PURITY OF CHARACTER.

Noughtis there under heaven’s wide hallownessThat moves more dear compassiön of mind,[a]Than beauty brought t’ unworthy wretchednessThrough envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind.I, whether lately through her brightness blind,Or through allegiance and fast feälty,Which I do owe unto all womankind,Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,When such I see, that all for pity I could die.And now it is empassionèd so deep,For fairest Una’s sake, of whom I sing,That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep,To think how she through guileful handëling,[b]Though true as touch, though daughter of a king,Though fair as ever living wight was fair,Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting,Is from her Knight divorcèd in despair,And her due loves derived to that vile Witch’s share.[c]Yet she, most faithful Lady all this while,Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid,Far from all people’s press, as in exile,In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray’dTo seek her Knight; who, subtilly betray’dThrough that late vision which th’ Enchanter wrought,Had her abandon’d: she, of nought affray’d,Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought;Yet wishèd tidings none of him unto her brought.One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,From her unhasty beast she did alight;And on the grass her dainty limbs did layIn secret shadow, far from all men’s sight;From her fair head her fillet she undight,[d]And laid her stole aside: her angel’s face,As the great eye of heaven, shinèd bright,And made a sunshine in the shady place:Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace.It fortunèd, out of the thickest woodA ramping lion rushèd suddenly,Hunting full greedy after savage blood:Soon as the royal Virgin he did spy,With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,To have at once devour’d her tender corse;But to the prey when as he drew more nigh,His bloody rage assuagèd with remorse,And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force.Instead thereof, he kiss’d her weary feet,And lick’d her lily hands with fawning tongue,As he her wrongèd innocence did weet.O, how can beauty master the most strong,And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!Whose yielded pride and proud submissiön,Still dreading death, when she had markèd long,Her heart ’gan melt in great compassiön;And drizzling tears did shed for pure affectiön.“The lion, lord of every beast in field,”Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate,And mighty proud to humble weak does yield,Forgetful of the hungry rage which lateHim prick’d, in pity of my sad estate:—But he, my lion, and my noble lord,How does he find in cruel heart to hateHer that him loved, and ever most adoredAs the god of my life? why hath he me abhorr’d?”Redounding tears did choke th’ end of her plaint,Which softly echo’d from the neighbor wood;And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint,The kingly beast upon her gazing stood;With pity calm’d, down fell his angry mood.At last, in close heart shutting up her pain,Arose the Virgin born of heavenly brood,And to her snowy palfrey got again,To seek her strayèd Champion if she might attain.The lion would not leave her desolate,But with her went along, as a strong guardOf her chaste person, and a faithful mateOf her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward;And, when she waked, he waited diligent,With humble service to her will prepared:From her fair eyes he took commandëment,And ever by her looks conceivèd her intent.From “The Faerie Queene.”

And now it is empassionèd so deep,For fairest Una’s sake, of whom I sing,That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep,To think how she through guileful handëling,[b]Though true as touch, though daughter of a king,Though fair as ever living wight was fair,Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting,Is from her Knight divorcèd in despair,And her due loves derived to that vile Witch’s share.[c]

Yet she, most faithful Lady all this while,Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid,Far from all people’s press, as in exile,In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray’dTo seek her Knight; who, subtilly betray’dThrough that late vision which th’ Enchanter wrought,Had her abandon’d: she, of nought affray’d,Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought;Yet wishèd tidings none of him unto her brought.

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,From her unhasty beast she did alight;And on the grass her dainty limbs did layIn secret shadow, far from all men’s sight;From her fair head her fillet she undight,[d]And laid her stole aside: her angel’s face,As the great eye of heaven, shinèd bright,And made a sunshine in the shady place:Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace.

It fortunèd, out of the thickest woodA ramping lion rushèd suddenly,Hunting full greedy after savage blood:Soon as the royal Virgin he did spy,With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,To have at once devour’d her tender corse;But to the prey when as he drew more nigh,His bloody rage assuagèd with remorse,And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force.

