 Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the sudden death of King Hamlet, in less than two months after his death, married his brother Claudius, which was noted by all people at the time for a strange act of indiscretion or unfeelingness or worse. For this Claudius did no way resemble her late husband in the qualities of his person or his mind, but was as contemptible in outward appearance, as he was base and unworthy in disposition. And suspicions did not fail to arise in the minds of some, that he had privately made away with his brother the late King, with the view of marrying his widow and ascending the throne of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried king, and lawful successor to the throne. But no one did this unadvised action of the Queen make such impressionence upon this young prince, who loved and venerated the memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice sense of humour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety himself, did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude. In so much that, between grief for his father's death and shame for his mother's marriage, this young prince was overcrowded with a deep melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all his good looks, all his customy pleasuring books forsook him. His princely exercises and sports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable. He grew weary of the world, which seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers which choked up and nothing but weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of exclusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, weighed so much upon his spirits, though that, to a young and high-minded prince, was a bitter wound and a sore indignity. But what so gold him and took away all his cheerful spirits, was that his mother had shown herself so forgetful to his father's memory, and such a father, who had been to her so loving and so gentler husband, and then she always appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him, and would hang upon him as if her affection grew to him. And now, within two months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two months, she had married again, married his uncle, her dear husband's brother, in itself a highly improper and unlawful marriage, from the nearest of relationship, but made much more so by the indecent haste with which it was concluded, and the unkingly character of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner of her throne and bed. This it was which, more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits and brought a cloud over the mind of this honorable young prince. In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do to condrive to divert him. He still appeared in court in a suit of deep black, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of dress he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother upon the day she was married, nor could he be brought to join in any of the festivities or rejoicings of that, as appeared to him, disgraceful day. What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of his father's death. It was given out by Claudius that a serpent had stung him. But young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was the serpent. In playing English, that he had murdered him for his crown, and that the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the throne. How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to think of his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by her consent or knowledge or without it came to pass, were the doubts which continually harassed and distracted him. A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet that an apparition, exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by the soldiers upon watch on the platform before the palace at midnight, for two or three nights successively. The figure came constantly clad in the same suit of armour from head to foot, which the dead king was known to have worn. And they who saw it, Hamlet's bosom-front ratio was one, agreed in their testimony as to the time and manner of its appearance that it came just as the clock struck twelve, that it looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of anger, that its beard was grisly, and the colour assable silvered, as they had seen it in his lifetime, that it made no answer when they spoke to it, yet once they thought it lifted up its head and addressed itself to motion, as if it were about to speak, but in that moment the morning cock crew and its shrunken haste away and vanished out of their sight. The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was too consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of seeing it, for he reasoned with himself that such an appearance did not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him, and he waited with impatience for the coming of night. When night came he took his stand with Horatio and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was accustomed to walk. And it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell into some talk about the coldness of the night, which was suddenly broken off by Horatio announcing that the ghost was coming. At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sudden surprise and fear. He had first called upon the angels and heavenly ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were a good spirit or bad, whether it came for good or evil, but he gradually assumed more courage, and his father, as it seemed to him, looked upon him so piteously, and as it were desiring to have conversation with him, and did in all respects appear so like himself as he was when he lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing him. He called him by his name, Hamlet, King, Father, and conjured him that he would tell him the reason why he had left his grave, where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to come again and visit the earth and the moonlight, and besought him that he would let them know if there was anything which they could do to give peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that he should go with him to some more removed place where they might be alone, and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded the young prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be some evil spirit who would tempt him to the neighbouring sea or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape which might deprive the prince of his reason. But their councils and entreaties could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared too little about life to fear the losing of it, and as to his soul, he said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as itself? And he felt as hard he as a lion, and bursting from them, who did all they could to hold him, he followed wither so ever the spirit led him. And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and told him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly murdered, and he told the man of it, that it was done by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already but too much suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he was sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the afternoon, his treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has an antipathy to the life of man that, swift as quicksilver, it courses through all the veins of the body, baking up the blood and spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the skin. Thus sleeping, by a brother's hand, he was cut off at once from his crown, his queen, and his life. And he adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that he would revenge his foul murder, and the ghost lamented to his son, that his mother should so fall off from virtue as to prove false to the wedded love of her first husband, and to marry his murderer. But he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to act any violence against the person of his mother, but to leave her to heaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost vanished. And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution that all he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books or observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live in his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversation which had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio, and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen that night. The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind and drove him beside his reason, and he, fearing that it would continue to have this effect which might subject him to observation and set his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he was meditating anything against him, all that Hamlet really knew more of his father's death than he professed, took up a strained resolution from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and truly mad, thinking that he would be less an object of suspicion when his uncle should believe him incapable of any serious project, and that his real perturbation of mind would be best covered and past concealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. From this time Hamlet effected a certain wildness and strangeness in his apparel, his speech and behaviour, and did so excellently counterfeit the madman that the king and queen were both deceived, and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they thought they had found out the object. Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been related, he had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius, the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent her letters and rings and made many tenders of his affection to her, and impotuned her with love in honourable fashion. And she had given belief to his vows and importunities, but the melancholy which he fell into latterly had made him neglect her, and from the time he conceived the project of counterfeiting madness he effected to treat her with unkindness and a sort of rudeness. But she, good lady, rather than reproach him with being false to her, persuaded herself that it was nothing but the disease of his mind, and no settled unkindness which had made him less observant of her than formally. And she compared the faculties of his once noble mind and excellent understanding, compared as they were with the deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet bells which in themselves are capable of the most exquisite music, but when jangled out of tune or rudely handled, produced only a harsh and unpleasing sound. Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the re-ending of his father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playful state of courtship or admit of the society of so idle a passion as love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments, when he thought that his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter, full of wild starts of passion, and in extravagant terms, such as agreed with his opposed madness, but mixed with some gentle touches of affection, which could not but show to this honoured lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He bade her to doubt that the stars were fire, and to doubt that the sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he loved, with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully showed to her father, and the old man thought himself bound to communicate it to the king and queen, who from that time supposed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love, and the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wildness, for so she hoped that her virtues might happily restore him to his accustomed way again, to both their honours. But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or then could be so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a sin and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the death of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon his purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband, filled him with some remorse and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow creature to death was in itself odious and terrible to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been ill, produced an irresolute-ness, and wavering of purpose which kept him from proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having some scruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has power to take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as murder. And he determined that he would have more certain grounds to go upon than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion. While he was in this irresolute mind, there came to the court certain players, in whom Hamlet formally used to take delight, and particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical speech describing the death of old Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba his queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends the players, and remembering how that speech had formally given him pleasure, requested the player to repeat it, which he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble old king with the destruction of his people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the old queen running barefoot up and down the palace, with a poor clout upon that head where a crown had been, and with nothing but a blanket upon her loins snatched up in haste where she had worn a royal robe. That not only it drew tears from all that stood by, who thought they saw the real scene so lively was it represented, but even the player himself delivered it with a broken voice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking. If that player could so work himself up to passion by a mere fictitious speech, to weep for one that he had never seen, or Hecuba, that had been dead so many hundred years, how dull was he, who having a real motive and cue for passion, a real king and a dear father murdered, was yet so little moved that his revenge all this while had seemed to have slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness. And while he meditated on actors and acting, and the powerful effects which a good play represented to the life has upon the spectator, he remembered the instance of some murderer, who seeing a murderer on the stage was by the mere force of the scene and resemblance of circumstances so affected that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had committed. And he determined that these players should play something like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would watch narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his looks he would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to the representation of which he invited the king and queen. The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a duke. The duke's name was Gonzago, his wife's Batista. The play showed how one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned him in his garden for his estate, and how the murderer in a short time after got the love of Gonzago's wife. At the representation of this play the king, who did not know the trap which was laid for him, was present with his queen and the whole court, hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. The play began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, in which the lady made many protestations of love and of never marrying a second husband if she should outlive Gonzago, wishing she might be accursed if she ever took a second husband, and adding that no woman did so but those wicked women who kill their first husbands. Hamlet observed the king his uncle change color of this expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood both to him and to the queen. But when Lucianus, according to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked act upon the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the conscience of this usurper that he was unable to sit out the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for light to his chamber, and affecting or partly feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The king being departed, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost were true and no illusion, and in a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over a man who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio that he would take the ghost's word for a thousand pounds. But before he could make up his resolution as to what measures of revenge he should take, now he was certainly informed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was sent for by the queen, his mother, to a private conference in her closet. It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son how much his late behavior had displeased them both, and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that conference and thinking that the two partial report of a mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might import the king to know. Polonius, the old counselor of state, was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way. Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the roundest way with his actions and behavior, and she told him that he had given great offence to his father, meaning the king, his uncle, whom, because he had married her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that she should give so dear and honoured a name as father seemed to him to a wretch who was indeed no better than the murderer of his true father, with some sharpness replied, Mother, you have offended my father. The queen said that was but an idle answer. As good as the question deserved, said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he had forgotten who it was he was speaking to. Alas! replied Hamlet, I wish I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife, and you are my mother. I wish you were not what you are. Nay, then, said the queen, if you show me so little respect I will send those to you that can speak, and was going to send the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her go, now he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could not bring her to some sense of her wicked life, and taking her by the wrist he held her fast and made her sit down. She, affrighted at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief, cried out, and a voice was heard from behind the hangings, Help! Help! the queen! which Hamlet hearing and verily thinking that it was the king himself there concealed, he drew his sword and stabbed at the place where the voice came from, as he would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till, the voice ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But when he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officious counselor, that had planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. Oh, me! exclaimed the queen. What a rash and bloody deed have you done! A bloody deed, mother! replied Hamlet, but not so bad as yours, who killed a king and married his brother. Hamlet had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in the humor to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though the forts of parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet in the case of great crimes the son may have left to speak even to his own mother with some harshness, so as that harshness is meant for her good and to turn her from her wicked ways, and not done for the purpose of operating. And now this virtuous prince did in moving terms represent to the queen the heinousness of her offence in being so forgetful of the dead king his father, as in so short a space of time to marry with his brother and reputed murderer. Such an act as, after the vows which she had sworn to her first husband, was enough to make all vows of women suspected and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding-contracts to be less than gamestous oaths and religion to be a mockery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a deed that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her because of it. And he showed her two pictures, the one of the late king, her first husband, and the other of the present king, her second husband, and he bade her mark the difference. What a grace was on the brow of his father, how like a god he looked, the curls of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, the eyes of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury newly alighted on some heaven-kissing hill. This man, he said, had been her husband. And then he showed her whom she had got in his stead, how like a blight or a mildew he looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome brother. And the queen was sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked her how she could continue to live with this man and be a wife to him who had murdered her first husband, and got the crown by his force means as a thief. And just as he spoke the ghost of his father, such as he was in this lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered the room, and hamlet in great terror, asked what it would have, and the ghost said that it came to remind him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed to have forgot. And the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and terror she was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen by none but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where it stood, or by any description make his mother perceive it, who was terribly frightened all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her with nothing. And she imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner as to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences which had brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he begged of her, with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was past, and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be no more as a wife to him. And when she should show herself a mother to him, by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a