning in question, when Isabella cast her eyes 
 towards the convent-garden, hoping to behold her favourite 
 nun, they sparkled with delight when she saw her already there, 
 training the branches of some ivy that were flaunting idly away 
 from the stem of a tree, round which they should have clung. 
 
 As the child wistfully looked towards the figure she knew so 
 well, and watched that serenely pensive face, her longing to 
 hold nearer communion with this person so loved, though so 
 unknown, took possession of her with strength sufficient to 
 urge her starting up, and making her way through the suite of 
 deserted rooms, as if bent on some resolved purpose. 
 
 “ Frau Leerheim said papa would not approve of my wan- 
 dering so far again; but the convent is not far — I know the 
 large iron gate — it is only in the next street. I’ll go there, and 
 peep in at the gate, and — perhaps — it may lead into the garden 
 — I may perhaps see my nun herself there.” 
 
 Thinking thus, Isabella soon was loitering near the tall 
 grated portal, peering in, with an eager look, and a heart beat- 
 ing with expectation. 
 
 It beat with something like fear, when a very starch lay- 
 sister, the portress, approached, and asked her if she wanted 
 anything or anybody. 
 
 The tone in which this was said, however, reassured the 
 child ; and she said : — “ If you please, ma’am, I should like 
 very much to walk in your beautiful garden, if you think I 
 could be allowed.” 
 
 “ It isn’t my garden, my dear, I am only sister Gretchen ; 
 call me so, and not ‘ ma’am,’ when you speak to me. But I’ll 
 try and get Reverend mother’s leave — that’s the abbess here, 
 my dear — for you to walk in the convent garden, if you wish it. 
 I don’t see that little innocent feet like yours can do the place 
 any harm — and I dare say Reverend mother will think so too. 
 Walk in, my dear, and I’ll ask her for you.” 
 
 The starch-looking but kindly-spoken portress trotted away ; 
 and soon returned with the expected permission. 
 
 “You’re neighbour Leerheim’s little girl — or rather, the little 
 
1 52 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 girl that lives at her house, an’t you ? ” said the portress, with 
 the inquisitiveness and talkativeness of her vocation, both offi- 
 cial and spiritual. 
 
 Isabella answered in the affirmative. 
 
 “Very well, my dear ; and I shall be glad to let you in and 
 out, as often as you please to come and go ; so now run about 
 and amuse yourself, to your little heart’s content.” 
 
 Isabella, left to herself, looked about her eagerly, trusting to 
 discover her favourite nun in some of the paths, or near to 
 some of the flower-beds. 
 
 Her hope was fulfilled. Yet now that she had the opportunity 
 so much desired, she hung back timidly with a still more beating 
 heart than when she had stood anxiously peering in at the gate. 
 
 She fixed her eyes on those of the nun, as she turned in sur- 
 prise at seeing a strange little girl so close to her, — for Isabella 
 had crept to her side unperceived, — and putting her hand softly 
 into that which belonged to the gentle being whose face had so 
 often filled her with comfort, she drew the hand against her 
 fluttering heart, and said: — “Will you love Isabella? She loves 
 you very dearly.” 
 
 “ And who is Isabella ? ” said the nun ; “ though she is 
 a winning little creature, I see. But how comes she to love me, 
 I wonder? I have never seen her before, that I know of.” 
 
 “ But she has seen you, though, very often ; ” said the child, 
 pointing upwards with a smile, that yet did not take from the 
 earnest gravity of her manner. 
 
 She seemed a seraph, such as this nun, accustomed to con- 
 template images of angelic guardianship, might almost fancy 
 permitted to look down upon human aspiration ; but she was 
 assured of the little one’s claim to mere mortal childhood by 
 the matter-of-fact way in which it pointed out an upper window 
 of a high house not far off, saying : — “ There, from that window 
 up there, I could see you every day, and watch you gardening, 
 and learn to love you. And I longed so much to come to you 
 — and love you near — and ask you to love me — and to let me 
 be with you often ; and so — and so — I am come.” 
 
 The gentle nun did not belie the impression her distant ap- 
 pearance had produced upon the watching child. She was as 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 153 
 
 good as she seemed ; and willingly did she accept her self- 
 elected disciple. 
 
 Day after day found her punctually at the side of sister 
 Aloysia for the entire space of the allotted three hours ; her 
 mind and her body reaped benefit alike, in these daily three 
 hours spent in the open air, and in the good nun’s converse. 
 Her energies, moral, mental, and physical, acquired strength 
 and power beneath these propitious influences. 
 
 Isabella’s dreaming infancy was succeeded by a happy child- 
 hood, fostered by a pure, a wise, a tender monitress. The baby 
 visions of seeking Heaven by actual roads and active walking, 
 perplexed her no more ; the ‘ right path ’ was patiently and 
 reverently explained to her to mean, not an earthly highway, 
 but an earthly course, through besetting temptations, corruption, 
 and vicious example. 
 
 Her aspiration thus indulged, yet directed aright ; the young 
 child’s vague desire became a rational hope, none the less spiri- 
 tual that it was now based upon a knowledge of the truth. It was 
 sublimated ; from an impulse it had become a creed. And the 
 little creature who had almost more than mortal aspect, now 
 that her soul had been taught to behold its veritable immortal 
 hope, looked indeed little less than one of the angels. 
 
 While still a child, Isabella was once taken, by Frau Leer- 
 heim, for a drive on the Prater. When there, the widow lady 
 got out, and walked for a while beneath the trees, taking the 
 child with her. 
 
 Suddenly, Isabella broke away from madame Leerheim’s side, 
 and ran towards two young women she saw at a little distance. 
 
 “ Nanni, dear Nanni ! I’m so glad I’ve found you at last; ” 
 she said to one of them ; u I’ve often thought about you, and 
 wished to see you again. Don’t you remember me ? * I’m Isa- 
 bella, the little girl you were so kind to, that day, when I lost 
 my way.” 
 
 Nanni was about to fling her arms about the child, and give 
 vent to her delight at seeing her again ; but madame Leerheim 
 coming up at the instant, Nanni drew back, glancing at the 
 widow’s indignant face, who exclaimed : — 
 
54 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Why, Isabella, my dear, how came you to be talking to such 
 people? — Come away, directly. Tyeh ! tyeh ! tyeh!” con- 
 cluded the widow Leerheim ; her climax of distress and per- 
 plexity finding vent in those half articulate sounds formed 
 by the tongue against the roof of the mouth, imperfectly repre- 
 sented by the above words. 
 
 “ Go, go, dear ; ” whispered Nanni hurriedly; “ best go.” 
 
 Isabella looked for a moment fixedly into the girl’s face, and 
 seeing how earnest she was, let go her hold ; when Nanni 
 turned away, and, with the other young woman, walked quickly 
 out of sight among the trees. 
 
 For a few minutes, madame Leerheim remained fixed to the 
 spot in speechless indignation — but when they were again 
 seated in the carriage, her vexation found vent in murmurs. 
 
 “ Where you can have picked up such acquaintances, I can’t 
 think, for my part ; ” said she. “ Such a disgrace ! such a de- 
 gradation ! I really don’t know what I should have done, had 
 any of my acquaintances seen us near them, much less speak- 
 ing to them ! How on earth did you ever come to meet with 
 such creatures, child ? ” 
 
 “ Creatures, ma’am ! I only met one of them before ; I only 
 knew her, — Nanni — she was very kind to me, though she seemed 
 very unhappy herself.” 
 
 “ So she ought to be ; ” said the widow, with a toss of her 
 head. 
 
 “ Ought to be ! Ought any one to be unhappy ? ” 
 
 “ Let me tell you, child,” said Frau Leerheim snappishly, for 
 it was wonderful how tart her usual insipid tone could be, on 
 occasion ; “ let me tell you, it’s very rude to echo people when 
 they speak. You ought to know, Isabella, that it’s the height 
 of ill-breeding to repeat people’s words, when they’re talking to 
 you.” 
 
 Isabella meantime thought that she would, on the morrow, 
 refer to sister Aloysia the many questions she had to ask, secure 
 of explanation, however perplexing they might be; and she 
 was just wondering how it happened that she should never yet 
 have mentioned her former adventure with Nanni, to her friend 
 the nun, when, as she looked from the carriage-window, she 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 155 
 
 caught sight of Nanni turning down one of the by-alleys that 
 threaded the suburbs. She noted the spot, and determined to 
 return to it at some future time ; for her true heart longed to 
 pay some of the debt of kindness it acknowledged. And then 
 the child recalled the look with which the poor creature had 
 said : — “you do me good, you make me happier than I ever 
 expected to be again.” And she resolved that she would come 
 again, and try to do her good, and to make her happy, in return 
 for what she had done for her. 
 
 It was not many hours, ere she had an opportunity of carry- 
 ing her purpose into effect. In the afternoon, Frau Leerheim, 
 lulled by the combined effects of a morning drive, and of a more 
 than hearty dinner, — for the widow’s well-meaning amounted 
 to well-doing in the matter of eating,— slept soundly in her easy 
 chair ; and Isabella, knowing that these naps of the good lady 
 were profound and prolonged, determined to go and find out 
 Nanni at once. 
 
 Isabella had no difficulty in finding out the turning she had 
 marked Nanni taking in the morning ; and she soon reached 
 the house, where she had been taken by Nanni on the first 
 evening of their meeting. 
 
 _ She stepped to the door, and was about to tap at it ; but it 
 yielded even to the light push of her childish hand ; and she 
 stood upon the threshold. 
 
 So noiseless was her entrance, that it was merely the effect of 
 variation in the light, caused by the opening door, which made 
 Nanni look up from the abstracted attitude in which she sat, 
 lost in thought; and then she saw the fair image of the child, 
 standing in the afternoon sunbeams which streamed through 
 the doorway. Flooded thus, in the rich gold and purple efful- 
 gence, and with her own clear cheek and brow, ethereal bear- 
 ing, and purity of look, the little girl had even more than her 
 usual appearance of spiritual beauty ; she seemed a thing of 
 glory and beatitude, sent in pity to mortal frailty. 
 
 “ I have found you out, Nanni ; I am come to see you, to 
 thank you — I could not thank you this morning and tell you 
 how often I have thought of you since that day you were so 
 kind to me.” 
 
156 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “Dear little angel, is it you? I was thinking of you — and 
 wondering should I ever see you again. Every night, since 
 that one on which I took you home, I have been to the street 
 where you live, and looked up at your house, and wished you, 
 in my heart, good-night, and sweet sleep, and happy dreams, in 
 return for the blessed thought that innocent young face has 
 been to me ever since I first beheld it.” 
 
 “ And I mean to come and find you here, often, to chat with 
 you, and tell you how I love you. You will let me come and 
 see you, won’t you, dear Nanni?” urged the child persua- 
 sively. 
 
 “ I must not — I dare not ; ” answered Nanni, resuming her 
 disturbed look and manner. “ Even now, I am injuring you, 
 by letting you stay here ; dear little creature, you must go — you 
 must — you must.” And she passionately kissed one of the long 
 bright curls that hung about the child’s fair throat. “ Go, dear, 
 indeed you must.” 
 
 “ Since I must — good-bye — God bless you, good kind Nanni !” 
 And Isabella was gone. As the door dosed upon the child’s 
 departing figure, Nanni’s head sank upon her hands, and she 
 exclaimed in a broken voice — “ ‘ good and kind 9 only, in 
 wringing my own heart, that I may for once do what I know to 
 be right.” 
 
 She sat thus for a few minutes, plunged in bitterness of 
 thought; then she started up, determining to follow the child, 
 and watch her, from a distance, safely home. 
 
 Time passed ; and found the tenor of Isabella’s daily life 
 unaltered. Her father’s profession still detained him absent 
 from Vienna and his children. Madame Leerheim’s house 
 was, as before, their appointed home; Claudio remained at col- 
 lege ; while Isabella had masters, belonging to the school 
 which was part of the convent establishment, at the same time 
 deriving her principal instruction — her moral culture — from the 
 gentle nun, sister Aloysia. 
 
 Once, while yet a very young girl, Isabella happened to be 
 taking a walk, attended by Bertha. A croud approached. It 
 proved to be some soldiers, who were conducting to prison a 
 Bohemian lad, suspected of having murdered a young com- 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 *57 
 
 panion. There was a train of idlers accompanying the military 
 and their prisoner, hooting, and hissing, and reviling him, as he 
 passed along. He was bound, and led between two soldiers ; 
 his wild hair hung dishevelled over his eyes, which now and 
 then gleamed forth savage glances of anger towards the pitiless 
 mob. 
 
 “I’m glad they’ve caught the young ruffian!” ejaculated 
 mistress Bertha. 
 
 “ Glad ! ” echoed Isabella. 
 
 “ Yes, glad, miss ; I’m sure it was he.” And then the damsel 
 recounted what she had heard of his suspected crime. 
 
 “ But how can you be sure, Bertha, that it was he who did 
 the murder ? Even they who took him, are not sure ; ” said 
 Isabella. 
 
 “ O, I’m sure ; I’m quite sure ; ” said the damsel. “ Look 
 at him, miss ; only look at him ! There’s a murdering face for 
 you, clear enough. Only look at it ! ” 
 
 Just then, the procession halted; the officer who conducted 
 the party stopped to let his horse drink at a fountain that 
 stood there. The Bohemian stood panting, dusty, with blood- 
 shot eyes, parched tongue, and lips apart, looking like a goaded 
 animal, at bay. 
 
 As he stood thus, only a few paces from the doorway, where 
 Isabella and her attendant had taken refuge, the kerchief that 
 hung loosely round the lad’s neck, became entirely detached, 
 and fell to the ground. The thoughtless croud laughed, in 
 derision at the convulsive movement with which the bound 
 arms twitched, as if they would have made an effort to recover 
 the fallen handkerchief; but the laugh had not died away, when 
 Isabella stepped forward, and in her own quiet grave manner, 
 took it from the ground, and placed it in the lad’s jacket- 
 pocket. 
 
 The restless eyes gleamed— but with another expression then ; 
 a look of surprise, of almost tenderness, dwelt in them, in place 
 of the ire that sparkled there before, as they fell upon the gentle 
 beneficence at his side. 
 
 He had scarcely endeavoured to mutter huskily: — “ Thanks !” 
 - — \\ hen the procession resumed its way. 
 
158 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 “ Good gracious, miss Bella ! ” said the damsel, “ How could 
 you pick up that filthy rag of a handkerchief? ” 
 
 “Nobody else took it up for him; he could not lift it for 
 himself ; ” said Isabella. 
 
 “ Then there it might have lain, for me, I’m sure ; ” said 
 Bertha ; “ I should as soon have thought of touching a toad, as 
 a murderer’s neckerchief. A hempen cravat’s the only one I’d 
 think of helping him to, I warrant him.” 
 
 Isabella did not answer any farther ; but next morning, she 
 asked her friend the nun, how it was that no one but herself, 
 in all that croud of people, had seemed to think of assisting one 
 so helpless and unhappy as this boy prisoner. 
 
 “ They believed him to be guilty as well as unhappy ; ” was 
 the nun’s reply. 
 
 “ They could not be sure that he was guilty — that he had 
 committed murder;” said Isabella ; “for Bertha told me that 
 his crime had not been proved. Ought they to have treated 
 him as a wicked wretch, unworthy of help, until they were quite 
 certain he was not as innocent as they ? ” 
 
 “Crouds seldom consider; mobs rarely deal justly;” said 
 the nun. 
 
 After a pause, Isabella resumed : — “ I wonder whether this 
 Bohemian lad — Barnardine, Bertha said his name was, — really 
 did kill his companion. He seemed such a boy, to have done 
 so great a crime. Do you think he’s guilty ? ” 
 
 “I have no means of judging, my child;” said the nun. 
 “ The best I can hope for him, is, that those who have, will 
 use them quickly.” 
 
 “ Do you think his trial will be delayed? ” asked Isabella. 
 
 " I know not ; but I fear it ; ” replied sister Aloysia. “ Our 
 young duke, Yincentio, is a retired man ; a scholar, rather than 
 a governor ; and this is hardly fitting in a prince who has the 
 weal and moral condition of his subjects committed to his care. 
 However, Vincentio is virtuous. Let us hope all good from 
 his reign.” 
 
 As Isabella advanced in girlhood, her childish innocence, 
 became scarcely less a part of her nature; but it took the 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 159 
 
 form of ideality, that bade her seek communion with things 
 above this world. She had still that look of spirituality, which 
 distinguished her as a child. Her very garments appeared to 
 have a property of cleanness and purity, as if no soil or blemish 
 could attach to them. White-robed, spotless, she looked, and 
 moved, a virgin saint. 
 
 Yet with all this native immaculacy, she was neither intolerant 
 nor uncharitable with regard to sin in others. It was only 
 when convinced that crime was spontaneously committed, that 
 her indignation was aroused. Then that latent warmth of dis- 
 position,— against which sister Aloysia had warned her,— would 
 lead her into an energy of expression, compounded of generous 
 feeling and disdain. It was rarely that such occasions pre- 
 sented themselves ; but when they did, it was startling to hear 
 one so apparently calm, pour forth such passionate declama- 
 tion. 
 
 One morning Isabella was on her way to the nun, when she 
 suddenly felt some one touch her timidly on the arm, and 
 turning, she saw a woman at her side, whom, after a moment, 
 she remembered to have seen walking with Nanni on the 
 Prater, when she had met her there with Madame Leer- 
 heim. 
 
 “I beg your pardon, miss,” said the woman, “but you 
 seemed so deep in thought, I could not get you to notice me ; 
 
 so I made bold to ” she glanced at the elbow she had 
 
 touched. 
 
 “ What have you to tell me ? Aught of poor Nanni ? Speak; 
 tell me ! ” said Isabella earnestly. 
 
 “ Poor Nanni, indeed ! Well may you call her so. She is 
 dying, poor wench,— and frightfully ; O, how frightfully ! ” 
 
 The woman broke off with a sob, and turned away. 
 
 “ Dying ! Where ? Lead me to her ; ” said Isabella. 
 
 “ Then you will go to her, will you ?” said the woman, turn- 
 ing again quickly to Isabella. “ That is her hope. She says 
 she dares ask you to come and see her now, as she is dying. 
 Death makes all even ; it makes the good forget to despise the 
 wicked — the rich to neglect the poor. Coffins are sometimes 
 not grudged, where timely help would have been better. But,” 
 
160 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 continued the woman, “ If you come, it must be soon, for she 
 won’t last long.” 
 
 The woman shuddered, and then added; “you must prepare 
 your tender heart — Nanni says you have a tender heart — and I 
 see you have — for a shock. Her sufferings are frightful, poor 
 wench ; and now that she has once owned her state, she don’t 
 mind letting us see her writhe in torture, or hear her scream ; 
 which before, she managed to keep from doing, that we mightn’t 
 find her out, and have a doctor.” 
 
 “ She set her heart upon seeing you, and I couldn’t refuse 
 her, poor wench, when she begged me to fetch you ; ” said the 
 woman, in conclusion ; “ I shall comfort her by carrying word 
 back that you’ve promised to come.” 
 
 “ I shall not fail ; ” said Isabella. “Tell poor Nanni that I 
 shall be with her not long after you return.” 
 
 The woman, wiping her eyes on her shawl, turned away ; 
 and Isabella resumed her way to the convent ; for she deter- 
 mined to see sister Aloysia before she went to Nanni, remem- 
 bering her promise, that she would not go to her house again 
 without the nun’s permission. The good nun at once bade her 
 go ; sending a lay-sister with her, to carry a basket of neces- 
 saries and comforts for the sufferer. 
 
 They reached the suburbs ; and on tapping at the door of 
 the small low-roofed house, it was opened by the woman who 
 had brought Nanni’s message to Isabella. She put her finger 
 on her lips, as they entered, and whispered : — “ The poor 
 wench sleeps ; I found her in a happier way on my return, 
 than when I left her ; the pain’s suddenly gone — no more of 
 those dreadful screams and writhings — she’s quiet now — and 
 able to sleep.” 
 
 “Best not disturb her;” said Isabella, in the same tone; 
 and she proceeded to make her arrangements for staying to 
 watch by Nanni’s bedside, dismissing the lay-sister, telling her 
 she would send and let her know if any decided change took 
 place, which should require assistance. She then, thanking 
 the woman who had hitherto nursed Nanni, begged her to take 
 some repose, which she was sure she must need, after so much 
 fatigue and anxiety. 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 161 
 
 Nanni’s slumber lasted uninterruptedly for some hours. 
 Mortification had come on ; and, freed from pain, she was able 
 to sleep. 
 
 She awoke refreshed ; and uttered her companion’s name, — 
 the woman who had tended her during her illness. 
 
 “ Dear Nanni, I am here to take care of you, now ; you will 
 be pleased to have me for your nurse, will you not ? ” said the 
 gentle voice of Isabella. 
 
 “ And so you are come, angel that you are ! I knew you 
 would ! ” The dying girl fixed her eyes on Isabella’s face, with 
 a look of full content. “You are the same pure angel, that 
 you looked to me, when a child ! You were always more like 
 a spirit of light and goodness, than a mere mortal creature, like 
 — like ourselves.” 
 
 She turned her head feebly away, and sighed, and said : — 
 “You are come — because your good heart bade you come — 
 and because it suspected nothing that should keep you away 
 — but perhaps, if you knew ” 
 
 “ I know all ; ” was Isabella’s quiet reply. 
 
 Nanni’s head turned more quickly now, — as quickly as her 
 weakness would allow, — towards Isabella. Fixing her eyes 
 upon her, she repeated emphatically, “ you know all ?” 
 
 Isabella, without averting her own, bowed assent. 
 
 Through the watches of the night, Isabella kept faithful vigil 
 by Nanni’s bed-side. The sufferer had sunk into rest, calmed 
 and composed by the serene trust in Almighty mercy, which 
 her gentle nurse had sought to inspire ; but just as the grey 
 dawn crept through the checked curtains of the cottage-win- 
 dow, Isabella perceived that that rest would never again be 
 broken. Slumber had subsided into death ; and Nanni’s cares 
 were over. 
 
 Isabella arose ; composed the limbs, and disposed all smoothly 
 and reverently around the poor frail tenement of clay; then 
 knelt, praying long and fervently for the erring spirit now fled 
 to meet its fiat for eternity. She was still thus lowly and 
 earnestly pleading, when the lay- sister softly opened the door 
 of the cottage. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ The poor thing is dead, is she ? ” whispered the nun, as 
 Isabella rose from her knees. “ I knew she could not survive 
 many hours ; so as soon as matins were finished, I came to see 
 if all were over, and to fetch you home.” 
 
 Some of the women from the neighbouring house were 
 summoned; and then Isabella and the lay-sister took their 
 way back to the convent. As they passed through the empty 
 streets, quite deserted and solitary at that early morning hour, 
 the sky chill and grey before the rising of the sun, and her 
 thoughts still absorbed in the mournful story and scene which 
 had so lately occupied her, Isabella’s heart sank in dejection. 
 
 Presently, a party of military approached, leading a heavily- 
 ironed man, whom they were conducting to prison. As Isa- 
 bella’s eyes fell upon the culprit, she was struck by the singular 
 resemblance he bore to her brother Claudio. The height, age, 
 arid general appearance were very like ; and the light brown 
 colour of the hair and beard were precisely similar. She 
 started as the thought crossed her mind : — “ Can it be my 
 brother, that the impending ill threatens ? Heaven shield my 
 Claudio!” 
 
 Her companion, whose retired life as a nun did not pre- 
 vent her taking a lingering interest in mundane affairs, asked 
 one of the guard, who was the criminal they were leading to 
 prison ; and she learned that it was Ragozine, the noted pirate. 
 
 Full four years had elapsed since the death of Nanni, when 
 one fine autumn, Claudio came to his sister in high spirits, 
 telling her he had an invitation for them both to spend the 
 vacation at a country house, some miles from the city. It 
 belonged to a family, with whom Claudio had formed an ac- 
 quaintance; and he and his sister were requested to join the 
 festivities, with which, according to annual custom, the vintage 
 was about to be celebrated. 
 
 The brother and sister, with the rest of the guests, were 
 welcomed, on their arrival in the vineyards, by rejoicings, firing 
 of pistol shots, and flourishes of trumpets and horns. Gay 
 awnings, and arboured seats, were distributed about the grounds. 
 Flags were flying, and the peasantry were dressed in their 
 
ISABELLA ; THE VO TAB ESS. 
 
 163 
 
 holiday attire, shouting, and singing, and dancing, during the 
 intervals of their bacchanalian labour. The vines spread their 
 flaunting arms laden with rich foliage, and richer fruitage, on 
 all sides; proffering their luxuriance of beauty and of enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 The family-party was assembled to receive the guests. It 
 consisted of the host, Erasmus; his wife, Theresa; and their 
 only daughter, Juliet; who supported the steps of an aged 
 man, her godfather, Anselmo. This old gentleman doted to 
 such excess on his god-daughter, that he could not live away 
 from her ; and he had accordingly taken up his abode in her 
 father’s house, frequently declaring that she should be sole 
 heiress of all he possessed. He was very wealthy, and not a 
 little whimsical ; but his whims were tolerated for the sake of 
 his wealth. His principal whim was, to have his darling Juliet 
 in constant attendance upon him; he would never willingly 
 have suffered her to stir from his side, and in deference to his 
 wish, the young girl scarcely ever quitted it for an instant. 
 
 It was glorious autumnal weather, warm and genial ; and the 
 old man’s easy-chair was brought out every morning during 
 the festival, and placed on the lawn, whence he could com- 
 mand a view of the vineyards, and of all the joyous groups 
 that idled in them. Over the back of his chair hung his darling 
 god-child. 
 
 “She is my treasure, my joy, my sole delight;” said the old 
 gentleman, in answer to something Claudio had said. “ She is 
 youth and health, eyesight, hearing, everything to me. But, 
 bless her, she shall find I am grateful — yes, I am grateful. I’ll 
 give her what is the best part of me, — my money, — as she 
 generously bestows upon me, herself. All in good time — all 
 in good time, though ; ” said the old gentleman, chuckling and 
 nodding with a knowing air; “ I can’t give it her till I’ve done 
 with her, for fear she should take it in her giddy little head to 
 fly away from me, and leave me, after all.” 
 
 “ Let me put this cosy thing round your throat, godpapa ; ” 
 said Juliet ; “ you know I knitted it for you myself — and this is 
 the very time for you to wear it.” 
 
 “She does just as she pleases with me, you see;” said the 
 
1 64 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 old gentleman, turning, with evident pride and delight in her 
 despotism, to Claudio, who was standing near, and who indeed 
 had hovered in the vicinity of the easy-chair for the last several 
 hours ; “ see what it is to be a fond old godpapa, submitting to 
 be tyrannized over by a young hussy who knows her power but 
 
 too well/’ v 
 
 “ She seems to use it very pleasantly, and very gently too ; 
 said the young man, watching the little hands, that, spite of 
 their being gloved, deftly arranged the folds of the comforter 
 round the old gentleman’s neck. 
 
 “ Yes, yes — I don’t know but I’m well off in my slavery. 
 She knows how to make her chains sit easily, and prevent the 
 galling of the fetters ;” said the old gentleman, with his favourite 
 chuckle. 
 
 “ Pardon me, sir ; but it seems rather you, here, who impose 
 fetters;” said Claudio. “ Do you not enjoy the glory of 
 attaching this fair captive to your chariot-wheels? She has not 
 quitted the side of that triumphant car of yours— your easy- 
 chair,— for five minutes during the day.” 
 
 “ Ah ha ! young gentleman, you would fain lead her away 
 as a partner in the dance, I dare say ; ” said Anselmo, 
 with his knowing nod; “but I can’t spare her— I can’t spare 
 
 her.” • » v, n 
 
 “ I have no wish to dance, I assure you, sir ; replied 
 
 Claudio ; “lam well content to stay here as another captive, 
 enchained in pleasant talk. I do not care to dance this 
 evening ; I think I must have turned my foot ; it scarcely 
 amounts to a sprain— but my ankle is sufficiently uneasy 
 to make me feel no wish to dance.” As Claudio said this, 
 he could perceive, spite of the dim light,— that Juliet’s fair 
 head turned quickly towards him, as if in interest awakened 
 by his words. 
 
 “Juliet, my dear child, you should yourself put something 
 round your throat;” said Anselmo. « Your shawl lies in the 
 hall ; you must put it on ; I will send for it.” 
 
 “ I know where it is ; I will fetch it, sir ! ” exclaimed Claudio, 
 darting across the lawn, towards the house. 
 
 “ Humph ! ” muttered the old gentleman, following the figure 
 
ISABELLA; THE VO TAB ESS. 
 
 165 
 
 of the young man with his eyes, as it bounded over the lamp- 
 lit open space ; “ tolerably fast running, that, for a man with a 
 turned foot ! ” adding to himself : — “ If it’s as I suspect, I'll 
 make so bold as just to give the young spark a hint. I’m not 
 going to have my little Julietta lured away from me, yet awhile. 
 No, no ; all in good time ; all in good time.” 
 
 When Claudio returned with the shawl, he took the privilege 
 of himself placing it round the beautiful figure, as it bent over 
 the old man’s chair. 
 
 “What is that you’re doing? O ay, — putting her shawl on 
 — ay, ay. Come round here on the other side of me, young 
 gentleman ; I hear best on this side ; my right ear is a little 
 deaf.” 
 
 “ And yet you let Juliet usually stand on that side, sir;” said 
 Claudio. 
 
 “Juliet? O ay, — I hear her well enough ; Fm accustomed 
 to her voice ; ” said old Anselmo. “ I know its every tone by 
 heart. I can’t spare one vibration of it for any body else. I’m 
 well nigh jealous of every word she gives her parents ; judge 
 if I’ll let her bestow them on any one else. And as for 
 any such impertinents as wooers or suitors, we’ll have 
 nothing to say to them, will we, Julietta, my darling? We 
 won’t spare them so much as a syllable, a single sigh. My 
 little girl’s not to be won till her old godfather can spare 
 her, and that’ll never be till he’s in his grave. Then she shall 
 have all his money — not a penny before, — and she shall do 
 what she pleases with it, and give it to him who shall win her 
 and wear her. And then, but not till then, I say, joy go with 
 her and the man of her choice, whoever he may be.” 
 
 “ Why not help her to make her choice, that you may be 
 sure he is worthy of her ? ” said Claudio. 
 
 “I am the best judge of what is my own pleasure, my dear 
 young gentleman ; ” said Anselmo ; “ and I am quite sure that 
 it would be no pleasure to me to give up my little darling to a 
 husband. But bless me, it must be very late. See, the 
 dancing is over. They are all going towards the house. 
 Give me your arm, my darling ; and you, my good young 
 gentleman, let me take yours also ; and I will go at once 
 
1 66 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 to my own room. I am growing quite a rake, keeping such 
 hours ; but I always say, Julietta makes me a boy again; she 
 gives me her youth/’ 
 
 It was noon the next day ; when, — the party all assembled 
 in the drawing-room, Juliet as usual hanging over her god- 
 father’s chair, a letter was placed in Claudio’s hands. It was 
 addressed to himself and Isabella, by their father, and had 
 been just forwarded express from Vienna. It contained a hasty 
 summons to his children, to meet him there immediately, as 
 he hoped to obtain a short leave of absence previous to an in- 
 tended expedition against the enemy. 
 
 The young lover turned pale, as his sister delightedly an- 
 nounced to the company, their near prospect of beholding the 
 father she so longed to embrace. 
 
 “ We shall be sorry to lose you, my dear young friends;” said 
 Erasmus and Theresa, “ but it is natural that you should be 
 eager to join your father immediately. Orders shall be given, 
 that you may set forth without loss of time.” 
 
 While her father and mother were saying this, Juliet had ven- 
 tured one look at Claudio ; and then, without a word, dropped 
 upon the floor. She had swooned. 
 
 “ Dear child ! dear child ! ” sobbed her old godfather. “ Lift 
 her gently, there, there ; bear her to the window ; the air will 
 revive her ; she will be better presently. She stands too long 
 by my chair ; she shall have a seat by me, in future.” 
 
 When Juliet recovered, she found Claudio no longer in the 
 room. He and his sister, she heard, were gone to prepare for 
 immediate departure to Vienna. She strove to command her- 
 self; and steadily resisted all recommendations to withdraw, 
 lest she might not see them before they left. Isabella and 
 Claudio re-entered the room to take leave of their friends. 
 While his sister was bidding farewell to Anselmo, and thanking 
 Erasmus and his wife for their hospitality, the lover found means 
 to convey unobserved a letter into his Juliet’s hands. With this 
 treasure, the moment the brother and sister were gone, the young 
 girl hastened to her own room, and there devoured these 
 words : — 
 
ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 
 
 167 
 
 “Juliet — my bride — my wife ! 
 
 “ A mandate, you would be the last to bid me dis- 
 regard, calls me from you. But I shall return with favouring 
 nightfall. Let the secret of our loves rest within our own hearts, 
 until such time as I can proclaim you mine with befitting 
 triumph. I have been, till now, too unthrifty of my time and 
 means. Love will teach me prudence and industry, that I may 
 build a fortune worthy of your acceptance ; unless, meantime, 
 it please Heaven to endow you with the one promised by An- 
 selmo. I shall have to watch lest the eagerness of love bid me 
 grudge the old man his short season of remaining life. But 
 since your godfather wills that your dower be thus shut within 
 his coffers, until his death frees it and you — I will not be so 
 selfish as to withdraw you from a home where you now command 
 ease and luxury, by asking you to share that of a poor student. 
 We will wait until the poor student shall have earned one 
 worthy of you, or until you yourself shall be so rich as to offer 
 him one. You see, his faith in your love allows him not to 
 doubt that you will do so. Till then, receive as your husband, 
 in heart, in all, save ceremonial form, 
 
 “ Your lover, 
 
 “ the happy 
 “ Claudio.” 
 
 On arriving in Vienna, the brother and sister found their 
 hope disappointed, of seeing their father already there. No 
 tidings reached them concerning him, but then a rumour came, 
 of there having been an unexpected assault on the part of the 
 enemy — an engagement — a fatal loss of officers ; and among 
 these fell the father of Claudio and Isabella. 
 
 So sudden a defeat to all her hopes of beholding her sole 
 surviving parent, was a shock indeed to the filial piety of Isa- 
 bella. It put the crowning desire to the inclination she had 
 always felt for a conventual life ; and she besought sister Aloysia, 
 to obtain the reverend prioress’s sanction, that she might be- 
 come one of the holy sisterhood without delay. 
 
 On the very day she was to commence the season of her pro- 
 
1 68 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 bation, as a novice of St. Clare, she was speaking with one of 
 the holy sisters, concerning the duties and observances of the 
 order, that she might strictly abide by them all ; and she said : 
 — “ And have you nuns no farther privileges?” — Measure for 
 Measure, Act i. Sc. v. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
TALE VII. 
 
 ICATHARINA AND BIANCA; THE SHREW 
 AND THE DEMURE. 
 
 HERE was a large entertainment given at the 
 country-house of signior Gremio, to which signior 
 Baptista Minola’s little girls, among other young 
 people, were invited. The elder of the two, 
 Katharina, was a spirited, lively child, whose un- 
 checked sallies were fast becoming flippancy ; whose glibness 
 of retort and unbridled freedom of tongue were speedily leading 
 her into insufferable pertne'ss. She had no judicious mother, 
 to train the insolence into sprightliness, — to teach her to mingle 
 gentleness with her native vivacity, which might thus have been 
 subdued into winning playfulness. Bianca, the younger, was a 
 child of totally different disposition ; she was meekly stubborn, 
 and had a remarkable method of getting her own way. Bianca 
 was always very shocked at Katharina’s defects, and this gained 
 her immense credit in public opinion ; which ranked the one 
 sister as highly as it rated low the other. Signior Gremio had 
 made the party a juvenile one, in compliment to his son ; 
 whom he considered still a boy, though he was past forty years 
 of age. The octogenarian had so long been in the habit of 
 looking upon him as a child, compared with himself, that he 
 really thought of him in no other light. The son had always 
 been called young signior Gremio, to distinguish him from his 
 father ; and this had farther helped the notion. 
 
 There was to be dancing; sports and games of all kinds; 
 and a tent was spread in the grounds, with a cold collation. 
 
170 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 The old gentleman bustled about with as much animation as 
 his tottering limbs would allow. 
 
 “ Where’s my boy ? ” he would exclaim at intervals ; “ Oh, 
 yonder ; I see him. Among that group of lads ; but he should 
 be over here, helping me to receive his young lady guests.” 
 
 “ Here comes your middle-aged man,” said Katharina — “ your 
 boy, I mean.” 
 
 “ My dear boy f said his father, “ here are some young ladies 
 dying with impatience for a dance. Set one afoot, pr’ythee.” 
 
 “ Will miss Bianca favour me with her hand?” said the son, 
 with a flourish of his hat under his arm. 
 
 “ My sister has too much grace, to like to see grey hairs 
 stand uncovered before her ; ” said Katharina. “ Pray put on 
 your hat, signior, lest you take cold in your head.” 
 
 “Fie, sister; how can you?” murmured Bianca, as she put 
 her hand into the gentleman’s arm ; who led her away, looking 
 mightily disconcerted. 
 
 “ You mustn’t be left without a partner, my dear miss ; ” said 
 the old gentleman to Katharina. “ Let’s see what we can do 
 for you. Here, Giulio ! ” cried he, calling to a young lad, who 
 was cracking and eating ‘pignoli’at a little distance; “come 
 hither, child ; and offer thy hand to this young lady.” 
 
 The lad lounged towards them, glanced at Katharina’s face, 
 and said, “ I’m afraid.” 
 
 “ £ Afraid ! ’ I shan’t eat it ; ” said she. 
 
 “ I don’t know that ; ” he answered. “ You look as if you’d 
 snap at anything that comes in your way ; but as I’ve no fancy 
 for scars, I shan’t trust my skin near you, nor offer my hand 
 to any such miss Miscetta, I thank you, miss Minola.” 
 
 “ Do you call me a cat, sirrah ? ” said she, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 “ Dear, dear, what am I to do with these quarrelsome 
 children ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman in great perplexity. 
 “ My dears, will you be so obliging as to keep quiet, just for a 
 minute, till I can call somebody to part you? O, here, son, 
 Gremio ! — I’m glad the dance is over ; you’re come in happy 
 time to preserve peace. Our young friends are falling out, I 
 fear me.” 
 
 “ Come you with me, Giulio ; ” said the younger signior 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 i;i 
 
 Gremio ; “ let you and me go seek some refreshment for these 
 young ladies.” 
 
 “ Bring some 1 cedrata,’ or ‘ limonata ; ’ they are iced, and 
 will be pleasant ; ” said his father. 
 
 “ Better a little 1 semata ; ’ are not the others too sour, think 
 you, sir ? ” said Giulio ; “ we have acid enough, already.” 
 
 “ Pert monkey ! ” muttered Katharina. 
 
 “ Never mind him, my dear ; ” said her host. “ He doesn’t 
 mean any harm, bless you ; it’s only his joke. Giulio’s always 
 full of his jokes.” 
 
 “ I wish he’d keep his jokes for those who like ’em — I 
 don’t ; ” said she ; “ and if he treats me to any more of them, I 
 shall just ” 
 
 She was interrupted by the return of the younger signior Gre- 
 mio with some fruit and cakes, which he presented to the sisters. 
 
 Katharina had no sooner helped herself to some strawberries, 
 than master Giulio stepped forward, and pouring some cream 
 over them, said mischievously, “ mew, mew ; have a little milk, 
 pussy ? ” 
 
 “The next instant, the whole contents of her plate were 
 chucked in his face. 
 
 “ My dears, — my dears, — pray — pray ! ” said the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 “ Now why should she be so enraged when I liken her to a 
 cat, if she didn’t feel the truth of the portrait ? ” laughed Giulio. 
 “ I’ll be bound her sister wouldn’t be angry, though, if I should 
 tell her she were like a cat, — and yet she has nearly as much 
 of a cat in her, as t’other.” 
 
 “ Who — I ? ” said Bianca, in soft wonder. 
 
 “Yes, you, you; mew, mew;” said the boy, mimicking her 
 way of speaking. “You sit there, with your fore-feet primly 
 before you ; your eyes demurely winking ; your sleek looks, 
 and your pur-pur-purry voice. And then you’ve got such velvet 
 paws ; ” said he, touching the back of her hand. “ I hope they 
 conceal no claws.” 
 
 “ Don’t make too sure of that ; ” said Katharina ; “ velvet 
 paws can put forth talons as sharp as razors, — and that, when 
 you think it least.” 
 
172 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ At any rate, they’re kept in reserve ; ” said he ; “ and I 
 confess, of the two, I prefer the velvet-pawed cat, to the fierce, 
 green-eyed, spread-clawed cat; if you’ll permit me a choice, 
 miss Miscetta Minola.” 
 
 “ I care nothing,” returned she, ££ for your tastes or your pre- 
 ferences ; but I’ll thank you to call neither my sister nor myself, 
 a cat, any more ; and I give you fair warning, that if you hint at 
 such a thing again, I’ll give you a sound a box o’the ear.” 
 
 “ No, will you really, Miscetta?” said he. 
 
 Slap came a swinging cuff against the side of his head ; but 
 as he only laughed, and repeated <c puss, puss, puss,” a shower 
 of blows followed ; and grasping a few clumps of his hair in one 
 hand, she fairly belaboured him with the other, until signior 
 Gremio the younger, assisted by one or two of the other guests, 
 came to the rescue, and drew her off. 
 
 Giulio was still roaring with laughter, as he shouted, “ O 
 never mind. See, the bird is still unwounded by Kate Cat ! 
 He will fly out of pussy’s reach.” Saying which, he caught hold 
 of some low branches of a tree, and swung himself up among 
 them. Here he remained, carelessly dangling his legs, and 
 whistling; while he pulled some more ‘pignoli’ out of his 
 pocket, and sat contentedly cracking and eating them. 
 
 By-and-by he varied his amusement by pelting the company 
 with the shells ; slily contriving that the major part of them 
 should hit Katharina. 
 
 She looked up wrathfully. ££ How dare you ? ” she said. 
 
 ££ You see how I dare. Don’t ye like it, Miscetta?” 
 
 ££ If you do it again, or say that again, I’ll have my revenge ; ” 
 said she furiously. 
 
 That same second, the words were repeated ; and the next, 
 a large stone that lay at Katharina’s feet, was picked up, and 
 flung violently into the midst of the tree. 
 
 It struck his temple ; and stunned, he fell forwards. There 
 was a rustle among the boughs — and then the lad dropped to 
 the ground. The guests started up, in consternation; and 
 raised him in their arms. Blood was oozing from the wound 
 in his head ; but he was insensible. 
 
 This incident abruptly broke up the party. The guests with- 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA . 
 
 173 
 
 drew, exclaiming at the ungoverned temper of the little girl 
 who had occasioned the accident ; the young lad was lifted 
 into the house, while a surgeon was sent for to examine his 
 hurts. The boy, thanks to his youth and his good constitution, 
 recovered from his injuries, but signior Baptista was so shocked 
 at the scandal, which this public exposure of the violence of 
 his daughter’s temper occasioned, that he resolved upon a step 
 which he hoped might have the good effect of reforming her. 
 He determined to place his two daughters in a convent, for 
 the finishing of their education. 
 
 On the first introduction of the two daughters of signior 
 Minola, they were presented in great state to the lady Abbess, 
 who condescendingly made a little speech to them, telling them 
 that she was sure they would prove shining ornaments to the 
 holy community entitled “ The Ladies of the Holy Petticoat,” 
 of which it was now their privilege to form a part. 
 
 “ We’re not going to become nuns — don’t think it;” abruptly 
 exclaimed Katharina. 
 
 “ You would not be fit to become a nun, my child, with that 
 rebellious tone of yours, which I fear betokens something of a 
 rebellious spirit. But we’ll soon set all that to rights ; we’ll 
 soon tame down that wicked little lion of a spirit, till it becomes 
 a lamb, a very lamb.” And the lady Abbess smiled through 
 her set teeth, and smiled through her half-closed eyes, as she 
 looked at Katharina with a placid consciousness of power. 
 
 “Not to be a nun, I tell you!” was again repeated in a 
 shriek. 
 
 “ Sister, sister, remember it is the reverend lady Abbess you 
 are speaking to ! ” interposed Bianca. 
 
 “ What’s that to you ? or to me ? Why need you interfere ?” 
 And a smart slap of the face followed. 
 
 “Tie that little vixen’s hands behind her;” said the lady 
 Abbess in a bland voice, to one or two of the nuns who 
 stood nearest. Katharina kicked and struggled : but it was 
 done. 
 
 “ It was my intention to have given a little feast to welcome 
 these two young ladies among us ; ” resumed the lady Abbess ; 
 “but since the elder has seen fit to conduct herself in a manner 
 
174 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 as unexpected as it is reprehensible, she shall not be permitted 
 to partake of the festivities, but shall be satisfied with dry 
 bread.” 
 
 “ See if I eat it, though ! I’d rather starve ; ” said Katharina. 
 
 “ And now, sister Brigida, remove her ; ” added the Abbess, 
 with her smile, and her even tone. 
 
 The scene in the refectory was such as had never before been 
 witnessed in that place of discipline and order. 
 
 First the young ladies were marshalled in, Bianca among 
 them, and took their places at the dining-tables ; a nun pre- 
 siding at the head of each. 
 
 Then the prisoner, Katharina, was ushered in, between two 
 meek-looking nuns ; and placed at a small table, upon which 
 was a thick slice of bread upon a trencher. 
 
 But the moment her hands were untied, that she might com- 
 mence her dinner, the first use she made of them was to skime 
 both bread and trencher to the other end of the hall. 
 
 There was a look of amazement at her daring, upon all the 
 school-girl faces turned towards her. 
 
 The meek-looking nuns refastened the knots upon her wrists, 
 picked up the trencher and bread, and brought them back ; but 
 no sooner replaced before her, than table, and all, were knocked 
 over with one kick of her foot. 
 
 The school-girl faces expressed increasing interest in this 
 singular exhibition of persevering defiance. 
 
 “ Reverend mother insists upon her eating it ; she enjoined 
 me to see her will performed ; ” said sister Brigida. 
 
 The meek-looking nuns again picked up the bread ; broke 
 it into morsels, and put some of them to Katharina’s lips. She 
 took one into her mouth, chewed it hastily, then sent forth the 
 fragments in a shower of crumbs. 
 
 There was a titter ran through the ranks of scholars. The 
 nuns began to feel there was danger to their supremacy, rather 
 than salutary terror, in the example. They hastened, therefore, 
 to procure an order from the Abbess, that the refractory new- 
 comer should be lodged forthwith in a certain solitary chamber, 
 devoted to the reception of culprits convicted of heinous 
 offences. 
 
KATHARINA AND BTANCA. 
 
 75 
 
 Here, shut up in darkness, and debarred from all society, 
 she was left to reflect upon her errors, and to learn repentance. 
 At first she tore about the narrow space like a little wild thing, 
 thumping at the doors, wrenching at the windows, and beating 
 madly against the walls ; then uttered shriek upon shriek, 
 demanding in frantic shouts and screams to be let out ; but 
 when no sound reached her, in reply to her outcries, the echoes 
 of her own voice seemed to mock her, and the silence that 
 followed was like an insult. 
 
 Gradually, its continuance frightened her; it seemed to 
 vanquish her by its sheer passive pertinacity. She did not 
 intend to set about curing herself of insolence, or insubordina- 
 tion; but she thought she would henceforth take care so to 
 keep them within rule, as not again to draw upon her the terrors 
 of that dark solitude. 
 
 She kept her resolution tolerably well. She put severe con- 
 straint upon herself, so that her outbreaks should not come 
 beneath the immediate notice of the lady Abbess, lest she 
 should offend one who had power to order her to the dark 
 room. Her violence of temperament was smothered ; but it 
 was not extinct. Fear may induce the show of submission ; but 
 love only can truly subjugate a haughty spirit. 
 
 There was just now another chance for this little girl to have 
 been redeemed from her defect of disposition ; but its influence 
 was lost to her. 
 
 In the chapel belonging to the convent, there hung a picture 
 of the marriage of St. Catherine. It represented the virgin 
 saint, kneeling at the feet of the infant Saviour. By her side 
 was the symbol of her martyrdom, the torturing wheel ; but 
 her face shone with holy fervour, as she bent to receive the 
 ring of espousal from the hand of the sacred Babe, who leaned 
 from his mother’s lap to place it upon her finger. First, 
 Katharina came to regard this picture with curiosity, as being 
 that of her patron saint ; then she loved to gaze upon it, for 
 the sake of the benign expression upon the maternal counte- 
 nance, for the sake of the radiant sweetness in the smile of the 
 Babe, and for the sake of the heavenly aspiration on the face 
 of the virgin-saint her namesake. She felt better, as well as 
 
76 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 happier, while she gazed ; and she would often linger behind 
 her companions, when they left the chapel, that she might stay 
 and enjoy the delicious frame of mind into which the contem- 
 plation of this picture threw her. Her daily vexations, her 
 petulances, grievances, ill-humours, all faded from her view ; 
 she beheld nothing but the picture, — felt nothing but the 
 beatitude it inspired. 
 
 One evening, after vespers, she remained thus absorbed, 
 opposite the picture, when one of the nuns, who had missed 
 her, returned to the chapel in quest of her. 
 
 “So, you are here, my dear child;” said the nun, in the 
 confidential whisper peculiar to her vocation ; “ neither sister 
 Fidelia, nor sister Brigida, nor sister Lucia, could imagine 
 where you were ; and they want you in the school-room ; and 
 they sent me to seek you ; and to tell you that ” 
 
 “ I wish you wouldn’t hiss so ; ” interrupted Katharina, to 
 whom the whispered chatter of the nun was insupportable; 
 “can’t you speak out what you have to say — and not ish-sh-sh-sh 
 there, like a serpent.” 
 
 “A serpent? Holy mother forbid!” ejaculated the nun, 
 crossing herself hastily. “ Far be it from me to bring anything 
 belonging to the enemy of mankind here. But you know, 
 Katharina, my dear, it isn’t seemly to speak loud in chapel ; so 
 I must whisper what I have to say.” 
 
 “And what have you to say?” said Katharina. 
 
 “Why, I told you before, only you’re so pettish you never 
 give -yourself time to listen to what’s said. They want you in 
 the school-room for evening lessons.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! lessons ! I was studying better here.” 
 
 “ Studying ? you mean praying, I suppose, to your patron 
 saint, blessed Santa Katharina. Only you should kneel to 
 her, and not sit lounging there in your chair, when you pray.” 
 
 “ I wasn’t praying ; ” replied she. 
 
 “ What were you doing here, then, child? ” 
 
 “ I told you ; studying. I was studying that glorious face to 
 get it by heart.” 
 
 “What do you mean, child? Studying a saint’s face? get- 
 ting it by heart ? What bold, heathenish ideas ! But it’s of a 
 
ICATHARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 177 
 
 piece with your sitting, when you ought to be kneeling before 
 the blessed picture.” 
 
 “It is a blessed picture; but I feel its blessedness better 
 when I’m sitting, than when I’m kneeling. My knees get stiff 
 and cramped, and the pain distracts me from the sensation I 
 have of the blessing of looking upon that face,— upon all the 
 faces, for they are all beautiful and blessed.” 
 
 “ What a strange way you have of talking, child ! Come ; 
 let us leave the chapel. If I hear any more such profanity, I 
 shall have to report you to the Superior.” 
 
 Although the nun did not actually carry a formal complaint 
 to the lady Abbess about Katharina’s profane ideas respecting 
 this picture, yet it was whispered about, that Katharina had 
 strange fancies of her own about the picture in question. A 
 grand mystery was made of it— as of all occurrences there, 
 however trivial. There was a general huddling of bended heads, 
 and stolen glances in her direction, when next the school-girls 
 repaired to chapel. 
 
 Katharina felt that she was observed, — watched ; her wrath 
 was rising ; but she stifled her indignation, knowing that an 
 outbreak in chapel would be severely punished. She sat, 
 therefore, biting her lips, swelling, and swallowing; compress- 
 ing her hands till the nails cut against the palms, casting 
 scorching glances at her companions, in return for their inqui- 
 sitive looks. But the moment service was over, and the chapel 
 was quitted, she flamed out. 
 
 The tribe of girls was pouring forth into the play-ground, 
 down a flight of stone steps which led into it ; all rushing on- 
 wards, eager for play, and chattering at the top of their voices. 
 
 Presently, high and shrill above them all, sounded that of 
 Katharina Minola. 
 
 “ Stop ! Come back, all of you ! I want to speak to you ! 
 Stop, I tell you ! ” 
 
 Involuntarily they checked their steps, and stood in groups 
 around the base of the stone staircase, at the head of which was 
 Katharina, surveying them. 
 
 “ What were you all staring at ? ” 
 
 A pause while the troop of school-girls looked at each other 
 
 N 
 
178 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 giggling. All at once the giggles subsided; and a sudden 
 gravity stole over the upturned faces. 
 
 Katharina, who was scanning them eagerly, perceived the 
 change ; and following the direction of their eyes, beheld the 
 lady Abbess, standing close at her elbow. Confused thoughts 
 of flinging herself against the reverend mother and tumbling 
 her headlong down the flight of steps, — even a keen sense of 
 the pleasure it would be to see one so dignified and imperturb- 
 able, bundling helplessly over, — flashed wildly through the 
 brain of the child; but a second glance at the face and figure 
 of the Superior, sufficed to show the folly of any such attempt. 
 The shrewd glassy eye, the compressed lips, the folded arms, 
 the firm erect mien, all told the utter futility of hoping to move 
 — either physically or morally — such a woman. 
 
 She stood thus for some moments, transfixing her with those 
 sharp, slantwise, glances ; then she said, in her even voice : — 
 “ I have heard something of this. And so you do not like to 
 be stared at, Katharina Minola ? Then you should learn to 
 comport yourself a little less singularly, my child. You shall 
 learn to pray before a holy picture, as other people do, not 
 study it. I desire you will repeat a thirty days’ prayer, together 
 with the seven penitential psalms, upon your knees, morning 
 and evening, fasting, in front of that sacred picture ; and may 
 this penance serve to cleanse you of your past sin, and inspire 
 you with more fitting thoughts for the time. Pax vobiscum ; et 
 benedicite , my child ! ” 
 
 “ But I can’t, — I won’t ” — began Katharina, passionately. 
 
 “You will either perform the penance I enjoin you, or go 
 into solitary confinement for a week;” said the Abbess, as she 
 withdrew. 
 
 Nothing less than the threatened terrors of the dark room, 
 would have induced Katharina to go through with the other 
 penance. As it was, she performed it ; but how ? In a spirit 
 of repugnance, of mutiny, of all that was destructive to salutary 
 effect. Ever after that period, Katharina as earnestly shunned, 
 as she had formerly sought, looking upon that picture. 
 
 And now the annual distribution of prizes was about to take 
 place. 
 
KATHARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 179 
 
 It was a striking feature in this display, that all works of 
 utility were omitted. Nothing but fancy-works, works that would 
 show well, were included among those got up for the occasion. 
 Of course, during the long period of preparation for all this, 
 every useful lesson or solid acquirement was set aside. 
 
 Nothing was to be seen but pieces of satin, and silk, taffeta, 
 lutestring, and brocade ; beads, coloured papers, tinsel, gilded 
 bordering, spangles, gauze, palettes dabbed with the gaudiest 
 of paints, drawing-boards, cards, filagree, bran, embroidery, 
 floss silks, worsteds, wools, ribbon, ivory, shells, feathers, wax, 
 lace, pencils, paint-boxes, silver and gold wire, thread, cat-gut, 
 gum, paste, varnish, bugles, gilt-foil, muslin, tissue-paper, velvet ; 
 all kind of smarteries in material, — all possible variety in bits, 
 shreds, scraps, morsels, and small quantities. 
 
 And then, by degrees, this mass of trumpery was formed, 
 modelled, and made up. Beneath the diligent fingers of the 
 young ladies, aided by the skill and invention of the nuns, it 
 shaped itself into innumerable objects of almost indescribable ap- 
 pearance and undiscoverable use, but which were collectively to be 
 displayed as the works of the school— and to form that grand ex- 
 hibition upon which the hearts of the young ladies and their 
 parents were so fondly fixed, as the result of their year’s school- 
 ing, and the source of the forthcoming prizes. There were pin- 
 cushions— vast numbers of pincushions — of every size and 
 shape, but the favourite kind of pincushion was a singular 
 fabric of crimson satin crammed with bran, fashioned three- 
 corner-wise, the two upper points of which being strained across 
 the top and fastened together, the whole was supposed to form 
 a striking resemblance to that mysterious organ, the human 
 
 heart. This, to be dangled at the side, by a long ribbon, 
 
 was considered a useful present to a faithful servant, or favourite 
 nurse ; at the same time that it afforded an affecting typical as- 
 surance of the fond attachment for home maintained by the 
 young lady during her school-life. Upon the whole, perhaps, 
 the pincushions were the most useful objects there ; at any rate 
 there was a definite and specific use to which they might be put. 
 But for the most part, the articles constructed were purposeless; 
 utterly devoid of any conceivable aim or avail whatever. There 
 
180 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 were boxes so small that they would contain nothing ; boxes so 
 fragile that they would hold nothing ; boxes with such inadhesive 
 sides, insecure handles, and limp, intenible bottoms, that they 
 were fit receptacles for nothing but dead flies or dust. There 
 were heaps of artificial flowers, with nearly as little the shape, 
 or hue of nature, as the smell ; set under glass cases. There 
 were waxen effigies of lambs, or babies, embedded in myriad 
 filagree curls, closely wedged in flat boxes with glass lids. There 
 were ‘ suonarelli,’ — or rattles, made with patchwork, and gilt 
 tape. There were 1 pazienzi,’ — nondescript things, supposed to 
 be of great virtue, hung on the side, or round the neck ; square 
 bits of cloth, ornamented with sewing-silk, and trimmed with 
 coloured ribbons, and pen-and-ink miniature figures of saints. 
 There was more than one ‘ Presepio ’ of large size ; a sort of 
 holy peep-show, representing Bethlehem Stable, with wax 
 figures stuck about. There were worsted worked prodigal sons, 
 with black and white stitches for eyes ; and a speckled wool 
 calf in the distance : embroidered Ruths, with blue and white 
 floss silk eyes, and pink floss cheeks, and yellow floss sheaves 
 of corn ; framed and glazed. There were certain fabrications, 
 popularly believed to be meant for watch-pockets (were a watch 
 among the family possessions), — or for reliquaries ; these were 
 fashioned of all conceivable varieties ; octagonal, hexagonal, 
 square, oval, round, and diamond-shaped; quilted, quilled, 
 frilled, and rosetted ; but invariably finished off with such 
 slender hanging ribbons, that on putting these frail and trea- 
 cherous pouches to the use for which they were professedly 
 adapted, the watch or relic would disappear behind the bed’s head 
 — smash on to the floor. There were shell-work bags that would 
 not bear anything put into them heavier or stronger than flue ; 
 feather, and rice, and wafer-baskets, that mightn’t be touched, 
 lest they should come ungummed, or unpasted, or unfixed. 
 And then the things, by courtesy, called paintings ! Daubs of 
 heads, with mouths out of drawing, chins awry, eyes askew, 
 nostrils formed by a dot or a scratch. 
 
 The grand day arrived. An ecclesiastical dignitary of emi- 
 nence had promised to honour the proceedings with his presence. 
 He was to be seated on a kind of throne, temporarily erected ; 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA . 
 
 181 
 
 hung with garlands of artificial flowers, and plentifully be- 
 sprinkled with spangles. 
 
 The guests, on arriving, were conducted through a suite of 
 rooms, in which were long tables, covered with the school- 
 works set out with elaborate care, so as to display them to the 
 best advantage, and with slips of written paper pinned on each, 
 bearing the name of the gifted young lady whose work it 
 might be. 
 
 Suddenly there is a whisper runs among the crowd : — “ Mon- 
 signore is arrived ! Make way ! make way ! ” The crowd 
 draws back — there is a passage formed, through which Mon- 
 signore and the troop of attendant priests pass, in great state 
 and dignity towards the great room. By dint of a great deal 
 of coaxing, smiling, whispering, nodding, nudging, and pointing, 
 the majority of the guests are seated. But there are still many 
 standing; some flattened against walls, others jammed in re- 
 cesses ; while through the doorways, there appear vistas of 
 straining heads, which, from their occasional bobbing disappear- 
 ance, suggest the idea of their owners being on tiptoe. 
 
 However, there seems to be nothing of very thrilling interest 
 going forward. There is a pause, during which a troublesome 
 cough affects Monsignore ; which the lady Abbess perceiving, 
 she hands him a box of choice sweetmeats. He takes one, 
 with such a look of saintly suavity, that it is positively touching 
 to behold. 
 
 Presently, a door in one corner of the platform opens, and 
 the young ladies of the school enter two and two, with their 
 white veils drawn on each side of their faces, their eye-lids cast 
 down, and their hands folded before them. At this point of 
 time, there is a great stir among the straining heads ; the tip- 
 toes are perseveringly sustained ; and some of the flattened and 
 jammed against the walls and in recesses, take the opportunity 
 of stepping on to some of the benches which their former 
 occupants have in haste abandoned, in order to get a better 
 sight, peering over the heads of those in front. There is much 
 whispering, and pointing out of individuals among the just- 
 entered school-girls, who take their seats upon the very edges 
 of the forms, and remain with their eyes fixed upon the floor, 
 
182 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 while one of their companions, together with one of the teacher- 
 nuns, goes over towards the virginals, which they proceed to 
 belabour with certain blows supposed to form a musical duet 
 As this progresses, the veiled young ladies venture to raise 
 their eyes, cast sidelong glances into the room ; and as they 
 gradually discover their friends, bite their lips to prevent smil- 
 ing, then risk another glance, then smile more openly, then 
 nod, and at last, not only interchange looks of recognition with 
 those they know, but actually take courage to stare at Mon- 
 signore himself. 
 
 The duet ended,-— prolonged applause from the guests (of 
 admiration from those connected with the young lady player, 
 of relief from all unconcerned in her) marking its conclusion, — 
 six other young ladies rise from their seats, advance to the 
 front of the platform, and sing a piece of music, in a tone both 
 squeaky and nasal; at certain intervals, elevating their eyes, 
 and lifting their hands — alternately the right and left — in a 
 style imagined to be indicative of feeling, animation, and ap- 
 propriate action. 
 
 At the end of the vocal piece, Monsignore is again seized 
 with a fit of coughing. The box of comfits is once more offered ; 
 but this time, the Abbess’s courtesy is declined by a gesture of 
 the white and jewelled hand of the polite ecclesiastic, who has 
 an eye to the coming collation, and thinks it as well not to 
 injure his appetite with the cloy of sweets. 
 
 Then four young ladies stood up in a row, and engaged in a 
 French recitation. 
 
 Then came the bestowal of the prizes. Those happy selected 
 young ladies destined to receive them, came and stood before 
 the throne of Monsignore, who addressed a short speech, in a 
 mild snuffle of mingled admonition and encouragement, to each. 
 
 A cold collation succeeded ; fruit, cakes, and wine, for the 
 visitors. A banquet of all that could be collected of rarest and 
 most exquisite in both eating and drinking, for Monsignore 
 and his train. 
 
 Several successive vacations, — with their prize-distributions, 
 their pincushions, their recitation-gabbles, their chorus-squeaks, 
 their tinsel-crowns, their paper rose-wreaths, — had followed each 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 183 
 
 other as the years came round. But the end of that time found 
 the young ladies of the school little changed. They had grown 
 up, indeed, from quite little children, into tall girls of from fifteen, 
 to seventeen, or eighteen, — some even older : but in heart, 
 — in all matters of principle or sentiment — they were veriest 
 babies still. Some of the most energetic among them had 
 gained a smattering of grammar, a notion or two of geography, 
 (about as much, perhaps, as to know that their native Italy 
 was pink, and shaped like a boot ; that France was blue, Por- 
 tugal green, Spain yellow, and the British Islands a smoky 
 brown), could write flourished alphabets in three or four different 
 texts, and add up sums the whole length of a slate ; — but these 
 were looked upon as the prodigies of the school — quite geniuses; 
 girls almost unfemininely clever. One of these, Elvira Blangini, 
 professed a school-girl’s fondness for Bianca, and had obtained 
 her father’s consent that she should spend the ensuing holiday 
 with her, at her guardian’s country house. “ I wish the holidays 
 were come,” said Elvira, “what an endless time it does seem to 
 wait.” 
 
 “ Don’t you like school ? ” said Bianca. 
 
 “ Like school ! ” exclaimed Elvira ; “ Why, of course not ; 
 who does ? stupid teaching, and humdrum learning, and dull 
 lessons, and all that, — instead of doing as one likes all day, 
 and idling away as much as one pleases, sauntering in the 
 garden, and so forth, as one can do at home. Besides, Hor- 
 tensio says I’m too old for school, now ; and so I am. I shall 
 be nineteen next birthday.” 
 
 “ I didn’t know you had a brother;” said Bianca. 
 
 “ I haven’t ; ” said Elvira. 
 
 “Then who’s Hortensio? I thought, perhaps, he was youi 
 brother.” 
 
 “My brother? La, no! He’s — he’s — a — a — friend; a 
 neighbour of ours. I quite long to show him to you ! What 
 an endless time it does seem to wait.” 
 
 In spite of the endless-seeming time, it came to an end at 
 .last ; and Elvira Blangini obtained her wish of having her 
 friend Bianca Minola to spend the holidays with her. She 
 also very soon had her other wish fulfilled, of showing Hor- 
 
1 84 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 tensio. For not long after the two girls had arrived, and were 
 still in all the delight of unpacking their school-boxes, Elvira 
 exclaimed in a sort of breathless excitement : — “ Come here, 
 come here, Bianca, to this window ! stand behind this curtain 
 with me, and peep out, and you’ll see him. There ! Look ! 
 Walking in the next garden, with a mandolin in his hand. It’s 
 he, himself!” 
 
 “ Who ? ” said Bianca. 
 
 “ Who, child ? Why, Hortensio, to be sure ! Dear fellow, 
 there he is ! He little thinks who’s looking at him. But come, 
 Bianca, get a fan — I have mine — and we’ll go down into the 
 garden and see him. He’ll be so astonished to find I’m come 
 home. Why, how you blush ! What a bashful thing you 
 are ! ” 
 
 “ Am I ? ” said Bianca. 
 
 When they reached the summer-house, Elvira gave Bianca a 
 bit of fancy-work, to hold in her hands, and took up some her- 
 self; but presently tossed it aside, snatched up a guitar and 
 struck a few chords. 
 
 Presently, a voice was heard, saying I did not know you 
 were returned home, signorina; may I come over?” and, in 
 another instant, Hortensio leaped the low wall, and came 
 forward to the summer-house. 
 
 Elvira Blangini presented him to her young school-friend, on 
 seeing whom, the young man, at first, looked much embar- 
 rassed ; but what with the absence of all embarrassment on the 
 part of the young hostess herself, and what with the extreme 
 shyness of her friend Bianca, he soon gained courage; and 
 made himself quite agreeable — ending by offering to play either 
 the guitar or the mandolin to them as they worked. 
 
 “ No, perhaps best not ; ” said Elvira, giving a peculiar look 
 in the direction of the house ; “ you may read to us, if you 
 like— here’s Ariosto.” 
 
 “ La, do you read poetry, Elvira ? ” said Bianca ; “ I thought 
 it was forbidden.” 
 
 “ Oh, ay, at the convent, child ; it’s all very well there ; but 
 here I read what I like. We’re school-girls there ; we’re women 
 here, my dear ; ” said Elvira. 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 i§5 
 
 “ And very charming women, too ; ” replied Hortensio, with 
 a gallant bow and glance. The words, the bow, and the glance, 
 caused her such a hot rush of confusion, as Bianca had never 
 before experienced. 
 
 Elvira suddenly put her finger on her lip— listened — then 
 pointed stealthily in the direction whence Hortensio had come. 
 The gesture was so significant, and so instantaneously obeyed 
 by the young gentleman’s sudden retirement over the wall, that 
 Bianca could not help seeing it must have been a signal 
 in frequent use between them on former occasions of the like 
 kind. 
 
 The next moment, Elvira’s guardian appeared in one of the 
 garden-walks, approaching them ; and his ward, with the detest- 
 able firmness of habitual deceit, said : “ I’m glad you’re come, 
 guardy ; I want to consult you about the dance you have pro- 
 mised me to give my schoolfellows. When shall it be ? ” 
 
 “ Whenever it best pleases yourself to appoint, my charming 
 Elvira ; ” said the gallant guardian, raising his ward’s hand to 
 his lips ; “ only whenever the time fixed, remember that I claim 
 this fair hand for the first dance.” 
 
 “We’ll see about that, guardy;” said Elvira, coquettishly 
 withdrawing her hand, and giving him a pat on the back of his ; 
 “ you know I don’t approve of such ways.” 
 
 The party assembled at the ball was a very large one. 
 There were all Elvira’s and Bianca’s favourite schoolfellows, as 
 well as a goodly company of neighbours and acquaintances. 
 Among the latter, was a madame Ciarla, — known to all Padua 
 as an inveterate gossip, though a good-natured woman. 
 
 On her first arrival, she found herself near Bianca, who had 
 just advanced to receive her sister Katharina. 
 
 “ Well, young ladies, I’m delighted to see you once again ; 
 and so grown and improved, I declare ! You are both very 
 handsome girls ; as you’ll soon be told by all the young gal- 
 lants. There is signior Gremio, who has lost his old father, 
 by-the-by, at last, and is on the look-out for a pretty young 
 wife, to help him spend his large inheritance. And then 
 there is young signior Giulio, who’s grown quite a tall hand- 
 
186 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 some young man ; notwithstanding that terrible fall he had, 
 when a boy.” 
 
 “ Best not speak of him ; my sister dislikes him ; it only 
 irritates her to mention his name ; ” said Bianca. 
 
 Her sister gave her a strange look, and seemed about to 
 speak ; but she checked herself, bit her lips, and forced herself 
 to listen to madame Ciarla’s endless gossip. 
 
 At this moment, Hortensio made his way up to Bianca, say- 
 ing: — “There is such a crowd, I have only just been able to 
 reach you, signorina. Pity my Tantalus torture ; I have been 
 watching you from a distance without being able to get near 
 enough to beseech your hand for the dance.” He seized it, 
 and hurried her among the dancers. 
 
 “ Look at my friend Elvira, yonder ; how exquisitely beauti- 
 ful she looks, does she not?” said Bianca to Hortensio. 
 
 “ It strikes me she looks a little sulky, at this moment ; ” he 
 replied, laughingly. 
 
 “ Ah ! can you wonder, with that ugly old man for her 
 partner ? ” said Bianca, casting a moment’s glance at her own 
 young dashing one, then casting her eyes down upon her 
 spread fan. 
 
 “ Is she not passing lovely ? Did you ever see more brilliant 
 carnation on a cheek ? ” persisted Bianca. 
 
 “ The flowers match the cheeks precisely, it must be owned;” 
 replied he. 
 
 “ Fie, saucy critic that you are ! ” said Bianca. “ See, 
 Elvira has finished her dance, and is coming this way ; go and 
 make atonement by engaging her for the next, or I’ll never for- 
 give you.” 
 
 “ On that condition, I obey your mandate said Hortensio, 
 as he bowed, and quitted her. 
 
 “ I’ve performed my duty-dance, now for my pleasure- 
 dance ; ” said Elvira, holding out her hand to Hortensio, as he 
 approached. “Who have you been dancing with? Oh, I 
 see ; my school friend, Bianca Minola. A dear little innocent 
 milk-and-water thing, isn’t she? Talks bread-and-butter, — 
 lisps white-of-egg ; but she’s a darling creature, for all her in- 
 sipidity. But see here, what I have received ! An invitation 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 187 
 
 for signior Gremio’s grand party, next week. Mind you get 
 one, also. The entertainment will be none to me, unless you’re 
 there ; so, be sure and come.” 
 
 “ How can I fail, with such flattering inducement ? ” said he. 
 
 Signior Gremio’s party was to be of the most attractive 
 description. The company were to assemble in the beautiful 
 grounds of his estate, and spend the day in one round of 
 pleasant out-door amusement. There were dancing, ball-play- 
 ing, battledore and shuttlecock, archery, and all kinds of active 
 sports ; and there were shady seats, and turf banks, and tents 
 for those who preferred entire repose. 
 
 There was a large group dispersed round the grassy bank on 
 which Katharina, Bianca, and her friend Elvira, had seated 
 themselves. The gentlemen lounged at the ladies’ feet, or 
 leaned against the surrounding trees; while gay jests, and re- 
 partees, were bandied to and fro. 
 
 Suddenly signior Gremio said, “ I expect Giulio Vinci here 
 to-day ; he’s not long returned from Naples, where he has been 
 spending some time with an uncle of his.” 
 
 Katharina’s face flashed scarlet. 
 
 “ And who may Giulio Vinci be ? ” said Elvira. 
 
 “ A young friend of mine, for whom I’ve a great value. I 
 rejoice that he is returned home time enough for my entertain- 
 ment;” said Gremio. “Tho’ he must leave us early, to join 
 his ship.” 
 
 “ He’s the boy I told you of, whom my sister was so un- 
 fortunate as to injure ; ” said Bianca in Elvira’s ear ; pressing 
 her friend’s arm, to draw her attention to Katharina’s change of 
 colour. 
 
 Katharina overheard the words, and said loudly and pas- 
 sionately : — “ If ever you speak of that again, I’ll make your 
 meek blue eyes as red as a ferret’s, with my nails.” 
 
 There was an awkward pause. The company exchanged 
 significant looks, at this evidence of Katharina Minola’s un- 
 abated violence, and then, by degrees they broke up into little 
 separate parties, and strolled away. 
 
 Presently, signior Gremio proposed adjourning to the lawn, 
 where the dancing and ball-playing were going on. He offered 
 
1 88 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 his arm to the two sisters to conduct them thither, saying : — 
 “ I’ll find you a partner, miss Katharina; as for miss Bianca, 
 I hope she will favour me by becoming mine.” 
 
 “Never mind me; I shan’t dance; ’’said Katharina; and 
 when her companions had left her, she stood lost in thought, 
 with her eyes fixed upon a certain tree, that she well re- 
 membered. 
 
 Presently, a good-humoured laugh reached her ear, and she 
 heard a voice say : — “ She’s here, is she ? Object to meet 
 her ? To be sure not ; why should I ?” 
 
 “ How contemptuously he speaks ! ” was her hurried thought. 
 
 Then, accompanied by signior Gremio, Bianca, and others, 
 Giulio Vinci came towards her ; on her turning round towards 
 him, he merely made her a passing bow, and turned to speak 
 to some one else. 
 
 Soon after, a game of ball was formed ; and it proceeded 
 with great spirit. 
 
 Giulio Vinci had just made a long run after the ball, and was 
 tossing it up into the sky as high as he possibly could, and 
 catching it, while he returned to the spot whence he was to 
 pitch it into Bianca’s hand. 
 
 As she caught it from him, she said : — “ How active you are, 
 signior Giulio ! what a mercy it is, that you’ve no lameness — 
 no weakness remaining from your accident ! ” 
 
 The words were hardly out of her mouth, before Katharina 
 snatched the ball from her sister’s hands, and flung it over 
 the wall. “ I warned you not to allude to that again ! ” she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 “ Hey-dey, miss Miscetta ! Are these your tricks still?” 
 exclaimed Giulio, turning suddenly towards her. Then, seizing 
 her by the wrists, he cried out: — “Run, some of you, and 
 fetch the ball. I’ll hold this little fury fast, till you return.” 
 She writhed, and struggled; but not one jot could she move 
 her wrists in his firm grasp. He laughed at her fruitless efforts 
 to free herself, and said : — “ You had to deal with a boy, then ; 
 I’m a man now, Miscetta, and stronger than you are.” 
 
 The ball was brought back ; and the game was resumed ; 
 but the instant it became Bianca’s turn to throw the ball, 
 
KATHARINA AND BIANCA. 189 
 
 Katharina seized it from her, and threw it over the wall as 
 before. 
 
 She had no sooner done so, than Giulio caught her up in his 
 arms, and ran with her to a tree, near to which lay a cord that 
 had been used for one of the swings. With this he proceeded 
 to bind her to the tree, in spite of her frenzied struggling; 
 while the company, half laughing, half concerned, looked on, 
 expecting to hear her flame out with her usual violence. 
 
 But not a single word did she utter. 
 
 For while Giulio was binding her to the tree, she suddenly 
 became aware that it was the same from which her own violence 
 had caused his fall, years before; in his exertions to secure 
 her, the hair became pushed back from his forehead, and she 
 caught sight of the deep-seamed scar that marked the place of 
 the wound her hand had once given him. 
 
 A quite new and strange set of emotions overwhelmed her, 
 at finding herself completely overcome, — mastered. One of the 
 most singular features of this new state of feeling is, that the 
 sense of defeat, for the first time in her life, is not altogether 
 painful. As her woman’s frame involuntarily yields to his 
 masculine strength — there is an inexplicable acquiescence, al- 
 together unwonted, and surprising to herself. 
 
 Her silence, her turning pale, made Giulio, in his turn, 
 relent. “ Say you’ll not meddle with the ball again, and I’ll 
 undo the cords ;” he said. 
 
 She looked into his face ; but was literally unable to speak. 
 
 Taking her non-reply for stubbornness, he turned on his heel, 
 saying : — “ When you’re tired of your bonds, you can cast them 
 off by a word. Call to me, — promise to let the ball alone, and 
 I’ll come and release you.” 
 