Instead thereof, he kiss’d her weary feet,And lick’d her lily hands with fawning tongue,As he her wrongèd innocence did weet.O, how can beauty master the most strong,And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!Whose yielded pride and proud submissiön,Still dreading death, when she had markèd long,Her heart ’gan melt in great compassiön;And drizzling tears did shed for pure affectiön.

“The lion, lord of every beast in field,”Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate,And mighty proud to humble weak does yield,Forgetful of the hungry rage which lateHim prick’d, in pity of my sad estate:—But he, my lion, and my noble lord,How does he find in cruel heart to hateHer that him loved, and ever most adoredAs the god of my life? why hath he me abhorr’d?”

Redounding tears did choke th’ end of her plaint,Which softly echo’d from the neighbor wood;And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint,The kingly beast upon her gazing stood;With pity calm’d, down fell his angry mood.At last, in close heart shutting up her pain,Arose the Virgin born of heavenly brood,And to her snowy palfrey got again,To seek her strayèd Champion if she might attain.

The lion would not leave her desolate,But with her went along, as a strong guardOf her chaste person, and a faithful mateOf her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward;And, when she waked, he waited diligent,With humble service to her will prepared:From her fair eyes he took commandëment,And ever by her looks conceivèd her intent.

From “The Faerie Queene.”

Una is the heroine of the first Book of Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.” She appears to have been intended, at least in part, as a poetical impersonation of Truth. At all events, she is one of the sweetest and loveliest visions that ever issued from a poet’s brain.[a]l. 2. In Spenser’s time the endingssion,tion, as alsocian, and various others, were often used as two syllables.[b]l. 13. That is,handling, in the sense oftreatment. Here, again, we have a relic of ancient usage. So, too, incommandement, in the last stanza of this piece. And in many other like words the old poets often make two syllables where we now make but one.[c]l. 18. An old witch named Duessa, painted and dressed up into a false show of beauty, and dealing in magic arts. She had lied and cheated the red-cross Knight, the hero of the story, out of his faith in Una and beguiled him with her mighty spells.[d]l. 32.undight, took off. l. 33.stole, a long, loose garment reaching to the feet. l. 48.weet, understand. l. 64.Redounding, flowing.

[a]l. 2. In Spenser’s time the endingssion,tion, as alsocian, and various others, were often used as two syllables.

[b]l. 13. That is,handling, in the sense oftreatment. Here, again, we have a relic of ancient usage. So, too, incommandement, in the last stanza of this piece. And in many other like words the old poets often make two syllables where we now make but one.

[c]l. 18. An old witch named Duessa, painted and dressed up into a false show of beauty, and dealing in magic arts. She had lied and cheated the red-cross Knight, the hero of the story, out of his faith in Una and beguiled him with her mighty spells.

[d]l. 32.undight, took off. l. 33.stole, a long, loose garment reaching to the feet. l. 48.weet, understand. l. 64.Redounding, flowing.

Overthe plum and apricot there may be seen a bloom and beauty more exquisite than the fruit itself—a soft delicate flush that overspreads its blushing cheek. Now, if you strike your hand over that, and it is once gone, it is gone forever; for it never grows but once.

The flower that hangs in the morning impearled with dew, arrayed with jewels, once shake it so that the beads roll off, and you may sprinkle water over it as you please, yet it can never be made again what it was when the dew fell lightly upon it from heaven.

On a frosty morning you may see the panes of glass covered with landscapes, mountains, lakes, and trees, blended in a beautiful fantastic picture. Now lay your hand upon the glass, and by the scratch of your fingers, or by the warmth of the palm, all the delicate tracery will be immediately obliterated.

So in youth there is a purity of character which when once touched and defiled can never be restored—a fringe more delicate than frost-work, and which, when torn and broken, will never be reëmbroidered.

When a young man leaves his father’s house, with the blessing of his mother’s tears still wet upon his forehead, if he once loses that early purity of character, it is a loss he can never make whole again.

Booksare to mankind what memory is to the individual. They contain the history of our race, the discoveries we have made, the accumulated knowledge and experience of ages; they picture for us the marvels and beauties of nature; help us in our difficulties, comfort us in sorrow and in suffering, change hours of weariness into moments of delight, store our minds with ideas, fill them with good and happy thoughts, and lift us out of and above ourselves.

