"Oh, God, that I were a writer!" I paraphrase Beatrice with all my
heart. Surely a _writer_ could not string words together about Henry
Irving's Hamlet and say _nothing, nothing_.

"We must start this play a living thing," he used to say at rehearsals,
and he worked until the skin grew tight over his face, until he became
livid with fatigue, yet still beautiful, to get the opening lines said
with individuality, suggestiveness, speed, and power.

_Bernardo:_ Who's there?

_Francisco:_ Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself.

_Bernardo:_ Long live the King!

_Francisco:_ Bernardo?

_Bernardo:_ He.

_Francisco:_ You come most carefully upon your hour.

_Bernardo:_ 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

_Francisco:_ For this relief much thanks; 'tis bitter cold....

And all that he tried to make others do with these lines, he himself did
with every line of his own part. Every word lived.

Some said: "Oh, Irving only makes Hamlet a love poem!" They said that, I