 When he returned to the ball-players, he found several 
 gentlemen standing round Bianca, engaged in bewailing the 
 scratches which her sister’s rough seizure of the ball from her 
 hands had inflicted ; she, with pretty shrinkings, now winding 
 her handkerchief about them, and now unwrapping and show- 
 ing the scarce perceptible red marks, which made the little 
 dainty trembling hands look only the whiter — a fact of which 
 she was of course unconscious. 
 
190 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Let me give you my arm to the pavillion, signorina Bianca 
 said signior Gremio ; “ a little iced water with wine in it will 
 restore you.” 
 
 “A glass of water, then; for I own I feel a little faint; — 
 perhaps, with the loss of blood. But a glass of water merely — 
 no wine — I never touch it — I couldn’t think of such a thing.” 
 
 The sympathetic train of gentlemen attended her to the 
 pavillion ; and Giulio was following the crowd ; but he turned 
 back, went to the tree where he had left Katharina bound, and 
 unfastened the cords. When he had released her, he drew 
 her arm within his, and led her to the pavillion with the rest. 
 There was something in this silent attention on his part — in the 
 quiet decision of his manner, that was strangely pleasant to 
 Katharina, who walked unresistingly by his side. 
 
 Then Giulio took leave of his friend signior Gremio, saying 
 it was high time he should be on his journey. He addressed 
 a few farewell words to some among the company that were 
 known to him ; and at length came up to Katharina. 
 
 “Come;” said he to her; “let you and me part friends, for 
 all that’s past and gone between us. Shake hands with me — 
 to show you bear no malice.” 
 
 She stood up, trembling violently, but made no answer ; and 
 kept her eyes fixed on the floor, — her face, neck, and arms, 
 one glow of crimson. 
 
 “ Thou’rt a strange creature ; ” he said. “ But come, it may 
 be for the last time; shake hands.” 
 
 She seemed immovable. 
 
 “ If you won’t, you won’t ; I can’t help it, Miscetta.” 
 
 At that word, as if stung, she exclaimed, — lifting her eyes, 
 and flashing them upon him, — “ I hate you !” 
 
 “I know you do; you’ve proved that long ago;” he said, 
 laughing; “ but I owe you no grudge. Farewell ! ” 
 
 He turned away to the rest. Stationed them at the window 
 from which they could see him at the last visible point on the 
 road he was about to take. “ And then, when I turn, and wave 
 my hat, do you all give me three loud cheers. ” 
 
 He dashed out of the room, exclaiming “ Good-bye, all ! ” 
 And then there was a huddling round the window, and little 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 191 
 
 exclamations of “ I see him ! Where? 0 yes, there ! Now 
 he’s going out of the gate — now he’s going along the road — 
 now he’s reached the point. I see ! he turns, and waves his 
 hat! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!” 
 
 As the echo of the last cheer rang through the pavillion, and 
 died away in the distance, a deep sob was heard. 
 
 The party of young people started, and turned round. 
 Bianca pointed stealthily to the seat on which Katharina lay at 
 full length, with her face buried in her arms. 
 
 Elvira only shrugged her shoulders, and went away with 
 Bianca, softly tittering and whispering together; followed by 
 their train of gentleman-admirers. 
 
 Not a week after the entertainment at signior Gremio’s, 
 Katharina took a rambling walk down the road that skirted his 
 estate. On one side of this road there was a sort of dry ditch, 
 that sloped upwards with a low green bank, surmounted by a 
 hedge, which enclosed the extensive grounds belonging to him. 
 
 By some impulse, — unacknowledged to herself, — Katharina 
 climbed up this bank, and crept into the hedge, holding by a 
 young olive-tree which grew there, while she looked earnestly 
 into the enclosure. She soon distinguished the tree which 
 grew upon the lawn ; and kept her eyes fixed upon it, her 
 thoughts recalling the scenes with which it was associated. 
 Again she saw the laughing boy seated there, idly cracking 
 nuts, and carelessly swinging his legs ; — the rustle among the 
 boughs, — the fall — the bleeding temple — the insensible form, 
 borne away apparently lifeless. “ I owe you no grudge — I owe 
 you no grudge,” her lips murmured. 
 
 Then she beheld the struggle, when he bound her there, to 
 its trunk. She felt the clasping masterful arms bending her to 
 a half-reluctant, half-pleased yielding. And again she mur- 
 mured : — “ I owe you no grudge — Farewell !” 
 
 At that instant, voices approach along the road. Katharina 
 shrinks closely within her leafy covert, holding fast by the olive 
 sapling. The voices come nearer; and one of them, — that of 
 madame Ciarla, — says : — “ Yes, indeed, a frightful piece of 
 news ! So young ! so full of life and hope ! Just as he joined 
 his ship, while he stretched forth his hand to seize the rope by 
 
192 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 which he was to scramble up her side to the gangway, the boat 
 beneath him gave a lurch, and the poor young fellow fell over- 
 board, and was drowned.” 
 
 “ It’s a shocking thing indeed, though I don’t know the 
 young man;” said the other voice; “What did you say his 
 name was ? ” 
 
 “ Giulio Vinci. — Bless me ! what was that ? A groan ? ” 
 
 The speakers stop, and listen. “No; nothing.” The voices 
 die away ; and Katharina dropped from the bank into the grass- 
 grown channel at its foot. She lay there some time, as if 
 stunned. At length she returned home; but she was still 
 frightfully pale ; which attracted her father’s attention, and 
 caused him to reproach her for being so perverse as to go out 
 in the sun, during the heat of the day. 
 
 Katharina flung out of the room — rushed up to her own 
 chamber — locked the door — threw herself on the bed, — and 
 wept long and bitterly. 
 
 The intimacy between Bianca Minola and Elvira Blangini, 
 continued as strongly as ever. 
 
 In secret, however, the hollowness of their affection grew and 
 grew, until scarcely more than the mere empty husk of their 
 sworn bosom-friendship was left. It was like the rind of a pear, 
 eaten out by wasps and earwigs ; all the pulp and sweetness 
 sucked forth, while the worthless outside remained — a mere 
 show and semblance of the fruit it once was. 
 
 Elvira’s whole stock of vanity— and it was by no means small 
 — could no longer blind her to the fact that she had ceased to 
 be the sole object of Hortensio’s attentions. 
 
 She determined to bring to a decided avowal the long-hinted 
 sentiments of her guardian ; doubting not that, when her younger 
 lover should be threatened with the chance of losing her, he 
 would be frightened into a summary declaration of his own 
 passion. 
 
 With so unscrupulous a coquetry as hers, it may be supposed 
 that she was not long in effecting her purpose, so far as her elder 
 prey was concerned. The amorous old gentleman, caught eagerly 
 at the bait held out to him, and made his proposal in form. 
 
 She, with well-affected modesty, required a few hours to con- 
 
KATH ARINA AND BIANCA. 
 
 193 
 
 sider of his proposal ; and then, was not long in contriving to 
 summon Hortensio to her side. 
 
 In the conversation that ensued, she found, to her dismay, 
 that she had entirely miscalculated the aim of his affections. 
 He plainly told her they were fixed on her friend Bianca. 
 
 Her pride enabled her to conceal her disappointment, and 
 she found consolation in the thought that she could, by an im- 
 mediate acceptance of her guardian’s offer of marriage, pro- 
 claim her indifference to the treachery of her lover and her 
 friend ; and by the wealth and importance it would secure, have 
 the means of triumphing over them. 
 
 The marriage was, — in deference to the bridegroom’s im- 
 patience, — to take place in a few days. And immediately after 
 the ceremony, the new-married couple left Padua for a beauti- 
 ful villa, a few miles out of town. 
 
 A week after the wedding, madame Ciarla paid a visit to the 
 Minolas, full of news she had just received. It was no other 
 than that on the previous day, Elvira’s husband had been seized 
 with a fit of apoplexy, which had put an end to his life. 
 
 “Shocking, isn’t it? Not a week married, and already a 
 widow ! So young too, poor thing ! ” said madame Ciarla in 
 conclusion. 
 
 “ How interesting she’ll look in her widow’s weeds, poor 
 darling thing ! ” remarked Bianca. 
 
 “ Ah ! you deserve to be a beauty yourself, as you are, my 
 dear miss Bianca ; ” said the old lady, who was more good- 
 natured than deep-sighted. “You are never backward in prais- 
 ing the beauty of others.” 
 
 “ I hope I know my duty better than to be envious, or any- 
 thing that is wrong and wicked ; ” said Bianca. 
 
 “ Dear young lady! you are famed far and wide for your mild 
 oehaviour, your beauty and your modesty. Well would it be if 
 your sister would take pattern by you.” 
 
 “ O, but she dislikes taking pattern — and she says she hates 
 model people. Poor dear Katharina ! ” sighed Bianca. “ She 
 disdains to imitate excellence. She does not wish to be good. 
 She has not the least virtuous emulation. Poor dear Kate ! ” 
 
 Time went on. The young widow remained in wealthy se- 
 
 o 
 
194 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 elusion at her villa. Bianca’s character for sweetness, and artless 
 modesty increased ; while Katharina, — her temper irritable and 
 morose, her words insolent, — gained the reputation of being a 
 confirmed shrew. Her father, Baptista Minola, tired out with 
 her conduct, — yet forgetting how much of its cause might be 
 traced to his own habit of reproach — found himself perpetually 
 longing to get rid of her presence, by her marriage with some 
 one who would remove her out of his way, out of his house. 
 
 About this time he learned the views of signior Gremio and 
 signior Hortensio, with regard to his youngest daughter, Bianca. 
 But he informed them, that until his eldest was disposed of in 
 marriage, he could not think of parting with her sister ; adding, 
 that either of them were welcome to take Katharina. This inti- 
 mation, — as might be expected from its unfatherly want of deli- 
 cacy, — was received with open disrespect by the two gentlemen. 
 Their proposals, Baptista Minola’s reply, and the rejoinder, 
 happened to be made in both the daughters’ presence ; and, 
 enraged to hear herself thus treated, Katharina turned sharply 
 to her father, saying : — 
 
 u I pray you, sir , is it your will 
 
 To make a stale of me among these mates ? ” 
 
 The conversation going on angrily, Bianca says first to Katha- 
 rina, then to her father : — 
 
 “ Sister, content you in my discontent. 
 
 Sir, to your pleasiLre humbly I subscribe : 
 
 My books and instruments shall be my company ; 
 
 On them to look, and practise by myself.” 
 
 Taming of the Shrew, Act i. sc. i. 
 
 

 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

TALE VIII. 
 
 OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 HE babe lay on the nurse’s knee. Could any im- 
 pression have been received through those wide- 
 stretched eyes, that stared as wonderingly as if 
 they were in fact beholding amazed the new 
 existence upon which they had so lately opened, 
 the child would have seen that it lay in a spacious apartment, 
 furnished with all the tokens of wealth and magnificence, which 
 those ruder ages could command. Those wide-stretched violet 
 eyes, might have noted that a tall figure, of graceful mien, 
 frequently came to bend over, and breathe mother’s blessings 
 upon the little baby head ; and that another figure, kindly and 
 fond, would come to look upon the little daughter lately vouch- 
 safed to him ; and that still another, a young boy, would 
 advance on tiptoe to peep at, and touch very carefully, the 
 strange baby sister. Of the broad good-humoured face that 
 more constantly hung over it, the wide-stretched violet eyes 
 probably gained clearer perception ; for they learned to look 
 eagerly for the good peasant-woman, who had been engaged as 
 wet-nurse to the little Ophelia, — daughter of the lord Polonius, 
 and of the lady Aoudra. 
 
 Ophelia was yet a little toddling thing, when her father, the 
 lord Polonius, received an appointment as embassador in 
 Paris, and was compelled to quit the Danish court for an 
 uncertain period. 
 
 So distinguished an honour, was matter of high self-gratula- 
 tion to the ambitious courtier ; and he determined that his wife 
 should accompany him, remarking that a court without a queen, 
 
196 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 an embassy without an embassadress, were shorn of half their 
 splendour and influence ; therefore, the lady Aoudra prepared 
 to obey by making arrangements for the suitable placing of her 
 children during their parents’ absence. For Laertes, the boy, 
 there was the protection of his uncle. For the little Ophelia, 
 her mother determined she should be confided to the care of 
 her former nurse, Botilda. 
 
 The lady Aoudra determined to place her child herself in 
 the arms of its foster-mother ; and all that she saw at the 
 cottage of Botilda confirmed her in the conviction, that its 
 advantages would outweigh its disadvantages. It was a clean 
 wholesome place ; its inhabitants were homely but kindly ; 
 and the lady Aoudra felt that her child would be healthfully 
 and affectionately tended. She found, too, that the little 
 Ophelia’s chief companion would be Jutha, the only daughter 
 of the peasant couple — a young girl of some fifteen or sixteen 
 years of age, of the most winning appearance. To Jutha then, 
 she especially recommended the care and tendance of her 
 babe, — laid it in the rude wooden cot, and took a weeping 
 farewell of her treasure. 
 
 For some hours after her mother had left her, the uncon- 
 scious Ophelia slumbered on. When Sigurd and his two 
 eldest sons, Harald and Ivar, came in from their daily labour, 
 at eventide, they went and peeped at the little stranger who 
 had become their inmate. Botilda showed her husband the 
 purse of money the lady Aoudra had given them to take charge 
 of her child; and told him that the lady wished them to 
 increase their own comforts at the same time ; and that in 
 consequence, she, Botilda, had provided an extra supper for 
 them, to make a sort of feast in celebration of her own little 
 lady-babe’s coming among them. 
 
 Meantime the infant Ophelia continued to sleep on. But as 
 one of the good-humoured peasant lads happened to forget 
 himself, and give a loud laugh, the sound disturbed her ; she 
 turned, and opened her eyes, and lay awake. 
 
 “ Let her be a bit !” said Sigurd, laying his hand on his 
 wife’s arm ; “ and let’s see what she’ll do ; she don’t seem a bit 
 scared like, at all us new faces.” 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 197 
 
 On the contrary, the child seemed entertained ; and con- 
 tinued to look from one to another, patting her hand on the 
 edge of the cot, and humming a little song to herself ; they all 
 watching her the while with quiet, amused glances. 
 
 By and bye, she drew a long breath, looked round, and 
 said : — “ Mamma ! ” 
 
 Botilda and Jutha both now went towards her; doing their 
 best to distract her attention from the thought which had at 
 length evidently struck her. With the facile spirits of child- 
 hood, this was no difficult task. She was brought over to the 
 table to take her first rustic meal of bread and milk, which she 
 did with much relish,— despite the absence of the gold service 
 which had hitherto administered her refection, — and with much 
 apparent contentment, leaning against the familiar bosom of 
 her nurse, frolicking and making acquaintance with the smiling 
 beauty of Jutha, and graciously allowing the burly peasant 
 Sigurd to curl her miniature hands round his great big horny 
 forefinger. In short, the little lady-babe seemed at once to 
 take to her foster-family, and to make herself at home with 
 them. 
 
 After this inaugural meal, however, Jutha contrived to secure 
 the exclusive care of the child from that time forth. She dedi- 
 cated herself entirely to its comfort and happiness, and made 
 it in return her own joy and delight. 
 
 On the morning after Ophelia’s arrival at the cottage, she 
 was sitting on the young girl’s knee, in that half drowsy state 
 of quiet which is apt to succeed a violent game of romps. She 
 lay back to enjoy complete rest, while her eyes fell dreamily 
 upon a figure on the other side the room. It was that of a 
 hairy loutish boy. He was crouching in a recess in the wall 
 opposite, killing flies. As the insects buzzed and flitted to and 
 fro, he eyed them from beneath his shaggy brows, with snorting 
 eagerness, and tongue out-lolling; ever and anon taking aim 
 with his hairy paw, and at each successful dab that sent a 
 crushed and mangled fly to swell the heap which already lay 
 there, the lout gave a grin. Sometimes he would chop among 
 the mound of dead with a knife that lay beside him ; some- 
 times he would seize one of the living ones by the wing, or the 
 
198 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 leg, and hold it between finger and thumb, watching its buzzing 
 struggles, and grinning at its futile flutterings ; then let it go 
 again, to pounce upon, and deal it its death-blow. The child 
 lay looking at him in a sort of bewitched inability to remove 
 her eyes from an object that filled her with uneasy wonder ; 
 while Jutha, accustomed to the uncouth cruelty of her idiot 
 brother, Ulf, had not perceived that the child’s attention was 
 fixed upon him. Presently, Botilda’s voice sounded from an 
 inner room, desiring Jutha to come and help her with some 
 household matter that she had in hand. Jutha placed the little 
 Ophelia softly on the floor, put some playthings near her, and 
 bade her sit still for a few minutes till she came back. The 
 child sat, with her eyes unmoved from the fly-killer. Presently 
 he turned, and spied her. He gave one of his silent grins. 
 
 “ Are you one of the Elle folk ? ” he said. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 “ Or the Trolls? ” asked he again. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 “ You’re little enough ; and pretty enough. But I remember, 
 you’re the little court-lady.” He continued to stare down upon 
 her, grinning ; as she kept her eyes fixed upon him. “ Come 
 to the bear ! ” he exclaimed presently, in his discordant tones ; 
 “ come here, and shake hands with me.” 
 
 No answer, but a shake of the head ; as she eyed the 
 huge paw held out to her. “ Come to the bear, I tell ye i ” 
 growled he. “ I shan’t eat ye. Only hug ye. Come to the 
 bear !” 
 
 “ No ! ” — desperately ; with a more vehement shake of the 
 head. 
 
 “ What if I threw this at ye, and knocked off your legs like 
 one of them ? ” said he, pointing with his knife to the heap of 
 dead and dying flies stripped of their legs and wings. 
 
 Ophelia gave a startled scream. 
 
 In ran Jutha and her mother. 
 
 “ Little court-lady’s proud ; and won’t shake hands with Ulf, 
 the bear;” he said, lolling out his- tongue, and grinning. 
 
 “You limb!” said his mother, shaking her fist at him; 
 “mind my words. You dare to frighten my baby; and it’ll be 
 
OPHELIA ; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 199 
 
 the worse for you. She’s the great lord Polonius’s child, sent 
 here to be taken care of — not to be harmed or frighted.” 
 
 “ I didn’t want to hurt her ; I wanted to hug her — and she 
 wouldn’t let me.” 
 
 “ Don’t touch her at all, Ulf dear,” said his sister Jutha. 
 “ She don’t know that our bear’s hugs are harmless. She don’t 
 know you’re called in sport, Ulf, the bear. Let her get used 
 to you, before you try to make friends with her. She got 
 used to me, before she’d come to me from mother, you know, 
 last night.” 
 
 “You always make me do what you will, Jutha;” grunted 
 Ulf. “ But I don’t mind pleasing you ; you please me, and 
 give the bear things he likes, sweet food — good eating.” 
 
 Sigurd’s cottage was situated in a pleasant spot. It over- 
 looked a green valley, embosomed in swelling hills ; and 
 towards the north-east it was screened by a thick and lofty 
 forest of primaeval trees. Jutha took care that her charge 
 should enjoy as much of the open air as possible. They would 
 go forth at quite early morning, and with some food in Jutha’s 
 basket, would ramble abroad all day long. Sometimes they 
 made exploring expeditions among the hills ; sometimes, as far 
 as the sea-shore; where they would pick up shells, as they 
 strayed along the smooth sand ; or watch the billows come 
 tumbling in, crested with foam, rolling over one another in 
 huge monstrous frolic — like lion-whelps at play. These 
 rambles abroad with Jutha were the pleasantest periods of the 
 little Ophelia’s sojourn among her foster-family; when she was 
 at the cottage itself, she felt herself strange and apart. After 
 the first curiosity excited by the vision of the little lady among 
 them, Sigurd and his two elder sons, Harold and Ivar, took 
 little notice of her, beyond a passing nod, or a good-humoured 
 grin. They rose and were off to work by daybreak; returning 
 to the cottage only in time for the supper, which immediately 
 preceded their retiring to rest. 
 
 Botilda was ever occupied with household drudgery, in which 
 she frequently enlisted the services of Jutha; so that the child 
 was thus thrown entirely upon her own resources ; and these 
 were few or none for procuring entertainment. She would, for 
 
200 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the most part, sit still, watching Ulf, the idiot boy, with a sort 
 of helpless, fascinated attention. It was with a kind of dis- 
 mayed interest, that she would sit, perfectly still and motion- 
 less, to watch the ugly, odious Ulf. Once, he was squatting 
 near the hearth, with a huge foot clasped in each of his large 
 hairy hands, his chin resting between his knees, his leering 
 blood-shot eyes staring greedily towards a string of small birds, 
 which were dangling to roast, by the wood embers. 
 
 “Have some?” said he abruptly, turning to the child; 
 “they’ll soon be done.” 
 
 The little Ophelia shook her head. 
 
 “ But they’re nice, I can tell ye. They’re nice to sing — but 
 they’re nicer to eat.” And he smacked his great broad lips, 
 that were drawn wide from ear to ear. 
 
 Ophelia shuddered. 
 
 “ Hark how they frizzle ! ” said he ; and his large flapping 
 ears moved as he spoke. “ Sniff, how savoury they smell ! ” And 
 the black bristly nostrils gaped and expanded, while the blood 
 rushed into his face, as was its wont, when he felt pleasure. 
 
 Presently, he clutched the roast in his fist, and exclaiming: — 
 “They’re done ! they’re done !” held it out towards the little 
 girl, repeating, “ Have some ? you’d better ! ” while his eyes 
 gloated beneath his shaggy brows, at her, and at the viands. 
 
 “ Isn’t it too hot for you to hold ? ” asked the little Ophelia, 
 as if she couldn’t help putting the question — from wonder to 
 see him grasp the burning food. 
 
 “ Ha, ha ! the bear’s paw is too tough to be scalded ; and I 
 like my victuals hot ; ” said Ulf, thrusting one of the birds into 
 his mouth, whole, crunching it through, bones and all, and then 
 bolting it, at one gulp. 
 
 As the child listened to the noise he made, his fangs champ- 
 ing into the bones and mangled flesh, and looked at the savage 
 greed with which he crammed, she thought he seemed some 
 wild beast, ravening his prey. 
 
 More than ever she shrinks from his approaches ; and yet he 
 expresses liking for her, not enmity. Dread and disgust she 
 feels ; but withal a strange irresistible excitement, which impels 
 her to look upon that she fears and loathes. 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 201 
 
 However, this is only when bad weather keeps her in-doors. 
 When the sky is clear, and neither snow falls, nor winds howl, 
 nor mists hover, nor rain-showers threaten, the little Ophelia 
 coaxes Jutha abroad ; and again they sally forth together for a 
 long ramble through forest, field, or valley ; among the rocks, 
 or along the sea-shore. 
 
 And then the young girl amuses the child with telling her 
 quaint tales, and singing her old ballads, such as she has heard 
 from her mother. 
 
 One fine noonday, when the heat of the sun had compelled 
 Jutha and the little girl to seek the shade of the forest depths, 
 Ophelia interrupted the story then telling, by exclaiming sud- 
 denly : — “ Look Jutha ! See there ! ” 
 
 Jutha looked in the direction of the child’s pointing finger, 
 and saw, to her surprise, a milk-white horse, saddled and bridled, 
 coming leisurely along beneath the trees, cropping the grass, 
 and looking as if he had strayed from his fastenings. “ The 
 beautiful creature ! ” exclaimed Jutha. “ What costly housings 
 it has ! It looks like a fairy horse, — the steed of some of those 
 gallant princes in the stories ! And it is gentle, too ; see how 
 it lets me lay my hand upon its bridle, and pat its neck. It is 
 well trained, and belongs to some noble master, doubtless. But 
 who can he be ? And where ?” 
 
 The young girl held the rein, and looked about her in per- 
 plexity ; while the white horse tossed its arching neck, nearly 
 jerking the curb from her hand, pawed the ground, and neighed 
 shrill and loud. 
 
 “Look, Jutha ! ” once more exclaimed the child. “There 
 among the trees — on that mossy slope — do you see ? ” 
 
 “ He is sleeping ! ” said Jutha, in hushed answer ; “ and 
 soundly too ; not even the neighing of his good horse can dis- 
 turb him.” 
 
 The girl and the child crept a little nearer to the figure they 
 saw lying there. It was that of a man, in a rich hunting-dress. 
 His plumed hat had been placed so as to shade his eyes during 
 sleep ; but it had fallen partly aside, and showed a face finely 
 shaped, with features marked and handsome. 
 
 “ A fit owner for such a gallant beast ! ” murmured Jutha, as 
 
202 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 she turned to pat once again the neck of the steed ; for the 
 docile creature had suffered the young girl to retain his rein, 
 and to draw him after her to the spot where his master lay. 
 “Sure, a prince — no less; such a prince as they tell of in the 
 wondrous tales I have heard. How passing beautiful he is ! 
 What can he be ? Where can he have come from ? From 
 fairy-land— or from the court, surely/’ 
 
 The sleeper opened his eyes, and beheld the two young 
 girls standing there, with his courser’s bridle-rein in the elder’s 
 hand. 
 
 “ I have brought you your horse, sir ; ” said she, dropping her 
 simple curtsey. “ He was straying.” 
 
 “ And a fairer damsel to bring errant-knight his palfrey could 
 not be found in all the realm of enchantment;” said the stranger, 
 springing to his feet, and receiving the bridle from her; “surely 
 I have wandered upon charmed ground, and you are one of its 
 denizens.” 
 
 “A plain country-maiden, none other, sir; and this her 
 mother’s nurse-charge;” said Jutha, curtseying once again, and 
 presenting the little Ophelia. 
 
 “ Still a charmer ; — an earthly charmer, if you will — yet no 
 less bewitching ; ” said the handsome stranger. “ Pr’ythee 
 tell me thy name, pretty one, and I will tell thee mine. It is 
 Eric.” 
 
 “ And mine is Jutha, sir, at your service.” 
 
 “Truly, thou seem’st an opening rose, Jutha, and yonder 
 quiet little thing a close-furled bud, that promises to be just 
 such another flower of beauty as thyself. In good faith, I may 
 thank my lady Fortune, who brought me wearied from the chase 
 to cast myself down in an enchanted wood, that I might dream 
 a waking dream such as this.” 
 
 A mounted horseman now rode up, and addressing the 
 stranger in a tone of respect, announced that the chase was 
 concluded; adding that his majesty had noticed the lord Eric’s 
 absence, and had desired some one to collect stragglers as the 
 royal party was now returning. 
 
 “ ’Tis well, Trasco ; ride thou on ; I will speedily overtake 
 thee, and attend his majesty ; ” said lord Eric. Then vaulting 
 
OPHELIA ; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 203 
 
 into the saddle, he raised his hat, kissed his hand, and saying 
 “ I must obey the king’s command now, but I shall find a time 
 to see more of my wood-nymphs,” gave the spur to his horse, 
 and was gone. 
 
 There was an end of the story-telling for that day. Jutha 
 could talk of nothing else but of the noble stranger, of his 
 handsome face and figure, of his milk-white steed, of his un- 
 expected appearance, and of his speedy departure. The en- 
 counter in the wood was never mentioned at the cottage by either 
 Jutha or Ophelia. The young girl seemed satisfied with the 
 interest it awakened in herself ; and the child was of a quiet, 
 retiring nature, which seldom induced her to communicate 
 much with those around her. 
 
 For some reason best known to herself, Jutha now invariably 
 took the way towards the wood. Their former walks among the 
 rocks, or along the sea-sliore, were all abandoned in favour of 
 the path which led through the forest ; and the little Ophelia, 
 loving the mysterious grandeur of its high-arching trees, was 
 well-pleased it should be their constant resort. One morning 
 they had strolled far into its woody recesses, Jutha, as usual, 
 entertaining her young companion with tales and marvels; but 
 her attention seemed elsewhere ; and her look thoughtful and 
 vexed. 
 
 Suddenly, it brightened; and Ophelia, following the direction 
 of her eyes, saw, coming towards them, the figure of lord Eric, 
 on his milk-white horse. He threw himself from the saddle, 
 and eagerly approached. He seemed overjoyed to meet his 
 nymphs of the wood, and sauntered along by their side, leading 
 his horse by the bridle ; talking and laughing animatedly. He 
 shared their grassy seat, when they stopped to rest from the 
 noontide heat ; he shared the contents of their basket, when 
 they produced their noontide meal, declaring he had never 
 tasted daintier fare ; he gave himself up to the spirit of the 
 forest ramble, as though he could wish no pleasanter enjoy- 
 ment. Morning after morning, he returned to make one in the 
 wood-party; and never had the hours seemed to fly by so 
 lightly. Certainly, Jutha found it so; for the shadows of 
 evening would steal upon them, with warning to return home, 
 
204 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 ere she could well believe it to be afternoon. The little 
 Ophelia was less charmed with this addition to their society. 
 She had hitherto been accustomed to have her friend Jutha 
 supply her with never-failing store of amusement from her own 
 talk ; it was otherwise, since this stranger had intruded upon 
 their pleasant wood rambles. Jutha had now no look, no word 
 but for him. But then, she herself seemed so contented, that 
 her child-friend could not altogether find in her heart to regret 
 what made Jutha so evidently, so radiantly happy. She had 
 never seen her look so full of joy, so full of spirit. Her eye 
 sparkled, her colour rose, her voice had exultation in its tone, 
 as she took her way, with Ophelia, to these rambles in the 
 wood — where they were sure to be joined by their new ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 But after a time, Jutha’s look of joy faded ; her spirits, that 
 at first seemed almost too exuberant, varied frequently; the air 
 of inward ecstasy was exchanged for an appearance of anxiety 
 and uneasiness. She would still, in her cheerful moments, 
 break out into snatches of the song which was her favourite at 
 this time : — ‘ For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy; ’ but there 
 was forced mirth in the tone of exultation. 
 
 The altered manner of the young girl escaped the notice of 
 the cottage inmates ; but the child observed the change in her 
 friend, and sorrowed wonderingly. 
 
 Time goes on; and the young girl’s dejection increases. 
 Ophelia finds her one evening, sitting by the rivulet, wringing 
 her hands, and sobbing. The child soothes her fondly, asking 
 what grieves her. 
 
 Jutha only shook her head, trying to stifle a sob that would 
 be heard. 
 
 “ Come, let us return home ; and I’ll tell you a story by the 
 way.” 
 
 “ I shall like that ; it is long since I have heard one of your 
 stories, Jutha. I shall love to hear one again.” 
 
 “ How the wind howls ! What a dreary autumn evening it 
 is ! ” said Jutha, looking round her at the darkening sky. “See 
 how the leaves whirl, and fall ! The trees will all be bare soon ; 
 and then comes winter— cold, cold, winter. No more forest 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OP ELSINORE. 205 
 
 walks, when the trees are bare ! ‘ They bore him bare-faced 
 
 on the bier,’ That’s not the song I am thinking of ; ” she 
 
 muttered. 
 
 “You think of sad songs now, Jutha;” said the child. 
 “ Where are your merry ones ? ” 
 
 “ Where indeed ? Gone ! All gone ! * He is gone, he is 
 
 gone, and we cast away moan.’ Ay, that is it ! ” And she 
 began to chaunt in a mournful voice : — 
 
 1 And will he not come again ? 
 
 And will he not come again ? 
 
 No, no, he is dead, 
 
 Go to thy death-bed, 
 
 He never will come again/ ” 
 
 “Who is dead, Jutha? You frighten me;” said the child. 
 
 “No one is dead;” said the young girl, quickly. “Who 
 said he was dead ? They say dead and gone ; but we may be 
 gone, without being dead, mayn’t we, little one ? ” She spoke 
 in a sharp, abrupt tone, as if she would fain have made it sound 
 jestingly. Then she hurried on: — “Do you hear the owl hoot? 
 See, yonder she flies, with her flappy wings, and mealy feathers. 
 I’ll tell you a story about Dame Owl. I promised you a story, 
 you know. Listen.” 
 
 “ I am listening, Jutha.” 
 
 The young girl told her the legend as she had heard it. She 
 told her that when He who had pity in his heart for the veriest 
 wretch that crawls — for the dying thief — for the erring sinner — 
 even for her whose sins were many ; — when He who taught 
 divine pity and charity above all things, walked the earth in 
 human shape, and suffered human privation in the plenitude 
 ot His merciful sympathy with poor humanity, it once upon a 
 time befell, that He hungered by the way, and seeing a shop 
 where bread was baking, entered beneath the roof, and asked 
 for some to eat. The mistress of the shop was about to put a 
 piece of dough into the oven to bake ; but her daughter, piti- 
 less of heart, declaring that the piece was too large, reduced it 
 to a mere morsel. This was no sooner done, than the dough 
 began to swell and increase, until, in amaze at its miraculously 
 
206 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 growing size, the baker’s daughter screamed out, like an owlet, 
 ‘ Whoohoo — hoo — hoo ! ’ Then He who had craved food, held 
 forth his hand ; and, in the place where she who lacked charity 
 had stood screaming, there was a void ; but against the window, 
 beating its wings, hooting, and struggling to get out, was a huge 
 mealy-feathered owl. It forced a way through, took flight, and 
 was seen no piore ; excepting when some night- wanderer des- 
 cries the ill-omened bird skulking in the twilight wood, or ob- 
 scure grove ; and then he murmurs a prayer, to be delivered 
 from the sin of uncharitableness, as he thinks of the transformed 
 baker’s daughter. 
 
 That evening, on their return to the cottage, Ophelia crept 
 away softly to bed, marvelling much at Jutha’s illness. But the 
 hours crept on, and the little one’s affectionate anxiety yielded 
 to drowsiness. She slept ; but it was an uneasy sleep, full of 
 dreams. From this slumber she awoke strugglingly, and with 
 a beating heart. It was pitch dark ; she stretched out her arms 
 to feel for Jutha at her side ; but no Jutha was there. In alarm, 
 she started up. What could have kept her away ? The child 
 listened. All seemed still below. What then could prevent 
 Jutha from coming up to her room ? 
 
 In alarm for her friend, Ophelia stole out of bed, and groped 
 her way downstairs. On reaching the door of the sitting-room, 
 she saw a bright streak of light from the crevice at the bottom. 
 She felt for the latch above her head ; and unfastened it. She 
 pushed open the door; but the blaze of light from within, 
 suddenly contrasted with the obscurity from which she had 
 emerged, made her pause. She stood on the threshold, gazing 
 in, trying to distinguish the objects the room contained. On 
 the large table, in the centre of the apartment, lay some- 
 thing extended, which was covered with a white cloth. At one 
 end were ranged as many iron lamps as the cottage household 
 afforded, burning in a semicircular row. Amazed at this strange 
 sight, the child advanced to the table, and raised the end of the 
 white cloth, nearest to the lamps. Their light fell full upon the 
 object beneath. Startled, and shuddering, the child looked 
 upon that which was so familiar, yet so strange. Could that 
 indeed be the face of Jutha? — that white, still, rigid thing? 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 207 
 
 — with those breathless, motionless lips, and those eyelids, that 
 looked fixed, rather than closed ? The child involuntarily 
 stretched forth her finger and touched its cheek. The icy 
 cold, shot, with a sharp thrill to her heart, and she screamed 
 aloud, as she flung herself upon it with wild kisses and tears. 
 
 Botilda, hearing the cry, came running in. She used her 
 best efforts to calm the affrighted child, carrying her up to bed, 
 lying down by her side, folding her in her arms, and speaking 
 fondlingly and soothingly to her, until she dropped asleep. But 
 it was long ere this was accomplished; and for many successive 
 nights the nurse had to sleep in the room with her charge, that 
 she might be won to rest. The shock she had received was 
 severe ; and long left its effects upon her sensitive organization. 
 She shrank about, scared, fearful of she hardly knew what, but 
 feeling full of a vague uneasiness and alarm. 
 
 One night, Ophelia lay awake, — a prey to fancies and terrors 
 that would not let her close her eyes. Botilda, after sharing 
 her bed for many nights, thinking that the child had by this 
 time recovered the late shock, had left her, to return to her 
 own room, after seeing her softly drop off into her first sleep. 
 But from this the little girl had suddenly started, broad awake, 
 trembling and agitated, with a frightful dream she had been 
 dreaming; of digging down into Jutha’s grave, with a mad de- 
 sire to look upon her face once more, — of finding it, only to 
 see it change into that of Ulf ; who, raising himself from the 
 coffin, groped among the mould, and drew forth a little baby’s 
 white arm, which he fell to scratching and marring with briars. 
 The horror of the sight awoke her; she struggled into a sitting 
 posture, stared through the dim space, and found herself alone 
 in that dreary room. She could just distinguish the blank 
 square spot where the window was. There was deep snow upon 
 the ground — which cast a sickly glare, the moon partially 
 shining from amid haze and clouds. The familiar objects in 
 the room looked shadowy and spectral in that uncertain light. 
 At length it seemed to her, that among them, — there — yonder 
 — at the farther end of the room, she saw something move. It 
 was dark, and stole along without noise. She shuddered ; and 
 shrank beneath the bed-clothes. Her heart beat violently, — 
 
208 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 so loud, that she could have counted the thumps amid the dis- 
 traction of hearing her teeth keep a bewildering counter- current 
 of strokes, in a rapid timing of their own. Presently, she 
 clenched them firmly, that she might listen to something that 
 caught her ear beside the tumult of her own pulses. She 
 thought she heard a muffled sound, as if something swept 
 against the coverlet of her bed. She would have shrieked 
 aloud ; but her parched throat refused to give utterance to the 
 cry of terror that choked her. Could it be an animal ? Was it 
 anything alive? Or were there indeed wandering shapes of evil 
 permitted to visit the earth in night and darkness, as wild tales 
 hinted ? The child’s dismay hurriedly pointed to such questions ; 
 but on a sudden her attention was attracted to quite a different 
 source. There was a noise of trampling feet in the snow out- 
 side ; a sound of many voices ; a loud knocking at the door of 
 the cottage ; and upon her finding courage to look from beneath 
 the bed-clothes, she could see the light of torches flashing 
 through the window. Then there came a stir in the house ; 
 hasty steps ascended the stairs ; and in another moment the 
 door of her room was flung open, and in the midst of the stream 
 of light that poured in, a figure appeared, which rushed forward 
 to the bed where she lay, exclaiming : — “ My child ! my dear, 
 dear child ! My little Ophelia ! ” 
 
 “ Mamma ! ” was the instinctive reply, as the child felt her- 
 self gathered into the soft security of a mother’s bosom. 
 
 The lady Aoudra could not sufficiently feast her eyes upon 
 her daughter’s face ; but as she gazed, she became aware of the 
 burning spot that glowed and deepened in the young cheek — 
 the too bright sparkle of the eyes, — the unnatural restlessness 
 of the lips which at length wore an almost vacant smile, while 
 the fingers idly played among the long curls of her mother’s 
 hair, drooping over her. In alarm, the lady caught her child’s 
 hand in hers ; it was feverishly hot. 
 
 “ I have been culpably unheedful — inconsiderate ; I shall 
 have only my own rash selfishness to blame, should the surprise 
 have been too much for my darling. Yet who would have ex- 
 pected such sensitiveness — such susceptibility in one so young? 
 Dear child ! Mother’s own treasure ! Mother’s little tender one 1 ” 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 209 
 
 Fondly, gently, she set about repairing the mischief she feared 
 she had done. She shaded the light away from the too eager 
 eyes ; she coaxed them to close, — to cease to look upon her, by 
 clasping one of the hands in hers, that the child might know 
 she was still there ; she lay down beside her, parting the hair 
 back upon the heated forehead, giving her from time to time 
 cooling drinks, and suggesting none but peaceful happy thoughts, 
 in the low soft talking she murmured the while in her ear. 
 Lulled thus, the child fell into slumber; but for some hours it 
 was a disturbed, uneasy one, giving the lady many a pang of 
 dread and self-reproach. Violent startings, abrupt twitching of 
 the limbs, talking in her sleep, muttered ends of songs and 
 mournful tunes alternately alarmed the watcher. Once, the 
 little girl sprang suddenly up, trembling, and looking about her 
 with a scared eagerness of expectation, clinging convulsively to 
 the arm stretched to receive her ; but when she felt herself en- 
 folded within a mother’s embrace, lapped in that balmy at- 
 mosphere of maternity, she sank into profound rest. 
 
 Holy mother-love ! nearest semblance vouchsafed to mortals 
 of Divine protection ! Benignest human symbol of God’s mercy 
 toman! There is a blessed influence, a sacred joy, a plenitude 
 of satisfaction, in the very presence of a mother, that plainer 
 speaks the mysterious beatitude of Heaven itself to earthly in- 
 telligence, than aught else in existence. 
 
 The little Ophelia awoke next morning from her healing 
 sleep, revived, and quite herself. She was so free from the 
 feverish symptoms which had alarmed her mother, overnight, 
 that Aoudra thought that she might venture to remove her at 
 once to their home at Elsinore. 
 
 In the new scene to which she was introduced the child ac- 
 quired unwonted spirits. She appeared averse from speaking, 
 or even thinking, of the period she had spent at the cottage. 
 She never reverted to it of her own accord ; and it was avoided 
 altogether ; the lady Aoudra only regretting that she had ever 
 been compelled to leave her little one in what had evidently 
 been so uncongenial a home. 
 
 Her chief care was now to surround her child with none but 
 pleasant, healthful influences of person, scene and circumstance. 
 
 p 
 
2io GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 She kept her as much as possible in her own society, and in 
 that of her father — the lord Polonius, — whenever his court 
 duties permitted him to be at home. Her young son, Laertes, 
 was with them, for a period, until the time should arrive for 
 his going to the university. Meantime, masters were engaged ; 
 and the children pursued their studies together; though the 
 lady Aoudra chiefly superintended those of her little girl herself. 
 
 The affection that now had full opportunity of taking its 
 natural growth between father and child, contributed greatly to 
 the happiness of Ophelia’s new existence. Polonius became 
 dotingly fond of his little girl ; and she in turn reverenced him 
 with all duteous affection. She would watch for his home- 
 coming ; soon getting to know the hours of his return from at- 
 tendance at the palace ; and then she would set his easy-chair, 
 and bring his slippers, and the furred gown, for which he ex- 
 changed his court robes, when indulging in domestic ease ; 
 and then he would pat her cheek, or pass his hand over her fair 
 young head, and say some fondling words of rejoicing that he 
 now possessed so pretty a living toy at home as his little 
 daughter, to beguile his leisure hours. 
 
 He was a good-natured man, of a kindly disposition, with 
 much original shrewdness, and a great deal of acquired worldly 
 knowledge. He was an odd compound of natural familiarity, 
 and assumed dignity ; of affability, and importance ; of conde- 
 scension, and dictatorialness ; of garrulous ease, and ostentation. 
 He was often jocular, and would twinkle his half merry, half 
 astute eyes, rubbing his hands with a chuckling air of enjoy- 
 ment, as if he had not a thought beyond the relish of the 
 immediate jest ; but, some time after, as if willing to show that 
 it was the mere momentary unbending of the great statesman, 
 he would knit his brow, lean back in his chair, with his hand 
 supporting his chin, and look meditative. 
 
 He was fond of parcelling out his speech into formal divi- 
 sions ; of putting forth his opinions in set phrases ; he was full 
 of precept ; sententious in speech ; and uttered his axioms in an 
 authoritative voice. He spoke preceptively. He would talk 
 to his wife in manner of an oration ; clearing his voice, and 
 pausing a little, as if to bespeak full attention ere he began. 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 211 
 
 He liked to see those around him performing audience to his 
 dicta. He would address the guests at his table, as if they 
 were a committee, or a board of council ; and harangue rather 
 than converse. He prided himself on great foresight and 
 perspicacity. 
 
 He ordinarily prefaced with a hem ; and emphasized, as he 
 went on, with one hand in the palm of the other, or by reckoning 
 off each clause, successively, on his fingers. He collected at- 
 tention by canvassing glances ; gathered it in by sharp espial 
 upon those in whom he perceived symptoms of its straying ; 
 and kept it from wandering by a short admonitory cough. He 
 affected diplomacy and expediency in action ; mystery in ex- 
 pression ; craft in device. He piqued himself on ingenuity in 
 compassing his ends ; and in their accomplishment preferred 
 contrivance and cunning to the commonplace means of straight- 
 forward procedure. 
 
 In consequence of this system of their father’s, his praise was 
 sometimes as mysterious and unexpected to the young Laertes 
 and Ophelia as his reproof. 
 
 On one occasion, he called them to him and commended 
 them highly for never having been into a certain gallery, which 
 he had built out into his garden for the reception of some pic- 
 tures, bequeathed to him by a French nobleman — a friend of 
 his — lately dead. 
 
 Seeing a look of surprise on their faces, he added : — “ Ah, 
 you marvel how I came to know so certainly that you never 
 went in. But I have methods deep and sure, — a little bird, or 
 my little finger, — in few, you need not assure me, that you 
 never entered that gallery ; for I happen to be aware, beyond 
 a doubt, that you never did. And I applaud your discre- 
 tion.” 
 
 “ But we did go in ; ” said Ophelia. 
 
 “What, child? Pooh, impossible ! Come tome; look me full 
 in the face.” Not that she looked down, or aside, or anything 
 but straight at him ; but he always used this phrase convention- 
 ally, when he conducted an examination. “I tell you, you 
 never went into that gallery ; I know it for a fact. There’s no 
 use in attempting to deceive your father. I should have dis- 
 
212 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 covered it, had you gone into that room without my permis- 
 sion.” 
 
 “ But did you not wish us to go there ? I never knew you 
 forbade it ? ” said Laertes. “ If we had known you had any 
 objection, neither Ophelia nor I would have ” 
 
 “ I never forbade it, certainly,” interrupted his father; “but I 
 had strong reasons for wishing that you should not go into the 
 room till the pictures were hung. You might have injured them. 
 No, no ; I know better than to let heedless children play there ; 
 so I took means to prevent your entering the gallery without my 
 knowledge.” 
 
 “ But we did play there, every day, father ; ” said Laertes. 
 
 “ Yes ; ” said Ophelia. 
 
 “And I tell you impossible ! Listen to me; I fastened a hair 
 across the entrance. The invisible barrier is yet unbroken. So 
 that you see, you could not have passed through the door with- 
 out my knowledge.” 
 
 “ But we didn’t go through the door, papa ; we got in at the 
 window ! ” exclaimed both the children. “ We didn’t know 
 you wished us not to play there; so, finding a space which 
 the builders had left, in one of the windows that look into 
 the garden, we used to creep in there, and amuse ourselves 
 with looking at the new pictures. We did no harm; only 
 admired.” 
 
 Time went on. Laertes, now a tall stripling, was sent to 
 Paris — then famous as a seat of learning. 
 
 Ophelia grew into delicate girlhood. Ever quiet, ever diffi- 
 dent, but serene and happy. A tranquil-spirited maiden, un- 
 exacting, even-tempered, affectionate ; one of those upon 
 whom the eyes and hearts of all near, dwell with a feeling of 
 repose. 
 
 Her father now began to look forward to his long-cherished 
 hope of introducing her at court ; where he beheld her already 
 attracting his sovereign’s gracious notice, and winning the favour 
 of the queen. He imparted his views to his wife ; adding that 
 all Ophelia wanted, was a little forming in manner, to render 
 her presentable ; and to that end, he intended cultivating for 
 
OPHELIA ; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 213 
 
 her the acquaintance of a young lady, daughter to a friend of 
 his, the lord Cornelius. 
 
 Aoudra ventured the pardonable motherly remark, that their 
 young Ophelia was perfectly well-bred ; a gentlewoman in every 
 particular. 
 
 “ Tut, tut, lady mine ;” interrupted Aoudra’s husband, with 
 a wave of the hand, which she well knew to be of final signi- 
 ficancy. “Lady Thyra is in all respects what I could best wish 
 for my girl’s friend. The lord Cornelius is as anxious as my- 
 self for the improvement of the acquaintance; and it is my 
 will that henceforth the families shall be intimate. Let it be 
 looked to.” 
 
 Soon, no morning was spent apart ; and Thyra, intent upon 
 enjoying her new friend’s society uninterruptedly, made a point 
 of receiving Ophelia alone, and of appointing her usual visitors 
 in the evening only, henceforward. She could assume a pretty 
 tyranny — a kind of playful despotism, when she chose. It sat 
 well on her ; and her friends submitted to it, — well-pleased, — 
 as only another grace, in the graceful Thyra. 
 
 “ You know, sweet friend, we could not find the way to each 
 other’s hearts were we to meet in a crowd every day, instead 
 of thus familiarly, doing and saying exactly what we please, 
 while together, as we do now; do we not?” said she to 
 Ophelia, as they sat together, in Thyra’s pleasant room. “ Be- 
 sides, I mean you to know something of the people you will 
 meet, before you come among them, since you have owned to 
 me, with that charming simplicity and frankness of yours, that 
 you feel some awe at the thought of encountering strangers.” 
 
 “ I have so little seen of strange faces ;” said Ophelia. “ My 
 father’s guests are chiefly men high in office, counsellors of 
 state, grave and dignified personages; and my dear mother, 
 thinking one so young could not as yet derive advantage from 
 their conversation, allowed me to keep our own apartments 
 when there were visitors.” 
 
 “ Come, with whom shall I begin ? Methinks I’ll commence 
 at once with the highest. Our sovereign and his queen have 
 honoured my father’s house with their presence, but I may not, 
 of course, count their majesties among my visitors ; the king’s 
 
214 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 brother, however, lord Claudius, is not an unfrequent guest 
 here, and he ” 
 
 “You have been presented to their majesties? You know 
 the king’s person — the queen’s ; tell me somewhat of them.” 
 
 “ The king is a grave-looking man ; warlike and noble in his 
 bearing; full of dignity and command; and looks, — as he 
 indeed is — the accomplished soldier and ruler. The queen is 
 very beautiful, both in face and person. Graciously condescend- 
 ing in the kind notice and encouragement she accorded to 
 myself — a young girl undergoing her first presentation.” 
 
 “ And what of the prince, their son, Lord Hamlet ? I have 
 heard my father speak of him as a student of great repute ; he 
 says, that he has won high academic honours ; and if he were 
 not of royal birth, he could make himself illustrious, as a man 
 of learning.” 
 
 “ Nay, he’s even too much of the scholar, for my taste said 
 the lively Thyra. 
 
 “ What sort of man must he be to embody Thyra’s idea of 
 manly perfection ?” said her young friend. 
 
 “ Nay — I cannot tell — not I ” — replied Thyra, with a mo- 
 mentary embarrassment ; then recovering herself, she went on : 
 — “ Not such a man as my lord Claudius, assuredly. He comes 
 next to tell thee of. There’s something marvellously unattrac- 
 tive to me, about that lord. Though he be of blood-royal, he 
 looks not noble ; and though his lineage be high, he hath 
 naught lofty in his mien. Let me see : who else ? O, ay ; 
 there are Osric of Stolzberg, and Eric of Kronstein, two lords 
 whose estates adjoin that of my father; you will often meet 
 them here. Truly, I know not why I classed them together ; 
 for they differ in every particular, save in being provincial 
 neighbours of ours. The young lord of Stolzberg is a cox- 
 comb ; while the lord of Kronstein is — is — well, perhaps, 
 something very near the ideal we spoke of, ere now.” 
 
 Thyra paused a moment, with a little conscious laugh ; while 
 she stole a glance at Ophelia’s face ; but she saw it looking so 
 quiet, so girl-like innocent, that she went on : — “ It is not every 
 one who finds Kronstein so gifted, or Stolzberg so inane. 
 General opinion lackeys the rich lordling, Stolzberg, and can 
 
OPHELIA ; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 215 
 
 scarce allow the personal desert of the accomplished, but acre- 
 dipped Kronstein. Certain it is, that my father and I differ 
 widely in our estimate of their respective attractions. He 
 favours the one, while I ” 
 
 “While you judge the lord of Kronstein to be the superior 
 man, however he may be the poorer lord ;” said Ophelia, 
 simply. 
 
 “Yes, dear novice;” rejoined Thyra. “I must call thee 
 novice, dear Ophelia, thou seem’st to me so nun-like new to all 
 worldly thoughts and ideas. My social experience shall help 
 you in learning to face strangers ; and thy novice candour shall 
 teach me the beauty of unworldliness. Let me commence the 
 lessons I am to give, by initiating you in the mysteries of chess, 
 — now the most fashionable of games.” 
 
 44 Is it so much played ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. For some time it was banished from court, after 
 that fatal game, famous in our Danish chronicles, when the 
 sovereign dynasty was changed by a choleric blow with a chess- 
 board ; but of late, the taste has revived. We have some skilful 
 players amongst us. The lord of Kronstein is masterful at it. 
 He was my instructor.” 
 
 “Then you are, doubtless, now, a well-skilled player your- 
 self, dear Thyra. I fear you will find me an unhopeful scholar ;” 
 said Ophelia. 
 
 At this moment, an attendant entered. “ I can see no 
 visitors to-day;” Thyra said, impatiently, as she ranged the 
 pieces on the board. 44 See that I am denied to every one ; 
 and say that I receive this evening.” 
 
 44 1 stated such to be your ladyship’s orders,” said the at- 
 tendant ; 44 but my lord would take no refusal : he bade me 
 carry up his name — the lord Eric of Kronstein, madam.” 
 
 The colour flushed into Thyra’s face ; but she said in a com- 
 posed voice — 44 Give entrance to my lord of Kronstein ; he 
 doubtless brings intelligence from Rosenheim — from my father.” 
 Then, as the servant quitted the room, she added : — 44 1 make 
 an exception in this visitor’s favour, dear Ophelia, because I 
 think thou wilt feel curiosity to see one of whom we have been 
 speaking so much.” 
 
21 6 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 Her manner showed so much agitation, such blushing joy, 
 that it could not have failed betraying her secret to one more 
 versed in such tell-tale symptoms than her young companion. 
 But Ophelia perceived in it only the animation with which a 
 friend would naturally be welcomed. 
 
 Besides, her attention was principally engaged by the new- 
 comer. There was something in his appearance which struck 
 her with a singular impression, as of something remembered — 
 something long since seen. 
 
 Presently her friend performed the ceremony of introduction. 
 He bowed courteously ; and was about to resume his conversa- 
 tion, when something, in the cursory glance he had bestowed 
 upon Ophelia, seemed to strike him, also, with a vague sense 
 of recollection. He hesitated ; looked at her ; but seeming to 
 obtain no confirmation of his passing fancy from what he saw, 
 upon this second view of the tall slight figure before him, he 
 pursued his conversation with the lady Thyra. 
 
 “ But these papers my father requires, my lord ; did he say 
 where they were to be found ? ” 
 
 “ He bade me tell you, you would find them in the ebon 
 cabinet, by his study-chair, lady ; this sealed packet, with which 
 he charged me for you, contains the key, together with more 
 precise directions for your guidance.” 
 
 “I will seek them at once, my lord, since your return must 
 needs be immediate. But remember,” she added, with a re- 
 sumption of vivacity ; “ your friends in Elsinore will look eagerly 
 for your coming soon among them again.” 
 
 His eyes followed her, as she withdrew to fetch the packet ; 
 and when she disappeared, he turned, in an abstracted manner, 
 to the table on which the chess-board stood ; and played me- 
 chanically with one of the pieces, twirling it round and round 
 upon its circular foot. 
 
 A slight incident will sometimes prompt a struggling memory. 
 The form of the ivory piece caught Ophelia’s eye; and sud- 
 denly she exclaimed : — “ The knight ! The white horse ! I 
 remember — the wood — lord Eric — ay, that was the name. I 
 recollect it, now. It was you then, who- ” 
 
 “ Hush ! Can it be possible ? ” was the hasty exclamation, 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 217 
 
 as he looked round to see that no one was near. “ ’Sdeath ! ” 
 he muttered; “ the unopened rosebud, by all that’s strange ! 
 How came she here ? How came she to be there ?” 
 
 “You never returned after Jutha became so altered, so ill? 
 You never knew that she died ? ” 
 
 The lip blanched to well-nigh the whiteness of the chess-man 
 that had lately touched it. 
 
 “ I knew you would be sorry for her, when you came to hear 
 of it. You were kind to her; you liked her. Poor Jutha!” 
 
 “ Be silent, I conjure you, young lady. Do not speak that 
 name again — it can do no good — it may do fearful harm.” 
 
 Ophelia answered in her own quiet way : — “ I have never 
 mentioned her. She had almost faded from my own thought, 
 as had your face and person. I was a little child then; at 
 nurse, in that remote country place.” 
 
 Thyra reappeared. 
 
 Eric of Kronstein tarried not long after he had received the 
 packet from her hands. Promising to deliver it faithfully, he 
 took a graceful leave of the two young ladies. 
 
 They both remained silent for a considerable space ; each 
 occupied with her own thoughts. Then, Thyra, rousing her- 
 self from her reverie, said : — “ Forgive me, sweet friend, that 
 I am such dull company. Come ; now for our first study of 
 chess.” 
 
 The quiet chess-mornings, the brilliant social evenings, 
 enjoyed with Thyra, made Ophelia’s time speed pleasantly 
 away ; while she could not but observe, that at all seasons, at 
 all hours, Eric of Kronstein was ever the favourite guest of her 
 friend. 
 
 In one of the large apartments of the palace sat a lady, 
 surrounded by her attendant ladies, working at a tapestry-frame. 
 In a deep embayed window, at some distance from her, stood 
 a man, regarding her earnestly from beneath his bent brows 
 and drooping lids. 
 
 The man, was Claudius, the king’s brother. The lady, was 
 Queen Gertrude. 
 
 The weather had been unusually warm. The soft afternoon 
 
2 iS GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 air crept in by the open windows ; and through the apartment 
 there reigned the silence that grows with a sense of enjoyment 
 and refreshment. It had for some time been preserved un- 
 broken, when one of the attendant ladies exclaimed : “ His 
 majesty the king; madam.” 
 
 Gertrude rose to receive her royal husband. He came to 
 tell her of letters that had arrived from Wittenberg ; bringing 
 news of fresh academic honours attained by their son, Hamlet; 
 and other despatches from the royal forces engaged in a northern 
 warfare, which had terminated in conquest to Denmark. The 
 king concluded by saying that so much happy intelligence 
 arriving on one day deserved some token of remembrance; 
 and that he had brought one in the shape of a gemmed bracelet, 
 which he prayed her to wear as the gift not only of a proud 
 and happy father, and of a rejoicing monarch, but as that of a 
 loving husband. As the king fondly leant over the beautiful 
 arm presented to him, that he might clasp the jewel upon it, a 
 sharp inward groan burst from the lips of Claudius. 
 
 “ My brother ! ” exclaimed the king. “ I did not perceive 
 your presence. Are you not well, my Claudius ? *■ he added, 
 approaching the recess where he leaned. “Tell me, tell your 
 brother, what you ail ? ” 
 
 “An old wound — a hurt — ’tis nothing;” he answered, look- 
 ing down. 
 
 “ Our own leech shall examine it ; ” the king said, in his 
 gentle manner. “ Sweet Gertrude, come hither ; use you your 
 womanly persuasion, with this refractory brother of ours, to 
 have his hurt examined.” 
 
 As the queen advanced in obedience to her royal husband’s 
 bidding, the king took her hand, and placing it on his 
 brother’s arm, said : — u I shall find, on my return, you have 
 won our brother to our wish. The summer afternoon woos me 
 forth, to walk awhile in mine orchard. Meantime, prosper you 
 in your suit, my queen.” 
 
 When the king had left the apartment, she withdrew her 
 hand, and retired a pace or two from her close vicinity to 
 Claudius. He breathed hard, and there was almost a fierce- 
 ness in the tone with which he uttered the words : — “ He bade 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 219 
 
 you sue me, madam. A ‘ loving husband/ forsooth ! Why, his 
 is a tame affection which can leave a wife, to go sleep in the 
 shade of a cool orchard, while mine is a burning passion that 
 consumes me. Ardour such as mine befits a ‘loving husband;’ 
 not the puling caresses of that dotard.” 
 
 “ My lord ! Remember you of whom you speak ? — of your 
 brother — your king — my husband.” 
 
 “ Ay, madam — your husband — your ‘ loving husband ! * ” 
 He ground his teeth, muttering a curse. “The very hem of 
 your garment stirs me -to more adoring warmth than he is 
 capable of feeling ; ” he presumed to add, as he clenched 
 within his hand the end of a light drapery, which formed part 
 of her attire. 
 
 “ You presume on my forbearance, my lord ! ” exclaimed the 
 queen. “You cannot believe that I will listen longer to such 
 rash speech.” She would have withdrawn from the recessed 
 window ; but perceiving that a portion of her robe was within 
 his grasp, she feared lest the movement might attract the 
 attention of her ladies to this circumstance, and so betray to 
 them what was passing. A veriest trifle, such as this, will 
 suffice to sway the conduct of a weak-souled woman. 
 
 At this moment an attendant entered to announce that the 
 lord Polonius and his daughter, the lady Ophelia, craved 
 audience of her majesty. 
 
 “ Conduct them to the presence-chamber; ” said the queen; 
 “ I will receive them there.” 
 
 The edge of robing was still detained for an instant ; then 
 she felt it suddenly released, and she was free to go. She 
 moved away from the side of Claudius, without suffering her 
 eyes to look towards him; and, attended by her ladies, she 
 left the apartment. 
 
 As she proceeded along a gallery of the palace, on her way 
 to the state-chamber, one of her ladies exclaimed ; — “ See here, 
 madam ; some treacherous doorway hath torn away a fragment 
 from your majesty’s attire ; the piece is fairly wrenched out. 
 Alack ! the beauty of the robe is marred.” 
 
 “ Get other tires ready. I will change these anon, when my 
 lord Polonius shall have taken leave ; ” said queen Gertrude. 
 
220 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ It must needs have been some unheeded violence of a closing 
 door, or other like accident. ’Tis no matter.” 
 
 “ A passing sweet temper hath her majesty, to regard the 
 wreck of such embroidery as that without so much as a fretful 
 word ; ” thought the lady-in-waiting. 
 
 One evening, Ophelia and Thyra sat together; the hours 
 grew, and with them the impatience of Thyra. She was ex- 
 pecting lord Eric, who had promised to come; but still the time 
 for his appearance went by, and he came not. Night drew on, 
 and yet he came not. 
 
 Next morning, at an early hour, Polonius entered the apart- 
 ment where his wife and daughter were, and by the ostenta- 
 tious perturbation of his manner evidently desired that they 
 should ask what was the matter. The lady Aoudra dutifully 
 did so. 
 
 He told her that he had that moment received intelligence 
 of a circumstance which had occasioned great consternation in 
 certain quarters. It was reported that lord Eric of Kronstein 
 was discovered to be utterly ruined ; that he had gambled away 
 his patrimonial estate, that he was not worth a farthing, and 
 that in order to escape from the crowd of demands which 
 pressed upon him, he had, last night, under favour of darkness, 
 embarked in a vessel bound for the Archipelago. 
 
 “ But I must not tarry here,” he continued, “ I must away 
 to a privy-council meeting that sits this morning. His majesty 
 laid his gracious commands on me to let him have the help of 
 this poor brain of mine. He is pleased to think it of some little 
 avail in weighty questions that concern the state. Well, well ; 
 it may be so. It may be so.” 
 
 Away hurried the courtier ; and the silence that ensued after 
 his departure, was first broken by Ophelia’s exclaiming: — 
 
 “ My poor friend ! And this is the man she deems worthy 
 of all esteem and liking. To whom she has given her whole 
 heart ! ’Twill be best kindness to her now, to reveal her secret 
 to you, my mother, that we may have your experience and 
 counsel to aid her.” 
 
 Hastily she told her mother of Thyra’s attachment for Kron- 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 221 
 
 stein ; of all she knew of him herself ; of her former meeting 
 with him ; and of his request that she would not revert to it. 
 
 “ We will hasten to your friend Thyra,” said Lady Aoudra, 
 “ to warn her against the evils she can avoid ; to comfort her in 
 the grief she will have to endure.” 
 
 On arriving at Cornelius’s mansion, they found from her 
 attendants that the lady Thyra had not yet left her room. 
 
 “ She lies late, ordinarily, dear mother. Let us seek her in 
 her chamber. Her friend Ophelia is privileged to come to her 
 at all seasons, — even when she is, as now, a slug-a-bed.” 
 
 She went at once to the sleeping-room. She saw at a glance 
 that Thyra was not lying there ; but as she was retiring, a some- 
 thing within the curtains, at the bed’s foot, caught her eye. It 
 was the figure of her friend, half hidden among them. Ophelia 
 went gently forwards, to embrace her ; but as she extended her 
 arms to wrap them about Thyra’s form, it swung heavily away 
 from her, a mere heap of inanimate matter — an image, — a 
 corse ! It was the dead body of Thyra, hanging, where her own 
 desperate hand had stifled out life. Near to her was afterwards 
 found a paper, with these words : — 
 
 “ My father ! 
 
 “ Forgive your child. You destined my hand to one whom 
 I could not love. I pledged faith to one whom I loved only 
 too well. He whom I so fatally trusted, has proved unworthy 
 and false. He fled. What is left me, but to die ? Deal in- 
 dulgently by my memory. 
 
 “ Thyra.” 
 
 When Ophelia was lifted from the floor, where she had fallen 
 prostrate, she was in strong convulsions. The shock she had 
 received produced a severe illness. For a long space she lay 
 in the utmost danger, now wandering in delirium, now sunk 
 into a heavy stupor. From one of these deep sleeps, she once 
 awoke, stretching forth her hand feebly, and uttering a faint 
 word or two. Her mother, who had never quitted her side, 
 perceived the movement, and bent over her, to catch the sense 
 of the murmured sound. 
 
222 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESFEARES HEROINES . 
 
 “ Is the king dead ? ” 
 
 “ I trust not, dear one. He is absent in Norway ; and the 
 last despatches brought intelligence of his safety.” 
 
 “ Methought I saw him, dead ; ” said Ophelia. “ I have 
 been dreaming strangely. He seemed dead, as I saw him — 
 though he moved before me, waving his arm toward them. He 
 pointed to them, as each appeared.” 
 
 “ Of whom do you speak, dear child ? ” 
 
 “ Of those figures — those women. It was down by the brook 
 — among the reeds — beneath the willow ; — not the stream in the 
 wood — but the brook yonder, which flows into the castle-moat. 
 That solitary spot— all rush-grown, and shadowy — where the 
 water creeps on sluggish and slow, margined by rank grass, and 
 river-weeds, — you remember ? ” 
 
 Her mother gave tokens of assent. 
 
 “It was there she sat, — the first figure I saw. The night was 
 obscure; there was a veil of haze upon tree, and shrub, 
 and brook ; but I saw her plainly, and knew her at once, 
 before she shook back her long hair, and wrung her hands, 
 and moaned ; it was Jutha, mother! ” 
 
 “ I would have gone towards her, but my feet were rooted 
 to the spot; while, close beside me, there gradually shaped 
 itself into substance a form that seemed to grow out of the 
 shadowy night air. It became the distinct semblance of the 
 king, as I saw him ride to the Norwegian wars ; save, that his 
 face was pale and all amort — ghastly, and set in death. He 
 turned this wan visage full upon me, as he pointed to the figure 
 of her who sat lamenting.” 
 
 “ Dear Ophelia, thou shalt not recall these sad images ; let 
 me tell thee, dear one, of thy father, who ” 
 
 “ But there were two others, I saw. One was my poor 
 Thyra. I knew her by a terrible token.” And Ophelia’s voice 
 became nearly extinct, as she added : — “ her livid throat, 
 mother; and there was a space between her feet and the 
 ground, as she glided past me.” 
 
 A moment’s pause ; and then Ophelia went on. 
 
 “ The mailed figure again stretched forth his pointing hand. 
 The wind sighed amid the reeds. The heads of nettles and 
 
OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 223 
 
 long-purples were stirred by the night breeze, as it swept on 
 mournfully. The air seemed laden with heavy sobbings. 
 Then I saw one approach, whose face I could not see, and 
 whose figure I knew not She was clothed in white, all hung 
 about with weeds and wild flowers ; and from among them 
 stuck ends of straw, that the shadowy hands seemed to pluck 
 and spurn at ; and then the white figure moved on, impelled 
 towards the water. I saw her glide on, floating upon its sur- 
 face ; I saw her dimly, among the silver-leaved branches of the 
 drooping willow, as they waved around and above her, up- 
 buoyed by her spreading white garments.” 
 
 The mother shuddered, as her eye fell upon the white night- 
 gear of her child, telling the vision. But, at this moment, 
 Polonius softly entered the room, having heard, that his 
 daughter had awakened, better ; and that she was talking more 
 collectedly than she had done since her illness. He was soon 
 busily engaged, in his half fussy, half kindly manner, chiding 
 Aoudra for indulging Ophelia with two much licence of speech; 
 and making many remarks equally sapient and facetious, on 
 women’s love of talk, their proneness for confabulation and 
 gossip. 
 
 Thanks to Aoudra’s tender nursing, Ophelia was restored to 
 health. But a more severe blow than any she had yet sus- 
 tained now awaited her. 
 
 Death, which had spared herself, took her mother from her. 
 It is true that the anguish of sudden separation was not theirs. 
 For some time Aoudra lingered ; hers was a gradual decay, 
 without pain, and without loss of faculty. She was able to 
 give her child those counsels which should best protect her in 
 her approaching entrance upon the world’s experience ; while 
 the daughter was permitted the comfort of yielding the gentle 
 ministerings — the loving tendance which best alleviate sickness 
 and suffering. 
 
 Thus it came, that— from her mother’s warning, at this time, 
 as, from her father’s and her brother’s admonitions, at a subse- 
 quent period, — Ophelia had the perils which awaited her, in 
 her future life at court, peculiarly impressed upon her mind. 
 
224 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 After the lady Aoudra’s death, both the king and the queen 
 made it their study by almost parental kindness to the mother- 
 less girl, to lighten the affliction of her loss. They were rather 
 like affectionate and gracious friends, than her sovereigns. 
 They showed by their eagerness to have her as much as possible 
 with them, that they would fain act the part of loving relations 
 by her ; and she soon learned to regard them with as fond an 
 attachment. 
 
 The prince Hamlet joined his royal parents in their attempt 
 to soften the grief of Ophelia ; and in this gentle task, his own 
 growing preference for her gained strength and fixedness of 
 purpose. His refined taste was attracted by her maiden 
 beauty ; his delicacy of feeling taught him to delight in her 
 innocence, her retiring diffidence ; his masculine intellect found 
 repose in the contemplation of her artless mind : his manly 
 soul dwelt with a kind of serene rapture on the sweet feminine 
 softness of her nature. As time went on, tokens of his in- 
 creasing regard, awoke a responsive feeling in her breast 
 towards him. But while this fair flower of love was springing 
 up between them, — near to it lurked in unsuspected rankness 
 of growth, the foul unwholesome weed of a forbidden passion. 
 
 The realm of Denmark was thrown into dismay by the 
 sudden death of its monarch. The good king, — so it was 
 reported,— while sleeping, as was his afternoon wont, in the 
 orchard which formed part of the palace-grounds, had been 
 stung by a serpent ; and from the venom inflicted by the wound, 
 he had instantly sickened and died. 
 
 Ere the nation could recover from its consternation, and 
 while the rightful heir to the throne was plunged into filial 
 grief, Claudius seized the crown, and caused himself to be 
 proclaimed king. Scarcely had this first bold step been 
 securely taken when it was followed up by the solemnity of 
 coronation ; and shortly after, by the ceremonial of marriage 
 between the reigning monarch and his late brother’s widow. 
 
 The habitual acquiescence with which royal proceedings are 
 for the most part regarded by the populace, could hardly 
 restrain the expressions of dissatisfaction which these events 
 excited. But they occurred in such rapid succession, that they 
 
OPHELIA ; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 
 
 225 
 
 passed without attempted opposition. Moreover, the lavish 
 splendour, with which the two rites of royal marriage and coro- 
 nation were solemnized, had their effect upon the vulgar mind. 
 Claudius knew the full advantage of investing his royal proceed- 
 ings with the glare of pomp ; and he caused the rumour of the 
 surpassing magnificence which was to mark the approaching 
 ceremonies at the Danish court, to be spread far and wide ; 
 and, among the many attracted from a distance to witness so 
 gorgeous a scene, young Laertes, Ophelia’s brother, came from 
 France, that he might be present. 
 
 He was pleased with this opportunity for spending some 
 time with a sister whom he so tenderly loved; for though 
 during their life they had been much separated, yet in those 
 intervals that they had been together, he had learned to appre- 
 ciate the affectionate nature of this gentle being. Besides, 
 they had been in the habit of corresponding with one another 
 by letter ; and thus the attachment between them had been 
 maintained and cemented. To this means of intercourse he 
 reverted, when, — the regal pageant concluded, — Laertes pre- 
 pared to return to France. As he bade her farewell, he prayed 
 her to let no long time elapse ere he should hear from her. 
 
 And she, in her own quiet, though earnest way, in her own 
 simple sincerity of manner, replied : — 
 
 “ Do you doubt that ? ” 
 
 Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 3, 
 
 “ What to this was sequent, thou know’st already.” 
 
 Q 
 
TALE IX. 
 
 ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 WO ladies were pursuing their way homeward, 
 conversing gaily. The weather was so lovely, 
 their road, skirting the forest, so beautiful, that 
 they preferred the freedom of horseback to the 
 confinement of a coach. They accordingly rode, 
 attended by a proper retinue, such as beseemed their rank : 
 they being the daughter and niece of Duke Frederick, then 
 reigning in his banished brother’s stead. 
 
 The afternoon sun enriched the scene with its warm glow of 
 beauty, while the shade of the trees, which fringed their road 
 on one side, formed a welcome screen from its ardour. They 
 neared a spot they had often stopped to admire. It was a rude 
 stone fountain, celebrated for the sparkling purity of its waters, 
 which flowed from a moss-grown rocky recess ; it was situated 
 on a grassy slope, and was over-arched by a thick umbrage of 
 tall and spreading trees. 
 
 As the ladies approached, they perceived a figure sitting by 
 the side of the well. It was that of a stripling. His head 
 rested on the stone brink ; his limbs were stretched forth in 
 the attitude of thorough weariness ; his dress and shoes were 
 covered with dust; his whole appearance betokened that he 
 slept the sound sleep of fatigue. His face was partly hidden 
 upon his folded arms ; but one of the grooms, dismounting to 
 obtain a cup of the fresh fountain water for his young mistress, 
 touched the lad on the arm, and asked him if he had no better 
 manners than to lie lounging there in the presence of ladies ; 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 227 
 
 and then the countenance revealed to view, shone with good- 
 humour, though he affected to be angry at being disturbed. 
 
 “My lady may desire a draught of cold water,” he said, 
 “ but her need must be great, an’ it equal mine for rest ; my 
 weariness against her thirst, for any sum thou lik’st to name. 
 I fear me, though, the stakes would be all on one side, like an 
 ill-built paling; for my pocket is free from trouble,— it hath 
 not a cross to bear.” 
 
 “ I am sorry thou hast been awakened on my account, good 
 friend ; ” said Celia. “ Sweet rest is too precious to be inter- 
 rupted for an idle wish, that scarce amounted to a want.” 
 
 “ A lady’s caprice has broken many a rest, madam, ere now;” 
 returned the youth, glancing up at her with a merry look, 
 while he removed the cap from his head, and stood before her. 
 “ But in truth, there are some faces well worth losing sleep for; 
 and had I not been awakened to look upon the one I now see, 
 I had lost a sight better than twenty such naps — sweetened, 
 though mine was, by hunger and way-faring.” 
 
 “ Thou hast walked a long distance ? ” asked Celia. 
 
 “All the way from Chateau Fadasse, madam. To tell your 
 ladyship heaven’s truth — I ran away from that very Chateau, 
 no longer ago than this morning.” 
 
 “ Chateau Fadasse ? ” repeated Celia, musingly. “ I have 
 heard my father speak of a baron of that name.” 
 
 “Ay, madam ; the same, doubtless,” replied the youth. “ I 
 was born there ; and bred there, if that may be called breeding 
 which was rather a breaking-in to live upon ill-usage and 
 broken victuals. In the baron’s household, my father filled 
 the office of jester until Death called him to a better place, 
 promoting him from the Fadasse service to that of the King of 
 Terrors. Though service be no inheritance, yet I succeeded 
 to my father’s, and served the baron for a fool, — as I was, 
 staying so long to be made a fool of, and to be kicked and 
 cudgelled like an ass. At last I bethought me that I might 
 take it as a hint that I was kicked out; and so set forth 
 with a broad prospect before me, if not a fair one, — the wide 
 world.” 
 
 “ And now thou hast no home, my poor friend ? * 
 
228 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ If your ladyship call me so, or, better still, be a friend to 
 me, then have I no great need to bewail, what is, after all, no 
 great loss.” 
 
 “But hast thou nowhere to lay thy head?” pursued she, 
 amused with his replies. 
 
 “ No other pillow than holy Jacob’s, madam, — a stone. But 
 that which brought a dream of angels to a patriarch wanderer, 
 may well serve an erring youth like myself.” 
 
 “ Thou hast not wherewithal to eat a meal, hast thou ? ” she 
 asked. 
 
 “To say sooth, madam, no daintier food than hog-fare, — 
 beechmast and acorns ; with mayhap, hips and haws, and such 
 odd bird-berries : but the hedge and the brook have furnished 
 meat and drink, ere now, to famishing scholars, why not to a 
 starving fool ? ” 
 
 “I like this fellow’s spirit well, Rose;” said Celia, turning 
 to her cousin ; “ ; tis a cheerful spirit ; one that will take him 
 his bites from the cherry-cheeked side of the apple, through 
 life. What say’st thou ? Shall we bid him come with us ? 
 We’ll provide him a home ; and he shall supply us with 
 mirth.” 
 