There is an Oriental story of two men: one was a king, who every night dreamt he was a beggar; the other was a beggar, who every night dreamt he was a prince and lived in a palace. I am not sure that the king had very much the best of it. Imagination is sometimes more vivid than reality. But, however this may be, when we read we may not only (if we wish it) be kings and live in palaces, but, what is far better, we may transport ourselves to the mountains or the seashore, and visit the most beautiful parts of the earth, without fatigue, inconvenience, or expense.

Many of those who have had, as we say, all that this world can give, have yet told us they owed much of their purest happiness to books. Ascham, in “The Schoolmaster,” tells a touching story of his last visit to Lady Jane Grey. He found her sitting in an orielwindow reading Plato’s beautiful account of the death of Socrates. Her father and mother were hunting in the park, the hounds were in full cry and their voices came in through the open window. He expressed his surprise that she had not joined them. But, said she, “I wist that all their pleasure in the park is but a shadow to the pleasure I find in Plato.”

Macaulay had wealth and fame, rank and power, and yet he tells us in his biography that he owed the happiest hours of his life to books. In a charming letter to a little girl he says: “Thank you for your very pretty letter. I am always glad to make my little girl happy, and nothing pleases me so much as to see that she likes books, for when she is as old as I am she will find that they are better than all the tarts and cakes, toys and plays, and sights in the world. If any one would make me the greatest king that ever lived, with palaces and gardens and fine dinners, and wines and coaches, and beautiful clothes, and hundreds of servants, on condition that I should not read books, I would not be a king. I would rather be a poor man in a garret with plenty of books than a king who did not love reading.”

Books, indeed, endow us with a whole enchanted palace of thoughts. There is a wider prospect, says Jean Paul Richter, from Parnassus than from the throne. In one way they give us an even more vivid idea than the actual reality, just as reflections are often more beautiful than real nature. All mirrors, says George MacDonald,“are magic mirrors. The commonest room is a room in a poem when I look in the glass.”

English literature is the birthright and inheritance of the English race. We have produced and are producing some of the greatest of poets, of philosophers, of men of science. No race can boast a brighter, purer, or nobler literature—richer than our commerce, more powerful than our arms. It is the true pride and glory of our country, and for it we cannot be too thankful.

Precious and priceless are the blessings which the books scatter around our daily paths. We walk, in imagination, with the noblest spirits, through the most sublime and enchanting regions,—regions which, to all that is lovely in the forms and colors of earth,

“Add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

Without stirring from our firesides we may roam to the most remote regions of the earth, or soar into realms where Spenser’s shapes of unearthly beauty flock to meet us, where Milton’s angels peal in our ears the choral hymns of Paradise. Science, art, literature, philosophy,—all that man has thought, all that man has done,—the experience that has been bought with the sufferings of a hundred generations,—all are garnered up for us in the world of books.

From “The Use of Life.”

For a sketch of the life of Tennyson, see Book V, page 102.

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman’s boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill:But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill:But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

William Shakespearewas born in the year 1564, at Stratford-on-Avon, in England. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne then, and it was one of the most brilliant periods in all English history. The poems and plays that Shakespeare wrote are the greatest in the English language, and one cannot appreciate the best there is in literature unless he has studied them. It is strange that no one thought, in the time that he lived, of writing his history, so that we might know as much about him and his boyhood as we do of most other great men.

Stratford is in the heart of England, and the stream of Avon winds through a beautiful country. There were two famous old castles near by, which had been peopled by knights in armor, and out of whose great stone gateways they had ridden to battle.

We are sure that Shakespeare loved to listen to the tales of these old battles, for in later years he based several of his great historical plays upon them.

One of these plays is called “Richard III.,” and part of the scenes are laid in the old Warwick Castle, near his home. He tells how the young son of the Duke of Clarence was kept a prisoner in one of the great gloomy towers, by the wicked Duke of Gloucester, who afterward became King Richard III.; and the play ends with the Battle of Bosworth Field, where King Richard is slain.