blessing of her as a son. And she promising to observe his directions, the conference ended. And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his unfortunate rashness he had killed. And when he came to see that it was Polonius, the father of the Lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, he drew apart the dead body. And his spirits being now a little quieter, he wept for what he had done. The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretense for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have put him to death, fearing him as dangerous, but he dreaded the people who loved Hamlet, and the queen who, with all her fault, doted upon the prince her son. So this subtle king, under pretense of providing for Hamlet safety, that he might not be called to account for Polonius's death, caused him to be conveyed on board his ship bound for England, under the care of two courtiers, by whom he despatched letters to the English court, which in that time was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring for special reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to death as soon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, in the night time secretly got at the letters, and skillfully erasing his own name, he in the stead of it put in the names of those two courtiers, who had the charge of him to be put to death. Then sealing up the letters, he put them into their place again. Soon after the ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight commenced, in the course of which Hamlet, desirous to show his valour with sword in hand, singly boarded the enemy's vessel, while his own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the two courtiers made the best of their way to England, charged with those letters, the sense of which Hamlet had altered to their own deserved destruction. The pirates who had the prince in their power, showed themselves gentle enemies, and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the hope that the prince might do them a good turn at court in recompense for any favour they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore at the nearest port in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquainting him with the strange chance which had brought him back to his own country, and saying that on the next day he should present himself before his majesty. When he got home a sad spectacle offered itself the first thing to his eyes. This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever since her poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this tender young maid, that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and would go about giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and saying that they were for her father's burial, singing songs about love and about death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as if she had no memory of what happened to her. There was a willow which grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves on the stream. To this brook she came one day when she was unwatched with garlands she had been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds together, and clambering up to hang her garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bow broke, and precipitated this fair young maid, garland and all that she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while, during which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her own distress, or as if she were a creature natural to that element. But long it was not before her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her melodious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It was the funeral of this fair maid, which her brother Laertes was celebrating, the King and Queen and whole court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this show imported, but stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, which the Queen herself threw in. And as she threw them she said, Sweets to the sweet, I thought to have decked thy bride-bed sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife. And he heard her brother wish that violets might spring from her grave. And he saw him leap into the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to him. And he could not bear that a brother should show so much transport of grief, for he thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousand brothers. Then discovering himself, he leapt into the grave where Laertes was, all less frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes, knowing him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father's and his sister's death, grappled him by the throat as an enemy till the attendants parted them. And Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his hasty act in throwing himself into the grave as if to brave Laertes, but he said he could not bear that any one should seem to outgo him in grief for the death of the pherophilia, and for the time these two noble youths seemed reconciled. But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skillet fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try the match. At this match all the court was present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at this sword-play, and Hamlet, taking up the foils, chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted sword, which the laws of fencing require, made use of one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him to gain some advantages, which the dissembling king magnified and extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's success and wagering rich bets upon the issue. But after a few pauses Laertes, growing warm, made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet, incensed, but not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword, repaid Laertes' home, who was thus justly caught in his own treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the king had prepared for Hamlet, in case that, being warm and fencing, he should call for drink. Into this the treacherous king had infused a deadly poison to make sure of Hamlet if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn the queen of the bowl which she drank of, and immediately died, exclaiming with her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be shut while he sorted out. Laertes told him to seek no father, for he was the traitor, and feeling his life go away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he made confession of the treachery he had used, and how he had fallen a victim to it. And he told Hamlet of the envenomed point, and said that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine could cure him. And begging forgiveness of Hamlet he died, with his last words accusing the king of being the contriver of the mischief. When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being yet some venom left upon the sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle and thrust the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the promise which he had made to his father's spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, and his foul murder revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, who had been spectator of this fatal tragedy, and with his dying breath requested him that he would live to tell his story to the world, for Horatio had made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany the prince in death, and Horatio promised that he would make a true report as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And thus satisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet cracked, and Horatio and the bystanders with many tears commended the spirit of this sweet prince to the guardianship of angels, for Hamlet was a loving and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and princelike qualities, and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most royal and complete king to Denmark. The Rich Senator of Venice had a Fair Daughter, the Gentle Desdemona. She was sought to by diverse suitors, both on account of her many virtuous qualities, and for her rich expectations. But among the suitors of her own climb and complexion she saw none whom she could affect, for this noble lady, who regarded the mind more than the features of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than imitated, had chosen for the objects of her affections a more, a black, whom her father loved and often invited to his house. Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that Othello was black, the noble more wanted nothing which might recommend him to the affections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier and a brave one, and by his conduct in bloody wars against the Turks had risen to the rank of general in the Venetian service and was esteemed and trusted by the state. He had been a traveller, and Desdemona, as is the manner of ladies, loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures which he would run through from his earliest recollection, the battles, sieges, and encounters which he had passed through, the perils he had been exposed to by land and by water, his hair bred the scapes when he had entered a breach or marched up to the mouth of a cannon, and how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy and sold to slavery, how he demeaned himself in that state and how he escaped. All these accounts added to the narration of the strange of things that he had seen in foreign countries, the vast wilderness and romantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks and mountains whose heads are in the clouds, of the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. These traveller stories would so enchant the attention of Desdemona that if she were called off at any time by household affairs, she would dispatch with all haste that business and return, and with a greedy ear devour a fellow's discourse. And once he took advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from her a prayer that he would tell her the whole story of his life at large, of which she had heard so much, but only by parts, to which he consented, and beguiled of her many a tear when he spoke of some distressful stroke which his youth had suffered. His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of size. She wore a pretty oath that it was all passing strange and pitiful, wondrous pitiful. She wished, she said, she had not heard it, yet she wished that Heaven had made her such a man, and then she thanked him, and told him if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied with certain bewitching prettiness and blushes which Othello could not but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden opportunity gained the consent of the generous Lady Desdemona privately to marry him. Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune was such that it could be hoped Brabantia would accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his daughter free, but he did expect that, as the manor of noble Venetian ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or expectations. But in this he was deceived. Desdemona loved the more, though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant parts and qualities. So was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, which to all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountable objection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors. Their marriage, which though privately carried, could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears of the old man Brabantio, who appeared in a solemn council of the senate as an accuser of the more Othello, who by spells and witchcraft he maintained, had seduced the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry him without the consent of her father and against the obligations of hospitality. At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that strong post from the Venetians who held it then. In this emergency the state turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate to conduct the defense of Cyprus against the Turks, so that Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood in their presence at once as a candidate for a great state employment, and as a culprit charged with offenses which by the laws of Venice were made capital. The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio commanded a most patient hearing from that grave assembly, but the incensed father conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producing likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that when Othello was called upon for his defense, he had only to relate a plain tale of the course of his love, which he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting the whole story of his wooing as we have related it above, and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness, the evidence of truth, that the Duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help confessing that a tale so told would have won his daughter too, and the spells and conjurations which Othello had used in his courtship plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men in love, and the only witchcraft which he had used the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear. This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the Lady Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to her father for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother had shown in preferring him Brabantio above her father. The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the more to him with many expressions of sorrow, and as an act of necessity bestowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her, he told him, he would with all his heart if kept from him, adding that he was glad it so that he had no other child, for this behaviour of Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant and hang clogs on them for her desertion. This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom Custom had rendered the hardships of military life as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus, and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord, though with danger, for the indulgence of those idle delights in which new married people usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going. No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus than news arrived that a desperate tempest had disbursed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of an attack. But the war which Othello was to suffer was now beginning, and the enemies which Malis stirred up against his innocent lady proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or infidels. Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence of Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite qualities with women. He was handsome and eloquent, and exactly such a person as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced in years, as Othello in some measure was, who had married a young and beautiful wife. But Othello was as free from jealousy as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting as of doing a base action. He had employed this Cassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort of go-between in his suit. For Othello, fearing that himself had not those soft parts in conversation which please ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would often depute Cassio to go, as he phrased it, according for him, such innocent simplicity being rather an honour than a blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So that no wonder if, next to Othello himself, but as far distanced as besiems a virtuous wife, the gentle Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this couple made any difference in their behaviour to Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleasing variety to Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper. For such tempers are observed often to delight in their contraries as a relief from the oppressive excess of their own. And Desdemona and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the days when he went according for his friend. Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieutenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the general's person. This promotion gave great offence to Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better claim than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fellow fit only for the company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the art of war or how to set an army in a ray for battle than a girl. Iago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello as well for favouring Cassio as for an unjust suspicion, which he had likely taken up against Othello, that the Moor was too fond of Iago's wife Amelia. From these imaginary provocations the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should involve Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona in one common ruin. Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he knew that of all the torments which afflict the mind of man, and far beyond bodily torture, the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making a fellow jealous of Cassio, he thought he would be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in the death of Cassio, or a fellow, or both, he cared not. The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus, meeting with news of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island. Everybody gave himself up to feasting and making merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went round to the health of the black Othello and his lady, the fair Desdemona. Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise to fright the inhabitants or disgust them with the new landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of mischief. Under colour of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle, a great fault in an officer upon guard. Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass, as Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging songs, and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite lady. Until at last the enemy which he put into his mouth stole away his brains, and upon some provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer who interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing the castle bell to be rung, as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slight drunken quarrel had arisen. The alarm bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of the wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply, and Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it were, forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave an account of the whole matter, leaving out his own chair in it which Cassio was too far gone to remember, in such a manner as, while he seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it appear greater than it was. The result was that Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's place of lieutenant from him. Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely. He had now undermined his hated rival and thrust him out of his place, but a further use was hereafter to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night. Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented to his seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as to transform himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask the general for his place again? He would tell him he was a drunkard, he despised himself. Iago, affecting to make light of it, said that he, or any man living, might be drunk upon occasion. It remained how to make the best of a bad bargain. The general's wife was now the general, and could do anything with Othello, that he were best to apply to the Lady Desdemona to mediate for him with her lord, that she was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would readily undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio right again in the general's favour. And then this crack in their love would be made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if it had not been given for wicked purposes, which will after appear. Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the Lady Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit, and she promised Cassio that she would be his solicitor with her lord, and rather that die than give up his cause. This she immediately set about in so earnest and prettier manner that Othello, who was mortally offended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, she would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be the next night, or the morning after, or the next morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello still hung back, what my lord, said she, that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio that came a courting for you, and often times when I have spoken in dispraise of you, has taken your part. I count this but a little thing to ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter. Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio again in favour. It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room where Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her intercession, was departing at the opposite door. And Iago, who was full of art, said in a low voice as if to himself, I like not that. Othello took no great notice of what he said. Indeed the conference which immediately took place with his lady put it out of his head. But he remembered it afterward. For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this, the general answering in the affirmative, and adding that he had gone between them very often during the courtship, Iago knitted his brow as if he had got fresh light on some terrible matter, and cried, Indeed. This brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago had let fall upon entering the room, and seeing Cassio with Desdemona. And he began to think there was some meaning in all this, for he deemed Iago to be a just man and full of love and honesty, and what in a false nave would be tricks in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind, big with something too great for utterance. And Othello prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words. And what, said Iago, if some thoughts very vile should have intruded into my breast, as where is the palace into which foul things do not enter? Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if any trouble should arise to Othello out of his imperfect observations, that it would not be for Othello's peace to know his thoughts, that people's good names were not to be taken away for slight suspicions, and when Othello's curiosity was raised almost to distraction with these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to be aware of jealousy. With such art did this villain raise suspicions in the unguarded Othello by the very caution which he pretended to give him against suspicion. I know, said Othello, that my wife is fair, loves company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well, but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have proof before I think her dishonest. Then Iago, as if glad that Othello was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he had no proof, but begged Othello to see her behaviour well, when Cassio was by, not to be jealous nor too secure neither, for that he, Iago, knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his country women, better than Othello could do, and that in Venice the wives let heaven see many pranks they dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated that Desdemona deceived her father in marrying Othello, and carried it so closely that the poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was much moved with this argument which brought the matter home to him, for if she had deceived her father, why might she not deceive her husband? Iago begged pardon for having moved him, but Othello, assuming an indifference while he really was shaken with an inward grief at Iago's words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he called his friend. He then came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona had refused many suitable matches of her own climb and complexion, and had married him a maw, which showed unnatural in her and proved her to have a headstrong will. And when her better judgment returned, how probable it was she should fall upon comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear white complexions of the young Italians her countrymen. He concluded with advising Othello to put off his reconcilment with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile to note with what earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his behalf. For that much would be seen in that. So mischievously did this artful villain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into her destruction, and make a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap her, first setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out of that very mediation contriving stratagems for her ruin. The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello to account his wife innocent until he had more decisive proof, and Othello promised to be patient. But from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted content of mind. Poppy nor the juice of Mandragora, nor all the sleeping potions in the world, could ever again restore to him that sweet rest which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupations sickened him. He no longer took delight in arms. His heart, that used to be roused at the site of troops and banners and battle-array, and would stir and leap at the sound of a drum or a trumpet or a neighing warhorse, seemed to have lost all that pride and ambition which are a soldier's virtue, and his military ardour and all his old joys for sook him. Sometimes he thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her not so. Sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he thought him not so. Then he would wish that he had never known of it. He was not the worst for her loving Cassio, so long as he knew it not. Torn to pieces with these distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's throat and demanded proof of Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for a vice, asked Iago if he had not sometimes seen a handkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. Iago answered that he had given her such a one, and that it was his first gift. That same handkerchief, said Iago, did I see Michael Cassio this day wipe his face with? If it be as you say, said Iago, I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow them up, and first, for a token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put to death within three days, and for that fair devil, meaning his lady, I will withdraw and devise some swift means of death for her. Triforce, light as air, are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife, seen in Cassio's hand, was motive enough to the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them both, without once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given such a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presence to another man. Both Cassio and Desdemona were innocent of any offence against Othello, but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of villainy, had made his wife, a good but weak woman, steal this handkerchief from Desdemona under pretense of getting the work copied, but in reality to drop it in Cassio's way, where he might find it, and give a handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's present. Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a headache, as he might indeed with truth, and desired her to lend him her handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. Not this, said Othello, but that handkerchief I gave you. Desdemona had it not about her, for indeed it was stolen as we have related. How, said Othello, this is a fault indeed, that handkerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my mother. The woman was a witch and could read people's thoughts. She told my mother while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father would love her. But if she lost it or gave it away, my father's fancy would turn, and he would loathe her as much as he had loved her. She, dying, gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to my wife. I did so. Take heed of it. Make it a darling as precious as your eye. Is it possible? said the frightened lady. It is true, continued Othello, it is a magical handkerchief, a symbol that had lived in the world two hundred years in a fit of prophetic fury had worked it. The silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in a mummy maiden's huts conserved. Desdemona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with it she feared the affections of her husband. Then Othello started and looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief, which, when she could not produce, she tried to divert her husband from two serious thoughts, and cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the handkerchief was only to put her off from her suit about Michael Cascio, whom she went on to praise, as Iago had foretold, till Othello, in perfect distraction, burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to suspect that her husband was jealous. What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some untoward news from Venice or some state troubles had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And she said, men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance from them when they are married, which they show us on the bridal day. And she bestrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness. Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom. And Othello wept, and Desdemona said, Alas! the heavy day, why do you weep? And Othello told her he could have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude, poverty, and disease, and disgrace, but her infidelity had broken his heart. And he called her a weed that looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, that the scents ached at it, and wished she had never been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that her weight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make her bed, and to lay her wedding sheets upon it, saying that when people teach their babes they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so. For in good faith she was but a child when she was chidden. And this was all the complaint which this gentle lady made. Desdemona being retired to bed, expecting her lord would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when Othello entered the chamber full of the black purpose which he had meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he saw her asleep he thought he would not shed her blood, not scar that white skin of hers more white than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die, else, as he said, she would live to betray more men as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the last time, as he said, and that kiss was so sweet that he must needs kiss her again. And he wept, but he said they were cruel tears. Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon Othello, and she saw him nor his underlip and rolled his eyes, and she knew he was always fatal when he looked so. And he bade her prepare for death and to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion and to know her fault, and then he named Cascio, and the handkerchief which he said she had given him. And as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-clothes stifled her till she died. In this instant of time was brought into the house Cascio, wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on to assassinate. But the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cascio, whom he wounded but not mortally, and being himself killed by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were found certain letters which made the guilt of Iago and the innocence of Cascio clear beyond all doubt. And Cascio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had offended him that he had employed Iago to murder him. This discovery was as a thunder-stroke to Othello, who now plainly saw that he was no better than a murderer, and that his wife, poor innocent lady, had been ever faithful to him. The extreme anguish of which discovery making life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body of his dear injured lady, expired. These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, until he was wrought upon by the arts of a villain which his own noble nature never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. He had loved not wisely, but too well, and his manly eyes, when he learned his mistake, though not used to weep on every small occasion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead all his former merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained for his successor, but to put the utmost censure of the law enforced