be never so skilfully planned--when the eyes of deep wisdom rest on
it, it becomes like a trivial show that we offer to very small
children at nightfall: some magic-lantern performance, whose tawdry
imposture a last gleam of sunshine lays bare. Can you conceive Jesus
Christ--nay, any wise man you have happened to meet--in the midst of
the unnatural gloom that overhung Elsinore? Is not every action of
Hamlet induced by a fanatical impulse, which tells him that duty
consists in revenge alone? and does it need superhuman effort to
recognise that revenge never can be a duty? I say again that Hamlet
thinks much, but that he is by no means wise. He cannot conceive
where to look for the weak spot in destiny's armour. Lofty thoughts
suffice not always to overcome destiny; for against these destiny
can oppose thoughts that are loftier still; but what destiny has
ever withstood thoughts that are simple and good, thoughts that are
tender and loyal? We can triumph over destiny only by doing the very
reverse of the evil she fain would have us commit. For no tragedy
can be inevitable. At Elsinore there is not a soul but refuses to
see, and hence the catastrophe; but a soul that is quick with life
will compel those around it to open their eyes. Where was it written
that Laertes, Ophelia, Hamlet, Claudius, Gertrude, should die--
where, save in Hamlet's pitiful blindness? But was this blindness
inevitable? Why speak of destiny when a simple thought had sufficed
to arrest all the forces of murder? The empire of destiny is surely
sufficiently vast. I acknowledge her might when a wall crashes down
on my head, when the storm drives a ship on the rocks, when disease
attacks those whom I love; but into man's soul she never will come,
uncalled. Hamlet is unhappy because he moves in unnatural darkness;
and his ignorance puts the seal upon his unhappiness. We have but to
issue commands and fate will obey--there is nothing in the world
that will offer such long and patient submission. Horatio, up to the