We know that Shakespeare was fond of the woods and the fields, for his plays are filled with charming descriptions of their beauty. The forest of Arden was near Stratford, and its streams and woods filled him with such delight that when he became a man he made them forever famous by writing a play called “As You Like It,” the most beautiful scenes of which are laid in this forest.

He liked to imagine that fairies dwelt in the Arden woods, and though he could not see them in their frolics, he could picture them in his brain. When he saw the grass and flowers wet with dew, it pleased him to think that this had been a task set by the Queen of the Fairies in the night for her tiny subjects. So in his play, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he makes a fairy say:—

“Over hill, over dale,Thorough brush, thorough brier,. . . . . . . . . .I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moony sphere;And I serve the Fairy Queen.”

Then the fairy tells its companion it must hasten away to its task:—

“I must go seek some dewdrops hereAnd hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.”

Shakespeare must have been in the forest of Arden often in the summer mornings and seen the dewdrops clinging to the cowslips and glistening in the sunlight like pearls.

BIRTHPLACE OF SHAKESPEARE.BIRTHPLACE OF SHAKESPEARE.

The exact day that Shakespeare was born is not certain, but it was about the 23d of April, and many men who have made a study of the poet’s life accept that as his birthday. The house in which he was born is still standing, although it has, of course, undergone many changes in the last three hundred years.

During the early boyhood of the poet, his father,John Shakespeare, was a prosperous tradesman. He was a wool dealer and farmer. When Shakespeare was four years old his father became high-bailiff, or mayor of the town.

The future dramatist was sent to the village school at about the age of seven. He could already read, having learned his letters at home from a very queer primer. It was called the “horn-book,” because it was made of a single printed leaf, set in a frame of wood like our slates, and covered with a thin plate of horn.

The boy remained at school only about six years. His father had failed in many enterprises, and it is probable he needed his son to help him in his work. Just what Shakespeare learned at school we do not know, but his writings show some knowledge of Greek and Latin, for these languages were taught in the schools at that time.

It is certain that Shakespeare’s education went on after he left school. That is, he learned something from everything he saw about him and from all that he read. Even the trees in the forest and the streams in the meadows taught him lessons about nature. And this idea he expresses in his own beautiful way in the play “As You Like It,” when he makes the banished Duke in the forest of Arden say:—

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

It is quite probable that John Shakespeare unconsciously decided the career of his son, for it was while he was mayor of Stratford that plays were first presented there, and the players must have obtained his consent in order to give their performances.

We can also learn from his writings what games Shakespeare was fond of, or, at least, what sports the boys of his time took delight in. In Shakespeare’s “Comedy of Errors” he refers to the game of football, and in the historical play of “Julius Cæsar,” there is a fine description of a swimming match between Cæsar and Cassius. Cassius tells the story to Brutus of how Cæsar challenged him to leap into the river Tiber, armed as they were for battle:—

“Cæsar said to me, ‘Darest thou, Cassius, nowLeap in with me into this angry flood,And swim to yonder point?’ Upon the word,Accoutered as I was, I plunged inAnd bade him follow; so, indeed, he did.The torrent roar’d and we did buffet itWith lusty sinews, throwing it asideAnd stemming it with hearts of controversy.”

Cassius then tells how Cæsar’s strength gave out and he cried for help, and how Cassius brought him safe to land.

Other sports of Shakespeare’s day were archery, wrestling, hunting, and falconry, where a bird called a falcon was let loose into the air to pursue its prey.

When Shakespeare was in his nineteenth year he married Anne Hathaway, and a few years later he set out to seek his fortune in London.

He had played some small parts on the stage at Stratford, and it is not surprising that we soon find him among the players in London, filling such trifling parts as were offered to him, and even, some accounts say, holding horses at the stage door to help support himself and his family.

His leisure time was spent in study. “Plutarch’s Lives” furnished him with material for his plays of “Julius Cæsar,” “Antony and Cleopatra,” and parts, at least, of others.

He was a great student of the Bible, so much so that a learned bishop who made a study of his plays found that Shakespeare in all his writings had in five hundred and fifty different places either quoted from the Scriptures or referred to them.