against Iago, who was executed with strict tortures, and to send word to the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned general. Became a voluntary exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the prince had made, of a shocking deed which the emperor had done in secret, as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his people in the hands of his able and honest minister Helicanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself to the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased. The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tarsus, and hearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering under a severe famine, he took with him a store of provisions for its relief. On his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost distress, and he, coming like a messenger from heaven with his un-hopeful succor, Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles had not been here many days, before letters came from his faithful minister warning him that it was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus, for Antiochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissaries dispatched for that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea again, amid the blessings and prayers of a whole people who had been fed by his bounty. He had not sailed far when his ship was overtaken by a dreadful storm, and every man on board perished except Pericles, who was cast by the sea waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not wandered long before he met with some poor fisherman, who invited him to their homes, giving him clothes and provisions. The fisherman told Pericles the name of their country was Pentapolis, and that their king was Simonides, commonly called the Good Simonides, because of his peaceable reign and good government. From them he also learned that King Simonides had a fair young daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, when a grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knights being come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of Tysa, this fair princess. While the prince was listening to this account, and secretly lamenting the loss of his good armor, which disabled him from making one among these valiant knights, another fisherman brought in a complete suit of armor that he had taken out of the sea with his fishing net, which proved to be the very armor he had lost. When Pericles beheld his own armor he said, Thanks, fortune, after all my crosses you give me something to repair myself. This armor was bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have so loved it that with or so ever I went I still have kept it by me, and the rough sea that parted it from me, having now become calm, has given it back again, for which I thank it. For since I have my father's gift again, I think my shipwreck no misfortune. The next day, Pericles, clad in his brave father's armor, repaired to the royal court of Simonides, where he performed wonders at the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and valiant princes who contended with him in arms for the honour of Thysa's love. When brave warriors contended at court tournaments for the love of King's daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady, for whose sake these deeds of valor were undertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror. And Thysa did not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed all the princes and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished him by her as special favour and regard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, as King of that day's happiness. And Pericles became a most passionate lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment he beheld her. The good Simonides so well approved of the valor and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of this royal stranger, for Pericles, for fear of Antiochus, gave out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre, yet did not Simonides disdain to accept the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's affections were firmly fixed upon him. Pericles had not been many months married to Thysa, before he received intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead, and that his subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, and talked of placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. This news came from Helicanus himself, who being a loyal subject to his royal master, would not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their intentions that he might return home and resume his lawful right. It was matter of great surprise and joy to Simonides to find that his son-in-law, the obscure Knight, was the renowned Prince of Tyre. Yet again he regretted that he was not a private gentleman he supposed him to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thysa was with child. And Pericles himself wished her to remain with her father till after her confinement. But the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre before she was brought to bed. The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles. For long before they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified Thysa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse, Lycorida, came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell the Prince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little babe was born. She held the babe towards its father, saying, Here is a thing too young for such a place. This is the child of your dead queen. No tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was dead. As soon as he could speak he said, Oh, you gods! Why do you make us love your goodly gifts and then snatch those gifts away? Patience, good sir, said Lycorida. Here is all that is left alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your child's sake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this precious charge. Pericles took the newborn infant in his arms, and he said to the little babe, Now may your life be mild, for a more blustrous birth had never a babe. May your condition be mild and gentle, for you have had the rudest welcome that ever Prince's child did meet with. May that which follows be happy, for you have had as chiding and activity as fire, air, water, earth, and heaven could make to herald you from the womb. Even at the first your loss, meaning in the death of her mother, is more than all the joys which you shall find upon this earth, to which you are come a new visitor shall be able to recompense. The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having a superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the storm would never cease. They came to Pericles to demand that his queen should be thrown overboard, and they said, What courage, sir! God save you! Courage enough, said the sorrowing Prince. I do not fear the storm. It has done to me its worst. Yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I wish the storm was over. Sir, said the sailors, your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the storm will not abate until the ship be cleared of the dead. Though Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he patiently submitted, saying, As you think, meet. Then she must overboard, most wretched queen. And now this unhappy Prince went to take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his ticer, he said, A terrible child-bed hast thou had, my dear. No light, no fire. The unfriendly elements forget the utterly, nor have I time to bring the hallow to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a moment upon thy bones the humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells. Oh, Licorada! Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, my casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, Licorada, while I say a priestly farewell to my ticer. They brought Pericles a large chest in which, wrapped in a satin shroud, he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her, and beside her he placed rich jewels and a written paper telling who she was, and praying if happily any one should find the chest which contained the body of his wife, they would give her burial, and then with his own hands he cast the chest into the sea. When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tarsus. For, said Pericles, the babe cannot hold out until we come to Tyre. At Tarsus I will leave it at careful nursing. After that tempestuous night when Tysa was thrown into the sea, and while it was yet early morning, as Seriman, a worthy gentleman of Ephesus, and a most skillful physician, was standing by the seaside, his servants brought to him a chest which they said the waves had thrown on the land. I never saw, said one of them, so huge a billow as cast it on our shore. Seriman ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own house, and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body of a young and lovely lady, and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casket of jewels made him conclude that it was some great person who was thus strangely entombed. Searching father he discovered a paper from which he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been a queen, and wife to Pericles, Prince of Tyre, and much admiring at the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband who had lost his sweet lady, he said, If you are living, Pericles, you have a heart that even cracks with woe. Then observing attentively Tyce's face, he saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and he said, They were too hasty that threw you into the sea. For he did not believe her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought, and soft music to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits if she should revive. And he said to those who crowded round her, wondering at what they saw, Oh, I pray you gentlemen, give her air. This queen will live. She has not been entranced above five hours, and see, she begins to blow into life again. She is alive. Behold, her eyelids move. This fair creature will live to make us weep to hear her fate. Tyce had never died, but after the birth of her little baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her conclude her to be dead. And now, by the care of this kind gentleman, she once more revived a life and light, and opening her eyes, she said, Where am I? Where is my Lord? What world is this? By gentle degrees, Saramon let her understand what had befallen her. And when he thought she was enough recovered to bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, and the jewels. And she looked on the paper and said, It is my Lord's writing. That I was shipped at sea I will remember. But whether they are delivered of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say. But since my wedded Lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery and never more have joy. Madam, said Saramon, If you purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana is not far distant from hence. There