At the Fancy, we saw "Harlequin Hamlet, or Daddy's Ghost and
Nunky's Pison," which is all very well -- but, gentlemen, if you
don't respect Shakspeare, to whom will you be civil? The palace
and ramparts of Elsinore by moon and snowlight is one of
Loutherbourg's finest efforts. The banqueting hall of the palace
is illuminated: the peaks and gables glitter with the snow: the
sentinels march blowing their fingers with the cold -- the
freezing of the nose of one of them is very neatly and
dexterously arranged: the snow storm rises: the winds howl
awfully along the battlements: the waves come curling, leaping,
foaming to shore. Hamlet's umbrella is whirled away in the
storm. He and his two friends stamp on each other's toes to keep
them warm. The storm-spirits rise in the air, and are whirled
howling round the palace and the rocks. My eyes! what tiles and
chimney-pots fly hurtling through the air! As the storm reaches
its height (here the wind instruments come in with prodigious
effect, and I compliment Mr Brumby and the violoncellos) -- as
the snow storm rises (queek, queek, queek, go the fiddles, and
then thrumpty thrump comes a pizzicato movement in Bob Major,
which sends a shiver into your very boot-soles), the thunder-
clouds deepen (bong, bong, bong, from the violoncellos). The
forked lightning quivers through the clouds in a zig-zag scream
of violins -- and look, look, look! as the frothing, roaring
waves come rushing up the battlements, and over the reeling
parapet, each hissing wave becomes a ghost, sends the gun-
carriages rolling over the platform, and plunges into the water
again.

Hamlet's mother comes on to the battlements to look for her son.
The storm whips her umbrella out of her hands, and she retires