 “ A fair bargain, and a kindly ; thou’lt do well to strike it, 
 coz.” 
 
 “ Art thou content to follow me?” said Celia, again address- 
 ing him. 
 
 “ Ay, lady. Find but a stepping-stone beyond this round, 
 slippery ball, the earth ; an’ you set your foot on it, mine shall 
 scramble after. There is something in that look, which puts 
 willingness, e’en for impossible feats, into heart and sinews of 
 him that should be thy follower.” 
 
 “ Then, mount ; and come with me. Gaspard, bring forward 
 the sumpter-mule, that this lad may ride with us. And give 
 him a ration from our store ; for it’s ill beginning new service 
 by fasting.” 
 
 “And my stomach hath struck a hollow sound for every 
 hour I’ve spent in the forest since I entered it ; which was at 
 daybreak this morning. I thank your ladyship for the timely 
 thought” 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 229 
 
 “ And now tell me thy name, good fellow ; ” said Celia, as 
 he fell in with the cavalcade, a little to the rear of her 
 side. 
 
 “ I was called cub, lout, hound, or cur, idle varlet, lazy 
 swine, and such like, for the most part : though, in good sooth, 
 none of them was my rightful style and title, as your ladyship’s 
 discernment will have already told you. But, truly, I care not 
 now to be known by the name I bore when blows and privation 
 were my daily having. Yonder well-brink, where I rested my 
 head, being the stone on which turned my good fortune, I’ll 
 call myself, henceforth, no other than Touchstone. ’Tis the 
 name given me by a fine brain of invention ; and that may e’en 
 stand in lieu of godfather and godmother, gossipry, and apostle- 
 spoons.” 
 
 “ If it be the saving of apostle-spoons, it may yet need thee 
 a long spoon, in the close quarters to which, through lack of a 
 Christian name, thou may’st be brought with the Prince of 
 Darkness. Thou know’st the old proverb.” 
 
 “ Marry, the meeting with yourself, lady, is the silver spoon 
 in the mouth of my new-born fate. I’ll look to have no 
 other.” 
 
 “ Nay, I think thou’lt furnish the spoon thyself. Thy pate 
 will be thine own wooden ladle.” 
 
 “It shall furnish my lady with a plentiful dish of merry 
 conceits, skimming for her the froth of folly, and the cream of 
 jesting. Thus the fool’s treen spoon may indeed help himself, 
 while it serves his mistress. It keeps his own heart light, and 
 her in good humour.” 
 
 “ To be kept well stored in good humour, is both her benefit 
 and his;” said Rosalind. “See thou that thy humour be 
 good, fool, and I’ll insure thee thy mistress’s good-humour.” 
 
 The cousins’ life was made a happy one, by the fast friend- 
 ship that existed between them. Rosalind, daughter to the 
 banished Duke Gaston, had the consolation of learning that 
 her father had, under adversity, attained a degree of philo- 
 sophic composure, and even of cheerfulness, such as his friends 
 at one time had not dared to think could ever again be his. 
 
230 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Hearing this, his child could scarce regard that as a calamity, 
 which had brought about so blessed a result ; and when she 
 thought of him as a happier man, she almost forgot to deplore 
 that he was no longer a duke : while Celia’s native sprightli- 
 ness of disposition, served to keep them both gay and blithe- 
 hearted. It was an especial delight of Celia’s to beguile her 
 cousin into that mood of feeling, when a smile was too faint a 
 token of the gladsome fancy ; when nothing save a hearty 
 laugh — that sweet ringing laugh of Rosalind’s — would serve to 
 express the exhilaration of spirit, the innocent joy of heart, 
 which sprang from youth, health, and goodness. 
 
 Then Celia would say: — “What a delicious thing it is to 
 hear thy laugh, Rose ! If I am high fantastic melancholy, its 
 most distant music will suffice to set my heart to dancing- 
 measure.” 
 
 “ Thou melancholy ! It must be high fantasy indeed, that 
 would persuade thee thou had’st thy spirits tuned in that low 
 key. Leave all such affectations, I prithee, to the gravity- 
 mongers, who have no better claim to be thought capable of 
 thought, than the putting on of a moody brow. A pretended 
 melancholy is the shallow device of a wiseacre to get a character 
 for wisdom ; and a real melancholy befits scarce anything but 
 guilt. ; Tis one of the merriest-conceited of jests, when such as 
 thou, — good-conscienced people, — play at melancholy. Good 
 conscience is not the stuff to breed genuine melancholy out of, 
 believe me.” 
 
 “ How know you that I have a good conscience ? AVhat 
 makes you so boldly pronounce upon me ? ” 
 
 “ Marry, by these sure tokens ; pleasant and infallible. Thou 
 sleep’st sweetly o’ nights, a sound token ; thou wak’st cheerily 
 and fresh o’ mornings, a strong token ; thou’rt ever free to note 
 the thoughts of others, a good token thou hast no brooding 
 secrets of thine own ; thou hast a hand frank and ready to re- 
 lieve the wants of those who need thy help, which denotes 
 thine own few cares. Thou can’st eat thy meat without pep- 
 pers and sauces, a wholesome token ; thou carst for no wine 
 in thy fountain draught, a pure token ; thou ne’er stick’st pins 
 awry, a pointed token ; ne’er wear’st unbecoming colours, a 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 231 
 
 vain token, an’ thou wilt, but e’en let it pass for a woman’s 
 token ; ne’er goest slatternly in thy garments, a neat token ; or 
 slipshod, a standing token ; or neglect’st thy mirror, a clear 
 token. Thou sing’st, and sigh’st not, when lost in thought, a 
 glad token ; thou seek’st thy bed with a step untired, and a 
 spirit as alert as when thou first arose, a confirmed token ; and 
 thou art almost as soon asleep as a sailor, when once thy head 
 touches thy pillow, a token upon which thou may’st set up thy 
 rest that all I have said is true.” 
 
 “ Trust me, coz, I think, in the matter of an unbruised con- 
 science, we may both thank the gods for having cast our 
 fortunes in such happy mould, as to have given us no cause to 
 lay the burthen of self-reproach on our souls ; ” answered Celia. 
 
 “ ’Twould be a step in charitable judgment, if the favoured 
 among mortals thought of this when holding their moral heads 
 above others less cared for by the blind woman on the wheel;” 
 said Touchstone. 
 
 “ Thou art there, art thou ? ” said Celia. “ Hast thou car- 
 ried our messages to those ladies I bade thee call upon, this 
 morning, in our name ? ” 
 
 “Ay, madam. But truly, it demands some of the fool’s 
 philosophy, — videlicet, laughing at that which we cannot mend, 
 — to enable a man bravely to face such insufferable moppets of 
 silliness as some of these court-ladies are. One will build you 
 her reputation upon an arm or an eye ; and then you shall be 
 fanned into a fever of admiration, or ogled out of countenance. 
 Another will make a stand upon the beauty of her ankle, and 
 then you must abide all the shock of display, for she will re- 
 ceive visitors no otherwise than reclining on her couch, play- 
 ing a thousand pretty angers, saucy petulances, and poutings, 
 the while, with her foot. A third sets up for a wit ; and then, 
 pray for Heaven’s mercy on your patience and ears, for she 
 will have none.” 
 
 “ If our court-ladies fare so hard in thy esteem, how stand 
 the men in thy good liking ? ” 
 
 “ Faith, madam, I can scarce call them 1 men.’ Had you 
 said court-gentlemen, I could have answered better; for your 
 courtier seems a different kind of creature from your man. He 
 
232 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 bends so low, when congeeing and making a leg to the idols of 
 his worship, — place and power, that he seemeth a link in 
 Nature’s animal creation, somewhere between human biped 
 and base quadruped.” 
 
 “ But are not some of them lively companions ? How say 
 you to that facetious gentleman, the young lord Dubadin ? ” 
 
 “ His gestures are flippant-nimble as a squirrel ; but his ideas 
 are heavy in their dull monotony as a caged bear, lumbering, 
 ceaseless, to and fro, behind his bars. Bruin, as I have seen 
 him in the court-menagerie, shouldering out the hours of his 
 captivity, grudgingly indignant, ever stolidly striving against his 
 own ponderous incapacity, is fittest emblem of my lord Duba- 
 din’s struggling thoughts. The companionship of such a fellow 
 is among the most intolerable of pains.” 
 
 “ ; Tis well to find philosophy for the endurance of a dull cox- 
 comb, among other diseases we have to encounter ;” said Rosa- 
 lind. 
 
 “Aches and pains are of divers degrees and qualities, 
 madam ; ” observed Touchstone. “ There are some pains more 
 difficult to bear with,— morally as well as physically, — than 
 others. Is there any one that feels not the degradation of 
 owning to a cholic ? And who shall be so hardy as to crave 
 sympathy for a cut thumb ? The bravest of us would not dare 
 bemoan himself for it.” 
 
 “ Therein are we women better off than our lords and masters. 
 While sovereign man is denied the privilege of so much as a wry 
 face — we may weep, tear our hair, sigh and lament ourselves to 
 our heart’s content. But come, your list of tolerable and in- 
 tolerable pains. Give us your catalogue.” 
 
 “ Imprimis, there is your headache, which is an intellectual 
 pain ; then there is your heartache, a sentimental pain ; there 
 is the ache from gouty toe, a wealthy pain ; there are the aches 
 from sabre and sword thrust, from pistol and gunshot wounds, 
 all esteemed honourable pains. None of these, men account it 
 shame to endure ; but few care to encounter the obloquy, as 
 well as smart, of a plebeian pain, such as starving ; and undigni- 
 fied pain like stomach-ache; an abject one, like sea-sickness; 
 or a paltry pain like finger-ache, though its claims to distinction 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 233 
 
 were fester or whitlow. But see ! There is your ladyship’s 
 messenger ; with a despatch from La Vallee.” 
 
 The letter from their dear friend, Flora de Beaupre, was a 
 long one. It told of the period of happiness she had enjoyed 
 while her promised husband was still near her. But then came 
 the bitterness of parting, when he had to leave her and join his 
 regiment ; and after that came the dreariness of absence, during 
 which her brother Raoul’s morose humours had seemed more 
 painful to bear than ever. Since then, however, worse had 
 arisen. A certain chevalier Fadasse had taken a hunting-seat 
 in their neighbourhood ; he had formed an acquaintance with 
 Raoul de Beaupre, which acquaintance had ripened into a 
 strong liking, further cemented by a violent passion which the 
 chevalier had chosen to conceive for Raoul’s sister. When the 
 count de Beaupre found that the chevalier Fadasse was the 
 heir of a wealthy and powerful baron, the circumstance seemed 
 at once to obliterate from his memory that his promise had 
 been already given ; for, upon the chevalier’s applying to him 
 for permission to address his sister Flora, he had at once 
 granted it, forgetful that he had sanctioned her betrothal to 
 Victor St. AndrA 
 
 All her protestations to the chevalier were treated as mere 
 feints to veil her glad acceptance; while all her remonstrances 
 with Raoul failed in moving him one jot from that which was 
 now too evidently his settled purpose. Her love for Victor St. 
 Andr£ gave her courage to brave her brother’s ire by reminding 
 him of his pledged word, passed on a former occasion ; but he 
 set aside all her urging, by saying that he knew the power which 
 feudal rights gave him in the disposal of a sister, still a minor, 
 in marriage ; and that he gave her to understand, once for all, 
 that it was his intention to avail himself of that power by bestow 
 ing her hand on the chevalier Fadasse, adding with a solemn 
 oath “ I am so resolved you shall then be his, that, if the last 
 day of this moon pass, and you are still unmarried, you may 
 e’en wed Victor St. Andre himself. I have sworn it, and no- 
 thing shall move me from my avowed decision. Though I re- 
 tracted my word, I will not break my oath. But in order that 
 there shall be no chance of your evading its fulfilment, I shall 
 
234 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 lock you up, young mistress, in the turret-chamber, whence I 
 think your own hot love will scarce furnish ye with wings or wit 
 to escape.” 
 
 Here she had remained ever since; alone, save when her 
 jailer-brother brought her, in sullen silence, some daily food. 
 She had beguiled her solitude by writing an account of her 
 misery to her friends Celia and Rosalind, though with scarce a 
 hope of the relation reaching them. But one evening she had 
 been so fortunate as to observe their usual messenger in the 
 garden, beneath the turret-window, looking about, as if in quest 
 of her. She contrived to attract his attention ; and by means 
 of some ribbons knotted hastily together, she had succeeded in 
 lowering her own letter, and raising the one brought for her. 
 
 Her friends gave her hard fate their cordial sympathy, and 
 talked over many a plan for aiding her to escape from her im- 
 prisonment, and from the worse fate which was to end it; but 
 none of them seemed feasible. 
 
 “ See, here she says, that the window of her turret-chamber 
 is strongly grated ; ” said Celia ; “ I think I remember hearing 
 that it was originally used as a dungeon for refractory feuda- 
 tories. Out upon him ! To use his sister no better than a serf. 
 Even could we succeed in gaining access to the outside of her 
 window, by some one who should scale a ladder planted for 
 her to descend, I know not how she could be drawn through 
 those close-set iron bars.” 
 
 “ Minerva, mother of mother-wit, though thyself motherless, 
 inspire me with thy inventive wisdom!” cried Rosalind with 
 sudden glee. “ God Phoebus with his light, Dan Mercury with 
 his cunning, lend me their several aids ! For methinks, I have 
 a scheme seething here in my brain, which perchance may 
 prove a goodly one for our purpose. The gods delight in sacri- 
 fices ; but surely not in such a one as this, — the offering up of 
 an unhappy virgin on the altar of a detested wedlock. Let us 
 invoke them to further a plot which shall prevent poor Flora’s 
 immolation.” 
 
 “ Right willingly ; ” said Celia ; “ tell me thy scheme, that I 
 may help thee, heart and soul, with prayer for its success, even 
 if I cannot assist thee in its planning.” 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 235 
 
 “ Let us to our room, then ; where we may talk, secure from 
 all chance of eaves-droppers.” 
 
 The chevalier Fadasse was walking one evening in his or- 
 chard. He paced backwards and forwards, and seemed em- 
 ployed in pleasing meditations, for he not unfrequently smiled. 
 He was startled from his profound contemplation by the sudden 
 appearance of a strange figure. It was a man masked and 
 muffled in a dark cloak, who stood immediately in his path. 
 
 “ What mummery is this ? ” asked the chevalier with a 
 frown. 
 
 The figure stood for a moment, immovable, with folded arms, 
 looking fixedly upon the chevalier Fadasse, without a word. 
 Then he slowly raised an arm, stretched it forth, waved it, and 
 dropped it again into his former position. 
 
 At this signal six men stepped forward from behind a hedge, 
 which formed one of the boundaries of the orchard. They 
 ranged themselves three on each side of the chevalier, and then 
 stood stock still ; awaiting as it seemed the bidding of him who 
 had summoned them. Then the mask produced something 
 from beneath his cloak ; and before the chevalier was aware of 
 his purpose, advanced briskly upon him, and whipped the some- 
 thing over his head and ears ; by which means the chevalier 
 found himself blindfolded. He raised his hands hastily, en- 
 deavouring to snatch off this something ; but he found it to be 
 a kind of iron head-piece, securely fastened by springs, impos- 
 sible to undo. 
 
 He uttered some violent exclamations; but they were totally 
 unheeded. He could hear a sound of horses’ feet, surrounding 
 him ; and presently he felt himself lifted up in the arms of the 
 six. They forced him into the saddle, and held him there, 
 three on each side. 
 
 Feeling his utter helplessness, he made up his mind to sub- 
 mit ; resolving to shout an appeal to any passengers they might 
 chance to meet. 
 
 Presently he found the horses put in motion ; and himself 
 riding on between the six. He tried to form some conjecture 
 of the road they were taking, but there was nothing which could 
 
236 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 guide him to any definite conclusion. After what must have 
 been a some hours’ ride they came to a halt. He could feel 
 that the horse he rode, was checked by another hand than his 
 own ; then some food was held to his mouth, and the mono- 
 syllable, “ Eat ! ” was pronounced. He listened keenly to the 
 voice, that he might learn whether it was one known to him ; 
 but it struck him even in the utterance of that single sound to 
 be a feigned one. 
 
 “ I care not to eat ; ” he said. 
 
 A can was proffered at his lips, and the same voice exclaimed : 
 — “ Drink ! ” 
 
 “Nor to drink;” he rejoined. But he thought that this 
 halt for refreshment betokened an inn ; and he called out 
 suddenly and lustily, “ Hallo ! House ! Within there ! Is there 
 any one at hand, willing to help a gentleman betrayed by 
 rascals ? ” 
 
 But no sound replied, save the echo of his own words, which 
 rang loudly out, and then died away. Soon after, they resumed 
 theif journey ; and at length, the whole party came once more 
 to a halt. This time they all dismounted : and then, the six 
 gathered about him, three on each side, and assisted him out 
 of the saddle. He felt them lead him by the arms, up some 
 steps ; a door seemed to open ; he heard the door close behind 
 him, some bolts drawn and other sounds of fastening, which 
 fell heavily on his ear, as denoting incarceration. He prepared 
 himself for some dark dungeon, for solitude, for bread and 
 water, for all the usual horrors of captivity. What then was 
 his surprise, when the mask, unfastening the iron head-piece, 
 enabled him to see the place in which he really was. His eyes, 
 long blindfolded, could scarce encounter the blaze of light which 
 burst upon them ; and at first he could distinguish nothing 
 clearly. Gradually he could perceive that he was in a spacious 
 apartment, hung entirely with rich silk hangings; at regular 
 distances, chased silver sconces projected from the walls, bearing 
 branches of wax-lights ; a huge candelabrum of the same metal 
 depended from the ceiling. In the centre of the apartment 
 stood a table, spread with delicacies, and laid with covers for 
 three persons. As he observed this last circumstance, the 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA ; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 237 
 
 chevalier Fadasse could not help wondering what sort of fellow- 
 prisoners were to be his — if fellow-prisoners they were. 
 
 The masked man had withdrawn ; but the six advanced, 
 made some final arrangements in the disposal of the supper- 
 table, and then stood waiting. There was a short pause. Then, 
 a portion of the hangings at the other end of the room was 
 drawn aside, and disclosed a door, through which presently ap- 
 peared two veiled ladies. 
 
 “O ho ! ” thought the chevalier, “ a gallant adventure ! 
 That’s quite another affair. I am now in my element. Fadasse, 
 my dear fellow, thou art at home and at ease, now ! See that 
 thou carry’st thyself with thy usual address in such circum- 
 stances. Allons ! ” 
 
 He approached the veiled figures, addressing them with some 
 high-flown compliment. They each made him a profound 
 curtsey ; and then motioned him to take the head of the table, 
 while they seated themselves on either side. He hastened to 
 do the honours of the banquet, by carving, and by helping each 
 of the ladies to some of the dainties spread there in such tempt- 
 ing luxuriance ; for he remembered that in eating the veils must 
 be raised ; and he was dying with curiosity to behold the faces 
 which must needs belong to such figures of grace and beauty. 
 He passes to each her plate, and she bows graciously, as it is 
 placed before her. He watches them keenly. A small white hand 
 is raised by the lady on his right; whom he distinguishes from 
 the other, by observing that she is the taller of the two. The 
 lady on his left also raises a fair hand ; but in lieu of putting 
 back their veils, they merely lift the plate from before them, and 
 give it to the one of the six who is standing behind their respec- 
 tive chairs. 
 
 “ Fair ladies, you use me barbarously to decline eating with 
 me. You first deign me the beatitude of your presence to cheer 
 my solitary meal ; and then you disdain to share it. How may 
 I know the cates are not poisoned, if you forbear to taste 
 them?” 
 
 At a signal from the lady on his right, one of the six — who 
 seem automatons rather than men, so like machines do they 
 move and act — places another covei at the opposite end of the 
 
238 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 table ; sets a chair ; disappears for a moment ; and then returns ; 
 bringing back with him the masked man, who takes the seat 
 opposite to Fadasse, bowing low, and laying his hand on his 
 heart. The chevalier can no longer complain of any lack of 
 zeal in the performance of the part of taster. The new-comer 
 fulfils his office with such right goodwill, that he swallows 
 enough for three — the ladies and himself. 
 
 He also goes through all the duties of hospitality, — even of 
 joviality, — with great diligence, though in dumb-show. He 
 pledges the chevalier with evident (though silent) cordiality, 
 when he drinks, which is not seldom, or in stinted draughts. 
 He passes towards him the bottle, with earnest (though mute) 
 signs that he should help himself. He lolls back, after the 
 meal, in a careless, picktooth kind of way, and now and then, 
 while playing with a little dessert-fruit, has the air of inter- 
 changing some light after-dinner remark, so perfect is the 
 pantomime with which he plays his part of entertainer. 
 
 There is something in this self-possessed enactment of the 
 nost, on the part of the mask, which the chevalier feels to be 
 peculiarly provoking. He addresses himself, therefore, once 
 more, to the veiled ladies. 
 
 “ Fair creatures,” he said, “ indeed you treat me ill. You 
 set me down to a feast, it is true ; but you deny me that which 
 makes the charm of a feast, — festive intercourse ; which gives 
 zest to the viands, flavour to the wines ! What companion- 
 ship is there in silence ? Call it churlishness rather. As well 
 drink alone, as drain none but mutely-pledged wine-cups.” 
 
 “You shall not deem us churls, sir chevalier;” said the 
 mask. “ Rather than you shall have just cause of complaint, 
 in being compelled to the imbibing of unsocial draughts, 
 myself will be your boon companion ; a man, as it seemeth 
 me, more fitly fills that office than a lady.” 
 
 “ And yet poets have told us ere now, that women and wine 
 combine for man’s delight ; ” said the chevalier. 
 
 “ Trust me, they are but scurvy poets — rascal poetasters, 
 rather — who desecrate beauty by associating its inspiration 
 with that of the goblet ; ” said the mask. 
 
 “But Jove the omnipotent had the good taste to make 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 239 
 
 the budding vernal Hebe his cup-bearer ; ” answered the 
 chevalier. 
 
 “Jove, good sir, was Jove, — king of gods and men. It 
 behoves us petty mortals take heed how we rashly challenge 
 comparison with the Thunderer, or ape his doings. Moreover, 
 sir, bully Jove repaired his uncourteous blunder, by taking 
 Tros’s son to be his tapster, when he saw his error of turning 
 the goddess of Spring into a barmaid.” 
 
 “ May I crave your worship’s name, since you favour me 
 with your converse, sir? ” rejoined the chevalier. 
 
 “Far be it from me to limit your desires, sir;” replied the 
 mask. “ Know me, sir chevalier, for your friend, Pierre La 
 Touche.” 
 
 There was nothing in this name that reminded Fadasse of 
 any one he had ever known. 
 
 “Good monsieur Pierre La Touche,” he said, “I am be- 
 holden to your courtesy. May I farther own myself its debtor, 
 by your informing me the names of these fair ladies ? ” 
 
 “ I would fain oblige you, sir. But, for all that regards 
 those fair enigmas,” said the mask, bowing, and placing his 
 hand on his heart, “ I must refer you solely to themselves.” 
 
 “ Fair Cruelty, fair Rigour,” said the chevalier, bowing to 
 the ladies as they rose from table, “ for so must I distinguish 
 you, until you deign to acquaint me with your truer, because 
 softer, names, I wish you the undisturbed sleep, which may 
 not be mine while you remain inflexible to my prayers.” 
 
 The two veiled ladies made a profound reverence ; and 
 withdrew through the small door at the farther end of the 
 apartment, followed by the mask, and four of the six auto- 
 matons. The two who remained, lifted up the hangings oppo- 
 site, and discovered another door, which they threw open ; 
 inviting him, by a gesture, to enter. He did so, and found a 
 luxurious sleeping-apartment, no less superbly hung and 
 adorned, than the saloon where he had supped. He was 
 sufficiently wearied by his long ride, to hail the prospect of 
 repose with eagerness ; and he slept long and soundly. When 
 he awoke, he was surprised to see the moon-like lamps with 
 which the bed-chamber was hung, still burning. He felt re- 
 
240 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES. 
 
 freshed and wakeful, and had all the sensations of one who has 
 slept for many hours ; yet no sign of morning could he discern; 
 so, believing that he must have been mistaken in the lapse of 
 time, he turned round and went to sleep again. It was but a 
 short doze. He felt that it must be morning. 
 
 “ I forgot those thick hangings ; they exclude the light, 
 doubtless ; ” thought he, as he leaped out of bed, and drew 
 back the heavy crimson drapery. There was a window-space ! 
 but no window, visible ; the shutters were closely shut and 
 fastened. He hastily opened the door which led into the other 
 apartment ; but found the same blaze of light there, as when 
 he had first entered it. The sconces had been replenished 
 with wax-candles ; and the candelabrum that hung from the 
 centre of the ceiling, also. He drew back a portion of the 
 hangings. There was a window ; but close-shuttered and 
 fastened. He found another, and still another ; but all were 
 alike impervious to the day-light, and impossible to undo. 
 He tried to find the door through which the ladies had made 
 their appearance. He found it readily ; but it was fast locked. 
 He searched for the one through which he thought he himself 
 must have entered ; and which seemed to be at the other end 
 of the saloon. He found that likewise ; but it was immovably 
 barred and bolted. 
 
 He noticed that the table had been cleared of the previous 
 meal ; and that it was now laid as if for breakfast. He observed 
 too, that it was laid but for one person. 
 
 “ Corbleu !” he exclaimed, “they intend carrying on this farce 
 of disdain yet awhile longer. ’Tis a shallow pretence, a poor 
 affectation that cannot deceive me. Allons! ’twill not last long.” 
 
 Smiling, and confident, he went through the rites of morning 
 toilette; taking, if possible, more than ordinary care in the 
 adornment of his person. When he once more came forth 
 into the saloon, the six automatons entered, bringing hot 
 chocolate and other such requisites for making the first meal of 
 the day, as were at that time almost exclusively confined to 
 royalty, or the highest nobility. 
 
 After breakfast, they cleared the table, and withdrew. 
 
 The chevalier was seized with a fit of yawning. He cast Lis 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 241 
 
 eyes round the room, wishing that among its rich adornments 
 mirrors had not been omitted. He strolled into the bed-room, 
 and amused himself for a time with the toilette-glass ; twisting 
 and coaxing his whiskers ; smoothing his moustaches ; paring 
 and trimming his nails, re-arranging his rings and other orna- 
 ments. But even the most interesting employments will pall, 
 at last ; and he sauntered back into the saloon. In one corner, 
 to his great joy, he found a merelle-table, a chess-board, dice, 
 and a pack of cards. In a recess opposite, a lute, a viola, a 
 viol-de-gamba, and a few other musical instruments. With 
 these he entertained himself for some hours ; until, just as he 
 was beginning to think it must be dinner-time, in came the six, 
 and began to spread the centre table. 
 
 In this manner, he now went on. He could form no idea 
 of the lapse of time. Whether the moon and stars were then 
 shining, or whether the sun were high in the heavens, he had 
 not the remotest means of judging. The same blaze of wax- 
 lights from the candelabra and sconces in the saloon ; the same 
 tempered radiance from the lamps, in the sleeping-room, kept 
 him in total darkness, — as to the progress of time. Once, a 
 sudden light, (of conjecture) broke upon him. 
 
 “ Aha ! ” thought he, “ my kidnapping was not enough ; my 
 detention here was not sufficient ! It is requisite that I should 
 be kept in ignorance of the passing of time, that I may not 
 know when the thirtieth of the month arrives ; that I may be 
 absent, nowhere to be found, on that day ; that I may be made 
 involuntarily to break my engagement with Raoul on that day ; 
 that I may not be married to his sister, in short, on that day 1 
 Pardie ! The pretty rogues have laid their plans well ! But 
 which one of them is it, I marvel, who has so set her heart 
 upon having me ? I would give this diamond solitaire to know ! 
 They are fascinating creatures, ’tis true ; still I cannot be false 
 to my poor little Flora, even for their sakes. Methinks, I long to 
 see them again, if it be but to disabuse them of their fatal error.” 
 
 But many breakfasts, many dinners, and many suppers suc- 
 ceeded to each other, ere his wish was gratified. At length, he 
 perceived that the six prepared the supper-table, — for three 
 persons, as on his first arrival. 
 
 R 
 
242 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 As before, also, the two veiled ladies made their appearance 
 through the same small door ; and, with a profound curtsey to 
 the chevalier Fadasse, took their seats at the table, while they 
 entreated him, by a courteous gesture, to take his. 
 
 “Fair ladies,” he began, “it is but right, that you should be 
 informed of one thing. It is grievous to me to be compelled 
 to give fair ones like yourselves the pain of knowing your love 
 is placed on one who never can return it in honourable kind. 
 But I must be frank. I can marry neither of you. I am 
 promised, bound to another; and to her I must preserve my 
 fidelity.” 
 
 Both the ladies gave unmistakeable evidence of being 
 violently shaken by emotion of some kind. He thought them 
 weeping ; and hastened to console them. 
 
 “ My heart is saddened, oppressed, by the sight of your grief, 
 lovely ones 1” he said; “would that it were in my power to 
 assuage it ! But Fate has willed otherwise ! Take courage, 
 dear ladies ! Be comforted. Believe that I pity, though I 
 cannot marry you 1 ” 
 
 The ladies drew forth their handkerchiefs; and beneath 
 their veils, the chevalier could perceive them wiping away the 
 irrepressible tears ; then they abruptly arose ; cast themselves 
 for a moment into each other’s arms ; and withdrew in a burst 
 of uncontrollable agitation. 
 
 “ Poor souls 1 Poor dear souls ! ” he murmured compas- 
 sionately. “ My heart bleeds to behold their agony. But it 
 was my duty ; and I have performed it. Let that be my con- 
 solation.” He helped himself to a glass of Tokay, and drank 
 it off ; gave a deep sigh ; poured out another glassful ; and 
 after swallowing that, ejaculated : — “ Allons ; I will now hope 
 that I may be detained no longer from the fulfilment of my 
 promise to Raoul and the beautiful Flora. I trust I may yet 
 be in time. I wonder what the day of the month is ? ” 
 
 But many more breakfasts, dinners, suppers, followed each 
 other ere he was gratified in his hope of release. At length, 
 after one of these breakfasts, just as he was about to engage in 
 a game at merelles, with as much of excitement and entertain- 
 ment as could be derived from a match against himself, he saw 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 243 
 
 the mask enter, accompanied by the six ; who, as usual, looked 
 like wooden figures moving on springs. He stepped briskly 
 forward, and placed the iron blindfolding once more over 
 Fadasse’s head. 
 
 He felt the six gather round him. He heard the door un- 
 barred and unbolted. He found himself led forward. 
 
 The six hurried him on ; mounted him ; got into their own 
 saddles ; and soon the whole party were riding in the same 
 order as formerly. 
 
 There was the same long journey ; and, at length, came the 
 halt, the dismounting, and the final withdrawing of the iron 
 head-piece. 
 
 The chevalier Fadasse looked hastily round. He was in his 
 own grounds again; on the exact spot where he had been 
 walking when these men first accosted him. They were now 
 scouring off, with the led horse upon which he had himself rid- 
 den, between them. Last, went the mask, bringing up the rear 
 of the party. 
 
 “Villain Pierre! Rascal mask! Scoundrel La Touche !” 
 shouted the infuriated chevalier; “be assured I shall live to 
 have my revenge of thee for this foul trick ! ” 
 
 “ I have already lived to have mine for the many thou play’dst 
 me, master Fadasse, once upon a time ! ” laughed the mask, in 
 his natural tone, as he scampered away; and was soon, with 
 his companions, out of sight. 
 
 “ Peste ! ” cried the chevalier, “ ’tis no other than that truant 
 imp, the old jester’s son ! Who should have dreamed of his 
 turning up again at Chateau Fadasse? A murrain on the 
 varlet’s impudence ! But who can those ladies be, in whose 
 service he hath employment ? That two roguish women, and 
 a discarded page-jester should outwit me ! Malediction !” 
 
 He bit his lip, and stood plunged in vexed meditation. He 
 stood there the conscious victim of some knavish trick, some 
 arch piece of dupery, expressly played off to torment him. 
 
 A serving-man crossed the court, and approached the 
 orchard. 
 
 “ Hallo ! Sirrah Jacquot ! Come hither ! ” 
 
 “ My young master ! ” 
 
244 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 The servant was about to hurry away again, to carry the news 
 of the chevalier’s return to his father; when Fadasse called him 
 back. “ Before another word, tell me what the day of the month 
 is he said. 
 
 “ Good lack, master ! Why, the fifth, sure.” 
 
 “ The fifth ! Then the thirtieth is past and gone ! ” 
 
 “ The thirtieth ! Of course it is ; — of last month.” 
 
 The chevalier Fadasse uttered an imprecation ; but stayed to 
 question no more. He hurried to his stable ; bade one of the 
 grooms saddle his horse; and rode off at full speed in the direc- 
 tion of La Vallee. 
 
 It was many miles’ distance ; and he did not arrive at the 
 mansion until too late an hour to seek an interview with Raoul. 
 He entered a lodge to the park ; which, fortunately for him, 
 was inhabited by an old woman, not only inclined to be hospi- 
 table, but communicative. She told him that there had been a 
 terrible ‘ tripotage ’ about mademoiselle Flora, who had vowed, 
 poor lamb, not to marry some rich abomination of a man whom 
 her tyrant brother had insisted upon her having, instead of that 
 charming monsieur Victor, whom every body loved. That then 
 her ‘ vilain loup ’ of a brother had shut her up in the turret- 
 room, swearing a horrible oath that she should not be let out 
 until the ‘ abomination ’ of a ‘ pretendu ’ came to marry her. 
 That the ‘ poor lamb ’ had pined and pined in her solitary con- 
 finement. That the chapel had been re-decorated ; the saloons 
 newly hung; the house generally made gay, against the expected 
 wedding. That each day the Count de Beaupre had been 
 heard to express fresh impatience and wonder at the non- 
 arrival of the bridegroom. That at length the fated thirtieth had 
 dawned ; but still no bridegroom, — that is, no 1 abomination ’ of 
 a bridegroom. But in his stead, who should make his appear- 
 ance but Victor St. Andre the first lover, come to claim his be- 
 trothed wife. That then certain facts had transpired. How 
 that Raoul’s oath had specified a clause, in favour of which, 
 Flora, if not wedded on the last day of the month to the 
 ‘ abomination/ was free to marry him to whom she had been 
 originally promised. That the 1 loup/ full of sullen ire against 
 the truant ‘ abomination,’ had given a grim consent to the nup- 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 245 
 
 tials of his sister with the man of her choice, and that they had 
 actually taken place on the very same day which was to have 
 seen the ‘ poor lamb 5 united to the detested ‘ pretendu.’ 
 
 The old crone went on to say, that the young couple were no 
 sooner joined, than they were separated ; for that immediately 
 after the ceremony, Victor St. Andre had been compelled to 
 quit his new-made wife. He had obtained leave of absence from 
 his regiment but for a few hours. He went, leaving the ‘ poor 
 lamb ’ still within the power of the ‘ vilain loup ’ of a brother ; 
 who, as soon as Victor St. Andre was gone again, resumed his 
 old tyranny. There had been nothing but a succession of 
 ‘ tripotages ’ since, the old woman said. Until at length, on 
 that very yesterday, it was discovered that mademoiselle Flora, 
 ‘poor lamb,’ was missing. She had fled from her brother’s 
 house, no one knew whither; and Raoul, half in rage, half in 
 affright, had taken horse, and set off from La Vallee to seek her. 
 
 Fadasse now saw plainly that he had been made the object of 
 a well-concerted scheme to keep him out of the way until the 
 period of Raoul’s rash vow should have elapsed ; thus affording 
 an opportunity to Flora of effecting the only means of escape in 
 her power. 
 
 He resolved therefore, that he would altogether avoid the 
 vexatious reminiscence of these late circumstances, by leaving 
 the scene of their occurrence ; and accordingly set out upon a 
 journey into Spain, to try what travel and change of scene 
 would do towards obliterating the memory of these morti- 
 fications. 
 
 Rosalind and Celia were spending a pleasant season of re- 
 tirement at their country palace of Beaulieu. 
 
 One bright spring morning the two were pacing up and down 
 the broad terrace-walk, thus conversing : — 
 
 “Ay, ’tis all well ended, so far;” said Celia. “ Flora’s hasty 
 letter brought me word that her marriage had happily and surely 
 taken place. But this compelled separation from her young 
 husband — now her proper protector ; this inevitable return to 
 the guardianship of her unnatural brother, fills me with fears for 
 her.” 
 
246 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Let us rather content ourselves that she is safe married to 
 the man she prefers, and safe from marriage with the man she 
 abhors,” said Rosalind, laughing. “ Poor Fadasse ! How 
 chivalrously he sought to protect us from our own weak hearts ! 
 But I would wager that had the two veiled fair ones not kept 
 him at such arm’s length as they did — he would have indulged 
 their foible for his sweet person. Out upon the conceited 
 coxcomb ! ” 
 
 “ My sport in the device was, to see how the fool had the wit 
 to pay off old scores, by treating his former tyrant as his pup- 
 pet ;” said Celia. “ Touchstone as the masked man, matched 
 the chevalier for making him, as a boy, his foot-ball.” 
 
 As Celia finished speaking, she found herself suddenly in the 
 arms of some one, who clasped her close, and imprinted several 
 kisses, in rapid succession, upon her lips. 
 
 She struggled to free herself; and to her indignation per- 
 ceived that it was a strange youth, who had burst from a thick- 
 pleached arbour at one end of the terrace, and whom, at first, 
 she did not recognize. 
 
 “ How now, young sir ! What ruffian behaviour is this ? ” 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 Rosalind said laughingly : — “ Do you not know him, coz ? 
 Do you not perceive it is Theodore, Flora’s cousin ? ” 
 
 “I know not how that entitles him to assail me thus;” said 
 Celia, with a sparkling eye, and a tone that showed she was 
 much hurt and offended. 
 
 “ Cast thy glance upon him once more, ere thou pour forth 
 all the vials of thy virtuous wrath upon the poor youth’s 
 head;” said Rosalind, still laughing. “ See here, what think’st 
 thou of this, as a warrant for the innocence of his assault ? ” 
 
 Celia saw her cousin draw down from among the short black 
 clusters of hair which peeped beneath Theodore’s broad hat, a 
 long bright golden ringlet. Rosalind drew it to its full shining 
 length, in a sort of smiling triumph of proof ; then let it go ; 
 and as it sprang up from her finger and thumb, in a wavy elastic 
 curl against its owner’s glowing cheek, it proclaimed that owner 
 a very woman,-— Flora de Beaupre herself. 
 
 “ Dear Flora ! you here ! in this dress ! How came you 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 247 
 
 hither? How came Rose to know of your presence — of your 
 disguise ? ” 
 
 “ I contrived to let her into my secret first, in order that we 
 might try its effect upon you securely. For it is of all impor- 
 tance, that my disguise should be unsuspected, as I am about to 
 take shelter with you, until my husband returns to take me to 
 my future home.” 
 
 “ With what a pretty air of wifely pride doth she talk of ‘my 
 husband/ and ‘ my future home ! 5 ” said Celia, looking at her 
 with a loving smile. 
 
 “ But will you harbour me till I can claim them with as open 
 a pride, as I now may show to you alone, dear friends ? ” said 
 the blushing Flora. 
 
 “ You know how right willing we shall be to have you with 
 us ; ” answered they. 
 
 “ I do know it ; and in this happy confidence, I made my 
 plans. I bethought me of taking refuge with you ; but I knew 
 that your father, Celia, might object to his daughter openly re- 
 ceiving at court a runaway. Could I conceal my identity for 
 a time, and remain with you quietly here at Beaulieu, I might 
 be safe until Victor’s return. I therefore provided myself with 
 one of my cousin’s suits; stained my eyebrows black; and by 
 good fortune found a peruke of the same hue, which had once 
 at a masked ball, served my mother. Thus disguised, I stole away 
 from La Vallee under shadow of night. I was fortunate enough 
 to stumble on your faithful follower, Touchstone; him I begged 
 to take my message to Rosalind, who welcomed me warmly, 
 and afterwards stationed me in this close arbour, whence I might 
 steal out as Theodore, and take you by surprise in the graceless 
 style I did. Forgive me the alarm I caused your modesty, in 
 consideration of the assurance it gives us, that my disguise is 
 beyond suspicion perfect.” 
 
 “Thou art a dear fellow; and as proof I forgive thee thy 
 saucy attack, I give thee this embrace of mine own accord;” 
 said Celia, giving Flora a hearty hug as she spoke. 
 
 At Beaulieu the three ladies spent some pleasant time toge- 
 ther. Flora would have been quite happy with her young 
 
248 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 friends ; had it not been for her anxiety respecting Victor, of 
 whom she heard no direct tidings. Rumours of continually 
 recurring engagements between the two armies, occasionally 
 reached her retreat ; but no certain news. She secretly fretted ; 
 but she rallied, before her friends; she assumed the indifference 
 of resentment ; she tried to speak as if she felt only a growing 
 coolness towards him, in return for his neglect in first leaving 
 her, and then continuing silent during his absence. 
 
 “ Beware how you let your anger make you unjust as well as 
 bitter, dear Flora ; ” said Celia. “ Think if you can recall one 
 instance wherein Victor spoke otherwise than truly, acted other- 
 wise than nobly. We should judge friends in absence by what 
 we know of them, not by what we hear of them.” 
 
 “ He had the gift of seeming true and noble ; but how know 
 I, he was what he seemed !” said Flora, with a vain struggle to 
 speak without faltering. 
 
 “ Here are some unseemly drops gemming your worship’s 
 vest;” said Rosalind, pointing to the tears which fell fast and 
 thick upon the front of Theodore’s doublet. “ What, man ! let 
 not your woman’s eyes rain their own betrayal.” 
 
 “ They are tears of anger, not of weakness. Do not think 
 they spring from a tenderness unworthy a forsaken wife. If 
 Victor desire to forget me, I will show that I can forget him. 
 I would not see him if he came hither.” 
 
 Touchstone entered as Madame St. Andr£ expressed herself 
 thus peremptorily on the subject of declining to see her hus- 
 band should he come to Beaulieu. He had his own secret 
 opinion on the matter ; but he merely said drily : “ I under- 
 stand, Sir madam, that you would be adamant, in case your 
 husband besought you to hear him. ’Tis well that I forbade him 
 the house, when he would fain have paid you a visit but now.” 
 
 “ How say’st thou ? ‘ But now ! * Hast thou seen him, good 
 
 fellow ? ” gasped Flora. 
 
 “A goodly adamantine aspen-leaf;” cried Celia laying her 
 hand upon the trembling Flora’s sleeve ; “ but sit thee down in 
 yonder corner, and recall some of thy firm resolves, to harden 
 thee against aught that may bechance.” 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA ; THE FRIENDS. 249 
 
 “ Victor here ! you jest, man ; ” said Rosalind to Touchstone. 
 
 “ As a jester should, madam.” 
 
 “Nay, nay, leave thy quips now, and let us have sober 
 verity.” 
 
 “ In sober verity, then, he is here. Behold him ! ” 
 
 Rosalind approached one of the open windows. 
 
 “ I pray you, walk in, sir. My cousin Celia and I have been 
 sitting here in the twilight, with a young friend of ours ; but by 
 your leave, we can continue our converse by starlight, rather 
 than have it interrupted by the attendants.” 
 
 “ It best suits my condition, which must shun curious eyes, 
 for I have stolen hither to obtain, if possible, traces of my Flora. 
 A rumour suddenly reached me that she had quitted LaVallee, 
 that she has fled, no one knows whither. You, dear lady, who 
 are one of the two friends dearest to her, can surely inform me 
 if this terrible news be true.” 
 
 “ Why did you not stay to see after your wife yourself, good 
 sir, instead of leaving the task of caring for her to others,” 
 said a person who had hitherto remained in the shadow of the 
 apartment. 
 
 “ That voice ! ” exclaimed Victor in sudden amazement. 
 
 “ Ay, that voice, good sir ; the voice of Theodore ; which 
 probably strikes upon your conscience, from its likeness to 
 that of its cousin, the woman whom you left after an hour’s 
 marriage.” 
 
 “ I forgive your rudeness to myself,” said Victor ; “ for the 
 sake of the affection it notes towards my wife ; but in pity to my 
 anxiety, dear ladies, let me know all you know of my Flora — - 
 my wife.” 
 
 “ How know you that your desertion may not have ex- 
 tinguished love in her heart for you ? ” continued the voice from 
 the dark. “ Mayhap, in the absence of the neglectful husband, 
 some brisker gallant hath persuaded her to bestow upon him 
 that which Victor St. Andre held not worth the having. Per- 
 adventure, her flight is in company with this gallant, whosoever 
 he may be.” 
 
 “You shall not malign my wife unpunished!” angrily ex- 
 claimed Victor. “ Come forth into the park with me, young 
 
250 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 sir ; these ladies shall not protect you by their presence, from 
 the chastisement due to so shameless a tongue.” 
 
 “ You would fain kill her cousin because he tells you your 
 own desertion has made her a false wife.” 
 
 “ That voice, so like hers, unmans me,” muttered St. Andre. 
 Then in a sort of fierce rallying of his determination, he half 
 drew his sword, repeating “ Come ! Follow me, young sir !” 
 
 But at the first glimpse of the blade, the seeming Theodore 
 sprang forward, and clinging to his arm, exclaimed — “ Don’t 
 hurt me, Victor ! ” 
 
 “ Coward, as well as slanderer?” he cried, and was about to 
 push the youth off ; when Rosalind stepped forward, twitched 
 away the black clusters of hair, and revealed the fair ringlets of 
 Flora, exclaiming : — 
 
 “ Have a care, master Victor, lest in your roughness to 
 Theodore, you injure Flora !” 
 
 “ Flora ! my wife ! ” 
 
 “ Victor ! dear husband ! ” 
 
 “ Let us leave this foolish pair to fight out the rest of their 
 quarrel after their own fashion ; ” said Rosalind, leading Celia 
 away. “ Clubs won’t part them now.” 
 
 On the following morning, the happy party of four friends 
 were all walking on the terrace together; Victor trying to assert 
 his marital authority, in forbidding his wife to think of carrying 
 out a resolution she had formed, of accompanying him to the 
 army as his page, rather than again be separated from him. 
 
 Just then, a man on horseback rode up the park approach, 
 towards the house ; but seeing the group on the terrace, he made 
 his way across the sward in their direction. 
 
 “ It is a soldier ! He has seen you, Victor ! We are lost ! ” said 
 Flora. 
 
 “ Fear nothing, love ; I told the general where he might hear 
 of me, in case he should desire to summon me.” 
 
 Flora’s cheek grew paler and paler, as she saw the horseman 
 deliver into her husband’s hand the missive which was to call 
 him from her ; but she strove to be collected and firm, while 
 eagerly perusing his face, as he read the letter. 
 
ROSALIND AND CELIA; THE FRIENDS. 
 
 25 
 
 To her surprise she saw joy sparkle in his eyes. 
 
 “ Dear Flora ! See here ! Read this ! ” he exclaimed. “ We 
 need not part. Henceforth, my honour, my duty, are one with 
 my delight. They alike call me to my home with you.” 
 
 The general’s letter congratulated Victor on an amnesty which 
 had just been ratified between the long-contending armies. He 
 bade him take his new-made wife in triumph to St. Andre ; and 
 there joyfully to celebrate the proclaimed peace, by proving 
 himself as good and happy a citizen in this period of the realm’s 
 tranquillity, as he had hitherto shown himself to be a brave and 
 faithful champion in its time of war. 
 
 When their friends, Victor and Flora, quitted them for St. 
 Andre, Rosalind and Celia also left Beaulieu, and returned to 
 court. 
 
 About this time, Rosalind had her thoughts much drawn 
 again towards her father. She learned where he had taken up 
 his abode ; she found it was the pleasant forest of Arden that 
 he had chosen to make the scene of his exile ; she heard of the 
 cheerful philosophy, the happy serenity which had become his, 
 in this charming spot; she heard how he drew inspiriting 
 lessons from everything that surrounded him in this woodland 
 life of peace and contentment. She heard too, that many more 
 of his friends had lately joined him; that several lords had 
 voluntarily banished themselves to bear him company. His 
 faithful cousin Amiens was, of course, still with him. All this 
 was of sweet comfort to her ; and yet she could not but occa- 
 sionally suffer her heart to sink a little, as she felt the natural 
 longing of a child to be with her father, that she might give him 
 her loving care, and make him and herself happy in their 
 mutual affection. 
 
 Her uncle treated her very kindly, although his feelings to- 
 wards her were of a mingled complexion. He loved her for 
 her own sake; he could appreciate her brilliant qualities; he 
 also liked her for his daughter’s sake, who he knew tendered 
 her no less dearly than her very self : but there lurked, besides, 
 a sort of jealousy of the people’s commendation of her many 
 virtues and excellencies, and a kind of uneasy association of 
 
252 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 her presence with the injustice he had done her absent father. 
 Nevertheless, the prepossession had hitherto prevailed over 
 the distrust ; which lay smothered until some occasion might 
 arise which should call it forth into an open evidence of dis- 
 pleasure against her. 
 
 The friendship between herself and Celia, had even increased 
 with their growth, and strengthened with their added years. 
 They were sisters in heart. Celia, in her generosity of soul, 
 saw that in Rosalind’s mind, which she delighted in, as some- 
 thing she gladly confessed superior to her own powers of wit 
 and fancy ; while Rosalind beheld in the affectionate gentleness 
 of Celia’s nature, that which she reverenced as above even 
 intellectual gifts. The perfection of feminine attachment was 
 theirs. 
 
 But it was under the impress of a passing shadow of regret 
 concerning her father, that Rosalind, one day, seeming less gay 
 than was her wont, caused Celia to say : — “ I pray thee , sweet 
 my coz , be merry.” 
 
 To which Rosalind answered : — “Dear Celia, I show more 
 mirth than I am mistress of ; and would you yet I were merrier l 
 Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must 
 not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.” 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT, Act. L Sc. 2. . 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TALE X. 
 
 JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 
 
 T was Lammas-eve. The breath of early August 
 hung hot and sultryupon the scene. Not a leaf or a 
 blossom stirred. The flowers in the garden, the fruit 
 on the orchard trees, yielded their incense to enrich 
 its heavy-perfumed volume. The mingled scents 
 of carnations, with their clove aroma; of fragrant jessamine, of 
 delicious orange-blossom ; the faint languor of lilies, the match- 
 less luxuriance of roses, the honeyed sweetness of woodbine ; 
 together with the fruity opulence of peach, nectarine, and mul- 
 berry, the musky smell from fig-tree and vine, and the redolence 
 of the grape-clusters themselves, exhaled a steam of spicery 
 that seemed to add voluptuous weight to the torpid atmosphere, 
 which hung close, oppressive, motionless ; laden with odorous 
 vapours. There was a hush, a pause, as of a mighty suspended 
 breath. Within the Verona garden, on the branch of a pome- 
 granate tree, — deep-nestled amid its profusion of scarlet blos- 
 soms, — sat a pair of snow-white doves ; their grain-like beaks 
 joined in that close-wrestling kiss of their tribe, nearest allied 
 in its pretty prerogative to the human caress. 
 
 All seemed preternaturally still. The sky looked dense, for 
 all its glow of azure and golden light. There were masses of 
 sullen clouds, in the horizon, purple, crimson, gorgeous and 
 sluggish, amid copper and emerald-hued back-grounds ; bright 
 bars and edges of dazzling splendour, were crossed and inter- 
 woven with broad flushes of rose colour, that stretched up 
 athwart the heavens. The distant mountains looked of a deep 
 violet ; dark, yet sharply defined against the leaden murkiness 
 
254 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 of the sky, in the quarter away from the westering sun. There 
 was a sinister beauty in all ; in the rich colours of the firma- 
 ment, as in the voluptuous stillness of the atmosphere. 
 
 Thunder muttered, low and remote, its solemn music ; sternly 
 tremulous, it seemed to usher in reluctant doom. A few heavy 
 drops fell, — Nature’s tears for fate decreed. As closed the 
 beauty of this fair Italian summer evening in storm and devas- 
 tation, so was to end the ill-starred pair of Italian lovers’ brief 
 joys, in despair, destruction, death. Yet, like the beauty of 
 Italian summers, renewed with the returning sun, the love of 
 those Italian lovers shall endure in immortal light, casting into 
 shadow the transitory darkness of their early grave. So long as 
 the sun of Italy and the world shall shine, Italy and the world 
 will cherish the memory of that Italian love-story, the love-story 
 of the World. 
 
 Sudden, in the very midst of the slum’brous pause, a vivid 
 flash, accompanied by a burst of thunder, rent the air. The 
 birds were smitten from the tree ; their snowy feathers scattered 
 to the ground ; the rain poured forth its torrents ; the trees 
 bent and waved beneath the fury of the electric wind, which 
 sprang up in abrupt and violent gusts, hurling all to and fro in 
 agitation and tumult, where late had been naught but mute 
 repose ; the heads of the flowers were cast to the earth, smirched 
 and torn ; the leaves were swept from the boughs, and whirled 
 away ; the mould of the beds, the gravel of the paths, were 
 snatched up by the violence of the rain ; the lightning flung its 
 scathing glare abroad and afar; and the thunder rolled with 
 scarce any intermission. 
 
 But at the moment the bolt fell, which struck the two white 
 doves, a little human dove fluttered into existence/ — drawing 
 its first panting breath in this world of passionate emotion. 
 Juliet was born. 
 
 The birth of this child was the subject of great rejoicing to 
 the house of Capulet. Her father was, by direct descent, and 
 by wealth, the chief representative of this one of Verona’s most 
 illustrious families. He had been anxious for an heir, to per- 
 petuate its dignity ; and though he was a little disappointed, 
 
255 
 
 JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 
 
 when the child proved to be a girl, yet he consoled himself 
 with an heiress rather than with no descendant at all. The 
 infant Juliet was consigned to the care of a wet-nurse; while, as 
 soon as lady Capulet herself could bear the journey, her hus- 
 band took her on a visit of a few months, to some old friends, 
 who resided on their estate near Mantua. 
 
 It was a charming spot; its owners were pleasant people ; in 
 such a scene, and in such society, Lady Capulet regained 
 health and spirits, with renewed strength of body; but she 
 suffered a relapse of an old mental malady of hers, jealousy. 
 Their host and hostess had an only daughter, named Leonilda. 
 She was a gay, light-hearted creature, the treasure of her doting 
 parents, and the delight of all who knew her. 
 
 Capulet had known her from earliest childhood, and loved 
 her fondly as though she were still a child ; but instead of this 
 mutual liking appearing as it was, the simple affection between 
 a light-hearted girl, and a lively-tempered man, whose manners 
 suited each other, to lady Capulet’s jaundiced eyes, it seemed 
 the powerful attachment which springs up irresistibly between 
 assimilating natures. And she allowed her thoughts to toss 
 and struggle in the perpetual unrest of jealous surmise. 
 
 Meanwhile time insensibly crept on. Both father and mother 
 longed to see their little girl, who hitherto had dwelt at the 
 farm-house, with her foster-parents, tenants of the Capulet 
 family. The farmer was a hearty, jocular, good soul, well-nigh 
 as fond of the little daughter of his feudal lord, as of his own 
 bantling ; while his wife vowed there was not a pin to choose 
 betwixt them, which was dearest to her, lady-bird Juliet, or 
 baby Susan. 
 
 “ May-be, our Susan is the best little good thing in her 
 temper, whilst my pretty lamb here, is the sweetest innocent in 
 her pets and her tempers;” said the nurse to her good man, 
 who was busy near his wife, trimming and training some stray 
 branches of a vine that grew against the wall, near to which she 
 was sitting, with one babe on her lap, and the other at her 
 feet. 
 
 “How mean’st thou, wife? Like a true woman, thou 
 muddl’st thy kindly meaning with untoward speech. What 
 
256 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 wouldst thou say of our good little Susan’s temper, and pretty 
 Jule’s tempers ? ” 
 
 “ Marry, all the world trows that temper and tempers are two. 
 Susan hath an angel’s temper for honey-sweet goodness. She’s 
 a good little soul, is our Susan; but Jule’s a dear lambkin of 
 pretty wilfulness.” 
 
 “ Ay, by my holidam, that she is ! ” quoth the farmer, staying 
 his hand from his work, to watch the little humours of the child, 
 as his wife played with it, pretendedly teasing and thwarting it. 
 As he turned again towards his work, he saw the wall heave, give 
 a lurch, and recede from the twigs he was preparing to nail against 
 it. At the same moment, through the still air, came a deep 
 sound, inexpressibly awful in its hidden menace. The farmer 
 cast his eye up towards the blue sky. No signal of storm was 
 there. It was not thunder. Then the dove-house swayed to 
 and fro — the birds flew wildly hither and thither — the ground 
 shook, with a vast tremble — trees waved, and bent their tops, 
 as beneath a mighty wind, though no breath of air was stirring 
 — and again was heard that grave subterranean murmur. “Away, 
 wife ! Away ! ” cried the farmer ; “ make the best of thy way 
 to the field yonder. Go not near the house. Away ! The 
 earthquake ! Trudge, quick as thou canst to the open field 
 with my lord’s babe, while I follow thee with our own. Where’s 
 Susan ? Mother of heaven ! the child has waddled away out 
 of ken. No, there she is, ’mongst the vine-leaves. Begone 
 you, wife ; I’ll fetch our Susan. Away with ye ! Trudge, 
 trudge, woman, for dear life ! ” 
 
 The nurse fled, with the child in her arms. The next in- 
 stant, down came the dove-cote with a crash ; and in another 
 moment, as the farmer ran to snatch up his little one, the vine- 
 covered wall tottered, was split and rent asunder, and falling, 
 buried both father and child beneath its ruins. 
 
 Next day, when tne lord Capulet and his wife arrived, they 
 found the little Juliet safe ; and their first care, in gratitude to- 
 wards her who had been the means of the child’s preservation, 
 was to remove the nurse from the farm, and instal her in their 
 own household, making it her future home. In the pride of 
 being at the great house, in the constant dwelling beside her 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 
 
 257 
 
 foster-child, the nurse found consolation for all that she had lost. 
 But no sooner had lady Capulet’s anxiety respecting her child 
 been allayed, than her mind reverted to the subject that usually 
 engrossed it. 
 
 Capulet went to Mantua. Again he went ; and again ; and 
 yet again. These repeated visits tortured his wife into full cre- 
 dence of all she had feared. Yet she allowed not one symptom 
 of jealousy to escape her. She suffered in silence. 
 
 Once, she was brooding on this void in her existence, and she 
 could not refrain from shedding tears. Her little girl was at her 
 feet, playing with some chestnuts, that Tybalt had collected for 
 the child’s amusement, to roll about the floor, and scramble 
 after. For Juliet could run about well, now; and the boy was 
 very fond of his pretty gentle little cousin, who, in turn, had 
 taken a great fancy to him. 
 
 The sight of her mother weeping, caught the child’s attention, 
 and she paused in her sport. 
 
 “ What are you crying for, mammina ? Has any one else 
 hurt you? Let me kiss the place.” 
 
 “No one has hurt me, foolish little tender heart said lady 
 Capulet. “ Who should hurt me ? ” 
 
 “ Who indeed ? ” echoed Tybalt. “ I should like to see the 
 man who would dare to hurt or offend you. Boy as I am, I’d 
 teach him better manners.” 
 
 “ Why, what wouldst thou do, by way of lesson to one who 
 should injure me, young cousin ? ” she said, with a smile. 
 “ Thou art yet too slight to think of coping with a grown man, 
 should such a one offer me wrong.” 
 
 “Skilful fencing masters many a tall fellow;” said the youth; 
 “ and I practise evermore, that I may get perfect command 
 over my weapon. But there are other ways,” added he, nodding 
 his head with an air at once mysterious and confident. 
 
 “ Indeed ! and what may they be ? ” asked lady Capulet. 
 
 She was startled, when he promptly replied, “ Poison.” 
 
 “ What talk’st thou of poison, boy ? Dost thou know how 
 fearfully it sounds in thy young mouth?” said lady Capulet, 
 lowering her voice beyond hearing of the child, Juliet. 
 
 “Never too young to consider means of avenging insult;” 
 
 s 
 
258 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 replied the stripling, with one of his haughty looks. “ Long 
 ago, — before I came to Verona, — an old man, a neighbour of 
 ours, gave my father a curious poison, as a valuable matter, 
 which might one day stand him in good stead. He told him it 
 was so subtle, that a few grains of it laid in a glove, would make 
 that glove a deadly gift to its wearer. The safety, the unsus- 
 pected security, thus afforded of putting an enemy to death, gave 
 the value, he said, to the gift. They did not know I overheard 
 them, but I did ; and when my father died, I, as his rightful 
 heir, took possession of the only thing of worth he had.” 
 
 “ But it is not fit, boy, thou shouldst possess means of such 
 deadly potency, within thine own discretion ; ” said lady Capu- 
 let. “ Give the poison into my keeping. Best not trust thyself 
 with such fatal temptation to evil.” 
 
 “Willingly; I have no farther use for it. Henceforth, I trust 
 to mine arm as my sole avenger. You may make sure of my 
 never using it, by throwing it away yourself.” 
 
 Well had it been for the lady, had she immediately done so. 
 The words she used to her nephew, were applicable to herself. 
 £ Best not trust thyself with such fatal temptation to evil.’ But 
 when once the poison came into her possession, she contented 
 herself with carefully locking it up in a cabinet in her own room, 
 thinking it was out of harm’s way, now that it was beyond the 
 power of a rash boy. She never reflected that it was within the 
 reach of a desperate woman — a woman made desperate at mo- 
 ments by the passion of jealousy. 
 
 Some time after this, it happened that there was a fashion, — 
 a sort of rage, — for a peculiar light-coloured glove. They were 
 worn by all ladies who pretended to taste and distinction. They 
 were presented in half-dozen pairs by gallants to their mistresses. 
 They were called Cleopatra gloves ; and were of a pale tint, 
 supposed to be that of the waters of the Nile. In short, they 
 were just that sort of elegant trifle, which constitute a necessity, 
 while the ‘furore ’ lasts, in circles where luxury and fashion dic- 
 tate laws. 
 
 Capulet one morning brought several pairs of these gloves as 
 a present to his wife. She, charmed with the attention from 
 him, received them with gracious words of delighted acceptance. 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 259 
 
 But all her pleasure was marred, when he added : — “ By the 
 way, I think of riding over to Mantua next week, what say you 
 to sending a share of your Cleopatra gloves to Leonilda ? They 
 will be a welcome gift to a country damsel. Come, will you 
 spare them to her ? ” 
 
 What could she say ? Of course, that she should be happy 
 to comply with his wish. But in her heart she recoiled from 
 this enforced courtesy. And then the cruel thought arose, that 
 this was a scheme of her husband’s, to present Leonilda with 
 some of these gloves as a gallantry from himself, under pretence 
 of being a friendly token from his wife. She was used as a 
 screen, then, — a convenient blind ! 
 
 Lady Capulet revolved these galling thoughts, until suddenly 
 an idea darted like a lightning-flash into her brain. It was that 
 of the poison. The poison that was so subtle in its effects. The 
 poison that was to be administered through the medium of a 
 glove. The poison that she had by her, concealed in her 
 cabinet. At first, appalled, she started from her own sugges- 
 tion ; but gradually she went so far as to consider that since a 
 week was to elapse before her husband’s setting forth for 
 Mantua, she could decide in the interim whether one of the pairs 
 of gloves should be a poisoned pair or not. She went farther ; 
 so far as to prepare a pair, and to place them in her cabinet, 
 marked with a private mark, that she might distinguish them 
 and include them, among Leonilda’s or not, as she might at 
 the last moment determine. Fatal first step in error ! Who 
 knows whither it may lead, — through what tortuous paths it may 
 deviate from virtue and happiness, — in what unforeseen abyss 
 of sin and misery it may end ? 
 
 On the eve of her lord’s departure, lady Capulet was sitting 
 in her own room, with her little girl, as usual, playing about, 
 now running in and out of the balcony, among the orange trees 
 and oleanders, now scrambling under the table, anon clamber- 
 ing up upon the chairs, and peeping into the vases and pateras, 
 or peering into the large mirror that hung above it, watching 
 the vapour fade, and fleet, and disappear, as she touched it with 
 her rosy lips, and breathed upon its crystal surface. Capulet 
 had just left the apartment, reminding his wife of her pro* 
 
26 o GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES. 
 
 mised gift to Leonilda, and bidding her make up the 
 packet ; as he meant to take horse for Mantua early on the 
 morrow. 
 
 The lady went to the cabinet. With an agitated hand she 
 drew forth the drawer in which lay the gloves. Whether it was 
 that the faint odour which hung about the poisoned pair, 
 affected her; or, that a sickening sense of their insidious pur- 
 pose overpowered her ; but she wavered, put her hand to her 
 forehead, and, turning away towards the open window, leaned 
 against it, trembling, and overcome. She remained thus, for a 
 considerable space of time, when she was suddenly aroused by 
 hearing her little Juliet exclaim, in the pretty caressing words 
 of an Italian child’s expression of delight : — “ Quanti carini ! 
 How lovely ! See what a gay lady I am, with my pretty gloves, 
 like a grown woman ! See here, mammina ! ” 
 
 The word ‘ gloves ’ struck upon the mother’s ear, with a pang 
 of ill-omen. She looked round, and beheld the child, — who 
 had scrambled up to the cabinet by means of a chair, — with her 
 baby hands buried in a pair of the well-known pale-tinted, 
 Nile-coloured gloves; holding them up in innocent triumph, 
 smiling, and exulting, and calling upon her mother to exult 
 with her. 
 
 In deadly terror, the mother staggered forward, snatched 
 them off, and gave one despairing glance to see if the fatal 
 mark were there which identified the envenomed pair. They 
 were unmarked ; and lady Capulet, catching her child to her 
 bosom, sank on her knees, and buried her face in her hands, in 
 a passion of thanksgiving. 
 
 After a time she arose, went to the cabinet, took from it the 
 marked pair of gloves, which, together with the remainder of 
 the poison, she set fire to, by means of a lighted taper, and 
 watched them until they were reduced to ashes. When this was 
 done, she made up the packet of gloves for Leonilda, with a firm 
 hand ; feeling as if in conquering her reluctance to send them, 
 she made a sort of expiatory offering for her late intentional 
 misdeed. 
 
 Time passed. Months, years, passed ; and time had worked 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 261 
 
 its sobering effect upon the passions which had so agitated the 
 soul of lady Capulet in early youth. She was now contented 
 to accept the affectionate esteem, the indulgence of her husband, 
 in lieu of that warmth of love, which her girlish heart and 
 imagination had so pined for. She came to take pride in the 
 development of that matchless beauty in her young daughter, 
 which manifested itself more and more with each year, rather 
 than to indulge, as formerly, in her own engrossing thoughts, 
 and self-contemplative feelings. 
 
 Juliet’s loveliness of person, while still a mere girl, was 
 remarkable. She inherited her mother’s strikingly beautiful 
 features, with more softness of expression; her perfection of 
 shape, and dignity of mien, with even yet more of winning 
 grace. Her father, too, was a handsome man ; his limbs were 
 elegantly turned ; he had white, well-shaped hands, and small, 
 dapper feet ; he possessed a certain aristocratic bearing, and 
 conventional elegance of demeanour (when in society, and not 
 bustling and fussing amid domesticities), which were very pre- 
 possessing. All the most attractive points in her father, Juliet 
 inherited, together with those which distinguished her mother. 
 She would have been a celebrated beauty already, had not the 
 accustomed retirement of a young Italian maiden’s life detained 
 her hitherto from general gaze. Her father’s mansion, its 
 garden grounds, formed the limits to her sphere of existence. 
 Here she dreamed away her life, in a succession of smiling 
 hours ; a child in thought, a child in feeling, a child in pursuit 
 and amusement. 
 
 One morning, a friend of lady Capulet’s came to pay her a 
 visit ; and began telling her with much eagerness about a matter 
 which, she said, she had greatly at heart. 
 
 “ Let’s see ! where ought I to begin? Oh, — you must know 
 that there is a charming young creature, named Virginia di 
 Coralba (sweet name, isn’t it ? her very name, as I say, seems 
 to bespeak her purity), lately arrived in Verona. She is, it 
 seems, an orphan, a rich heiress (by the way, I forgot where 
 her estates lie — but somewhere in Calabria, I think she says), 
 travelling about for the benefit of her health, which has suffered 
 much, I understand, from grief at the loss of her parents. Well, 
 
262 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 would you believe it, my dear creature, that from Venice (where 
 last she was staying for a time), there have come certain whis- 
 pers, which, if believed, would be highly prejudicial to the 
 character of this sweet young woman. Now I have been intro- 
 duced to her (by my husband, who met some distant connections 
 of hers in the south, he says, when he made a tour there, some 
 years ago, as a young man) ; and from what I see of her, and 
 hear of her (for she talks with such charming discretion and 
 modesty, and plays the lute like an angel), I wont believe one 
 word of these scandalous tales. To show that I won’t, and 
 don’t, I’m determined to visit her, and to take all my lady- 
 friends to visit her. Now, your rank, your position in society, 
 my dear dear lady Capulet, make you all-powerful. Who would 
 dare to breathe a word against the reputation of any one, whom 
 lady Capulet chooses to visit ? All sinister whispers would die 
 away of themselves, the very first time your coach is seen at 
 her door. Let me beseech you, grant me the kindness to order 
 it at once ; and let me take you thither. I am dying to have 
 you see her. How I am running on ! But my heart always 
 runs off with my head. I own I am enthusiastic for the sweet 
 Virginia ; and so will you be, when you see and hear her.” 
 
 Lady Capulet, though amused at her friend, the lady Anatolia’s 
 eagerness, consented to her wish ; and the two ladies set forth 
 at once to the superb mansion, which the signora Coralba had 
 hired for her residence during her intended sojourn at Verona. 
 
 The interview with Virginia di Coralba crowned the anticipa- 
 tions of her warm partisan. Lady Capulet, who had been pre- 
 pared to allow somewhat for the exaggerated enthusiasm of her 
 friend, could not resist the combination of beauty and soft 
 manners, presented in the person of the fair stranger. A face 
 and person almost childish in their waxen complexion, and in- 
 fantine slightness; a long sweep of flaxen ringlets; eyes, in colour, 
 like turquoise ; a mouth like a rose-bud ; a shrinking timidity 
 of speech, a shy glance, a hesitating gesture, made her modesty 
 amount nearly to bashfulness. 
 
 Her two lady-visitors went away charmed with her ; and lady 
 Anatolia was scarce more loquacious in her favour now, than 
 the generally somewhat taciturn lady Capulet. 
 
JULIET ; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA . 263 
 
 She seemed quite struck with the fair orphan, and took a 
 lively interest in the difficulties of her position. She was rather 
 surprised to find that her husband took no part in her enthusiasm 
 on the subject. On the contrary, when she had offered to take 
 him with her to call upon signora Coralba,he had more than once 
 avoided accompanying her thither, and one day while she was 
 descanting upon the loveliness of the fascinating Virginia to a 
 lady of her acquaintance, Capulet had dropped a few words, 
 advising her not to be so vehement in her advocacy of a stranger 
 of whom she knew nothing. 
 
 His wife, indignant at anything that sounded like an insinua- 
 tion against her charming Coralba, continued : “ To let you 
 know one of her many excellences, I will tell you, that I under- 
 stand she has a brother, — an unhappy, afflicted, deformed, deaf- 
 and-dumb brother, whom she takes about with her from place 
 to place, wherever she goes, that he may benefit by the change 
 of scene and air.” 
 
 Capulet twitched the blossoms from a flowering myrtle that 
 stood in the balcony, near to the open window, at which he was 
 standing ; and, as his wife went on, he rubbed them into pellets, 
 dropping them through his fingers, and strewing the ground 
 beneath. 
 
 “ It seems that he is not only hideous in form — crooked and 
 deformed ; but so loathly in countenance — frightfully distorted, 
 and covered with a leprous crust as it is — that he perpetually 
 wears a large dark mantle, enshrouding him from head to foot, 
 and a mask upon his face. Out of compassion to humanity, 
 which would be shocked by the sight of such ultra-hideousness, 
 the unhappy orphans hit upon this method of sparing the feel- 
 ings of others, for Virginia vows she will never forsake her 
 miserable brother. Beautiful, patient, generous Virginia!” con- 
 cluded lady Capulet. “ And this is the creature a malicious 
 world would defame ! A self-denying martyr !” 
 
 Capulet jerked the remainder of the pellets high up into the 
 air, scattering them far and wide, as he abruptly quitted the 
 window and whisked out of the room. 
 
 The more lady Capulet saw of Virginia di Coralba, the more 
 infatuated she became with her. 
 
264 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 In the frequent communion that now took place between 
 them, the former of course, often saw this brother ; that is, as 
 much of him as could be seen. He usually sat, huddled in his 
 dark cloak, masked, mute, and apart, unable to take the least 
 share in the conversation. Virginia would speak of him, in his 
 presence, without the least reserve, as his deafness prevented 
 his feelings being hurt by any allusions to his afflicted state. 
 
 “ Are you quite sure, dear Virginia ; ” said lady Capulet, 
 “ that no sense of hearing lingers? I fancied I saw an involuntary 
 movement — a slight start — when you alluded to his calamity.” 
 
 “ Not a syllable — not a breath, alas !” sighed Virginia, “e’er 
 makes its way to those sealed portals. I am compelled to write 
 down all I would say to him.” 
 
 She drew a small set of tablets, that lay upon the table, 
 towards her as she spoke, and hastily wrote upon them, “ Give 
 me your hand, dear brother ! ” 
 
 She held the words before the masked face. 
 
 A hand was protruded from the folds of the mantle ; and 
 Virginia clasped it fondly, held it for awhile in both hers, look- 
 ing upon it with streaming eyes, and murmuring, “ Dear, dear 
 brother ! Endeared, by thy afflictions, beyond all brothers ! 
 Dearer than ever brother was to sister ! ” 
 
 As lady Capulet threw a glance of curiosity towards this 
 hand, to see whether it bore any evidence of deformity, she was 
 struck by a singular mark it bore. In the centre of the back 
 of the hand, was a deep empurpled scar, cut in the shape of a 
 cross. It was precisely, in shape, hue, and position, similar to 
 one which she had often remarked on the hand of signor 
 Vitruvio, her friend, lady Anatolia’s husband. As her eyes fixed 
 upon this remarkable scar, she perceived the hand struggle, as 
 if to disengage itself from Virginia’s hold. 
 
 “Strange !” she could not help inwardly exclaiming. The 
 impression haunted her. As she drove homeward, she bid her 
 coachman take her as speedily as possible, to the house of her 
 friend Anatolia. 
 
 “ Is the lady Anatolia at home ? u 
 
 “ Yes, madam.” 
 
 “ Signor Vitruvio ? ” 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 265 
 
 “No, madam. My master has been abroad the whole 
 morning.” 
 
 “’Tis no matter. I will see them this evening. Bid my 
 coachman drive home. Surely never were two marks so singular 
 yet so precisely alike ! On the left hand, too ! And then the 
 consciousness apparent in the movement ! Strange ! ” 
 
 That evening, when she met her friends, she took care to 
 look particularly at Vitruvio’s left hand. The scrutiny con- 
 firmed the wonderful identity of the mark on the hand of her 
 friend’s husband, and on that which had been put forth from 
 the dark cloak which enshrouded Virginia’s deaf-and-dumb 
 brother. 
 
 Again and again she repeated to herself : — “ Strange ! Can 
 it be possible ! Can I have been deceived in her ? And poor 
 Anatolia ! — So enthusiastic — so generously unmistrustful ! Can 
 you be playing her false, sly signor Vitruvio? I shall see 
 Virginia again to-morrow ; and it shall go hard, but I’ll get 
 another sight of her brother’s left hand.” 
 
 But before lady Capulet paid her visit to the fair Coralba the 
 next morning, it so happened that the lady Anatolia called, at 
 an hour still earlier. 
 
 The brother sat as usual, muffled, and apparently unnoting. 
 
 “Is not your poor brother dull, sometimes, my dear creature? ” 
 asked Anatolia of Virginia. “ How sadly he must lack amuse- 
 ment, cut off as he is from the usual resources of mankinb* 
 among their fellow-men.” 
 
 “ He generally contrives to find entertainment from watching 
 tlie passers-by from that window, where he usually sits, you 
 see ; ” answered she. “ Besides, he and I, when we are alone, 
 have this means of interchanging our thoughts ; ” and she took 
 up the tablets. She wrote down : — “ We love each other, do we 
 not, my brother, though we have no other means than this, of 
 uttering our feelings ? ” 
 
 She held the lines before the masked visage ; and then a hand 
 came from beneath the mantle and wrote beneath : — “ No 
 brother could love — no brother hath the reason to love — his 
 sister, as I love my Virginia.” 
 
 The eyes of the lady Anatolia happened to fall upon the hand 
 
2 66 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 which inscribed this sentence ; and she could hardly believe 
 what they beheld, when she saw upon the middle finger, a very 
 peculiar ring, which was exactly like one that her friend’s 
 husband, Capulet, constantly wore. She looked at it carefully ; 
 and felt more and more assured of the precise similarity. 
 
 “Very extraordinary ! ” thought she, after she had taken leave, 
 and was driving away from the house. “ Can we after all have 
 been deceived in this Virginia! Pshaw! impossible! My silly head 
 is off at a tangent as usual, at the mere sight of a ring — a bauble !” 
 
 As her carriage left the Coralba’s door-way, lady Capulet’s 
 equipage drove up. “ I have brought you some flowers, Vir- 
 ginia ; ” she said, as she entered the saloon, where the brother 
 and sister sat together. “ I fancied your brother would take 
 pleasure in their beauty and perfume.” 
 