Shakespeare rose to fame rapidly. He was associated in the building of a new theater called the Globe, where his plays were acted before thousands. Then the Blackfriars Theater was built, and these two houses divided the honor of producing his plays.

He gathered up the history of England, the grandeur of its courts, the beauty of its woods and fields, and the deeds of its people, and told of it all in such masterful dramas that his name leads all other English writers.

The last few years of his life were spent at Stratford-on-Avon,where he had become a large land-owner. He died in the year 1616, at the age of fifty-two.

Nearly every great English writer and poet ever since has referred, in some way or other, to the plays of Shakespeare. The speeches of our statesmen owe much of their strength and beauty to the influence of his writings. It has been said that “Shakespeare is like a great primeval forest, whence timber shall be cut and used as long as winds blow and leaves are green.”

Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House. Three Caskets ofGold, Silver, and Lead on Table.

Portia, a beautiful and accomplished heiress, is sought in marriage by a large number of suitors, whose fate is to be determined by the choice they make of one of three caskets—gold, silver, and base lead.The following are the comments of three of the suitors—the Prince of Morocco, the Prince of Arragon, and Bassanio:—

The following are the comments of three of the suitors—the Prince of Morocco, the Prince of Arragon, and Bassanio:—

Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco.

Portia.Now make your choice.Morocco.The first, of gold, which this inscription bears,—Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;The second, silver, which this promise carries,—Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,—Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.—How shall I know if I do choose the right?Portia.The one of them contains my picture, Prince:If you choose that, then I am yours withal.Morocco.Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;I will survey th’ inscriptions back again.What says this leaden casket?Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.Must give,—for what? for lead? hazard for lead?This casket threatens: men, that hazard allDo it in hope of fair advantages.A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.What says the silver, with her virgin hue?Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.As much as he deserves!—Pause there, Morocco,And weigh thy value with an even hand:If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enoughMay not extend so far as to the lady:And yet to be afeard of my deserving,Were but a weak disabling of myself.As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady:I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,In graces, and in qualities of breeding;But, more than these, in love I do deserve.What if I stray’d no further, but chose here?Let’s see once more this saying graved in gold:Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.Why, that’s the lady; all the world desires her:....... Deliver me the key;Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!Portia.There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there,Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket.Morocco.What have we here?A carrion Death, within whose empty eyeThere is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.[Reads]All that glisters is not gold,—Often have you heard that told:Many a man his life hath sold,But my outside to behold:Gilded tombs do worms infold.Had you been as wise as bold,Young in limbs, in judgment old,Your answer had not been inscroll’d:Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Portia.

Now make your choice.

Morocco.

The first, of gold, which this inscription bears,—

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;

The second, silver, which this promise carries,—

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,—

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.—

How shall I know if I do choose the right?

Portia.

The one of them contains my picture, Prince:If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

Morocco.

Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;I will survey th’ inscriptions back again.What says this leaden casket?

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.

Must give,—for what? for lead? hazard for lead?This casket threatens: men, that hazard allDo it in hope of fair advantages.A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.What says the silver, with her virgin hue?

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

As much as he deserves!—Pause there, Morocco,And weigh thy value with an even hand:If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enoughMay not extend so far as to the lady:And yet to be afeard of my deserving,Were but a weak disabling of myself.As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady:I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,In graces, and in qualities of breeding;But, more than these, in love I do deserve.What if I stray’d no further, but chose here?Let’s see once more this saying graved in gold:

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

Why, that’s the lady; all the world desires her:....... Deliver me the key;Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!

Portia.

There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there,Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket.

Morocco.

What have we here?A carrion Death, within whose empty eyeThere is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.

