The good action requires time and patience, the truly moral act demands consideration, sure preparation and a calm, collected state of mind. Add to this, that the pressing, rapid movement with which the action hurries on, demands a counterpoise to save the spectator from anguish and confusion. This is probably the reason why Shakspeare has not merely arranged points for resting and stopping, but has also intentionally made Malcolm's hesitating, almost too considerate thoughtfulness, a contrast to Macbeth's violent energy. In what an ingenious manner does Shakspeare, at the same time, represent the two forms in which the will is historically manifested! On the one hand we have the rash act which follows close upon the determination, attaining its object through confusion and intimidation like a hostile inroad; on the other, the careful, all considerate resolution, which far precedes the action and leads it slowly but surely to its goal. And there is as little need to point out how ingeniously the poet here makes the two principal forms of historical importance play into each other, as to explain how it is thatspite of the above-mentioned defects-this tragedy has won the special favour and applause of most critics. in CHAPTER V. IF the drama is to mirror 'the very age and body of the time, its form and pressure,' it will not only have to reflect the thoughts, tendencies and motives which lie most clearly within view, but will also have to portray such as are mysterious and deeply hidden, and yet determine the fate of men, nations and periods of time. And where the poet has based the course of the action represented, more especially on those motives which slumber in the depths of the soul, the leading thoughts of the representation will, of course, not appear so clear as to prevent there being manifold ways of conceiving and viewing them, although but one of these is the true centre, to which all others are subordinate, and with which they are interwoven. This remark is specially confirmed by the tragedy of Hamlet.' If it is always a difficult matter, in Shakspeare, to penetrate to the first foundation upon which he has erected his great structures, this applies specially to the case now to be discussed. Every new enquirer, who has thought and written on 'Hamlet,' believes that he has at last succeeded in fathoming it; and yet no one has succeeded in satisfactorily solving the æsthetic problem here presented, or of explaining with convincing clearness either the character of Hamlet, and the motives of his conduct, the intentions of the poet, or the connection and internal unity of the complicate drama. The play has been censured on account of this obscurity which hangs over it, and I do not hesitate to acknowledge the defect it implies. But I find an excuse for the poet, on the one hand in the fact that, as has already been intimated, we often enough remain wholly unconscious of the first cause and impulse of our mode of action, and that (particularly in difficult, unusual and complicated positions in life) we follow, not only indistinct, but even wavering and varying motives. On the other hand, that the mysterious sort of twilight which envelops the play is, so to say, but the shadow which is inseparable from light, in other words, the defect is but the obverse of an excellency; the indistinctness does not rob the drama of the intense interest which this very play has always and invariably created; on the contrary, in my opinion, it contributes considerably towards increasing and deepening the interest. This tragedy, if we look at it as a whole, may be said to lie before us like a moon-lit romantic landscape, traversed by bright rocky peaks and dark ravines, while in the centre is a deep valley partially illuminated by rays of light; what we see irresistibly charms our imagination to fill up and complete what the darkness of night conceals; our eyes rest in deep meditation on the dark portions and are, as it were, kept riveted there till our imagination has finished its work. We rest satisfied with its interpretation in spite of its uncertainty, because we feel that in this case the uncertainty only adds to the charm of the whole, and because we have to confess, that poetry nowhere works for a searching intellect-that born realist-but for the completing and developing power of the imagination. Goethe-after quoting Hamlet's words: The times are out of joint; O, cursed spite! that ever I was born to set them right!'- says: These words, it seems to me, contain the key to Hamlet's whole conduct, and it is clear to my mind, that Shakspeare intended to describe a great deed laid upon a soul which was unfit for the task. It is in this sense that I find the whole piece composed. We have here an oak-tree planted in a costly vase which ought only to have borne lovely flowers within its bosom; the roots expand and burst the vase.' A. W. Schlegel, on the other hand, calls the tragedy a tragedy of thought, suggested by continual and unsatisfied meditation on the destiny of man, on the dark confusion of the events of this world, and designed to awaken the same meditation in the minds of the spectators.' He thinks that its object was to show how a study which aims at exhausting, to the farthest limits of human foresight, all the contingencies and all the possible consequences of a particular act, must paralyze the power of energy, as Hamlet himself says in the words (iii. 1): "Thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; Goethe calls Hamlet tender and noble, a born prince, desirous of ruling only in order to give free scope to what is good, of an agreeable exterior, moral by nature, of a kindly disposition, not originally melancholy and pensive, but forced by circumstances to be so; in short, a beautiful, pure and noble, highly moral nature, but without the physical strength which makes the hero, and sinking beneath a weight which he can neither bear nor cast off, to whom every duty is sacred, but the present one too arduous, etc. Schlegel, on the other hand, while granting Hamlet many excellent qualities, accuses him, nevertheless, of weakness of will, a natural predisposition to cunning and dissimulation, want of decision amounting to cowardice, a certain malicious pleasure in the, more accidental than premeditated, ruin of his enemies, also of scepticism and want of firm faith. Goethe, unconsciously makes him a middle-aged Werther; as with the latter, so with Hamlet, the natural weakness of his power of will and energy are said to be at strife with the external powers of unfavourable circumstances, antagonistic to the character of the hero; as in Werther, an excess of sentiment, so in Hamlet a task in excess of his strength, is placed in a vessel which breaks beneath the weight. In both cases we have a melancholy sadness brooding over the corrupt, unhealthy state of the world. Schlegel, on the other hand, finds Hamlet to be a picture of the German nature at the beginning of the nineteenth century, a youth who has developed into the man, who has turned away from the practical side of life, and lives wholly in the world of his own thoughts, and who cannot bestir himself to undertake the task imposed upon him, because his power of will and energy evaporate in the making of theories, in brooding, in reflection and wavering meditation. Both of these views, however, only mirror the character of their own ages; VOL. I. 2 I yet they are shared by Fr. Horn and a great number of eminent critics more or less modified. I, on my part, do not think that either Goethe's or Schlegel's conception has hit the main point in the Prince's character. Hamlet, although an exceedingly noble nature is, nevertheless, not Goethe's ideal, but neither does he, although not free from weaknesses, possess the bad qualities Schlegel imputes to him. Each of these opinions is contradicted by features, as clearly expressed as they are essential, in the description given by the poet himself. In the first place, Hamlet is so little wanting in courage and boldness that he might rather be charged with audacity and fool-hardiness, for, without either hesitation or fear, he tears himself violently out of his friends' hands, and follows the ghost to the lonely spot to which it beckons him-although not only Horatio, but a hardened soldier like Marcellus, endeavour to hold him back, because they lack the courage to run the risk. And how can a man be accused of 'want of decision amounting to cowardice,' how can he be denied to possess courage and energy when, in a fight with pirates, he not only is among the foremost in the fight, but alone ventures to board the hostile ship? It is true that Hamlet exhibits this manliness and decision of character, this daring spirit, only in moments of inward excitement, of excessive emotion; but courage that can look death defiantly in the face, is always accompanied by a certain excitement of soul; and in the fight with the pirates the Prince's soul could have been excited only by the danger and pleasure in fighting. This alone can be admitted, that Hamlet himself does not wish, nor approve of blind actions, which proceed only from violent mental emotion; on the contrary, he tries to suppress this inclination which he finds in himself, and where he succeeds in this, his decision does indeed appear slow of action, his energy languid. But this is not weakness of will, not want of energy, it is only the result of his determination to know his will always guided by thought, and of his way of thinking which-in consequence of the innate sensitiveness of his soul-is easily carried away to far-reaching considerations and reflections, and can, therefore, only with difficulty |