 “ Like your kind heart to devise means of delight for one 
 whose unhappy state leaves him so few ; ” replied Virginia. 
 Then she wrote on the tablets : — “ The amiable lady Capulet 
 has brought hither flowers from her garden, for thy express 
 behoof, my brother.” 
 
 She held up the tablets, and tendered the flowers. A hand 
 was stretched forth to receive them. It was the left hand ; and 
 lady Capulet’s eyes fastened upon it. But no scar was there. 
 It was white and unblemished. 
 
 Virginia wrote another sentence : — “ Will you not write your 
 thanks, dear brother, to the gentle lady ? ” 
 
 But the tablets were hastily rejected by the left hand. 
 
 Virginia made some farther effort to induce her brother’s 
 compliance ; but he seemed as if he either could not or would 
 not understand her wish. 
 
 No sooner had lady Capulet quitted the room, than Virginia 
 di Coralba exclaimed harshly, “Why in Lucifer’s name, did 
 you not write when I bade you?” 
 
 “Softly, fair Coralba!” said the gentleman in the mask. 
 This confounded ring would have betrayed me. She would 
 infallibly have recognized it, and then we had both been lost, 
 for she is ” 
 
 “Pshaw !” interrupted Virginia. “Why could you not pull 
 off the ring, under your cloak?” 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA . 267 
 
 “ It is tight for me ; I snatched, and plucked, and pulled at it, 
 but in vain. It wouldn’t come off, all I could do. Besides, 
 if it had, she would have known my handwriting, for ” 
 
 “ So then, she would have seen characters that have often 
 met her eye in the form of an amorous billet?” laughed Vir- 
 ginia, scornfully. “ She is one of your worship’s old flames, 
 is she ? 55 
 
 “ She is my wife ! ” replied the gentleman. “And I am a 
 sorry villain to have wronged a generous unsuspicious nature, 
 that shows kindness to a supposed orphan brother and sister — 
 for the sake of one who is an embodied falsehood ; with the 
 tongue of a virago in a mouth of meal; her very name’s a 
 mockery. Virginia ! Coralba ! Herself as hollow an unreality 
 as her sham brother! ‘Deformed,’ quotha!” exclaimed he, 
 flinging off the mantle ; “ ‘ Foul-visaged !’” chucking the mask 
 on the table ; “ ‘ Deaf-and-dumb ! ’ ” 
 
 “And so she is thy wife?” said Virginia, in a tone of mingled 
 derision and triumph. “ I knew I could not be mistaken ; I 
 discerned thee for one of the married herd, or thou hadst ne’er 
 been admitted of my train. A pretty fellow to rail at me as a 
 falsehood, a deceit ! Pray what art thou ? Didst not palm 
 thyself off a gay young bachelor ? And these are the fellows, — 
 these husbands, these hypocrite knaves, — who denounce a wife, 
 for a word, a look given to another than to him. Get thee 
 gone; let me see no more of thee. Begone, I say!” she re- 
 peated, with so unmistakable a decision of tone and gesture, 
 that Capulet thought fit to tarry no longer ; but straightway 
 walked out. 
 
 His wife had meanwhile driven to her friend the lady Ana- 
 tolia, and arranged with her, that they would go together on the 
 morrow to the house of the Coralba, and keep a close watch 
 upon her and her muffled brother, during their visit ; since they 
 mutually confessed they began to have their suspicions of the 
 fair-seeming Virginia, and her mysterious relation. 
 
 It was singular, that lady Capulet, who had formerly suffered 
 such tortures of jealousy on groundless occasions, should now 
 entertain no shadow of mistrust. The conviction of the injus- 
 tice she had done Capulet in the case of Leonilda, together 
 
268 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 with the salutary teaching engendered of remorse, had greatly 
 contributed to her present freedom from misgiving. Certain it 
 is, that lady Capulet’s suspicions never for one instant glanced 
 towards her husband, when her eyes were opened to the true 
 character of the pseudo Virginia di Coralba. The two ladies 
 found this artless young creature hanging over her brother, 
 turning the leaves of a portfolio of drawings, for his entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 Lady Capulet said : — “ I have brought some more flowers for 
 your brother, my dear, since he seemed pleased with those the 
 other day ;” and without waiting for the ceremony of the tablets, 
 she held them at once towards the muffled figure. 
 
 A hand — a left hand — was promptly stretched forth to re- 
 ceive them. 
 
 “No scar !” thought lady Capulet. Aloud she said, “Your 
 brother is miraculously cured of his deafness ! I give you joy, 
 Virginia.” 
 
 Virginia shook her head. “ I fear his hearing is no better, 
 madam. He must have seen the nosegay in your hand ; he 
 has a keen sight for flowers ; he loves them so.” She sighed 
 with a pretty deploring air. 
 
 “You are fond of flowers then, sir ?” wrote lady Anatolia on 
 the tablets ; which she placed open before the masked man. A 
 hand came forth, and wrote down reply, “ Far beyond my 
 poor powers of expression !” 
 
 “No ring !” thought lady Anatolia. Then she added aloud, 
 “ Virginia, my dear, I have planned a charming scheme for the 
 enjoyment of your brother. It is, to go to a country-seat on 
 the Adige, belonging to signor Vitruvio and myself, where there 
 are flowers in profusion, for the delight of your poor brother, 
 and where the rest of us will, I hope, find a few days’ agreeable 
 repose from the gaieties and bustle of Verona. What say you, 
 my dear?” 
 
 “ You are only too good, sweet madam,” replied Virginia di 
 Coralba. “ But alas ! I fear that my dear brother will be un- 
 able to ” 
 
 “Tut, tut !” interrupted lady Anatolia, rising to take leave ; 
 “ I will take no denial, my dear. So be prepared to give us 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 269 
 
 your company to-morrow, when my friend lady Capulet and I 
 will call for you in my coach. Addio ! A rivedersi ! ” 
 
 No sooner had the two ladies left the room, than the gentle- 
 man in the cloak sprang from his seat, threw back the hood, 
 plucked off the mask, and burst into a fit of merriment. 
 
 The laughing features were neither those of the grave signor 
 Vitruvio, nor of the middle-aged Capulet. They were those of 
 a young gallant, scarce arrived at manhood ; so light was the 
 down on his lip, so sparkling and boylike the mirth in his 
 roguish eyes, so thoughtless and careless his whole bearing. 
 He seemed as though frolic — the love of jest — the light spirits 
 of youth, were his sole guide, his only rule of action. 
 
 “And how wilt thou contrive now, fair plotter?” he said. 
 “ Thou canst not carry on the disguise for days together, be- 
 neath their very eyes — at least, I cannot ; it hath well-nigh 
 stifled me already. Ouf ! ” exclaimed he, as he cast away the 
 cloak. “Fairly caught in thine own springe, my dainty wood- 
 hen !” he continued. “ Own thyself foiled, at length, by these 
 quiet ladies. ’Faith, they more than suspect thee already, I 
 believe ; for didst thou see how they scanned thy deaf-and- 
 dumb brother ? ” 
 
 “ I will yet foil them, not they me ! ” exclaimed Virginia. 
 “ When those women come to-morrow, they shall find the bird, 
 they thought to snare, flown. Share my flight, — you have no 
 tie here, — go with me to some far-away place where we may live 
 to each other. I will no longer be known as Virginia di Cor- 
 alba ; you shall adopt some other name than Mercutio.” 
 
 “ Nay, returned the youth, I have, as thou say’st, few ties. 
 But one or two I have which I would fain not break. I have a 
 generous friend and kinsman in the prince ; two favourite com- 
 panions in a couple of lads ycleped Romeo and Benvolio ; who, 
 though sober-sided youths, yet have a something about them 
 that would make me loath to leave them. But for thyself, fair 
 Coralba ; gramercy for thy kind intention, but knowing as I do, 
 that I can boast no iota of steadiness in all my madcap com- 
 position, I were a pre-perjured villain to vow constancy.” 
 
 He bowed and withdrew. 
 
 The lady Anatolia had no sooner stepped, with lady Capulet, 
 
270 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 into her coach, than she said, “ I have a scheme to unmask 
 this creature. I shall ask both our husbands to accompany us 
 to the country, without telling them whom they are to meet ; 
 and then we can have their unbiassed opinions to confirm our 
 own. How say you ?” 
 
 “ I think your plan is good, if you can bring it to bear ; ” 
 answered lady Capulet ; mentally adding, “ Poor Anatolia ! 
 How unsuspecting she is ! I wonder whether signor Vitruvio 
 will indeed be there.” 
 
 And as this passed through her mind, her friend was think- 
 ing, “Poor Angelica! How guileless she is! What if her 
 wretch should send an excuse, and not come ? ” 
 
 But the experiment was never tried ; for on the following 
 day, Virginia di Coralba had disappeared from Verona. 
 
 And now it was, that lady Capulet had leisure of mind to de- 
 vote her companionship to her young daughter. Hitherto, she 
 had been so absorbed in her own reflections, that she had given 
 but sparing attention to Juliet, who had been thrown almost 
 wholly on her own resources for the development of her ideas. 
 She had been brought up in the style of seclusion and retirement 
 usual for a young Italian lady. Her intercourse had been 
 strictly limited to the members of her own family, and their 
 household. From earliest childhood she had been in the habit 
 of seeing her father at his breakfast-hour, before he went out to 
 his rounds of visiting ; and had invariably been brought to bid 
 him good-night, when he happened to be in the house at her 
 own early bed-time. He had good-naturedly frolicked with her, 
 when some party did not call him away, and took pride and joy 
 in marking her growth, her beauty and grace of person. Her 
 mother had had her in the room with her while she embroidered, 
 or sat at home ; but for the most part, the little creature had 
 played about at her feet, while lady Capulet silently pursued her 
 occupation, lost in thought; and as the child grew into the 
 young girl, the hours she spent in her mother’s room, had 
 passed scarcely less silently ; for the lively questions that natu- 
 rally sprang to her lips, learned to restrain themselves from 
 utterance, when, through a course of years, they met with but 
 monosyllables, or short sentences spoken abstractedly, in reply. 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA . 271 
 
 Gradually, her communion with both father and mother became 
 almost entirely restricted to the wonted periodical salutes, ex- 
 changed between Italian parent and child, when she kissed, first 
 their cheeks, and then their hands, on bidding them good- 
 morning, — after meal-time, — and before retiring to rest. 
 
 Juliet’s most constant associate was the nurse; who still 
 maintained her situation about her person. Once, when there 
 had been a talk of engaging a waiting-maid, the nurse was highly 
 affronted ; exclaiming : — “ Ought not I to know how to dress 
 thee, better than any tire-woman of them all ? I, who bore 
 
 thee in my arms ? I, who shared my own Susan’s milk 
 
 with thee, when my good man — rest his merry soul ! — stood 
 by ? Well, there’s no standing ’gainst a tottering wall, when an 
 earthquake bids it jog, — and us be jogging ! But e’en in fall- 
 ing stones, is Heaven’s mercy ! It took both the merry heart, 
 and the little one too good for this earth, to its own rest,— rest 
 their souls ! ” 
 
 The person whom Juliet held in chiefest reverence as her 
 friend and counsellor, was her spiritual director, her confessor, 
 a certain holy man, called friar Lawrence, a brother of the 
 Franciscan order. In his quiet cell, kneeling at his feet, pour- 
 ing out her innocent soul in humility and contrition for offences, 
 fancied rather than actual, this young girl gained teaching from 
 his wisdom, help and strength from his virtue, steadfastness and 
 courage from his moral admonition. Some of her happiest 
 hours were those she spent in the good friar’s cell. 
 
 J uliet was by no means an intellectual girl either from nature, 
 or from training. She inherited a susceptible disposition from 
 her father, — a man of gallantry and pleasure. From her 
 mother, — a woman of strong though suppressed feeling, she in- 
 herited a sensitive, passionate temperament. Her parents’ 
 several native qualifications and habits, unfitted them for the 
 development of their young daughter’s mind; and it has rarely 
 been the usage in Italy to bestow much cultivation on a young 
 maiden’s mental acquirements, from external sources, — from 
 masters. 
 
 Juliet’s refinement sprang from herself. She had a natural 
 affinity with the beautiful in all things. She had an innate per- 
 
2 72 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 ccption of the beautiful and the voluptuous in both Nature and 
 Art. It was through this intense appreciation of beauty, that 
 her refinement existed. Her heart informed her mind. It 
 might be said, that her feelings, rather than her understanding, 
 thought. Profoundly impressionable, — her senses and instincts 
 were more at work than any mental process. Her soul was 
 elevated by its native purity, and affinity with beauty, rather 
 than by any inspiration or effort of intellect. Her religion was 
 one of sentiment rather than of conviction, — of impulse, not 
 reason. She knelt at the good friar’s feet with all the implicit 
 reverence, the unquestioning faith, the passive credence, of a 
 child; she let him judge for her, rather than used judgment of 
 her own ; and took for granted, unscrutinized, all that he said, 
 or made her subscribe to. 
 
 It was this passionate sense of beauty in all existing things, — 
 whether of Heaven’s creation, or of man’s ingenuity, that supplied 
 Juliet with food for her ideality of feeling; and entirely precluded 
 any sense of dulness or weariness in the retired and monoto- 
 nous life which had been hers. She felt no want of society, 
 while she had the glorious face of Nature to look upon in loving 
 companionship ; she scarcely missed human associates, while 
 she revelled in contemplation of sky, and earth ; shadow, and 
 sunshine ; morning light, and starry evenings ; the broad ex- 
 panse of her father’s garden-grounds, the partial glimpse of the 
 impetuous Adige, the distant purple of the mountains, sole 
 boundary to a scene affording wide scope to the imagination. 
 Her father’s indulgence had given her a range of apartments, in 
 one wing of the palace, that commanded a magnificent view from 
 one of the large balconies that opened from her own peculiar 
 chamber. This balcony was a favourite resort of Juliet’s. It 
 was here that she filled her soul with happy contemplation. It 
 was here that, — no reader, — she fed her thoughts with things, 
 rather than with studies, and gained ideas from objects, instead 
 of from books. She learned wondrous secrets from tree, and 
 shrub, and flower ; she heaped up strange lore from noontide 
 rays, and the soft moonbeams; she stored up innumerable 
 fancies from the ever-dancing waters of the fountain, from the 
 growth of blossoms, from the ripening of fruit, from watching 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA . 273 
 
 the flights, the careerings, the hoverings, of birds and their 
 nestlings ; from listening to the lark’s upsoaring rush of song, 
 and to the luxuriant melody of the nightingale. 
 
 Thus, her native tendency to whatsoever contained elements 
 of harmony and beauty, engendered its own power of culture, 
 and refinement. 
 
 It came, as a matter of necessity, from such a process of self- 
 forming, that Juliet rarely gave expression to her thoughts. 
 They were rather vague musings, delicious reveries, insubstantial 
 day-dreams, indulged secretly and alone, in the retirement of her 
 own chamber, than uttered to others, brought forward, or dis- 
 cussed. They were a hoarded treasure of silent communings 
 with her own spirit ; not spoken, or idly shown. 
 
 Indeed, as has been seen, she had few to whom she could 
 have confided them. One other person there was, besides those 
 already cited, with whom she held intercourse ; and that one 
 was Rosaline, a niece of Capulet’s. But she, though a young 
 and very beautiful girl, was still so much older than Juliet, that 
 there was less of freedom and intimacy between them than might 
 have been supposed to exist with two such near relations. Be- 
 sides, they had scarcely a point of sympathy in common; their 
 dispositions, tastes, ©pinions, feelings, were all singularly dis- 
 similar. Juliet was warm and enthusiastic; Rosaline was cold 
 and sedate. Juliet was impassioned in her language, when she 
 ventured to give utterance to the emotions that stirred within 
 her ; Rosaline was grave and measured in speech, and rarely 
 gave words to anything but arguments, and ascertained facts. 
 
 Rosaline was so serenely didactic, so solemnly oracular, and 
 evinced such placid faith in her own unerring judgment, that 
 she passed among her own friends for a prodigy ; a singularly 
 superior young lady. Capulet stood secretly in much awe of 
 her; in her presence his usual glib volubility, and garrulous ease 
 subsided into a sort of snubbed silence. He would whisper 
 behind his hand to some one near, as a sort of deprecatory 
 votive offering to her superiority : — “ My dear sir, she is quite a 
 philosopher, I can assure you ; — quite one of the illuminati in 
 petticoats ; — a very very superior young woman is my fair niece 
 Rosaline, let me tell you, sir ! ” Rosaline had announced, in 
 
 T 
 
274 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 her own sublime style of lofty humility, that it was her intention 
 to forswear love, to abjure wedlock, to vow herself to celibacy; 
 in order that she might the better dedicate her whole soul to 
 meditation on all matters abstruse and recondite. 
 
 Tybalt, one day, in his off-hand style, astounded his uncle by 
 rapping out the remark that “ it would be no great loss to the 
 bachelor world if she did die unmarried ; for that no one would 
 have such an affected young pedant ! ” 
 
 Capulet looked scared ; but, casting a furtive glance in the 
 direction of his fair niece, and seeing that she was engaged in 
 silencing somebody with an oration upon her own views touch- 
 ing a mooted theory, he indulged in a little stealthy titter ; 
 which, however, was nipped in the bud by her turning her head 
 in his direction ; whereupon he rose, fidgeted about, took up a 
 humorous print that lay on a table near, as if that had been the 
 cause of his laugh ; and at last, ambled out of the room. 
 
 Shortly after, some visitors who had been there, took leave ; 
 and the two young ladies were left alone. 
 
 Juliet ventured timidly to ask her cousin Rosaline, what had 
 made her take so violent a resolution against love and marriage. 
 
 “ Not ‘ violent ; ’—but decided;” replied she. “ I should not 
 choose the duties of wife and mother, — duties, which I should 
 consider myself called upon to fulfil, and should fulfil most 
 scrupulously and conscientiously, were I to accept the title, — I 
 should not choose, I say, these duties to interfere with those 
 higher tasks to which I have devoted my energies.” 
 
 “ Can there be higher ?” said the soft voice of Juliet. It was 
 so soft, that perhaps her cousin did not hear the remark ; at 
 any rate, Rosaline went on as if there had been no interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 “ But not only should I object to the onerous and incessant 
 calls upon time and thought which the conjugal and maternal 
 offices involve ; ” she said ; “ but I seriously repugn the notion 
 of wasting, in the idle process of courting, precious moments 
 that might be so far more advantageously bestowed ; there is a 
 young lord who persecutes me with his attentions, and will not 
 be said nay; and his vexatious suit teaches me the trouble, and, 
 noyance, and frivolous waste of time that courtship is. The 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 275 
 
 youth I speak of, — I will not tell you his name, Juliet, for 
 his sake, poor fellow ! — is well enough,— nay, very well ; he is 
 really handsome, and heir to one of the noblest houses in 
 Verona; but so importunately, so abominably in love, that 
 really I should have no time I could call my own, were I to ad- 
 mit his attentions. If he be so exacting, now that he is hope- 
 less, what would he be, you know, my dear, were he a favoured 
 lover ? ” 
 
 She held forth for some time longer in this strain ; but seeing 
 Juliet wrapt in her own thoughts, soon after took leave. Juliet 
 was indeed pondering upon many things that suggested them- 
 selves to her thought, during this late — not conversation, but 
 harangue. It struck her, among other things, that Rosaline 
 seemed to take pride in the fact of this youth’s love, not for any 
 delight it afforded her, but for the glory of having it to reject. 
 As she had looked into her cousin’s beautiful face, and heard 
 her descant so coolly upon this passionate lover, she marvelled; 
 she could not but wonder to hear one so lovely proclaim herself 
 so unloving. She wondered that Rosaline could resist the 
 charm of an attachment so devoted. She felt a strange kind 
 of pity and sympathy for this unknown lover, so hopelessly 
 enamoured. She now, for the first time, asked herself what her 
 own feelings would be, were she to discover that she had in- 
 spired such a passion. The idea startled her ; and held her for 
 some time pausing, with her cheek leaning upon her hand, her 
 head drooping, and her eyes fixed upon the ground. She was 
 still quite a girl in years, though on the verge of Southern early 
 womanhood; her heart spoke powerfully in its young and ardent 
 feelings ; it was pure, fresh, unhackneyed ; all the more potent in 
 its impulses, for its very purity. She sat there, deeply musing, 
 motionless as though she had been a statue. She seemed 
 awaiting, — like the clay Pandora, the touch of Prometheus, — 
 the vital fire of Love, which was to make her, from a dreaming 
 child into a sentient, passionate woman. 
 
 She was aroused from her abstracted mood, by the return of 
 Tybalt. He began with his usual vehemence, to tell her of 
 some offence he had newly taken, upon some imaginary ground, 
 against some members of the rival family of the Montagues. 
 
276 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 She had more than once heard of public contentions, of 
 affrays in the open street, that had taken place between parties 
 of the several houses ; but she had not entered into the merits 
 of these contests, save inasmuch, as she concluded that the 
 Montagues were of course in the wrong, and the Capulets of 
 course in the right. She now only made out that Tybalt was 
 enraged against young Romeo, the son of lord Montague, for 
 assuming the right of walking in a certain grove of sycamore 
 that lay to the west of the city, with an air as if he claimed the 
 sole occupancy of the place ; and that her cousin was highly in- 
 dignant, for some unstated cause, against young Benvolio, whom 
 he called “a conceited pragmatist.” 
 
 He went on to mutter: — “The fellow holds himself to be 
 best fencer in Verona ; when, as all the world knows, and as I 
 hope to prove, one day, — but enough.” He started up, bit 
 his lip ; then burst out again, with some invective against Mer- 
 cutio. 
 
 His cousin asked some slight question concerning the lord 
 Montague’s son. 
 
 “ Hang him ! ” was the reply. “ Sweet youth, and virtuous 
 gentleman as he is reputed by the wiseacres of our city, I hope 
 to see him hanged some day, or throttled somehow. I shall 
 never feel at rest till the whole tribe of Montagues are got rid 
 of, — cast out from amongst us, — fairly banished from Verona.” 
 
 Juliet smiled at his testy humour; and to divert him from it, 
 told him that her father had spoken of a masked ball which he 
 intended giving on the occasion of his wedding-day anniversary; 
 having always marked it by a festival of some kind. 
 
 Tybalt said something in reply, about letting his friend Paris 
 know, that he might have his mask and domino in readiness ; 
 and added, with a meaning look, which Juliet could not then 
 interpret, that he believed his friend, the county, intended 
 having a private interview with his uncle Capulet before the 
 ball. 
 
 The result of this interview was communicated to her after- 
 wards. The evening appointed for the entertainment had 
 arrived; and just as Juliet was about to enter the ball-room, 
 she thought she heard her mother’s voice, in another apartment, 
 
JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OE VERONA. 
 
 277 
 
 enquiring for her. Then the nurse, who was with lady Capulet, 
 came forth to summon her to her mother’s presence. Juliet 
 hastened towards her, with the words : — 
 
 “ How now, who calls ? ” 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act. i. Sc. 3. 
 
TALE XI. 
 
 BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 SOUND cuff. 
 
 “ What do you hit me for ? ” 
 
 Another. “ Give it up ! Will you give it 
 up?” 
 
 “ No ! ” 
 
 Another cuff, And a box on the ear. “ Give it up, I say !” 
 
 Another “No ” was about to be bawled ; and a look in the 
 lout’s eye gave token that it would probably be accompanied 
 by a return of the blows he had received ; but suddenly he 
 seemed to think better of it, flung down the demanded toy, 
 turned on his heel, and made off. 
 
 The little girl who was thus left victress of the field, picked 
 up the doll, brushed the dust off its smart skirts, ascertained 
 that its nose was neither cracked nor flattened, nor its eyes 
 damaged, and then triumphantly walked up to another little 
 girl, who had stood aloof during the affray, and restored the 
 plundered favourite to her arms. 
 
 “ Oh, I’m so glad to have her back ! My beautiful new doll 
 that my father gave me only yesterday !” exclaimed the child, 
 hugging it to her, and smiling through the tears that still glit- 
 tered on her cheeks. 
 
 “Why did you let him snatch it from you?” said the other 
 little girl. “ Why didn’t you force him to give it up ?” 
 
 “ He was such a great fierce lad — I couldn’t — I didn’t dare;” 
 replied she. 
 
 “ Why didn’t your sister run after him, then, for you, and 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 279 
 
 thump him, till he gave it up?” persisted the first little girl, 
 looking towards a young boy who stood by, rubbing his knees, 
 and his elbows alternately ; looking very disconsolate ; with a 
 few big tears rolling down his face. 
 
 “ I’m not a girl, miss ! ” he blurted out, with a half shame- 
 faced, half indignant glance at the beautiful, spirited face that 
 was eyeing him. “ What made you take me for a girl ? Don’t 
 you see my dress?” And he cast a look of sheepish pride at 
 his legs, which certainly were cased in masculine fashion. 
 
 “ Don’t I see your tears ? What’s crying but the trick of a 
 girl?” said she. “Why didn’t you fly after the fellow, instead 
 of standing blubbering there ? ” 
 
 “ He knocked me down ! ” said the boy. “ He took good care 
 to make sure of me, before he snatched at Hero’s doll. How 
 could I fly, miss, when he knocked me down ? ” 
 
 “ But I suppose you could have scrambled up again, 
 couldn’t you ? But for the sake of your sister’s doll, you might 
 have ” 
 
 “ She isn’t my sister, — she’s my cousin ! ” interrupted the 
 boy, glad to seize upon any point of defence, that he could 
 safely maintain. 
 
 “Never mind, Gaetano, I have my doll again;” said its 
 owner; and then, she turned to the little girl who had so 
 bravely rescued it for her, and thanked her, in a manner so 
 pretty as to bespeak her unmistakeably the young lady born 
 and bred. 
 
 The children fell into talk ; and began to question each other 
 how it was they happened to be out alone, who they were, and 
 so forth. 
 
 It appeared that the little girl, Hero, was the governor of 
 Messina’s daughter, his sole child and heiress ; that the young 
 boy, Gaetano, was the son of her uncle, Antonio. That they 
 had left the palace in the morning, for a walk, attended by a 
 servant ; but that some public procession had suddenly attracted 
 a crowd, in which they had been separated from their attendant. 
 The other little girl, when she learned their names, uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise. She told them that she was their 
 cousin ; that her name was Beatrice. That she was bound to 
 
280 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 their house, at the very time she encountered them ; and that, 
 singularly enough, the circumstance which had occasioned 
 Hero and Gaetano to lose sight of their attendant, had also 
 separated her from the person who was entrusted with the 
 charge of bringing her from her native place to Messina. 
 
 Beatrice was an orphan. Her mother had married a poor 
 lieutenant, contrary to the will of a rich maiden aunt ; and, in 
 consequence, had been cast off, disavowed, denounced. But, on 
 her death-bed, she bequeathed her little girl to the guardianship 
 of Leonato, beseeching him to be a father to her orphan child. 
 
 It was on her way to her future home, that Beatrice happened 
 to witness the incident which brought her so unexpectedly 
 acquainted with her young relations. 
 
 Some few years had gone by without incident, after Beatrice’s 
 domestication at her uncle Leonato’s house ; when unexpect- 
 edly, he received a message from the countess Giustina, his 
 aunt, to say, that now his young daughter was beyond baby- 
 hood, she wished to make acquaintance with her, as the in- 
 dividual in whose person would eventually centre the honours 
 of their house. This countess Giustina, was the aunt whom 
 the mother of Beatrice had mortally offended by her marriage. 
 Her heart had been warmly fixed upon this girl, but she cast 
 her from her, resolving never more to behold her. She remained 
 shut up in her castle, held little intercourse with the world ; 
 none, save an occasional interchange of messengers, between her 
 two nephews and herself. She never lost the habit of authority 
 with them ; and now, when she wrote to her nephew Leonato, 
 bidding him give her the pleasure of seeing his daughter, she 
 dictated the conditions of the visit. She forbade the attendance 
 of any hand-maidens ; saying, that her own woman should 
 wait upon the young ladies. She begged that Hero might be 
 accompanied by her female cousin only. This was the sole 
 allusion made to Beatrice throughout the letter. 
 
 The old lady’s castle lay up among the mountains, and their 
 way lay through scenery of the most picturesque beauty. 
 
 Their journey was performed in a litter, drawn by mules, 
 well-suited to the rugged mountain-paths they had to traverse. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO ; THE COUSINS. 
 
 281 
 
 The novelty, the beauty, the delightful sense of open air 
 and motion, had their effect upon the timid Hero. She 
 forgot her apprehensions, in the present pleasure. She enjoyed 
 the journey to the full as much as her cousin ; and it was not 
 until the sun was sinking towards the west, that she began to 
 exhibit symptoms of an abated satisfaction. 
 
 Beatrice remarked her uneasiness, and tried to cheer her 
 with her sprightly talk. 
 
 “Are you looking out for Montaspro, Hero? We shall soon 
 be there, I dare say ; and then for a hearty supper, and a good 
 long rest. How we shall enjoy to-morrow morning, Hero !” 
 
 “ Shall we ?” said Hero, abstractedly. “ Don’t you see some- 
 thing brindled, crouching over there? If it should be a wolf! 
 They say, that there are wolves among these mountains ; and 
 snakes, Beatrice.” 
 
 “Well, they won’t hurt us; they can’t glide up into the 
 coach, and bite our heads off, unaware, can they, Hero?” 
 laughed her cousin. 
 
 “ Hush ! What’s that ? — Hark ! don’t you hear a noise ? 
 If it should be banditti !” 
 
 “It sounds to me, like the rush of waters;” said Beatrice. 
 Then, she pointed through the curtains on her side. “ Look ! 
 is not that a grand sight ? ” she said. 
 
 Through an opening in the rocks, appeared the castle of 
 Montaspro. 
 
 “And that is Montaspro?” whispered Hero. “ It looks a fit 
 residence for our stern grand-aunt, the severe-eyed lady Gius- 
 tina. How shall we ever venture to encounter her ?” 
 
 “Come, call thy courage to thee. Remember, she’s no 
 ogress ; she will neither eat thee, nor murder thee. Let her 
 looks be never so terrible, she will not harm thee, believe it.” 
 
 It was nightfall ere they reached Montaspro. 
 
 As the litter proceeded across the drawbridge, and beneath 
 the massive gateway, and they entered a spacious courtyard, 
 where a body of the lady Giustina’s retainers received them by 
 torch-light, the scene was so strange, that it might well have 
 struck more self-possessed travellers than the two young cousins, 
 with awe. 
 
28 2 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Two stately personages, the Countess’s Seneschal, and the 
 Countess’s Duenna, led the cousins into a spacious apartment, 
 where sat the lady of Montaspro. She occupied an easy chair 
 by the hearth ; but she sat perfectly erect. She was surrounded 
 by all the tokens of wealth and a magnificent taste ; but her 
 own person was simply attired, to an almost ostentatious 
 plainness. 
 
 “And you are Hero?” she said, taking a hand of her young 
 grandniece in hers. 
 
 “Yes, madam;” replied Hero ; “and here is Beatrice she 
 added, looking towards her cousin, who had followed her up to 
 the countess’s chair. 
 
 But the lady Giustina kept her eyes fixed upon Hero’s face, 
 saying ; — “ I see your father in your look, maiden. How is 
 he ? How doth my good nephew Leonato ? ” 
 
 “ My father is well, madam, and bade me present his dutiful 
 greetings to your ladyship. My cousin is charged with them, 
 no less than myself.” And again she turned to where Beatrice 
 stood waiting to pay her respects. 
 
 And again, lady Giustina took no notice of the reference. 
 
 There was a pause. And then the countess put her two 
 hands upon the arms of her chair, and turning her face in the 
 direction of Beatrice, said in a suppressed voice : — “ Come 
 hither, child.” 
 
 Beatrice advanced a step, and stood immediately before her. 
 The old lady’s eyes were raised as if by an effort of will, and 
 directed full upon the face of the young girl. 
 
 The keen black eyes never wavered ; their lids never stirred ; 
 the muscles of the mouth never altered ; but the red lips waned 
 in colour, until they blanched to the whiteness of the pale face 
 itself. 
 
 Beatrice had it in her heart to say that she had no greetings 
 to bring from a living parent, but that her mother’s parting 
 hour had been embittered by the thought of dying unforgiven 
 of one, who had been deeply beloved, though so unrelenting ; 
 but there was something arose within her, to check the re- 
 proachful speech. 
 
 The lady Giustina raised her hand, as if to screen her eyes 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 283 
 
 from the glare of light. Then she said: — “ Welcome to Mont- 
 aspro, child ; I am well pleased that you should have accom- 
 panied Hero ; well-pleased to have both my young cousins to 
 spend some time with me ; and trust they are well-pleased to 
 come.” 
 
 “ And now, Prisca,” said the lady Giustina, addressing her 
 stately gentlewoman, “ these young ladies will doubtless be glad 
 to see their rooms.” 
 
 The ancient handmaiden led the way up a flight of stairs, 
 wide enough to have admitted the two girls being carried up 
 them in the litter in which they had travelled, — mules and all. 
 They passed on into a corridor so lofty, and so long, that it 
 looked like the aisle of a cathedral ; it opened by side doors, 
 into different chambers. One of these doors, the stately gen- 
 tlewoman threw open ; while she looked at Hero, and said : — 
 “ Yours, young lady !” 
 
 As Hero peeped into its depths, she thought it looked like a 
 chill cavern ; but the stately gentlewoman did not tarry for her 
 to examine it, but led the way straight on to another long and 
 lofty corridor ; at one of the doors in which, the ancient duenna 
 stopped, and throwing it open, she looked at Beatrice, and 
 said : — “ Yours, young lady ! ” 
 
 The two girls exchanged a dismayed glance. 
 
 Hero stood aghast, and said nothing. But Beatrice said : — 
 “ We are in the habit of having but one room between us, 
 mistress Prisca ; either of these we have seen, will serve for us 
 both.” 
 
 “My lady ordered separate chambers;” said the ancient 
 gentlewoman, with the sententiousness of an oracle. 
 
 “Can we not have rooms nearer together, then, mistress 
 Prisca ? ” persisted Beatrice. 
 
 “These are the appointed chambers;” rejoined the gentle- 
 woman, as if uttering an irrevocable fiat. 
 
 “ Why not dis-appoint them ? Better they be disappointed, 
 surely, than we, of sleeping near each other, when we desire 
 it;” replied Beatrice. 
 
 “If you wish alteration, you must ask my lady;” said the 
 duenna. 
 
284 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 “ No, no ; pray, Beatrice, no, no ;” eagerly whispered Hero; 
 then she added aloud : — “ Let it be as it is ; since it is my 
 aunt’s wish, we are satisfied.” 
 
 The cousins hastily performed such toilette evolutions, as 
 would enable them to meet their grand-aunt in requisite order 
 for supper; while the grim mistress Prisca officiated as tire- 
 woman. She was a gaunt, bony person, looking mightily like 
 a veteran man-at-arms dressed in a coif and pinners, and 
 petticoats. She had angular features, pointed elbows, a flat 
 chest; and her skirts hung so lank, as to look as if they 
 wrapped a couple of vine-props. She was habitually silent; 
 never spoke, but in reply ; and when she did open her lips, 
 she used the fewest possible words, and spoke in the dryest 
 possible voice. She glided about the gloomy apartment, hover- 
 ing round the two girls, supplying them with what they needed ; 
 looking like a ghostly skeleton, doomed to walk the earth in 
 the garb of a waiting woman, abiding until she should be ac- 
 costed, according to the invariable usage of ghosts, ere she 
 could speak to these inhabitants of earth. 
 
 During the meal, lady Giustina was very gracious to her 
 young cousins ; and afterwards dismissed them to their night’s 
 rest with words of hospitable courtesy. 
 
 At the door of Hero’s cavernous room the cousins parted for 
 the night. Mistress Prisca being present, they only exchanged 
 a good-night kiss, and a slight squeeze of the hand ; but Beatrice, 
 as she took her way on to her own chill cavern, thought of 
 Hero’s white cheeks, and could not get to sleep for some time, 
 from sympathy with the discomfort she knew her cousin was 
 suffering. 
 
 Next morning, the first glimpse she had of them, showed 
 how accurately she had guessed ; they were still more wan, and 
 poor Hero had evidently had little or no rest. 
 
 The lady Giustina was seated at the breakfast-table, when 
 Beatrice and Hero approached to pay her their morning respects. 
 
 “ Your journey somewhat excuses your late-rising, maidens ;” 
 said the countess ; “ but in future, let me find you here, in the 
 breakfast-room when I come down. Better youth should wait 
 for age, than age for youth.” 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 285 
 
 “ And yet age would be glad sometimes to wait for youth, if 
 it could hope to be overtaken by it again, would it not, aunt?” 
 said Beatrice. “ It would be pleasant to keep people older 
 than ourselves, waiting, if we could hope to make them as 
 young as ourselves ; for then we might hope to keep them the 
 longer with us, you know.” 
 
 “ So, so, saucy child, thou hast a rogue’s tongue of thine own, 
 hast thou?” said the countess, with a smiling tone, that showed 
 her anything but displeased by the sally. “ But provided it do 
 not exceed a discreet gaiety, I shall be glad to let it dance to 
 the bidding of its heart’s tune of content.” 
 
 “ And that is to the tune of I know not how much — a 
 measureless measure !” said Beatrice* in great glee to find the 
 formidable aunt encourage her in rattling on gaily. “ I am in 
 higher than tip-topmost spirits, this morning, at the thought 
 of the delightful mountain ramble you are going to allow us to 
 take, madam.” 
 
 “Am I, child? No, not a mountain ramble; these wild 
 passes might not be so safe for you. Montaspro hath not a 
 neighbour roof within many miles of it ; and the rocks and 
 caverns harbour gentry, they say, who are not pleasant to meet 
 with. What makes you tremble, Hero ? ” said lady Giustina, 
 interrupting herself, and fixing her jet eyes upon the young 
 girl’s face. “Your father’s child should be no coward.” 
 
 “ My cousin belies neither her father’s name, nor her own, 
 madam said Beatrice. “ Hero is no coward.” 
 
 “She seems no great heroine;” said lady Giustina. “How 
 wouldst thou be able to meet a real danger, maiden, if thou 
 quak’st now at the mere mention of one? Keep thy heart 
 brave, and thy spirit strong, and then they will serve thee in 
 time of need.” 
 
 “ Hero hath a tender heart, and a gentle spirit, madam, but 
 they neither of them want for courage when occasion calls for 
 it;” said Beatrice. “She hath stood between me and disgrace 
 many a time, when my giddy spirits had well-nigh got me intc 
 scrapes. But shall we not, indeed, be allowed to enjoy a 
 ramble among this fine scenery ? ” 
 
 “ Beyond the demesnes, you must not go ; ” said the countess. 
 
286 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ But the castle-grounds are extensive, and command several 
 fine points of view. You shall walk abroad, attended by my 
 gentlewoman, after breakfast.” 
 
 Beatrice felt disposed to have uttered a remark as to the 
 abatement their delight in the ramble would suffer, if accom- 
 panied by Mistress Prisca ; but she prudently suppressed it. 
 
 The grounds belonging to castle Montaspro were indeed, as 
 their mistress had described them, both fine and extensive. 
 They were magnificent in their wild luxuriance; grand in 
 their uncultivated beauty. Notwithstanding the presence of 
 the angular duenna, Beatrice enjoyed her walk intensely; but 
 she could perceive that her cousin was constrained, abstracted, 
 joyless. She longed for an opportunity of speaking unre- 
 servedly with Hero, that she might endeavour to reason her 
 out of her uneasiness, and to cheer her into better spirits. 
 She felt there was no chance of it, so long as that lank shadow, 
 that ghostly silence, stalked beside them; so she resolved to 
 get rid of the restraint. Beatrice knew it was of no use to 
 appeal to mistress Prisca herself, who would be sure to reply : — 
 “My lady bade me accompany you ;” or, “The countess de- 
 sired I should attend you ; ” so she hit upon a device to dis- 
 tance her without her concurrence. 
 
 “ Come, Hero ! Let you and me have a good race together 
 as far as yonder pine-clump !” exclaimed she, with a glance at 
 her cousin ; and in another moment the two girls had set off at 
 a rate of speed that quickly left mistress Prisca far in the rear. 
 By dint of appointing fresh goals, as often as the duenna gained 
 upon them, Beatrice and Hero contrived to get some snatches 
 of talk together. 
 
 “ Dear Hero, you are unhappy, I fear; tell me what grieves 
 you ” 
 
 “ Not unhappy, Beatrice ; but I wish we were at home. This 
 wild place — this gloomy old castle — my terrible aunt, ” 
 
 “Nay, she is not so terrible, surely, as we had pictured to 
 ourselves. Though she can look seriously enough when she 
 chooses, yet she can also look pleasantly. Did you see ? — She 
 all but smiled this morning. If you do not like to ask her 
 leave that we have one room, I will.” 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 287 
 
 “No, no, Beatrice; if you love me, don’t do that. She will 
 think me a coward ! She will reproach me with my dastardly 
 spirit. Promise me that you won’t speak of it to my aunt. 
 Anything better than that.” 
 
 Beatrice had but just time to calm Hero’s agitation by the re- 
 quired promise, before the angular mistress Prisca overtook them. 
 
 She made no remark, but her looks censured them severely. 
 Of these, however, the cousins took no notice; and they returned, 
 in silence, to the castle. 
 
 Day followed day, and week succeeded to week ; and yet 
 Hero’s awe of the countess Giustina lessened no jot. Her night 
 terrors were as powerful as ever ; but they yielded before the 
 greater one of letting her aunt know of them. 
 
 Beatrice perceived that Hero grew daily more hollow-eyed, 
 more wan, more languid. She noticed that her meals were 
 scarcely touched ; that she started at the most trifling noise ; 
 and that she frequently lapsed into silence and abstraction. 
 Her cousin watched assiduously for an opportunity of speaking 
 in private with her, and at last determined to take a bold measure, 
 which should secure to them an uninterrupted interview, besides 
 affording the means of remaining with Hero long enough to 
 comfort and reassure her. 
 
 When the angular duenna left her for the night, and when a 
 sufficient time had elapsed to give warrant for supposing that all 
 within the castle had retired to rest — she got up, and made her 
 way through the passages and galleries to Hero’s room. 
 
 She stole through the darkness — for she would not take the 
 lamp with her, lest she should betray her procedure — glided 
 down the dark staircase, and found her way into the corridor 
 below. She crept along, carefully counting the doors as she 
 passed, that she might be sure of the one belonging to Hero’s 
 chamber ; and when she reached it, she opened it softly, and 
 spoke, that her cousin might at once recognize her voice. 
 
 “ Is it possible! Dear, dear Beatrice! Is that you?” ex- 
 claimed Hero, starting up at the welcome sound, and clinging 
 to her cousin with delight. 
 
 “To be sure ! to be sure ! It is I ! Who should it be, you 
 foolish trembler ? ” 
 
288 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ But I’ve had such terrible dreams, Beatrice ; ” whispered 
 Hero. “ If you only knew ! Here get into bed ; you’ll take 
 cold. How good you are to come to me ! And through those 
 long dark passages, too ! Oh, how brave of you to venture — 
 and how kind, for my sake ! Dear, dear Beatrice ! ” As Hero 
 hugged her cousin, and nestled close to her, she again whispered 
 of the fearful dreams she had had. 
 
 “ One, in particular. I must tell you, Beatrice, how dreadful 
 it was, that you may own it was enough to make any one a 
 coward, to behold such fearful things. I thought I had offended 
 aunt Giustina by coming down very late — so late, that she was 
 sitting at the table, ready for dinner instead of for breakfast. I 
 saw her sign to Domenico, the old seneschal, who opened that 
 low door, studded with iron, beneath the great staircase. I 
 saw dark steep steps leading downwards, and thought they led 
 to some vaulted dungeons beneath the chapel. The seneschal 
 went on in silence, then he seemed to fade away, and instead of 
 him, I saw my father standing at a little distance, before me. 
 He beckoned to me, looking smiling and happy; and then I 
 saw that there was a crowd of people standing about him, all 
 very gaily dressed, as if for some festal occasion ; the under- 
 ground vaults had disappeared; and I was in the chapel 
 brilliantly lighted — the high altar dressed — a venerable priest 
 standing near it. I saw you, Beatrice. You were, like my 
 father, smiling, and looking joyfully towards me. I found that 
 I had a long white veil on ; but I don’t think I was going to be 
 a nun. My father took my hand, and kissed my forehead, and 
 led me towards the altar ; but just as I had come within a pace 
 of it, something seemed to rise out of the earth — very ghastly 
 and hideous. I couldn’t rightly make out what it was — a 
 figure — a shape — I cannot describe it ; — but I felt it to be some- 
 thing monstrous — unspeakably horrible and loathly. I recoiled ; 
 and turned towards my father, to take refuge in his arms — and 
 oh, Beatrice ! That was worst of all ! I thought he shrank 
 from me — as if I had somehow acquired part of the loathliness 
 of this thing — whatever it was. I cast my eyes towards you, 
 Beatrice. You were looking very sorrowful, and yet angry. 
 Then the whole scene swam before my eyes ; I seemed to be 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO ; THE COUSINS. 289 
 
 falling, falling, falling, down an immeasurable depth, I knew not 
 whither. I struggled ; and awoke striving to cry out. My face 
 was covered with tears, and I lay bathed in an agony of terror. 
 Oh, such nights as I have spent in this fearful castle ! ” 
 
 “You shall spend no more such ! At least, if my lying by 
 your side can prevent your imagination from playing you such 
 painful tricks as these, my poor Hero ! ” said her cousin. “ I 
 will steal down from my room each night, as soon as dragoness 
 Prisca leaves me ; and then we’ll sleep cosily together, holding 
 the ghosts at bay till cock-crow ; when you know they take their 
 flight from earth, as I will to my own room again, in time to 
 dress for breakfast.” 
 
 “ Dear coz ! And then you will be sure to call me early, and 
 make me get up,” said Hero. 
 
 As she spoke, Beatrice started up in bed, and remained 
 motionless. 
 
 “What? W T hat? Do you see something? Do you hear 
 anything ? ” whispered Hero. 
 
 “No, no;” replied Beatrice; but Hero felt that she trembled. 
 
 “ I fear — it is my fault — the lamp ! ” exclaimed Beatrice. 
 “Do you not perceive a strong smell of burning. Hero?” 
 
 “ Certainly — yes — I surely do ! ” returned Hero. 
 
 “ Now there is real danger show yourself a brave girl, dear 
 coz ; ” said Beatrice. “ You who have owned to being a coward 
 about ghosts, will yet prove yourself of good courage in the hour 
 most needful. I fear the castle is on fire. Get up ; dress your- 
 self quickly; make the best of your way downstairs ; across the 
 hall, into the offices, and rouse the household. I will join you 
 as soon as possible.” 
 
 “ Are you not going with me ? ” said Hero, who had sprung 
 out of bed, and was obeying her cousin’s directions with an ala- 
 crity that showed she really had the presence of mind in this mo- 
 ment of actual peril, which had failed her under an imaginary fear. 
 
 “No ; I must go upstairs — I must see whether it be my own 
 folly — my own imprudence- ” 
 
 Beatrice hurried away, wholly possessed with the one thought 
 of ascertaining whether it was owing to her having left the lamp 
 burning, that the fire had broken out. This strange irrational 
 
 u 
 
290 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 reasoning is a not unfrequent concomitant of a sudden alarm of 
 fire. People have been known to waste their energies upon 
 preserving the veriest rubbish, committing all kinds of vagaries, 
 both of thought and deed, in the trepidation of such a moment. 
 So it was with Beatrice; she could not divest herself of the feel- 
 ing that it was her imperative duty to go back to her room, and 
 see whether it was her carelessness that had caused this calamity. 
 But when she reached her own room — and beheld the lamp 
 safely standing where she had left it — and had ejaculated one 
 fervent exclamation of thanksgiving at finding that she had not 
 herself to reproach, her next thought was of her aunt ! Lady 
 Giustina — old — sleeping apart — in that lonely turret — none to 
 warn her — to arouse her ! 
 
 Beatrice flew back along the passages ; enabled to use greater 
 speed than before, by the terrible light that now began to glare 
 upon her path. Through the loopholes in the gallery-wall she 
 caught glimpses of the red glow that seemed to fill the air 
 outside. She reached her aunt’s chamber-door. She waited 
 for no ceremonial knock ; but opened softly, lifted the tapestry, 
 and entered. The room was in perfect stillness. Its mistress 
 lay in a deep sleep. Beatrice leaned over lady Giustina, whis- 
 pering, “Awake, dear aunt, awake !” 
 
 The countess opened her eyes, fixed them on the beautiful 
 young face hanging over her, and said, “Already morning, 
 darling ? — And so my Beatrice is come, as usual, to help me 
 arise. Methought I dreamed a long and ugly dream, that you 
 were gone from me, my Beatrice ! ” 
 
 The tenderness in the tone, — the name, — the fond look — all 
 told Beatrice that the old countess’s thoughts had gone back, 
 in the first confused perceptions of awakening, to that period 
 of her life when her other Beatrice, her own child-niece, used 
 daily to awaken her, hanging lovingly over her. 
 
 “ Dear aunt ! It is not morning. It is night. But there is 
 danger. You must get up. Let me lead you away.” 
 
 The old countess passed her hand across her eyes ; and 
 seemed struggling to reduce her scattered thoughts to order. 
 When she withdrew her hand, her face wore its accustomed 
 calmly-severe aspect ; but her lips had turned deathly white. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 291 
 
 “ How came you here, maiden ?” she said sternly. “ I know 
 
 you now! You looked for the moment like one I . How 
 
 came you to venture hither, child ? I love not intruders in my 
 room. No one ever enters here unbidden. Begone, child !” 
 
 “ It is no time to obey you now, aunt. You must rise, — 
 and quickly. Listen, dear aunt ; understand me ; the castle is 
 on fire, and we shall hardly get forth in time ! ” 
 
 Lady Giustina’s habitual self-command came to her aid. She 
 got up, threw on a dressing-gown, put her feet into slippers, 
 and went with a firm unhurried step towards the door of the 
 apartment, beckoning Beatrice to accompany her, with her 
 usual air of calm authority. But on issuing out upon the land- 
 ing at the head of the winding- stairs, she perceived the smoke 
 rising in volumes, and could hear the roaring of the flames 
 below. Another moment or two, and the flames caught to the 
 first steps of the staircase, and sent their spiral tongues darting 
 and threatening up the interior of the turret. 
 
 Beatrice cast one look at the impassable gulf beneath them ; 
 her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth ; her lips seemed 
 suddenly bereft of all moisture, her throat was parched ; but 
 she uttered no sound. She fixed her eyes upon her aunt’s 
 face, mutely took her hand between both hers, and grasped it 
 very tight. 
 
 “ Brave wench ! ” exclaimed the old countess, as she returned 
 the firm pressure. “And must she perish? So young! So 
 brave! So beautiful !” Her voice sank to a whisper as she 
 added, “Her child!” 
 
 Beatrice found voice to say, “Since we must die, let the 
 child hear you pardon her mother.” 
 
 “ My vow to heaven — I took a vow I would never more 
 
 behold that face ” murmured the aged countess. “Never 
 
 pardon ” 
 
 “ Heaven absolves you from it by the lips of her child,” said 
 Beatrice earnestly. “ Pronounce her forgiveness.” 
 
 At that moment there was a sound at one of the windows. 
 Backed by the red glare outside, Beatrice could perceive the 
 dark figure of a man, attempting to effect an entrance through 
 the casement. It was Pietro, one of the countess’s faithful 
 
292 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 retainers, who had reared a scaling-ladder against the wall of 
 the turret, and had climbed up, to attempt the rescue of his 
 aged mistress. 
 
 “ See, aunt ! There is help at hand ! They are coming to 
 save us ! ” Beatrice sprang to the casement to unfasten it. 
 
 “ The countess ! My lady ! — where is she ? ” shouted the 
 man, as he leaped into the chamber. “ Quick, quick, madam ! 
 For the love of heaven ! Trust yourself in my arms — with the 
 help of the Almighty I shall be able to lift you down to earth 
 in safety ! Come, madam ! ” 
 
 But lady Giustina drew back. “ Her child ! Save her ! Save 
 Beatrice ! ” exclaimed the aged countess, pointing to her niece. 
 
 “ By your leave, my lady, I save none, till I have saved your- 
 self ; ” said Pietro sturdily. 
 
 “ Pietro,” said his mistress, with that voice of stern decision 
 which none around her dared oppose, “ I charge you on your 
 fealty, do as I command. Save her — save the child of one I 
 loved better than myself, — and if it be God’s will that I should 
 also be preserved, return for me ! ” 
 
 “ There will be scant time ! ” muttered Pietro. “ But be it 
 as your ladyship wills.” And he turned to where the young 
 girl stood. 
 
 But Beatrice in her turn refused to be rescued first. 
 
 Pietro, merely saying, “My lady must not be gainsaid,” 
 lifted Beatrice in one of his stalwart arms, climbed the window- 
 sill ; firmly planted his foot upon the first rung of the ladder ; 
 and commenced his descent. 
 
 As the man appeared from the window, with his human 
 burden, there arose an irrepressible shout from those anxiously 
 assembled below ; but the next instant it was hushed ; a solemn 
 silence took its place, as breathlessly his progress was watched. 
 Pietro bore her carefully, steadily. They were still some feet 
 from the ground, when Beatrice threw herself out of his arms, 
 exclaiming, “ Return ! return ! Go up again ! Hasten ! 
 hasten ! ” 
 
 The man needed no urging ; he had scarcely felt himself 
 freed from his load, ere he was re-mounting towards the turret- 
 window. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 293 
 
 Intensely the watching eyes beneath, followed Pietro’s every 
 movement, as he neared the burning window. They saw him 
 gain it, — boldly step in, — into the very midst of the smoke and 
 flames. 
 
 A pause ensued, of unspeakable suspense. 
 
 The next moment, a tremendous rushing sound — a crumbling 
 and mighty yielding — and then the floor sank in burning ruins, 
 the roof collapsed, and fell in, leaving the outer walls of the 
 turret a mere shell, from which spouted forth a volume of fire, 
 waving and flaming upward in fatal splendour. 
 
 A cry of horror burst from the crowd of faithful retainers ; 
 while the two cousins clung to each other, weeping and awe- 
 stricken. 
 
 The morning dawned upon the ruins of Montaspro. The 
 old seneschal asked the young ladies if they would not have a 
 messenger despatched to Messina, that the lord governor might 
 be informed of the calamity which had befallen ; and that he 
 might come and fetch away his daughter and niece from so 
 melancholy a scene. 
 
 “ Dear Beatrice,” said Hero, “ let us leave it at once. We 
 shall arrive at home as soon as the messenger. Let us go home 
 without delay. I sigh to be at home. I pine for home.” 
 
 “ If there were but means ” began Beatrice. 
 
 “ The litter and mules are safe, young lady;” said Domenico. 
 “ The outhouses where they were bestowed have escaped the 
 fire. There is naught need detain you in this scene of desola- 
 tion. I will undertake that all diligent search be made for the 
 remains of mine honoured mistress, and see that all care be 
 taken to give them reverent obsequy.” 
 
 “ Be it so, good Domenico,” said Hero. “ Bid them harness ; 
 in less than half an hour, my cousin and I will be ready to set 
 forth.” 
 
 The sun had scarcely arisen, when the little train wound 
 along the mountain path leading from Montaspro. The 
 blackened, and still smoking walls, lay a disfigured heap. The 
 bright gilding of the morning beams, the smiling beauty of the 
 azure sky, seemed a mockery, as they hung over the castle 
 ruins smouldering within this gloomy mountain gorge. 
 
294 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Worn out with the fatigues and excitement of the past night, 
 the young girls fell asleep. 
 
 Some hours must have elapsed ; for when Beatrice awoke, she 
 saw that the sun was high in the heavens. Hero still slept ; and 
 her cousin, unwilling to disturb her, watched in silence. 
 
 The mules were slowly toiling up a long rise ; the attendants 
 were strolling on leisurely a-head ; when Beatrice, attracted by 
 the leafy coolness of a grove of trees that skirted the road, felt 
 inclined to walk awhile, that she might the more entirely enjoy 
 their shade. She softly unfastened the door of the litter with- 
 out awakening her cousin, and sprang lightly to the ground. A 
 moment she lingered, to feast her eyes upon the glorious pro- 
 spect ; yet a moment longer she lingered, when her attention was 
 caught by a purple cluster of grapes, that nestled amid some 
 vine-leaves, drooping just above her head. The thought of the 
 refreshment they would be to her cousin on awakening from 
 sleep, made her long to gather them. As she scrambled up the 
 tangled bank where they grew, she became suddenly aware of 
 two strange faces that peered at her from above. They were 
 hung about with black elf-locks of matted hair, and had eyes 
 that sparkled with mingled keenness and ferocity. These two 
 faces kept an unwinking gaze fastened upon Beatrice, that made 
 her feel she was the undoubted object of their watch. Her 
 heart beat, as the thought of Hero’s tales of banditti crossed her 
 mind ; but hastily resolving that her best chance of safety was to 
 behave as if they were harmless peasants, she said, as she nodded 
 up in their direction: — “Good-day, friends! I suppose this 
 ground is no enclosed vineyard ; and that it is hardly a theft for 
 a thirsty traveller to help herself to a handful of fruit ? ” 
 
 The men came crashing and bursting through the foliage 
 towards her. They were tall stout fellows, in mountaineer garb, 
 with broad shady hats, and knives in their girdles. 
 
 “ It’s not for us to decide too strictly on what’s theft, and 
 what’s not, young lady ; ” laughed one of them ; “ but it’s my 
 notion that all things by the road-side, come fairly to hand, 
 if so be that a man can lay hands on them. What say you, 
 Matteo ? ” 
 
 “ Truly, I think that’s sound law, brother ; ” grinned the other. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO ; THE COUSINS. 
 
 295 
 
 “ And so you’re a traveller, are you, signorina? As sure as 
 my name’s Filippino, I’d ha’ been bound, — no, — I’d ha’ 
 wagered, you didn’t belong hereabouts. And yet you’re not on 
 foot, neither; those little feet would never ha’ brought you far. 
 No, no, you can’t be on foot. It’s my opinion that you have 
 only just stepped out of yonder litter, trotting down hill, there ; 
 and that it’s in that you’ve been travelling.” 
 
 “ Well guessed said Beatrice; “and I’ll thank you, friend, 
 to add to your courtesies, by shouting to that same litter, that 
 it may stop for me. Your voice will carry farther than mine, I 
 fancy.” 
 
 “ It’ll outscream an eagle, in general, signorina ; but I’m 
 afeard I’ve got a hoarseness, just now ; ” said the man, leering 
 facetiously. 
 
 “ And my throat is well enough in a barcarola, but tells for 
 nothing in a shout ; ” said his companion. “ It’s a good singing- 
 voice, but a bad speaking-voice.” 
 
 “So I hear;” replied Beatrice. “ I’ll try my own.” And 
 she suddenly gave a loud ringing call ; but it failed to reach 
 those to whom it was addressed. She could see the litter and 
 the attendant horsemen still plodding on. 
 
 One of the men started, half drew his knife, and muttered a 
 curse ; but the other laughed, and said : — “ Don’t be in a hurry 
 to leave us, signorina; we can’t part with you yet. It isn’t 
 every day we have the honour of seeing the governor of Mes- 
 sina’s daughter in our mountain solitudes.” 
 
 “ And now we’ll make him not only thank us, but pay us, 
 for returning her to him safely ;” said the other. “ But come, 
 signorina, you must go see our captain.” 
 
 “ Since you’re so hospitably pressing,” said Beatrice; “come, 
 then, lead me to your captain.” 
 
 She saw that there was no escape from these masnadieri. 
 She saw that she might preserve Hero from the fright and pos- 
 sible peril of capture, if she maintained their delusion with re- 
 spect to her identity; she therefore resolved to go bravely through 
 with the adventure. 
 
 The two men walked on either side of her, leading the way 
 through the grove of trees. It thickened into a close wood ; 
 
296 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 but the men threaded their way unhesitatingly, amid all the in- 
 tricacies of bush and brier; until at length they came to a com- 
 paratively open space. In the midst, on the margin of a small 
 lake, there stood an old dismantled watch-tower. Its roof 
 was open to the sky ; its walls were rent and ruined ; and it 
 was covered with ivy and other parasitical plants that flourish 
 on decay. 
 
 Beatrice, struck with the romantic beauty of the spot, said 
 “ If that be your captain’s abode, he hath commendable taste in 
 a house, so far as site is concerned ; but methinks he might 
 keep it in better repair, with stronger chance of in-door com- 
 fort.” 
 
 “ He hath a solider roof than one of masonry, for his abiding- 
 place ; ” said Filippino, as he struck three smart blows against 
 a rock. A portal, so artificially constructed, that it seemed like 
 a portion of the solid crag itself, receded at the signal, and gave 
 entrance to a cavern. Beatrice, on being led in, found herself 
 in an arched space, that seemed like a vast hall supported by 
 irregular pillars. At the farther end, several men were employed 
 spreading a board with food and wine; while near to them paced 
 a man with folded arms, and lowering brow, as if lost in moody 
 thought. Beatrice’s conductors went towards their chief, and 
 exchanged a few hasty words with him. The short colloquy 
 ended by his saying, in a harsh voice, as he flung himself on a 
 kind of settle, “ Bring her hither.” 
 
 The two men returned to Beatrice, and said : — “ Our captain 
 desires to speak with you, young lady.” 
 
 “ Is it thus your captain receives his guests?” said Beatrice. 
 “ Scant courtesy, methinks, to loll there, and send a message, 
 instead of stepping forward to greet them himself. The 
 welcome they meet, tempts few to visit here a second time, 
 I imagine.” 
 
 “ Few visit us at all, by their own good will ; ” grinned Filip- 
 pino ; it taketh some persuasion, — not to say force, — to prevail 
 upon travellers to become our guests.” 
 
 “ Your people lack discipline, signor capitano,” said Beatrice, 
 advancing; “you should teach them better manners, than to 
 keep a young lady waiting in the entrance, while they parley 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 297 
 
 with their master ; and they would doubtless learn to doff their 
 hats in her presence, were they to see you set them an ex- 
 ample, ” added she, glancing at the broad beaver which shaded 
 his brow. 
 
 Involuntarily, — in his surprise at her coolness, — the man’s 
 hand stole to his hat, and lifted it from his head ; but he was 
 yet more surprised to see the young girl quietly seat herself 
 beside him upon the settle, saying : — “ Well ; they told me 
 you wanted to speak to me. What have you to say?” 
 
 “ I am in the habit of putting questions, not of answering 
 them, young lady ; ” said the man sternly. “ Those who are 
 brought before me, stand there, and reply, in lieu of sitting 
 here, questioning me.” 
 
 “I sit here from no wish to come so close, believe me;” 
 answered she ; “ but I saw no other seat at hand, and I am 
 tired with my ramble. If you have not the courtesy to offer 
 me a chair, I must help myself, and take one. That is the 
 mode here, I fancy.” 
 
 “ We have learned to help ourselves, since none will help 
 us;” said the robber-chief, in his harsh voice. “I see you 
 guess our calling. We live upon what we can seize, or ex- 
 tort, from the fears of those who have made us outcasts. 
 Trusty Filippino and Matteo saw the litter approaching this 
 morning ; watched ; saw that it contained only yourself and 
 your sick cousin, — she is your cousin, is she not ? ” 
 
 “Yes; but I don’t see how her being my cousin gives you a 
 right to way-lay me ; ” said Beatrice. 
 
 “ They guessed that to plunder the litter would profit them 
 little ; ” proceeded the captain. “ But on recognizing one of 
 them for the governor of Messina’s daughter, they knew they 
 could secure heavy ransom. This is our object, I tell you 
 honestly.” 
 
 “ Your words are more honest than your deeds, then, signor 
 capitano ; ” said she. 
 
 “Young lady, I’m a plain man, and ” 
 
 “I see you are ;” interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 “ I’m a plain man, who speak my plain mind ; and I tell 
 
 you- 
 
298 GIRLHOOD OF SHA KESPEA RE’S HEROINES. 
 
 “If person and mind are both so ill-favoured, the less shown 
 of either the better ; ” said she. 
 
 His lip struggled with a smile, as the captain went on : — “ I 
 tell you, young lady, ransom we are determined to have ; and 
 you will be detained here as hostage until such time as we are 
 in possession of the sum.” 
 
 “ Best send me to fetch it,” said Beatrice. 
 
 “ That would show less wit on our part than you have shown 
 on yours, young lady ; ” answered the man; his forbidding look 
 visibly relaxing beneath the sunshine of the young girl’s playful 
 manner. “ We will not fail to obtain your ransom ; meantime, 
 signorina, you must be content to remain here our prisoner, 
 though you shall have all courteous treatment.” 
 
 “ That is glad hearing ; if it be only as a welcome change 
 from what I have already had ; ” said she. “ Suppose you 
 begin your courtesy by offering me something to eat and drink ; 
 for I am half-famished.” 
 
 “ We were about to sit down to our noontide meal when you 
 entered. Will you share it with us ? ” said the brigand. 
 
 “ It will be the first stolen dinner I ever ate ; it should needs 
 be sweet. I suppose you dispense with grace-saying here, since 
 all your meals are graceless. No offence, I hope, gentlemen.” 
 
 “ Corpo di Bellona ! a spirited young devil she is !” exclaimed 
 one of the men enthusiastically. “ I would thou wert a few 
 years older, little one, and thou shouldst stay here, and be our 
 queen ! ’Tis a million pities thou’rt not old enough to marry 
 our captain, and share his sway ! Corpo di Bacco ! I’ll drink 
 your health, young lady ! ” 
 
 “ Fill me a cup, and I’ll pledge you all, good gentlemen ; ” 
 said Beatrice. “ But I have no ambition to be your queen. I 
 should soon be an unpopular monarch among you, for I should 
 begin my rule by reforming your ways. No molestation of 
 peaceful travellers — no way-laying of unoffending passengers — 
 no detaining people against their will, and extorting unjust 
 ransoms from their anxious friends. Liberty, not licence, on 
 the road, should then be your maxim ; and I would make you 
 observe, what now I only give you as a toast — ‘ Freedom for all 
 upon the highway ! ’ ” 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 299 
 
 She nodded gracefully round to them, as she put her lips to 
 the wine-cup; and the robbers shouted a loud ‘Evviva !’ to her 
 honour. 
 
 “ And now, as I am a prisoner, a dungeon is to be my with- 
 drawing-room, I presume ; ” she said. “ Let me begone to it 
 at once, for I am not accustomed to the prolonged dinner-table 
 you doubtless favour. Use no ceremony with me, I beg. Pray 
 do not think of rising from table one moment before your usual 
 time, on my account; but let me retire.” 
 
 Filippino led Beatrice out of the cavern hall. They passed 
 through a long subterranean passage, at the end of which were 
 some rude steps that communicated with the basement of the 
 old watch-tower. In one of the upper chambers, her conductor 
 left her, after an ostentatious drawing of bolts, and fastening of 
 chains on the outside, that she might hear she was securely 
 locked in. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when she was awakened from a 
 refreshing sleep by the unfastening of her prison-door, and the 
 entrance of Filippino. 
 
 “ I have brought you some supper, young lady ; ” he said ; 
 “ and I am but a rough chambermaid, but I’ll try and make your 
 bed a bit tidy for you. You see, the last gentleman that slept 
 here, left his bedclothes rather in a tumble. He was roused up 
 on a sudden — on particular business — but he slept sound ever 
 after. He was never disturbed again — never wakened no more.” 
 
 “ He was despatched to a better rest than any to be found 
 under this roof, hospitable as it may be, I suppose ; ” said 
 Beatrice, as she watched the man, smoothing the rags and 
 coarse linen that lay heaped on the pallet. 
 
 “You needn’t fear resting, mind;” said Filippino, “nor 
 disturbing neither. You’ll not be roused like the gentleman, nor 
 sent to rest as he was. You’ll not be wanted on the business he 
 was wanted for. You’ve friends to pay your price for you.” 
 
 “ That’s one of the comforts of being a helpless girl ; ” said 
 she ; “ I needn’t take care of myself. It’s almost a pity though, 
 for my friends’ sake, that I’m not a worthless girl, for then they 
 needn’t buy me back.” 
 
 “ If they’re of my mind, they won’t grudge a good round sum 
 
3oo GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 for such a brave-hearted little creature as you. Per Bacco ! 
 What a glorious robber you’d make ! ” 
 
 “ Should I ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, that you would. Maledetto ! I could find in my 
 heart to curse and swear, when I think of such an amazon spirit 
 as that, going back to be quenched and dulled in a round of 
 stupid fine-lady existence, instead of staying here to spend a 
 free roving life worthy of it. It’s enough to make a man blas- 
 pheme, to think of the crosses of fate ! That you should be 
 doomed to pass through life a governor’s daughter, when you 
 would have made such a noble masnadiera ! ” 
 
 “ Never mind, Filippino;” returned she laughing; “we must be 
 resigned to things as they are. We can only learn to submit 
 with the best grace we can muster, and settle them as we best 
 may. Here, accommodate me by drinking this flagon of wine ; 
 it is a superfluous part of the supper you have kindly brought, 
 as regards me ; but by taking the disposal of it on you, you may 
 please both yourself and me.” 
 
 “ There again ! What a hand you’d be at dividing spoil ! 
 Such notions of justness and fitness as you have, to be wasted 
 on civilized society — where everything’s adjusted for you ! 
 Now in our way o’ life, they’d have had such fine scope ! 
 Destiny ought to be ashamed of itself, for thwarting Nature at 
 this rate. Why, you were born for a leader of banditti — if you’d 
 only been a boy; and Fortune’s a cross-grained jade, to have 
 made you a young lady and a governor’s daughter.” 
 
 “Nay, there’s a consoling point inmost things — a bright side 
 to almost everything, good Filippino ; ” said Beatrice ; “ per- 
 haps, after all, those very notions of justice and fitness you 
 speak of, might have interfered to prevent my making so good 
 a bandit-chief as you’re pleased to fancy. I might have some 
 foolish scruples, and troublesome fastidiousnesses touching right 
 and wrong, that would probably have spoiled me for a robber.” 
 
 “Not a bit of it; you’d soon have got the better of them. 
 Don’t tell me ; I know you’re just the right stuff to make a 
 highwayman of.” 
 
 “ But supposing I had in time overcome early prejudices ; 
 learned to see right and wrong in their true light, perceiving 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 301 
 
 that it was right to take from others what I could have by 
 force, and wrong to leave them in possession of what I could 
 extort ; that I had acquired wider principles on the subject of 
 property, than the old strict ones in which I was brought up, 
 yet even then, I fear me, I should have made but a sorry bandit. 
 No, no ; let me not aspire too high. Disappointed ambition is 
 misery. Since I cannot hope to be a worthy thief, let me rest 
 contented with mine own station.” 
 
 “ Well, you may take it as you will, but I shall never cease 
 to regret that you were bom a lady, when you might have been 
 a brigand,” said Filippino. “ Cospetto ! Che vergogna ! Che 
 peccato ! But it can’t be helped ! Buona notte, signorina . 
 Felice notte ! ” 
 
 “Felice notte!” echoed Beatrice. “Good night, good 
 Filippino. May thy dreams be undisturbed by regrets for me.” 
 
 “ Felice notte ! ” repeated Filippino, as he withdrew, mutter- 
 ing, “ Ma che peccato ! ” 
 
 When she was again left to herself, Beatrice for the first time 
 felt a little down-hearted. Night was coming on ; here, in this 
 wild place, a sense of loneliness, of unprotectedness, crept over 
 her ; and she sat, for a space, lost in saddened thought. Then 
 she took some of the bread and fruit from the supper Filippino 
 had brought, and took them to the deep window-ledge, and eat 
 them there, that her eyes might imbibe comfort and hope, from 
 the view of Nature in her serene aspect. The moon had risen, 
 and the lovely sequestered spot lay steeped in her soft beams. 
 The lake was like a mirror, save where the night breeze from 
 the mountain gently stirred its surface, and caused the planets’ 
 rays to be reflected in silvery undulation. 
 
 As she gazed, the thought of her friends, of what would be 
 her uncle Leonato’s solicitude, her uncle Antonio’s uneasiness, 
 and, above all, Hero’s misery, at her prolonged absence, made 
 her writhe with impatience at her captivity ; and, in an irresis- 
 tible impulse of longing to get to them, she clutched at one of 
 the bars of the iron grating before her. To her surprise and 
 delight it moved beneath her grasp. She felt it sensibly give 
 way. She applied all her strength in pulling at it. It yielded 
 more and more ; and at length she succeeded in wrenching it 
 
302 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 out of its rusty socket, entirely. Its removal afforded space 
 sufficient for her to pass her body through the opening thus 
 made ; but the difficulty now was, to avail herself of this egress. 
 The bedclothes torn into lengths, and fastened together, might 
 form a means of letting herself down outside ; but she remem- 
 bered that the watch-tower stood immediately on the brink of 
 the lake, and she was uncertain whether the walls might not go 
 sheer down into the water. She determined to try, however 
 She set to work with energy in forming her knotted ladder. 
 She fastened one end securely to the grating. She then lowered 
 it out ; crept through the opening of che grating, and trusted 
 herself to the strength of the new-made rope. Firmly she 
 clung to her bedclothes-ladder, carefully letting herself down 
 from knot to knot, until at length she found that she was within 
 a few feet of the bottom of the tower. With an inward aspira- 
 tion she quitted her hold, and fell safely to the ground. Before 
 endeavouring to regain her feet, she lay still for a moment, that 
 she might recover from the giddiness that she felt ; and then 
 she leaned over the grassy edge, and dipped her hands in the 
 cold water, and laved some on her face; and then the giddiness 
 passed quite off. 
 
 With great care she made her way along the grassy ledge 
 that margined the lake, until at length, she reached a spot 
 where the ground widened, and she could tread with freedom. 
 She had nothing to guide her in the choice of a path ; but any 
 direction seemed well, so that it led away from the tower walls. 
 She struck at once across a grassy plain, as much as possible 
 within the shadow of the trees, that her progress might be un- 
 noted, should there be any stragglers of the troop abroad. The 
 moon shone high in the heavens ; the warm breath of a Sicilian 
 night was tempered by a certain freshness in the air, that seemed 
 to tell her she was approaching the sea. She had hardly 
 recognized this, — ere she came upon a sight at once lovely and 
 sublime. Between an arched opening of the rocks, she saw 
 down, many feet below, the calm blue sea, sleeping beneath the 
 moonbeams, its broad expanse stretching away, far as eye could 
 reach; and to the extreme right arose majestic iEtna, crowned 
 with volcanic fires. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS . 303 
 
 Beatrice seated herself in a hollow of the rock, that she 
 might rest herself, and contemplate at ease this superb spec- 
 tacle ; and when she resumed her way, she determined she 
 would endeavour, — by keeping TE tna immediately behind her, 
 and the sea on her right hand, — to shape her course northward, 
 which she knew would then be the direction of Messina. She 
 wandered on for some hours ; having lost all trace of whether 
 she were pursuing her homeward way, when, just as day broke, 
 she discovered, to her great mortification, that she was not far 
 from the spot where she had yesterday morning first encountered 
 the two robbers. She could not be mistaken ; there was the 
 road, winding down the declivity, where she had last seen the 
 litter, trotting away in the distance, hopelessly unhearing of her 
 cry to stop ; there was the tangled bank, up which she had 
 scrambled to pluck the fruit for Hero ; there the very spot 
 whence she had beheld the brigands’ faces glaring down upon 
 her. The thought that even now they might be watching her, 
 filled her with such alarm and fresh energy that she ran, with 
 her best speed, down the hill. She had reached the foot of the 
 descent, when she saw a man with a sickle in his hand ; there 
 was a mule beside him, fastened to a tree, grazing ; and into 
 the large baskets that were slung on either side of the animal, 
 the man was loading the green fodder as he reaped. He was 
 shouting a rustic song, in broad Sicilian dialect, at the full 
 stretch of his lungs. His garb was coarse ; and his look was 
 unmistakably countrified. “ He looks safely a peasant, — a 
 rude peasant — I may surely trust him ; ” thought Beatrice, as 
 she eyed the man, who looked up at her approaching step. 
 
 “ Hallo, little one ! Where did you start from ? From the 
 earth, or from the clouds ? Out of breath, panting, dusty ! 
 Are you pursued ? ” 
 
 “ Not pursued, but afraid of being pursued, — almost as bad, 
 good friend ; ” she said. “ Will you be my friend, and help me 
 to escape being caught, as well as the dread of catching ? ” 
 
 “ Have you been doing anything amiss ? Have you run away 
 from rightful punishment — from your true friends ? ” 
 
 “ I have been seized by the masnadieri, — have made my 
 escape from them. Hide me, good man ; give me rest and 
 
3°4 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESIEARES HEROINES. 
 
 shelter for awhile, and then be my guide to Messina,— to my 
 home, — where you shall have both thanks and reward.” 
 
 “ Softly, softly, little one ! how glibly your tongue runs on ; ” 
 said the peasant. “ Let me understand this matter. You have 
 been taken by the masnadieri. Good. You want to get away 
 from them ; very natural. They want to keep you ; very fair. 
 I want to please both parties ; very right. If I manage your 
 escape, unknown to them, well and good in all ways ; you are 
 saved, and they remain unoffended, — that’s the main thing.” 
 
 “ And how is this to be done ? Quick, quick, good man ! 
 They may even now be upon us.” 
 