[Reads]All that glisters is not gold,—Often have you heard that told:Many a man his life hath sold,But my outside to behold:Gilded tombs do worms infold.Had you been as wise as bold,Young in limbs, in judgment old,Your answer had not been inscroll’d:Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Cold, indeed; and labor lost;Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!—Portia, adieu! I have too grieved a heartTo take a tedious leave: thus losers part.[Exit with train.Enter Prince of Arragon.Portia.Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince;If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,You must be gone from hence immediately.Arragon.I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:First, never to unfold to any oneWhich casket ’t was I chose; next, if I failOf the right casket, never in my lifeTo woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly,If I do fail in fortune of my choice,Immediately to leave you, and be gone.Portia.To these injunctions everyone doth swearThat comes to hazard for my worthless self.Arragon.And so have I address’d me. Fortune nowTo my heart’s hope!—Gold, silver, and base lead.Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard.What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.What many men desire!—Thatmanymay be meantBy the fool multitude, that choose by show,Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,Builds in the weather on the outward wall,Even in the force and road of casualty.I will not choose what many men desire,Because I will not jump with common spirits,And rank me with the barbarous multitude.Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.And well said too: for who shall go aboutTo cozen fortune, and be honorableWithout the stamp of merit? Let none presumeTo wear an undeserved dignity.O, that estates, degrees, and officesWere not derived corruptly! and that clear honorWere purchased by the merit of the wearer!How many then should cover, that stand bare!How many be commanded, that command!How much low peasantry would then be glean’dFrom the true seed of honor! and how much honorPick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times,To be new-varnish’d! Well, but to my choice:Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.I will assume desert.—Give me a key,And instantly unlock my fortunes here.[He opens the silver casket.Portia.Too long a pause for that which you find there.Arragon.What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.—How much unlike art thou to Portia!How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings!Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?Portia.T’ offend, and judge, are distinct offices,And of opposèd natures.Arragon.What is here?The fire seven times tried this:Seven times tried that judgment isThat did never choose amiss.Some there be, that shadows kiss;Such have but a shadow’s bliss:There be fools alive, I wis,Silver’d o’er; and so was this.Still more fool I shall appearBy the time I linger here:With one fool’s head I came to woo,But I go away with two.—Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath,Patiently to bear my wroth.[Exeunt Arragon and Train.Enter Bassanio.Bassanio.So may the outward shows be least themselves:The world is still deceived with ornament.In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being season’d with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil?. . . . . . . . . .There is no vice so simple, but assumesSome mark of virtue on its outward parts:How many cowards, whose hearts are all as falseAs stayers of sand, wear yet upon their chinsThe beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk!And these assume but valor’s excrement,To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,And you shall see ’t is purchased by the weight;Which therein works a miracle in nature,Making them lightest that wear most of it:So are those crispèd snaky golden locks,Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,Upon supposèd fairness, often knownTo be the dowry of a second head,The skull that bred them in the sepulcher.Thus ornament is but the guilèd shoreTo a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarfVeiling an Indian feature; in a word,The seeming truth which cunning times put onT’ entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee:Nor none of thee, thou stale and common drudge’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meager lead,Which rather threatenest, than dost promise aught,Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence;And here choose I: Joy be the consequence![Opening the leaden casket.——What find I here?Fair Portia’s counterfeit!——Here’s the scroll,The continent and summary of my fortune:—You that choose not by the viewChance as fair, and choose as true:Since this fortune falls to you,Be content and seek no new.If you be well pleased with this,And hold your fortune for your bliss,Turn you where your lady is,And claim her with a loving kiss.Portia.You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am: though, for myself alone,I would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better; yet, for you,I would be trebled twenty times myself;A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;That, only to stand high on your account,I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,Exceed account: but the full sum of meIs sum of—something; which, to term in gross,Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpracticed:Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; then happier in this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all, in that her gentle spiritCommits itself to yours to be directed,As from her lord, her governor, her king.Myself and what is mine to you and yoursIs now converted: but now I was the lordOf this fair mansion, master of my servants,Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,This house, these servants, and this same myself,Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring;Which when you part from, lose, or give away,Let it presage the ruin of your love,And be my vantage to exclaim on you.From “The Merchant of Venice.”

Cold, indeed; and labor lost;Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!—Portia, adieu! I have too grieved a heartTo take a tedious leave: thus losers part.[Exit with train.

Enter Prince of Arragon.

Portia.

Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince;If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,You must be gone from hence immediately.

Arragon.

I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:First, never to unfold to any oneWhich casket ’t was I chose; next, if I failOf the right casket, never in my lifeTo woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly,If I do fail in fortune of my choice,Immediately to leave you, and be gone.

Portia.

