screaming in pattens.

The cabs on the stand in the great market-place at Elsinore are
seen to drive off, and several people are drowned. The gas-lamps
along the street are wrenched from their foundations, and shoot
through the troubled air. Whist, rush, hish! how the rain roars
and pours! The darkness becomes awful, always deepened by the
power of the music -- and see -- in the midst of a rush, and
whirl, and scream of spirits of air and wave -- what is that
ghastly figure moving hither? It becomes bigger, bigger, as it
advances down the platform -- more ghastly, more horrible,
enormous! It is as tall as the whole stage. It seems to be
advancing on the stalls and pit, and the whole house screams with
terror, as the Ghost of the Late Hamlet comes in, and begins to
speak. Several people faint, and the light-fingered gentry pick
pockets furiously in the darkness.

In the pitchy darkness, this awful figure throwing his eyes
about, the gas in the boxes shuddering out of sight, and the
wind-instruments bugling the most horrible wails, the boldest
spectator must have felt frightened. But hark! what is that
silver shimmer of the fiddles? Is it -- can it be -- the grey
dawn peeping in the stormy east? The ghost's eyes look blankly
towards it, and roll a ghastly agony. Quicker, quicker ply the
violins of Phoebus Apollo. Redder, redder grow the orient
clouds. Cockadoodledoo! crows that great cock which has just
come out on the roof of the palace. And now the round sun
himself pops up from behind the waves of night. Where is the
ghost? He is gone! Purple shadows of morn "slant o'er the snowy
sward," the city wakes up in life and sunshine, and we confess we