 “ Tis for that very reason, I must contrive a way to take you 
 home unseen, little one ; ” said the peasant : “ it is at some dis- 
 tance, and on your way there, we might, as likely as not, 
 stumble upon one or other of the signori briganti. Here, step 
 into this basket ; you will ride softly and easily upon this couch 
 of new-cut grass, and I will cover you lightly over with more, 
 so that no matter whom we meet, my mule will seem to carry 
 a no less innocent load than green fodder. ‘Mind appearances ’ 
 is a good rule for passing through life safely and well.” 
 
 “ You are full of beneficial rules for self-regulation, good 
 man,” said Beatrice laughing, as she stepped into the pannier. 
 “Now, be a little practical in your measures; put some stones 
 in the opposite basket, that it may weigh down the grave charge 
 you consent to carry in this one. Wear a show of equity, at 
 least, before the world.” 
 
 “ Mayhap you think I ought to beware how I burthen my 
 conscience with a deception ; ” grinned the man, as he began 
 to pile the grass over the bright face of the young girl that was 
 smiling up at him from amidst the green heap ; “ if so, step 
 out again, and save me from sin.” 
 
 “ 5 Tis thy mule bears the burthen, not thy soul, man ; ” 
 replied she ; “ thou saddl’st the sin, — if sin there be, — not 
 upon thy conscience, but upon thy beast’s back, and so shift’st 
 it from thine own shoulders, like the wise man thou hast pro- 
 claimed thyself to be, in thy rules for self-government and 
 advantage.” 
 
 The peasant, after putting the final touch to his arrangements, 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 305 
 
 led the animal by the rein ; with an easy air full of virtuous 
 unconsciousness, resuming his rustic song, as he went his 
 way. 
 
 It was not long ere he had occasion to rejoice at his fore- 
 thought. 
 
 A voice called lustily after him: — “Girolamo ! Ohe ! Girolamo !” 
 
 “ Ah, messer Matteo ! Bon giorno ! ” said the peasant, turn- 
 ing to salute the bandit with every appearance of hearty greet- 
 ing ; “ you are early abroad this morning. Ah, well. Early 
 industry makes wealth betimes. The ready hand comes soon 
 to gain. Eh, messer Matteo ? Excellent rules all.” 
 
 “ You’re a shrewd dog, master Girolamo ; ” answered Matteo, 
 with a sly glance, “ but let’s to business. Our people got hold 
 of a young girl yesterday, none other than the governor of 
 Messina’s daughter. It stands to reason that we ought to get a 
 good ransom for such as she, and we took care of her, accord- 
 ing. But see the heartlessness of the world ! When Filippino 
 went to look in upon her at day-break, just to see that she was 
 all safe and comfortable, he found the bird flown ; and I was 
 despatched to try and bring her back to cage. You haven’t 
 happened to see her pass by, have you, Girolamo ? ” continued 
 Matteo, twitching out one or two of the blades of grass that 
 overhung the basket in which Beatrice lay ensconced. “A 
 little gay-eyed, red-lipped thing, that looks too bright and fear- 
 less to mind anything. She seems not to know what tears 
 mean; and as if neither harm nor sorrow could ever come near 
 her. She speaks up so open, and looks so straight into your 
 face, that you feel as if she must be right and you wrong ; 
 which isn’t altogether pleasant, though it isn’t altogether un- 
 pleasant, — to look at.” 
 
 “ Just such a child as you describe, I saw, this very morning, 
 not half an hour ago ; ” said the peasant. “ She was wandering 
 about. I questioned her, as in duty bound. She told me she 
 had made her escape from your hands. I washed mine of the 
 concern, as became me. I said you would not approve of my 
 helping her away, if it should come to your ears that I had done 
 so ; and that I liked to live in peace with my neighbours.” 
 
 “Well said, good Girolamo;” said Matteo; “our captain 
 
 x 
 
306 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 shall know of the good turn you have done him. And so you 
 left the little one to do as well as she could. Quite right. And 
 whereabouts was this ? ” 
 
 “ Close by ; just up there, yonder;” said the peasant, scrupu- 
 lously pointing to the spot where the colloquy had taken place 
 between himself and Beatrice. 
 
 “ And you think I shall find her there still ? ” said Matteo. 
 
 “ She can’t have got far ; ” replied Girolamo. “ I shouldn’t 
 wonder, but she’s crouching among the long grass ; hiding 
 somewhere quite near, I’ll be bound.” 
 
 “Thanks, good friend, I’ll not forget to report you to our 
 captain ; and, in return for your neighbourliness, it shall go 
 hard but we’ll spare you a token of our good-will out of the 
 chit’s ransom, when it is ours;” said the robber, as he strode off 
 in the direction pointed out. 
 
 “ I’m much bounden to you, messer Matteo,” said the peasant; 
 “ lest I seem selfish, I’ll not say I wish you may get it.” 
 
 And coolly taking up his song again at the very note of the 
 tune where he had been interrupted, the phlegmatic Girolamo 
 jogged on by the side of his mule as before. For some time, 
 they went on thus ; Beatrice peering through the wicker frame- 
 work, and getting sufficient air to prevent her smothering in her 
 green nest ; which, baked through and through by the sun, now 
 mounted high into the heavens, became somewhat oppressive ; 
 but the motion was easy, and she had the pleasant feeling that 
 she was snugly and securely making her way homewards. 
 
 Leonato was perturbedly pacing up and down one of his 
 saloons, anxiously hoping for news of his lost niece. Ever 
 since the previous evening, the palace had been a scene of dis- 
 traction. Hero had arrived in the greatest distress, bringing the 
 news of the calamity at Montaspro, and of her cousin’s un- 
 accountable disappearance. On awakening, she had missed 
 Beatrice from her side; but at first imagined that she had 
 merely got out to walk for a while. She had caused the litter 
 to halt, hoping every instant to see her cousin come up with it ; 
 but after lingering in vain, till there could be no longer any 
 doubt that Beatrice must have lost her way, Hero had hurried 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 
 
 307 
 
 home to Messina, that her father might take instant and 
 effectual means for having their dear one sought and re- 
 covered. 
 
 As yet no intelligence had returned ; and Leonato was still in 
 all the grief for the countess Giustina’s untimely fate, divided 
 by his suspense respecting Beatrice, when an attendant hastily 
 entered the saloon, to say, that there was a peasant mountaineer 
 in the courtyard, insisting upon seeing his lordship, the lord 
 governor of Messina himself. 
 
 “ Perchance he brings news of my niece ; bring him hither ; 
 why did you not admit him at once ? ” 
 
 “ My lord, he will neither be brought hither, nor admitted, 
 nor anything else ; ” said the attendant. “He will not wait 
 upon your lordship; but says forsooth your lordship must come 
 down to him, as he can’t leave his mule. The rascal rustic ! 
 Had we not feared that he might bring news of my young lady 
 Beatrice, which we might lose, an’ we turned him away, he 
 should soon have seen the outside of the palace-gates.” 
 
 Half of the attendant’s ireful speech at this insult to his 
 master’s dignity was lost to Leonato, who had hurried to the 
 courtyard as soon as he had gathered that the peasant would 
 only tell what he had to say to himself. 
 
 “ I am come to offer you a bargain, my lord governor ; will 
 you buy this load of green hay? Will you give me a fair price 
 for it ? ” he said. 
 
 “ I will give thee thine own price for it, good fellow, if, as I 
 hope, thou bring’st me news of my lost niece, my Beatrice. 
 Tell me what thou know’st of her. Speak, man!” said Leonato, 
 eagerly. 
 
 “ If I bring you better than news of her, my lord? What if 
 I bring you herself ? ” said Girolamo. 
 
 “ Where is she ? Where have you left her ?” said Leonato. 
 
 “ What price shall I say for the green hay, my lord gover- 
 nor ? ” said the peasant. “ Any price is no price ; best fix the 
 sum.” 
 
 “ Name it thyself, fellow. What thou wilt. But Beatrice — 
 you say you have brought her — where does she tarry — why is 
 not she home ? She was ever all impatience to fly to me.” 
 
308 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 “ She has had much ado to restrain it;” said Beatrice, spring- 
 ing up, throwing off the heap of green fodder, and leaping from 
 the midst of it into her uncle’s embrace. 
 
 Girolamo, handsomely rewarded, made his parting obeisances, 
 and took his departure towards his mountain home. 
 
 An expected guest, don Pedro of Aragon, arrives. He is a 
 valued friend of Leonato’s ; a noble gentleman, full of honour 
 and high principle. He brings with him his brother, don John ; 
 a gentleman of temper as unhappy as his origin. His tastes are 
 degraded, his nature crafty, and his manners morose. But don 
 Pedro permits his accompanying him, that a better example may 
 serve to wean him from the unworthy society he has hitherto 
 frequented. 
 
 The brothers were attended, each by their several followers. 
 Don Pedro had a large retinue ; with one confidential servant, 
 named Balthazar. This Balthazar was a staid, worthy man ; he 
 was much respected by the prince his master, and he possessed 
 one accomplishment which won him his especial favour. Bal- 
 thazar was an admirable musician ; he played on the lute with 
 great skill, and possessed a charming tenor voice. 
 
 Don John’s attendant was named Borachio; a dissolute fel- 
 low, who passed for very good-looking, among the tribe of sus- 
 ceptible serving-damsels. 
 
 One of the lady Hero’s women, Margaret, was smitten on the 
 spot. The instant she beheld this irresistible gentleman’s gentle- 
 man, she fell desperately in love. She coquetted, she 4 kept 
 company with him ; ’ though she held him aloof all the while ; 
 prudently resolving not to give up so good a situation as she 
 enjoyed with her young mistress, the governor of Messina’s 
 daughter, by a marriage with a roving blade, who might desert 
 her the next week to follow his master’s fortunes. 
 
 This flirtation cost the sober, serious Balthazar many a pang. 
 With all his sobriety and gravity, he could not resist the capti- 
 vation of the smart damsel, Margaret. He loved her against 
 his better sense. But all his love, strong as it was, availed him 
 nothing. It could not win him one smile from her whose whole 
 stock was lavished upon the showy, rakish Borachio. 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 309 
 
 But the love-affairs of the hall and ante-chamber need be no 
 farther adverted to. 
 
 Don Pedro’s visit to his old friend at Messina had lasted 
 about a month, when one morning a young officer arrived at 
 the governor’s palace, inquiring for the prince, and announcing 
 that he brought news from the army to his highness. 
 
 It happened that don Pedro, with signor Benedick, signor 
 Leonato, signor Antonio, Gaetano, and Beatrice, had ridden 
 forth on a short excursion in the neighbourhood, to visit some 
 classic remains of great beauty. 
 
 The young soldier, — who had announced his name as count 
 Claudio, saying that he would await the return of don Pedro, — 
 was shown into one of the saloons ; which chanced to be a 
 favourite sitting-room of the two young lady-cousins. It opened 
 into a large conservatory, full of rare flowers and plants. In 
 this saloon sat the young officer for some time, listlessly turn- 
 ing over a large portfolio of engravings that lay open on a 
 stand; when his attention was attracted by the sound of a 
 voice, singing a little quiet song, in that sort of busy idleness, 
 and occupied leisure, which employs the fingers, while it leaves 
 the thoughts and voice free to move to music. 
 
 He held his breath, and listened. Yes, it was a soft womanly 
 voice, sweet and clear, singing very near to him. It seemed to 
 proceed from the conservatory. He was sitting not far from 
 the open door which led directly into it ; but he saw mirrored 
 in a tall Venetian glass that covered a large portion of the wall 
 opposite to him, a complete picture of the interior of the con- 
 servatory, which he could contemplate without stirring from the 
 position he occupied. 
 
 It presented to him, amid the profusion of foliage and blos- 
 soms, the figure of a young girl ; graceful, beautiful, blooming 
 as themselves. She had a light but capacious basket on one 
 arm ; into which she dropped the flowers as she cut them. She 
 was culling them with some niceness ; for she went on cropping 
 flower after flower, now reaching up after some half-blown 
 favourite, now plunging amid a thicket of leaves, now pressing 
 through stem and spray for some choice bud, or selected 
 beauty. And ever as she proceeded in her fragrant task, she 
 
310 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 murmured her low liquid carol, with tones as sweet and full as 
 were the perfumes and colours she collected. 
 
 The young officer sat entranced, watching her. Count Claudio 
 was not of a disposition to be troubled by any refinement, such 
 as might have prompted a nature of more scrupulous delicacy 
 than his, to step forward and announce his presence to the 
 young lady. He was a man of the world, a soldier, with certain 
 accomplishments of person and manner that made him pass for 
 a very pleasant, gentlemanly youth ; he thought the young girl 
 made an exceedingly pretty picture, bending among her plants 
 and flowers ; and he had no hesitation in gazing on it as long 
 as he pleased, — which was as long as it continued before him. 
 
 At length the basket was filled ; and the young lady entered 
 the saloon. A blush of surprise, at seeing a stranger, where she 
 had expected to find no one, crossed her ingenuous face ; but 
 no embarrassment marred the high-bred ease and grace with 
 which she paid him the courtesy of reception in her father’s 
 absence. 
 
 On the return of the riding party, it was found that on the 
 very day after, don Pedro and his train must bid adieu to Leo- 
 nato ; not, however, without the expression of a hope that when 
 the campaign was over, they should all return to enjoy a renewal 
 of their pleasant visit. 
 
 Their departure left quite a void in Leonato’s circle. The 
 affability of don Pedro, with the wit and spirit of signor Bene- 
 dick, were especially missed. The family party were assembled 
 in the saloon the evening after their friends had left them, when 
 they fell into the unconscious silence which betokens an unex- 
 pressed regret, felt in common ; until Beatrice exclaimed : — 
 
 “ Come, this is dull work, this sitting doing nothing. Think- 
 ing and brooding is worse than nothing, yet the same, — ’tis 
 naught.” 
 
 “ What should we do better, coz ? ” said Hero. 
 
 “ Talk — talk scandal. Let us amuse ourselves with back- 
 biting our friends, in revenge for turning their backs upon us.” 
 
 “What scandal wilt thou invent, niece? For sure calumny 
 itself cannot find aught to report amiss of the noble gentlemen 
 who have just left us ; ” said Leonato. “ There is my esteemed 
 
BEATRICE AND HERO; THE COUSINS. 31 1 
 
 friend, don Pedro ; even thy saucy tongue will not dare level 
 slander against a gentleman so complete ? ” 
 
 “ He is your dearest friend, uncle mine ; ” she said ; “ that 
 should exempt him from censure, even though his own desert 
 did not set slander at defiance. But there is his brother, don 
 John. Can charity itself say a word in his favour, and hope to 
 be thought other than hypocrisy ? ” 
 
 “ He was ever an unhappy gentleman; ” said Antonio ; “ his 
 position and his disposition are both unhappy.” 
 
 “ And, certes, he makes those about him unhappy ; ” said 
 Beatrice. “ He is enough to poison bliss itself. If a woman 
 were to meet him in Heaven, she’d pray to be delivered 
 thence.” 
 
 “ You allow there’s a likelihood of his going thither?” said 
 her uncle Leonato, smiling ; “ there’s a chance yet for my friend’s 
 poor brother.” 
 
 “ He is indeed a poor soul ! yet he hath the pride of the 
 prince of fallen angels, — Lucifer himself.” 
 
 “ Do you think he’s proud ? ” asked Leonato. 
 
 “ ‘ Proud ? ’ He’s too proud to say his prayers ; ” she an- 
 swered. 
 
 “ How like you count Claudio, the young soldier, my friend 
 Gregorio’s nephew ? ” asked Antonio. 
 
 “I saw him but yesterday for the first time;” she replied; 
 “ ’tis hard to judge a man by a few hours’ knowledge, when whole 
 years scarce suffice a woman to get all her husband’s foibles by 
 heart ; but a soldier’s character is seldom so deep but it may be 
 seen through, as you look into a stream, — down to the very 
 bottom at once.” 
 
 “ Pure, and transparent ; ” said Hero. 
 
 “Cry you mercy, sweet coz!” said Beatrice. “What say 
 you to shallow, and nothing but gay babble ? ” 
 
 “ Claudio hath more in him than belongs to a mere soldier,” 
 said Leonato ; “ he is a young gentleman of good discretion, 
 good breeding, and good birth.” 
 
 “ With a good pair of eyes, uncle, a good leg, a good hand, 
 and an excellent good opinion of himself altogether ; ” said 
 Beatrice. 
 
312 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Nay, you cannot call him vain, cousin ;” said Hero ; “ he hath 
 a tongue as ready in others’ praise as it is mute upon his own.” 
 
 “ You have haply given more time to the study of this new 
 tongue than I, coz;” returned Beatrice. “I learned scarce 
 anything of it ; you seem well versed in its subtleties. I give 
 you joy of your proficiency, sweet Hero.” 
 
 “ You have not told us what you think of signor Benedick, of 
 Padua, niece ; ” said Leonato. 
 
 “ I think nothing of him, uncle. Which may mean that I 
 take him to be worthy of no thought ; or that I think him of 
 no worth. The truth is, he hath sunk himself to a cipher 
 in my opinion, since I have found the poor opinion he hath of 
 women.” 
 
 “I know signor Benedick stands at low rate with cousin 
 Beatrice;” said Gaetano; “for she treats him even more 
 roughly than she does me. She uses little ceremony with us, 
 but still less with him. But I can’t wonder at it; for the gentle- 
 man is scarce civil to her. He seizes all occasions to taunt and 
 retort upon her for her j ust treatment of him ; calling her my lady 
 Disdain, and other fine witty names, that I can’t see the humour 
 of, for the life of me. If she disdain him, very right ; if she 
 scoff at him, so much the better.” 
 
 “But what is this poor opinion he entertains of women, 
 niece ? ” said Leonato. 
 
 “ Marry, uncle, this ; he professes to believe that none look 
 on him but love him.” 
 
 “ He should at least be grateful for their weakness, and hold 
 his tongue about it ; ” said her uncle, laughing. 
 
 “ So far from gratitude, he professes, that, for his- part, he 
 can love none in return. 4 Bella donna’ is the deadliest of all 
 poisons to him. He desires to keep his heart unscorched; 
 whereby he thinks he proveth he hath more sense in one of his 
 little toes than Leander in all his big head, — who, they say, 
 poor youth, was troubled with water on his brain, besides fire 
 in his heart.” 
 
 “You will allow that signor Benedick hath wit, niece ? No 
 one can deny him to have wit ; ” said Leonato. 
 
 “ Truly, uncle, if Nature hath gifted him with any, ’tis the 
 
BE A 7 RICE AND HERO; 7 HE COUSINS. 313 
 
 more shame of him to mislay it as he does. ’Tis ever new moon 
 with him ; the best part of his wits are gone wandering ; and 
 where he should seek them is in darkness.” 
 
 “ Nay, niece, this is sheer malice. Benedick’s wit is ever 
 forcible, lively, and present to the occasion.” 
 
 “ Right, uncle, ’tis so ever present, we would fain have the 
 relief of its absence. We rejoice in its absence, — as we are 
 doing now.” 
 
 But the campaign lasted long ; the wars were protracted ; and 
 it was more than a twelvemonth ere don Pedro was at liberty 
 to fulfil his promise of returning to Messina. At the end of 
 that period, however, a messenger arrived from his highness, 
 announcing his approach forthwith. Leonato and his family 
 v/elcomed the tidings with joy ; and questioned the bearer 
 eagerly respecting their friends. Beatrice perplexed the man 
 by asking after her old wit-adversary thus : — “ I pray you , is 
 signor Montanto returned from the wars , or no ? ” 
 
 When Hero rejoined : — “ My cousin means signor Benedick , 
 of Padua.” 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing, Act i. Sc. 1. 
 
TALE XII. 
 
 OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 ITHIN a handsome house in Illyria sat a family 
 party. It consisted of a gentleman, who sat in 
 an arm-chair, with one elbow leaning on the 
 table near him, reading to a lady seated near him, 
 occupied with some kind of light needle-work. N ear 
 to them stood a cradle; in it lay a heap of snowy clothing, 
 from the midst of which peered a rosy little face, with blue eyes 
 that stared and blinked alternately, as if they were wondering 
 what could be the meaning of the humming monotony of the 
 reading aloud. Close beside the cradle sat a little girl, who was 
 employed in rocking her baby brother, watching his staring eyes, 
 and amusing herself with the grave interest they seemed to be 
 taking in the subject of the book. There was a loud ring at the 
 entrance-bell. 
 
 “My brother Toby lets us know of his arrival this evening, 
 with yet more than his usual energy;” said the lady. “ I could 
 wish he would not ring with so imperative a hand. It almost 
 sounds like the hasty announcement of some fearful accident.” 
 
 “ Fear nothing, my love; ’tis no more than Toby’s eagerness 
 to apprize us of his coming — which he knows always enlivens 
 and pleasures us.” 
 
 But the first sight of his brother-in-law’s face, as he entered 
 the room, showed the gentleman that something had indeed 
 happened more than usual. 
 
 In lieu of the hearty, somewhat boisterous way in which the 
 new-comer made his nightly entrance among them ; he came in 
 hurriedly, with pale cheeks, and with an expression in his eyes, 
 
OLIVIA ; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 315 
 
 that spoke plainly their having just come from beholding a sight 
 of horror. In his arms he held an infant covered with blood. 
 He hastily told his story. How he was coming as usual, to 
 spend the evening with his sister and her husband, when he had 
 stumbled over the body of a man, that lay right in his path, 
 pierced through with wounds. How he had discovered that he 
 was quite dead ; that his pockets had been rifled ; all his money 
 and papers gone. How, upon the dead man’s bosom lay the 
 sleeping babe, steeped in its father’s blood. How he had raised 
 it in his arms, and brought it home to his sister. He ended by 
 saying that he had taken leave to send some of his good 
 brother’s servants to fetch the body of the poor gentleman out 
 of the road. 
 
 The child had awakened ; and was leaping and bounding in 
 his arms towards the shining candle, and crowing with delight 
 at the brilliant object. 
 
 The eyes of the good-natured sir Toby were moist, as he 
 watched the rapture of the little one, and thought of how he had 
 found it. While both his brother and sister partook of his 
 emotion to see the little creature with its starry eyes, and glee- 
 full crow, and frock bedabbled with the heart-blood of him who 
 gave it life. 
 
 “ You will let it be our child, my husband ; it shall abide 
 with us, shall it not, and be no less our care than our own two?” 
 whispered the lady. 
 
 “Surely replied he. “What says my little Olivia, will she 
 have a baby-sister as well as a baby-brother ? ” 
 
 But before she could reply, the small individual in the cradle 
 began to cry lustily. This created an instant diversion in his 
 favour. For some time every effort to soothe the small gentle- 
 man’s indignation was unavailing. At length his sister hit upon 
 the happy expedient of showing him the new baby. In an 
 instant, the sight of the bright little thing took his attention, he 
 held out his arms towards it, and struggled to get at it. 
 
 As they stood watching the pretty sight the lady said softly: — 
 “ Poor little creature ! I wonder what her name is ! Were 
 there no traces, brother ? — no pocket-book — no mark by which 
 you could guess who or what the unhappy traveller was ? ” 
 
316 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ None ; but he had the unmistakable look of a gentleman ; ” 
 replied sir Toby. “No matter however. Since you and my 
 good brother consent to adopt the little one, give her a name 
 of your own choosing. 
 
 “ Since she was found by the light of the stars — or rather of 
 one star ; for no other than the evening planet is in the sky ; 
 what say you to calling her Astrella ? ” returned the babe’s new 
 father. 
 
 And thus it was settled. 
 
 They were still, all three, mere children, when Astrella was 
 attacked by a violent fever. The countess had left the sick- 
 room to hear the opinion of the physician, without perceiving 
 that her little son Cynthio had crept into the room. But on re- 
 entering the sick-room, what was this tender mother’s dismay 
 at seeing her young son stretched upon the bed by the side of 
 Astrella, sobbing as if his little heart would break. 
 
 “ Oh she is very ill, mamma ! Very ill ! ” he faltered. “ So 
 I determined I would come and be ill here too.” And the 
 little fellow again flung himself down, his cheek close against 
 t hers. 
 
 “ The mischief is incurred, alas ! ” murmured the mother. 
 “ Heaven avert its worst consequence ! ” 
 
 And soon she beheld her young boy languish and fall ill of 
 the same raging fever that burned in the veins of Astrella. 
 
 But her son was spared to her. Both he and Astrella struggled 
 through their peril, and survived. 
 
 The fever left them weak, and singularly altered in person. 
 Astrella had shot up into a tall thin girl, while the boy Cynthio 
 seemed to have shrunk into the dimensions of a baby ; and he 
 had so little strength left, that he could only move about wheeled 
 in a garden-chair. 
 
 Change of air,-— -especially sea air — being recommended, the 
 count removed his family to one of his tenant’s houses that was 
 situated down on the very beach. 
 
 Here the children had two new play-fellows about their own 
 age. One was daughter to the count’s tenant. She had a 
 comely face, a smart person, high spirits, and a paramount turn 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA . 
 
 317 
 
 for waggery and drollery. Her name was Maria. The other 
 was the orphan son of a poor fisherman, drowned on that coast. 
 He was reputed an oddity; but his light-hearted frolic, fun, 
 and inexhaustible good-temper, made him a great favourite. 
 There was not a cottage round about but gladly afforded a meal 
 or a shelter to whimsical Feste, as they called him. 
 
 The sojourn at the sea-side had produced its hoped-for effect. 
 But though Cynthio recovered the use of his limbs, yet his 
 growth was irretrievably stinted. He remained a very little 
 fellow ; and seemed a mere child, for some years to come. On 
 the contrary, Astrella’s sudden increase of stature after the 
 fever, went on. 
 
 Cynthio’s devotion to her continued the same. He was 
 so attentive to her, so careful of her, that it became matter of 
 remark ; he was called Astrella’s ‘ little husband.’ 
 
 He took much pride in the title ; and spoke of her as * my 
 wife,’ with great complacency, which evidently delighted him- 
 self, while it amusingly contrasted with his childish looks and 
 slight proportions. 
 
 Soon after their re-establishment at Casa Benucci, sir Toby 
 returned from V enice. He brought with him a young Frenchman, 
 whose lively manners and companionable qualities soon won 
 him the favour of the count ; but there was something about 
 this stranger that made the countess find it impossible to like 
 him. But, with this exception, the chevalier Dorfaux managed 
 to ingratiate himself into general favour. 
 
 When the chevalier Dorfaux’s visit at Casa Benucci came to 
 a close, sir Toby went with him ; as it had been agreed, that 
 the two gentlemen would take a trip together to Naples, during 
 the carnival season. 
 
 Her brother had not long left them, when the countess 
 Benucci was attacked by a mortal illness, which terminated 
 her existence suddenly. 
 
 The count thought it best to travel for a time ; that change 
 of scene might work its good effect upon the young people 
 and himself. He therefore took them a tour into Greece, 
 which occupied a considerable period, with profit to both 
 
3i8 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 mind and body, restoring them to Casa Benucci in recovered 
 peace. 
 
 The count was well pleased to see the grace and discretion 
 with which his young daughter filled the post of mistress, in 
 presiding over his household. He sent for his tenant’s daugh- 
 ter, Maria, and placed her as waiting-maid about the person of 
 the young countess, knowing Olivia’s liking for her ; and 
 thinking that her sprightly disposition would make her a desir- 
 able companion. Maria was the very briskest and smallest 
 of creatures ; she was like a fairy in her proportions ; neat and 
 trim in her dress as a doll ; light and quick in her motions as 
 a bird, — nay, as a bat, — but then a bat has an ugly face. Now 
 hers was a nice little round face, with pippin cheeks, and 
 cherry lips, and bright beady eyes. They looked as sharp and 
 as piercing as needle-points, — darting mischief through their 
 keen glances ; merry, waggish, roguish eyes. You could not 
 think of their prettiness for their mischievousness ; and could 
 hardly trouble yourself about their mischievousness, for their 
 good temper ; and certainly, whatever you might think about 
 when you looked at them, you couldn’t keep yours off them, 
 such bewitching little wicked eyes they were. She flitted about 
 the house like an elf or a sprite ; so light of foot, so airy, so 
 quickly appearing, so swiftly vanishing was she. You caught 
 sight of her whisking skirts like a butterfly’s wing ; they had 
 fluttered away before she could settle — what she had come for; 
 or you, that you had actually seen her. She darted into your 
 ken like a falling-star, and disappeared as abruptly. She could 
 neither move, look, nor speak, but rapidly. She was a midge, 
 an atomy, — anything that is lightest, brightest, and smallest. 
 The lad, Feste, was also added to the household retainers, as 
 a privileged fool, half jester, half minstrel. 
 
 Insensibly time crept on. The children had grown up into 
 youth and confirmed beauty, preserving still the same charac- 
 teristics which had from the first distinguished them. Sir Toby 
 found them all wonderfully grown, when he came back at 
 length to Illyria. 
 
 “You will find Cynthio and the two girls good, dutiful 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 319 
 
 children, still, though grown into young men and women,” 
 said the count ; “ and as well-inclined for a frolic with cousin 
 Toby as ever.” 
 
 “ ; Tis a good hearing; for is not mirth the spirit of existence, 
 and jollity the wine of life? Without mirth and jollity, man is 
 little better than a drained flask, a stale anchovy, a musty melon ; 
 a dry, empty husk, — fruitless, worthless, to himself or others.” 
 
 “ Thy metaphors, brother, remind me that we have offered 
 thee no refreshment yet;” said the count. “ After your warm 
 walk, a cool flask of Cypro will not be amiss. Olivia, bid them 
 bring fruit and wine out here in the garden ; let it be placed 
 beneath the shade of this spreading chestnut.” 
 
 Olivia despatched her gentlewoman with the requisite orders ; 
 and her uncle had fresh occasion to laud her grace and house- 
 wifely accomplishment. 
 
 “ By my troth, they shall be my three mirabilaries ; ” said he, 
 looking upon her, Cynthio, and Astrella. “ I will quote them as 
 wonders of creation, and vaunt them to be no less than perfec- 
 tions of nature.” 
 
 “ You will risk spoiling your wonders, cousin ; and then they 
 will be no longer perfection ; ” said Olivia. “ That methinks, 
 were scarcely the deed of a good or wise kinsman.” 
 
 “To be wise and good, asks more prudence than dwells in 
 frail humanity, when there are such things to praise and enjoy 
 as those now before me;” said sir Toby, helping himself to 
 some of the fruit and iced wine; “Casa Benucci overflows 
 with excellence ; from its inmates to its good cheer ; fairest 
 creatures, and choicest fare ; what would a man have more to 
 make him the reverse of prudent ? ” 
 
 “ Is not prudence just the requisite quintessential drop that 
 gives the highest flavour to all the rest, — the truest relish to 
 their enjoyment ? ” asked the count. 
 
 “Truly, I know not but you sober fellows may have the 
 advantage in the long run over us roysterers;” said sir Toby; 
 “ but while we are running, we think wholly of the sport, no- 
 thing of its consequences. But what a keen eye to conse- 
 quence have you shown, brother, in your choice of the people 
 you have gathered about you, since last I was here. For signor 
 
320 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Malvolio, — who is a treasure of consequentiality in himself, — 
 you had him fora steward ere I left; but there is that lad, Fabian, 
 who carried hither the wine ; he hath a fund of intelligence in 
 his face, that promises well for a helping hand at a joke, or a 
 pleasant device ; and then there is the other lad, — Feste, I think 
 you called him, — with a trick of eye, and a humorous twist of 
 his lip, that speak a world of lurking jest and good fooling.” 
 
 “And you shall hear him sing a song presently, brother, that 
 shall make you call him a lark in human shape, so blithe, so 
 airy, so melodious and untiring is his voice ; ” said the count. 
 
 “ With all my heart ; I love a good song as I love good wine ; 
 it sets a man's blood spinning triumphant ; and fills me his 
 brain with ecstatic fancies. A man is a god while he listens to 
 music, and quaffs grape-juice.” 
 
 “Good mistress Maria, bid Feste come hither;” said the 
 count, to his daughter’s waiting-maid, who had just brought out 
 a veil for her young lady. 
 
 “ And then there is that little silver moth of a damsel, whom 
 you have chosen for my niece’s gentlewoman;” continued sir 
 Toby ; “ can anything be better devised, than having such a 
 grig of a girl always in sight. Her very look is enough to 
 banish spleen from a household.” 
 
 “She is indeed, merry and lightsome as a bird; ” said the count. 
 
 “A very titmouse, — a golden-crested wren !” said sir Toby. 
 
 “ And when heard you from your friend, the chevalier Dor- 
 faux ? ” asked the count. 
 
 “ Odso, I had forgot ! I have a letter here in my pocket 
 from him ; ” said sir Toby. “ It is dated from Paris ; but in it 
 he talks of leaving immediately, and travelling fast, so as to 
 meet me on my return hither ; he may, therefore, be expected 
 nearly as soon as his epistle.” 
 
 He had hardly given utterance to the words ere a servant 
 announced the arrival of the chevalier himself. 
 
 “We will all go into the house and give him welcome;” said 
 count Benucci. 
 
 As Cynthio and Olivia, with Astrella, followed their father 
 and uncle from the garden, the youth said to his sister : — “ I 
 had almost forgotten there was such a being in the world. It 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 321 
 
 seems like a dream, when he paid us a visit before. Do you 
 remember that time, Olivia ? Did you remember this French 
 gentleman, Astrella?” 
 
 A visible confusion passed over her face. 
 
 “ I see you do ; ” he said. 
 
 He fell into a deep reverie ; from which he was awakened 
 by their reaching the house. He heard the chevalier paying 
 eager greeting to all, and receiving the welcome of the count 
 and sir Toby in return. He looked up to see the young 
 Frenchman bowing upon Astrella’ s hand, and pouring forth a 
 profusion of compliments upon the heightened charms that 
 time had wrought in both her and Olivia. He advanced 
 mechanically, to offer the usual words of salutation to the 
 newly-arrived guest ; when the chevalier exclaimed : — Ah, ‘ the 
 little husband ! ’ How are you, mon cher ? ” 
 
 At this instant, Cynthio caught sight of the group they pre- 
 sented, in one of the tall mirrors near. He saw the handsome 
 face and figure of the Frenchman ; tall, elegant, full of that 
 self-possession and polished air, which knowledge of the world 
 confers. He saw beside it, his own slight, boyish frame, and 
 girlish countenance. He fancied he saw a look of embarrass- 
 ment cross Astrella’s face, as the chevalier, in his cool, easy, 
 French style, uttered the words ‘little husband.’ 
 
 For the firs f time in his life, Cynthio found himself wishing 
 that they had never been applied to him in connection with 
 Astrella. 
 
 He was frightened at the rush of emotion that came upon 
 his heart ; he left the saloon, and wandered forth alone into 
 the garden-grounds. 
 
 It was just such an evening as the one he had often heard 
 described, when Astrella was first brought home, an orphan 
 babe, to his father’s house. 
 
 “ She has never regarded me in any other light than as a 
 brother, I fancied I thought of her but as a sister, notwithstand- 
 ing the idle titles they gave us ; ” he passionately mused ; “but 
 what I have learned of my feelings within this last hour, tells 
 me, it is as no sister that I love her. How will she bear to 
 think of me as a lover, — me, a brother, a boy, as she has always 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 considered me? A poor paltry boy, with a creamy face, a 
 stripling form. If but a boy, a poor silly youth, in appearance, 
 let me be a man in spirit, in heart. My first task shall be to 
 teach myself control : that I may not shock her by a premature 
 betrayal of any other feeling than the affectionate brotherly 
 love to which she has been accustomed. Whatever befall, she 
 shall see none of this boyish weakness. If her little husband 
 cannot gain her affections, he will at least preserve her esteem.” 
 
 At breakfast next morning, Cynthio began his self-imposed 
 task of keeping strict guard on his every look and word ; he 
 exerted himself to chat with his father, and the chevalier, and 
 joined heartily in a plan for an excursion to a neighbouring spot, 
 celebrated for its fine view. The gay manner in which he rattled 
 on, passed completely with all the rest ; but Olivia thought she 
 could perceive that her young brother’s spirits were forced. 
 
 It was agreed to make the excursion a riding-party. 
 
 The count placed his daughter on horse-back himself ; and 
 Cynthio was preparing, as usual, to offer his assistance to 
 Astrella in mounting, when the chevalier advanced, in his 
 peremptory style of officious deference, and lifted her into the 
 saddle. 
 
 During the ride, Astrella’s horse had shown symptoms of 
 uneasiness. It was a skittish, spirited creature ; and Cynthio 
 had always objected to Astrella’s trusting herself on its back ; 
 but she was a fearless rider, and she would hear nothing in 
 disparagement of Bayardo’s good qualities. But now, the heat, 
 and the gnats, together, tormented Bayardo beyond his patience. 
 He pranced, and curvetted about, and at length began rearing. 
 Cynthio rode close in upon the snorting beast, seized the bridle, 
 and effectually checked him. 
 
 “Well done, ‘petit palfrenier ! ’ Bravissimo!” exclaimed 
 the chevalier, approaching, when the steed was quieted ; for, 
 during the worst, he had kept at a respectful distance. They 
 rode on for some time after this, quietly enough. But at a turn 
 of the road Bayardo suddenly darted away at full gallop. 
 
 The chevalier was mounted on a noble animal, one of the 
 finest in the count’s stud. It instantly set off after Astrella’s 
 runaway horse. 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 323 
 
 “ Stop, stop, chevalier ! Your pursuit will but endanger her !” 
 shouted the count. But it was in vain. The Frenchman’s 
 skill sufficed not to rein in a horse bent upon a chase. 
 
 “ He does not know, father ; he thinks to rescue her ! ” said 
 Olivia; (Cynthio could not speak.) “ Heaven grant, his rash- 
 ness may answer better than our caution.” 
 
 And the three went on as quietly as their impatient fears 
 would let them. 
 
 Meantime, the two runaway horses had shot far out of sight. 
 On, and on, they went. The breathless rapidity of the pace 
 she was going, the terror, the imminence of the peril, at length 
 caused Astrella to swoon. Then she was thrown. But she 
 fortunately alighted on a turf-bank, which broke the violence 
 of the fall. 
 
 The chevalier’s horse had stopped of his own accord, not far 
 from the spot. The suddenness of the check had like to have 
 pitched the rider over, head foremost. But he recovered 
 himself, dismounted, and went towards Astrella, who still lay 
 senseless. 
 
 She revived, to find the chevalier Dorfaux bending over her, 
 and whispering softest inquiries. 
 
 “You have saved my life, sir;” she said. “ How can I be 
 sufficiently grateful for your intrepidity? I owe you my life.” 
 
 The Frenchman made no denial. “ You can more than 
 reward any help I may have been so fortunate as to afford, 
 sweet Astrella. It is my life that is in your hands. Make 
 it henceforth a happy one, by telling me I may win your 
 love. 
 
 Astrella did not reply ; she looked round, as if for her accus- 
 tomed friends. 
 
 “You do not answer me, lovely Astrella; look upon me, — 
 say you do not hate me, — say, ” 
 
 “ Hate you ! How can I hate one who has been so gene- 
 rously good to me ? — one who has just risked his life to save 
 mine ? ” said the young girl, ingenuously. 
 
 “ Say then that you will take pity on me, that you will love 
 me, that you will let me prove my love for you ; ” and the 
 Frenchman pressed her in his arms. 
 
324 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Astrella withdrew from his embrace, saying : — “ But where 
 are Cynthio and Olivia ? Where is the count ? They will be 
 very uneasy.” 
 
 She had hardly finished speaking, ere they all three came in 
 sight. 
 
 “ She is safe, then ! How can we thank you enough, cheva- 
 lier, for your care of our dear one ? ” said the count, grasping 
 the chevalier’s hand, while Olivia and Cynthio threw themselves 
 off their horses, and hastened to Astrella. 
 
 “ She shall ride home on my pony, she shall not mount the 
 vicious beast again!” exclaimed Cynthio; “old Nerino is 
 quiet as a cardinal’s pad-nag.” 
 
 This incident made the chevalier a greater general favourite 
 at Casa Benucci than ever. Once, indeed, Feste, the clown* 
 whispered in the ear of Maria a scoff at his title of chevalier ; 
 declaring that for his own part, he believed it was through in- 
 dustrial qualifications alone, that Dorfaux could lay claim 
 to it. 
 
 “ ‘ Industrial ! ’ He’s said to be a man of birth and honour ; ” 
 answered Maria ; “ such people are above being industrious* 
 thou know’st. Their spirit won’t let ’em earn their own bread. 
 They’d rather beg it ; or eat it out of other people’s industry.” 
 
 “You don’t take me, good mistress Mary;” he replied. 
 “ Be it known unto you, that there is a certain order of chivalry 
 in his country, that live by their brains, and such odd quirks of 
 contrivance as the brain deviseth ; knights of the fertile inven- 
 tion, that by the aid of quick wits, and it may be, of nimble 
 fingers, do manage to pick up a living out of the follies and 
 foibles of their fellow-men ; and these knights, being notable 
 workmen, ever busy in operation, passing active in practising 
 their art, have been distinguished by the appellation — ‘ cheva- 
 liers of the order of industry.’ Their badge is a swan ; which 
 beareth a fair white body on the surface, and plies black legs 
 beneath.” 
 
 “ Pick-pockets, pick-purses, highwaymen, and thieves, are 
 the brothers of such an order of chivalry as thou describest ; 
 and none other than god Mercury their Grand-master ; ” an- 
 swered she. 
 
OLIVIA ; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 325 
 
 “ Thou choosest ill-favoured names, mistress Mary ; ” replied 
 the clown. “ But the gentry I mean might come under the 
 category of polite pick-pockets, — robbers on the highway of 
 saloons and drawing-rooms.” 
 
 “And such a one thou thinkest this chevalier Dorfaux?” 
 said she. 
 
 “ Think what I may, I say nothing. ’Tis seldom safe to say 
 half we think ; and nothing is less than half ; ” he concluded, 
 turning on his heel. 
 
 And so, this shrewd surmise of Feste’s passed off but as one 
 of the fool’s jests. 
 
 Meantime, the chevalier’s insinuating address, and perse- 
 vering court were winning their way with Astrella. Above all, the 
 claim she conceived him to have upon her gratitude, in saving her 
 life, inclined her to return his ardently-expressed passion. Un- 
 practised in the ways of the world, she had followed his insidious 
 wish of keeping the avowal of his feelings a secret. On a certain 
 morning, she sat at one of the windows in the room where the 
 family usually passed the forenoon, occupied in drawing a group 
 of flowers, for the count’s approaching birthday. The chevalier 
 was hovering near the table, under the pretence of making a 
 sketch of the view of the grounds from the window. 
 
 Cynthio held a book in his hand, and sat appearing to read, 
 in the next window-seat. Olivia was turning over the leaves of 
 some lute-music, and trying a piece or two, that she intended 
 to sing with her brother and Astrella on the coming occasion. 
 
 Under cover of the low-struck chords, and half-hummed sing- 
 ing, the chevalier was pursuing a murmured conversation with 
 Astrella, as she bent over her drawing. 
 
 Presently Olivia left the room, to join the count in the garden. 
 
 “ Give me at least the rose ; ” said the chevalier. 
 
 Cynthio heard no answer ; but as he raised his eyes from the 
 page before him, he saw the bright blush that accompanied her 
 silent denial. 
 
 “ The rose, — the rose, is the one I would have ; ” he urged. 
 
 Yet another moment she hesitated ; then she raised her hand, 
 as if about to draw it from among the others ; but in the act, 
 her eyes met those of Cynthio. 
 
326 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ The chevalier Dorfaux shows less taste than usual, Cynthio ; ” 
 she said, attempting to cover her conscious confusion by a gay 
 manner ; “ he would fain persuade me that these half-withered 
 flowers are better than fresh ones.” 
 
 “ They have acquired a value from having formed a study 
 for my father’s gift ; ” said Cynthio, anxious to relieve her em- 
 barrassment. “ Come, you shall distribute them ; give me 
 one.” 
 
 “ And welcome ; ” she said, in her frank cordial manner ; 
 “ choose which it shall be.” 
 
 “ Not the rose ! I have claimed that !” said the chevalier. 
 
 * I will be contented with this little star-flower ; ” Cynthio 
 said ; “ its simple, innocent beauty is all I could wish.” 
 
 “That ! What an ignorant botanist you are, Cynthio mio ;” 
 said Astrella ; “ that is a humble little hedge-side blossom, — a 
 weed. I think they call it a 1 stellaria.’ It was Olivia who 
 would have me put it into the group for the count’s birthday 
 drawing ; she said the little starry thing would remind him of 
 his Astrella. Choose some other ; that’s a poor weed. ’Tis not 
 worth your having.” 
 
 “Nay, if you give me any, give me the stellaria;” said 
 Cynthio. 
 
 “ If you’ve taken a fancy to it, you shall have it ; ” she said, 
 drawing the stem of the delicate white blossom out of the 
 water ; “ let me put it in the button-hole of your vest, for you; 
 since you pay the meek little wretch the honour of choosing it, 
 its glory shall be proclaimed to the world.” 
 
 And she stuck the flower in his bosom with the playful free- 
 dom of a child. 
 
 “ She loves him ! I can no longer doubt; she loves him !” 
 was the thought that smote upon Cynthio’s heart, as the cheva- 
 lier led Astrella away, beseeching her to indulge him with a 
 walk through the flower-garden; under pretext of comparing 
 the rose he had preferred, with those growing there. “ She 
 loves him ! she loves him ! Oh, Astrella ! my own Astrella ! ” 
 
 His eyes fell upon the stellaria. Its sight had well-nigh 
 wrung from him those tears which he had so lately repressed. 
 It was one of those moments when the soul attains the growth 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA . 
 
 327 
 
 of years in a single point of time. Cynthio’s spirit had learnt 
 its own powers of fortitude, and however boyish his person might 
 remain, he had acquired a sense of internal mastery which 
 rendered him thenceforth a man. 
 
 When Olivia joined the count in the box-tree bower, she 
 merely peeped in, saw he was there, and crept quietly to a 
 seat by his side ; while he, looking up, welcomed her with a 
 smiling holding out of his hand, and went on reading. The 
 father and daughter sat thus for some time ; the stillness of the 
 spot and of their employment, harmonizing with the quiet un- 
 derstanding between them, and producing that exquisite content- 
 ment which is almost more perfect than joy. 
 
 Presently, upon the silence, there came the sound of low- 
 murmured conversation. 
 
 The speakers were in a green alley, carpeted with turf, that 
 led immediately at the back of the box-tree bower, — and as 
 they came nearer, what they said could be distinguished. 
 There was something equivocal in the import of the pleading 
 speeches that seemed to strike upon the count’s ear. He 
 listened; changed colour; then started up, exclaiming : — “ He 
 would not dare be guilty of such baseness, such perfidy ! He 
 dare not mean such villany ! ” 
 
 Then he stepped forward, made himself a way through the 
 branches of the box-tree, and stood in the green alley, confront- 
 ing Dorfaux and Astrella. 
 
 For a moment the count gazed earnestly upon the latter, — 
 without anger, — but keenly, as if he would read her heart. Then 
 he turned to the Frenchman, and said, with a stern calmness : 
 — ' “ You love this young creature ? You love her truly — honour- 
 ably? Your intentions are honourable? I cannot, will not 
 doubt it.” 
 
 “ I am a younger brother, my lord, with but a younger 
 brother’s portion to support a wife ; how can I hope to marry — 
 how dare I offer marriage ” stammered the chevalier. 
 
 “Yet you dared to offer love, sir;” said the count. “You 
 dared seek to entangle the affections of an artless, innocent girl. 
 But if, as I fear, they are indeed won,” he added, again glancing 
 
328 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES 
 
 at the trembling Astrella, “ your plea of scanty fortune shall be 
 no bar. She is my adopted daughter. She shall have no less 
 a dower than I destine for Olivia. If your views, therefore, are 
 what I will not doubt them to be ” 
 
 “ What can they be but marriage — marriage with one I love 
 even to the forgetfulness of aught save my rash passion ? ” in- 
 terrupted Dorfaux. “ It urged me to forget the strange ap- 
 pearance my secret suit might bear ; it led me to forget what 
 was due to my Astrella’s protector, her adopted father.” 
 
 “ Come hither, my dear child ; ” said the count to Astrella. 
 He took her tenderly in his arms, and said : — “ Do you love 
 this gentleman ? Can you accept him for your husband ? ” 
 
 “ He saved my life— he loves me ; ” whispered Astrella, as she 
 hid her glowing face upon the count’s bosom. 
 
 He half sighed; but he kissed her cheek encouragingly. 
 Then he put her hand in Dorfaux’s, saying : — “You will under- 
 stand me, when I tell you, sir, that for the sake of this gentle 
 heart, I accept your own construction of the words I overheard 
 you speak to her.” 
 
 The chevalier replied by a profusion of acknowledgments, 
 and grateful protestation. The count’s generous, open disposi- 
 tion, was not proof against such an appearance of good-hearted 
 frankness. He believed the young Frenchman, and restored 
 him to his full confidence again. They returned with Olivia, to 
 the house ; the count playfully talking over his project for settling 
 the young couple in a charming cottage he had on the borders 
 of his estate, so that Astrella should be always near her old 
 friends. He was still chatting on, upon this topic, when they 
 entered the sitting-room. 
 
 “ Cynthio moping here by himself, upon one of the couches, 
 when there is so much lively matter toward ! ” exclaimed the 
 count. “ What think ye of a wedding?” 
 
 “ You forget, my lord, that the little husband may not be so 
 delighted to hear that his wife is to be taken from him ; ” said 
 the chevalier, laughing. 
 
 “ Pooh ! It’s high time that foolish name should be given 
 up ; ” said the count. “ It was all very well when they were 
 babies together. Cynthio is a tall lad now; and boys are apt to 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA, 329 
 
 be so absurd as to feel ashamed of a title like that. You needn’t 
 look disconcerted about such a trifle. Why, you bite your lip, 
 and turn as white as though you were really angry. Come 
 come ; ” continued his father ; “ we all know you love Astrella 
 as a good brother should ; she is no less dear to us all, than 
 if she were in truth our own flesh and blood. This very evening 
 we will all go in a body and look at the pretty place of which 
 she is soon to be mistress. You know the cottage I mean? 
 With the olive-ground and vineyard, and the peep of the sea 
 from the upper windows ? ” And thus the count chatted on in 
 the gaiety of his heart. 
 
 All was active preparation and bustle in Casa Benucci for the 
 approaching wedding ; and amidst the general pre-occupation, 
 Cynthio’s misery passed unnoticed. 
 
 The ceremony in the chantry was performed ; the banquet in 
 the grand saloon was concluded when the count and his family 
 assembled to bid the young couple farewell ; it having been 
 agreed that they should at once occupy their new home — the 
 cottage-farm. 
 
 “ Dear Olivia — my more than sister — revered father — kind 
 uncle — beloved brother — ” faltered Astrella, as she gave her 
 hand to each in turn, “ you know my heart, dear friends, you 
 know it is not ungrateful, though unable to express its recogni- 
 tion of all your loving care.” 
 
 Sir Toby had hugged her against his broad burly chest, with 
 something that sounded very like a sob trying to smother itself 
 up in a chuckling laugh ; but not succeeding altogether to his 
 mind in his effort at mirth, he had playfully pushed her away, 
 declaring that she should not choke up his throat, and prevent 
 his draining the dozen bumpers he meant to quaff to the health 
 of the bride and bridegroom after they were gone, 
 
 Astrella turned from the good-humoured knight to Cynthio, 
 who stood next to him. 
 
 “ Cynthio, dearest friend, kindest brother — ” she said, “for- 
 give me if I have ever encroached on your unwearied tolerance 
 of all my whims of babyhood, childhood, and girlhood. Pardon 
 your old playmate’s caprices, and think only of your own indul- 
 gence towards herself.” 
 
330 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Cynthio, in a blissful dream of one moment, held her in his 
 arms, where she had thrown herself with all the frank freedom 
 of her innocent loving heart. 
 
 From the mingled ecstasy and agony of such a moment, 
 Cynthio was recalled by hearing the chevalier’s voice, saying in 
 its tone of paraded gaiety : — “ The real husband may now assert 
 his privilege, in preference to the little husband. Come, Astrella. 
 See, they are all tarrying to escort us as far as the garden-gate.” 
 
 Cynthio, as still in a trance, saw the chevalier lead Astrella 
 away ; he unconsciously clutched at something near him for 
 support, which he fancied was the cushioned back of a couch by 
 which he stood ; he watched the gradual disappearance of the 
 crowd, then he staggered blindly forwards, as if with some 
 indefinite idea of following, in the hope to gain yet one more 
 parting glimpse of her. 
 
 By his side had stood Olivia. She it was who, in happening 
 to lean on the back of the couch, had received the vehement 
 imprint of Cynthio’s grasp upon her arm. She read his secret. 
 She saw that the young boy, the stripling lad, cherished a passion 
 strong as ever mastered man. She saw that it was with no 
 brother’s affection that Cynthio loved Astrella. 
 
 That night Olivia crept gently to her brother’s sleeping-room ; 
 Cynthio had flung himself on his bed in despair; his sister stole 
 close to him and knelt beside him. She raised the head that 
 was buried in the folded arms, and bent her own face against 
 his, until their cheeks touched. 
 
 “ Olivia ! My sister ! ” exclaimed Cynthio ; as his head 
 drooped upon Olivia’s bosom. She gathered him in her arms, 
 gently and lovingly as a young mother might have done ; his 
 fair face, and slender figure, making him look still quite a boy, 
 and much her junior. 
 
 “You guess my secret?” he at length said, in a broken 
 tone, just venturing to glance at her countenance, while he kept 
 his own averted. 
 
 “ I do.” 
 
 Cynthio flung his arms about his sister’s neck, drew her face 
 towards him ; kissed her on the mouth and eyelids ; and then 
 sank back exhausted. 
 
OLIVIA ; THE LADY 01 ILLYRIA. 331 
 
 In an hour after, Olivia crept to his room, and found him 
 in a profound slumber. 
 
 With ceaseless vigilance, Olivia dedicated herself to the care 
 of her young brother. She guarded his secret from suspicion, 
 she protected him from remark, as from all that could surprise 
 him into self-betrayal, or add poignancy to his regrets. 
 
 One of the earliest occasions Olivia had for the exercise of 
 her sisterly thought, was when Maria flew into the room where 
 Cynthio and she were sitting together quietly, to announce the 
 first visit of the new-married pair. 
 
 “ She’s come, she’s come ! The bride is here ! The bride 
 and her husband ! I should say the chevalier and madam e 
 Dorfaux. How strange the new name sounds ! Our young 
 lady Astrella — madame Dorfaux ! ” 
 
 Knowing how the new name, thus abruptly spoken, must 
 smite upon his heart, Olivia made the most of her own startled 
 hearing of the sound. 
 
 “ And is it in this wild fashion thou bring’st me the tidings?” 
 she said ; “ but, in sooth, a wedding is apt to turn the soberest 
 of damsels’ wits ; and thou, Gill-o’-the-wisp as thou art, must e’en 
 be forgiven for startling me thus. Come, lead me where she is.” 
 And Olivia, anxious to afford a moment to her brother for the 
 recovery of his composure, hastily followed the steps of Maria, 
 who had darted out again. 
 
 He was prepared when they all entered, and was outwardly 
 calm. 
 
 The intimacy between sir Toby and the chevalier Dorfaux, 
 was maintained now with greater zest than ever. Astrella’s 
 dowry formed an agreeable supply to her husband, at the very 
 time when his previous resources had dwindled to a mere 
 nothing. It principally found its way to the gaming-table ; but 
 there were other resorts of so-called pleasure, where this sum 
 quickly melted. 
 
 After some months, scandal began to be busy about him ; 
 his credit waned ; while the gentlemen towards whom he had 
 contracted debts of honour, became rather more than politely 
 pressing. 
 
 Rumours of these things at length reached Casa Benucci ; 
 
332 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 and the count was communing with himself on this theme, 
 when Fabian came to announce the chevalier and madame 
 Dorfaux. 
 
 “ I came to ask you, my dear count,” Dorfaux said, “ to let 
 us all ride over this morning to see some archery, which I hear 
 is to take place in some grounds about five miles off ; there is 
 to be a high prize given ; there will be some good betting ; it 
 will be excellent sport; the ladies will enjoy it, and •” 
 
 “You would not surely venture on horseback, Astrella ? ” 
 said Olivia, putting into words of her own, the anxious thought 
 she knew was in Cynthio’s heart. 
 
 Astrella looked timidly at her husband. 
 
 “Pooh, pooh! ’twill do her good! Nothing like a good 
 scampering gallop for health. You will go, ma chere amie ; ” 
 said the chevalier. 
 
 “ Certainly ; ” she said gently. Astrella’s gentle voice had, 
 for many weeks past, become more than gentle, — it was sub- 
 dued, in its tone of mild resignation. 
 
 “ The count said quietly, in reply to the young wife’s last 
 complying word : — “ My dear child, I will not have it so ; your 
 husband must allow me the licence of an old married man and 
 your adopted father, to forbid your mounting on horseback. I 
 do not think it would be prudent for you to ride; and more- 
 over, the chevalier will excuse me if I add, that I do not approve 
 of amusements where betting, and high stakes form the chief 
 attraction.” 
 
 “ But I assure you, the archery itself is expected to be very 
 fine ; that in itself will be excitement sufficient ; ” said Dorfaux, 
 with his usual glib decision. “ I would not lose the sight for 
 the universe ; so, if your paternal care of Astrella will not let 
 you think it safe for her to go, I beg you will have the kindness 
 to lend me a horse for the occasion. It is too far to walk; and 
 as a poor country gentleman like myself cannot afford to keep a 
 nag, I must e’en be beholden to my friend.” 
 
 “ I am glad to learn the chevalier Dorfaux is guided by pru- 
 dential considerations, even in so far as the keeping of a riding- 
 horse is concerned ; ” said the count. “ Rumour gives him not 
 credit for so strict an economy.” 
 
OLIVIA ; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA . 
 
 333 
 
 “ Oh, I assure you, my dear sir, I am the most economical of 
 men ; ” said the airy Frenchman. “ Were it not for the sake of 
 my wife — your all-charming Astrella — I could be content to live 
 upon a crust;” added he, helping himself plentifully to some of 
 the iced wine and other refreshments that the count’s attendants 
 brought in at this juncture. 
 
 “ It is the part of a fool to make wise observations,” said 
 Feste, the clown, who was pouring out a goblet of water 
 mingled with Aleatico, for his master ; “ and I’ve observed that 
 those people who say, ‘ I can do with a crust,’ never find a crust 
 do for them.” 
 
 “ It is the part of a fool, if he be wise, to keep his sapient re- 
 marks to himself, until they be called for ; ” said the chevalier, 
 with more petulance than his usual craft of careless gaiety 
 allowed itself. 
 
 “ That remark of yours, shows you know nothing of a fool’s 
 duty, sir chevalier;” replied Feste ; “ a fool should make all his 
 remarks aloud, that his hearers may benefit: the vicious, by the 
 wisdom contained therein, the innocent, by the wit And as for 
 awaiting solicitation, ’tis the essence of his vocation that his sal- 
 lies be ever ready, and forthcoming, undemanded.” 
 
 “ Nay, it may be so, good fellow; I pretend to know nothing 
 of the merits of a fool;” said the chevalier; “I should be want- 
 ing in modesty, were I to say other than that there is little of 
 the fool in me.” 
 
 “ More knave, than fool, perhaps ? ” asked Feste, slily. 
 
 “You exceed your licence, sirrah;” said the count; “be- 
 cause your over-boldness is tolerated by ourselves, in allowance 
 for your jester’s privilege, I cannot have you take liberties with 
 our guests.” 
 
 “ Where there is no truth in the sarcasm, there is no offence 
 in the jest, my lord ; ” said the clown. “ Conscious of integrity, 
 the chevalier can surely hear the word knavery without wincing. 
 Even though he be taxed with it, the idle word can no more 
 cleave to him, than breath to a mirror. His unsullied con- 
 science doubtless, like the crystal, only shines the purer and 
 brighter for the passing attempt to mistify it.” 
 
 “A truce with thy mistifications for the present;” said the 
 
334 GIRLHOOD OR SHAKESPEARE' S HEROINES. 
 
 count ; “ bid thy fellows remove these things, when the ladies 
 shall have had what fruit they please; and meantime, the cheva- 
 lier will do me the favour to accompany me to my study, where 
 I have a word for his private ear.” 
 
 In the interview that ensued, the count spoke to the young 
 man with the explicitness warranted by his age and character. 
 He told the chevalier the reports that had reached Casa Be- 
 nucci, of his reckless expenses, his extravagance, his debts. 
 The count ended by presenting him with a sum, which he 
 said he hoped would free him from present embarrassments, as 
 an earnest of his own confidence that he would be more prudent 
 in future. 
 
 The chevalier was boundless in professions of good intention, 
 and profuse in promises to reform ; and the good count gave 
 credit to assurances that he wished to believe true. 
 
 The birth of Astrella’s child was a joyful circumstance to 
 those who loved her. Upon this little creature, its beauties, its 
 gifts, its perfections, they all could descant to their hearts’ con- 
 tent. To Cynthio, above all, this babe was a delight, a treasure, 
 upon which he could lavish all the secret store of love he had 
 cherished for its mother. He had his Astrella once again ! His 
 little Astrella ! His darling Astrella ! His own Astrella ! His 
 father would laughingly joke him for his unmasculine fancy for 
 nursing a baby ; but Cynthio was too content in his new-found 
 delight, to be laughed out of his enjoyment. 
 
 Olivia inwardly blessed Heaven, that had vouchsafed this re- 
 quital of her brother’s past unhappiness ; and Astrella herself, 
 in her affectionate regard for Cynthio, saw with delight the joy 
 he took in her little one. 
 
 She was sitting leaning over the back of a low couch, upon 
 which Cynthio lay playing with her child one morning. She 
 watched them romping and frolicking together, and saw the 
 gentle way in which he lent himself to the humours of the little 
 creature, now submitting to be crawled over, and tumbled over, 
 and pulled over ; now abandoning his hair to the most ruthless 
 of tugs, now smoothing and caressing the fair locks (that light 
 golden brown he loved so well) of the little tugger’s own head 
 in turn. 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 335 
 
 “ Little rogue ! ” she said ; “ thou supplant’st thy mother in 
 the indulgent love which was once hers.” 
 
 “ It is the same ; ” said Cynthio in a low voice. 
 
 The child had found out a new object of attraction ; it was 
 now plucking at a dark slender chain, espied among the folds 
 of Cynthio’s vest. 
 
 “ Be good, little encroacher ; ” said the mother, gently trying 
 to disengage the coil in which her babe’s fingers had entwined 
 themselves. “ Let go, let go, naughty one ! ” 
 
 “ Gently, gently, little one ; 55 said Olivia, leaning forward to 
 help extricate the chain from its grasp ; “ since the toy is woven 
 of my hair, Cynthio would not care to have it broken. Gently, 
 gently ! let go, Astrellina-Strellinetta ! ” 
 
 But it was too late to prevent what Olivia foresaw. The 
 child’s pertinacity had succeeded in twitching forth the chain ; 
 and at the end, hung a small crystal case. The clearness, the 
 dangling motion of the trinket, combined to delight the babe, 
 and nothing could persuade it into relinquishment. 
 
 They could have laughed to see the baby wilfulness ; had 
 they not all three been possessed by secret thoughts that made 
 their smiles but constrained. Olivia’s was for her brother. She 
 instinctively felt the charm which the contents of that locket 
 possessed for him, — though she knew not absolutely what those 
 contents were, — and she trembled to think what Cynthio now 
 felt, to see them hanging in the babe’s grasp, close in the eyes 
 of its mother. But Olivia need not have feared. The little star- 
 flower treasured within the crystal, though clearly visible through 
 the transparent enclosure, was no longer recognizable. To his 
 eyes the fair white petals, the slender green stem, were still there 
 in all their delicate beauty ; to his eyes, the form of her who 
 gave it, her look as she placed it in his vest, were there en- 
 shrined and apparent ; but to all eyes else, a few faded shreds 
 were alone perceptible. 
 
 The babe had at length given up its plaything, and had fallen 
 into a quiet sleep in Cynthio’s arms, when the chevalier sud- 
 denly entered. 
 
 “ Desolate to break up so charming a society ! ” he exclaimed, 
 bowing round ; “ but I am compelled to request my wife’s 
 
33<5 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 return to the cottage-farm immediately; I have business to 
 transact there, that cannot be effected without her presence. 
 Desolate, I assure you ! But it must be.” 
 
 Astrella arose to obey her husband. 
 
 “ My father has taken the coach this morning, to pay a long- 
 deferred visit to an old friend,” said Olivia ; “is it indispensable 
 that you must return home immediately, sir?” 
 
 “Indispensable ! absolutely indispensable, parole d’honneur !” 
 he replied, laying his hand on his breast, and bowing again. 
 
 “ We will walk with you across the park-grounds, Astrella ; ” 
 said Olivia ; “ you must not carry your baby so far.” 
 
 “ Do you think I should have permitted my cara sposa to 
 bear the burthen? You do not give due credit to the gallantry 
 of our nation, signora said the Frenchman. 
 
 Olivia did not say she had so little faith in it, that she knew 
 he would only carry the babe out of sight of the house, and 
 then let his wife bear it the rest of the way ; but she said : — 
 “ The child is asleep ; best not disturb it. Cynthio will carry 
 it. And I shall contend for my turn, when it wakes.” 
 
 “As you will ; I always defer to a lady’s proposals,” returned 
 the chevalier, with another bow ; then turning to his wife, he 
 said : — “ Allons, ma chere amie, get ready in less time than the 
 generality of your charming sex take for the adorning of their 
 sweet persons. Come.” 
 
 The chevalier was evidently in a violent hurry. 
 
 When they reached the cottage-farm, Cynthio put the child 
 in its mother’s arm ; and Olivia, knowing how unwillingly her 
 brother entered that roof, took leave at once. The chevalier 
 made not even the pretence of detaining them ; and his wife 
 was too anxious to know the cause of her abrupt recall, not 
 to acquiesce. 
 
 She learnt it but too soon. A pressing demand had caused 
 her husband to return and extort all that she had left. It was 
 to sign away these deeds, that he had summoned her ; it was 
 to deprive herself and child, of house and home for ever, that 
 he had fetched her to that home. The instant he had obtained 
 what he wanted, he seized the parchment, snatched up his 
 hat, and with a smiling bow, departed. 
 
OLIVIA ; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 33 ? 
 
 That night Astrella’s second baby was born, — dead. 
 
 Not many hours after, the person who had now a right to 
 call the cottage-farm his own, sent men to take possession ; 
 but the good peasant woman, who acted as nurse to madame 
 Dorfaux, took upon herself to inform count Benucci how mat- 
 ters were going on. 
 
 The count was still absent, but his son and daughter hastened 
 to their Astrella. 
 
 They found her sitting up in bed, propped by pillows ; 
 with a faint flush on her cheek at the joy of seeing them. In 
 the arms of a young girl, the nurse’s daughter, was Astrella’s 
 child. It stretched out its little hands, to be taken by Cynthio ; 
 but his sister carried it to the window, and soon contrived to 
 engage its attention to herself. 
 
 The mother’s eyes dwelt with serene delight upon her child 
 in the arms of her gentle friend Olivia. She signed to Cynthio 
 to sit upon the bed’s edge beside her, and stretched forth her 
 hand for his. 
 
 For some time no sound, save the innocent cooings of the 
 little one, broke the stillness in that hushed chamber. 
 
 At length the voice of Astrella made itself heard, nearly 
 extinct ; but tranquil. 
 
 “ Dear friends,” she said, “ it will be your best solace to 
 know that I am happy. Happy in the knowledge that my 
 little Astrella will have the same guardian care that sheltered 
 her mother. At like infant years, you took me in, a little wan- 
 dering star. Both bereft of a parent’s care ; my father perished ; 
 hers is dead to her. You will never let her know the lack of a 
 father — I feel you will not.” 
 
 “You know us too well to doubt it;” said the soft voice of 
 Olivia ; while the pressure of Cynthio’s hand bore testimony 
 to his confirmation of his sister’s words. 
 
 “ One promise I have to entreat of you ; ” Astrella went on. 
 “ It is this. Should her father’s caprice ever claim her as his 
 child, promise me that you will refuse.” 
 
 “ She shall be our child,” said Olivia ; “ my brother and I 
 will never yield her.” 
 
 “ In this thought, I can resign my soul to the bliss of its release.” 
 
 z 
 
333 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ You can leave us — leave life without a sigh?” murmured 
 Cynthio in broken tones. 
 
 “It is hard to own a heart mistaken, betrayed;” she re- 
 turned. “ The humiliation of being wedded for what you 
 bring, not for what you are ! And oh, the misery of living un- 
 loved!” 
 
 Cynthio started. Then he said in an under-breath, “That 
 misery has not been Astrella’s.” 
 
 “ True,” she replied, with the look of full,- open, loving 
 regard which her face always wore, when she spoke of the 
 affection between them ; “ I do justice to the love of my friends, 
 but ah,” and her face sank to its previous sadness, “the heart 
 will thirst for a paramount love, an exclusive love, — love itself. 
 There will come a day when my Cynthio’s young heart will 
 learn this thirst — this imperative demand.” 
 
 “It has already known it,” he said, in the same tone as 
 before. 
 
 “ Then the crystal I saw— it did contain the secret of your 
 heart, — your love ? I thought it, and yet ” 
 
 “It contained yourself — my little star — my Astrella!” he 
 faltered. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon him. They seemed as though 
 they would seek the truth of that wild incredible surmise which 
 now, for the first time, presented itself to her imagination. 
 
 Sadly, yet with a rapturous intensity, his eyes were bent on 
 hers, and seemed to follow their process of retracing remote 
 events and objects. He saw the tender memories that glided 
 upon her vision ; he saw the moistened eyes with which she 
 recalled certain passages in their past life ; he beheld the soft 
 smile which played in them, as she at length murmured, “ My 
 little husband ! ” 
 
 “He loved you !” Cynthio exclaimed; and the passionate 
 truth of the words was told upon her lips. 
 
 Olivia was at length alarmed by the silence that ensued. 
 Approaching the bed she saw them pale and lifeless. Her 
 young brother was in a deep swoon. He had bravely sus- 
 tained sorrow ; but joy was too mighty for him. For Astrella, 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 339 
 
 — she had died in the knowledge that she was beloved by 
 this faithful, noble heart; she had resigned life, contented, 
 happy. 
 
 Count Benucci warmly seconded his son and daughter in 
 their resolve of adopting Astrella’s child ; and supported them 
 in their resolution to withstand the claims of its father, should 
 he ever think fit to urge them. 
 
 For some time there seemed no chance of this ; but after a 
 space, the thought that his little daughter might be made a 
 means of extorting money, induced Dorfaux to threaten the 
 assertion of his legitimate rights. He applied by letter. The 
 count wrote in answer ; temperately, but decisively declining to 
 give up Astrella’s child. 
 
 The chevalier retorted peremptorily, violently. He declared 
 that he should lay his cause before his friend Orsino, the reign- 
 ing duke of Illyria. 
 
 But speciously delivered as was the tale, there was something 
 in the bare facts of the case, that suggested other feelings than 
 the ones sought to be produced. 
 
 The duke felt interested in the noble family who had shown 
 this generous sympathy with orphanhood. He secretly resolved 
 he would inquire farther into the matter, and coldly told the 
 chevalier that he would take time personally to consider of it, 
 before he would sanction its consideration by his council. 
 
 He called a confidential attendant, named Curio ; bade him 
 get horses saddled, and prepare to ride with him a short dis- 
 tance out of town, suddenly, and quite privately. Orsino had 
 informed himself of the whereabouts of Casa Benucci, sufficiently 
 to know that he was approaching its precincts, when, on look- 
 ing over a park paling, among some trees, he saw, seated beneath 
 their shade, a group, — a family-party, that at once arrested his 
 attention. It consisted of a venerable gentleman, of benign 
 aspect, and distinguished bearing, who occupied an easy chair ; 
 near to him sat a youth, with a young child upon his knees, 
 over whom he bent in fondling interest with its half-articulate 
 prattle. Close beside the youth stood a lady, reading a letter. 
 She was young, and very beautiful ; there was a mingled dignity 
 and sweetness in her countenance, both majesty and gracious- 
 
340 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 ness in her mien. The tidings of the letter seemed pleasant, 
 for a smile sat upon her lips. As she raised her eyes, the smile 
 shone there too, in those large, dark, lustrous orbs of trans- 
 parent depth. 
 
 “And Toby writes cheerfully, and happily, does he?” said 
 the grey-haired gentleman, “ when does he talk of coming back 
 to us ? ” 
 
 The young lady did not immediately reply ; her eyes had 
 encountered those of the stranger on horseback, who was look- 
 ing over the fence towards their party. He raised his hat, on 
 perceiving that she had observed him, and rode on to the gates 
 of the mansion ; where he caused himself to be announced as 
 duke Orsino, who requested an interview with the count 
 Benucci. 
 
 “ I have seen the venerable count, if I mistake not, seated 
 with his family in the grounds ; ” said the duke. “ Stay, I will 
 not give his lordship the pains of coming to the house to receive 
 me. I will seek him there myself.” 
 
 The count’s seneschal, Malvolio, ushered his grace with much 
 ceremonial, to the spot where they sat. 
 
 Duke Orsino, with his native urbanity, introduced himself to 
 the count, and bent courteously to Cynthio and Olivia ; then 
 taking a hand of the child’s into his own, led to the inquiries 
 he wished to make, regarding her story. 
 
 The little one shrank from the strange gentleman, clinging 
 to the bosom of her friend Cynthio ; and the duke, smiling, 
 remarked that she proclaimed her own choice of father and 
 protector. 
 
 With some farther expressions of his personal sympathy and 
 interest, the duke took his leave ; entreating that the count 
 would permit him to improve an acquaintance, so happily to 
 himself commenced. 
 
 The count replied with the warmth which this gracious ad- 
 vance demanded, and they parted, mutually pleased. 
 
 More than pleased was Orsino. Enchanted, enamoured, 
 with the rare beauty of Olivia, he could think of nothing, dream 
 of nothing, but her, her alone. But as yet he hazarded no 
 avowal of his admiration. For the present he contented him- 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 341 
 
 self with visiting the family, and forwarding their wishes as 
 much as lay in his power relative to the trial of the cause which 
 soon commenced between them and the chevalier. 
 
 It was hoped that the delay of the law’s decision would tire 
 out Dorfaux’s patience, and exhaust his means, so that he should 
 be compelled into yielding. It effected the two former ; but 
 when he found himself baffled, he took a resolution to have 
 revenge, since he could not obtain profit. 
 
 He laid his plans well. He watched his opportunity. His 
 knowledge of Casa Benucci enabled him to take his measures 
 securely. One evening he got into the house ; lay in wait ; 
 watched Olivia, her father, and brother, go out for a ride on 
 horseback ; knew that the child had just been put to bed ; 
 contrived to elude the vigilance of the nurse ; took it from its 
 cradle; made free with one of the count’s horses, and rode 
 away at full gallop. He was seen by one of the servants, just 
 as he made his escape ; and when the riding-party returned, 
 they were told what had befallen. 
 
 Cynthio, scarcely staying to hear the direction Dorfaux had 
 taken, set off in pursuit. He was much lighter, and a far better 
 horseman than the Frenchman, besides being animated by feel- 
 ings that urged him to the speed of the wind. Although some 
 time had elapsed, yet he did not despair of overtaking him. 
 
 At a turn in the road, he saw him ! He gained upon him ! 
 Faster spurred the chevalier ! Swifter flew Cynthio ! To the 
 very rowels the miscreant strove to plunge his spurs. The 
 gallant beast reared, then bounded onwards. 
 
 What was it Cynthio beheld ? He saw a something white, 
 like a stricken dove, fall from the saddle, — either jerked out of 
 the chevalier’s hold by the horse’s curvet, or dropped by the 
 dastard arm that preferred seizing its own last chance of safety. 
 
 Breathless, appalled, Cynthio darted on, and flung himself 
 out of his saddle. Too truly had his foreboding heart told him 
 the fatal truth ! It was his darling ! His bequeathed treasure ! 
 His only Astrella ! 
 
 Bleeding, and lifeless it lay there, a white heap in the dust. 
 
 Tenderly he lifted the little mangled body, and bore it 
 home. 
 
342 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 From that hour Cynthio’s spirit drooped. His heart died 
 within him. His body gradually declined. 
 
 Olivia tended him with loving assiduity. She devoted her 
 time wholly to him ; and after their father’s death, — which oc- 
 curred about that period, — she had no object in life, to divide 
 her thoughts with her beloved brother. 
 
 They lived a more secluded life than ever. Cynthio’s state 
 of health would not permit his entering into society ; and 
 Olivia derived no enjoyment from that which fatigued and 
 oppressed him. 
 
 Among their few visitors, was duke Orsino. He came still ; 
 but still delayed the declaration of his feelings, out of respect 
 to Olivia’s recent bereavement, promising himself that w r hen her 
 term of mourning for her father should have expired, he would 
 then prefer his suit. 
 
 Sir Toby had returned from Venice, and was now permanently 
 established at Casa Benucci. He had lately received a letter 
 from England, from an old schoolfellow of his, one sir Abel 
 Ague-cheek, written on his death-bed. It recommended to his 
 friend sir Toby’s notice, his son, Andrew, who was about to 
 visit Italy, where the family possessed an estate, and where the 
 new sir Andrew would in all probability settle. The letter 
 spoke in high eulogium on the benefit of foreign travel in form- 
 ing a young man, and ended by entreating that sir Toby would 
 undertake the supervision and farthering of this desirable end; 
 as all that the young man lacked, was a little forming. 
 
