om. At a time when
human life was not very highly valued, and woman's feelings were held in
no reverence or respect, it was, perhaps, thought "natural" that the
Prince of Denmark should stab old Polonius and bully his daughter to
death; but in this nineteenth century of time, no amount of insanity,
real or assumed, will make us think it in accordance with the high and
noble _nature_ of the philosophic prince, either to sneer at the poor
old whiteheaded courtier he has murdered, or taunt the little trusting
girl he has taught to love him. If it were not for the name of
Shakspeare, Hamlet would be set down as nearly the beau-ideal of a
snob--a combination of the pedantry of James and the unmanliness of
Buckingham. Read the play, with this key to the character, and you will
find it quite as true to nature as in the laborious glosses of Schlegel
and Goeethe.

If I ever have the honour to meet you again at the Ducrow Arms, I will
enter more fully into this part of my view of the injuries inflicted on
the stage by Shakspeare. It will be sufficient, at the present time, to
condense my meaning into this one remark, that the nature of 1600 is not
necessarily the nature of 1846, and probably is as different as the
statesmanship of Sir Robert Cecil from that of Sir Robert Peel. If there
had been a controller of politicians as powerful as the controller of
the stage, we should have had the right honourable baronet making Popery
punishable with death, dressed in trunk breeches and silver
shoe-buckles--or taking measures to lessen the alarming power of Spain.

You think, perhaps, that I have let you off altogether, because I have
declined enlarging on this particular point; but no, my dear Smith, I
have not had half my say out yet. It is not only that things are
presented to us in Shakspeare's plays in a way that _was_ admirable,
because adapted to the feelings and fancies of the time, when they first
enriched the Globe, but not so admirable now: I have also to find fault
with the manner in which the characters--granting that they are true to
nature--are developed and made palpable to vulgar eyes. The fact is, my
benevolent friend, that every thing is gigantic in his conceptions. He
is like a sculptor who despises the easy flow of the resting figure, and
fills his studio with agonizing athletes--every muscle on the
stretch--the eyeballs projecting, and the hair on end. Even when he
carves a slumbering nymph, her proportions are trem