He is melancholy-it is a painful, damning melancholy, that sits brooding on such noble minds he no longer doubts,-it may not be that the king has murdered his father-but it is— and the conclusion overwhelms him with a tumult. of feelings -hence he is uncertain what course to pursue-but

"Now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on."

his mind is full of hot passion, he can scarce contain himself—yet, in an instant, passion is quelled:

"Soft! now to my mother

O heart! lose not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom :
I will speak daggers to her, but use none;
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites:
How in my words soever she be shent,

To give them seals never, my soul, consent !"

with these words, a mysterious effect was produced on her I was watching; for a spell had come over her; and her thoughts and her whole motive nature had lapsed into quiet-why? because these were holy thoughts—thoughts that crushed and silenced passion in an instant.

"Soft! now to my mother."

That we should approach a mother,—one like to whom there is none other-in a peculiar manner, a manner prompted by the same feelings as when children, we ran for protection to her bosom, and as youths we bore with her gentle restraint.

"O,heart! lose not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom : 1

Let me be cruel, not unnatural."

As he closes his speech, which is the closing of the scene, she drops her head in thought,—and that the littleness of non

thought and non-feeling which surrounds her, may be shut out; that she be not subjected to ridicule, while she would gently shed a tear-how natural an occasion for tears-and in a tear is woman nearest the angels-for I think those only who are nearly allied to divinity can shed tears-tears that are distilled from ambrosia, which yields heavenly vigor to the immortals. During the interview between Hamlet and his mother, there presided over the face of this not only fair, but tender woman I was observing, an expression of the most intense interest-and with every action, every word, she displayed feelings that harmonize with the noblest in the human breast. She is quite melted with pure indignation and filled with just reproach, together with Hamlet, she has feelings of bitterness for his mother, and she pities now that he is dead, the foolish rascal Polonius.

The play proceeds-her wrathful, anxious eyes, are again on the stage; her heart is again with the master spirit of the play-and it is the fourth act-for the superior scene between Hamlet and the Queen, terminating in the death of Polonius is past, though not without appropriate feelingsfeelings of the most peculiar character, yet of the greatest naturalness. She, with Hamlet, pursues the thought and is embued with the force of his argument; and, with him, she comes to the conclusion:

"O! from this time forth,

My thoughts be bloody, and be nothing worth!"

she almost rises from her seat, in the effort to buckle on Hamlet's armor, for the contest of more than body,-of mind and feeling, she would fain cheer him in the conviction of the light and justness of his cause.

"Poor Ophelia !" for Shakspeare knew we would pity the gentle, now mad maiden,-he makes ours, and still more the hearts of the gentler sex, sink into sadness at her mournful tale; methinks, Ophelia's sorrrow springs not alone from a father's loss -but she bereaves the loss of mind in a noble and idolized lover-her heart is not only broken, it is crushed. Ophelia could not have done otherwise than go mad; yet 1 will not philosophize, for philosophy is called cold, no matter how hot its adherents may be. But I am wandering in thought, as a man will do, without power to prevent, when a forcible idea strikes him, he forgets the actors in the suggestions of his own mind. But the tear has started to the eye of that noble woman on whom I have been looking, while Ophelia sings her sad song:

"He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.
Oh, ho!"

And then the regret, though of madness, of the poor girl; that she could not have parted with-that she could not have grieved for her father. How one is reminded here of friends buried in the sea, to whom we have not said the last word of assurance of our devotion we wished to say, to whom we have been denied the poor observance of the dead. Ah! such things create, for long years, a void in the heart, though we may not, as the gentle Ophelia, go mad.

"White his shroud as the mountain snow,

Larded with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did not go,

With true-love showers."

That woman's heart is affected for "Poor Ophelia." She sobs for the poor girl-aye, perhaps she sobs, too, for memory's sake; for the heart has sorrows, many a lingering, longing, that we know not of, and which turns it to melancholy-ah! "poor Ophelia"-she is truly mad.

The tear was wiped away, but soon recalled, for the deeper feeling of chagrin in Laertes, consumed all other feelings-but with the word.

"O, rose of May!

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia,"

brought the tear again to weigh down the beautiful relaxing lids, which opening and closing, with motion of feeling to pour out their genial floods, remind me of the opening and closing of some fairy font, charged with sweet waters, and opened and closed by a mysterious, invisible and enchanted hand. Oh! then to the eager gaze; and the eye, not yet swept of the tear, the heart not yet gained its equilibrium and repose from previous excitement, how appeared as well to these as to the ear, the melancholy words that told of pleasures past, to return no more. There's rosemary-that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies-that's for thoughts." Were I to hear these few words one thousand times, each time I should have the most painful feelings-the most never-to-beremoved anguish, for the very reason that I have mentioned-recollection; dear, too painful recollection, that sweeps over the mind, tearing up to view every act, and every vestige of thought, along the waste of life. Oh, heavens! I am yet in doubt whether it were not better for our happiness to forgetto live entirely in the present, and in the anticipations of the future.

My eyes were on the countenance of her I had been the whole evening watching, when the base king sought to work on the feelings of Laertes, to the prejudice of Hamlet; and none but a face capable of the expression of hers, could have painted the bitter scorn and contempt felt for the king, as he proceeds:

"He, being remiss,

Most generous, and far from all contriving

Will not peruse the foils."

A nobler character he could not have given him, than in these few lines. She quite forgets that she is not a witness of real life, in exhibiting her indignation at the unfairness of the proposal. She is surprised that the generous Laertes should be ready to condemn his friend, and even toward a deadly enemy act so fiendlike as to use unfairness. It may surprise a gentle and a noble woman, but a man is not often surprised at want of fidelity; and, as for myself, with my no great experience in the world, I could not be made to wonder at treachery, because it is among the more fashionable and unpunishable crimes.

She is evidently surprised; yes, surprised again to hear the queen give so beautiful and so feeling an account of Ophelia's death-indeed, I would not have suspected any such speech from such a woman, and, more especially, just at that time; but we must suppose Shakspeare knew better the suitableness of such a speech to the person, as likewise to the feelings of the audience at the time. It may be true to nature, but, with my experience, I might demur, since common-sense people, as one the queen doubtless was, and all genuinely bad persons are, have not that fancy, that imagination, that feeling we find exhibited in this speech. I observed, that instead of the grave