 Forming,’ quotha? ” was sir Toby’s comment to himself, 
 as he folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket ; “ I’ll form 
 him, I warrant. He shall be reformed altogether. Marry, he 
 shall be no more a fellow of the same substance, ’neath my 
 polishing.” 
 
 As a first step in sir Toby’s views upon the young knight, he 
 introduced him to his niece Olivia ; and encouraged the young 
 gentleman in the passion with which he was at once smitten for 
 her. He promoted his amusement; and initiated him into 
 divers gay methods of spending his time and his money ; he 
 kept him entertained, and contrived himself to profit by his 
 entertainment. 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 343 
 
 “ What like is this young English knight ? ” said Maria to 
 Feste, the clown, after sir Andrew’s first visit to Casa Benucci. 
 “ Thou hast seen him, I know ; for thou wert in the hall, and 
 reached him his hat, as he took leave. Tell me what he is 
 like.” 
 
 “Faith, he’s like to the picture, — if such a one could be 
 painted a speaking likeness, — of a born simpleton, and a grown 
 natural; but truly, of all living men, he is likest to himself;” 
 replied the clown. 
 
 “ Is he good-natured ? Hath he wit enough to be that ? ” 
 asked she. “ Many a man may be pardoned folly, if he 
 have but so much inkling of sense as to let good-nature shine 
 through it.” 
 
 “Well, he’s what often passes for good-natured. He’s a 
 doughy loaf without any crust. And a loaf without its top 
 crust, — its first letter, — is oaf.” 
 
 “And those three letters sum his character? Sir Toby told 
 me he was a monstrous eater of roast-beef ; and that’s the 
 staple of character, as I’ve heard, where he comes from.” 
 
 “ Was that what sir Toby was telling thee, when I saw him 
 whisper thee, in the box-tree, t’other day?” asked the clown. 
 
 “None of thy rogue’s questions, master Feste; they’ll get 
 but scant answers from me, I promise thee ; ” said Maria, turn- 
 ing away with a laugh, and a reddened cheek. 
 
 “ I did but ask, for the sake of knowing what could be the 
 parley that made a chuck under the chin meet commentary and 
 adjunct;” returned he. 
 
 “ Be gone about thy business, — if thou hast aught of busi- 
 ness, beside idling and trifling ; ” she said, whisking away from 
 him, and darting upstairs to her lady’s room. 
 
 Sir Toby, whose jovial habits nothing could restrain, and 
 upon whose boisterous hilarity the society of his gentle niece 
 and sick nephew acted as a restraint, gave them less and less 
 of his company ; and associated almost wholly with Maria, 
 Fabian, and Feste, whose gayer spirits assimilated better with 
 his tastes. 
 
 While Olivia and Cynthio sat quietly enjoying a book, or 
 music, in the saloon together, sir Toby would be luxuriating in 
 
344 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 a cool stoop of wine in the buttery-bar ; or discussing a bowl 
 of Ipocras in the orchard, while Feste trolled him a merry song ; 
 ever chatting, bantering, toying, drinking, joking, or singing. 
 
 “ Give me more of that pickle-herring. I’m athirst like the 
 salt sea-sand, which never tires of sucking in ; ” he would say. 
 
 “ Pickle-herring ! How shall that mend your drouth ? ” 
 exclaimed Maria. 
 
 “ What, wench ? Doth it not provoke drinking,— and is not 
 drink a quencher of thirst ? ” 
 
 “’Tis but a satisfaction once removed ;” said Feste; “and 
 happy is he that hath satisfaction so near at hand. No farther 
 out of reach than one remove off, is no intolerably deferred 
 content, methinks, for poor humanity ; which mostly hath its 
 cravings beyond mortal gratifying.” 
 
 “Yonder is Malvolio pacing up and down the terrace-walk, 
 stupidly sedate, like a fish going his rounds in a glass vase;” 
 said Maria ; “ an’ you keep up this noisy talk, he’ll overhear 
 you ; and then he’ll think it his duty to bid you to be quiet, out 
 of consideration to my lady. He’s of so fractious a virtue, that 
 reproof hath more relish to his palate than anchovy ; and he 
 indulges his taste, under pretence of regard for my lady’s wishes. 
 Be less loud, for the love of peace and quiet.” 
 
 “ Marry, when the knight is in his cups, he becometh over 
 strepent;” said the clown. “As my lady’s loving uncle, be- 
 seech you, sir Toby, be less nuncupative. Pity that your joys 
 should not be joys unless they be audible. Emulate the mouse 
 in his cheese, who nibbles on in plenitude of smothered satis- 
 faction.” 
 
 “ Hang such hole and corner doings say I ! ” roared sir Toby. 
 “Give me an honest open debauch ! Come, Maria ; let’s have 
 t’other flagon.” 
 
 Sometimes sir Toby would meet sir Andrew at a place he 
 called his cubiculo, — where he had sleeping quarters in the 
 neighbourhood ; and would take Feste with him to make merry, 
 and sing to them. The clown had a trick of rhodomontade in his 
 jesting, which mightily took the two knights ; and he spared 
 not to use it for their amusement. Sir Andrew doted on him ; 
 and lavished money on his singing, and praise on his wit. 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 345 
 
 “ He’s passing excellent at it ; ” he would say. “ I know not 
 whether I don’t prefer it to mine own. Mine is more like a 
 natural fooling — but his is a gift of art.” 
 
 “ And who shall say thou art not natural, — a very natural ? ” 
 returned his friend sir Toby. 
 
 “ Who indeed ? ” said the clown. “ For so sure as Anaxarchus 
 was no flincher, so Diodorus Siculus was as much a tapster as a 
 stay-at-home ; and how shalt thou prove the stars to be sparks, 
 but by allowing that the moon is made of sea-water ? Thou art 
 no sager than cheese, if thou canst not dispute me these things 
 scholarly and wisely.” 
 
 Meantime Cynthio grew rapidly worse. He could not now 
 stir from the couch on which he had used occasionally to rest. 
 His sister constantly occupied a seat near, — reading to him 
 from some choice volume, or playing to him on her lute, some 
 favourite air; breathing it, soft-toned and musical, in her sweet 
 voice. 
 
 The duke Orsino came one morning as was his frequent 
 wont ; and Olivia left her brother’s side to receive the illustrious 
 guest. No sooner had the duke withdrawn, than she hastened 
 back to her sick brother. 
 
 There was a look of blushing confusion visible in her, as she 
 reappeared, that confirmed a thought which had occupied 
 Cynthio’s mind while she was away. He had not been so long 
 a passionate lover himself, without having learned to detect the 
 symptoms of a silent passion in another. He had for some 
 time marked the ill-concealed preference of Orsino, for his 
 sister, as well as the unconsciousness of its existence on her 
 part. He had seen that this love could not rest much longer 
 unavowed ; and when Orsino’s message was delivered that 
 morning, Cynthio felt that this was the occasion when all would 
 be avowed. 
 
 He held out his hand to her, as she took her usual low seat 
 beside his couch. 
 
 “ I fear that you have dismissed his grace with less than your 
 usual grace, sister mine he said, playfully. “Your love for 
 your brother will make you scant in courtesy to your guests. 
 
346 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Orsino is our guest. The duke of Illyria is our honoured 
 guest.” 
 
 “ Our honoured guest ; ” she replied. 
 
 “ Our welcome guest ; ” Cynthio added. 
 
 “ Our welcome guest ; ” she repeated. 
 
 “ No more ? ” he asked, looking into her downcast face. 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 “ Orsino is not merely duke of Illyria ; ” said Cynthio ; “ he 
 is a noble gentleman, high and honourable in principle ; refined 
 and pure in feeling; accomplished, well-gifted, brave, learned ; 
 young, and very handsome.” 
 
 “ Orsino is all you have described him she replied, softly. 
 
 “ And this noble gentleman, rich-gifted by nature, as by for- 
 tune, has told my sister, that all the good gifts are valueless in 
 his eyes, unless she will give them their crowning value by ac- 
 cepting them ? ” said Cynthio. 
 
 “ I cannot deny that he tendered himself to me, — that he 
 professed love for me, — this very morning ; ” said Olivia. 
 
 “ And he felt what he professed. Orsino loves you. I have 
 long seen it ; ” said Cynthio. 
 
 “And oh, my brother, you wish that I should accept his love?” 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Ay, if you love him ; ” Cynthio said. 
 
 “ But I do not — I cannot love him ! ” and she looked with 
 so clear, so transparent a truth, into her brother’s face as she 
 spoke, that he could not but give credence to the entire since- 
 rity of her smiling words. “ To tell thee sooth, my Cynthio, — 
 to tell thee the very inmost of my heart, I will own that it is not 
 such a favour as Orsino’s that could win my wayward fancy. 
 To please my fastidious taste, there must be a delicacy, a grace, 
 a subduing gentleness and sweetness, in the youth I could love, 
 which I do not find in my lord duke. I could describe to thee 
 precisely the sort of being, to whom, methinks, I could give my 
 whole heart, were it not that instead of painting thee a picture, 
 thou wouldst say I but held up a mirror before thee.” 
 
 “ A sorry image, sister mine ; ” he said with his own sad, 
 sweet smile ; “ what should so effeminate-framed, so baby- 
 faced a being as I, present, to win the liking of such a woman 
 
OLIVIA; THE LADY OF ILLYRIA. 
 
 347 
 
 as my Olivia ? Nay, nay, thou wouldst as soon fall in love with 
 a girl, as with such a girlish-looking youth as thy Cynthio.” 
 
 “ Could a girl look like the glorious creature I see before 
 me,” Olivia said, with enthusiasm, as she gazed upon her be- 
 loved young brother, and thought of all the noble qualities, 
 enshrined within that delicate face and slender form, “I should 
 sooner be bewitched into losing my heart to such a semblance, 
 than to the substantial proportions and giant bulk of my lord 
 duke. His grace’s grace is not the grace that findeth grace 
 with me. He is over-tall and portly to please mine eye ; his 
 bearing too lofty and commanding to suit my taste. No, when 
 I can find a youth, with eyes at once soul-appealing and 
 sportive, brow white and smooth, yet with such intelligence as 
 ought to bring wrinkles, mouth both sweet and serious, limbs of 
 slender mould, and deportment gentle as sincere, giving earnest 
 of the high spirit within, then, and then only will I love — love 
 as you would have me. Till then, I’ll content myself with mine 
 own love, my love for my brother, and with his for me.” 
 
 “ Best and dearest of sisters ! ” exclaimed Cynthio, as he drew 
 her to his heart. 
 
 And when this well-beloved brother expired, — yielding his 
 last breath in her arms, and blessing her for all that she had 
 been to him, — what wonder that Olivia, in her first paroxysm of 
 grief, shut herself up from the world, vowing to abjure the very 
 face of the sun for the space of seven years, and observing well- 
 nigh cloistral seclusion in her own apartment. Orsino sent 
 hourly embassages of condolence and sympathy ; but dreading 
 a renewal of his suit, she sent coldly courteous replies. Her 
 kinsman sir Toby, and her household, with a respectful obser- 
 vance of her mourning sorrow, pursued their own devices apart, 
 and as far from her ken as might be. 
 
 Once however, the knight had been spending a roystering 
 evening with sir Andrew Ague-cheek ; he had sat up, the night 
 through, roaring songs and catches with Feste the clown, and 
 with him had reeled home to the mansion at daybreak. This 
 disorderly and ill-timed conduct, had much offended the lady 
 Olivia ; and when, some hours later, the jester came into her 
 
348 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 presence, trying to disarm her anger and make his peace, by a 
 few of his usual sallies, she turned from him in displeasure, 
 saying 
 
 “ Take the fool away.” 
 
 Twelfth Night, Act i. Sc. 5. 
 
TALE XIII. 
 
 HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 HICKER and thicker fell the snow. Fiercely 
 keen blew the Northern wind, heaping the drifts 
 into crannies and gullies, then whirling them far 
 and wide, as if in disdainful caprice. The gloomy 
 fir-trees were all behung with mocking wreaths of 
 sheeted white, that the next blast flung abroad in scattered 
 showers. The murky sky lowered sullenly above all, grey, and 
 cheerless, and hopeless ; as a man, — setting his teeth hard, 
 and facing the rough inclemency as he best might, — cast his 
 eyes up towards the heaven’s unpromising aspect, and then 
 looked around him, with an air that plainly bespoke his having 
 lost his way amid the solitudes of this primaeval pine-forest. 
 A bleak and desolate monotony met his view on all sides ; the 
 same endless rows of tall straight black boles, crowned by 
 funereal branches ; the same blank, trackless waste of snow 
 under-foot ; the same grey veil of mist, and lead-coloured uni- 
 formity of sky, and falling flakes, overhead. 
 
 Something very like a muttered curse upon his own folly, 
 broke from the lips of the man, as he turned in bewildered 
 uncertainty from each new attempt to retrace the path by 
 which he had entered the forest. 
 
 He might have been a denizen of the place, for the coarse- 
 ness and even squalor of his clothing. The rough tunic and 
 cloak of commonest sheep-skin, the bear-hide gloves, and 
 wolf-skin cap, befitted the meanest serf, — but his evident unac- 
 quaintance with the spot, showed him to be no inhabitant of any 
 neighbouring hamlet. 
 
3So 
 
 GIRLHOOD OR SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 With one more perplexed look about him, he suddenly 
 shouted aloud. And then, — amid the gloom and silence, — 
 there came an answering sound, — a cry high-pitched, but 
 dulled by distance, and by seeming lack of power in the 
 shouter. 
 
 The man turned his steps in the direction of the response 
 and saw coming towards him, a small dark figure, muffled in 
 fur. It looked like a black bundle, more than a human child ; 
 the head was enveloped in a dark sheep-skin cap, that fitted so 
 closely round the face, as to show only a circular nucleus con- 
 taining eyes, nose, and mouth ; the body was wrapped in a 
 cloak of the like sombre, woolly wear ; and the lower limbs 
 were encased in thick leggings and boots of the same. 
 
 The man hastened to meet the child, saying : — “ Well met, 
 little one ! How may I best get out of this confounded wood. 
 You live hereabouts ? ” 
 
 “ I am a stranger in these parts ; ” the child answered. “ I 
 came from the capital. I live in Kief — that is, I did live 
 there — I am going to find a home with my father.” 
 
 “ And where is your father? ” said the man. 
 
 “ They banished him — he’s in exile — I am going to him ; ” 
 she replied. 
 
 “ Going to him ! Do you know how far it is to the frozen 
 regions whither culprits are banished, little one ? ” asked the 
 man. 
 
 “ Yes ; I know it is a long way off — but I have managed to 
 come nearly a fourth of my journey, and I shall get through 
 the rest, never fear.” 
 
 “ And who is your father ? ” said the man. 
 
 The child was just about to answer, but she caught the 
 scrutinizing look of the stranger, and checked herself, saying : 
 “Didn’t you say you had lost your way in this forest? I’ll 
 tell you what I’ll do for you. Instead of taking you on with 
 me, I’ll turn back with you, to the good woman, at whose hut 
 I slept last night. She gave me a night’s lodging, and I dare 
 say she’ll do as much for you. She has a kind heart ; and 
 won’t refuse a meal, and a seat by her hearth, to a poor way- 
 farer.” 
 
IIERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 35i 
 
 An odd smile passed over his face, as the man replied : — “ If 
 you present me to her as a poor wanderer — I have no doubt 
 she will take me under her roof. 
 
 The good peasant-woman received her little guest of over- 
 night with much hearty kindness ; and Paulina, the child, was 
 soon bustling about, helping the woman to spread the table, 
 and prepare the meal. She trotted about assiduously ; making 
 herself quite at home ; seeming to know the places where 
 everything was kept ; and taking the lead in all useful and 
 active proceedings. 
 
 She still kept the poor stranger — under her wing, as it were. 
 He had partaken of the coarse fare set before him, and had 
 drawn towards the fire, when the little girl, sitting on a low 
 stool by his side, took one of his hands between both hers, 
 and began chafing it, saying : — “ For all you have eaten, you 
 are still cold ; let me rub your fingers for you ; I’ll soon get 
 warmth into them, I’ll engage. What a curious ring you have 
 upon this finger. It’s something like one that my father used 
 to wear. But his was an emerald ; and this is, of course, a 
 bit of green glass. Still, it’s very pretty ; and here are some 
 curious characters engraved upon it. These characters are 
 like those I have heard my father describe upon the Imperial 
 signet ; he said his own ring was very like the emperor’s. 
 Yours is about the size, — and with just such characters; but 
 though it’s an imitation jewel, it’s very bright and pretty. It’s 
 just as good as if it were real.” 
 
 “Just;” said the man. The emperor’s own signet-ring 
 couldn’t content me better.” 
 
 “ Ah, but it would me ;” said the child. “ If I had that, I’d 
 soon use it to some purpose. I’d affix it to the deed which 
 should repeal my father’s sentence of banishment.” 
 
 She turned the ring round and round upon the man’s finger, 
 as his hand still lay in hers ; sighed thoughtfully, saying : — “ But 
 there is no hope of my father’s recall from exile, though there 
 is a good hope of my joining him in his banishment.” 
 
 The next morning, at day-break, little Paulina was astir, and 
 preparing to set out. She went to rouse the stranger, whom 
 she found still fast asleep on the settle. 
 
352 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “Awake, awake ! It is time we were off;” she said, as she 
 shook him by the shoulder. 
 
 “ How now ! ” exclaimed the man angrily, as he started up, 
 and looked around him in the surprise of finding himself in an 
 unaccustomed place. 
 
 “ It is a fine morning — the snow has ceased — we ought to be 
 on our way. Come ! up with you ! ” said the child. 
 
 The man laughed ; while she alertly set before him the hunk 
 of black bread, and the draught of warm milk-and-water, which 
 the good woman had provided for their breakfast, and brought 
 him his sheep-skin cloak, and helped to fasten it under his 
 chin. 
 
 The weather had quite cleared up ; for a Russian climate, 
 the day was fine ; and the two wanderers made their way across 
 the forest with good speed to a village that lay immediately be- 
 yond. At the door of a sort of post-house, there stood a 
 sledge-equipage, surrounded by a small retinue of attendants, 
 as if awaiting the advent of the master. 
 
 “ It looks like a fairy car ;” said Paulina. “ How pleasant it 
 would be, if some kind spirit were to offer us a seat in it, and 
 convey us to our journey’s end. I wonder where it is going.” 
 
 “ As the equipage is going empty to Igorhof, I wonder whether 
 these people would allow us to ride in it ; ” said the man, as he 
 advanced towards one of the attendants, to parley with him. 
 
 Paulina could not hear exactly what passed between them ; 
 but she saw the stranger show the groom his ring, — she saw 
 that there was an explanation and acquiescence given. 
 
 The man returned to her side. “ He has consented.” 
 
 “ If so, they’ll make you pay for what you want — and I sup- 
 pose you’ve no money. I, luckily, have enough to serve us 
 both. See here.” 
 
 The child showed a handsome embroidered purse ; and when 
 the man expressed surprise at seeing such a thing in her pos- 
 session, she told him that very fortunately her father had given 
 her this purse full of gold for a plaything one day; “My 
 father has always taught me, that the best use I can make of 
 money is to bestow it on those who need it ; so here it is ; 
 take it.” 
 
HERM1 ONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 353 
 
 “I must know more of your father;” said the man hastily. 
 “ What is his name?” 
 
 The child looked steadily into the man’s face : “ I must 
 know more of you,” she said, “ before I trust you with my 
 father’s name. He has already been undone by too generous 
 trusting of those who proved themselves traitors.” 
 
 “Traitors ! ” exclaimed the man. 
 
 “ Don’t be offended she said gravely. “ I don’t say you 
 are a traitor ; I only say I don’t know enough of you to trust 
 you with my father’s secrets. You avoid answering me directly 
 about yourself, yet you wonder that I don’t tell you at once all 
 about my father. Let us each keep our own secrets, and be as 
 good friends, on all other points, as may be. 
 
 “ I will tell you one thing,” said the man. “ I have a little 
 daughter, perhaps a little younger than yourself. I should like 
 my little girl to thank you for your care of her father. I wish 
 she could see you. What say you to coming with me to my 
 home, and making friends with her ? ” 
 
 “ I should like it very much ; but you live far from here, and 
 I must not let anything interfere with my journey to my 
 father.” 
 
 “ But my home — at least, the place where my little girl now 
 is — lies all in your way ; you must pass it, going to your father 
 in his exile. “ But, here we are at Igorhof,” he added, as the 
 sledge drew up at the gates of a large mansion but indistinctly 
 seen, now, through the grey twilight of a Russian evening. 
 
 “You are getting out, here?” said the child. “Have you 
 much farther to go, before you reach the place where your 
 daughter is ? ” 
 
 “No; ’tis close by. Give me your hand, little one;” said 
 the man, as she stepped out of the sledge after him ; “ ’tis my 
 turn to guide you, now.” 
 
 He led her on, — she could not see exactly where, by reason 
 of the deepening darkness. He stopped at a small side door, 
 which he opened, and entered. Within, was a kind of vestibule, 
 lighted by the softened light of a lamp, that hung at the foot of 
 a winding staircase. 
 
 “Have you a right here? Are you not making your way 
 
 A A 
 
354 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 into a strange house ? ” said Paulina, hanging back, as the man 
 prepared to mount the stairs, still holding her by the hand. 
 
 “ Trust to me — as I trusted you, in the forest ;” said the 
 man, smiling. ‘‘Trust to me, and,- — to use your own word, — 
 never fear ! ” 
 
 “I don’t;” she replied. “That is, I don’t fear you would 
 lead me into harm, in return for my helping you when you 
 were in danger ; but I do fear doing wrong — and I shouldn’t 
 choose to go with you any farther, if you are stealing into a 
 place where you’ve no business to be.” 
 
 “ I assure you, I am not committing a trespass, little scru- 
 pulous;” said the man. “I know the master of this house; 
 and it is here I expect to meet my daughter. Trust me ; trust 
 my word.” 
 
 “ I will, though you are a stranger, and I don’t like some of 
 your ways ; yet you've a true looking face, and I’ll trust that.” 
 
 They reached the top of the staircase ; and throwing open a 
 door, the man led her forward into a spacious room, richly 
 furnished, hung with tapestry, and lighted by a large silver lamp 
 suspended from the ceiling. 
 
 The man threw a hasty glance around, as if in search of some 
 one ; then, muttering : — “ She will be here anon ;” threw him- 
 self upon one of the cushioned couches, as if thoroughly wearied. 
 He sat, beating his foot a little, impatiently, at first ; then he 
 fell into a fit of thought, as his eye rested upon some papers 
 that lay piled upon the table. Presently, he drew the heap 
 towards him, and began turning them over, when his hand was 
 arrested by Paulina’s exclaiming : — “ I don’t like your fingering 
 those papers, and prying into them, without leave. It makes 
 me sometimes suspect — in spite of your face, that made me like 
 you, and think you an honest man,— that you are, after 
 all, ” 
 
 “ Well ; what ? ” smiled the man. 
 
 “A thief !” 
 
 The man was still laughing at this uncompromising reply, 
 when the door of the apartment opened, and a little girl en- 
 tered. She was very young, but there was an easy grace, and 
 high-breeding, in her air, that bespoke her exalted rank, even 
 
HER MI ONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 355 
 
 more unmistakably than the costly apparel she wore. There 
 was a noble frankness that looked out of her eyes, a pure 
 serenity and candour that dwelt upon her clear brows, which 
 adorned and distinguished her far more than the rich furs and 
 jewel-clasped velvet, that formed her attire. 
 
 As she advanced into the room, she gazed with a quiet won- 
 der at the two strange figures there ; but looking more intently 
 at the man — whose coarse, rude garments at first prevented her 
 recognizing him — she sprang forward, and threw herself into his 
 arms, exclaiming : — “ Father ! dear father ! ” 
 
 He embraced her fondly in return ; and for a few moments 
 they were wholly engrossed with each other. Presently, he 
 turned to where Paulina stood in mute astonishment at this 
 scene, and said : — “ But I must not forget my little preserver. 
 Thank her, Hermione. I owe her my life. She helped me out 
 of that confounded wood, where I might have perished, starving 
 of cold and hunger. She guided me through all these mortal 
 dangers ; to say nothing of her keeping guard upon my morals, 
 as well as my perils.” 
 
 He was laughing heartily as he concluded ; but Paulina never 
 altered from the serious look with which she regarded him. 
 
 “ Well, little one, have you made up your mind yet about me?” 
 he said. “ Are your notions as to what my vocation may be, 
 still of the same favourable nature as you hinted — nay, told me 
 plump — just now?” 
 
 “ I have heard of robbers going out prowling in poor shabby 
 clothes, and having a rich home, with plenty of luxuries to come 
 to ; ” she said, with her straightforward way ; “ so you may still 
 be what I took you for — a thief. But somehow I don’t think 
 you are, now.” 
 
 “ And pray what may have altered your opinion ? ” said he. 
 
 “ Your daughter ; ” she replied. “ Since I have seen her, I 
 think you must be an honest man; an honourable man; a gentle- 
 man — for all you are meanly dressed. Perhaps some great lord.” 
 
 “ Well done ! Well aimed !” he exclaimed. “ Come,” added 
 he, “ I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll tell me your 
 father’s name, I’ll tell you who I am.” 
 
 “As I believe you to be honourable, and that therefore my 
 
356 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES. 
 
 trusting you will not injure him,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed 
 upon his face, “ I will tell you his name. It is Vladimir 
 Betzkoi.” 
 
 The man’s brow darkened, but after a pause of a few seconds, 
 it cleared, and he muttered : — “ I will not believe it ; he must 
 have been calumniated. At all events, I will have it looked to.” 
 Then he added aloud : — “ Now that you have trusted me with 
 his name, I will use all my power to have his case inquired into, 
 that if wrong has been done, it may be redressed.” 
 
 “ You will interest your friends !” exclaimed little Paulina, her 
 eyes sparkling with joy. “ I remember; you said you knew the 
 master of this house. He must be a rich man — a powerful 
 lord — you will interest him? You will speak to him in my 
 father’s behalf? Perhaps he’s at home now ! Come, let us go 
 to him at once ! ” she exclaimed, starting up, and seizing the 
 man’s arm in her eagerness. 
 
 “ Softly, softly, little one;” answered he, smiling; “you forget 
 how tired I am with my wanderings ; you in your loving zeal for 
 your father, feel no fatigue, care for neither food nor drink ; but 
 I own I’m worn out ; I must have some of all these, before I can 
 stir a step in any matter.” 
 
 “ I am thoughtless, selfish — I forget all, in my one concern 
 for my father ; but you will forgive his daughter for her sake, 
 won’t you ? ” said Paulina pointing to Hermione, and then pro- 
 ceeding to bustle about, as she had done at the peasant’s hut, 
 lifting his cap from his head, drawing his gloves from his hands, 
 and helping him off with his cloak. 
 
 His daughter joined her in her ministry, with her own quiet, 
 gentle, yet decided manner ; a graceful, dignified self-possession 
 marking her air in all she did. She was sparing in speech ; and 
 had, throughout this scene, offered no word of her own upon 
 what passed, though her countenance had more than once ex- 
 pressed surprise, with constant interest. She had stood by her 
 father’s side the whole time, with one arm upon his shoulder, 
 as he sat ; while he held her in one of his, passed round her 
 waist. 
 
 “You have fasted, then? — you have been delayed on your 
 journey? — some accident? — these clothes?” she now said in a 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 357 
 
 tender voice. “ Dear father, tell me what has happened. But 
 first you must need refreshment; I will give orders that some be 
 brought hither, that you may have a snug little meal in your 
 Hermione’s room. They shall bring supper here.” 
 
 “ Ay, let it be so ;” he answered. “ And Hermione,” he went 
 on, beckoning her to lean down and listen to something that he 
 whispered in her ear. She looked in his face with a smile of 
 amusement reflected from his own, and glided swiftly from the 
 room to give her orders. 
 
 “ Your hands are very different now, from the poor, numbed, 
 frozen things, they were in the forest hut ;” said little Paulina, 
 as she laid one of hers on the back of his ; “ they are in a nice 
 glow, arn’t they.” 
 
 “ Ay, but my feet are not so warm ; they are very cold — cold 
 as stone ; ” said the man. 
 
 “That mustn’t be;” replied she. “Stay, let me draw off your 
 boots, and chafe them for you ; I used often to do this for my 
 father, when he came home cold-footed; and he always said no 
 one chafed his feet so comfortably as his little Paulina. Here, 
 hold out your foot;” and she knelt down beside him; “I’ll 
 soon have the boot off. Now the other ! That’s it ! And 
 then I’ll sit upon this little stool, and you can pop both feet upon 
 my lap — and I’ll have them warm as a toast in a trice.” 
 
 “ You’ve taken up all your first liking to me again, since you’ve 
 found out for certain I’m not a thief?” he said laughing. “You 
 pet me, and make as much of me, now, as you did in the hut, 
 when you told me you liked me because you had been able to 
 help me.” 
 
 “ Yes ;” she answered, with her quiet gravity. “By-the-by,” 
 she added with sudden animation, “ you have never kept your 
 part of the bargain ! You were to have told me whoyouwere ? 
 you know.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll tell you soon — presently.” 
 
 “ ‘ Soon ! ’ ‘ Presently ! ’ Oh, that’s very unfair ! I told you 
 at once my secret— and now you put me off about yours. 
 That’s very unfair ! ” 
 
 Just then, Hermione returned, followed by a train of ser- 
 vants. Some spread the table ; while others drew near to the 
 
358 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 couch where the man sat, bearing a furred dressing-gown, and 
 slippers. 
 
 Paulina put out her hand for the latter. 
 
 The attendant would have withheld them ; but, at a sign from 
 the man, gave them to her. She put them carefully on his feet, 
 saying : — “ They’re as warm as your hands now, arn’t they ? 
 Now for your wrapping-gown.” 
 
 The other attendant stepped forward, about to hold it ready ; 
 but Paulina took that also from his hands, with “ No, no ; give 
 it me ; I’ll put it on. I’ll step on the stool, on tip-toe ; and I 
 shall be able to reach.” 
 
 “ Let her do it ; ” said the man quietly, and with his amused 
 smile. 
 
 “You’ve never answered my accusation, you know;” she 
 resumed. “ I said it was very unfair, and so it is, not to keep 
 your bargain with me. If you’re not a thief, you break your 
 promises, and that’s nearly as bad.” 
 
 There was a stir, and a look of amazement among the atten- 
 dants ; but the next moment it subsided. 
 
 He nodded, laughingly saying : — “ But let us have some 
 supper first.” 
 
 He chatted gaily, and seemed in high spirits as he sat between 
 the two little girls ; his daughter Hermione on one side of him, 
 Paulina on the other — both waiting on him, with those half- 
 playful, half-tender attentions, that belong to the intercourse 
 between children and a grown person whom they like. 
 
 “ How came you to tell me such a fib about your daughter ? ” 
 said Paulina, suddenly. “ You told me she was pretty, didn’t 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; don’t you think her so ? ” 
 
 “ No ; she’s very different from pretty. She has the most 
 beautiful face I ever saw. It’s like what I fancy a queen’s must 
 be. It looks as if a crown would set well upon it.” 
 
 “You hear how whimsically plain-spoken she is ;” said the 
 father of Hermione to her. “ She told me just as openly — but 
 far less complimentarily — what she thought of my face.” 
 
 “ Of course ; why shouldn’t I ? ” said Paulina. “ I dare say, 
 now,” continued she to Hermione, “ your love for your father 
 
HERM10NE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 359 
 
 makes you think him handsome ; but he is anything but hand- 
 some ; rather plain than otherwise.” 
 
 There was the same stir, and tokens of amazement among 
 the attendants as before ; but as before, it subsided, at a glance 
 from Hermione’s father. Paulina saw neither the amazement, 
 nor the glance, but went on. 
 
 “You see he has a very little nose — almost a snub; and though 
 his eyes are fine, yet there is a wart near the left one ; and then 
 he has an odd tooth that projects just there, and gives a queer, 
 droll effect, to his mouth. He has just that sort of face which 
 might be handsome, but which isn’t handsome ; it is much better 
 than handsome, I think. It’s a kind of face one’s always glad 
 to see, and always sorry to part with.” 
 
 Hermione gazed fondly upon the face in question, and smiled 
 acquiescence with the truth of what was last said of it. 
 
 “ Then you wouldn’t like to know you were never to look 
 upon it again, — for all its ugliness; eh, little one?” said the 
 owner, laughing. 
 
 “ I should be very very miserable if I thought ” 
 
 The child stopped ; with a break in her voice that was even 
 more eloquent than speech. 
 
 The man was touched with the artless evidence of liking in 
 this sincere-spoken little creature. After a pause, he said : — 
 “ Come, give me a kiss upon this ugly cheek of mine. I have 
 a father’s right to it. I am your father while your own is 
 away.” 
 
 “ My father ? ” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Your father! ” he repeated ; “the father of all my sujects, — 
 the father of my people. I am the emperor of Russia.” 
 
 Paulina stood gazing at him fixedly, in utter astonishment. 
 Her face worked eagerly ; her breath went and came. Then 
 she dropped upon her knees, flung her head on his, and clasped 
 them round, as she exclaimed : — “ My father ! My own father ! 
 Think of him ! Grant him his freedom ! Pardon him ! ” 
 
 The emperor kindly bent over her, and spoke soothingly. 
 
 'Presently she started up. “ Yet why do I say, * Pardon him ? * 
 He has done nothing that needs pardon. He has been ever 
 loyal and faithful. Do him justice ! Search into the truth. 
 
360 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Redress the wrong that has been done him ; and restore to 
 yourself a devoted officer and servant ! ” 
 
 “ If only for his child’s sake ” the emperor began. 
 
 But Paulina vehemently interrupted him with : — “ Not for 
 mine ! Not because I happened to do you a service ! But be- 
 cause he himself deserves to be freed-— he who has been punished 
 as a traitor, when he was none.” 
 
 “ Never fear, little Conscientious !” said the monarch, laughing. 
 “ Entire justice shall be done. Your father shall have the benefit 
 of a close investigation into his case. Will that satisfy you ? ” 
 
 “ Quite ; ” she said in her grave way. 
 
 Paulina’s father was recalled from exile ; his innocence 
 triumphantly proved, while he himself was reinstated in all his 
 former possessions. On his return, he found his little daughter 
 in high favour at court. She was encouraged and indulged by 
 the emperor, who took a strange fancy to that blunt sincerity 
 in her, the least approach to which, he would have so strongly 
 resented in any other being. Next to his own child Hermione, 
 the emperor best loved the little Paulina. In the first he took 
 a fond pride ; with the latter he was amused ; he was enter- 
 tained by her steady gravity when she spoke of things that 
 seemed to her serious ; and was excited by her frank and spirited 
 mode of speech at all times. He was glad to have a girl of her 
 sterling principles, as a companion for his young daughter. 
 Hermione, — herself of a noble disposition, — took a great liking 
 to Paulina ; and had for her that most enduring of regards, an 
 attachment founded on confidence, esteem, and respect. They 
 grew up together, less like princess and dependent, than friends. 
 When the princess attained more years, Paulina was enrolled 
 among her ladies of honour. 
 
 Hermione spent a large portion of her time at Igorhof, — a 
 delightful summer palace at some distance from the capital. 
 Here, with her four favourite ladies, Paulina, Emilia, Olga, and 
 Rogneda, she passed the hours in the studies and recreations 
 proper to their season of life ; and when the emperor could be 
 lured from Kief to make one of the rural party, his daughter’s 
 satisfaction was complete. 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PR INC ESS. 361 
 
 The fame of her beauties and excellence had already ex- 
 tended far and wide. Embassies from numerous foreign courts 
 brought offers of alliance. Wherever there was a kingdom 
 possessing a prince of a marriageable age, — an heir to a crown 
 requiring a consort, — straightway an emissary was sent, treating 
 for the hand of the incomparable Hermione. 
 
 Hitherto the emperor had turned a deaf ear to all these pro- 
 posals, affirming that as yet his daughter was too young, and 
 that he could not bear to think of parting with her. But at 
 length a proffer came on the part of the king of Sicily, in behalf 
 of his son, prince Leontes, so advantageous to Russia, so con- 
 formable to the emperor’s views, that he bade the two embas- 
 sadors, Camillo and Antigonus, do him the favour to abide his 
 consideration of their master’s suit; and meanwhile to make 
 sojourn in his good city of Kief. 
 
 There was another reason, besides the political advantages 
 presented by this alliance, which induced the emperor to think 
 of it ; this was, a doubt he had entertained latterly concerning 
 a certain youth, named Alexis. He was the orphan child of a 
 younger sister of the emperor’s who, when a mere girl, had fled 
 from the palace, and united herself with a man of neither fortune 
 nor birth. The young Alexis had shared the tuition, with 
 which a father’s care had supplied Hermione ; and the two 
 cousins had grown up in all the intimacy and affection of their 
 mutual relationship. 
 
 It struck the father, that when he had proposed to Alexis 
 remaining with him at Kief, instead of accompanying Hermione 
 and her train to Igorhof, the young man had discovered not 
 only eagerness, but embarrassment and confusion, in the im- 
 petuosity with which he had urged his wish to go with her. 
 
 The emperor lost no time in repairing to Igorhof, that he 
 might see and question his daughter, determining at once to 
 resolve his doubt. 
 
 He found her, seated amidst her ladies, embroidering ; while 
 her young cousin read aloud, from a scroll, — a Greek poem, 
 that had lately reached the Russian court. 
 
 The suddenness of her father’s arrival and entrance, caused 
 a bright colour to mount into the cheek of Hermione, — but it 
 
362 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 was the blush of joy, with no one mingling of consciousness or 
 confusion, which heightened her complexion, and sparkled in 
 honest pleasure from her eyes. Almost in that one look, her 
 father was satisfied. He cast a hasty glance at Alexis ; who 
 had made a somewhat abrupt withdrawal from his close vicinity 
 to the ladies’ embroidery-frame, at the moment of the emperor’s 
 entrance. The youth’s face did not exhibit quite so unembar- 
 rassed an expression as the princess’s ; but he came forward, 
 and bade him welcome, with his wonted graceful mixture of 
 affection and deference. 
 
 The emperor, signifying his desire to be left alone with his 
 daughter, — her ladies, and Alexis, withdrew. 
 
 In the conversation which ensued, her father told her the 
 views he had for her marriage, and Hermione answered with 
 so light, so almost gay a tone, that he felt reassured with 
 respect to her entirely disengaged heart. 
 
 “ For the present, dear father !” she exclaimed gaily, “ I have 
 another match in my head, and so nearly at heart that I have 
 neither head to dream with, nor heart to give away, in love 
 affairs of mine own.” 
 
 “ And pray for whom may your highness be plotting, and 
 taking up the unsatisfactory office of match-maker ? ” said the 
 emperor. 
 
 “ Alexis and Paulina ; ” replied his daughter. “ I suspect he 
 is beyond plummet’s depth in love with her ; and I am much 
 mistaken if she be not brought to return his attachment. He is 
 never happy but in company with me and my ladies ; and I 
 know who is by far the most admirable among them, — Paulina. 
 It must needs be her. 
 
 “ Meantime,” said the emperor, “ withdraw your unselfish 
 thoughts for your friends’ happiness; and bring your mind to bear 
 seriously upon what I have to propose for your own, my child.” 
 
 He told Hermione of the embassage from the king of Sicily, 
 suing for her hand in the name of his son, Leontes. He told 
 her how fair a renown the young prince enjoyed, as a scholar, 
 and a gentleman. He told her how well a father’s pride and 
 affection would be contented, in having her united to one who 
 bore such a reputation ; he told her how entirely his kingdom’s 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 363 
 
 interest would be consulted by the fulfilment of this proposed 
 alliance. 
 
 Hermione listened calmly. Then she placed her hand in his, 
 and said : — “ I have no will but yours. Dispose of me as best 
 seems to you. I have no wish, but to fulfil your desires. They, 
 I know, are for both our good. Be it as you think fit.” 
 
 Her father pressed her to his heart, proudly, fondly. 
 
 On the emperor’s return to his capital, he called a council, 
 and stated his determination to bestow his daughter, the princess 
 Hermione, in marriage with the heir-apparent to the crown of 
 Sicily, prince Leontes. 
 
 The appointment of many particulars occupied some con- 
 siderable time; so that several weeks elapsed between the arrival 
 of the Sicilian embassadors in the Imperial city of Kief and the 
 period of their departure, when they carried back with them the 
 emperor’s pledged and written word of compliance. 
 
 These weeks had been spent by Camillo and Antigonus, and 
 their suite, at the house of Vladimir Betzkoi. He pressed the 
 two embassadors to make his mansion their home ; and sent 
 for his daughter Paulina to come thither, that its comfort and 
 attraction might be secured, by having so fair and so competent 
 a mistress of his household to preside over its arrangements. 
 
 During their stay with General Betzkoi, the frank graces and 
 spirited beauty of his daughter Paulina, had made a powerful 
 effect upon both the visitors. But Camillo, with the strict up- 
 rightness that distinguished him, resolved to defer all considera- 
 tion of his own interests, until those of his royal master’s wishes 
 had been fulfilled. He determined neither by word nor look to 
 betray his feelings to Paulina or her father, until he should have 
 returned from Sicily with the mutual agreement of the two 
 courts respecting the projected royal marriage ; and then he 
 would endeavour to effect his own with the woman whom above 
 all her sex, he desired to call his wife. The lord Antigonus 
 was withheld by no such nice scruples from endeavouring at 
 once to secure the prize he had in view ; he therefore imme- 
 diately, although privately, declared his love to the father of 
 Paulina, and asked her hand of him ; but made it his request 
 
364 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 that the engagement should remain secret, until he could come 
 to claim the hand of his betrothed bride, at the same time that 
 he returned to fetch the future consort of his prince. 
 
 Vladimir Betzkoi eagerly closed with the proposal ; and he 
 told Paulina of the consent he had given, confident of her glad 
 acquiescence with an arrangement that promised so happily. 
 
 “ I knew a husband must be my fate, at some time or other; ” 
 was her answer. “ I have long made up my mind to endure 
 the impending evil. Let me thank my stars for the reprieve. 
 Who knows what may happen in the interval ? My future lord 
 and master may repent of the engagement, and never come back 
 to claim his betrothed spouse. Meantime, I have several good 
 months of freedom.” 
 
 A few days after the departure of the embassadors, Paulina 
 returned to Igorhof, and the princess sat with her favourite 
 lady, — the embroidery-frame furnishing a pleasant occupation 
 for hands and eyes, while they were engaged in interesting talk. 
 
 “ And now tell me, Paulina, — now that we are alone, — if thou 
 bring’st back the same heart, thou bor’st with thee to Kief. A 
 capital, and a court, are sore places for the losing of hearts. 
 Blast thou thine safe yet ? ” 
 
 “ Safe and sound ; safe in mine own keeping, and sound from 
 any scratch of the blindfold archer-boy’s shafts ; ” said Paulina, 
 laughing. “ But though my heart’s free, my hand’s fettered. 
 My father has accepted the offer with which lord Antigonus 
 honoured me; and has passed his word that I shall become his 
 wife, when he shall come to claim me.” 
 
 “ And when is that? ” said Hermione. 
 
 11 When he returns from Sicily to escort you thither, madam, 
 as the bride of his prince; 5 ’ answered Paulina. “There is this 
 bright point in my lot ; I am not to be separated from her I 
 love better than any man of them all.” 
 
 “ Then thou lov’st not this lord Antigonus ? ” said Hermione, 
 after a pause. 
 
 “ I love him not ; neither do I hate him ; he is too venerable 
 a gentleman to be hated ;” said Paulina; “ and I should have 
 probably both liked and esteemed him more, had he not taken 
 it into his head to like me — and to ask for me for a wife, before 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS . 
 
 3^5 
 
 I had time to think whether I liked him better than any other 
 man in the world, — which is what a wife should do, to be a good 
 wife and a happy wife. What ailed him to be so troublesomely 
 ready, I should like to know ? ” 
 
 “ So ready to step in with his suit, before some one else 
 could propose, whom you might have preferred, do you mean?” 
 asked Hermione. 
 
 Paulina started; then fell into a reverie, her thoughts resting 
 on Camillo. After a few minutes she resumed, with a sigh : — 
 “ Whatever might have been, it is useless now to consider. My 
 father’s word of honour is pledged ; and it shall not be forfeited 
 by fault of mine.” 
 
 “ Poor Alexis ! ” thought the princess. “ He has been too 
 tardy in speaking of his love.” 
 
 It happened the next day, Hermione was walking in the 
 gardens, surrounded by her ladies; when Alexis joined them, 
 bearing a beautiful exotic, which the emperor had sent to his 
 daughter for her conservatory. The ladies lingered behind, 
 laughing and talking gaily. 
 
 “ Hark how their voices make a blended sound sweeter than 
 music;” said Alexis. “That thrilling, joyous laugh above all ! 
 I should know it among a thousand ! The artless gaiety of her 
 soul rings out through her voice, like the carol of a bird in 
 spring-time.” 
 
 “ Her voice is generally low ; ” said the princess ; “ it would 
 require a lover’s partiality, methinks, to discover the liveliness 
 of a lark’s singing to Paulina’s grave and impressive tones.” 
 
 “ Paulina’s ! I was thinking of Emilia’s ! I was speaking of 
 hers ! ” 
 
 “You love Emilia, then?” said Hermione, with a deep-drawn 
 breath. 
 
 “ More than life;” he returned ; “but I have striven to con- 
 ceal it from herself. I dread to startle that young, shy heart. 
 Yet I shall hope for your good offices in my behalf, when I shall 
 have dared to avow my passion ; and meanwhile, I trust I have 
 your good wishes ? ” 
 
 “ They attend yours to a successful issue ; ” she answered as 
 she returned to the house, musingly. 
 
366 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 <( It is indeed a hazardous thing to plan the assorting and 
 bringing together of hearts ; ” she thought. “ Had I betrayed 
 Paulina into a vain preference for Alexis, by misleading her as 
 to his sentiments, I should have had the remorse of knowing 
 the pangs of a hopeless passion were hers to struggle with.” 
 
 Her generous concern for her friend’s happiness, led to re- 
 flections touching her own lot ; and she fell into a train of 
 thought, having for its object the qualities of person, temper, 
 and mind, attributed by report to her future husband. 
 
 The time now approached for the ratifying of the promise 
 which her father had made, on her behalf. The embassadors 
 from Sicily were daily expected to arrive in Kief; and the 
 princess Hermione, with her train, repaired from Igorhof to the 
 capital, to be present at the state reception. 
 
 The ceremonial concluded. The king’s formal agreement 
 to the conditions proposed by the emperor, was read aloud to 
 the council ; and a day appointed for the solemn betrothal of 
 the contracting parties, at a sufficient distance of time to admit 
 of all pomp and pageant of preparation. 
 
 During this interval, the princess was to retire to her favourite 
 residence — the summer-palace of Igorhof ; as its country seclu- 
 sion would enable her to prepare herself for the duties of her 
 new life. She begged her father would procure for her a com- 
 petent master, with whom she might study the Sicilian language, 
 as henceforth the subject of Sicily, its dialect, and its literature, 
 should be the dearest object of her interest, and endeavoured 
 attainment. 
 
 Her father consulted Camillo; who replied that he was 
 happy to have it in his power to second the views of the 
 emperor, since in the suite of the embassy there was a man 
 precisely fitted to fill the office of tutor to her highness the 
 princess. The person in question was his own secretary it was 
 true ; but this subordinate situation, — which he at present held, 
 in consequence of his desire to avail himself of the opportunity 
 it afforded of visiting and advantageously seeing the Russian 
 court and capital, — did not prevent his being in reality a deeply- 
 read scholar, a perfect sage in research and erudition. Camillo 
 ended by saying he would himself follow the princess to Igorhof, 
 
HER MI ONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 3&7 
 
 and have the pleasure of presenting his secretary to the princess 
 as her instructor, if she would graciously permit his services in 
 that capacity. 
 
 The day after the princess reached Igorhof, Camillo was 
 announced ; praying leave to present the gentleman who was 
 to have the honour of superintending her Sicilian studies. 
 
 From what her father had repeated to her of Camillo’s words, 
 concerning the person who was to be her instructor, Hermione 
 had pictured to herself, a grave, elderly man, robed in black, 
 with silver hairs, — a complete impersonation of a sage, a philo- 
 sopher. What then was her surprise, when Camillo made his 
 appearance, followed by a young man clad in a simple grey suit, 
 bearing a portfolio of papers and some books, whom he pre- 
 sented as his secretary, Leon. 
 
 “You are welcome at Igorhof, sir ; ” she said. “ I trust you 
 will make it your sojourn, so long as it maybe agreeable to you. 
 Its gardens, and vicinity, are well worthy a stranger’s inspection, 
 and my cousin will have much pleasure in escorting you to 
 those spots best deserving your notice.” 
 
 As she concluded, she turned to her cousin Alexis, who, 
 with her ladies, was in the apartment, and presented the two 
 gentlemen to each other. Camillo acknowledged her gracious 
 courtesy ; and withdrew shortly after, to pay the visit to the 
 grounds, which she had recommended. 
 
 As he retired, accompanied by her cousin, the princess 
 addressed the young secretary : — “ You have been so good as to 
 anticipate my wish, sir, I perceive, and have brought with you 
 the means of commencing our lessons at once. I cannot too 
 soon begin the task I have before me ; I fear me, the time will 
 be but short, for its accomplishment. But I will refer me to 
 your skill in teaching, rather than rely upon mine own poor 
 powers of learning.” 
 
 “ Such as it is, it shall be at your highness’s command in all 
 devoted zeal ; ” replied Leon, as he spread the books and 
 papers on the table, and placed a chair for the princess ; taking 
 his own station quietly behind it. 
 
 She had expected a grave, staid, elderly personage ; and 
 here was one in the prime of youthful manhood. In years, 
 
368 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 then, her new tutor was the total opposite of the picture she 
 had represented to herself; but in the two former particulars, 
 it was impossible to be more exactly fulfilled by the fact. The 
 young secretary might have been a stoic, a cynic, for the 
 measured sobriety, and cold severity of his deportment. He 
 might have been Mentor himself, for the rigid calm, the senile 
 composure of his bearing. Had his face seen seventy winters, 
 in lieu of the hardly more than twenty summers which it 
 seemed to have witnessed, it could scarce have worn a more 
 frozen aspect. 
 
 There was something in this look of his, that made it seem 
 unfit he should be standing beside her, or rather at the back of 
 her chair ; his character of instructor, too, warranted greater 
 respect; and she accordingly said ; — “Be seated, sir, I pray 
 you.” 
 
 The secretary quietly placed himself in the chair she pointed 
 to, over against her, and drawing one of the books between 
 them, commenced the lesson. 
 
 Day after day, the studies thus proceeded ; the princess and 
 her tutor occupying a table in one of the windows, while her 
 ladies sat at the embroidery-frame in another. These latter 
 were frequently joined by young Alexis ; who would hang over 
 the embroidery-frame, trifling and chatting with the ladies of 
 honour ; watching Emilia, and flattering himself that he dis- 
 cerned tokens of her increasing affection. At other times, he 
 would approach his cousin’s writing-table, playfully tax her with 
 too close an attention to her studies, and lure her forth into the 
 flower-garden to idle with him and her ladies, as fitter pursuit, 
 than leaning over musty books and papers. The cold, stern 
 looks with which the young tutor regarded him on such occa- 
 sions, passed unheeded. 
 
 The manners of this latter were not such as to conciliate a 
 gay youth like Alexis ; therefore, save with the princess, his 
 pupil, and with Camillo, his master, the secretary held little 
 communion with any one. 
 
 It was during the lessons, that he gradually evinced an ani- 
 mation, the reverse of his habitual frigid quietude. He no 
 longer regarded his pupil with that grave, considering look, 
 
HERMI ONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS . 369 
 
 that chilling, deliberate investigation, with which he had at first 
 contemplated her. His delight in instructing, evidently grew 
 with his discovery of her capacity for acquiring ; and in return, 
 her pleasure in the lessons as evidently increased in proportion 
 to the interest and sympathy with which they were now given. 
 
 The hours spent in her Sicilian studies, were the happiest 
 Hermione had ever known ; they seemed like the opening of 
 a new existence to her. She resolved the question as to whence 
 this charm arose, by believing that it was because Sicily, — 
 which was to become her adopted country, — its language, its 
 history, its people, its laws, its customs, its scenery, formed the 
 themes of discussion between herself and her instructor. When 
 he dwelt with fervour upon the poetical traditions of his native 
 isle, upon the classic stories of its shores ; when he painted to 
 her the golden glories of its climate, the purple hues of its 
 mountains, the fertile luxuriance of its plains ; when he de- 
 scribed the bee-haunted, odoriferous Hybla, or the majestic, 
 fire-vomiting iEtna ; when he spoke of the ice-cold streams of 
 the transformed Acis, of the lovely fields of Enna, where lovelier 
 Proserpina and her nymphs gathered heaps of wild flowers ; 
 when he told her of the piping shepherd-gods, and enamoured 
 nereids, those earlier denizens of the island, still haunting its 
 remoter shades, to the eye of poesy, whilst mortals of noble 
 mould and action peopled its towns and cities, — the princess 
 deemed it was interest in his subject, that caused the enthralled 
 attention, the wrapt fascination with which she listened to his 
 words. She would sit entranced, unconscious of the lapse of 
 time, drinking in each syllable ; and dreamed it was because 
 Sicily and Sicilian lore were his theme, that she was thus spell- 
 bound. 
 
 He was once relating to her a legend of a mountain castle, 
 built when god Saturn reigned in Sicilia, and Ceres was pre- 
 siding genius of its teeming prosperity, when Alexis entered, 
 and urged his cousin not to lose so fair a morning in-doors, 
 when open air, and bright sun, and sweet-scented flowers, 
 wooed her abroad. 
 
 “ I know I speak heresy ; but what are books, to conversing, 
 — in the fresh air, amid the breath of flowers, — with the voices 
 
370 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 and looks of fair women ? Though sooth to say, books never 
 possessed the charm for me, that they have for you — especially 
 since you seek in them how to answer, in his own language, 
 the Sicilian prince w r ho is to whisper a lover’s and a husband’s 
 vows.” 
 
 The crimson mounted to Hermione’s brow. She rose hastily; 
 but spoke no word ; and stood looking down, with a sedate 
 dignity, her hand resting upon the back of the chair from which 
 she had risen. 
 
 Alexis gently took the white hand, and said, “ You will for- 
 give me, if in playful thoughtlessness, I hurt your delicacy. I 
 but alluded to an engagement known to all, — sanctioned by 
 your father, — spoken of by all his subjects. Come ; if you will 
 not leave your beloved studies for the sake of the sunshine, and 
 the flowers, come to pleasure me. See, Emilia is ready to at- 
 tend you.” 
 
 As her cousin, drawing the princess’s arm within his, and 
 offering the other to Emilia, led the two ladies from the apart- 
 ment, the young secretary started up, with a wrath that had 
 only been controlled by an imperative effort till then ; and 
 paced up and down perturbedly, then hurried from the room. 
 Ele went straight to the suite of chambers appropriated to 
 Cainillo and himself during their stay at Igorhof ; threw himself 
 into a chair, and sat for some time, with his face buried in his 
 hands. There were writing-materials before him ; and, after a 
 space, he drew them towards him, and began a letter, as 
 follows : — 
 
 “ Best friend and brother, 
 
 “ As of yore, in boyhood, we were wont to share each 
 other’s childish joys and griefs, so, now, arrived at man’s 
 estate, sympathy of spirit, and written words may still unite us. 
 Thou are not ignorant, my Polixenes, that my father’s wishes 
 in this Russian alliance guided mine own ; and that no sooner 
 had I yielded my consent that the treaty should go forward, 
 than a desire to behold this princess, ere fate had bound her 
 irrevocably mine, engendered a resolve that I would hazard all 
 to effect my desire. Camillo’s report strengthened my pur- 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 371 
 
 pose. In order to satisfy my growing anxiety to see and judge 
 for myself, I determined to accompany him, on his return to 
 Russia, in the guise of his private secretary. 
 
 “ Fortune favoured me in my hope of forming a nearer judg- 
 ment, by giving me the opportunity of beholding her in private, 
 — in daily, domestic converse and communion. I became, by 
 a happy chance, her instructor ; I was to verse her in our 
 Sicilian tongue, to familiarize her with Sicily and its history. 
 Calmly, temperately, have I endeavoured to form my opinion. 
 But ah ! my best Polixenes, your friend, in watching the sweet 
 perfections of her nature, of her person, is subdued heart and 
 soul to the witchery of their influence, and has scarce control 
 of faculty or discrimination left him, beyond the all-engrossing 
 perception of her consummate excellence. But in the very 
 finding how entirely my own heart did homage to her worth, 
 — I came to dread that it might be my fate never to call so in- 
 comparable a creature mine, as I could wish her to be mine. 
 I felt that I could not be satisfied, unless I owed her hand to 
 preference, and not to state alliance ; I would have such a 
 woman my wife by her own wish ; — and become her husband 
 upon no other claim than that of love, — mutual love. 
 
 “And now, — how shall I tell it thee? There is a young 
 fellow, — a cousin, — one Alexis, — who by reason of his kindred, 
 and of the emperor’s kindness, is admitted here on terms of 
 such near intimacy as offends and revolts me almost beyond 
 my powers of concealment. In vain I tell myself that he is her 
 cousin, — that as a poor relation he is entitled to her regard and 
 consideration. I cannot endure to behold the freedom of his 
 address — the ease of her replies. This morning he dared to 
 take her hand ; and, though she was evidently disinclined to 
 quit the discourse in which we were engaged, he must needs 
 urge her to walk, against her wish. And she yielded her will 
 to his ! She left the subject we were discussing, — left her tutor 
 with a bow of courteous dismissal for that day’s studies ; and 
 suffered herself to be led away, her arm resting upon the 
 audacious, triumphant cousin’s ! And the tutor stood there ; 
 the humble secretary, as in duty bound, stood mutely there ! 
 The princess and her kinsman had undoubted right to dispose 
 
372 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 of themselves and their time as best they thought fit, without 
 consulting the opinion or pleasure of so insignificant a person 
 as Leon. He and his books might be put away together. In 
 that moment I felt that I could have cursed mine egregious 
 folly which had placed it out of my own power to assert my- 
 self — to confront this minion of royal blood on equal terms. 
 He was not insolent towards me — let me do him this justice 
 — he thought not of me,— that was all. For her, neither inso- 
 lence, nor arrogance, nor other unwholesome emotion, ever casts 
 its shadow upon that fair serenity of countenance. Her nature, 
 —stainless and transparent as her complexion, clear and lustrous 
 as her eyes, beams pure, and candid, and radiant, in her face. 
 But should her heart have already spoken in favour of another, 
 — all unconsciously as it may have been, — can I bear that her 
 hand, in mere cold fulfilment of an international bargain, in 
 obedience to a state compact, shall be conferred ... I 
 am interrupted. I hastily close this letter, and despatch it by 
 our trusty messenger, Demetrius ; and will write you farther ere 
 long. Meanwhile, as ever, 
 
 “ Thine, in truest and dearest friendship, 
 
 “ Leontes.” 
 
 “ To Polixenes, prince of Bohemia; 
 
 “greeting : these, with secrecy and despatch .” 
 
 Next day, the princess sat at her frame, among her ladies, 
 when letters brought intelligence of the lady Paulina’s marriage. 
 It had taken place at her father’s house, without much of 
 ceremonial, and in some haste, in consequence of a summons 
 to join the army, which took him away abruptly ; he desiring 
 to see her in safe and honourable protection ere he left her. 
 In Paulina’s letter to her friend and mistress, briefly stating 
 this, Hermione could perceive the strict adherence to duty, 
 which marked Paulina’s conduct. While the princess mused 
 upon the energy of rectitude that distinguished her favourite’s 
 character, her other ladies were engaged in discussing the 
 news, with all that flutter of interest usually evinced on such 
 occasions. Olga and Rogneda were expatiating on the unlucky 
 
HER MI ONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 373 
 
 necessity for hurry, which prevented due preparation in dress, 
 jewels, equipages, and other particulars that formed, in their 
 opinion, the most important incidents of a wedding. Alexis 
 was whispering Emilia something that grew out of the tidings 
 of these nuptials, — something that brought no reply ; but, in- 
 stead, a blushing silence that served better than speech, and 
 Camillo, on the very first opening of the letters, had quitted the 
 apartment ; his secretary, soon after, following him. 
 
 The princess had noted the withdrawal : in sorrowful com- 
 prehension of the feelings which caused Camillo’s ; and in 
 cordial approval of the motives which drew Leon after him. 
 She understood the desire to attempt consolation, the hope to 
 soften his friend’s anguish, which had prompted the secretary 
 to follow. She went towards the conservatory, which adjoined 
 her sitting-room, that she might uninterruptedly pursue the 
 train of reverie into which she had fallen. 
 
 She was still here, when a quick footstep approached, and 
 roused her from her waking dream. It was Alexis, who, radiant 
 with joy, came to tell her the prosperous issue of his suit; how 
 he had ventured to declare his love to Emilia, in consequence 
 of what they had that morning heard ; how he had learned 
 the joyful truth, that unless he were the bridegroom she would 
 never wed, unless he were the lover she could never know 
 happiness in love. 
 
 Hermione with her usual warmth of interest in that which 
 concerned her friends, listened to her cousin’s raptures, 
 and promised to use her intercession with the emperor, for 
 their speedy crowning, by entreating his sanction to the 
 union. 
 
 Alexis, in a transport of gratitude, was in the act of raising 
 the princess’s hand to his lips, when the shadow of two figures 
 darkened the entrance. They were those of Camillo and Leon. 
 The face of Camillo was pale, but composed ; as if set in 
 that resolved calm which is the result of a severe struggle be- 
 tween feeling and will. The countenance of his companion was 
 agitated ; and worked in uncontrollable evidence of secret 
 emotion. 
 
 While Camillo courteously offered a few words of apology to 
 
374 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 the princess, for having intruded on her privacy, Leon merely 
 bowed, and passed on, towards the door leading to their own 
 rooms. 
 
 Hermione, with deepened colour, but with all her own quiet 
 dignity, made a gracious motion towards a seat near to the one 
 she had taken, that Camillo should remain beside her ; and 
 then gently drawing him into conversation, in kindly, womanly- 
 wise, she won him to other sources of thought than the one she 
 knew was gnawing and throbbing at his heart. 
 
 “ My young cousin has gained the love of one of my ladies, 
 —the youngest, — Emilia ; he hopes shortly to wed her ; and it 
 was in the happiness of this hope, as he confided it to me, that 
 my cousin was saluting my hand with so much fervour when 
 you approached just now. And now, sir,” she added, rising, “if 
 it suit the leisure of your friend, I will gladly pass an hour or 
 two in the saloon with our Sicilian books.” 
 
 Camillo withdrew to summon Leon. 
 
 He found him pacing the apartment with rapid strides. On 
 Camillo’s entrance, he turned, and exclaimed : — “ Thou saw’st 
 it, thou saw’st it, Camillo ! Thou saw’st how, with tender 
 gallantry, with all a lover’s eagerness and devotion, he ” 
 
 “ I saw his thanks, his gratitude, imprinted on her hand, for 
 the sister’s part she had played — for the affectionate interest 
 with which she had heard he was plighted to his mistress, — 
 Emilia,” interrupted Camillo. 
 
 Leon gazed into his face. “ Emilia ! His choice ! His plighted 
 mistress ! ” 
 
 “ His affianced wife answered Camillo. “ They are shortly 
 to be united. But her highness, the princess,- awaits her tutor 
 in the saloon. It is not fitting that my secretary — her teacher 
 — should detain her ; ” he added with a sad smile. 
 
 Leon grasped his hand warmly ; and ejaculating “ My good 
 Camillo ! ” hastened away. 
 
 As he entered the sitting-room to attend the princess, the 
 secretary beheld confirmation of what he had just heard. Alexis 
 was leaning over the back of Emilia’s chair ; and one glance at 
 the countenances of the lovers, sufficed. The studies proceeded 
 that day, with a zest, an animation, they had never known before. 
 
HE RM I ONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 375 
 
 For several successive days the lessons went on with the same 
 engrossing delight to both master and scholar. Minutes melted 
 into hours, morning into afternoon, afternoon into evening ; and 
 still the princess and her tutor would sit at the study table, as 
 time crept on unperceived by either. They were no more in- 
 terrupted by the solicitations of Hermione’s young cousin, that 
 she would leave her books, and stroll forth with him and her 
 ladies. He was contented to lead away Emilia ; and the shel- 
 tered conservatory afforded pleasant resort for the lovers’ arm- 
 in-arm walks, and whispered colloquies. 
 
 A second letter that Leon wrote, best pictures his state of 
 feeling at this juncture. 
 
 “ Dear friend and brother, 
 
 “ Thy love for Leontes will rejoice to know that the 
 cloud of doubt which then darkened his dawning hope, is now 
 dispersed. I have had proof that my fears concerning this 
 young cousin were groundless. Indeed, I now wonder how I 
 could for a moment imagine that one so peerless should abase 
 her thoughts to an object unworthy her excellence — a depen- 
 dant on her father’s favour for his very education and mainte- 
 nance. But then, — what am I, to all appearance, but a mere 
 hireling in the suite of the embassage, — a secretary ? And yet 
 upon this secretary, this poor dependant, I think she casts an 
 eye of favourable regard. At times, I am all given up to the 
 desire of beholding her softened and won into compassionate 
 regard for the being before her. At others my heart swells to 
 think her capable of yielding to a sentiment which must needs 
 degrade her, — a preference for a stranger — an obscure person — 
 one whose highest recognized position is that of secretary — 
 amanuensis to the envoy at her father’s court. Yet, on the 
 other hand, can I desire to possess her — all beautiful as she is 
 — when I have never been able to touch her heart ? Can 
 Leontes accept of herself, when Leon could not win her love ? 
 I am torn by a thousand wild and passionate mistrusts. I could 
 wish to be loved for myself alone ; yet dare not hazard the test. 
 I dare not attempt to gain her affection for Leon, at the expense 
 of her faith to Leontes. Either way I must triumph. Should 
 
376 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 she be faithful to her contract with the prince of Sicily, I gain 
 proof of her steadfastness in virtue, her firmness and nobility of 
 principle ; if she yield to love for Leon, I have the glory of 
 finding that I am beloved for my own sake. Could I have your 
 counsel in reply, my Polixenes, you would doubtless ask me 
 whether I be not about to tempt her unfairly and unwisely; 
 trifling with my own happiness ; preparing future tortures for 
 myself. I answer by owning myself a lover, — a passionate 
 lover ; and in this title,-— as I feel, — are comprised a thousand 
 inconsistencies of misgiving, assurance, doubt, surmise, confi- 
 dence, hope, fear, conjecture. Once possessed of Hermione, 
 — heart and soul, my own, as in name, my wife, — and farewell, 
 for ever, to a thought of assay or proof. I could as soon en- 
 tertain a doubt of thee, my Polixenes, — whose tried friendship 
 is beyond all suspicion, — as of this noble creature, once assured 
 mine. That she may become so is the sole and devout hope of 
 “ Thy bounden brother-in-affection, 
 
 “ Leontes.” 
 
 The next morning’s study was interrupted by the arrival of a 
 messenger from Kief. He brought letters for the princess from 
 her father. The emperor had been suddenly taken ill (danger- 
 ously ill, the messenger added,) and wrote to beg his child to 
 come to him, as speedily as might be. 
 
 “This instant ! Without delay ! ” said the princess. “ You, 
 Alexis, can take charge of my ladies ; and the rest of our suite 
 will follow, as soon as may be. Good sir,” she added, to 
 Camillo, “ you will excuse this brief leave-taking ; I return to 
 my father. The sledge that brought the messenger shall bear 
 me back, without a moment’s loss of time. All fitting prepara- 
 tion can be made for yourself, and your friend, who can travel 
 in company with my cousin and ladies ; and I shall hope to 
 welcome you together, kind friends, when you arrive in Kief, 
 with happier tidings of my dear father’s health.” 
 
 As she left the room, she cast an involuntary glance towards 
 the study-table, that she might include Leon in the hasty farewell 
 she took of all. But he was no longer there. He had vanished. 
 
 Thoughts of him, mingled with her solicitude respecting her 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 377 
 
 father, and thronged upon her as she flew along, commencing 
 her journey. She started at her own thoughts and resolutely 
 put them from her. She brought the image of Paulina before 
 her ; she revolved her courage and constancy ; and took the 
 example home to her own bosom. She ruminated upon the 
 nature of her father’s attack, and exhausted herself in longings 
 to arrive at his bedside. 
 
 She roused herself, and looked forth. The scene was cheer- 
 less enough. 
 
 They were approaching the banks of a river ; it was frozen 
 over ; and when the driver stopped to enquire of the princess, 
 whether her highness chose to go round by the bridge, or 
 venture over the ice, she exclaimed : — “ Go straight across ! 
 No going round ! The shortest, nearest way, by all means.” 
 
 The rapidity of the stream, in ordinary weather, together 
 with its sudden and recent freezing, caused the surface to be 
 much broken up into inequalities, and large irregular lumps ; 
 and the man added something of the “roughness of the road.” 
 But Hermione rejoined : — “ No matter ! ’Twill save a good 
 half hour ! Cross the ice ! ” 
 
 The ice lay rugged, and uneven ; here cracked, and split, in 
 thin, crisp slabs ; farther on, in small crumbled pieces ; and, — 
 where the current beneath set most strongly,— in huge blocks, 
 and swelling, projecting masses. Towards the opposite bank, 
 these impediments lay thickest; but the sledge had almost 
 surmounted them, when it came suddenly in contact with a 
 rough-jutting wedge, and was overturned. The shock unseated 
 the driver ; and the princess was thrown violently out. She 
 was stunned by her fall ; and lay among the blocks and splin- 
 ters of ice, almost senseless. 
 
 She imagined that her senses had indeed left her, when she 
 felt herself tenderly raised ; and a voice that she knew but too 
 well, called upon her name in agonized, passionate accents, 
 beseeching her to speak if she yet lived. 
 
 “ Leon ! you here ! ” she faintly exclaimed, in the utmost 
 amazement. 
 
 “ The gods be praised ! ” was the deep-breathed response, 
 as his eyes beheld hers unclose, and he heard the murmured 
 
378 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 tone. “ Speak no farther word — you will but exhaust yourself, 
 beloved lady ; ” he added, as he saw her make another effort 
 to speak. “I have the blest assurance of your safety, — no 
 more need of words. Soft ! I will bear you to the sledge ; it 
 is replaced, and ready to proceed. I know you are eager to 
 be on your way again.” 
 
 He lifted her in his arms, and placed her in the coach ; but 
 seeing that she sank languidly and feebly down ; he said : — 
 “ You are not able to support yourself — I fear I must presume 
 on my privilege of master, and beseech my pupil to let me sit 
 beside her. I would not otherwise dare, — I would else have 
 returned to my former seat, — I would not ask to enter your 
 coach, — but you are still weak, and ” 
 
 His manner expressed such unfeigned reverence, and respect- 
 ful distance, that the princess gently bowed her head, in token 
 of consent. 
 
 Leon sprang into the sledge ; and, signing to the driver to 
 proceed, addressed himself to the assistance and revival of 
 Hermione. 
 
 “ By what miracle, came you to be there, — on the spot, to 
 succour me ? ” she at length said. “ I cannot yet comprehend 
 how you, of all the world, should ” 
 
 She stopped ; there was a tremulous emphasis on the word 
 1 you/ that caused her to falter consciously ; and that made 
 Leon eagerly rejoin : — “ Who but I should be there, — at hand 
 — to help you, if need were ? When I heard your sudden 
 resolve, — to set forth to the capital alone, unattended, — I 
 determined that you should have at least one faithful guardian 
 by your side, in case of need. I hastened to the courtyard, 
 where the sledge stood ready, and got the equerry, who occu- 
 pied the seat in the rear, to yield me his place, on the plea 
 that by the princess’s orders, her preceptor was to attend her 
 to Kief in his room.” 
 
 “And you submitted to occupy the post of a lackey, — a 
 menial, — for my sake ! A scholar ! A gentleman ! You ! ” 
 
 “ Thanked be the sacred gods, I was there, when the acci- 
 dent happened ! No matter what seat in the sledge I occupied, 
 so that I was with it ! ” he returned. 
 
HERMIONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 379 
 
 The sledge sped on. Evening was drawing in, as they 
 entered a thick forest. It was wild and desolate ; with scattered 
 pine-trees, and dark, spiring firs. The driver knew the track 
 perfectly, so there was no impediment to their swift progress ; 
 but the air was cold and bleak ; the sky was leaden and dreary; 
 the pendant snow and icicles upon branch and bough, looked 
 dripping, drooping, and cheerless, and added to the cutting 
 sharpness of the frozen atmosphere. As the blast swept by, 
 keen and piercing, Leon drew the fur mantle more closely 
 round his charge, endeavouring effectually to screen her. 
 
 The wind howled dismally and fiercely. During one of its 
 wildest gusts, Leon thought he perceived Hermione shiver. 
 
 “ You tremble — you are chilled, — this open sledge ill shelters 
 you ; ” he said. 
 
 “ I am warm, — quite warm ; ” she replied. But her face grew 
 paler as she spoke. There was a look of secret horror in her eyes ; 
 and her lip blanched, though she held it firm from quivering. 
 
 “You are alarmed, — you dread something, — what have you 
 to fear ? ” he urged. 
 
 Hermione seemed striving to master her terror, ere she 
 trusted herself with another word. At that moment, a louder, 
 fiercer, wilder howl than before, came upon the blast. And 
 then, through the rush and roar of the air, Leon heard the dis- 
 mayed voice of the driver, shouting : — “The wolves ! The wolves 
 are upon us !” 
 
 An instant after, he saw something dart across the track, — 
 dark, shadowy, gaunt ; then another, and another ; presently, 
 two and three together, and then five or six. He could discern 
 the shape of the rough, coarse-haired creatures ; he could see 
 their lank, famine-starved sides, their pointed muzzles, their 
 small, ferocious eyes. He could see them savage, and sinister, 
 — now leaping forward, now bounding among the bushes and 
 low trees, now gathering thicker and thicker, and faster and 
 faster, — until a huge drove of them had collected, and main- 
 tained a rapid race, as if in steady pursuit of their hoped-for 
 prey. They looked like some spectral pack of hounds, gallop- 
 ing on with sharp yells and growls, mingled with prolonged 
 howling cries, — ravenous, fierce, unrelenting. 
 
380 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 This appalling sight, the sense of imminent danger, the 
 chance of becoming the victim of these fanged devils, only 
 seemed to nerve the heart of Leon into sterner courage, and 
 excite him into braver resolve. He held Hermione, firmly 
 sustained, with one arm ; whispered encouragement and in- 
 spiriting words to her ; and called to the man to drive swiftly 
 and boldly on, as their best chance of safety. “ We may keep 
 them yet at bay ! ” he shouted. “ They cannot outstrip us, 
 while we keep this pace ! Do thy best, good fellow ! Thine 
 own and thy mistress’s life are in thy hands ! Spare not speed ! 
 Onion!” 
 
 He turned to Hermione. She had conquered her first over- 
 whelming fears. She was herself in her self-control, her noble 
 firmness, her high-souled dignity. He looked at her beautiful 
 face, — elevated as it was with an expression fine, and intense, 
 beyond all usual beauty. 
 
 “You look radiant, — as though you exulted, not feared!” 
 he said. 
 
 “ I do exult. I shall never live to be queen of Sicily ! I die, 
 as I could wish ! ” was her answer. 
 
 In her words, in her eyes, was the confession that it was be- 
 cause with him she should die, she rejoiced. Leon’s emotion 
 grew into a strange delirious kind of rapture. He took no 
 farther heed of the howling, raging, ever-approaching fiends. 
 He had fixed his eyes upon that marble-pale face, that he might 
 look upon it to the last ; when, suddenly, a piercing cry from 
 the driver struck upon his ear. 
 
 “ A light ! A light ! ” it cried. “ They are coming ! We 
 are saved ! ” 
 
 In effect, a large troup of horsemen, bearing torches, and 
 accompanying a travelling sledge, might be perceived in motion 
 towards them, among the trees. The light, the noise, the ap- 
 proach, scared away the wolves, who fled precipitately. In a 
 few moments more, the cavalcade came up ; and the rescuing 
 company proved to be the lady Paulina and her retinue, come 
 to meet that of the princess, on its progress to Kief. 
 
 Leon lost no time in committing the princess to the care of her 
 friend, that immediate means might be taken for her recovery 
 
HERMI ONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 381 
 
 from the fainting-fit in which she now lay. Hermione, — like 
 many women who suppress their feelings, forbidding them the 
 usual vent of tears and sobs ; — was subject to swoon away, upon 
 a strong, overpowering emotion. Hitherto, her young life had 
 known few such fearful extremities; but now, the anxiety con- 
 cerning her father, the agitation of her newly-discovered passion 
 for Leon, the consciousness of its variance with the ties already 
 formed for her duty, together with the terror of the recent 
 scene, combined to throw her into the deep swoon, from which 
 she was with difficulty restored. 
 
 When Paulina had at length succeeded in bringing her to her- 
 self, she told her, that knowing her filial solicitude would be 
 awakened by the news of the emperor’s attack, and finding that 
 report greatly exaggerated its severity, she determined to set 
 out as soon as possible after the courier to Igorhof, that she 
 might soften the tidings she feared he would bring ; and thus, 
 not only allay the princess’s immediate anxiety, but be ready 
 to accompany her back to Kief, when she should repair thither 
 to attend her father. 
 
