"Yes," I
said, "and I wonder why that is?" "Well," he said, "it is this, I
think: that beneath all its subtleties, all its intellectual force, it
has an emotional appeal to every one who has lived in the world; every
one sees himself more or less in Hamlet; every one has been in a
situation in which he felt that circumstances were too strong for him;
and then, too," he added, "there is always a deep and romantic interest
about the case of a man who has every possible external advantage,
youth, health, wealth, rank, love, ardour, and zest, who is yet utterly
miserable, and moves to a dark end under a shadow of doom."

I thought, and think this a profound and delicate criticism. There is,
of course, a great deal more in _Hamlet_; there is its high poetry, its
mournful dwelling upon deep mysteries, its supernatural terrors, its
worldly wisdom, its penetrating insight; but these are all accessories
to the central thought; the conception is absolutely firm throughout.
The hunted soul of Hamlet, after a pleasant and easy drifting upon the
stream of happy events, finds a sombre curtain suddenly twitched aside,
and is confronted with a tragedy so dark, a choice so desperate, that
the reeling brain staggers, and can hardly keep its hold upon the
events and habits of life. Day by day the shadow flits beside him;
morning after morning he uncloses his sad eyes upon a world, which he
had found so sweet, and which he now sees to be so terrible; the
insistent horror breeds a whole troop of spectres, so that all the
quiet experiences of life, friendship, love, nature, art, become big
with uneasy speculations and surmises; from the rampart-platform by the
sea until the peal of ordnance is shot off, as the poor bodies are
carried out, every moment brings with it some shocking or brooding
experience. Hamlet is not strong enough to close his eyes to these
things; if for a moment he attempts this, some tragic thought plucks at
his shoulder, and bids the awakened sleeper look out into the
struggling light. Neither is he strong enough to face the situation
with resolution and courage. He turns and doubles before the pursuing
Fury; he hopes against hope that a door of escape may be opened. He
poisons the air with gloom and suspicion; he feeds with wilful sadness
upon the most melancholy images of death and despair. And though the
great creator of this mournful labyrinth, this atrocious dilemma, can
involve the sad spirit with an art