from his surroundings into a species of misanthropy. His very high ideals are to him a torture in the presence of infamous realities; and he is dazed, perhaps made mad in the knowledge of the hopelessness of life's every noble project. His "antic disposition" is with difficulty, if at all, to be distinguished from real madness, and Hamlet will ever remain a psychological problem, profound because obscure; and obscure because in the drama he has no confidant his equal in station, to whom he might thoroughly confess himself. To Horatio only and alone he communicates himself, in a condescending spirit; but condescension supposes inequality, and only princes fully enter the inner circle of a prince's mind. All the other characters make him conservative. Claudius he hates; for his mother he would like to entertain only pity; Ophelia he loves in a manner, as Bonaparte loved Louise, fearful that, in her very innocence, she might be a catspaw for a diplomat. He despises Polonius, in whom diplomacy has developed such a sense of security that if a virtuous adjective would be allowed to qualify a vicious noun, his might be called elegant hypocrisy; for "with the bait of falsehood he takes the carp of truth." He trusted the courtiers as he would "adders fanged." So he is well nigh alone, with his thoughts as his companions, and hence his seven grand soliloquies. How terrible the gloom of his mighty mind; how humbled the princely Auctction, that "lacked advancement"; how bruised the proud heart within him; how fierce the charge and retreat of feeling, can be found in the fact that the grave, with all its gruesome surroundings, stirs his soul to kindly memories of kindlier days. The meanness of Polonius, the weakness of Gertrude, the rashness of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and above all, the murderous heart of Claudius-all are justly punished without Hamlet's planning, for he was not a conspirator; and Laertes, the brother

of Ophelia, as well as Hamlet, her lover, die, as they would have lived, only for treacherous intervention, noble friends, both, and brothers.

The drama "Hamlet" has ever been a theme for praise and blame. Voltaire, in a mock-heroic, nursery-tale fashion, enlarges on the plot of the play; and then tells the world what it already knew, that it belonged to Saxe, the grammarian. He translates into French, "To be, or not to be?" which the reader, if uninformed, would never recognize as a relative to its English cousin. He scornfully refers to some anachronisms, as the use of gunpowder in the days of Claudius. criticises the want of respect for the unities of time and place and, thus rebuked, he dismisses "Hamlet."

He

Now what honest critic ever cared a straw for the plot of "Hamlet"? for Shakespeare himself never valued it himself because of its worth. Shakespeare portrayed the mind and the feelings that were the mainsprings of human action; and used the plot, as he used the paper upon which he wrote to spread his delineations. The plot was a remote condition and in no manner a direct cause.

Anachronisms were simply mistaken dates for certain historic facts, and interfere not with the high purposes of the dramatist.

Regarding the unities, so severely observed by the Greek drama, the model of the French, Shakespeare could say of their observance what Shylock says in "the court scene": "Upon what compulsion must I?" Rules are inferior to laws, and are to be interpreted by them; and Nature was Shakespeare's law. Nature does not move in circles and squares, but has a dashing liberty that gives the poet, and particularly the dramatist, a generous license. Voltaire could reduce his requirements to absurdity by going farther in the same thought and objecting to the elegant English, freighted with ideas profound, spoken "trippingly on the tongue," as not a

reality in life;-to the rhythmic measure as not true. Regarding time: everyone in the audience knows that Hamlet has not gone to England, that Fortinbras is not the while warring with Poland, but that they are behind the scenes, waiting for their part. And for place: it is not as easy for the audience to fancy that the places are changed as to think that the stage itself was either place? Nay, the very success of the play depends upon the daring approaches of fancies to facts. All this presupposes the fancy of the audience; and, without it, there would be no proper starting point for dramatic success. There were, however, two genii in Shakespeare that called forth the vindictiveness of Voltaire: one, the genius of Christianity which he ever maligned; the other, the genius of the English language, which he lamentably ignored. Voltaire's influence, strong and lasting in France, has been, nevertheless, well nigh undone by Mezieres Taine and Victor Hugo, all of whom admire the philosophy as well as the poetry of the great master.

Goethe introduced "Hamlet"

to Ger

many; and how he loved "Hamlet" is shown from the way he would defend this drama against the strictures of Voltaire. Says he, in Wilhelm Meister, "If I were Ulysses, his (Thersites') back would writhe under my sceptre."

Ben Jonson, Coleridge, Pope, Mrs." Montagu, Dr. Samuel Johnson, Hazlett, "Barry Cornwall" and Richard Grant White form a grand chorus giving an anthem of praise for Shakespeare to the English-speaking world.

Such is "Hamlet," the most refined and scholarly work of him whom "neither man nor muse can praise too much"; for how can we adequately praise him, since we owe him the very language in which we could praise him best? Such is "Hamlet," which has grandly helped to make the English theatre what Saint Victor says Sophocles made the Greek, a very "Parthenon of Poesy." Such is "Hamlet," pointing not merely one moral, but many of the most worthy kind;-composing not one picture, finished with the last stroke of the last act, but a whole series; for every scene is a department in a gallery illustrative of human motives and passion.

Rand court was the dirtiest street in the whole city of Boston. "Street," did I say? Pardon, I beseech you, my error, Rand court was far too short and too narrow to merit so dignified an appellation. Rand court was dirty indeed. On either side was a row of rickety houses, tumble down, desolate and forlorn.

Each had a to.tering staircase extending from the ground to garret. And each had windows; not indeed like the windows of other houses were they, but instead each was filled with a large and magnificent assortment of frouzy heads of every description.

