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"If thou wert honorable,
Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honor."
_Cymbeline._

Summer in Shakespeare Land! Summer in the heart of England--summer in
wooded Warwickshire,--a summer brilliant, warm, radiant with flowers,
melodious with the songs of the heaven--aspiring larks, and the sweet,
low trill of the forest-hidden nightingales. Wonderful and divine it is
to hear the wild chorus of nightingales that sing beside Como in the hot
languorous nights of an Italian July--wonderful to hear them maddening
themselves with love and music, and almost splitting their slender
throats with the bursting bubbles of burning song,--but there is
something, perhaps, more dreamily enchanting still,--to hear them
warbling less passionately but more plaintively, beneath the drooping
leafage of those grand old trees, some of which may have stretched their
branches in shadowy benediction over the sacred head of the grandest
poet in the world.


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