To these injunctions everyone doth swearThat comes to hazard for my worthless self.

Arragon.

And so have I address’d me. Fortune nowTo my heart’s hope!—Gold, silver, and base lead.

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.

You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard.What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

What many men desire!—Thatmanymay be meantBy the fool multitude, that choose by show,Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,Builds in the weather on the outward wall,Even in the force and road of casualty.I will not choose what many men desire,Because I will not jump with common spirits,And rank me with the barbarous multitude.Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

And well said too: for who shall go aboutTo cozen fortune, and be honorableWithout the stamp of merit? Let none presumeTo wear an undeserved dignity.O, that estates, degrees, and officesWere not derived corruptly! and that clear honorWere purchased by the merit of the wearer!How many then should cover, that stand bare!How many be commanded, that command!How much low peasantry would then be glean’dFrom the true seed of honor! and how much honorPick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times,To be new-varnish’d! Well, but to my choice:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

I will assume desert.—Give me a key,And instantly unlock my fortunes here.[He opens the silver casket.

Portia.

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

Arragon.

What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.—How much unlike art thou to Portia!How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings!

Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.

Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?

Portia.

T’ offend, and judge, are distinct offices,And of opposèd natures.

Arragon.

What is here?

The fire seven times tried this:Seven times tried that judgment isThat did never choose amiss.Some there be, that shadows kiss;Such have but a shadow’s bliss:There be fools alive, I wis,Silver’d o’er; and so was this.

Still more fool I shall appearBy the time I linger here:With one fool’s head I came to woo,But I go away with two.—Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath,Patiently to bear my wroth.[Exeunt Arragon and Train.

Enter Bassanio.

Bassanio.

So may the outward shows be least themselves:The world is still deceived with ornament.In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being season’d with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil?. . . . . . . . . .There is no vice so simple, but assumesSome mark of virtue on its outward parts:How many cowards, whose hearts are all as falseAs stayers of sand, wear yet upon their chinsThe beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk!And these assume but valor’s excrement,To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,And you shall see ’t is purchased by the weight;Which therein works a miracle in nature,Making them lightest that wear most of it:So are those crispèd snaky golden locks,Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,Upon supposèd fairness, often knownTo be the dowry of a second head,The skull that bred them in the sepulcher.Thus ornament is but the guilèd shoreTo a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarfVeiling an Indian feature; in a word,The seeming truth which cunning times put onT’ entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee:Nor none of thee, thou stale and common drudge’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meager lead,Which rather threatenest, than dost promise aught,Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence;And here choose I: Joy be the consequence![Opening the leaden casket.

——What find I here?Fair Portia’s counterfeit!——Here’s the scroll,The continent and summary of my fortune:—

You that choose not by the viewChance as fair, and choose as true:Since this fortune falls to you,Be content and seek no new.If you be well pleased with this,And hold your fortune for your bliss,Turn you where your lady is,And claim her with a loving kiss.

Portia.

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am: though, for myself alone,I would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better; yet, for you,I would be trebled twenty times myself;A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;That, only to stand high on your account,I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,Exceed account: but the full sum of meIs sum of—something; which, to term in gross,Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpracticed:Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; then happier in this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all, in that her gentle spiritCommits itself to yours to be directed,As from her lord, her governor, her king.Myself and what is mine to you and yoursIs now converted: but now I was the lordOf this fair mansion, master of my servants,Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,This house, these servants, and this same myself,Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring;Which when you part from, lose, or give away,Let it presage the ruin of your love,And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

From “The Merchant of Venice.”

Adversity.Sweetare the uses of adversity;Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.“As You Like It.”

Adversity.

Sweetare the uses of adversity;Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

“As You Like It.”

Reputation.Goodname in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls:Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches him,And makes me poor indeed.“Othello.”

Reputation.

Goodname in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls:Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches him,And makes me poor indeed.

“Othello.”

Fear of Death.Cowardsdie many times before their death;The valiant never taste of death but once.Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear;Seeing that death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come.“Julius Cæsar.”

Fear of Death.

Cowardsdie many times before their death;The valiant never taste of death but once.Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear;Seeing that death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come.

“Julius Cæsar.”

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