# Stories from Old English Poetry/The Story of Rosalind

THE STORY OF ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU
LIKE IT.
(FROM SHAKESPEARE.)
A LONG time ago a party of outlaws made their home under the spreading trees of a grand old forest. There they lived as free and as happy as Robin Hood and his merry men. These outlaws never attacked and plundered any one, however, not even the rich and powerful, as Robin Hood sometimes did. They were all brave and noble gentlemen, and their leader was rightfully a famous Duke. But he had a pertidious and selfish brother, who had usurped his power, and driven him from his dominions. So he came with a part of his followers, to dwell in the forest.
It was no mean palace in which to keep the state of a duke,—this glorious old forest of Arden. The sunlight floated in through spacious arches formed by intertwining boughs; the soft grass carpeted it everywhere; old moss-covered rocks served for couches, on which the courtiers lounged while they talked of art, of science, and ​of all things about which the outside world was busy.
When they wished for food, the wood was full of birds, and game of all kinds; the antlered deer ran freely in its thick recesses; close by the forest, a small river flowed among clustering trees, in whose depths sported abundance of fish; the shepherds, whose cottages were built on the outskirts of the forest, furnished them with milk, and fruits, and vegetables, so that they lacked for nothing which could please or tempt the appetite. When it was cold or stormy, they made tents of thick boughs, to protect them from the weather; and at night their beds of leaves yielded them sweetest slumbers. The forest was indeed a delightful dwelling-place, better than any royal abode, for they lived there a happy and natural life, free from care; while in the palace, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
The outlawed Duke had a daughter left in the court of his usurping brother, after whom his heart constantly yearned; so that, more than all his other misfortunes, this remembrance of her cast a shadow over his life. Most men would have been morose and bitter under all his wrongs, but the Duke was so sweet and gentle of spirit, so in harmony with the nature amid which he lived, that he could hear teachings of ​peace and beauty and consolation in the murmur of the river, or the rustle of the leaves, and could draw wholesome lessons from his bitterest adversity. All his language was rich with a genial philosophy, and the golden autumn of his life was bathed in a mellow sunlight, which seemed to reflect back upon, and shed itself over, his whole past.
In wonderful contrast to the Duke was one of his noblemen, Jacques, a man about his own age, who mocked at all the world, and found no good in life. He had travelled over all the earth, and seen the fashions and manners of all countries, and had been so selfish, very likely, in the pursuit of his own pleasure, that he had done no good to any one; so now, in growing old, he saw no good in other people.
They had a great many occupations and amusements in the forest. Sometimes they reclined under the spreading shade, and talked together. Jacques vented his bitterness against the world, and the Duke restrained him with his serene and happy temper. When they tired of talk and discussion, the pensive Amiens, who was a sweet singer, sang them songs. Here is something he sang as he lay under the greenwood-tree:—
“Under the greenwood-tree Who loves to lie with me
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, ​Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
“Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ th’ sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.”’
Meanwhile, in the palace of Duke Frederick the beautiful Rosalind had grown to be a tall and graceful maiden. She lived with her cousin Celia, and was beloved by those in the palace, and idolized by the people, who sympathized with her father’s wrongs. She could not have been consoled for the banishment of her dear father, if it had not been for her cousin Celia, whose love for her “was dearer than the natural bond of sisters.” Rosalind was the lovelier and more gifted of the two girls, but Celia felt no jealousy on that account. To hear her lovely cousin praised, to know that all loved her, was to Celia the greatest delight in the world. Indeed, her goodness to Rosalind was so great, that to all beholders it covered her father’s vices with a mantle of sweet charity, so that many forbore to censure him, for the sake of his gentle daughter.
