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After a time, I relaxed a bit, and even felt drowsy. My

head drooped forward and came to rest on the stranger’s

damp cloak. He jerked violently, as though bitten, and I sat

abruptly erect again. Despite all my care, this happened

several more times. Finally, the man snapped, “Either ride

properly, or go back to shank’s mare”—meaning, of course,

my feet.

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The trees edged in and threatened to claim the very road. In places, their branches met above our heads and in-terlaced, nearly blocking out the light of the half moon.

In one such dismal spot we got our first taste of trouble.

There was no warning; one moment the road was de-

serted, dappled with moonlight, the next, half a dozen

shadowy figures stood before us. I stiffened, and a gasp

escaped me.

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I was to be taught to read and write, not only in English but in Latin, and not only in Latin but also in a curious abbreviated language of Dr. Bright’s own devising. Charactery, he called it. It was, to use his own words, “an art of short, swift, and secret writing, by the which one may transcribe the spoken word as rapidly as it issues from the tongue.”

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The stranger stood just inside the doorway, motionless

and silent. He might have been taken for one of the shad-

ows, or for some spectral figure—Death, or the devil—

come to claim one of us. He was well over average height;

a long, dark cloak of coarse fabric masked all his clothing

save his high-heeled leather boots. He kept the hood of the

cloak pulled forward, and it cast his face in shadow. The

only feature I could make out was an unruly black beard,

which curled over his collar. A bulge under the left side of

his cloak hinted at some concealed object—a rapier, I

guessed.

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Flailing about for something to break my fall, I fastened

on the neck of the one-armed man. He cursed and stum-

bled backward, and we both crashed to the ground. A rock

struck my elbow, numbing my arm. It did even more dam-

age to the bandit’s head, and he lay suddenly still.

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When I was twelve, and could handle a horse as well as

a plumbago pencil, the doctor set me off to neighboring

parishes each Sabbath to copy other rectors’ sermons. He

meant, he said, to compile a book of the best ones. I be-

lieved him until one Sunday when the weather kept me

home. I sat in on Dr. Bright’s service and heard the very

sermon I had transcribed at Dewsbury a fortnight before.

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There are several pros and cons to reading Shakespeare plays. First, you will be exposed to some of the greatest writing. You will gain vocabulary and an understanding of the historical usage of words and phrases (assuming you take the time to study such things as you read). You will better understand the stories of the plays and be able to converse with others about them. You will seem well read and educated.

On the other hand, Shakespeare can be hard to read, and more importantly the plays were meant to be watched and heard not read. You lose something when you don't watch the plays. That being said, most of us cannot just go and watch a Shakespearean play whenever we want.

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Probably the number one complaint about reading Shakespeare is that it doesn't always read like "normal" English. It's a natural and legitimate accusation. Shakespeare wrote for an audience over 400 years ago.

A Shakespeare edition with good footnotes will help you, as well as a good dictionary. The main thing is to be aware that even a familiar word from today may be used with a different meaning in Shakespeare's works.

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Shakespeare invented the phrase "Green-eyed monster."

This meaning of this phrase is jealousy. In "Othello," Lago describes jealousy as a monster which devours its source.

"Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on" (Act 3, Scene 3).