 While the two ladies journeyed forward together, Leon fol- 
 lowed in the other sledge, alone, wrapped in his thoughts. 
 The whole seemed a vision, a vanished dream. Had she in- 
 deed been there, close within his arms, held against his heart? 
 Had those fierce-mawed deaths really raced side-by-side with 
 them, threatening immediate doom? Had he in fact swept 
 through that wild forest, pierced by the night air, while, fast 
 clasped in his embrace, she, with him, rushed to meet impend- 
 ing destruction ? It seemed a wondrous, impossible fable ; some- 
 thing that he had read or heard of, — ages ago, in some remote 
 country ; not that which had happened even here, — scarce two 
 hours since, — to himself. But beneath all this vague, insub- 
 stantial, though vivid dream, there lay one blest piece of cer- 
 tainty. Those words she had uttered, in the crisis of their 
 menaced fate, — nothing could deprive him of those. Like a 
 secret treasure, he could hug them, hoard them, possess them. 
 They sat beside him in the dark, empty sledge ; they travelled 
 with him to the end of his solitary journey, and made him feel 
 no lack of companionship. “ On my arrival, I shall see her, 
 
382 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 and draw from her their sweet import!” was his constant 
 thought. 
 
 But when he had reached Kief, when, upon his requesting 
 an interview with the princess Hermione, he found himself 
 shown into a state apartment, and bidden to wait until her 
 highness’s farther pleasure should be known as to his reception, 
 he felt jealously alive to the fear, that if she could observe this 
 ceremonial delay in receiving the man who shared with her 
 the perils of that night, he must be mistaken in supposing she 
 had ever entertained a thought of tender regard towards him. 
 
 Little did he think, — as he paced there, racking himself with 
 jealous fears, and restlessly awaiting her coming — that her delay 
 was owing to her own want of courage at the approaching 
 interview. 
 
 But at length, schooling herself to firmness, by all her most 
 imperative considerations of honour and duty, she appeared. 
 Her aspect was serene, gracious, gentle. 
 
 She advanced to where Leon stood, gave him her hand with 
 kindness, and said : — “My grateful thanks to him whose courage 
 and devotion enabled me to carry through my wish of coming 
 to my father without delay ! You will rejoice to learn that he 
 is now out of danger, — all but quite restored.” 
 
 Leon bowed upon the hand he raised to his lips, unable to 
 utter more than a murmured gratulation. 
 
 “The emperor’s first care, when able to receive his loyal 
 friends,” she went on, “will be to join the expression of his 
 gratitude to that of his child. He bids me acknowledge his 
 obligation to the man, whose intellectual resources, inestimably 
 dedicated to her advantage, are equalled by a bravery and in- 
 trepidity which risked life for her protection.” 
 
 “The gods vouchsafe but seldom such blest chance;” he 
 continued. “ Still, once to have owed to them the accident of 
 your rescue, together with the memory of those words, — words 
 extorted by the terrors of that night, yet words so priceless in 
 their gentle significance, ” 
 
 “ Let them be forgotten ! ” said the voice of Hermione, 
 vainly striving to steady its tremulous sadness, as she interrupted 
 Leon’s eager speech. 
 
HE R Ml ONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 383 
 
 “ They are treasured in my heart — never to be driven thence 
 — never to be effaced !” he said, impetuously. 
 
 “ Then hold them buried there !” she said firmly. “ I will 
 neither deny them nor retract them. I will rather consign them 
 to your keeping, — to your honour. They were rashly, weakly 
 uttered — in the face of death itself, — when I believed that life 
 and I had done with each other, — I was free to rejoice at my 
 enfranchisement. But I was restored to life ; and, with it, to 
 life’s demands upon my faith and truth. I abide by them; and 
 I ask you, my tutor, my guardian, my friend, to aid me in mine 
 intent.” 
 
 She stood with such a majesty of virtuous determination, that 
 Leon, no longer able to contain his transport, cast his arm 
 about her, and drew her towards him, as he whispered : — “ And 
 what if faith and truth were not opposed to freedom ? What 
 if tenderness for Leon, plight to Leontes, were one ? What if 
 Leon himself, and Leontes were one ? ” 
 
 Hermione, in utter wonderment, gazed at him ; withdrawing 
 from his arm, and raising herself to full height of erect and 
 dignified posture. Never had she looked so cold, so marble 
 still, so statue-like in her lofty quietude. 
 
 The prince threw himself at her feet with a diffidence, a 
 humility— unknown to him in his character of secretary. 
 
 “ The prince of Sicily ! Leontes ! ” she at length exclaimed. 
 “ Your highness wrongs yourself by this attitude. Rise, my 
 lord ! ” She spoke with a haughty condescension, which she 
 had never observed towards the poor student. “ You wrong 
 your greatness by this lowly posture, no less than by the dis- 
 guise, the deception, with which it pleased you first to approach 
 me.” 
 
 Leon stung by her manner, started from his knee, echoing 
 the word, “ Deception ! ” 
 
 “ Was it not a deception, my lord ? One that might have 
 compromised her who was to be your wife ? One unworthy 
 yourself and me? Yet can I better forgive that than my own 
 weakness.” And she turned from him, as if proudly abashed. 
 
 “ Let us exchange forgiveness ; ” he said. “ Hermione shall 
 forgive me, that I ventured hither to behold with mine own eyes 
 
384 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 the truth of those virtues and beauties which fame extolled as 
 so surpassing ; and I will forgive her that she should own to a 
 softness of heart, which in my mind, but adds another charm 
 to her character.” 
 
 “ Nay, my lord, since you are resolved to throw off austerity 
 with your character of preceptor, and commence suitor, by 
 flattering my errors, I will abate no jot of my rightful courtship. 
 Since your grace hath honoured me by the compliment of coming 
 so far, to play the wooer yourself instead of by proxy, I mean 
 to enjoy all the glory of so princely a suitor; and shall hope to 
 bid your highness welcome in your own proper person, among 
 my company this evening.” 
 
 She curtsied with gay graciousness, and withdrew; leaving 
 Leontes perplexed, fascinated, chagrined, pleased, provoked, 
 charmed, dissatisfied— -all at once ; yet more enamoured than 
 ever. 
 
 This playful manner she maintained towards him. With 
 livelier grace than she had ever before deported herself, she 
 enacted the courted beauty, and behaved to the prince as to her 
 admitted admirer. 
 
 Weeks crept by ; and weeks merged into months ; until three 
 had passed, since things had gone thus between Hermione and 
 Leontes. He had sent her a few rare flowers ; accompanied by 
 some verses. 
 
 “ See here, my father ! ” she said, appealing to him, “ see what 
 my lord the prince hath set down, of my being ‘ unequalled in 
 worth as in beauty ; ’ and I know not what else of impossible 
 fictions, permitted only to poets and lovers- — the licensed false- 
 hoodmongers of all time.” 
 
 “Thou art ungrateful, child ; and like a spoiled beauty, know’st 
 not how, properly, to estimate the homage of love and poesy. 
 But I leave thee to thank this poetical lover of thine as he 
 should be thanked ; and that is, by promising him an early day 
 for the betrothal which has been too long delayed. Sue her, 
 prince ; thou hast her father’s sanction for a little pressing.” 
 
 And the emperor good-humouredly left the lovers to them- 
 selves. 
 
 It was the first time Leontes had found himself alone with 
 
HERMIONE ; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 385 
 
 Hermione since the interview in which he had avowed his 
 identity. For an instant he hesitated, overpowered by mingled 
 sensations of joy, hurt feeling, eagerness, hope, bitterness, dread, 
 delight. He hurried towards her ; and poured out imploring 
 words that she would yield to her father’s wishes, and crown 
 his own. 
 
 Hermione tried to recall some of her playful ease ; but her 
 voice faltered, as she replied. “ I am ready to fulfil my father’s 
 will — to redeem his pledged word.” 
 
 “ I will not claim you upon that contract ; ” he answered, im- 
 petuously ; “ the cold fulfilment of a vow cannot content me. 
 Give me such bounty of love as I used to dream I read in your 
 eyes for the poor secretary. If you cannot grant me the assurance 
 that I am dear to you for mine own sake, I shall return to Sicily 
 — content with my regrets as I best may — and — leave you 
 free.” 
 
 “ You cannot do that, my lord.” 
 
 Her altered voice — altered from the light ease it had en- 
 deavoured to assume, to a low tone, serious, and tender — made 
 him start and look into her eyes. They met his for a moment 
 with their own sweet composure ; then fell, as she went on, in 
 reply to his eager look : — “ You cannot do that ; I am no longer 
 free.” 
 
 “ Hermione ! ” 
 
 “No ; for I ” she let the white hand he had seized, clasp 
 
 palms with his — “ for I * / am yours for ever! ” 
 
 He held her to him. “ With full love mine ? I am greedy 
 of assurance.” 
 
 “ With full love. I could have died with Leon ; I would live 
 till death with Leontes.” 
 
 He folded her to his satisfied heart. 
 
 And now the preparations for the public ceremonial of solemn 
 betrothal went forward in good earnest. Meantime, the lovers 
 passed their time together, with unclouded joy. 
 
 When the time came for Leontes and Hermione to set forth 
 for Sicily, they were attended by a numerous train of friends and 
 followers ; among whom were not only the lord Antigonus, and 
 
386 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 his wife and child, but the lady Emilia. Alexis had fallen in 
 his very first campaign; and the young widow, without a tie to 
 bind her to her native country, followed her royal mistress to 
 her new home. 
 
 This grief, and the parting with her father, were the only 
 shadows upon the happiness of Hermione, when she prepared 
 to accompany her betrothed husband to the land of his birth. 
 
 Immediately on their arrival, the marriage was celebrated. 
 The whole island rang with rejoicing and festivity ; and all 
 Sicily joined their king, in his delight to see his son wedded to 
 a princess whom he found as charming as fame had represented 
 her. 
 
 This was the final satisfaction of the good old man’s life ; for 
 full of years and honour the king died, leaving Leontes to 
 succeed him. 
 
 Time went on, and hopes were entertained of an heir to the 
 crown of Sicily. The joyful tidings were sent to Russia; but 
 before the birth of his grand-child was announced, the emperor 
 had expired. 
 
 The news of her father’s death brought mourning to the 
 hearts of Hermione and Leontes ; and they were still in the 
 bitterness of their grief when their boy was born. They could 
 not have had a sweeter source of comfort and consolation, than 
 the little Mamillius. He was a gentle-tempered fondling child, 
 with a fund of quiet spirits and imaginative fancy. 
 
 Paulina was dotingly fond of the little prince ; and would 
 often beg him of his mother, that he might come to spend a day 
 with herself and her children at a quiet country house she had, 
 somewhat removed from the court. 
 
 It was a retreat fitted up, by the indulgence of her husband, 
 perfectly in her own taste. Paulina was a woman of an earnest 
 nature. She was devout ; and she had an intense love of art. 
 These two paramount feelings were combinedly consulted by the 
 manner in which this retired spot was adorned. There were 
 usual sitting-rooms; but adjoining them was a gallery filled with 
 treasures of art-— pictures, sculpture, and many curiosities in 
 gems and medals. At the end of this gallery, was a chapel built 
 entirely of white marble, lighted from the ceiling, and contain- 
 
HERMIONE; THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 387 
 
 ing a curtained recess, intended for a group of statuary, when- 
 ever Paulina should have met with one of sufficient merit to 
 occupy this particular niche. To this gallery and chapel, Paulina 
 would often lead the young Mamillius, and her own girls, pleased 
 with the entertainment of the children who crowded round her 
 as she explained to them some of the beauties and curious 
 valuables of the gallery, or some of the glory and mysteries 
 belonging to the chapel. In this latter spot, the little prince de- 
 lighted to linger ; his eyes fastened upon her lips, as, with earnest 
 words, she spoke of sacred themes in terms she thought best 
 suited to his childish comprehension. 
 
 Once as he stood there grasping her right hand, and nestling 
 close at her side, and looking earnestly at the curtained recess, 
 opposite to which they had paused — Paulina thought she felt 
 the boy tremble. She asked him if he feared or ailed anything. 
 
 “No, I am not afraid — I feel very well — very happy.” 
 
 “ Do you see anything ? ” she added. 
 
 “ I thought I saw the curtain move. I was thinking, if the 
 folds were suddenly to draw back, and show us a grand, 
 gracious form standing there. It would be beautiful, would it 
 not ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; but there is nothing there. I will show you there is 
 nothing.” And Paulina would have advanced to draw back the 
 drapery, when the boy exclaimed : — “ Don’t think that I am 
 afraid ! I will go to it myself ! I’ll pull it back myself. Only 
 while it’s undrawn, I can fancy that it moves ; and believe that 
 perhaps there’s something beautiful standing there, behind it.” 
 
 Leontes had often spoken with enthusiasm to his wife of his 
 dear friend and brother-in-affection, Polixenes. He, like him- 
 self, had lately succeeded to his father’s throne, and was now 
 king of Bohemia. At length, after many a pressing entreaty 
 and invitation on the part of the king of Sicily, his friend 
 Polixenes consented to come and spend some time with him, on 
 the express condition that on the following summer Leontes 
 should return his visit, and make some stay in Bohemia. 
 
 For some time before his friend’s arrival, Leontes could speak 
 to Hermione of nothing else ; and she, with her usual cordial 
 
388 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 sympathy in all that interested him, evinced as anxious a desire 
 to see this dear brother-in-love of her husband’s, as her husband 
 himself. From the same cause — after Polixenes had landed, 
 and had been their guest some time, and had lengthened, and 
 yet again prolonged his visit, at the instance of his friend — 
 Hermione would play the kind and affectionate hostess, with no 
 less earnestness, than her husband played the part of host. At 
 last, Polixenes withstood all farther solicitations of his kind en- 
 tertainers, by fixing a certain day for his departure — the morrow, 
 the very morrow, of the one on which Leontes again pressed 
 him to remain, and called upon Hermione to second his 
 entreaty ; when she playfully replied : — 
 
 “ I had thought , sir, to have held my peace , until you had drawn 
 oaths from him , not to stay 
 
 Winter’s Tale, Act i. Sc. 2. 
 

 
TALE XIV. 
 
 VIOLA ; THE TWIN. 
 
 N the Eastern shores of the Adriatic, is a place 
 called Messaline. It will not be found in the 
 map. But we have great (poetical, — not geo- 
 graphical) authority for its being there — some- 
 where on those shores — not far down beyond the 
 coast of Illyria. It is, — or rather was, — a fine stately place ; 
 with noble shipping, and handsome buildings. It had a goodly 
 harbour, and commanded a grand expansive view of the broad, 
 blue, sparkling sea. Its inhabitants were of Greek origin, and 
 maintained many of their Grecian peculiarities of custom, 
 speech, and dress ; although they had become much Italianized 
 by their vicinity and association with their neighbours on the 
 opposite shores of Italy. There were many beautiful islands 
 clustered close about ; fertile, luxuriant green spots, embosomed 
 in the glittering azure of the waters ; looking like portions of 
 the shore, parted in some giant freak of Nature’s, from the 
 parent land, which wound in deep undulating indentations, 
 forming lovely bays, and sheltered recesses, along the edge of 
 the sea. 
 
 In this Messaline, dwelt a young merchant, named Sebastian. 
 He had been absent now, more than twenty months ; and from 
 the time he had left its port, no tidings had reached him from 
 Messaline. As Sebastian neared his native shores, on his re- 
 turn up the Adriatic, his heart sickened with impatience to 
 behold his home, his wife, and as he hoped — his child ; but 
 stress of weather compelled him to put into harbour, at one 
 
390 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 of the islands that lay scattered in his course. He remembered, 
 when he landed, that in this island, on her own estate, resided 
 a certain maiden aunt of his, — an old lady, very precise in her 
 notions, very demure in her manners, and very particular in all 
 her ways. She had a pale, faded face ; a pinched, wiry figure ; 
 thin, transparent hands, with their veins very prominent ; and 
 a dabby voice, with which she dab — dab — dabbed on, in a 
 perpetual, everflowing, complacent tattle. 
 
 But she had been very kind to Sebastian when a boy (she 
 owned to a strong partiality for boys), and he resolved there- 
 fore to pay a visit to this maiden aunt, now he was so near her 
 demesne. 
 
 He was shown into the large plainly-furnished apartment ; 
 in which, at one end, he found her sitting, with one or two of 
 her woman attendants, spinning. 
 
 When he had announced himself, the old lady extended her 
 slender fingers to him in an affable kind of flurry, and said : — 
 “ Dear me ! Well ! And so it’s you, Sebastian ! Well ! 
 Dear me ! Only think ! How you’ve grown ! Dear me ! Ay, 
 you’re married, since, I recollect. Dear me ! it seems impos- 
 sible ! Only think ; married ! Well, well ! I declare it quite 
 flutters me, to think of it, and to see you ! Dear me ! Who 
 should have thought of seeing you enter the room, of all beings 
 in the world ? Ay, well, yes ; strange things do happen ! Dear 
 me ! I had a visit a day or two since — a visitation, I may say, 
 — Dear me, well ! — a visit from your uncle, — you remember 
 your uncle, don Ignazio? Well, ay, he, who but he, should 
 make his appearance here ! ” The old lady gasped, and played 
 her fan so impressively, and fluttered so perceptibly; and taking 
 her kerchief from her lips, laid it on her heart, so pantingly, 
 that Sebastian felt called upon to echo : — “ Dear me ! ” 
 
 “Yes, indeed! Well! He, and none but he, I’ll assure 
 you ! He came, he said, to spend a few days with me. Why, 
 you see, — dear me, — well, — it’s difficult to — it’s awkward to 
 
 know how to— dear me! How shall I ? Yet you’re an 
 
 old married man, quite a steady old married man, — yes, — dear 
 me, — to be sure, well, there can be no hesitation, with an old 
 married man like you, in ” 
 
VIOLA ; THE TWIN. 391 
 
 Her dab — dab— dabby voice had quavered off, and came 
 to a full stop. 
 
 Sebastian looked at her ; more at a loss than ever. 
 
 The maiden lady caught up her handkerchief, hemmed ; 
 laid it down, and took up her fan ; fanned herself ; then waved 
 it towards the door, saying to her women : — “ There can be no 
 harm, — no impropriety ; — you may go, girls ; well, yes, you 
 may, — yes, you had better, go.” 
 
 Seeing that none of her women could boast fewer years than 
 herself, the title by which she had addressed them seemed 
 something misapplied ; but she had so long been accustomed 
 to use it, that she never dreamed of its absurdity. 
 
 “ You must know, my dear good nephew, I am very particu- 
 lar, — dear me, — very much so — and very properly too, — yes, — 
 very particular in having my maids in the room with me, when I 
 have company. But I will consider you, my dear boy — 
 ahem — my excellent nephew — as a friend — quite as a con- 
 fidential friend, I may say. Ahem — your character as a mar- 
 ried man — and — a — a father of a family, — by-the-bye, any 
 family ? ” 
 
 Sebastian contrived to insinuate a word to the effect that he 
 hoped to find himself a father on his return ; that he had been 
 long absent from home ; that he had received no tidings since 
 his departure ; but that when he had left Messaline there was a 
 prospect of his becoming long ere this, a family man. 
 
 “ Dear me ! ah ! well ! That’s a comfort ! A perfectly 
 respectable character ! In virtue of which, my worthy nephew, 
 I may confide to you, — ahem — that this visit of your uncle 
 Ignazio’s very much perplexes me — in fact, distresses me. He 
 bears a character that, — a character which — well, dear me,— a 
 character, in short, the very reverse of correct. He is quite an 
 unfit visitor for a lone maiden lady — a lady of nice conduct — 
 of delicate notions — as, I may say, — dear me, I hope, without 
 vanity, — I am.” 
 
 She fanned here with such solemn, dignified wafts of her 
 broad green fan, that it created wind enough to lift the hair 
 from her nephew’s temples, and give him the aghast look which 
 her communication demanded. 
 
392 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 The next moment, a stout, short, ruddy-cheeked, ruby-nosed, 
 scarlet-lipped, red-throated, crimson-eared, little gentleman 
 came bustling into the room, ran up to Sebastian, hugged him, 
 and exclaimed : — “ My dear fellow, my dear nephew, glad to 
 see you ! Corpo di Diana ! glad to see you ! I heard the 
 news, down below there, on the sea-shore, that your vessel had 
 put in here, in the gale, last night ! Corpo di santissima Diana ! 
 Delighted to see you, my dear fellow ! ” 
 
 Sebastian returned the old gentleman’s warm greeting. 
 
 “ And so you’re married, my dear fellow ! ” continued the 
 brisk little gentleman ; “ Corpo di Diana, give you joy ! Never 
 had the good fortune to get married, myself ! But I’m quite 
 ready to give everybody else joy, who’s so fortunate as to get a 
 wife. Corpo di Diana ! Nothing like woman, lovely woman, 
 for making home happy ! ” 
 
 “Now, cousin Ignazio, if you are going to broach any of 
 
 your improper sentiments, — dear me, — I must really ” said 
 
 lady Annuccia, rising, as if about to leave the room. 
 
 “ My dear madam, pray sit still. Corpo di Diana ! You 
 needn’t be alarmed. I was merely congratulating my nephew 
 — our nephew, here, upon his marriage. Any little folks, eh ? ” 
 he continued, turning to the young merchant, with a facetious 
 poke in the ribs. 
 
 Sebastian smilingly explained his domestic prospects ; add- 
 ing, that it was rather late, he feared, to ask them, otherwise he 
 would have requested his aunt and uncle to stand godfather and 
 godmother to his child. 
 
 “ My good nephew,” said lady Annuccia, “ it has always been 
 a wish of mine, you must know, to be godmother, — since it is 
 
 not likely well, dear me, — never mind, — but I have always 
 
 had a longing, I say, to be godmother to a boy. I confess to a 
 liking, an affection for boys — I own my fondness, my doting for 
 boys, — a partiality, a predilection, a preference, — I may say, a 
 perfect mania for boys. I ought perhaps to blush to avow such 
 a weakness, but I do own I’m fond of boys. Boys are my pas- 
 sion ! Now, my dear nephew, for all it is too late to be god- 
 mother to your child, if you should find on your return home, 
 that a boy has been born to you, I promise to give him a gold 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 393 
 
 mug, richly chased; and moreover, will set him down in my 
 will for something handsome.” 
 
 “ A boy ? Pshaw ! ” exclaimed don Ignazio. “ A girl for 
 my money ! give me girls, / say ! ” 
 
 “Now really, cousin Ignazio, I must request, — I must in- 
 sist ” said lady Annuccia ; “ if you are going to make any 
 
 of your unpleasant remarks, your free speeches, — I shall be 
 compelled, however unwillingly, to retire.” 
 
 “ Bless the woman ! I’m not saying anything wrong, am I ? 
 I’m only saying that girls are my delight, my passion ! Corpo 
 di santissima Diana ! I’ve a right to say that, I suppose ? I’ll 
 tell you what, nephew;” he added ; “if you find, when you get 
 home, that you have a little girl, I’ll give the pretty moppet just 
 such another gold goblet, as my lady here has promised your 
 child, if it should be a boy. If it’s a son, she’s welcome to him ; 
 if it’s a daughter, I’ll give her a dower, as if she were my own. 
 Come, is it a bargain, my dear fellow?” 
 
 Sebastian expressed suitable acknowledgments to both aunt 
 and uncle ; saying, he hoped it would not be long before they 
 each favoured him with a visit, to see the little creature in whom 
 they had now an interest ; and then, observing that the wind 
 had changed, and the weather quite cleared, he took leave of 
 lady Annuccia, saying he was anxious to lose no time in getting 
 aboard, and taking advantage of the favourable homeward 
 breeze. 
 
 It was evening, — late evening, when the young merchant’s ship 
 sailed into the harbour of Messaline. Sebastian left all to the 
 care of his people, and hurried away. His house lay in one of 
 the broad, handsome off-streets of the town. At the back of 
 the house, overlooking the garden, there was a projecting bal- 
 cony of white marble, with a flight of steps at one end. Over 
 this balcony was stretched a sloping, striped awning, of bright 
 stuff, to screen off the heat and glare of the sun from the win- 
 dows. In the balcony sat a lady. As the fresher breeze of 
 coming night slightly stirred the valanced edge of the awning 
 above her head, the lady looked up, smilingly. On the marble 
 ledge of the balcony stood a goblet of iced water; she dipped 
 
394 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 one finger in the water, and held it, thus moistened, up into the 
 air. “ It blows from Venice ! ” he could hear her say. For 
 Sebastian had stolen close beneath the balcony, knowing where 
 he should probably find her. In another moment, he sprang 
 up the balcony-steps, and had caught her to his heart. 
 
 “ The child ! Our child S Let me see it ! ” were among some 
 of his earliest words. 
 
 His wife looked into his face ; and then said : — “ Come ! ” 
 They stepped through the window that opened from the balcony, 
 and entered a sleeping-room, where there were two little beds, 
 side by side. She went towards one of them, and lifting the 
 snow-white insect-net, disclosed within, nestled upon the pillow, 
 a cherub face. Then turning, with the other hand she lifted 
 the net of the second little bed; and there, close nestled, lay 
 another angel face. 
 
 “Amazement! Two? The same! The one the counter- 
 part of the other, — as if reflected in a mirror ! ” said the young 
 husband in hushed wonder. 
 
 “ Born both in one hour ! Our twin boy and girl ! Our twin- 
 children ! ” answered his wife, with her glad eyes fixed on his. 
 
 “ You greet me with riches, indeed, sweet wife, to match 
 those I bring you ! I return a wealthy man, in atonement for 
 my long absence, to find my home treasures increased beyond 
 all hope. Prosperous merchant ! Happy Sebastian ! ” 
 
 Next morning came the delight of seeing the little ones, 
 awake ; of seeing their beauty ; above all, of noting their won- 
 drous and complete resemblance. Their native costume ad- 
 mitted of this similarity, even between a boy’s and girl’s garb ; 
 for the dress of a female differed but little from that worn by 
 the men. It consisted of a snowy tunic, or short, ample shirt, 
 gathered in close-set folds, from the waist, which was girt with 
 a rich sash ; a loose jacket, thickly embroidered, with sleeves 
 open from the wrist to the elbow, showing beneath the full 
 white sleeves of the shirt, which closed in plaits upon the bosom 
 to the throat. The limbs were cased in shapely leggings, or 
 greaves, of the same colour and fabrics with the jacket ; and 
 like it, embroidered, either in gold, silver, or silken braid. 
 Upon the head, set amid the clusters of hair, — for it was not 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 395 
 
 large enough to cover much space, — was worn a cap of cor- 
 respondent texture and hue with the jacket, or vest; either 
 fastened by a pendant jewel, or gemmed clasp, or ornamented 
 with a long thick tassel of gold, silver, or silk, according to the 
 material of the embroidery. 
 
 It was in a suit of this kind, that the two little creatures made 
 their appearance before their father, the morning after his re- 
 turn. He could not cease from admiring, — as much at their 
 extreme loveliness, as at their singular likeness. He could do 
 nothing but praise them, fondle them, use them like toys, — like 
 playthings; so pretty, so curious, so odd, so amusing, they 
 seemed to him. They were a merry party, the father still play- 
 ing tricks with them, the mother looking smilingly on, the 
 children joining in the frolic, and enchanted with their new 
 companion, — when don Ignazio was announced. 
 
 Sebastian had but just time to whisper his wife that she 
 should say nothing about the children, whatever she might hear 
 remarked ; when in bustled the old gentleman. 
 
 “ My dear fellow ! Glad to see you ! Knew you’d be glad 
 to see me, so came straight here. I don’t know how it hap- 
 pened, exactly, but it seems I gave some unpardonable offence 
 to cousin Annuccia. Worthy woman, but sickeningly nice ! 
 And, santissima Diana ! so sinfully skinny ! — Well, my dear 
 fellow, and so you’re cosily nestled at home? Soft bosomed in 
 domestic joys, eh? Charming wife, lovely babe, — ah, how’s 
 this, two ? Or, egad, is it one cut in half? ” 
 
 “ Twins, my dear sir ; " said the smiling Sebastian. 
 
 “Twins, eh? Corpo di Diana ! What little beauties ! The 
 havoc they’ll make among the men, by-and-by, eh? By the 
 way, I owe you two golden cups, and two dowries, since you’ve 
 two daughters ! Corpo di Diana ! What two-fold beauty ! 
 What double loveliness ! ” 
 
 The brisk little gentleman, soon after, took a bustling leave ; 
 declaring he had some visits to pay to some old acquaintances 
 in the town, whom he would not miss seeing before he left 
 Messaline. 
 
 Not long after the uncle departed, the aunt arrived. Lady 
 Annuccia came in great pomp ; having sailed from her island 
 
396 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 estate in her own barge, and being attended by a numerous train 
 of servants, male and female. 
 
 “ Dear me, well, — and so that is your young wife, my dear 
 boy, — my worthy nephew ? Dear me ! And where is your little 
 one ? Dear me, I shall be delighted to see it, of course, I’m 
 sure. I hope it’s a boy ! ” 
 
 “You do not know, aunt Annuccia, that a double happiness 
 awaited me on my return home ; ” said Sebastian. “ I found 
 twins born to me.” 
 
 “ Twins ! Dear me, — well, — it quite flutters me to hear it — 
 to think of it ; — well, dear me. Is it possible ! Twins ! I 
 shouldn’t have thought it ! Dear me, well ! Indeed ! I should 
 never have thought of such a thing.” 
 
 “ My love,” said Sebastian, to his wife, “ will you bring the 
 little ones hither ? ” 
 
 The old lady sat, lost in admiration, gazing from one to the 
 other. At length she exclaimed : — “ Dear little fellows ! I 
 never beheld two such loves ! Absolute cupids ! Only — dear 
 me — well, it’s a shame to make such a comparison— so beauti- 
 fully dressed as these two darlings are — while cupids, — well, 
 dear me, — never mind ! But was there ever such a perfect 
 pair ! They’re certainly the most lovely boys I ever set eyes 
 on ! I shall be only too proud, — too happy, I’m sure, to send 
 the gold mug I promised, — one a-piece, — to these beautiful 
 little fellows. My dear good nephew, — my excellent young 
 niece, — what a pride it must be to you, to be the parent of these 
 two darling sons ! ” 
 
 “ I own, we are not a little delighted with our pretty twins ; ” 
 said Sebastian. 
 
 “ Pretty ! Dear me ! They are handsome as angels ! But 
 you will excuse me, my dear children, — that is, — ahem, — my 
 dear nephew and niece, — if I leave you so soon ; but I have a 
 commission to execute in the neighbourhood, I shall not be ab- 
 sent long. I will return forthwith — immediately.” 
 
 The old maiden lady went straight to a goldsmith’s close ai 
 hand. “ I want two gold drinking-mugs, my good sir ; ” said 
 she to the master of the shop ; “ they must be very handsome, 
 — fit for a, dear me, well, — fit for a christening present.” 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 397 
 
 She had scarcely thus announced her wish, when who should 
 bustle into the shop but don Ignazio. 
 
 “Ah, cousin Annuccia Well met. I am come to order the 
 golden mug I promised to our nephew’s bantling. You’ve 
 heard the news, I suppose. Corpo di Diana ! Lucky dog ! 
 Twins ! And as beautiful as Venus ! You never saw such a 
 couple of young charmers ! ” 
 
 “ I have seen them, cousin : and it is that very errand brings 
 me here, — the golden mug I promised. I shall make it a pair, 
 of course.” 
 
 “ So you’ve given up your mania for boys, have you?” said 
 don Ignazio. “ Corpo di Diana ! I honour your better taste.” 
 
 “ Not at all, cousin Ignazio ; it is because I find our nephew 
 has two such beautiful boys, that I ” 
 
 “ Boys ! Girls you mean ! ” exclaimed don Ignazio. “Two 
 blooming girls ! ” 
 
 “ Girls ! Boys you mean ! ” echoed lady Annuccia. 
 
 “ Don’t tell me, my dear madam ; ” said the brisk old gentle- 
 man. “ Corpo di Diana ! I ought to understand something of 
 these matters ; I consider myself a judge of female beauty ; and 
 if ever I set eyes on two lovely girls, ” 
 
 “ A truce with your libertine observations, sir l ” said the 
 maiden lady, with a wave of her fan sternly supercilious. “ To 
 show you how entirely my mind is made up on the point, 
 I shall proceed with my purchase. Two gold mugs, if you 
 please, my good sir ; ” continued she, turning to the gold- 
 smith. 
 
 “ Certainly, madam ; ” replied the goldsmith. “ I think I 
 have two articles lately sent me, that will just suit your lady- 
 ship’s purpose. They are a pair of golden goblets of rare work- 
 manship, by a renowned Florentine artist. The chasing is ad- 
 mirable ; its design — the exploits of Castor and Pollux.” 
 
 “ Couldn’t be more appropriate ! Leda’s twin sons ! ” ex- 
 claimed lady Annuccia, with a triumphant glance at don Igna- 
 zio. “ Dear me ! yes ; of course ! And though the story of 
 their origin is not altogether what I, — well, — never mind. Since 
 the chasing represents their adventures, not their mother’s, 
 why, — I think I may venture to decide upon them, as gifts 
 
398 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 for my dear little boys; — that is, — not mine, — but, dear me, 
 well, ■” 
 
 “ I understand, madam ; ” said the goldsmith. “ But my 
 dear sir;” he added, turning to don Ignazio; “ if you want 
 something very tasteful, and choice, to present to your two little 
 friends, what think you of these newly invented articles from 
 Piacenza ? They are wrought in silver, and are very dainty 
 and seemly, for eating with ; quite a luxury. They are called 
 forks. But just introduced. Only used at the tables of the 
 first Italian nobility. Now, one of these forks, with a silver 
 spoon to match, would make a very elegant gift.” 
 
 “ Be it so ; ” said don Ignazio. “ Give me two of each, for my 
 brace of infant Graces. Corpo di Diana. I may say Venuses.” 
 
 “ So you persist in speaking of them as girls ? ” said lady 
 Annuccia, scornfully. 
 
 “ Of course I do. As I said before, I ought to know some- 
 thing of girls, and ” 
 
 “ Oh, doubtless, doubtless ! But we won’t trouble you for 
 any repetition of your ribald remarks, if you please, cousin Ig- 
 nazio. I shall take my gold mugs, and return at once to our 
 nephew’s ; where we shall soon find who’s right.” 
 
 “ We shall!” said don Ignazio confidently; as he attended 
 her back to the merchant’s house. 
 
 “We have brought your little ones our promised gifts, my 
 dear fellow ! ” he exclaimed, as he entered the room, where 
 Sebastian, his wife, and their two children, were together ; the 
 former, seated side by side, watching the latter, who were roll- 
 ing and tumbling with one another, on the floor. 
 
 “ Already ! ” exclaimed the young merchant. “ They are 
 unfairly won ; you mustn’t be beguiled of them by a trick. In 
 jest, we allowed you to think, that you both had your wish. So 
 you have, in some sort ; I have luckily, a child to please each of 
 your several fancies. Yours for a boy, my dear madam ; yours 
 for a girl, my dear sir. But there’s only one a-piece. Come 
 hither, children ! ” he added laughing. 
 
 “ Who’s this ? ” he said, gently pinching the cheek of the one 
 who stood nearest. 
 
 “ Viola ; papa’s little girl ; ” lisped the little creature. 
 
VIOLA ; THE TWIN. 
 
 399 
 
 “ Then here is your pet, uncle Ignazio ; ” said the young 
 merchant, passing her over to the old gentleman ; who took her 
 upon his knee, and began making acquaintance with her. 
 
 “And this? ” continued the father. 
 
 “ Sebastian, papa’s namesake ; ” said the little fellow. 
 
 “Then here is your favourite, my dear aunt;” said the 
 merchant ; leading his little son towards her. As the maiden 
 lady seated the young boy on her lap, and gave him the glitter- 
 ing present she had brought for him, and smoothed the fair 
 locks, — scarcely less bright and golden than her gift, she said : 
 — “ Well, dear me ! I don’t know but it’s happiest as it is. I 
 shouldn’t have known which to love best ! And now, I’m quite 
 sure, — of course, — dear me, — of course, I like this one best! I’m 
 so fond of boys ! I have an affection for boys, I own ! I ought 
 perhaps, — to feel a delicacy in confessing such a preference, — 
 but, — I avow it — I am passionately fond of boys ! ” 
 
 “ My dear madam, on the contrary, it does you honour ! ” 
 said don Ignazio. “ Corpo di Diana ! your liking for boys, is 
 the best point about you ! ” 
 
 “ Now, cousin Ignazio, — I beg, — instead of making such per- 
 sonal, and particular allusions, — dear me, well, — you will oblige 
 me by giving to your little favourite, this other golden cup, like 
 her brother’s ; and if you please, you may hand me over your 
 duplicate gift, and I will present it, in your name to mine, — 
 ahem — well, dear me, — to him.” 
 
 Some very happy time was spent by our young merchant, at 
 this period, in his own home. He would sit with his wife, when 
 evening brought in cool repose, after the daily fatigues, and 
 anxieties of business, watching their children from the balcony, 
 as they gambolled in the garden. Their father still found the 
 same diverting perplexity, in trying to know them apart ; but 
 the mother’s instincts were more unerring. She never failed. 
 Sometimes he would affect to disbelieve her, and appeal to the 
 child itself ; but the laughing answer always came in accordance 
 with what she had said “ Mamma guessed ; I’m Viola, papa;” 
 or : — “ Mamma’s right ; it’s Sebastian, papa.” 
 
 His wife at last declared he had best tie something about the 
 
400 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 neck of one of the children, that he might at once distinguish it 
 from its twin brother or sister. 
 
 The merchant agreed ; and that evening, when his little Viola 
 came to wish him good-night, he fastened a string of coral round 
 her throat. 
 
 The child was pleased with the gawd ; but it could not make 
 her forget or omit, a certain little ceremonial which always took 
 place between her father and herself, every night, before she 
 went to bed. 
 
 This was, to climb up from the balcony-seat by his side, say- 
 ing : — “ I must bid good night to my mole ! Viola can’t sleep, 
 if she don’t kiss her mole, and say *' Felice notte,’ to it.” Then 
 she would stand on tip-toe beside him ; and her father would 
 bend down his forehead ; and she would put back the locks of 
 hair from his white, polished temple ; and precisely on one 
 particular spot, she would press her lips against his brow, where 
 lurked a small brown mole ; saying a thousand, murmured, 
 fondling words to it. 
 
 This was the little Viola’s delight ; just one of those sportive 
 fancies, those whimsies of affection, in which a parent indulges 
 a caressing, gentle-natured child ; slight as threads of gossamer, 
 yet subtly potent as the magnet-link. 
 
 In after years, when sailing on the lonely sea, far from home, 
 a wanderer in search of wealth to store for his children, the 
 merchant, thinking of his fanciful baby caress, would find his 
 eyes moisten and his heart swell with an emotion that many a 
 graver thought would fail to excite. 
 
 And in yet other subsequent years, Viola, recalling the image 
 of her father, found no point more vivid, than this same little 
 mole upon his brow. 
 
 Too soon, alas, was the young merchant’s happiness blighted 
 by the death of his gentle wife. Distracted by his loss, he 
 resolved to travel as the readiest means of escaping from sorrow. 
 He left his children in the care of a certain Marcella, a woman 
 of whom he had heard a good character. 
 
 “ Adieu, my little Viola ; what shall I fetch from beyond the 
 sea for thee ? From the grand, brave cities across the sea, where 
 there are stores of gay things, to bring home ! ” 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 401 
 
 “ For me, papa ? Why, bring me that nice boy, the little 
 duke Orsino you were telling of, one evening, that would make 
 such a good play-fellow for Sebastian and me. You said he was 
 1 a noble lad.’ I should like to have him here with us.” 
 
 “ And what shall I bring home for my Sebastian ? ” he 
 said. 
 
 “My mother;” answered the boy, in a low voice. “They 
 took her away — she is gone. Bring her back ; bring her home. 
 I want to see her. I want her with us again.” 
 
 The father turned away. 
 
 “ Papa ! ” said Viola, “ I want to say good-bye to my mole. 
 Lift me up, that I may kiss it and tell it I shall think of it every 
 night when I go to bed, and send a hundred times 4 felicissima 
 notte ’ after it ! ” 
 
 He took her up in his arms and hugged her to the heart that 
 had so much ado to hide its anguish. Then, with another em- 
 brace to her little brother, he tore himself away. 
 
 The sum that Marcella received from the merchant, for the 
 maintenance of his children, so far from being applied to in- 
 crease the comforts of the household, was devoted to increase 
 the small hoard which had slowly accumulated beneath this 
 excellent contriver’s care. 
 
 The elegant home in which this young boy and girl had been 
 reared, caused the niggardly appointments of the one to which 
 they were now removed, to be a source of constant misery to 
 them, and gave rise to perpetual offence on the part of its mis- 
 tress. She thought them dainty, whimsical, fastidious; whereas, 
 they were only accustomed to refinement and indulgence, and 
 severely felt their loss. 
 
 When she scolded them for veriest trifles, and punished them 
 for merest childish scrapes, she thought herself most worthily 
 fulfilling the charge she had undertaken. 
 
 Little Viola was a timid child ; she had been accustomed to 
 much petting from her father. Upon her, therefore, the harsh- 
 toned reproofs, and strict penances of monna Marcella, produced 
 a strong effect. She slunk about as if in constant dread of 
 being chidden, or punished, for some offence she might have 
 unconsciously committed. 
 
 D D 
 
402 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “What makes you look so scared, Viola mia?” said her 
 brother, coming in, one evening, and finding her with trembling 
 lips, and tears in her eyes. “ Has monna Marcella been finding 
 fault with you again ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes ! And I don’t know what for — I didn’t mean to do 
 wrong ; but she’s very angry ; and says that if I offend her again, 
 she’ll lock me up in the yard.” 
 
 “Well, if she does never mind ! ” said Sebastian. “We play 
 there every day, you know. What does it signify whether the 
 door’s locked or not ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t mind being there with you. But she’ll lock me 
 there alone ; and I’m afraid of that big, snarling dog by myself. 
 He jumps to the end of his chain, and makes at me, and comes 
 so close ; oh, much closer — at least it seems so — than when 
 you’re by to take care of me.” 
 
 At length the impending evil came. 
 
 It was a saint’s-day, and the twins were beguiling the seemingly 
 interminable afternoon by a game of play together in the little 
 stony yard at the back of the house — keeping at a respectfully 
 safe distance from Lupo — while monna Marcella was helping 
 the servant girl to wash up the utensils that had served at the 
 noon-tide meal. Presently the careful housewife missed the 
 children’s gold drinking-mugs, and their silver spoons and forks ; 
 which, in virtue of its being a festa-day, they had been permitted 
 to use. 
 
 “ How’s this, Menicuccia?” said monna Marcella, with more 
 than usual asperity. “ How’s this ? I don’t see the plate. It 
 was had out to-day, to please those whimsical brats ! Where is 
 it ? Santa Rosa ! How the wench stands ! Where in the 
 name of all the saints is it, girl ? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t put it nowhere, ma’am ; ” answered Menicuccia, 
 in trepidation. “ I an’t so much as touched it. Santa Madonna 
 di Loretto forbid ! — I see the twins take the cups and things out 
 with ’em into the yard to play with.” 
 
 “ You did ! ” screamed monna Marcella. “Well, this beats all ! 
 They must make play-things of their property, must they ! and 
 such valuables as those, for toys ! It’s enough to make the hair of 
 all the ‘ Beati ’ in Paradise stand on end, to think of such tricks ! ” 
 
VIOLA ; THE TWIN. 
 
 403 
 
 Monna Marcelk hastened to the scene of these reckless pro- 
 ceedings — not the crinose feats, but the tricks; not paradise, but 
 the stony back-yard. 
 
 She found the children busily employed, raking up the pebbles 
 and dust, filling the gold cups to the brim, and preparing to 
 make dirt-pies, by the addition of water from the dog’s pan, 
 which Sebastian was adventurously bringing by spoonfuls at a 
 time, from under Lupo’s very nose. 
 
 “ Upon my word ! ” exclaimed monna Marcella, in a tone 
 likest to a peacock’s cry before rain. “ Pretty doings, truly ! 
 Who began this ? Who set the example ? But I said I’d match 
 you, and I will ! I’ll punish you both this time ; and then there 
 can be no mistake. You shall both be locked up.” 
 
 “ I shan’t mind that ; we shan’t mind being locked up together ; ” 
 said Viola, suddenly relieved. 
 
 “ I know who says that ! It must be that coward of a girl!” 
 said monna Marcella. “ But no, child ; I mean no such thing. 
 You shall both be locked up; but separately — in your separate 
 rooms ; while I go to spend the evening at messer Gervasio’s 
 4 campagna.’ ” 
 
 It is possible that even this ‘good manager’ might have 
 shrunk from inflicting so much of what she thought salutary 
 misery, could she have guessed its amount. As it was, she was 
 struck with its effects, when she returned home. She went at 
 once up to Viola’s room and found the child lying upon the 
 bed. Its bright hair was in disorder ; its cheeks very pale ; its 
 eyelids swollen and stained with tears, while the lips lay parted, 
 and almost colourless. 
 
 It was not at all in such a woman’s system of manage- 
 ment, to speak to the child the next morning soothingly, with 
 respect to the future. Therefore little Viola had no idea that 
 there was anything softened in the state of affairs between her- 
 self and the harsh-visaged personage, who sat watching her and 
 her brother next morning, as they took their breakfast meal 
 beneath her eye. 
 
 “ What ails ye, child ? What’s amiss ? Why don’t you eat 
 your polenta, and drink your milk ? ” 
 
 “ I’m not hungry, thank you,” said Viola. 
 
404 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Not hungry ? nonsense, child ! Eat your victuals, when 
 they’re set before you. Nice fresh polenta of chestnuts ! And 
 milk I Sweet milk ! Come, drink it off, there’s a good child.” 
 
 Viola obediently put the cup to her lips ; but set it down 
 again, with an incapable look, and a deprecating glance towards 
 monna Marcella. 
 
 “ You make it seem like medicine to her, monna Marcella, 
 by saying ‘ drink it off ; ’ ” said Sebastian. 
 
 “ Obstinate, perverse little toad !” exclaimed monna Marcella. 
 “ But I’ll tell you what ; I’m going to market, and if I find, on 
 my return, you’ve been a good child, and have drunk up your 
 milk, I’ll give you a lump of sugar. There now ! Won’t that 
 be nice ? ” 
 
 When monna Marcella was gone, Viola said, “ I don’t mean 
 to be obstinate, but I can’t eat or drink ; I feel as if it would 
 choke me, every time I try.” 
 
 “ Then don’t try,” said Sebastian. “ Why should you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, she’ll be so angry if she comes back, and finds it not 
 gone ! She’ll think me perverse ; and perhaps stand over me, 
 and make me take it. And I can’t ; indeed I can’t.” 
 
 “ Then you shan’t,” said Sebastian stoutly. “ Here, give it 
 me.” 
 
 He snatched up the trencher of polenta, and the mug of 
 milk ; hurried out with them to the yard, and flung them to 
 Lupo, who licked them up in a trice of grateful gobble. 
 
 “ What a good thought ! ” exclaimed Viola, with a sigh of 
 relief, as her brother returned. 
 
 “ But you’re not well, Viola mia ; ” said the boy, as he saw 
 how white her cheeks and lips were. 
 
 “ I feel stifled,” said she. “ I wish I could have some 
 sweet, fresh, open air ; I wish we could have one of those 
 pleasant walks, down by the sea-shore, that we used to take 
 long ago, when we lived at our happy home.” 
 
 “ Let’s go ! ” said Sebastian. “ I’m sure I could find the 
 way. Let’s go, Viola !” 
 
 Viola joyfully gave him her hand, and the two children left 
 the house together. 
 
 The sun’s rays beat down hot and scorching, and were re- 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 405 
 
 fleeted by the rough white stones beneath their feet ; but the 
 two little ones trudged merrily on, hand-in-hand, looking up at 
 the silvery olive-boughs, which overhung the walls, and at the 
 glorious blue sky above. 
 
 “ How bright and beautiful all looks now again !” said Viola 
 in a happy voice to her brother. “ I’m so glad we came ; it 
 has made me feel quite well, — quite hungry. All my choking, 
 sick feeling is gone ; and I should be glad of my breakfast, 
 now, that I couldn’t swallow before ; ” she added laughing. 
 
 “ I oughtn’t to have been in such a hurry to throw it away;” 
 said Sebastian, in the same tone ; “ it would be very welcome, 
 if we had it here ; eating in the open air is so pleasant.” 
 
 “Never mind; the pain of being hungry isn’t half so bad, 
 as being forced to eat when you can’t swallow ; ” said Viola 
 cheerfully. “ I had rather twenty times be here, in this beauti- 
 ful place, and a little hungry, than shut up in that stifling 
 house, with plenty of food before me that I can’t get down.” 
 
 “ I suppose it’s time for us to be thinking of going back ; ” 
 added she, with a sigh ; and a timid look crossing her face, 
 as she thought of monna Marcella. 
 
 “ Not yet,” said Sebastian.. “ Let us go and see what those 
 men are doing in that boat yonder which has just come ashore.” 
 
 The children stood watching the proceedings of the fisher- 
 men, much amused ; they saw the men land their haul, divide 
 it, and separate in the direction of their several huts. 
 
 The last man that lingered, took up his share of fish, and 
 went into the nearest hut, close down upon the sea-brink. The 
 two children, half unconsciously, followed, interested in his 
 doings. The door of the hut stood open, and the children 
 could see what went on inside. It showed the interior of a 
 kitchen, which opened at once from the outer entrance. At the 
 table stood a woman, busily employed in preparing the fish, 
 which her husband had just brought in ; while he went and lay 
 in the shade, on a wooden bench, beneath a trellis covered 
 with passion-flower, at the side of the house. While it simmered, 
 she cut some sippets of bread into a large bowl ; and when it 
 was done, she poured the hot savoury mess, upon the thin 
 layers of bread, and her dish of fish was ready. It smelt so 
 
4 o 6 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 relishing, and looked so delicious that, joined to their previous 
 appetites, the two children could scarce resist the urgent prompt- 
 ings they felt to ask if they might not partake of the feast. 
 
 The expression of their faces so markedly painted this feel- 
 ing, that, — on the good woman’s raising her eyes and catching 
 theirs, as she lifted the smoking bowl from the dresser, pre- 
 paratory to taking it out under the trellis, — she could not help 
 exclaiming to herself : — “ What two pretty creatures ! They’re 
 as like as two almonds in one shell ! They look mortal hungry. 
 I’ve a good mind to ask ’em if they’ll have some fish with us. 
 Rocco’s had a good haul to day; we can well spare some. 
 He, Piccinini ! What say ye to coming under the trellis with 
 us, and eating a bit ? You shall be right welcome, for the sake 
 of your pretty little twin * visetti ! ’ ” 
 
 The two children joyfully followed the good woman into the 
 shade of the arbour ; where, with true Italian rustic taste, the 
 fisherman and his family were wont to take their meals. The 
 benches and table were rudely hewn, it is true ; the bowls and 
 trenchers were of the commonest kind ; but the thick-trained 
 passion-flower over-head, the glorious view of the sea and rocks 
 of the bay, seen through the supports of the trellis, together 
 with the kind, hearty manners of their entertainers, combined 
 to make this one of the most exquisite repasts the children had 
 ever enjoyed. The fisherman resumed his lolling on the bench, 
 and dozed off into a 1 siesta ; ’ his wife betook herself to her 
 household duties ; and their son Giorgio lounged down on the 
 beach, to join some companions of his own age, who were 
 capering in the shallow water, and scrambling into the boats, 
 and rocking themselves to and fro, and pulling about the boat- 
 hooks and the oars, and making a great show of seamanship. 
 
 The two children had followed Giorgio, and stood watching 
 him and the other boys, as they pursued their evolutions in the 
 boats. 
 
 Sebastian had been earnestly engaged, observing the move- 
 ments of two lads, who had unmoored one of the small vessels, 
 and were now slowly paddling themselves across the bay. 
 
 “How I should like to be with them !” exclaimed Sebastian, 
 half to himself, half to his sister. 
 
VIOLA ; THE TWIN. 
 
 407 
 
 “ It looks very pleasant,” she said, as she shaded her eyes 
 with her hand, and stood watching them, with her brother. 
 
 Presently, a woman passing along the strand, called out to 
 one of the boys idling in the near boats, to come from his play, 
 for it was late, and she wanted him. 
 
 “Late !” echoed Viola, with a start, and a tone of alarm. 
 “ Oh, what shall we do ? What will monna Marcella say ? 
 She will be so angry — oh, so angry! All she has ever done 
 to punish us, will be nothing to what she will invent now ; ” 
 said Viola. “ I daren’t go back ; oh, I daren’t go back ! ” 
 
 “ Then don’t let us go back;” said Sebastian. “The place 
 is detestable. She is detestable. Why should we go back to 
 either ? It’s more like a prison than a home. It’s no home to 
 us. Let’s find one of our own.” 
 
 “ That would be delightful ; ” said Viola. “ But where shall 
 we find it ? ” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking, Viola ; ” said her young 
 brother. “ Why shouldn’t we do as those boys did ? Get into 
 a boat, and push ourselves away from the shore, and go and 
 look for some of those beautiful lands beyond sea ; where there 
 must be plenty of pleasant homes to choose from.” 
 
 “ Papa talked of brave countries abroad ; and perhaps we 
 may meet him! Wouldn’t that be joyful? He sailed away 
 upon the sea, you know. If we were to meet his ship ! Eh, 
 Sebastian ? ” And Viola’s soft eyes brightened with childish 
 glee. 
 
 “ Who knows ? We can but try ; ” he answered. “ Here, 
 give me your hand ; I’ll help you into the boat, and I can leap 
 in after.” 
 
 “ Do you think you shall be able to manage the boat?” said 
 Viola, as she obeyed his directions, and stepped in. 
 
 “ Oh yes ; I’ve been watching those boys all this time ; and 
 I’m sure I can do what I saw them do;” he replied con- 
 fidently. 
 
 “ How pleasantly it glides along ; ” said Viola, charmed with 
 the smooth motion of the boat ; “ and how safely it is tak- 
 ing us away from the chance of that cruel monna Marcella’s 
 finding us.” 
 
408 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Luckily for the two children, the sea had not a ripple. 
 Sebastian soon found that his strength was insufficient to lift, 
 far less to use, the large oars which lay in the boat ; but there 
 was a long boat-hook, much lighter, with which he contrived to 
 push off the craft, and to guide it through the shallower portion 
 of the bay. The truth was, what slight current there was, 
 drifted them gently out to sea, and bore them along independent 
 of any effort on the part of the young boatman. 
 
 So long as the shores of the bay were near at hand, seeming 
 to protect them by their placid green beauty, the children went 
 on happily enough, delighted with their adventure, and with a 
 sense of escape and safety. But as they got farther from land, 
 and the expanse of waters seemed to spread widening out on 
 all sides of them, without offering any prospect of haven or 
 refuge, Viola began to cast anxious looks at her brother’s face, 
 to see whether she could detect any glimpse of uncertainty, or 
 misgiving, as to their position. 
 
 “Viola,” said the boy, “come here, and help me to push 
 with this pole ; I don’t know how it is, but it don’t seem to 
 make the boat mind what I want it to do.” 
 
 “ The boat seems to go on very nicely, I think ; ” said Viola, 
 in a dubious tone. 
 
 “Yes, it goes on very well said her brother, with his eyes 
 fixed on the fast-fading shore. 
 
 Viola came and placed herself by her brother’s side, trying 
 to understand all his directions for the proper swaying of the 
 boat-hook, which he used in manner of a scull, at the stern. 
 The two children showed the native gentleness of their dispo- 
 sitions, in this moment of trial. Not one word of impatience 
 or fretfulness, fell from either ; he directed her energetically, 
 but with nothing of boyish petulance ; and she obeyed him 
 without a syllable of murmur, or utterance of teazing fear. Left 
 to the impulses of their own sweet natures, these two young 
 creatures proved that neither harshness, nor authority, was 
 requisite to make them act rightly. Out upon the open sea, 
 with no human eye to control them, they behaved with loving, 
 mutual help, and kindliness. 
 
 After a time, Viola ventured to cast one anxious look round 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN, 
 
 409 
 
 upon the wide-spreading world of waters on every side ; and 
 the tone of relief and exultation with which she exclaimed : — 
 “ Sebastian ! we’re coming to some land ! ” showed how keen 
 had been her previous solicitude. As much was confessed in 
 the voice with which he echoed : — “ Land, Viola ! ” and by the 
 eager look he cast over his shoulder. 
 
 It was true. They were approaching the shore of one of 
 those numerous islands which lie dotted along that coast, rising 
 out of the serene waters of the Adriatic, verdant and fruitful, — 
 exuberant in vegetation and in beauty. 
 
 The children exerted all their strength, to push vigorously, 
 and to guide the boat right against the shelving beach. Their 
 manoeuvre was crowned with success; and their little bark 
 came with a kind of smooth crunching, right on to the shingly 
 sand. 
 
 Sebastian assisted Viola out ; and as he sprang out himself, 
 after her, he couldn’t help giving her a hug, which she returned, 
 for joy to find themselves safe on dry land again. 
 
 “ I wonder what place this is ! ” said Viola. “ If it should 
 be a desert island ! or inhabited only by savages ! ” 
 
 “ It don’t look like a wild, or desert place, such as the stories 
 tell of ; ” answered he, looking about. “ See ! yonder’s a vine- 
 yard, and farther on there’s an olive-ground. Stay; you sit 
 there, on that slope of turf ; while I creep in here, and pick up 
 some of the fruit I see scattered on the ground under these 
 orchard-trees, just above, here. It will not be stealing; for you 
 know nobody thinks anything of the wind-falls. I shall not 
 gather any, only take those that have dropped of themselves.” 
 
 Presently he returned with a lapful of pears, peaches, and 
 ripe figs ; and he sat down beside her, while she arranged them 
 temptingly on dishes of vine-leaves, and the two children 
 enjoyed their supper together, like ‘making a feast.’ 
 
 “ Don’t you feel as if it were an immense time ago, Viola, 
 since w T e were living in that dismal house, with that dismal 
 woman ? To me it seems as if it were, — oh, I don’t know how 
 long, — years ago ! ” 
 
 “Yes; I can hardly believe it was only this very morning, 
 that we came away ; ” said she. “ But then we have seen so 
 
4io GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 many new things, and people, and places, and have gone 
 through such adventures, and made a sea-voyage, you know ! 
 So that it isn’t wonderful it should seem a long while since.” 
 
 After the children had refreshed themselves with a hearty 
 draught at a fountain, they wandered on, along the edge of the 
 broad water-course, beneath the shady, green-fringed banks of 
 the wood. The glow of the day was subsiding into a gorgeous- 
 hued evening, when the two young wanderers came to a spot, 
 where they at once made a halt. It was a deep hollow, or cave, 
 beneath the banks ; overhung by the trees, and underwood, 
 and trailing plants, of the copse. Its floor was strewn with a 
 thick layer of dried leaves, that had drifted in, and lodged 
 there, for many successive autumns; while its low roof was 
 over-arched with a verdant screen of clustering myrtles, hazels, 
 and flaunting briony. 
 
 “ What a pleasant seat ! What a soft delicious bed, this 
 would make ! ” exclaimed Viola, letting herself sink upon the 
 springy, elastic heap of leaves. “ What a snug, charming nook, 
 altogether ! ” 
 
 “ What a delightful home it would make for us ! ” said her 
 brother, couching beside her. “Where could we find any 
 place we should like better, — to live in ; eh, Viola ? Why not 
 fix, at once, on this one ? ” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” she replied, in a triumphantly assenting tone. 
 
 The two little householders took possession of their new 
 abode by ensconcing and settling themselves comfortably in 
 two huge, high-piled beds of leaves. The eyes of the two 
 children were fixed upon the calm beauty of sky and sea ; their 
 thoughts took that shape of devout gratitude and reliance, 
 which is the spontaneous form of prayer, arising untaught in 
 innocent hearts ; and their last uttered words, — in a happy, 
 going-to-sleep tone, — were, “ Good night, Viola ! ” “ Good 
 
 night, Sebastian ! ” 
 
 The next morning, with the dawn, they were up and stirring ; 
 making their house tidy ; sweeping all the stray leaves into the 
 heaped beds, so as to leave an unscattered floor between. 
 
 When they at length quitted their umbrageous resting-place, 
 they rambled down, through the covert, until they came upon 
 
VIOLA ; TIIE TWIN. 
 
 411 
 
 a rural dwelling, situated just at its foot. The two children 
 were lingering near the open door, when a girl came out, with 
 a pitcher of green glazed earthenware on her head, a basket 
 full of bright scarlet love-apples in her hand, an orange-coloured 
 handkerchief on her neck, and a sprig of jessamine tucked into 
 her hair, behind her ear. She cast a wondering look at the two 
 little strangers, and then called to her mother, who was busy 
 inside the cottage, to come and looked at these two pretty 
 creatures, — ‘ Maravigliosamente simili ! Ma similissimi ! ’ 
 
 The mother came, and exclaimed with equal delight and 
 winder at the ‘ gentilissimi gemelli/ as she called them ; and 
 then, fancying that they looked as if they had been wandering 
 far, she asked them to come in and rest. The two children 
 accepted her offer with alacrity, and sat watching her, as she 
 bustled about her household affairs. She was making ‘ mac- 
 caroni/ of which she offered them to eat; and gave them 
 also a plate of thinly-cut raw ham, eaten with ‘ fallecciani,’ or 
 early figs ; these she took out of a large round basket, filled 
 with fruit. She told them that this basket was packed ready 
 to go up to the great house ; that she was a tenant of the lady 
 who lived there ; and that she regularly sent some of her 
 choicest fruit for the ‘ padrona’s 5 table. 
 
 Of this great house, and this lady, the children heard a great 
 deal, she seemed to be a kind woman, charitable and good, but 
 very particular. Her estate was large, and gave her almost 
 universal sway over the island and its peasant inhabitants, of 
 which and of whom, she seemed to be a sort of queen. 
 
 As the two children were returning home to their cave, they 
 beheld a coach, or litter, rumbling along ; and presently they 
 saw Jaco, the ‘Caporale di Bovi,’ tearing across the field, 
 w r here his charge roamed ; and heard him shouting to them to 
 come and be harnessed to the 4 padrona’s ’ coach, that they 
 might help the horses to drag it up the steep rise on which her 
 house lay. The twins loitered, that they might see the interest- 
 ing ceremony of fastening the milk-white oxen into the traces ; 
 and likewise in the hope that they might catch a glimpse of the 
 stately 1 padrona ’ of whom they had heard so much. 
 
 As the coach halted, to await the coming of the assistant 
 
412 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 team, Viola and Sebastian could see withinside, the slight, 
 diminutive figure of a little old lady; who leaned forward, 
 looked out of the coach-window, peered about impatiently, 
 and exclaimed with dabby irritation : — “ Dear me ! I wonder 
 what ails them that they don’t bring these cattle. What can 
 the people be about ? Bless me ! why an’t they ready ? ” 
 
 “ ’Cause they an’t, I s’pose ; ” was the somewhat unsatis- 
 factory reply, that proceeded from a loutish youth, seated beside 
 her in the coach. 
 
 “ Dear me ! What if you were to get out, and hasten these 
 people, with their cattle, my dear boy ? ” said the lady. 
 
 “ What if I wasn’t? ” retorted the lad. 
 
 “ Well, — I don’t know, — dear me — it might hurry their move- 
 ments a little ; ” meekly dabbed the little old lady. 
 
 “ It might, or it mightn’t’sh, ye see;” rejoined the lout. 
 “ Anyways, I can’t see what’s the odds, whether they hurry or 
 no ; it can’t signify for a minute more or less.” And he 
 whistled ; showing how perfectly immaterial it was to him. 
 
 “ Dear me, quite true ; certainly, as you say, my dear boy, it 
 is not of much moment, if I reach home a few minutes sooner 
 or later. Still, I’m fond of early hours- ” 
 
 “ Ah ! minutes an’t hours, ye see ; ” observed the youth, 
 sententiously. “ Oh, here come the oxes ! Come, you sir ! 
 look sharp, will you ? ” he added, addressing the ‘ Caporale di 
 Bovi,’ with a startling shout from the coach-window. “ Hallo ! 
 Jaco ! Be alive, young chap ! Don’t’sh ye see my lady’s in a 
 mortal hurry and flustration to get home.” 
 
 “ In three seconds, 4 padrona !’ ” said the ‘ Caporale,’ touch- 
 ing his cap to his lady mistress. 
 
 “ Ah, she’ll ‘padrona’ you, if you don’t bustle your bones a 
 little quicker, master !” said the lout, hanging out of the win- 
 dow, and touching up the ear of one of the white oxen, with the 
 tip of his cane ; while the ‘ Caporale di Bovi ’ solaced his dis- 
 gust at the upstart young gentleman’s insolence, by stealthily 
 making one of his expressive Italian gesticulations, indicating 
 measureless contempt. 
 
 While these amenities were going on at one side of the 
 coach, on the other, lady Annuccia happened to catch sight of 
 
VIOLA: THE TWIN. 
 
 413 
 
 the two children, who stood there, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, 
 looking on. 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” she exclaimed ; “ w'ell I never thought to see 
 such another pair, — so singular a couple, — so perfectly twin — 
 so alike — so — dear me ! well ! It’s extraordinary, I’m sure ! ” 
 
 “ What now ? ” cried her boy companion, drawing his head 
 leisurely into the coach. 
 
 “Dear me! well, — the most wonderful resemblance! Not 
 only to each other, — but, dear me, — to my nephew’s little boy 
 and girl in Messaline. They were mere babies when I saw 
 them ; but still, I can remember, they were as like those two 
 children yonder, as anything can be. Two cherries on a stalk, 
 are not more alike, than these young things are to one another, 
 and to my nephew’s twins ! Dear me ! ” 
 
 The little old lady leaned back, and gasped ; fanned herself 
 faintly ; and then stooped forward once more, and called, with 
 more than her usual dabby feebleness of tone : — “ Come hither, 
 children ! Dear me ! Come hither, I say ! ” 
 
 Viola and Sebastian seeing the ‘ padrona ’ beckon with her 
 fan, advanced towards the coach-window. 
 
 “My dears! Bless me! Well, — dear me, — I never! The 
 nearer they come, the more striking the likeness ! Dear me ! 
 Well, — ahem, — my dears, tell me ; what are your names ? ” 
 
 “ Sebastian, madam \ , 
 
 “ Viola, madam ; ’’ i the y simultaneously replied. 
 
 “ It is they themselves ! ” ejaculated the little old lady, sink- 
 ing back into the coach, with another gasp. Then jerking 
 forward again: — “Bless me! I never knew anything so 
 amazing! So you are actually your own selves, are you? 
 Dear me ! I should never have thought it ! I should never 
 have dreamed it possible, — dear me, — that you should have 
 left home, — that I should see you here, — alone, ragged ; all 
 your pretty clothes faded and torn. My poor young dears ! 
 Bless me ; pray come in ; come into my coach. I shall be 
 delighted, — of course — to take you home; to hear all about 
 you, why you are here, and so forth. Dear me, to be sure ! ” 
 And the ‘padrona,’ — who was no other than their aunt 
 Annuccia herself — made the children get in, seating them on 
 
4H GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the opposite seat to her, and went dab-dab-dabbing on, while 
 the lad beside her, sat staring at them, with what would have 
 been an open mouth, had it not been partially closed into the 
 utterance of a low whistle of astonishment. 
 
 At the top of the steep and long hill the coach turned into 
 a pair of lofty iron gates, which formed the entrance to lady 
 Annuccia’s grounds. She gave orders for the appointment of 
 certain rooms for her young visitors, and desired one of her 
 women to make it her care that the twin brother and sister should 
 want for nothing. 
 
 That night, a violent tempest arose. The wind blew a per- 
 fect hurricane; and as Viola lay and listened to its howling 
 gusts, she congratulated herself that she and her brother were 
 safely housed, beneath better shelter than their cave-home could 
 have afforded. 
 
 Next morning, the sun shone out again brightly, and the blue 
 sky was apparent in all its Italian vividness. 
 
 “ Viola and I would like to take a walk together, if you please, 
 madam ; ” said Sebastian. “ We should like to go down to the 
 beach, and see the high waves, this morning ; and the torrent — 
 whether it is full ; and our cave, whether it has been washed 
 into.” 
 
 “Well — dear me — though I don’t approve, in general, of 
 solitary walks for young ladies ; yet with their brothers, there 
 can be no impropriety. Go, my dears ; but be back by noon 
 to dinner. I like punctuality in my hours.” 
 
 The children promised ; and went off in their usual happy, 
 hand-in-hand fashion. 
 
 They rambled as far as their cave. At the entrance they 
 paused, and peeped in. Upon one of the heaps of unwetted 
 leaves, lay a man in a fast sleep. He seemed, by his dress, a 
 mariner ; its torn condition, and his attitude bespoke fatigue, 
 and struggle with the waves and rocks. He looked flung there 
 — spent, bruised, and dead weary. The children stood gazing 
 at him, with sympathy and commiseration in their faces. 
 
 “ He is one of the shipwrecked men from the vessel we heard 
 of, that went down, last night ; ” whispered Sebastian. 
 
 “ Look there, brother ! ” said she, in the same low pitch ; but 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 415 
 
 her tone and her excited manner, caught his attention. “ Look 
 there, upon his forehead ! ” she repeated. 
 
 She stepped softly nearer ; and leaned, breathless, over the 
 sleeping man. She put back the locks of sea-stained hair, very 
 gently ; and then whispered : — “ It must be, brother ! It must 
 be our father ! Do you not see the little brown mole ? My 
 own dear little mole ! I should know it wherever I saw it ! ” 
 
 She could not refrain ; but bent down, and touched it with 
 her lips. However light the contact, it was felt. The sleeper 
 stirred, and unclosed his eyes. As they met the soft violet 
 ones, that peered above him — and as his scarce awakened 
 senses inhaled the fragrance of the child’s breath, and of her 
 balmy hair, falling on either side her sweet face, and hanging 
 over his — he let them close again, murmuring : — “ Still dream- 
 ing ! My little Viola ! My pretty one !” 
 
 “ I am here, papa ! ” she said ; “ Sebastian too ! Look at us, 
 dear papa ! ” 
 
 Her brother stood by her side ; and when the happy father 
 again raised his eyes, it was to encounter with his waking sight, 
 the living, actual faces of his twin boy and girl ; while he clasped 
 in his eager, glad embrace, their veritable selves. 
 
 “ It is predestined that you shall never cease to have strange 
 guests coming and taking you by storm, aunt Annuccia ; ” said 
 the merchant, as they all sat a happy party at the old lady’s 
 noon-tide table. “ Here have my children been claiming your 
 hospitable kindness no farther back than yesterday. And this 
 morning, when they go out for a couple of hours’ stroll, they 
 return, punctually, indeed, as you bade them, to dinner; but 
 bringing with them a wandering father, who now comes back a 
 penniless beggar. But though he has lost his all, he does not 
 intend remaining a dependent on your bounty. Present food 
 and lodging I receive most gratefully, and will be farther 
 beholden to you for the maintenance and care of my children, 
 until such season as I can re-claim them of you, and support 
 them myself. It is true, the bulk of my fortune has perished 
 by this shipwreck, but I have my merchant-house at Messaline. 
 I shall set sail again immediately ; work hard to retrieve my 
 
416 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 losses ; and hope, within less time than we now think, to be 
 once more the prosperous merchant I was yesterday.” 
 
 “ Dear me, well — I hope so ; I’m sure I trust so, my dear boy 
 — my dear nephew. And as for taking charge of these little 
 darlings during your absence — I’m sure I shall be delighted — 
 of course ; ” replied his aunt. 
 
 The issue justified his hope. Not many months elapsed, ere 
 he was able to send lady Annuccia accounts of his numerous 
 successes, together with a large sum of money ; begging her to 
 appropriate it for the behoof of his children, and to accept his 
 loving thanks for her care of them. 
 
 Time thus passed on. Year succeeded year; and yet the 
 only intelligence they had of the merchant, was either by letter 
 or by message ; for still he eagerly pursued his purpose of 
 achieving wealth for his children. 
 
 Viola had grown, from a child, into a beautiful girl of twelve 
 years old. Her brother had shot up into a tall stripling, slight, 
 and agile. Between himself and his sister, there was still the 
 same remarkable similarity of frame and feature ; and, although, 
 as they grew up, their suits varied more, yet when dressed pre- 
 cisely alike, the resemblance was no less striking than ever. 
 
 The ascendancy which her uncouth favourite, the youth, 
 Gabino, had gained over the little old lady, became greater and 
 greater. He lost no opportunity of cajoling her in private ; 
 while outwardly he continued his overbearing bluffness. He 
 made no secret, to her , of his dread that Sebastian should rival 
 him in her favour. He chose to be her pet boy, her own boy, 
 her only boy. 
 
 A whimsy, which the old lady’s silly fondness prompted her 
 with, in order to please her lout, was to get up a feast unknown 
 to him, at which she resolved that the twin brother and sister 
 should attend as young lady guests. She determined that they 
 should both be dressed as girls ; and took an imbecile delight 
 in knowing how perfectly Sebastian’s slight figure, and youthful 
 beauty of face, would enable her to carry out her design of de- 
 ceiving Gabino, while she pictured his approbation at seeing no 
 boys present but himself. 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 4i7 
 
 Sebastian, of course, made no hesitation in humouring this 
 freak of the old lady’s ; and with the help of one of Viola’s 
 dresses, he transformed himself into such a precise counterpart 
 of his sister, that lady Annuccia was in an ecstasy. 
 
 After admiring, and exclaiming, to her heart’s content, at the 
 marvellous beauty and likeness of the two charming young 
 ladies, as she called them, she dismissed Sebastian to the sitting- 
 room, where she promised to join him with Viola, so soon as 
 the last finishing touch to her own dress (which was to be extra 
 fine on this festal occasion, to do honour to her favourite), 
 should have been added. 
 
 While Sebastian was awaiting them, Gabino entered the room. 
 He saw, as he thought, the figure of Viola, standing at the 
 window. He stole behind her, exclaiming as he seized her in 
 his arms, and strove to snatch a kiss : — “ Limed at last, my 
 pretty dear ! ” 
 
 To his infinite surprise, he received a sound box on the ear; 
 and the young lady twisted herself out of his embrace with a 
 vigour that staggered him. 
 
 “Young vixen!” he muttered; “and how confounded 
 strong ! ” 
 
 At that moment, in came lady Annuccia, with the real Viola; 
 and while her lubberly favourite stood rubbing his discomfited 
 cheek, and staring in oafish bewilderment from one Viola to the 
 other; the little old lady enjoyed her dabby triumph at his 
 perplexity. 
 
 “ Brute ! No wonder Viola finds him odious ! ” thought 
 Viola’s brother, as he watched the fellow gormandizing at table; 
 gorging the dainties provided by lady Annuccia ; gobbling till 
 he choked ; strangling himself with the wine he swilled, and 
 coughing in his glass ; winking jocularly at the young ladies ; 
 noisily toasting the elder one ; getting into violent spirits, and 
 growing perfectly uproarious; while lady Annuccia encouraged 
 his sallies, by her laughter, and her dabby commendation. 
 
 As soon as they could, Viola and Sebastian made their escape 
 from the dinner, and went to take a cool walk in the open air, 
 among the shrubberies adjoining the house. 
 
 They had been there about an hour, when Annunziata came 
 
 E E 
 
418 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE 1 S HEROINES. 
 
 hurrying towards them, with dismay in her usually quiet face. 
 “ My lady ! My poor lady ! Oh, come in quickly to her, 
 signorina ! ” she exclaimed, to Viola. “ She has been taken 
 ill, very ill ; a surfeit — a fever — I hardly know what ! I fear 
 she has eaten too many of them sweetmeats, and almond 
 mischiefs, that she would have cook make for this feast. It’s 
 all owing to that Gabino. If mistress should die, it it’ll be 
 found, for all his awkward, hobbedehoy, dolt’s ways, he’s had 
 shrewdness to play his game well. Thick-head as he is, he 
 knows fast enough, which side his bread’s buttered.” 
 
 The event fulfilled Annunziata’s hint. That night lady 
 Annuccia died; and when her will was opened, it was dis- 
 covered that Gabino had been named her sole heir. 
 
 Viola was sittingly mournfully in lady Annuccia’s parlour, 
 recalling the little old lady’s many acts of kindness towards her 
 brother and herself, and lamenting, with tears, her loss, when 
 Sebastian burst into the room, exclaiming : — “ Viola ! Viola ! 
 Where are you ? Who do you think is here ? Papa’s come ! 
 Papa’s arrived ! ” 
 
 “ Papa ! ” was her joyful ejaculation. And away they both 
 ran to meet him. 
 
 It was a happy return, of the merchant and his children to 
 Messaline. As they sat together on the deck of the vessel, 
 during their short sea-passage, from the island homeward, the 
 father indulged in happy prospects for the future. “ Why, you 
 will be thirteen, soon, I declare. To-morrow is your birth-day, 
 my Viola ! ” 
 
 “ And Sebastian’s, dear father ; ” she replied, in her gentle, 
 musical tone. “We shall have you with us, to spend it in all 
 due joyful celebration !” 
 
 He went on to tell them of his prosperous voyages ; of his 
 profitable speculations ; of the wealth he had amassed ; and of 
 the delight with which it was dedicated to their use and enjoy- 
 ment. He told them of the valuable connections he had 
 formed ; and dwelt with pride and pleasure on the friendships 
 he had acquired. He spoke with peculiar fervour and exulta- 
 tion of the intimate affection that had subsisted between him- 
 
VIOLA; THE TWIN. 
 
