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OTHELLO

THE MOOR OF VENICE.

81

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OTHELLO.

A Tale of Jealousy.

In the wonderful city of Venice, there lived long years ago a rich Senator, known as Brabantio, whose daughter, Desdemona, "the gentle Desdemona," as she was called, was famed in all the states about for her marvellous grace and beauty.

Not a day passed but there came to bow himself before her, some prince, some duke, some gentleman of high estate. But of them all not one did please the gentle maid.

"It is the mind, not the features of the man that must win my hand," she would say, as one after another of her handsome suitors she dismissed.

At last there came to Brabantio's house, a Moor, whose stories of hardship, imprisonment, and sorrow so touched her tender sympathy, and whose tales of

travel, and of war, and of adventure so roused her admiration that Desdemona's heart was quite subdued, "even to the very quality of her lord."

Now, the Moor had no fortune, was of a foreign, hardly civilized race, so the people of Europe thought— and more and worst of all, he was of a complexion so dark as to be almost repulsive.

Little hope had he or Desdemona that Brabantio would receive him as a son-in-law. Accordingly, an elopement was arranged, as was the fashion of the times.

Now, it chanced that there dwelt in this same city one Iago, a soldier of fine training, who, by Brabantio's influence in state, had been made to take an inferior rank of office, while the Moor, a comparative stranger in the city, had been given higher honors, and had been put in command above Iago.

For this, Iago, the evil genius of the play, determines to have his revenge.

"I would not follow him," said Roderigo, a rejected suitor of Desdemona's, when Iago told him of the honors put upon the Moor.

"O, sir, content you," answered Iago, with a wicked look, "I follow him to serve my turn upon him:

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly followed.

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:

For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am."

"And now," continued Iago, his hatred seeking some object upon which to feed itself, "let us call up her father. He does not yet know that this night his fair young Desdemona has eloped with this same black Moor. Let's call him up.

Rouse him!"

Make after him, poison his delight,

Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,

And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,

Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,

Yet throw such changes of vexation on't,

As it may lose some color.

Rod.

Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud.

Iago. Do: with light, timorous accent and dire yell, As when, by night and negligence, the fire

Is spied in populous cities.

Rod.

What, ho! Brabantio! signior Brabantio, ho!

Iago. Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! thieves! thieves'

thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags'
Thieves thieves!

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