It happened that one of the largest estates in ​the duchy had belonged to a noble lord, Sir Rowland de Bois by name, who had died shortly after the banishment of the old Duke, whose faithful friend and ally he had been till death ended their friendship. Sir Rowland had three sons; the eldest Oliver, the second Jacques, the third and youngest, Orlando. He left to his oldest son, as is still the custom, the whole of his estate, and bequeathed to him the care and rearing of both his brothers. As soon as his father died, Jacques, the second son, who was a recluse and scholar in his tastes, went to Paris, to spend his life in scholarly pursuits, leaving only Orlando to the care of Oliver.
Now, Oliver, who was not naturally a vicious person, had become soured and morose that nature had not treated him more kindly. He was neither handsome nor intellectual. Both his brothers excelled him in good gifts. He was forced to see their better qualities, and contrast them with his own, and so there arose in him a spirit of envy, which, by constant secret nourishing, had become very bitter and powerful. So much did this feeling increase as he saw how handsome and elegant in person his brother Orlando was growing under his roof; how all his servants followed him with pleased looks, and proffers of a more ready service than they yielded to himself, their rightful master, that he ​began to bitterly hate this younger brother, and to have hidden wishes for his ruin or death.
Orlando, for his part, was a youth of fire and spirit, who could not easily brook the neglect and and unconcealed disdain with which his brother treated him. He had, in spite of many rebuffs and discouragements, managed to acquire some learning and manly accomplishments. He talked well, rode well, was a little of a poet, and a tolerable musician, for which acquirements Oliver hated and envied him the more. So, when a public wrestling match and trial of skill was appointed, in which any one could take part against a famous wrestler of the Duke’s, Oliver was glad to hear that Orlando had offered himself in the contest, secretly hoping he might be injured, and perhaps die of his hurts.
The day for the wrestling-match came; and after many had received their death-throw from the arms of Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, Orlando appeared, to show his skill. So handsome was the youth, that all hearts were interested in his safety; and even the hard Duke sent his daughter and Rosalind to entreat that he would not enter the lists. Orlando would not withdraw, but made stronger by the sweet words of sympathy which he had heard from the royal ladies, wrestled with Charles, and gained an easy victory. But, just as he was about to receive ​some mark of royal favor, his announcement that he was the son of Sir Rowland de Bois, the friend of his injured brother, checked Duke Frederick’s praises, who refused to honor him, and went out in anger.
Rosalind was not so ungracious. Lingering behind with her cousin Celia, she could not help glancing at the youth, whose only crime was that he was son of her father’s friend. Having glanced, she could not fail to discover that he was handsome, and of noble manners. Half blushing at her boldness,—with the graciousness of the princess, blended with the coyness of the maiden,—she approached the hero, and speaking a few encouraging words, threw over his bowed head a chain which she took from her neck, and, as if frightened at her boldness, quickly followed her cousin from the place.
Orlando stood for a moment in a tumult of feeling. The rude repulse he had received from the Duke had humiliated him, but the sweet voice of Rosalind rung in his ears, and quickened all the beating of his pulses. While he stood irresolute, an old servant, named Adam, who had beer in his father’s service three-score years, came to speak with him. With many tears, the old man told him that his brother Oliver was plotting against his life, and urged him to fly from his malice. Then he placed in his young ​master’s hands his wages, the hoarded savings of many years, and begged that he might follow him into any exile.
Orlando resolved instantly to seek the forest of Arden, where he had heard that the Duke still kept some kind of state, and to join the band of exiles. So he departed, with the faithful Adam, on the journey.
When Celia and Rosalind met Duke Frederick after the wrestling-match, they found him in evil humor. He had been reminded of his baseness by the name of Sir Rowland de Bois, and the sight of Rosalind always kept in mind his banished brother. Besides, he noted how her superior beauty won all eyes, while his daughter and heiress moved with her like a humble satellite. At this moment his anger broke out. Accusing Rosalind, with brutal rage, of treasonable intents, he ordered her to depart from the court, bade her be forever exiled, like her father, and forbade Celia longer to harbor her. Then he swept away in a terrible fury, without glancing back at the half-frightened, half-stupefied maidens.