Down in the street children were ever at play. Children with red heads, children with black heads, children with white heads, and children with brown heads tumbled and fought and swore uproariously. Sometimes they got in the way of the men lounging up against the buildings, or made an unpremeditated assault upon the neverending, beer-carrying line of unkempt women coming from the corner barroom. When such an accident happened their juvenile heads were cuffed and slapped and battered without

mercy.

Down this street, heeding neither dirt, children, loafers, nor even the prepossessing ladies of the beer, came a jumper-clad young man. His face and clothes were black with soot, yet he bore himself with such manly dignity that, in the presence of his personal charm, one quite forgot the unsightliness of his appearance. Along the sidewalk he made his way, treading gingerly over the children, and paying little heed to the ill-favored and curious glances of their lounging elders. With great ease and rapidity he made.

his way up the staircase of the very last house on the street. Reaching the topmost landing, he called loudly:

"Cele! Cele!"

A young girl came out of an inner room, where she had been busily engaged in washing dishes. She was quite unlike the other women of Rand court in two notable respects: She kept her house and person scrupulously clean, and as for her dishes, they were simply immaculate. These two eccentricities grated rather harshly upon the sensitive nerves of the finical ladies of Rand court. It was clearly a violation of ancient tradition. Personal cleanliness was never held in esteem in Rand court, and the washing of dishes was considered quite inexpedient, inasmuch as the dishes became dirty again at the very next meal. Cele gave the visitor a cordial welcome, that brought a blush of pleasure to his sooty countenance. "Well, Cele," he said, "I came round for your answer.'

"Bill, I've given my answer. My mother is hopeless. She is drunk and quarrelsome all the time, and renders me miserable. Bad as it is for me to bear, it would be almost impossible for you Bill. Bill, I cannot marry you. No! I must stay to care for mother, for it is according to God's own heart.'

"Now, Cele, what's the use of talkin'. Your mother is no good to you. Why don't you put her away? You can easily do it. Because she chooses to drink and cut up is no reason why you should gratify her. Do you think God so unreasonable as all that?"

A shout arose from the street below and Cele ran to the door. In the midst of a large and motley crowd stood a drunken woman her mother. Chil

dren ran up and pulled her dress and laughed rapturously, as she tottered and almost fell. Hither and thither she turned, striving frantically to reach her tormentors with a blow. Even the loungers and the endless line of beer carriers stopped to urge on the

torture.

Rage seized upon the young man. With a series of leaps he cleared the staircase, and bursting into the crowd. laid about him vigorously in every direction.

"Out of here, you cowardly whelps," he cried. "Out of here, or I'll break your miserable skulls!"

The crowd drew back for a moment. leaving rescuer and rescued alone together. Vainly the young man tried to persuade the drunken woman to depart. Not so. She received his entreaties with roars of laughter and finally angered by his insistence, hurled at him a volley of curses.

"Let her alone, Bill," called Cele from above. "You can't do nothing." Casting upon the unfortunate woman one final look of entreaty, Bill waved his hand to Cele and was soon far down the street.

Cele went back to her dishes and her interrupted reflections. Why should she not marry Bill and set her mother adrift? Had she not stood

her abuse and contumely long enough? And what advantage was there? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Her mother was ever in the corner barroom and came home only to curse and fight. Now was the chance. With Bill she might be happy, but

A dreadful cry was heard in the street. "The bull! the bull!" arose on every side. It reached Cele's ears as she wiped her dishes. With one bound she had reached the stairway. Down at the other end of the court the bull was already entering. Bellowing with rage and tossing foam from his red lips, he looked about him for a victim.

Cele's heart nearly stood still with terror. Would the bull see her mother? Perhaps even yet she might

be saved. Down the stairs she flew and across the street to her mother. "Mother, mother," she cried, "the bull is coming."

For answer only wild, incoherent babblings. Cele pulled her once more. "Come, mother," she cried.

The bull saw them from afar. With a roar that caused Rand court to reverberate as if with thunder, he was upon them.

Cele tried to drag her mother away. The drunken woman resisted. Cele redoubled her efforts, spurred to greater exertion by the near approach

of the infuriated animal. Close to the stairway she had dragged her mother when crash- the poor unfortunate fell face downward upon the ground.

Should she leave her? Cele's will faltered before the temptation. “Oh, my mother," she cried.

There was a wild roar, a shriek of agony, and the frouzy heads in the tossed in the air again and again. windows beheld poor Cele's body

Then with a loud snort of satisfaction the bull trotted down the court. The denizens of Rand court waited some minutes before venturing to descend to the street. They found poor Cele lying where she had fallen, bathed in her own blood. Tenderly they raised her up and bore her to her home. Upon the bed they placed her beside her unconscious mother. A

noise as of some one hastening was heard upon the stairs. The door was burst open and Bill appeared.

"Oh, Cele," he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside the bed and clasping her hands. "Oh, Cele, how can I bear to part with you?"

"Bill," she said feebly, "I'm awful sorry to die because of mother. She can't take care of herself, Bill; she never could, and now I'm going to leave her. You say you love me, Bill; perhaps so, but I don't know. You wanted me to give up mother and marry you. I couldn't do it, Bill. I really couldn't- but, oh, oh," she

moaned, wringing her hands, "what will become of mother?"

The young man touched her tearstained face. "See, Cele," he said. Around to the other side of the bed he made his way. Tenderly he kissed the brow of the girl's unhappy, misguided mother. "You were Cele's mother while she lived," he said, "and now that she must die, my mother you shall become no matter what happens. In sickness and in sorrow, ay, even in disgrace and misery, I will stand by you as Cele and her God would have done. Cele," but he spoke to deaf ears, for Cele was no longer living.