 419 
 
 self and the late duke of Illyria ; and of the one (in which it 
 was renewed and maintained) that still existed between the 
 duke’s son, Orsino, and himself. He expatiated on the many 
 virtues and excellences that adorned this noble young man ; 
 and said he had admirably fulfilled the promise of his boy- 
 hood. 
 
 “ I remember ; ” said the melodious voice of Viola, as her 
 soft eyes looked out musingly across the sea; “when I was 
 quite a little girl, I heard you speak of that noble, handsome 
 boy ! I could wish to see him.” 
 
 “ It has long been a favourite dream of mine, to take my 
 children with me to Illyria, that they may learn to esteem and 
 love him as I do ! ” said the father. “ The dukedom is happy 
 in being ruled by so well-governed a youth ! Some day or other, 
 when those same studies you wot of, shall have enabled us to 
 appear with credit among our fellows, and have graced us for a 
 court-life, we will first visit Venice, and, on our return, present 
 ourselves at Orsino’s capital, as his friends and guests.” 
 
 Next morning, with earliest dawn, the twin son and daughter 
 were at their parent’s chamber door, to greet his awakening 
 ears, with a little dual song, which they had prepared together, 
 for the occasion. 
 
 As their mingled voices died away at the close, he came 
 forth from his room, with loving smiles, and a cordial blessing. 
 
 The morning passed serenely, and happily ; and their festive 
 meal was brought out into the balcony, that an additional air 
 of holiday entertainment, and ‘ al fresco ’ enjoyment, might be 
 given to their banquet. 
 
 The father’s spirits were in a mood of contented, placid joy; 
 he was about to quaff a goblet of Cyprus wine to the health 
 and happiness of the twin monarchs of the day ; when he 
 started up, declaring that the cup should be crowned with roses, 
 to do fitting honour to his pledge, and leaned over the marble 
 coping, to gather some of the clustering half-blown blossoms of 
 his favourite flower, which grew in profusion, trained in front of 
 the high balcony. 
 
 He had plucked several ; when, stretching imprudently far, 
 in eagerness to reach a peculiarly beautiful bud, the father 
 
420 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 unhappily lost his balance, fell forward, and came with the 
 whole weight of his body to the ground. 
 
 When his agonized children reached the spot they found him 
 lifeless. 
 
 The period of mourning for their father, was spent by the 
 orphan brother and sister, in strict seclusion, and in carrying 
 out those plans for their mental culture and improvement, 
 which he had suggested. 
 
 After some years devoted to study, and to the perfecting of 
 Viola’s taste for music, in which art she attained an exquisite 
 proficiency, Sebastian and his twin- sister resolved to pay the 
 visit to Venice, which their father had projected for them. 
 
 The twin brother and sister set sail for Venice. But they 
 had not proceeded far on their voyage, when a terrific storm 
 arose. The ship struck upon a rock ; split and went to pieces. 
 In the confusion of that fatal moment, Viola was separated from 
 Sebastian, and hastily lifted by the captain into a small boat ; 
 which some of the crew had lowered over the side of the fast- 
 sinking vessel. With the captain, and this poor remnant of his 
 men, she suddenly found herself cast upon a strange shore, 
 alone, desolate, almost despairing of ever again beholding in 
 life that beloved brother, with whom every hour of her previous 
 existence had been spent. Heart-forlorn, and well-nigh hope- 
 less, she turned to her companions, saying : — “ What country , 
 friends , is this 1 ” 
 
 Twelfth Night, Act i. Sc. 2. 
 
TALE XV. 
 
 IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 RITAIN triumphed. Her hardy sons had re- 
 pulsed the invading Roman, and forced mightiest 
 Caesar himself to give back. But victory — as 
 ever with such victories, — came hand-in-hand with 
 mourning. The royal Cassibelan, while rejoicing 
 at his people’s brave achievement, had to deplore the loss of 
 him who had mainly aided its success. His brother Nennius 
 lay at point of death. Fifteen days he languished beneath his 
 mortal wounds ; and before the day fixed for the celebration of 
 the victory arrived, he had ceased to breathe. 
 
 The king had published a decree, summoning all the nobility 
 of Britain, with their wives, to his capital of Trinovantum, in 
 order to render, with sacrificial rites and offerings, solemn 
 thanks to their tutelary gods ; who had granted them conquest 
 over so great a commander as renowned Julius. He had also 
 called the companions of his victory together, that he might 
 amply reward them, every one, accordingly as they had severally 
 distinguished themselves ; and now, this appointed solemn re- 
 joicing, for which the chief of his realm were convened together, 
 he resolved should be mingled with the sad but honouring 
 tribute of a national celebration, in his brother’s funeral exe- 
 quies. He appointed them to be performed with regal pomp ; 
 and decreed that they should take place on the first day of the 
 general assemblage ; that, — the mournful observances fulfilled, 
 — the rest of the time might be devoted to its original object 
 of triumph and thanksgiving. 
 
 The procession took its way to the North gate of the city, as 
 
422 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the ordained place of sepulture. Cassibelan would have chosen 
 the one built by his predecessor and elder brother, Lud ; but 
 that it bore its builder’s name, and he wished no other fame to 
 overshadow his, who was now to be consigned to immortality. 
 For the same reason, he forbore to have the body of Nennius 
 deposited near that gate of noble structure, which had been 
 erected by his royal ancestor Belinus, upon the bank of the 
 Thames. This goodly edifice consisted of a large tower, which 
 had beneath, a fine haven, or quay, for ships ; but on the 
 summit of the tower, was a golden urn, in which lay the ashes 
 of king Belinus, causing the edifice to be known ever after as 
 Belin’s gate. 
 
 To the end that exclusive and impressive honours might be 
 paid to the memory of his valiant brother, Cassibelan decided 
 that in the tomb should be placed, and buried with him, that 
 sword he had mastered ; Caesar’s sword, known by the name of 
 terrible significance, ‘ Crocea mors/ — as being mortal to every 
 body that was wounded with it. He also determined, himself 
 to pronounce the funeral oration over his beloved brother’s 
 remains ; that the people might learn the full extent of Nen- 
 nius’s heroic deeds, which should thus be treasured in their 
 hearts while they lived, and be transmitted, in trumpet eulogy 
 of tradition, to their posterity. 
 
 In sad and solemn pomp, the funeral train proceeded. 
 First came a troop of virgins, clad in white, with long mourning 
 veils, two and two, hand-in-hand, bearing each a cypress branch. 
 Immediately following, were the venerable forms of the Druids, 
 and Bards, with flowing white beards, and close-shorn snowy 
 hairs, crowned with oak ; the former carried, every one, a wand 
 or staff, emblematical of their magician power ; and wore, hung 
 about their necks, inclosed in gold, the charmed serpent’s egg ; 
 the latter, to their harps decked with mistletoe, chanted dirges, 
 and lamenting strains, interspersed with hymnal eulogies, and 
 elegiac songs, recording the exploits of the brave deceased. At 
 their head was the Arch-Druid, clothed in sacerdotal robes; 
 wearing on his head a resplendent diadem of burnished gold, 
 figuring the rays of the meridian sun. Next, came a number of 
 British matrons in sable garments, with garlands of yew, and 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 423 
 
 cypress; and in their hands, wreaths of rue, and rosemary, 
 with green boughs of shining laurel. Then, a band of warriors, 
 whose rugged features and stern-set looks had hard ado to 
 maintain a firm countenance beneath their manly grief for the 
 brother-in-arms they had lost. After them came, high-raised 
 upon a war-chariot, the body of Nennius, exposed to reverent 
 view ; around him were ranged his victorious arms, his shield, 
 his spear, and his heavy battle-axe, each of which in turn he 
 had used with success against the invaders of his country ; 
 while upon his breast lay his last and proudest trophy, that 
 which had cost him his life, — Caesar’s sword. 
 
 Behind the car came the king. Bare-headed, in simplest 
 mourning garment, with brotherly sorrow and brotherly pride 
 contending for the mastery in his face, he walked alone ; fol- 
 lowed at a few paces distance by his body-page, bearing the 
 golden circlet, symbol of rule and sovereignty ; which, in this 
 moment of humility and heart-dejection, Cassibelan had put 
 off. Next in order, came his two nephews, Androgeus and 
 Tenantius, sons of the late king ; and after them, the pro- 
 cession was closed by a long train of the nobility, soldiery, and 
 populace. 
 
 Arrived at the place of burial, the train formed into a broad- 
 spreading circle round the car, while their monarch ascended 
 into it, and taking his stand beside the dead body of his 
 brother, addressed the people. 
 
 At the conclusion of their king’s speech, the people sent up a 
 shout, such as Britons’ lungs have been famous for, from time 
 immemorial ; one of those hearty sounds so impressively pro- 
 claiming the impulse, the feeling, and the will of the multitude, 
 put into a single potent roar of sympathy. 
 
 So soon as the rites of sepulture had been performed, and the 
 body of Nennius committed to its glorious tomb, the sacrificial 
 offerings to the gods were commenced. For the due celebra- 
 tion of so important a victory, there was a vast slaughter and 
 destruction. As a votive tribute to Jove, sovereign of gods and 
 men, (who could only be propitiated for the sacrificed lives of 
 those who had fallen in battle by the immolation of additional 
 lives — so the people were told, on the best authority ; that is, 
 
424 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES . 
 
 the best they had, that of their Pagan priests,) the Druids had 
 had constructed, a gigantic image of wicker-work ; which was 
 filled with living men, and then set fire to. The beings who 
 thus perished, were criminals, reserved for the purpose ; as (so 
 stated on the same authority) peculiarly acceptable. To Mars 
 were sacrificed all the prisoners left alive ; and the chief of the 
 spoil taken in fight, was, by order of the sacrificing priests, 
 gathered together, and carried to an appointed spot. Heaps of 
 valuables thus collected, were put aside, in certain consecrated 
 places ; and rarely was any one so regardless of religion, or so 
 hardy, as to dare secretly to retain any portion, or to take it 
 away when thus stored ; since for such a sin there was adjudged 
 a very severe punishment, accompanied with torture. Various 
 sacrifices of cattle were offered up at this solemnity ; several 
 thousand cows, sheep, and fowls of several kinds, besides wild 
 beasts of divers description. 
 
 After all these sacred rites, in honour and thanksgiving to 
 their gods, had been performed, they feasted themselves with 
 the remainder, as was their wont on such occasions ; and spent 
 the successive day and night in various national sports. 
 
 Cassibelan’s two nephews, at the conclusion of the orgy, secretly 
 communed together concerning their joint prospects. They 
 were the sons of Lud, the late king ; who dying when they were 
 in their minority, had been succeeded by his brother, Cassibelan. 
 
 “ And you think the voice of the country would be for us, in 
 the event of aught occurring to shake Cassibelan in his royal 
 seat?” said Androgeus. 
 
 “I am sure of it;” answered Tenantius. “The people of 
 Britain are ever just and right in the side they take, when freedom 
 of choice is theirs.” 
 
 “You who esteem them thus highly should be their king;” 
 replied his brother. “ Once more, if ever such a chance of king- 
 ship should revert to us, be its advantage all yours. I have 
 made up my mind to depart from Britain, and resort to Rome. 
 There, lies a field for wider and nobler ambition. There, know- 
 ledge, civilization, arts, letters, flourish ; and there will I 
 endeavour to attain a peace of spirit, which here may not be 
 mine. You shall let me take with me your young boy, Cymbeline; 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 425 
 
 that he may have the advantage of Roman education and polish. 
 If ever thou sett’st thy foot on Britain’s throne, send to me for 
 him ; and I will return him to thee a more accomplished prince, 
 yet a no less loving son.” 
 
 Thus it was finally arranged between them ; and the brothers 
 bade each other farewell, Androgeus taking his young nephew 
 Cymbeline with him abroad, while Tenantius remained in his 
 native country, awaiting patiently any propitious turn that affairs 
 might take. 
 
 These schemes of incipient royal policy, were soon to be 
 put into action. Upon the death of Cassibelan, Tenantius 
 succeeded to the throne of Britain ; Androgeus died ; and his 
 nephew, the young prince Cymbeline, no longer detained in 
 Rome, took leave of the emperor Augustus, bade farewell to his 
 friends and companions-in-arms, and set sail for Britain. 
 
 Tenantius, during the time that he ruled, fulfilled the predic- 
 tions of his brother Androgeus. He made a good and worthy 
 king. His chief endeavour was to preserve his realm in peace 
 and tianquillity ; and he was a strict observer and enforcer of 
 justice. So that when his reign came to a close, his son Cymbe- 
 line found that he had less opposition to encounter, in his 
 succession to his father’s throne, than from the contentious 
 spirit which then prevailed, might have been anticipated. 
 
 His queen Guendolen, had brought him two fair sons, named 
 Guiderius and Aviragus ; but when these princes were yet 
 infants, they had been stolen from the royal palace, and no clue 
 as to who the robbers might be could be obtained. 
 
 For some time after their loss, and when every effort to trace 
 its origin, or to recover them, had proved unavailing, the king 
 fell into a state of sullen, despondent wrath. He was morose 
 with those about him ; and even his wife was not unfrequently 
 the recipient of his moody humours. 
 
 When the little Imogen was born, and her mother had 
 the joy of placing her in her father’s arms, with the timid hope 
 that she might prove a solace for his former bereavement, 
 Guendolen had fondly pointed out to her husband that the in- 
 fant bore upon its breast a mark precisely similar to one which 
 had existed on the neck of their eldest-born child, Guiderius. 
 
426 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 “ See, dear husband, this little crimson-specked mole, like 
 the velvet touches in the cup of a flower ! Just such a flecked 
 carnation spot, — in shape, a bright and glowing star, — had our 
 boy, Guiderius ! She is sent to replace him to us, in baby 
 beauty, as in love.” 
 
 The cloud that came athwart Cymbeline’s face at her words, 
 warned his wife, that the revival of the thought of his first-born 
 whom he had lost, outweighed in bitterness, the pleasure of the 
 image of happy substitution, which she would fain have con- 
 veyed. From that moment, she secretly resolved never to re- 
 vive the names of their sons ; but to devote all her endeavours 
 to the centring of his affections upon their little daughter. 
 
 In this she succeeded. The king had never been so fond, so 
 indulgent. He lavished the most profuse tokens of affection 
 upon both mother and child. He would yield himself to all the 
 sportive whims of the child, lying with it on the floor ; allowing 
 it to roll, and tumble, and crawl over him ; to tug his hair, to 
 pat his face ; and amidst all, would betray how keen a sense he 
 had of his own condescension, by calling on his wife to look at 
 the low-laid head of the king who had held a successful struggle 
 with Caesar, now pulled about at the mercy of an infant girl. 
 
 The little Imogen grew very fond of this indulgent, playfellow 
 father. Long before she could talk, she knew him, and could 
 welcome him by her own inarticulate, but significant language 
 of welcome ; by happy crows, and bright, expressive looks. 
 
 Imogen was still quite a baby, when Cymbeline was called 
 into the western district of his kingdom, to march against a re- 
 bellious force that had mustered there, against him. Although 
 he was nominally sovereign of Britain, his realm was perpetually 
 disturbed by internal divisions. In parting from his wife and 
 child, for an indefinite period, and for the purpose of engaging 
 in a desperate battle, Cymbeline was loath to leave his home, 
 loath to encounter all the fatigues, anxieties, and perils, of a 
 civil war. But there was no one to whom he could with safety 
 trust the charge of heading his men, and leading them against 
 the insurgents ; and he accordingly decided upon doing so 
 himself. 
 
 The western insurrection was more speedily and thoroughly 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 427 
 
 quelled, than Cymbeline could have hoped. But its field of 
 action was far removed ; and in those times, crossing from one 
 extremity of the island to the other was a work of time. The 
 king’s return was attended with considerable delay; and he was 
 still on the borders of Cambria, when he was entering a thick 
 forest, after having made his way across an extensive morass. 
 Suddenly from among the densest of the underwood, darted a 
 form that seemed like some wild animal; so agile its motion, so 
 bright and fierce its eyes, so matted and tangled its elf-locks of 
 hair, and so bare its limbs, as it sprang to the rein of Cymbe- 
 line’s horse, and clung there, crying : — “ Good-morrow, cousin 
 king ! ” Cymbeline started, and recoiled, as at something un- 
 earthly ; for scarce human did this strange, lithe, gaunt, yet 
 dwarfish being seem. The attendant soldiers crowded round 
 their royal master, offering to strike the creature off. 
 
 But the king raised his hand. 
 
 “ I’ll not leave my cousin king ! ” exclaimed this curious 
 being, in a voice singularly at variance with his uncouth exte- 
 rior. It was as harmonious and beautiful, as all else was rugged, 
 wild, and incongruous. 
 
 One of the king’s guards made a feigned blow at him with his 
 partisan, whirling it close round his head, and letting it fall 
 heavily on the ground within an inch of him ; but no flinching, 
 not so much as the stir of a limb, or the quiver of an eyelid, be- 
 tokened fear. 
 
 The king was interested; his soldierly instincts were aroused; 
 his despotic humour amused. He called to one of his officers, 
 and whispered him. The men were led off, and stationed apart. 
 
 “ Wilt not quit me, sirrah ? ” he said to the strange creature 
 that still clung to his bridle-rein. 
 
 “ Not with life, cousin king ! ” was the reply. 
 
 “ Bind him ! ” exclaimed Cymbeline. 
 
 Two of the guards seized hold of the young savage, wrenched 
 him from the vice-like grasp he had on the horse’s bit, and 
 bound him fast, his arms behind him. He remained motion- 
 less. 
 
 The rest of the soldiers drew up in line, awaiting the king’s 
 farther command. 
 
428 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE S HEROINES. 
 
 “ Archers, take aim at his heart ! ” cried the king in a stern 
 voice. 
 
 “ Wilt thou now promise to leave me in peace ? ” asked Cym- 
 beline. 
 
 “ I care little for life, and fear naught of death ; but have 
 ta’en a whim for cousin king ! ” returned the young savage. 
 
 “Let fly, then, archers ! And be sure you hit the hart /” 
 cried the king, with a loud laugh. 
 
 The bowmen, as previously instructed, through the whispered 
 order to their officer, sent a flight of arrows right over the lad’s 
 head, into the thicket immediately behind him. 
 
 “ Cut his bonds ; and go see if there be not a wild deer in 
 the covert ; methought I marked one lurking there ; ” said the 
 king, still laughing, to the soldiers ; “ better make quarry of a 
 hart that will roast, and furnish good eating, than of a heart that 
 is too tough to yield, and therefore promises but sorry fare.” 
 
 “ That should be a morsel for a monarch ! ” said the lad, in 
 the same tone; and flinging his freed arms about joyfully. 
 “ Make it yours, cousin king ! Reserve it for thine own especial 
 tooth and keeping. Do but chew it patiently and tolerantly ; 
 and thou shalt find it a sweet kernel, within a rough husk. ’Tis 
 like the fruit that grows upon this hazel-twig; ” he continued, 
 drawing a small rod from his girdle, and switching it smartly to 
 and fro ; “ it hath a poor, unpromising exterior ; a dry, fibrous 
 rind, and a hard shell to crack ; but within lies a milky centre, 
 pleasant and wholesome to the taste.” 
 
 “ What if I find thee hollow, empty, rotten, like some light 
 nuts ?” said the king. “ If so, best chuck thee away at once ; 
 and not lose time trying my teeth, while I try thee.” 
 
 “ Nay, I pretend not to be more sound than is good ; ” 
 returned the stripling, with his bright, quick, gleaming eyes, — 
 which had a strange wild light in them, — looking up into those 
 of the king ; “ the nut that the worm affects, is oft the daintiest ; 
 and few men are the worse for those odd maggots of the brain, 
 with which mine abounds. All I say is, try me, . cousin king ; 
 and if I prove not worth the cracking, set thy heel on me, and 
 crush me into nothingness for ever.” 
 
 “ I take thee at thy word, good fellow ; ” replied Cymbeline. 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS . 429 
 
 “ And now tell me who thou art, and what made thee seek me, 
 and stick to me, and claim cousinship with me.” 
 
 “Thou remember’st that Corineus of Cornwall, who over- 
 came the hugest of the giants, that lurked in rocks and caves 
 on the Cornish coast ? In their mortal wrestle, the monster, 
 with a terrible hug broke three of the hero’s ribs; whereat 
 Corineus enraged, heaved him up by main force, and hurled 
 him headlong from the cliff into the sea. These Island giants 
 were not the only ones overthrown by his might ; for before he 
 came to Britain, Corineus had made war against the Tyrrhen 
 giants, and with his irresistible battle-axe had mown them down 
 like blades of wheat. This rod is a slip from the staff of that 
 invincible weapon, when it lost its head, and its master used it 
 as a club ; ” said the lad, bending, and caressingly handling the 
 hazel-twig he held, with a look of wistful pride and fondness ; 
 “ and that renowned Corineus, who bequeathed me the relic- 
 of his might, was my father.” 
 
 “Thy father, was he?” said Cymbeline, laughing at the 
 whimsical gravity of the lad, as he told the legend. “ Seeing 
 that Corineus flourished some centuries since, thou must be a 
 son of giant growth in years, though not in bulk and stature.” 
 
 “ If Corineus were not my father, I know not who was ; ” 
 said the young savage, with his vaguely-eager, gleaming eyes. 
 “ But of my mother I am sure ; ” he continued, lowering his 
 voice, and creeping nearer to Cymbeline, as he walked close 
 beside him at his bridle-rein, the king riding at a foot-pace, to 
 accommodate his strange young companion, in whom he began 
 to take much interest. “ ’Tis a sad history, but I will tell it to 
 cousin king. She was one of the nine vestal priestesses, 
 vowed to the service of our Druid temple, in the sacred grove 
 adjoining this wood. She expiated her crime with her life; 
 but I was saved from perishing with her, by the interference of 
 a Druid revered by his brethren for peculiar sanctity, wisdom, 
 and knowledge. He took charge of me from infancy, till 
 lately, when he died, full of years and honour. He trained me 
 with a view to make me one of themselves — a Druid. But 
 whether it be that my brain hath too many vagrant fancies of 
 its own, to be able to store soberer truths ; certain it is, that I 
 
430 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 could never master the multitudinous lore it behoved me as a 
 neophyte to retain ; and I have had reason to believe, that 
 when once it should be discovered that I am unfit to become 
 one of themselves, they would make no scruple of devoting me 
 to the flames, the first time a human sacrifice was wanted.” 
 
 “ But it needs the taint of crime, to render a victim qualified 
 for a sacrificial offering ; ” said the king, more gravely. 
 
 “ When they can find none entitled by guilt to the privilege 
 of burning,” said the lad, with a quaint dryness in his manner, 
 “ they e’en content themselves with plain virtue ; when nigri- 
 tude fails, they make shift with simple purity ; and when no 
 acceptable blackness is at hand, they will put up with spotless 
 and immaculate whiteness, rather than want a victim ; and 
 thus should poor innocent I have stood a chance of honourable 
 ashes.” 
 
 The king looked at the figure of the young savage, as it 
 stepped along, alert, vigorous, sinewy; but although of such short 
 stature as to be almost dwarf-like, it was neither stunted, nor 
 disproportioned. His face was a strange mixture of intelligence 
 and inanity. At one moment his restless eyes would brighten 
 with a look of almost supernatural comprehension ; at another 
 assume a dreamy expression, as though their sense lacked 
 understanding. The chief characteristic of his whole appear- 
 ance, however, was that of a fearless erectness of spirit and 
 body. 
 
 “And thy name, boy? Thou hast not yet told me how I 
 am to call thee ; ” said Cymbeline. 
 
 “ I am called Bergion ; 55 returned the lad. “ They named 
 me after that noble warrior, brother to the famed Albion, 
 Neptune’s giant son; who gave his own name to this white- 
 cliffed isle. When I think of cousin king, I call it Britain ; 
 when I think of itself, — as mine own fair, white-browed island, 
 as mine own by right of descent from heroic Corineus, then I 
 name it Albion.” 
 
 “And thou art content to share its sovereignty with me, 
 cousin Bergion ? ” said Cymbeline, willing to humour the strip- 
 ling’s oddity, which amused him. 
 
 “ More than content ; I gladly yield thee all my claims to 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 43 
 
 royalty, cousin king, provided thou wilt let me abide with thee, 
 under thy protection. For mine own mystic right in the 
 beauty, and freedom of the isle, — that is inalienably mine, so 
 long as I keep possession of this hazel-wand, bequeathed to 
 me from father Corineus. So long as a single fibre of it exists, 
 and I retain it within mine own power, so long am I lord of the 
 white-cliffed isle, — of that portion of it for which I care,— and 
 of mine own life and being.” 
 
 “And hath that slight rod such magic virtue?” said 
 Cymbeline smiling, and extending his hand for the hazel twig, 
 which the young savage bore. 
 
 “ Nay, cousin king, all else I will give thee ; but for this, 
 an’ thou demand’st it, or destroy’st it, thou destroy’st me. My 
 existence, and all that makes existence of worth, — the love of 
 fresh air, the joy in the green woods, the gladness of sunshine, 
 the calm of the moon’s soft light, would all pass from me, an’ 
 thou wert to insist on my yielding thee this slight wand of 
 hazel.” 
 
 “ Far be it from me to exact so vast a sacrifice ; ” said the 
 king laughing. “ Keep thy rod of might ; and give me thy 
 fealty, and thy loyal love.” 
 
 “ They are thine already, cousin king ; ” said the lad, fixing 
 his eyes with a clear frank look of pure sincerity, upon the face 
 of Cymbeline. “I sought thee at first for the sake of thy 
 powerful protection ; I have since attached myself to thee by 
 the infrangible bonds of liking.” 
 
 A deep-laid scheme of villainy awaited the return of 
 Cymbeline, to undermine his best peace and happiness. There 
 was a certain lord, named Mempricius, who was one of Cymbe- 
 line’s court, at the time when the king had wedded his wife 
 Guendolen. This sleek courtier, had, in one desperate moment, 
 dared to avow his ardent passion to the young queen. 
 Guendolen’s virtue made her profoundly resent this insult; 
 but hers was not a nature to rebuke it by open reproof and dis- 
 missal. She contented herself with a complete repulse of the 
 man, while she permitted him to retain his place and favour in 
 the court of her husband ; thus giving another proof of the many 
 
432 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE 'S HEROINES. 
 
 evils arising from timidity, and want of encouraged confidence, 
 on the part of a wife. The crafty Mempricius availed himself 
 of this tacit reprehension. He set himself secretly to the col- 
 lecting together of such facts, as, joined with unscrupulous 
 fabrications, and false testimonies, should form a mass of 
 evidence against her, which should indubitably work her 
 downfall. 
 
 With a weak, and selfishly credulous man like her husband, 
 this was not so hopeless a scheme. When the king returned 
 from his western expedition, he was met by the hypocrite cour- 
 tier with a well-dissembled honest grief. He disclosed the fic- 
 titious tale. By an artful train of falsehoods and forgeries, he 
 succeeded in persuading Cymbeline that the queen had been 
 false to him, had conspired with the king of the Coritani to 
 deprive him of his throne, had aided in the nocturnal theft of 
 the two young princes, and that, finally, the infant princess was 
 not his own child. 
 
 Set firm, in the steadfastness of obstinacy, which is in fact 
 the refuge of a weak nature, Cymbeline went straight to the 
 apartments of his wife. She flew to welcome him, and the little 
 Imogen clung to his knees, in all the fond ecstasy of re- 
 covering him ; but the king held himself stiff and unmoved, and 
 with a stern cold tone bade the women attendants leave the 
 room. 
 
 “ Take this child with you ! ” he said, pointing to the little 
 Imogen still hanging about his knees. 
 
 “ My good lord, — dear husband,” faltered the trembling 
 Guendolen, “ are you well, that you speak thus, look thus ? 
 You are pale, — your lips are quivering — these cold, averted 
 eyes — are you indeed ill ? ” 
 
 “ Sick at heart, — poisoned in very soul ; ” he returned. 
 
 But when her husband went on to accuse her of falsehood, 
 treachery, dishonour, she raised her eyes to his, and said, in a 
 low, but distinct voice : — 
 
 “ Can you believe this ? ” 
 
 “Too surely, alas, am I compelled to believe it;” returned 
 he. “ Not lightly, oh, not lightly, could I have credited the 
 tale. But proofs, most damnatory proofs ” 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 433 
 
 “ I am innocent ; ” she said simply. “ If your own soul does 
 not acquit me, I am content to submit to its award.” 
 
 “ Then hear me pronounce your sentence ; ” he said ; “ I 
 have resolved, for the sake of mine own bleeding peace and 
 honour, — that no public trial shall ensue. I take upon myself 
 to be sole judge in this, mine own particular grief. As your 
 condemnation is private, so shall be your penance. You shall 
 neither be publicly shamed, nor publicly punished. You know 
 that retired lodge, built for the chase, on the borders of the 
 forest near here. To that betake yourself and your child ; and 
 if you wish to show that you really have no will but mine, re- 
 main there, shut up, apart from all other human being. I will 
 take means that you shall be supplied with food, and all neces- 
 saries for life ; but hold no intercourse with any one ; keep 
 yourself secluded, strictly alone in the world, henceforth.” 
 Adding as he turned away : — “ And nevermore will I look upon 
 your face, or that of your child, in this life ! ” 
 
 As he precipitately left the room, his wife dropped to the 
 earth, as if felled by a heavy blow. 
 
 Not a voice was upraised, not a question was mooted against 
 the proceeding of the king. He had despotic power, and he 
 used it. The queen took her child in her arms, and wholly un- 
 attended, left the palace for her appointed lone retreat. 
 
 While, at the palace, all went on at the king’s good pleasure, 
 at the retired lodge in the forest, dwelt Guendolen and her child. 
 To her stunned and bruised spirit, this solitude was not alto- 
 gether unwelcome, — especially at first. But its effect upon her 
 child taught her to perceive its weary wretchedness. The little 
 creature moped ; missed the luxury and brightness of its old 
 home — above all it missed its playfellow father, with his indul- 
 gent frolics ; it missed its constant playmate the young Posthu- 
 mus, an orphan boy whom Cymbeline had educated at his 
 court, with almost paternal care. 
 
 One day the mother was startled by a loud cry of joy, and 
 spring of delight, from her child, as she sat upon her knee. 
 Guendolen looked forth ; and saw, rapidly approaching, the 
 young boy, Posthumus Leonatus. . 
 
434 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES . 
 
 “ I have found you ! I have found you ! ” he exclaimed as he 
 bounded into the place. “I knew you must be hereabouts, and 
 I have never ceased hunting, till I found the exact spot.” 
 
 The boy threw his arm round Guendolen’s neck, and pressed 
 his face against her bosom, to hide the tears which his manli- 
 ness forbade him to give way to; then embraced his little play- 
 mate Imogen, who leaned from her mother’s lap to hug him 
 heartily in return. 
 
 “ My dear boy, how came you here ? How did you find 
 your way? You must go — you must not stay — it is for- 
 bidden 1 have fallen into the displeasure of the king ; ” 
 
 Guendolen’s voice faltered here ; but she resumed. “ We all 
 owe him duty and obedience. He has willed that I shall dwell 
 here apart — alone — with my little Imogen ; that we shall see 
 no one, speak to no one. You will help us to observe his wishes, 
 will you not ? ” 
 
 “ If you wish it ” he began, but could get no farther. 
 
 “ Come, Natus; come and play;” said little Imogen, who 
 had not comprehended one word of the grave talk going on 
 between her young companion and her mother ; and who now 
 thought it had lasted quite long enough, and that her claim upon 
 him had some right to be attended to. 
 
 The way in which the young boy leant down to his little 
 friend, and brought her by degrees, to the necessity for his 
 leaving her, showed the impression the gentle queen’s words 
 had made upon him. He had won Imogen into seeing him 
 prepare to depart, without a murmur ; and as he turned to bid 
 her mother farewell, Guendolen pressed the noble boy to her 
 bosom with an approving warmth, which told him how fully his 
 behaviour was appreciated. Taking one parting hug of the 
 child, he turned away with a swelling heart, and left the 
 lodge. 
 
 Guendolen redoubled her endeavours to amuse, and distract 
 the child’s thoughts from dwelling on this source of regret. But 
 the sight of her favourite young companion, had powerfully 
 revived all Imogen’s desire for his society, and she was with 
 difficulty won from brooding over this second loss of its cheer- 
 ful influences. 
 
IMOGEN ; THE PEERLESS . 
 
 435 
 
 Meanwhile, with creeping time, came to Guendolen a heart’s 
 thirst to behold her husband. It ever grew more feverishly, 
 until it seemed to prey upon her like an inward fire. 
 
 Rumours of the king’s being again engaged in war, reached 
 her, by means of a wandering mendicant, who had asked a 
 draught of water one evening at the forest lodge. 
 
 Cymbeline in his jealous rage had never rested until he had 
 succeeded in opening hostilities between himself and the king 
 of the Coritani. He had met the young chief hand to hand in 
 battle and had slain him on the spot. 
 
 In double joy at the victory to his arms and the consumma- 
 tion of his revenge, Cymbeline resolved to celebrate this con- 
 quest with especial splendour and rejoicing. Among the 
 sports devised for the occasion, there were to be gladiatorial ex- 
 hibitions, and human encounters with wild beasts, after the 
 manner of the Romans, as Cymbeline had witnessed, when a 
 young man, at the Imperial court. An arena was being enclosed 
 for the purpose, by means of felled trees, and firmly-driven 
 stakes, near to the temple of Jupiter, in Lud’s town, where the 
 celebration was decreed to take place. 
 
 All this, Guendolen learned of the mendicant traveller ; who 
 gossiped of his own accord, while he rested and took refresh- 
 ment, which she could not refuse to his need. 
 
 Long after he had departed, she revolved what he had told 
 concerning the appointed royal celebration and public triumph. 
 The idea, that here was an opportunity of beholding her hus- 
 band, of seeing him, herself unseen, had suddenly come upon 
 her. “ He need not see this poor offending face and form — but 
 I feel that I die, if I see not his ; and look upon them I will, 
 e’en though I die the next succeeding moment.” With this 
 decision whispered to her heart in its desperate agony, Guen- 
 dolen took her child in her arms, and set forth upon her pil- 
 grimage that same day. 
 
 Painfully, on foot, now resting by the way, now toiling 
 onwards, did this gentle lady perform her tedious journey; 
 lifting her little one up, and bearing her slowly forward, when 
 Imogen’s slender strength failed her. At length the whole 
 distance was surmounted; and the mother and child, on 
 
436 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 the very eve of the celebration, entered the eastern gate of Lud’s 
 town. In a house of the humblest description, Guendolen 
 obtained a night’s shelter and food, of a charitable widow, who 
 gave hospitality to the wayfarers, little thinking who she was 
 harbouring. 
 
 Next morning — shrouded in her long, dark garments, and her 
 face completely concealed by the sagum, or cloak, then usually 
 worn — Guendolen, with her child in her arms, took her station 
 among the crowd that thronged the arena; and by degrees, 
 made her way close to where the king and his court were to be 
 seated. 
 
 The press increased so much, that Guendolen, alarmed for 
 the safety of her child, crouched near to one of the guards, who 
 was keeping the limits of the space appointed for the reception 
 of the royal party ; and the man, noting her distress, and 
 struck with the beauty of the child, favoured them a little by 
 hedging them in, and contriving to afford them the shelter of 
 his brawny person, saying, as he did so : — “What a plague made 
 you bring that pretty bantling hither, mistress, into all this bustle 
 and hubbub? But since you’re here, sit ye down snug and 
 close, and nobody’ll be a bit the wiser, and pretty moppet 
 there’ll be safe.” 
 
 She followed the man’s directions to the letter ; and found 
 herself seated within a few paces of him, whom she had come 
 to look upon. The moment her eyes caught sight of his face, 
 they fastened upon it ; and from that moment, among all the 
 multitude, she saw, she heard, but him alone. 
 
 The child tired by the noise, and dust, and glare, sat quietly 
 upon her lap, leaning against her bosom, half asleep. 
 
 Presently a pause in the performances of the arena, gave an 
 interval of conversation and repose to the spectators. The king 
 among others, quitted his seat, and, surrounded by a group of 
 his favourite gentlemen, came nearer towards the spot occu- 
 pied by the trembling Guendolen — so near at last, that she 
 could almost have touched his robe, as he stood, with his back 
 towards her. While her breath seemed suspended, and she 
 could have heard the beating of her pulses, the king talked on. 
 
 His voice, so near, ^nd so loud, caught the ear of the half- 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS . 
 
 437 
 
 slumbering little one. She lifted her head, listened, looked 
 about, and at last exclaimed : — “ I hear papa ! ” 
 
 Her mother drew her close within the folds of her cloak, 
 and attempted to hush her into silence ; but the child was not 
 to be restrained. 
 
 Again she looked forth earnestly ; all around her. “ See 
 there ! There he is ! Papa ! Papa ! ” she exclaimed in a trans- 
 port of joy, as she recognized his figure, standing at a few paces 
 from them. 
 
 But the figure never moved ; the back was still turned to- 
 wards them ; the loud, smiling talk was proceeded with, as 
 though nothing had occurred to interrupt it. 
 
 So long as their royal master chose to act perfect ignorance 
 of his wife and child’s being there, his obsequious train w T ere 
 bound to second him, even though they saw the outstretched 
 arms of Imogen, heard her joyous cries, and guessed at the 
 identity of the muffled figure upon whose knee she sat. 
 
 Without a hint that could betray his having heard the voice, 
 or so much as a glance towards the spot where sat the shrouded 
 woman, Cymbeline was about to return to his former seat ; 
 when suddenly, a fearful roar was heard, and through the 
 midst of the press, came ramping a large lion, that had broken 
 loose from one of the dens of the arena, immediately towards 
 the spot where the king stood. In a trice, the flying crowd 
 cleared a space ; and right onward sprang the ferocious beast 
 with wild leaps, mane erect, eyes glaring, and loud, fierce, 
 angry roars. 
 
 With that rapidity of thought, and instinctive action, that 
 love alone knows, Guendolen had cast her child into the arms 
 of the nearest person, and thrown herself immediately before 
 her husband. In far less time than it takes to tell it, the wife’s 
 body had interposed, and received the whole shock of the 
 animal’s assault. Mangled and bleeding she sank upon the 
 earth, while a look of heavenly content irradiated her face. 
 Cries of horror and pity burst forth on all sides ; a hundred 
 weapons were turned upon the lion by the rallying crowd, to 
 despatch him ; while the whole confused scene swam and re- 
 ceded before the eyes of the dying queen. 
 
438 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 Her husband hung over her in a paroxysm of remorseful 
 anguish. 
 
 “ My wife ! My Guendolen ! Dear injured patience ! Can 
 you forgive me ? ” 
 
 “ Have I aught to forgive ?” she murmured. “ You believed 
 that I deserved your rigour.” 
 
 “ Such belief in itself was worst injury. Too late, I feel this 
 now cried he. 
 
 “ Grieve not for my death, oh most best beloved ! ” she said 
 faintly, but happily ; “ it has been vouchsafed me, to prove that 
 I could not have practised against thy life.” 
 
 Suddenly the fast-dimming eyes of the gentle queen re-lumed 
 with an eager expression as she murmured : — ' “ Our child— you 
 will take her to your heart as before ? ” 
 
 “ Solemnly, I take Heaven to witness that I will henceforth 
 be to her a father in kindness and in love, as surely as I believe 
 myself to be her father in the truth of thy white and spotless 
 faith, mine innocent, injured wife ! ” he said. 
 
 With a smile of more than mortal happiness, Guendolen 
 expired. 
 
 The person into whose arms the little Imogen had been 
 hastily placed by her mother, was no other than Posthumus 
 Leonatus. The boy had seen the child, had recognized the 
 shrouded figure in whose lap it sat, and had kept his station 
 close behind them, to watch over their safety. He had thus 
 been at hand to receive the little one, at the moment its mother 
 started up to rush to her husband’s side. Imogen, delighted to 
 find herself with her favourite, had been so happily engaged 
 prattling to him, that she had escaped the terrible sight of her 
 mother’s death. Her young friend had borne her safely home 
 to the palace ; and he kept the child amused and happy, until 
 her father should inquire for her. 
 
 The king evinced his gratitude for the boy’s kindly thought 
 towards his little daughter, by an increased liking and confi- 
 dence. He encouraged him in his care and protective liking 
 for the young princess ; and permitted him to be her constant 
 companion and playfellow. He appointed ladies of known dis- 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 439 
 
 cretion for her women attendants ; and took every pains to show 
 that she was reinstated as his beloved daughter, and the acknow- 
 ledged heiress of his throne and kingdom. 
 
 The conviction of his wife’s innocence had struck Cymbeline 
 with indisputable self-evidence in the scene of her death ; 
 and the crowning proof of her purity and faith, came in 
 the shape of a dying message, from him who had been her 
 traducer. 
 
 It was not until the queen was dead, and her child restored 
 to its father’s heart and home, that this last testimony of her 
 unblemished honour reached her husband. But it was welcomed 
 by him as the conclusive proof of her worth ; and he heaped 
 rewards and honours upon him who brought it — the nephew 
 of Mempricius, named Cloten. He was a swaggering, preten- 
 tious young fellow, with about equal shares of vulgar cunning, 
 self-conceit, and obtuseness. 
 
 Between this young gentleman, Cloten, and the lad, Bergion, 
 there was a perpetual word-sparring going forward. Each 
 enjoying the favour of the king, the one as arising courtier, the 
 other as a sort of privileged page-jester, they were frequently in 
 collision and encounter. 
 
 As the boy, Posthumus Leonatus, advanced in years, and 
 became more of a companionable age with the two others, he 
 often amused himself by noting the constant war of speech 
 that went on between them; and took pleasure in drawing 
 them out. 
 
 “Yonder servile lackey-lord,” said Bergion, nodding con- 
 temptuously towards a young courtier, who had been inquiring 
 after Cloten, “ makes a god of this insolent boor ; who repays 
 him by making a dishclout of him. But, in sooth, he deserves 
 no better that can cringe to such a thing as Cloten.” 
 
 “ Thou hast no liking for my lord Cloten ? ” said Posthumus, 
 smiling. 
 
 “What is there to like in him? Hath he not an ugly, 
 morphewed nature ; all distorted and crusted with self-conceit? 
 Is he not a burly bully, ever vapouring, and talking big, and 
 doing battle with shadows of his own creating ? Hath he not 
 a malignant tongue ; a ribald contempt for good ? Is he not 
 
440 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 hebete, and dull of brain ? Doth he not swear, when he is at' 
 a less for words ; and heap abuse, when he cannot find retort ? 
 What he lacks in wit and argument, he makes up in bluster, 
 and violence of gesture. He lays down the law, like a man 
 sowing broad-cast ; and when he would carry a point, he flings 
 about him like a thrasher/’ 
 
 “ ’Tis a fair picture of my gentleman, indeed ; ” laughed 
 Posthumus. 
 
 Just then, in came Cloten, fretting and fuming, blurting out 
 his words by fits and starts, as was his wont. 
 
 “ Paltry, scurvy fellow ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I won’t abuse my 
 sword, by crossing it with him. But I’ll use it to fustigate him, 
 as with a cudgel. A man that hath done what I have, need 
 fight no more to prove his valour. Certain feats achieved, as 
 they have been, methinks I have done enough.” 
 
 “Done enough ! No man hath done enough, until he have 
 done the last thing he can do, — died ; ” said Bergion. 
 
 “ Art thou there ?” said Cloten, looking over his shoulder, at 
 the lad, who sat quietly in a corner, twisting his hazel-switch 
 into various forms of coil and circle. 
 
 “ A marvellous silly clench ! And altogether worthless 
 sophism ! ” 
 
 “And when do you propose to punish this offending lord? ” 
 asked Posthumus. 
 
 “ Forthwith, — immediately, — this very afternoon;” answered 
 Cloten. “No time like the present.” 
 
 “ Save the past and future, which are wonderfully semblant 
 with it ; ” said Bergion drily. 
 
 “ I know thou liv’st altogether in the past, like a poor dream- 
 ing losel as thou art. Thou content’st thyself with the deeds 
 of thy Cambrian ancestry, in lieu of valour of thine own. 
 Thine only courage is intrepidity of belief ; gravely crediting 
 the feats of the cow, Camdoga, who filled all the dairy-pans in 
 thy native mountains, in one night;” said Cloten, with a horse- 
 laugh. 
 
 It was a favourite amusement with him, to taunt the lad with 
 his Welsh origin, and to scoff at the legends of his country. 
 
 “For me, I’m neither soldier, nor civilian ; ” said Bergion 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 44 1 
 
 quietly ; “ your lordship’s a military man, therefore I can’t 
 expect you to be civil.” 
 
 “ A civilian, quoth’a ? Thou’rt scarce civilized, fellow. A 
 half-reclaimed savage ; barely better than a brute, — untamed, 
 untaught, save in those foolish traditions and tales, flogged into 
 thee by thy masters, the Druids. Do I not know that thou’rt 
 only learned in fables, wise in figments ? ” 
 
 “ And a man may do worse, than store his memory with the 
 high actions of those who have gone before him ; ” returned 
 Bergion, with the thoughtful look settling upon his face, that it 
 usually wore, when he spoke upon such themes. “ They teach 
 him how he should himself act and live, so as to earn self- 
 respect ; and to command, or at all events, deserve, both good- 
 will and honour from his fellow-men. Where is the idleness of 
 learning to reverence Hu the mighty, who came from those 
 sunny lands of the South, called by our bards ‘ the Summer 
 country;’ and settled in our water-guarded island; and became 
 famous for making Poesy the vehicle of Memory and Record ? 
 Wherefore should we not feed our fancy by hearing of Gwrgant 
 Grim-beard, whose squadron encountered a tower of glass, in 
 the midst of the Irish seas, and all but one vessel rashly attack- 
 ing it, perished ; while the king’s ship, bearing on board saga- 
 city, caution, and experience, warily surmised it to be an iceberg 
 floated down from the remote Northern ocean; and so steering 
 clear, avoided destruction ? And may we not be the better for 
 musing of Hyfaidd, the tall, whose deeds were applauded by 
 men, and blessed by Heaven ? ” 
 
 “ If he were so tall a man, would he were alive, that I might 
 lower some of his lofty pride, and abate somewhat of his giant 
 might ; ” said Cloten. “ I cannot abide to hear of fellows of 
 such towering pretensions, without a desire to bring them down 
 from their presumed height.” 
 
 “To level them to an equality of baseness with those who 
 envy them?” replied Bergion; then turning to Posthumus 
 again, he continued : — “ Surely, tis a pregnant lesson, to ponder 
 on the doings of Bladud; how he discovered med’cinable 
 waters in a certain spot in the West ; and built a town and 
 temple there, consecrating them to Minerva ; and how, after- 
 
442 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 wards, growing rash in conceit of his own powers of invention, 
 he made him wings to fly; which upbore him but just above the 
 height of the temple, whereon he fell, and was killed. And we 
 may find worse study, than the memory and example of Dun- 
 wallo Mulmutius, great and good, worthy first to wear a golden 
 crown ; who framed wise laws, promoted the welfare and pro- 
 tection of his subjects, and, in memory of peace restored, built 
 the temple of Concord, within our goodly city of Lud’s Town, 
 erst called Trinovant. Then, for those who have neither kingly 
 ambition, nor kingly power to enact kingly deeds, there are the 
 fames of such men as Idris, the far-eyed, Gwydion, the son of 
 Don, and Gwyn, the son of Nudd, the three sagest astronomers 
 in Britain ; whose knowledge of the stars and their influences 
 was so great, that, — as our Bards have sung, — it were to be 
 wished it could have been preserved till the day of doom. But,” 
 added Bergion, with the wild light gleaming from his eyes, 
 “ ’tis the only drawback I find in the godlike gift of knowledge; 
 that it cannot be bequeathed. A man stores up sumless trea- 
 sures of learning and science in his own mind, but he cannot 
 transmit them to his posterity. They perish with their store- 
 house, his brain; they rot and are buried, with the carcase 
 wherein they were hatched.” 
 
 “As such mouldy, maggoty rubbish should be !” exclaimed 
 Cloten. “ Here is a brainsick madman that would fain blow a 
 bubble big as the globe ! ” 
 
 “ And here is a prince content to pen his brains within the 
 compass of a millet-grain ! ” said Bergion. “ Meekest and hum- 
 blest of princes ! ” 
 
 “Taunt not me, thou son of a sainted, — or rather, tainted, — 
 vestal ! ” cried Cloten. 
 
 In one second, Bergion sprang upon the burly braggart, 
 caught him by the throat, and, for all his superior bulk and 
 weight, shook him to and fro like a reed. The young savage 
 was agile of limb, strong of sinew, and possessed of a grasp like 
 a vice, for all his slight make ; and moreover his spirit when 
 roused, was fierce as a wild beast’s. The scoff at his mother, 
 had done what no insolence to himself could effect ; it had 
 stung him into resentment. 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 443 
 
 Leonatus stepped forward to interfere, and make peace ; but 
 Bergion, having slaked his rage by treating Cloten as a mastiff 
 might have used a mongrel cur, loosed his hold, flung him off, 
 and walked leisurely away. 
 
 “ White-livered rascal ! ” exclaimed Cloten, looking after him; 
 “ he knows, that for the sake of my lord the king, who favours 
 him, I shall not disgrace the royal precincts by a quarrel, 
 and a contention. He takes advantage of his jester’s privi- 
 lege to attack me, knowing it would be beneath the dignity 
 of my weapon to challenge such a peasant slave and churl 
 as he ! ” 
 
 “You do well and wisely to forbear him, my lord;” said 
 Posthumus. 
 
 “ Well, for this time, I forgive the varlet ; ” said Cloten. 
 
 Among Cymbeline’s Gaulish connections, was one, who had 
 been more than commonly allied in acquaintance with him, in 
 former years. This was a chief of the tribe of the Averni, a man 
 of bold sagacity and skill in policy. He had an only daughter, 
 about Imogen’s age ; and he proposed to his old associate that 
 his daughter should come over to the British court, and spend 
 some time with a princess of whom he had heard the most ad- 
 vantageous reports. Cymbeline despatched a band of chosen 
 gentlemen from his own court, to escort the French princess to 
 Britain. At the head of this convoy of honour, the king ap- 
 pointed Posthumus Leonatus. He instructed him to show 
 especial attention to the princess ; and charged him to omit no 
 opportunity of pleasing her, and of winning as much as possible 
 her confidence and trust. 
 
 The princess Eponine was extremely proud of her appointed 
 knight, Posthumus Leonatus. He was by far the handsomest 
 and most accomplished man of all Cymbeline’s court; and 
 she was peculiarly flattered by having this gentleman, of all 
 the British court, selected for her especial guardian and pro- 
 tector. She seemed never better pleased than when she could 
 exhibit him in this light, and manifest at once her power over 
 him, and her approval of him. 
 
 The visit of princess Eponine had taught a secret to two 
 people. Posthumus was asking himself the true source of cer- 
 
444 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 tain powerful emotions that arose within him, consciously, for 
 the first time. He had been brought up in so perfect a brother- 
 hood of intimacy with the princess Imogen, he had been so 
 accustomed to consider her as though she had been a younger 
 sister, that he had never dreamed of asking himself what was 
 the nature of the feeling with which he regarded her. He 
 now felt that this gentle being who lived in his thought as an 
 angel of innocence and goodness, was no less passionately be- 
 loved as a woman ; and that while he had hitherto believed 
 he respected her as the daughter of his sovereign and bene- 
 factor, he now found he was enamoured of her as man loves 
 the one woman in the world whom he would make his other 
 self. 
 
 But, even while making this discovery, came a sense of the 
 fidelity he owed to the compact between himself and his king, 
 with regard to this Gaulish princess. He determined, that 
 while she remained in Britain, he would strictly fulfil the part 
 of her devoted knight ; and that no circumstances however 
 annoying to himself, should induce him to betray a reluctance 
 to comply with her lightest wish. 
 
 While Posthumus Leonatus was questioning himself as to 
 the source of his feelings towards Imogen, she herself was no 
 less earnestly examining her own heart upon the unwonted 
 agitation it had experienced, at sight of Leonatus’ devotion to 
 the French princess, and at the sedulous way in which Eponine 
 took pains to manifest her own pride in her knight, and to 
 attract his admiration in return. Unable to come to any con- 
 clusion as to the nature of his feeling towards her ; she only 
 too certainly became aware that she herself had undoubtedly 
 given him her whole heart, exclusively, devotedly, and for 
 ever. 
 
 On one occasion, Posthumus, having been detained near the 
 king for a time, hastened to join the princess Eponine, whom, 
 in consequence of the king’s instructions, he rarely lost sight 
 of. He found, on inquiring for the French princess, that her 
 young hostess had accompanied her forth for an exploring long 
 walk; and that when some of the- ladies and courtiers had 
 offered to attend them, Eponine had forbidden their following, 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 445 
 
 declaring that she had a mind for a quiet ramble alone with 
 Imogen. 
 
 He hurried after them ; and as his footstep caught the quick 
 ear of Imogen, she turned, and the expression of her face was 
 the usual ingenuous look of welcome, which it ever involun- 
 tarily wore at his approach. As the French princess also looked 
 back, she exclaimed joyously: — “Ah! here is my own knight 
 come in quest of us ! Happily arrived, good sir ; for my walk 
 has tired me, and your support will be right grateful.” 
 
 She took his arm as she spoke, and leaned upon it with her 
 usual easy freedom, and then went on with her wonted volu- 
 bility, showing how little she was really fatigued. 
 
 Leonatus led the French princess towards a green mound, 
 that afforded a pleasant seat, and begged that she would take 
 some rest ; while he placed Imogen beside her. 
 
 “Just one of your admirable pieces of thought for me, my 
 kind knight ! ” said Eponine ; “ this repose is most welcome ; 
 and this seat a most charming one ! How grand and solemn 
 the thick verdure of these Druid oaks above our head; and 
 how imposing the effect of yonder simple stone altar ; and what 
 a dizzy depth of ravine beside us ! ” she exclaimed, as she 
 peeped over into the sheer chasm, on the brink of which the 
 mound was situated. “ J Tis a fearful pit ; dark, and well-nigh 
 fathomless, as it looks from here, to us above. It might be the 
 lurking-place of monster, giant, or wood-demon. It gives one 
 a pleasant shudder to peer down into the murky abyss.” 
 
 Eponine turned away from gazing down into the abyss ; and 
 with her usual inconsequent way of flying from subject to sub- 
 ject, said, as she looked at a string of pearls, which Imogen 
 wore about her throat : — “ I used often to hear of the orient 
 beauty of your British pearls. Those are of matchless size and 
 hue. Let me examine them more nearly. They are the finest 
 I ever beheld.” 
 
 The French princess held out her hand, as she spoke; and 
 Imogen could do no less than untwine them from about her 
 neck, saying, as she did so : — “ I value them beyond their 
 worth as gems ; they were the gift of a dear friend,: — my best 
 friend.” 
 
446 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES 
 
 “ Your father; ” said Eponine in a decisive tone. 
 
 Imogen made no reply. But the pearls were really the gift 
 of Posthumus Leonatus. 
 
 “They are priceless; ” said the French princess, admiringly; 
 “ so marvellously clear, large, and even. I must win my father’s 
 consent to bring away with me from Britain, just such necklace, 
 as his present, and as a remembrance of my happy sojourn 
 here, ere I return to Gaul ; ” said Eponine. 
 
 While she said this, the French princess had been absently 
 whirling the string of pearls in airy circles round and round one 
 of her fingers ; when suddenly it spun from her hold, and 
 dropped sheer down into the chasm. 
 
 She made a vehement exclamation ; and a hurried apology 
 to Imogen. 
 
 The latter abruptly arose, with a look of concern ; then as 
 suddenly reseated herself, saying as calmly as she could : — 
 “ ’Tis no matter ; they are gone. You could not help it. Let 
 us not grieve for what is past recall. Think no mere of them.” 
 
 Posthumus could not help feeling a pang, at hearing her 
 treat thus lightly, as he thought, the loss of his gift. 
 
 “ Think no more of them ! But I must think of them ! I 
 do think of them ! ” exclaimed the French princess. “ Since 
 you care for them so little, how say you to yielding what right 
 you had in them, to me ? A match ! If I can recover them, 
 they are to be mine ! It shall be so ! ” 
 
 “ I said not so ; I agree to no such match ; ” said Imogen 
 with more of eagerness than she had yet shown. 
 
 “ Nay, but I will at all events assay my hope to redeem 
 them ! ” cried Eponine, with her usual vivacity of manner. “On 
 you, I rely, my good knight to regain them for me. To such 
 prowess as yours, the plunging into yonder rocky gulf is 
 nothing redoubtable. You will venture it for me, will you 
 not ? ” she said with a sparkling eye, and eager voice. 
 
 “ Most willingly;” replied Leonatus, as he stepped upon the 
 bank, and prepared to descend. 
 
 “ Do not think of it ! Indeed, I care not for the trinket ! 
 Leonatus ! Do not attempt so perilous a descent ! ” cried 
 Imogen, her sweet voice raised in entreaty. 
 
IMOGEN ; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 447 
 
 But there was something in the very plea she used, which 
 urged him onward. “ Though you prize not the bauble ; ” he 
 said, “yet I will do my best to recover it. I may not refuse her 
 highness’s challenge to my knightly duty.” 
 
 He scaled the brink of the precipice, and made his way 
 downwards ; holding fast by the straggling sprays and twigs that 
 presented themselves; clinging to the rugged inequalities of the 
 rock ; and breaking his fall, as he leaped from point to point, 
 by the small trees and underwood which grew among its inter- 
 stices ; and which formed a rough tangle of foliage covering the 
 sides of the narrow chasm. 
 
 He had got nearly out of sight, when the two ladies, who 
 were breathlessly watching his progress, heard a crash among 
 the boughs, and saw him sink suddenly down, far beyond their 
 ken. 
 
 A death-like pause of a few moments ; and then the voice of 
 Leonatus, called out in a cheerful, resonant shout : — “ I have 
 them ! I have them ! ” Shortly afterwards they could discern 
 him again ; clinging, climbing, straining, and toiling, on his 
 upward path ; until at length he reached the spot where they 
 stood. 
 
 “ Here is the string of pearls; ” he said. “To whom am I to 
 tender it?” 
 
 “ It is mine, — fairly mine ! Won by the courageous daring 
 of mine own faithful knight ! ” exclaimed the French princess, 
 exultingly. 
 
 Posthumus, remembering the king’s injunction, was about to 
 do as she wished; when Imogen calmly said: “They are yours. 
 Do me the favour to accept them as my willing gift. That 
 which hath enhanced their value in your highness’s eyes, hath 
 stripped them of it in mine. That they nearly cost a brave 
 man’s life to regain, would henceforth mar their beauty, rather 
 than endear them to me. I am well pleased that your grace 
 hath a fancy for them ; since I can gladly and freely present 
 them to you.” 
 
 “ And I as gladly and freely receive them;” said the French 
 princess, gazing at them delightedly, and passing them round 
 her neck. “ They are beautiful as gems ; dear to me as coming 
 
44? GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 from my sweet princess of Britain’s hand ; and precious for the 
 testimony they afford of a gentleman’s gallant conduct.” 
 
 The princess Eponine and her train were to take ship from 
 the port of Lud’s town ; and there, just before embarkation, 
 Leonatus had an opportunity of going to the principal pearl 
 merchant’s in Britain, and obtaining another string of equal 
 beauty, with those he had before procured. 
 
 Posthumus enclosed the string of pearls in the but two lines 
 which he trusted himself to write ; confided the packet to a 
 faithful attendant, named Pisanio, with strict charge to deliver 
 it into the hands of the princess Imogen ; and then set sail for 
 Gaul. 
 
 The mere sight of this messenger, whom she knew to be a 
 trusted servant of Posthumus Leonatus, caused Imogen a thrill 
 of delight. That he should have been expressly sent to bring 
 word of his master’s departure, was in itself a kind of comfort 
 for that departure, which had caused her many an involuntary 
 bitter feeling, unrelieved as it had necessarily been by word 
 or token of leave-taking. 
 
 Her bitterness had been the bitterness of regret ; never of 
 resentment, or unkind construction. Her gentle patience was 
 duly recompensed, by the joy she experienced, when Pisanio 
 placed in her hands the packet his master had enjoined him to 
 deliver. Leonatus had sent her under his own hand, words of 
 remembrance and valediction ! He had sent her his farewell in 
 penned substance ; a tangible something that she could hold to 
 her heart, and press to her lips, and weep over in mingled sad- 
 ness and comfort. 
 
 She hastened away to her own chamber, to read her treasure 
 in the full luxury of solitude. 
 
 The string of pearls fell well-nigh unheeded into her lap, 
 while her eyes fastened on the few words in his hand-writing, 
 inscribed on the paper that enclosed the gems : — 
 
 “ To replace those so nobly yielded. 
 
 “ Yours (in all the loyalty and truth of that word) 
 
 “ Leonatus.” 
 
 Her first emotion was one of pure, unalloyed rapture,— a 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 449 
 
 transport of conviction. “ He loves me ! He loves me ! 
 4 Yours ! 5 My Leonatus ! Mine ! Mine own Leonatus ! ” And 
 the paper was bathed with a flood of passionate tears and kisses. 
 
 Then came the reaction of heart-humility, and self-doubt ; the 
 magnifying of his merits, and dread of her own insufficiency and 
 unequal worth, to deserve so glorious a preference ; and all the 
 thousand and one generous misgivings with which genuine love 
 torments itself. 
 
 In the restless, pensive mood which became Imogen’s after 
 the departure of Leonatus, she frequently wandered forth into 
 the oak grove; there, alone, in the thickest of its green shades, 
 to indulge, unseen, her involuntary melancholy. This woody 
 scene, with its canopy of trees, its Druid altar, its grassy mound, 
 its bramble-grown chasm, peculiarly fostered these suspenseful 
 reveries. It revived those manifestations of Posthumus’s most 
 marked deference towards the French princess ; it recalled her 
 animated looks of encouragement, his tokens of submission to 
 her lightest wish, his devoted manner. And then arose the 
 thought, was there not a probability that this bright, beautiful 
 being, had possessed peculiar fascination for a man like Post- 
 humus, well fitted to judge of brilliancy, and sprightliness, and 
 sparkling grace. 
 
 Imogen was as high-minded as she was gentle-hearted. 
 She had a certain vigour of nature, — nowise inconsistent 
 with the tenderest sensitiveness, — which in her supplied the 
 teaching that is in most instances the offspring of exalted 
 intellect. 
 
 It was thus that, unguided by aught save her own inborn 
 sense of right, Imogen learned to discern that she was acting 
 unworthily of her own character, and risking injury to its best 
 strength, by continuing to indulge in these morally enervating 
 solitary walks and reveries. She had just attained to a vague 
 perception of this, when her idea was confirmed by a strong 
 and singular impression, that came upon her like a direct vouch- 
 safement from Heaven. 
 
 It was one of those clear, bright, December days, that some- 
 times occur in the depth of a winter season ; and although the 
 year wanted but a single week to its close, no sign of frost, or 
 
 G G 
 
450 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE’S HEROINES. 
 
 snow, was upon the earth. The oak grove was wrapt in that 
 solemn silence which forms one of the chief charms of forest 
 scenery ; the glossy leaves and red clusters of the holly under- 
 wood, looked full of vital cheerfulness ; the lofty trees reared 
 their giant heads, and gnarled trunks, and spreading arms, in 
 sylvan majesty; the pearly berries, and small, green, rounded 
 leaves of the mistletoe, clung to the branches in beautiful 
 abundance, adorning the venerable parent stock with their 
 fresh vivacity ; the sky was blue and serene ; and the sun 
 shone warm and brilliant, to enliven and to gladden all. 
 
 Imogen felt that it was an ingratitude to Nature to shut her 
 heart against the invigorating influences of such a scene. She 
 felt reproached by the brightness of such a day accorded in the 
 midst of the sullen season, for yielding feebly to the mistrusts and 
 fruitless solicitudes of uncertainty. The hopefulness of the day 
 seemed to rebuke her despondency, and to accuse her of weak- 
 ness, thus to encourage idle dreams of conjectural evil, when 
 all might be well. Was it not a kind of treason to the faith of 
 her own love, to allow it to spend itself in vain anxieties and 
 uneasy surmises ? Why should it not rather seek to fortify itself 
 with a noble trust, a patient, constant hope ? Out of meekest 
 and humblest endurance came strength and courage; as out of 
 lowliest weeds, and least observed herbs, balm and healing were 
 extracted. 
 
 As these thoughts passed through her mind, Imogen sat on 
 the grassy bank, her chin resting on her clasped hands, her eyes 
 bent on the slanting rays, that penetrated the woody depths 
 before her ; when, as she gazed, the flood of sunshine seemed 
 insensibly to expand and dilate into a pervading light — soft, 
 yet vivid; serene, yet intense. It seemed compounded of all 
 that was tranquil and hopeful, at the same time that it was 
 penetrating and refulgent. It seemed to fill the air, as with a 
 universal benignant promise ; the shining forth of a manifest 
 Peace, and Joy, and Comfort to all men. It seemed to stream 
 forth enlightenment and revival to the whole world ; to bring 
 sustaining help, and exalted trust ; to teach mercy, forbearance, 
 kindliness; to show the folly and wickedness of strife, the 
 iniquity of uncharitableness. Calm and healing for the wounded 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 451 
 
 spirit seemed to flow from this mystic radiance, as it shed its 
 beams upon all around. 
 
 The Druid oaks in their sturdy bulk, the rude altar of solid 
 stone, dedicated to pagan worship, all the substantial evidences 
 of the real scene that environed her, were blotted out from the 
 sight of Imogen, as she steeped her senses in the pure efful- 
 gence that poured its mild lustre upon every object, and seemed 
 to absorb their materiality into its own prevailing light. It 
 seemed to have the power of casting into shadow and nothing- 
 ness all that was grossly palpable and actual ; while it shone 
 forth with its own irresistible force of clearness and purity, de- 
 claring the one true and divine Essence . 1 
 
 After that day, Imogen felt as though she had acquired a 
 tranquillity of spirit until then unknown. It seemed beyond 
 her comprehension ; but she sought not to analyze its source, 
 she was contented to feel its effects. It brought a wisdom of 
 its own, which taught her to restrain her former tendency to 
 indulge in solitary musing, with vain revolving of thoughts she 
 could not bring to satisfactory issue ; and until Posthumus 
 should return, she determined to occupy herself with deeds of 
 charity and active usefulness, instead of enfeebling her mind 
 and body with profitless dwelling upon one round of ideas. 
 
 She had soon additional need of all that could inspire cou- 
 rage and patient endurance. 
 
 The threatened rising in the North, of which Cymbeline had 
 had some previous warning, broke into open rebellion. The 
 king of the Brigantes, dying suddenly of a surfeit at table, his 
 subjects took the opportunity of joining the other malcontents, 
 and an extensive insurrection was the consequence. The widow 
 queen hastened up to the British court that she might engage 
 Cymbeline’s aid in her cause, and in the recovery of her son 
 Cloten’s rights, as his father’s successor. 
 
 Cymbeline not only levied a large force of his own brave 
 Iceni and Trinobantes, and sent it without delay to the 
 scene of the disturbances; but he was so struck by the 
 
 1 It was during Cymbeline’s reign that Christ was born ; and it is re- 
 markable that Shakespeare’s Imogen, in the spirit in which he has drawn 
 her character, is the most Christian of his heroines. 
 
452 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 great personal beauty of the widow queen, that he fell almost 
 immediately into the snare which her wiliness enabled her to 
 lay for him. So rapidly and so effectively did she conduct her 
 plans, that she had brought Cymbeline to woo her into second 
 marriage with himself ere she had been a sennight in his court. 
 Her success in this project inspired her with another, as bold 
 in its ambition. She determined to exchange her son Cloten’s 
 hope of the petty chieftainship of the Brigantes, for no less than 
 the succession to the throne of Britain, by bringing about his 
 marriage with the king’s only daughter and heiress apparent, 
 the princess Imogen. 
 
 When Bergion heard the news of the royal nuptials, he ex- 
 claimed : — 
 
 “ How is this ? Cousin king going to enter the unholy state 
 of second matrimony ? About to commit himself to the unblest 
 condition of bigamy ? Can this be true ? Can cousin king have 
 so far forgot what he owes to his own hope of happiness ?” 
 
 “ I’ll tell thee what, Druid-dregs ! ” exclaimed Cloten ; “ for 
 thine own sake, I counsel thee to keep that babbling tongue of 
 thine within range. Thoud’st best, I can tell thee. Cousin 
 king, as thou call’st him, is not one to be offended without bale 
 to the offender. Witness, a certain soldier fellow I knew of, 
 when I came first to court, that was general to king Cymbeline. 
 His name was Belarius. And for all his previous favour he was 
 cast into the slough of exile, on the first anger he gave his royal 
 master.” 
 
 “ Cousin king is mad ! He must have lost his wits more 
 absolutely than I ever lacked mine ! ” exclaimed Bergion 
 vehemently. 
 
 “ How say’st thou, fellow ? ” said the voice of Cymbeline, who 
 entered unperceived by Bergion. “ Dost thou speak disrespect- 
 fully of me in mine absence ? ’Tis enough if I permit thee the 
 jester’s privilege of slighting words in my presence.” 
 
 “ Cousin king, I have never said that, behind thy back, which 
 I would not say to thy face ; ” said Bergion firmly, as he 
 switched the hazel-rod he always bore about him, with a ve- 
 hement cut through the air. “ Oh, cousin king ! Wed not with 
 this widow-witch ! This snake-queen ! Give not to her that 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 453 
 
 place in your bosom, where lay the white innocence and 
 patience whom you once called wife, lest you be thought the 
 blinded madman I spoke of ere now.” 
 
 “ This passes our forbearance, sirrah !” exclaimed the king. 
 “ Away with him to the stocks ! ” 
 
 “ By this token of our first meeting, cousin king,” said Ber- 
 gion, holding forth the hazel-wand, “think if it befit thine 
 honour, that for a light word, far more for an earnest word, 
 thou shouldst condemn thy faithful Bergion to an ignominious 
 punishment.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! ” said the king wrathfully, as he snatched the wand 
 from the hand that held it forth ; “ away with him, I say ! ” 
 
 “ Hold, cousin king ! ” exclaimed Bergion with a loud cry, 
 that amounted to a scream. 
 
 But it was too late ; the hazel-rod was twisted and rent in 
 two, and thrown into a large fire that blazed upon the hearth, 
 near which the king stood. 
 
 As the flames caught the slight rod, and consumed it rapidly, 
 Bergion’s frame quivered from head to foot ; he turned ghastly 
 pale ; his arms fell at his side ; his head dropped upon his 
 bosom ; and he stood like one bereft of sense and life. 
 
 Cymbeline turned away, repeating, — “See that my orders be 
 obeyed. Let him be set in the stocks for the rest of the day. 
 ’Twill teach him we are not to be trifled with. ’Tis fit all should 
 learn this, who are about our person.” 
 
 The next day was the one appointed for the ceremonial of 
 the royal espousals. It took place with great magnificence ; 
 and while the new-made wife was in the height of her bridal in- 
 fluence, she broached to her enslaved bridegroom her desire 
 for a union between her son Cloten and his daughter Imogen. 
 The royal consent was as readily yielded as she could have 
 wished ; and the princess was informed of her father’s intention 
 to bestow her in marriage on Cloten, who had long made 
 clumsy suit to her. 
 
 This intimation fell like a warning of death upon the heart of 
 Imogen. It was conveyed to her by Cymbeline in his most 
 peremptory style, just on the eve of his departure for the North, 
 whither he was compelled to repair. 
 
454 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 As the king was about to leave his capital, he suddenly be • 
 thought him of Bergion, whom he had never seen, — and never 
 missed, during the engrossing period of his own nuptials, — since 
 the day he had so harshly dismissed him from his presence. 
 
 “The lad lies in a languishing state, at the old forest-lodge, 
 my liege ; ” replied one of the courtiers. “ It is thought he 
 hath refused all food — and so, starved into this condition ; but 
 others report that he is stricken to the heart by the grief he 
 hath conceived of your majesty’s anger against him, and thus 
 pined away.” 
 
 Cymbeline questioned the gentleman no farther ; but as the 
 forest-lodge lay in his road Northward, he resolved to visit the 
 place himself, and gain personal assurance of Bergion’s state. 
 
 The king could not avoid a remorseful remembrance of an- 
 other former victim to his obduracy, as he approached the old 
 dismantled lodge in the forest. It was hither that his innocent 
 wife Guendolen, and their infant daughter, had been banished 
 when they had fallen into his suspicion and wrath. 
 
 He pushed open the remnant of a door and found himself in 
 the single room which formed the interior of the dwelling. On 
 a low wooden settle lay stretched the figure of Bergion. Always 
 lean and meagre, it now seemed a mere skeleton. 
 
 The king approached, and laid his hand kindly upon the 
 shoulder, calling the lad by his name. 
 
 “ The voice of cousin king ! ” exclaimed Bergion, as the old 
 wild light gleamed in his eyes ; and he would have sprung up, but 
 his frame had lost its pristine vigour, — and it fell back nerveless. 
 
 “How is this, my poor fellow?” said Cymbeline. “How 
 fell you into this despairful state, — and made no attempt to 
 move me to its relief? ” 
 
 “I had no hope to move you;” replied Bergion. “You 
 had destroyed my last hope, when you destroyed my hazel- 
 rod. Did I not tell you that my very life was bound up 
 in that wand ? And so it was ; my trust in kindness, my 
 reliance on all-loving, all-bounteous Nature, my faith in 
 bonds of natural protection and sympathy, were unbroken, 
 so long as that slender twig remained unbroken. So long 
 as it remained mine, by the allowance and kindliness of 
 cousin king, so long was I happy in mine existence, so long 
 
IMOGEN; THE PEERLESS. 
 
 455 
 
 had I a hold upon life. But when I saw it riven by his hand, 
 hurled into the burning embers, I felt that I had no more to 
 do with life. I resolved to make no farther struggle ; to speak 
 no word again ; to touch no morsel more. But the voice of 
 cousin king awoke mine own in spite of myself, as the sight of 
 him beside me, brings a joy I never more thought to feel.” 
 
 Bergion fixed his gleaming eyes upon the moistened ones of 
 Cymbeline, as a faithful dying hound might have done ; then 
 making a motion for the king’s hand with his own, he drew it 
 beneath his lips, which closed upon it, as they sighed forth 
 their last expiring breath. 
 
 While these events were passing in Britain, Posthumus 
 Leonatus was fulfilling the mandate of his king, by conducting 
 the princess Eponine with all honour and observance to the 
 court of Gergovia. If her father had entertained any sinister 
 views in sending his daughter on a visit to Britain, they came 
 to naught ; for she returned to Gaul with her head full only of 
 her own engrossing partiality for the young Briton who had 
 been appointed her knight. 
 
 Accordingly, when the prince of the Averni, rendering the 
 young British knight warmest thanks for having brought his 
 child home in safety, overwhelmed him with hospitable urgings 
 for a protracted sojourn in their court of Gergovia, the princess 
 Eponine smilingly joined her entreaties to her father’s, secure 
 that one word from her to this effect would be only too gladly 
 complied with. 
 
 But to her amazement, Posthumus Leonatus courteously but 
 firmly declined ; alleging, that his duty to his king now per- 
 formed, his return to Britain must be made without delay. 
 
 For Imogen, the return of Posthumus to Britain was fresh 
 life, fresh hope. Hemmed in on all sides as she was, by a 
 designing step-mother, a hateful suitor, and a father’s despotic 
 will, she had felt well-nigh faint of spirit. But with his return 
 came confidence, courage, cheer of heart, and love itself. At 
 their very first meeting their mutual secret was disclosed ; and 
 with its knowledge came abounding solace for all past doubt 
 and suspense. 
 
 Only too well aware of her father’s absolute disposition, 
 Imogen chose rather to give herself to the man of her soul’s 
 
456 GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES. 
 
 choice without consulting the king’s decision, than by awaiting 
 his sanction, to hazard an express prohibition. She accord- 
 ingly consented to plight her wedded vows to Posthumus 
 Leonatus in Jove’s high temple; with the stipulation that her 
 husband would there quit her for a season, until she could 
 meet him where they should be less subject to curious eyes. 
 
 In all privacy the espousals were performed ; and at the 
 very gate of the temple, Posthumus Leonatus took leave of his 
 bride, his Imogen, sustaining his courage under this needful 
 temporary separation, by the exultant thought that she was 
 pledged his, beyond the power of fate to divide them. 
 
 The king returned. Posthumus Leonatus made dignified 
 avowal. But Cymbeline’s rage knew no bounds. He pro- 
 nounced instant sentence of banishment against Leonatus, and 
 ordered Imogen into strict confinement, appointing the queen 
 her safe-guard. This wily step-mother affected great sympathy 
 with her victim, and even permitted the young couple a parting 
 interview; but it was with the secret design of still farther 
 exciting Cymbeline’s wrath against them. Imogen was not the 
 dupe of this pretended interest ; for even amidst the anguish 
 of leave-taking, she exclaimed : — “ O 
 
 Dissembling courtesy / How fine this tyrant 
 Can tickle where she wounds ! — My dearest husband \ 
 
 I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing , 
 (Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what 
 His rage can do on me : You must be gone ; 
 
 And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
 Of angry eyes ; not comforted to live , 
 
 But that there is this jewel in the world, 
 
 That I may see again." 
 
 Cymbeline, Act i. Sc. 2. 
 L’ENVOY. 
 
 “ ’Beseech you all, my lords, 
 
 With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me.” 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS : — C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 

 
 
 
THE GETTY CENTER 
 LIBRARY