But when Rosalind declared that she would seek out her father’s dwelling-place, Celia instantly protested she would not let her go alone, but would go with her to the world’s end. And when Rosalind had faintly combated with this ​resolve, and did not overcome it, the two girls made their plot, which was a clever one, and prompted by Rosalind’s wit. They resolved that Celia should dress as a shepherdess,—one who was not poor in lands or flocks,—and because the name had reference to her state, she should be called Aliena; while Rosalind, who was more than common tall, and had, when her spirits were not crushed by sadness, a saucy air and ready tongue, should be her brother Ganymede, dressed in a boy’s guise. They arranged to carry away all the gold they could secrete, and all their jewels. Then taking with them, half for protection and half for company, the court jester, Touchstone, they set out at night, very privately, on their journey to the forest of Arden.
They were not long in reaching the edge of the forest; and buying a cottage there, together with some land and flocks of sheep, they lived as brother and sister to all who knew them. They dared not yet disclose themselves to the Duke, fearing lest their disguise might become known to others, and they resolved to wait for a favorable time to make themselves known to him. But often in the forest aisles Rosalind got a glimpse of her noble father, and, seeing him, longed to throw herself into his arms, or at his feet, to crave his blessing.
​ Before the coming thither of the disguised maidens, the young Orlando, with his old servitor, had joined the train of the Duke, and now lived as one of them, in Arden. And in this forest-life which was so in harmony with the sweet thoughts that run to music in the brain of youth, Orlando had grown to cherish the remembrance of the sparkling eyes that had shone on him, and the tender voice that had praised him, when the chain he wore was first placed about his neck. And from dwelling constantly on them, he found he could not get those thoughts out of his head; and so, perhaps, to be rid of them, he put them on paper in rhyming lines, which he called poetry. In plain words, he began to be so much in love with Rosalind that he carved her name on the trees of the forest, and writing all sorts of sonnets and odes to her beauty, let the sheets on which they were written fly all about the wood, as if to tease the wood-nymphs and the Dryads with the knowledge that there was one more lovely than they. After a while Celia came upon this moon-struck lover, stretched at his length along the ground under a tree, talking to himself of the lady of his thoughts. She picked up, not far distant, one of the sonnets he had written on the same subject. This she took to her cousin, who looked a pretty beardless boy in her disguise of ​Ganymede, and bade her read it. Then it turned out that Rosalind was not a whit more sensible than Orlando, except that being a woman, she could dissemble better, but loved the handsome youth after the same fashion that he loved her. What should she do next but set out in the forest to meet Orlando, still in her disguise, and having met him, engaged him for a talk, in which she played the saucy stripling to perfection. She accused him of being in love, and he confessed it. On which she promised to cure him of so ridiculous a complaint. Orlando, all the while believing her a shepherd youth, but in spite of himself drawn to her by an interest which was, very likely, a subtle instinct of recognition, asked her how she would cure love. Then she told him he might woo her as if she were indeed his Rosalind, and she, affecting all the caprices and humors of a girl, would so disgust him with the sex, that he would never wish to see a woman again. Thus began a friendship, and constant meetings between them, in which Orlando sighed the more for his true Rosalind, and the masquerading maiden grew more and more deep in love.
When Duke Frederick discovered that his laughter had fled with Rosalind, his rage was dreadful to behold. And happening at the same time to hear that Orlando was also missing, he ​affected to believe that the maidens had shared his flight, and so sent for Oliver, to hear what he knew of them.
The Duke was so far past reason, that Oliver could not convince him that he was no friend to his brother Orlando, and no confidant of his intentions. Frederick would hear nothing, but accusing Orlando, and all bearing the name of De Bois, of treason, bade Oliver instantly go seek his missing brother, and bring him back, or he also should be banished, and all his estates confiscated. So Oliver, stripped of lands and money, was pushed out to seek the brother whom he had loved so little, and doomed to be beggared till he had found him.
