dinarily so calm and self-controlled, revels in unrestrained joy and merriment. A very recent critic who follows the theory of Hamlet's real dementia, sees in his present conduct

"The most striking of all the examples of his madness. Hamlet was now pretty mad. As in similar circumstances in Act I. reaction was marked by 'wild and whirling words,' an antic disposition, and insane frivolity, precisely so was it on the present occasion." Trench's Commentary on Hamlet.

Such criticism mistakes small things for great, a molehill for a mountain. It may be justified by certain erratic representations on the stage, which are employed to heighten dramatic effect and to amuse the popular fancy; but it is unsupported by Shakespeare's text. The two scenes present the greatest disparity in action and circumstances. In the one, after the appearance of the ghost and its appalling revelations, Hamlet assumed an 'antic disposition,' used 'wild and whirling words,' and indulged in 'insane frivolity' for the purpose of concealing from Horatio his terrible oppression of mind and heart; in the other, he is neither mad in the sense of angry, nor mad in the sense of insane, but joyous and mirthful; and these sentiments never drive men mad, nor are they characteristics of dementia. His feelings are natural and not feigned, and are shared by Horatio, who understands him; for his words are not 'wild and whirling,' but very sane and pertinent. A sudden exultation of heart at his signal triumph in unkennelling the secret crime of Claudius, unshackles his long pent-up feelings, and in the reaction he naturally indulges his joyous mood, and yields to extravagant mirth and playfulness. as a boy who, when released from the mental tension and restraints of school, frisks, shouts, and gambols in wanton gayety from the very joy of his recovered freedom.

First, Hamlet naturally manifests an elation of mind at the signal triumph of his dramatic stratagem. The play, he

says, proves that, if fortune, like a Turk, should ever turn against him, he may well, as a born actor, claim fellowship with professional artists. Next, in playful mood, a Pythias, he sings to Damon how his Jove-father was supplanted, not by an ass, but worse, by a very "pajock." The peacock was by common opinion, in Shakespeare's day, a bird of evil repute. "Its head was the head of a serpent, its voice was the voice of a fiend, and its pace, the stealth of a thief." In popular works of natural history, it was pictured as uniting in itself the worst passions, inordinate pride and envy, and unnatural cruelty and lust. Hence, it has been affirmed that in the whole fauna of the time, Hamlet could not have selected the name of a bird or beast that expressed with greater emphasis the hated union of corrupt passions and evil life in the man that usurped the throne of Denmark. Hamlet now, no longer doubts the crime of Claudius, and, rejoicing in his discovery, lays a wager in merriment on the veracity of the ghost:

9910

"O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound. Conscious of his exaltation of mind and highly excited feelings, he calls for music to soothe to rest the tumult of overwrought emotions:

"Ah, ha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders!"

AN URGENT MESSAGE

If the King at the poisoning scene was, unlike Macbeth, preserved by prudent cunning from fatal words of self-confession, it was due to his greater skill of hypocrisy; but, when alone with the Queen in his private apartments, he throws aside the mask, and yields to an unrestrained outbreak of his

10 In the original text we read:

"Aye, Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word For more than all the coin in Denmark'.

feelings of anger and chagrin. Raving in distempered fury at Hamlet, at his own foolhardy leniency in dealing with a madman, and, berating even his consort for her indulgent negligence in watching over her stricken son, he commands her to seek him at once, and, in a maternal but energetic interview, to impose restraints upon him. For this effect the Queen commissions Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to summon Hamlet to meet her that very night in private audience, and to give an explanation of his strange and unpardonable conduct.

The entrance of these messengers and quondam friends, but now royal spies, produces a sudden change in Hamlet. Like a blighting blast, their very presence suddenly congeals the warmth of his mirthful and boisterous mood into a frozen reserve, tinctured by a partially concealed disdain and scorn. Seeing these representatives and willing tools of a bloody criminal, clothed in the traitorous guise of friendship, daily pestering him by their espionage with the hope of worming out his secret, he greets them with a chilling air, and answers them in open raillery. The trialogue is a literary masterpiece in which every word of the Prince falls with the "sweep of an archangel's sword." When needlessly informed of the King's "marvellous distemper," he replies in scorn, that, if the King's distemper needs purgation, they exhibit great folly in summoning him rather than a physician: if he be called to diagnose his distemper he will prescribe a further purgation that will throw him into a worse choleric state. The irrepres sible pair find these words unintelligible.

"I entreat you to speak less wildly,'

in irritated feelings.

says Guildenstern "I am tame, sir," replies Hamlet in mock deference, "proceed."

As soon as they announce their mission from his mother, who is in sore affliction, he receives them with a display of

princely courtesy, and greets them with words whose tone clearly reveals an ironical welcome. In vexation they protest against this courtesy. "It is not," they say, "of the right breed. If you give us not a wholesome answer, we shall end the business."

Hamlet, playing upon their words, expresses surprise: "How is it that you expect a wholesome or sane reply from a man whose mind you know is diseased?" Then suddenly turning upon them, he sharply questions in disdainful words, which clearly unmask their hireling trade: "You come from my mother, then no more! but to the point, what says she?" "She says, your behavior has struck her with wonder and astonishment."

"O, wonderful son,

cries Hamlet, "that can so astonish a mother! But speak, what is the sequel of this mother's astonishment? Come, impart!"'

"She desires," replies Guildenstern, "to speak with you before you go to bed."

"We shall obey her," exclaimed the Prince, "with no less alacrity, than if she were ten times our mother." And in impatience he tartly demands, "Have you any further trade with us?"

Evidently, the bond of affection that existed between them in their life at school, is shattered; and from the ashes of the dead friendship Hamlet feels arising an antipathy, which is fast growing into abhorrence and even into actual hostility. Aware of his open displeasure, the courtiers deem it opportune to appeal to the memory of his former love. His reply is a jesting allusion to the catechism of the State Church, by which he intends to avow, rather than to conceal his feeling, that he is using his tongue in a way forbidden, as much "as picking and stealing" are forbidden to the hands. Under the cover of friendship, they injudiciously continue

to prod him to disclose the cause of his distemper, assuring him that failure to share his grief with friends, will certainly force the King to bar the door upon his liberty. Deftly falling in with their suspicions, Hamlet assigns the loss of the crown as the cause of his grief, a cause, which, though the least of his wrongs, they will best understand:

"How can that be?" asks Rosencrantz in surprise, “Have you not the King's own word for your succession in Denmark?"

"Ay, Ay, Sir," retorts Hamlet, "but know you not the musty proverb: 'Whilst grass doth grow, oft starves the silly steed.'"

EASY AS LYING

The entrance of the musicians interrupts the trialogue, and leaves the royal emissaries baffled in the attempt to penetrate Hamlet's guise, and to fan his chilling reserve into glowing warmth. Though roused all the while to extreme irritation by the scarcely concealed purpose of his traitorous friends, the Prince had muffled his feelings, and, while preserving an exterior calm, had treated them with the mock gravity of princely courtesy. But now his demeanor is changed. He turns in glad relief to give the musicians a hearty welcome. Taking one of their instruments, he sharply addresses Guildenstern: "Come apart, sir, I would have a word or two with you in private." Of the two spies, he had been the most offensively forward and insistent on forcing himself on Hamlet, and, therefore, the latter, in utmost resentment, plies him with galling interrogatories: "Why do you go about, pursuing me like an animal in the chase? Why are you ever bent on getting to the windward of me, as if to drive me into a snare?"

Surprised as well as abashed at his heated words of expostulation, Guildenstern feels conscious of his offense, but