Conti with Mademoiselle de Blois. They are true romantic lovers; the king was highly amused with the ardor of their passion. He spoke to his daughter very affectionately, and assured her he loved her so much that he could not think of parting with her; the little creature was so moved and overjoyed at it, that she wept. The king told her he saw it was from aversion to the husband he had chosen for her that she wept; she burst into tears a second time, her little heart was unable to contain her joy. The king related this little scene, and everybody was charmed with it. As for the Prince de Conti, he was transported; he knew neither what he did, nor what he said. He ran against all he met in his way, as he was going to visit Mademoiselle de Blois. Madame Colbert wished to prevent him from seeing her till the evening; he burst open the doors, threw himself at her feet, and kissed her hand: she very unceremoniously embraced him, and then another burst of tears. This dear little princess is so affectionate and so pretty that we almost want to eat her. The Count de

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Gramont, amongst others, paid his compliments to the Prince de Conti. "Sir," said he, "I am heartily glad of your marriage. Take my advice; keep well with your father-in-law, do not disoblige him, do not fall out with him on any trifling occasion; keep well with the family, and I can answer for it, you will have no reason to repent the alliance. The king was diverted at this; and in marrying his daughter, compliments the prince, the duke, and the duchess, like any other person. He has solicited the friendship of the last for Mademoiselle de Blois, adding that she will be too happy in being often in her company, and in having an opportunity of copying so excellent an example. He delights in teasing the Prince de Conti, who is given to understand the marriage-articles are not without difficulties, and that the marriage must be put off till the next winter. On hearing this, the amorous prince swoons away; the princess at the same time vowing she will have no other husband. The catastrophe is somewhat allied to Don Quixote, and, in reality, there never was a finer piece of romance in the world. You may guess what pleasure this match, as well as the manner in which it has been concluded, creates in a certain place. All these particulars, my daughter, are for the amusement of Mademoiselle de Grignan.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM, greatest of English dramatists; born at Stratford-on-Avon, probably on April 23, 1564; died there, April 23, 1616. His father was an apparently well-to-do tradesman a wool-comber or glover but there is evidence that he fell into reduced circumstances while his son was yet a boy. William Shakespeare was sent to the grammar-school at Stratford, where, according to Ben Jonson, he acquired "small Latin and less Greek." Tradition says that he was for a time an assistant in his father's shop. But of the youth and early manhood of Shakespeare nothing is known except that six months before he had entered upon his nineteenth year he was hastily married to Anne Hathaway, a woman some seven years his senior; that a child was soon born to them and christened less than six months after the marriage; and that within eighteen months a boy and girl, twins, were born to them.

When about twenty-three Shakespeare left Stratford for London, where he soon became connected with the metropolitan theatre. His connection with the London theatre could hardly have been a merely accidental one, for the London players were wont to visit Stratford, and we cannot doubt that Shakespeare had become favorably known to them, and that he went up to London upon no un certain adventure. At all events it was not long before he was regularly installed as "playwright" to the company. Up to about 1612 he continued to reside mainly in London. Then, having sold out his interest in the theatre, he retired, with an ample competence, to his native Stratford. Of the remaining four years of his life next to nothing is authentically recorded. It has been conjectured that he busied himself in the revisal of his plays, and preparing them for the press; but of this there is no positive proof. He died somewhat suddenly of a fever, and was buried in the parish church, where a contemporary bust of him still exists, which must be regarded as the best authenticated likeness of the poet. His wife survived him seven years. His only son, Hamnet, died at the age of twelve; his two daughters, Susanna and Judith, both married, and one of them had three sons, but they all died without issue, so that a quarter of a century after his death there was living no descendant of Shakespeare. The latest and most careful study of

his life is that by Sidney Lee (1898). His plays - beginning with "Love's Labor's Lost" (written 1591 (?); revised 1597; published 1598) — number thirty-seven in all, and under the title "Mr. William Shakespeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies. Published according to the true original copies," appeared in 1623, an edition always referred to as "the folio of 1623."

THE BALCONY SCENE.

(From "Romeo and Juliet.")

Scene: Capulet's Garden.

Enter ROMEO.

ROMEO. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.

[JULIET appears above, at a window.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it: cast it off.

It is my lady; O, it is my love:

O, that she knew she were !

She speaks, yet she says nothing: What of that?
Her discourses, I will answer it.
eye
I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand,

O, that I were a glove upon that hand!
That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET.

ROMEO.

Ah me!

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,

She speaks:

As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? [Aside.

JULIET. 'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What's Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name !
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title: Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

ROMEO.

I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

JULIET. What man art thou, that thus, bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel ?

ROMEO.

By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

JULIET. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words

Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound;

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

ROMEO. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

JULIET. How cam'st thou hither, tell me? and wherefore? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;

And the place death, considering who thou art,

If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

ROMEO. With love's light wings did I o'erperch the walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out:

And what love can do, that dares love attempt,

Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

JULIET. If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

"Romeo. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls

For stony limits cannot hold love out"