upon which the old French dramatists built
their epics has but few modern disciples.

For our own part, we confess to the vulgar
want of capacity for the thorough appreciation
of the Unities. We have a lugubrious
recollection of the performance of Hamlet at the
Théâtre-Français: the Hamlet of Shakespeare,
by Ducis. We came away from that elevated
representation full of Ducis—and dreariness.

But let us take the play as it is writ, and
see what the Unities have done for it. In order
to do justice to Ducis we must first forget
Shakespeare. The simplicity of the play,
according to the Unities, is astonishing. There is
but one scene in the whole tragedy, and that is
at "Elsinore, in the palace of the kings of Denmark."
The first act sets us right with regard to
some of our old friends. Hamlet is king, not
prince, of Denmark, consequent upon the sudden
death of his father. Claudius, "first prince of
the blood," is conspiring the king's overthrow,
assisted by that pleasant old gentleman whom
we delight to hear called a "fishmonger," Polonius,
now active as a cool, villanous conspirator,
of middle age, and without a spark of
eccentricity about him. This precious pair are quite
agreed that Hamlet, the king, from some cause
unexplained, is "silent, sad, morose," half dead,
and more than half insane; and this view of his
case they have impressed upon their co-
conspirators as a sufficient reason for his overthrow.
Claudius has, besides, some special grievances
against the old king, inasmuch as his late majesty
had never properly appreciated his military
services, and had even disgraced him at court.
Worse than this, he had decreed that the
beautiful Ophelia,

      The sole and feeble scion of my race,

exclaims Claudius, "should never marry." Here
is a correction! Ophelia is the daughter of
Claudius, not of Polonius, "O Jephtha, judge
of Israel!" This determination on the part of
the late king, that Ophelia

       The light of hymen's torch should ne'er behold,

creates an agreeable complication which the
readers of Shakespeare will be quite unprepared
for, and as it can scarcely be called justifiable,
excites a sort of sympathy in the audience for
Claudius which assists in the general
bewilderment.

Polonius, in his heavy villany, suggests to
Claudius that, as the queen-mother, Gertrude,
doubtless intends that he should take the place
of her dead husband, a refusal might jeopardise
the whole plot; upon which Claudius explains
that he is about to make an offer of himself at
once to the queen, not in earnest, but as a blind
till the conspiracy shall be ripe for execution.
Gertrude opportunely enters; Polonius discreetly
retires; and Claudius makes his proposal, with
considerable formality, however, seeing that his
offer is set in Alexandrine verse, and in rhyme.
The queen is in no humour for love; seized with
remorse for the murder of her husband, in which
she had assisted, she reproves Claudius for this
expression of his passion so soon after the death
of the king:

         Upon whose dust, within an urn enclosed,
         The darkness of the tomb has scarcely closed.

Here we have the first intimation of the jar
business, which afterwards assumes such
formidable proportions.

The queen, in her repentance, has become so
thoroughly virtuous, that she repudiates all
thought of marriage; declares herself resolved
to devote her life in future to the welfare of her
son, King Hamlet, and directs Polonius, who is
called upon the stage for the purpose, to give
immediate orders for his coronation. This
disposed of, there enters Elvire, who is the
confidante of Gertrude—somehow they never can
get on without a confidante in the Unities—and
who comes to announce the arrival of Norceste:
Norceste, the dread of the conspirators, the hope
of the queen-mother, and the dear friend of
Hamlet. Norceste, indeed, is no other than
our old crony Horatio, with new powers, who
has just hastened from England to comfort and
assist Hamlet on the death of his father.

An episode is now introduced in the shape of
a revelation on the part of the queen-mother of
her share in the murder of the late king. This
is partly extorted from her by Elvire, who had
beheld Gertrude in her throes of anguish, and
being in her innocent stupidity unable to define
the cause, presses the queen for an explanation.
Gertrude confesses that Claudius had been her
first love, but that, for state reasons, she had
married the king. Upon the return of the
victorious Claudius from the wars, her first passion
had been reawakened, and the slights cast upon
him by her husband had increased her love for
the one while they had excited an aversion for
the other. At a time when the king was sick,
and craved refreshing drinks, Claudius prepared
a "perfidious cup" of poison for his especial
solacement, and committed it to the hands of
the too willing Gertrude, his wife, to be given
to him. She, poor, weak woman, at the sight
of the haggard face of her sick husband,
repented of her purpose:

         My blood froze up; of reason's power denied,
          I fled—but left the chalice by his side.

As a natural consequence of which oversight,
the fevered thirsty king, on waking, drank up
the poison and died.

Norceste (Horatio) now arrives upon the
scene to find the king dead and buried—that is
to say inurned; confusion and gloom in the
court; and his old companion, Hamlet,
afflicted with all the signs of incipient madness.
Upon this state of matters he makes the bold
reflection:

          In court suspicion only waits its time;
          A mighty secret there is oft a mighty crime.

The interview between Hamlet and Norceste
brings Shakespeare faintly before our eyes.
Hamlet has only seen the spirit of his father in
imagination. Twice he has dreamed of him,
and on the latter occasion the angry apparition