One sunny afternoon Celia and Rosalind awaited the coming of Orlando, at one of the cool green trysting-places in the forest, where they were wont to meet. Already the sun had begun to go down, and he was not come, when, looking up, they espied some one else approaching them. This was a man evidently worn and disheveled by a long and tedious journey. His clothes were dusty and ragged, his beard and hair uncut, and his eyes swollen like one who lacked sleep. Still, in his bearing and voice, he bore some marks of nobleness which the two maidens could not fail to distinguish. He asked them if they were not the shepherds, Ganymede ​and Aliena; and when they answered him, he told them this story:—
He was the cruel Oliver whom Orlando had described to them, and, driven forth by Duke Frederick to seek his brother, he had come at last to the forest of Arden. Worn out with fatigue, he lay down to sleep under the shade of a tree, and so Orlando came upon him, as he lay stretched in slumber. At that very moment a snake, ugly and venomous, had coiled about the sleeper’s neck, ready to strike him with deadly fangs. In the thicket close behind him lurked a lioness, her eyes fixed on the sleeping man, waiting for some movement to prove he was living, before she seized him as her prey.
All this Orlando saw, and for a moment the temptation assailed him to leave this brother, his enemy and tormentor, to his fate. But a nobler feeling triumphed; and while the snake, frightened at the lioness, uncoiled and sped into the bushes, Orlando attacked the beast and slew her. Then falling on the neck of his awakened brother, who saw the generous deed, they wept in brotherly affection and mutual forgiveness.
All this Oliver told with an eloquence which moved the sympathetic Celia to tears; and then drawing forth a bloody handkerchief which ​Orlando had sent in token of a slight wound the lioness had given him, which would prevent his keeping tryst that day, he gave it to Ganymede. To his wonder, the seeming boy fainted like a weak girl at sight of it; but recovering soon, and being assured Orlando was safe, she begged Oliver tell him how well she had feigned to be the real Rosalind.
Now, events began so to entangle themselves, that Rosalind was fain to disclose her sex. Beside her love for Orlando, which made her wish to be known, and her affection for her father, which made her desire his approval, a scornful young shepherdess, named Pheebe, had fallen in love with her, in her disguise of Ganymede. Now this same handsome Phœbe was sought after by a love-lorn swain, Silvius, whom she scorned with as much ardor as she professed to love Ganymede. Most strange of all, the sombre Oliver had fallen captive to the dark eyes of Celia, and wished to marry her. So that Rosalind began to think it time to clear up all mysteries, and have the happy wedding-days fixed.
Thus the whole party met before the Duke, who had heard of the strange pranks Cupid was playing in his dominions. From most of them Ganymede exacted a promise. From the Duke, if that his daughter should appear, he would ​give her in marriage to Orlando; from Orlando, that he would marry his Rosalind if she appeared; from Phœbe, that she should accept Silvius for her husband, if she found herself not of a mind to marry Ganymede. To which they all agreed.
Then retiring for a little, she came in again in her dress of Rosalind, her lovely face stained with blushes, her eyes full of glad tears, and, throwing herself into her father’s arms, she asked his blessing. The joyous Duke folded her again and again to his breast, and then gave her to the proud Orlando. So there was a triple wedding. Fer when Orlando married Rosalind, Oliver was joined to Celia; and the discomfited Phœbe, finding that Ganymede was one of her own sex, made Silvius happy with her hand. And to make this wedding-feast most perfect, at the height of the joy Jacques de Bois came in bringing great news: how Duke Frederick had sallied out with some followers, to make war on the outlawed Duke and his train, but that, meeting with a hermit of great piety, he had strangely been converted, and offered in penitence to restore to the elder Duke all his rights.
So the true Duke got his crown again, and Orlando and Rosalind were his heirs; while ​Celia and Oliver lived happily on their great estates.
Nor did Orlando forget his noble servant, old Adam, but took care of him till his death. As for old Jacques, the grumbler, he vowed he would go with Duke Frederick and be converted too; and let us hope that really happened to him.