you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend you. This proposal was accepted with thanks by Tysa, and when she was perfectly recovered, Saramon placed her in the temple of Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed her days in sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and in the most devout exercises of those times. Pericles carried his young daughter, whom he named Marina, because she was born at sea, to Tarsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the good he had done to them at the time of their famine, that they would be kind to this little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he said, Oh, your sweet queen, that it had pleased heaven you could have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with the sight of her. Pericles replied, We must obey the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which my Tysa has, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe Marina here, I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant of your care, beseeching you to give her princely training. And then, turning to Cleon's wife Dionysia, he said, Good madam, make me blessed in your tear in bringing up my child. And she answered, I have a child myself who shall not be more dear to my respect than yours, my lord. And Cleon made the like promise, saying, Your noble services, Prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people with your corn, for which in their prayers they daily remember you, must in your child be thought on. If I should neglect your child, my whole people, that were by you relieved, would force me to my duty. But, if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me and mine to the end of generation. Pericles, being thus assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse Lycorida. When he went away the little Marina knew not her loss, but Lycorida wept sadly at parting with her royal master. Oh, no tears, Lycorida, said Pericles, no tears. Look to your little mistress on whose grace you may depend hereafter. Pericles arrived safely at Tyre, and was once more settled in the quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe, Marina, whom this hapless mother had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth. He gave her the most careful education, so that by the time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, the most deeply learned men were not more studied in the learning of those times than was Marina. She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with her needle she was so skillful that she seemed to compose nature's own shapes in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more like to each other than they were to Marina's silken flowers. But when she had gained from education all the graces which made her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, from the slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to that perfection wherein Marina excelled, and finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, while her daughter, who was of the same age and had been educated with the same care as Marina, though not with the same success, was in comparison disregarded, she formed a project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagining that her untoward daughter would be more respected when Marina was no more seen. To encompass this, she employed a man to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked design when Le Corridor, the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was discoursing with the man she had commanded to commit this murder, when the young Marina was weeping over the dead Le Corridor. Leonine, the man she employed to do this bad deed, though he was a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her, he said, she is a goodly creature. The fitter then the gods should have her, replied her merciless enemy. Here she comes weeping for the death of her nurse Le Corridor. Are you resolved to obey me? Leonine, fearing to disobey her, replied, I am resolved. And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina doomed to an untimely death. She now approached with a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily strew over the grave of Good Le Corridor. The purple violet and the marigold should, as a carpet, hang upon her grave, while summer days did last. Alas! for me, she said, poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest when my mother died, this world to me is like a lasting storm hurrying me for my friends. How now, Marina, said the dissembling Dionysia, do you weep alone? How does it chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrowful, Le Corridor, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite chained with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me your flowers. The sea air will spoil them, and walk with Leonine. The air is fine and will enliven you. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm and walk with her. No, madam, said Marina, I pray you let me not deprive you of your servant, for Leonine was one of Dionysia's attendants. Come, come, said this artful woman who wished for a pretense to leave her alone with Leonine. I love the prince, your father, and I love you. We every day expect your father here, and when he comes and finds you so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we have taken no care of you. Go, I pray you. Walk and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that excellent complexion which stole the hearts of old and young. Marina, being thus impotuned, said, Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire to it. As Dionysia walked away she said to Leonine, Remember what I have said, shocking words, for their meaning was that he should remember to kill Marina. Marina looked toward the sea, her birthplace, and said, Is the wind westerly that blows? Southwest, replied Leonine. When I was born the wind was north, said she, and then the storm and tempest and all her father's sorrows and her mother's death came full into her mind and she said, My father, as Lycorid had told me, did never fear, but cried, Courage, good sea men, to the sailors, galling his princely hands with the ropes, and clasping to the masts, he endured a sea that almost split the deck. When was this, said Leonine? When I was born, replied Marina, never were wind and waves more violent, and then she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswains whistle, and the loud call of the master, which, said she, troubled the confusion of the ship. Lycorid had so often recounted to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that these things seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine interrupted her with desiring her to say her prayers. What mean you? said Marina, who began to fear she knew not why. If you require a little space for prayer I granted, said Leonine, but be not tedious. The gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste. Will you kill me? said Marina. Alas! why? To satisfy my lady, replied Leonine. Why would she have me killed? said Marina. Now, as I can remember, I never hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word, nor did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe me now, I never killed a mouse nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against my will, but I wept for it. How have I offended? The murderer replied, My commission is not to reason on the deed, but to do it. And he was just going to kill her when certain pirates happened to land at that very moment, who, seeing Marina, bore her off as a prize to their ship. The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Middleene, and sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marina soon became known throughout the whole city of Middleene for her beauty and her virtues, and the person to whom she was sold became rich by the money she earned for him. She taught music, dancing and fine needle-works, and the money she got by her scholars she gave to her master and mistress, and the fame of her learning and her great industry came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was governor of Middleene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence whom all the city praised so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond measure. For though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he did not expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous and so good, as he perceived Marina to be. And he left her, saying he hoped she would persevere in her industrious and virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from him again, it should be for her good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding and excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all outward graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwithstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find that her birth was noble. But whenever they asked her parentage, she would sit still and weep. Meantime at Tarsus, Leonene, fearing the anger of Dionysia, told her that he had killed Marina, and that wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately monument. And shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his loyal minister Helicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tarsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending to take her home with him. And he never having beheld her since he left her an infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince rejoice at the thought of seeing this dear child of his buried queen? But when they told him Marina was dead and showed the monument they had erected for her, great was the misery this most wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of that country where his last hope and only memory of his dear Tysa was entombed, he took ship and hastily departed from Tarsus. From the day he entered the ship, a dull and heavy melancholy seized him. He never spoke and seemed totally insensible to everything around him. Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by Mitalene, where Marina dwelt, the governor of which place, Lysimachus, observing this royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing who was on board, went in a barge to the side of the ship to satisfy his curiosity. Helicanus received him very courteously, and told him that the ship came from Tyre, and that they were conducting with the Pericles their prince. A man, sir, said Helicanus, who has not spoken to any one these three months, nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his grief. It would be tedious to repeat the whole ground of his distemper, but the main springs from the loss of a beloved daughter and a wife. Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly person, and he said to him, Sir King, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail royal sir. But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him. Pericles made no answer, nor did he appear to perceive any stranger approached. And then Lysimachus but thought him of the peerless maid Marina, that happily with her sweet tongue she might win some answer from the silent prince. And with the consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and when she entered the ship in which her own father sat motionless with grief, they welcomed her on board as if they had known she was their princess, and they cried, She is a gallant lady. Lysimachus was well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said, She is such a wondered, where I well assured she came of noble birth, I would wish no better choice and think me rarely blessed in a wife. And then he addressed her in courtly terms, as if the lowly seeming maid had been the high-born lady he wished to find her, calling her fair and beautiful Marina, telling her a great prince on board that ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence, and as if Marina had the power of conferring health and felicity, he begged she would undertake to cure the royal stranger of his melancholy. Sir, said Marina, I will use my utmost skill in his recovery, provided none but I and my maid be suffered to come near him. She, who at Middleene had so carefully concealed her birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to speak to Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him from what a royal high estate herself had fallen. As if she had known it was her royal father she stood before, all the words she spoke were of her own sorrows. But her reason for so doing was that she knew nothing more wins the attention of the unfortunate than the recital of some sad calamity to match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the grouping Prince. He lifted up his eyes which had been so long fixed and motionless, and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother, presented to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. The long silent Prince was once more heard to speak. My dearest wife, said the awakened Pericles, was like this maid, and such a one might my daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her stature to an inch, as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as jewel-like. Where do you live, young maid? Report your parentage. I think you said you had been tossed from wrong to injury, and that you thought your griefs would equal mine if both were opened. Some such thing, I said, replied Marina, and said no more than what my thoughts did warrant me as likely. Tell me your story, answered Pericles. If I find you have known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows like a man, and I have suffered like a girl. Yet you do look like patients gazing on kings' graves and smiling extremely out of act. How lost you your name, my most kind virgin? Recount your story, I beseech you. Come, sit by me. How was Pericles surprised when she said her name was Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, but had been invented by himself, for his own child to signify seaborn? Oh, I am shocked, said he, and you are sent hither by some incensed god to make the world laugh at me. Patience, good sir, said Marina, or I must cease here. Nay, said Pericles, I will be patient. You little know how you do startle me to call yourself Marina. The name, she replied, was given me by one that had some power, my father and a king. How, a king's daughter? said Pericles, and called Marina. But are you flesh and blood? Are you no fairy? Speak on. Where were you born, and wherefore called Marina? She replied, I was called Marina because I was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a king. She died the minute I was born, as my good nurse Le Corrida has often told me weeping. The king, my father, left me at Tarsus till the cruel wife of Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me, and brought me here to Middleene. But, good sir, why do you weep? It may be you think me an impostor, but indeed, sir, I am the daughter to King Pericles, if good King Pericles be living. Then Pericles, terrified as he seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, loudly called for his attendants who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king's voice, and he said to Helicanus, O Helicanus, strike me, give me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me overbear the shores of my mortality. O come hither, thou that was born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found at sea again. O Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy gods, this is Marina. Now blessings on thee, my child. Give me fresh garments, my own Helicanus. She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been by the savage Dionysia. She shall tell you all when you shall kneel to her and call her your very princess. Who is this, observing Lysimachus for the first time? Sir, said Helicanus, it is the governor of Middleene, who hearing of your melancholy came to see you. I embrace you, sir, said Pericles. Give me my robes. I am well with beholding. O heaven bless my girl. But Hark, what music is that? For now, either sent by some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, he seemed to hear soft music. My lord, I hear none, replied Helicanus. None, said Pericles, why it is the music of the spheres. As there was no music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden joy had unsettled the prince's understanding, and he said, It is not good to cross him. Let him have his way. And then they told him they heard the music, and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow under his head, he, quite overpowered with excess of joy, sank into a sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping parent. While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him resolve to go to Ephesus. His dream was that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians, appeared to him, and commanded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the story of his life and misfortunes. And by her silver bow, she swore that if he performed her injunction, he should meet with some rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bidding of the goddess. Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore and refresh himself with such entertainment as he should find at Middleene, which Curtius offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the space of a day or two. During which time we may well suppose what feastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows and entertainments the governor made in Middleene, to agree to the royal father of his dear Marina, whom, in her obscure fortunes, he had so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus' suit, when he understood how he had honoured his child in the days of her low estate, and that Marina showed herself not averse to his proposals. Only he made it a condition, before he gave his consent, that they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian Diana, to whose temple they shortly after all three undertook a voyage, and the goddess herself filling their cells with prosperous winds, after a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus. There was, standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles with his train entered the temple, the good Seremon, now grown very aged, who had restored Tysa, the wife of Pericles, to life, and Tysa, now a priestess of the temple, was standing before the altar, and though the many years he had passed and sorrow for her loss had much altered Pericles, Tysa thought she knew her husband's features, and when he approached the altar and began to speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to his words with wonder and a joyful amazement, and these were the words that Pericles spoke before the altar. Hail Diana! To perform thy just commands, I here confess myself the Prince of Tyre, who, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis, wedded the fair Tysa. She died at sea in child-bed, but brought forth a maid-child called Marina. She, yet Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at fourteen years thought to kill her. But her better stars brought her to Middleene, by whose shores, as I sailed, her good fortunes brought this maid on board, whereby her most clear remembrance, she made herself known to be my daughter. Tysa, unable to bear the transports which his words had raised in her, cried out, You are! You are! O royal Pericles!" and fainted. What means this woman, said Pericles? She dies! Gentlemen, help! Sir, said Ceremon, if you have told Diana's altar true, this is your wife. Reverend gentlemen, no, said Pericles. I threw her overboard with these very arms. Ceremon then recounted how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore, how opening the coffin he found therein rich jewels and a paper, how happily he had recovered her and placed her here in Diana's temple. And now, Tysa, being restored from her swoon, said, Oh, my lord, are you not Pericles? Like him you speak, like him you are. Did you not name a tempest, a berth, and death? He, astonished, said, The voice of dead Tysa. That Tysa am I, she replied, supposed dead and drowned. Oh, true Diana! exclaimed Pericles in a passion of devout astonishment. And now, said Tysa, I know you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did the king my father give you, when we with tears parted from him at Pentapolis. Enough, you gods! cried Pericles. Your present kindness makes my past misery sport. Oh, come, Tysa, be buried a second time within these arms. And Marina said, My heart leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom. Then did Pericles show his daughter to her mother, saying, Look who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy birthing at sea, and called Marina because she was yielded there. Blessed in my own, said Tysa, and while she hung in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision, for this I will offer oblations nightly to thee. And then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Tysa, solemnly affianced their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage. Thus we have seen in Pericles his queen and daughter a famous example of virtue assailed by calamity, through the sufferance of heaven to teach patience and constancy to men, under the same guidance becoming finally successful and triumphing over chance and change. In Helicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded to a throne, chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his possession, than to become great by another's wrong. In the worthy ceremony, who restored Tysa to life, we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge in bestowing benefits upon mankind approaches to the nature of the gods. It only remains to be told that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end proportionable to her desserts. The inhabitants of Tarsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, burned both him and her and their whole household, the gods seeming well pleased that so foul a murder, though but intentional, and never carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting its enormity.