ility than that of
looking intensely stupid, for he seldom utters a word; but assumes an
appearance of unfathomable vacuity that is inimitable. There are still
two theatres outside the city walls: the one, the Tivoli, devoted to
farces and vaudevilles; the other consecrated to the portrayal of the
deeply sentimental, and the fearfully tragic--with poison, dagger-blades,
convulsions and heavy-stamping ever at command.

But our play! Here we are in the gallery of a splendid edifice, equal in
extent to our Covent Garden Theatre at home, having come to this part of
the house in anticipation of a feeble audience in preference to the
parterre or pit. Note also, that here we pay eight _schillinge_ only,
while a place below would cost us twenty. But the house is crammed, for
Shakespeare draws as well in Germany as in England, perhaps for the
simple reason that in no other country are his works so well translated.
We find ourselves in the midst of a dense cluster of earnest Danes, who
say the most impressive things in the quietest way in the world. They
are strongly interested in the coming performance, for "Hamlet the Dane"
has taken deep hold upon the Danish affections; and in Elsinore, so great
is the consideration entertained for this all but fabulous prince, that
they will point you out the garden wherein his royal father suffered
murder

--most foul, strange, and unnatural,

and the grave where the "gentle prince" himself lies buried. The play
begins; with the deepest earnestness the audience listen, and, crowded as
they are, preserve the utmost quiet. The glorious drama scene by scene
unfolds itself, and passage by passage we recognise the beauties of our
great poet. Herr Carr, starring it from Vienna, is no unworthy
representative of the noble-hearted Dane, although unequal, we think, to
the finer traits, and more delicate emotions of the character. The
dresses are admirable, sometimes gorgeous, and the groupings most
effective. The scenery alone is unsatisfactory; indecisive and
colourless as it is, without depth or tone, it strikes you as the first
effort in perspective of a feeble-handed amateur. As the play proceeds,
the action grows upon us, and the rapt spectators resent with anger the
least outcry or disturbance. The first scene with the players is
omitted, but the concluding portion is a triumph; for as _Hamlet_,
arriving at the climax of his sarcasm, and bursting for a moment into
rage, flings