That youth and observation copied there; O villain, villain, smiling, damnèd villain! My tables, my tables, -meet it is, I set it down, 66 I have sworn 't. [Writing. : There is here and there in this speech some shadow of resolve, but it is faint and transient; and there are some psychological characteristics in it worthy of passing attention; two especially one of these exemplifies a peculiarity in sensitive minds, youthful, inexperienced, new to the blows of fortune and accident, and untrained to endurance, in consequence of which any sudden and sharp mortification, or any novelty affecting character or position, or involving some exposure of the secrets of the heart, creates a hasty resolve, generally soon forgotten, to set aside all the past, to re-model all the manner of life, to alter every habit, to sacri fice every customary pleasure and solace, and thenceforth to live secluded in gloom and reserve. Hamlet's temperament has not been ripened by circumstances beyond this age of juvenile sensibility and sudden resolve, on which no action follows. Yet, so fluctuating and ungoverned are his thoughts, that after swearing to abjure all saws and fond records he reverts to his note-books, to set down that smiles and villany may exist together. Another mental trait, equally true to nature, and equally confirmed by observation, is the strange mixture of a kind of mirth with painful emotions; an admixture to be attributed, it would seem, to the temporary absence of the controlling power of reason, which leaves every emotion in the exercise of a lawless liberty. This peculiarity is more strongly developed in the conversation that immediately ensues. When his friends at length meet with Hamlet, they do not find him altogether as they might have expected. That something strange would have to be listened to, and that they would be enjoined to undertake some matter of moment, was what they must have been chiefly prepared for; but they find him shaken, unsteady, almost hysterical; without gravity or solemnity, and also without trust; ready, indeed, to talk, but talking with a madman's perversity, not unmixed with a madman's craftiness. As he is about to approach them, they call to him through the darkness HOR. [within]. Illo, ho, ho, my lord! HAM. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come. Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS. MAR. How is't, my noble lord? HAM. How say you then; would heart of man once think it ?-- But you'll be secret, HOR., MAR. Ay, by heaven, my lord. HAM. There's ne'er a villain, dwelling in all Denmark, But he's an arrant knave. This, Horatio very reasonably observes, there needed no ghost from the grave to tell them. But Hamlet's coherence of purpose has yielded under the terrible impressions lately made upon him: he starts aside from every direct remark, for his thoughts are fixed on other matter. Broken suggestions have arisen in his mind touching the stern justice required at his hands upon the smiling damned villain, his uncle, but as yet he cannot firmly comprehend the terrible image of duty that is before him; all his ideas are incomplete, confused, and confounded; his soul is tossed in a gulf of fantasy. He is on the point of revealing to his friends the wonderful recital to which he has listened; but either the effort appals him, or some distrust inherent in his nature seals up his confidence. Yet he knows that if ever man trusted man he may at least trust Horatio; but he is not composed enough for any frank communion, and only becomes anxious to dismiss his companions, and to be alone: he shakes hands with them, and would despatch them to their business and desire, observing that every man has business and desire, such as it is, and adding, with a sense of the new burthen on his own mind and business, And for mine own poor part, Look you, I'll go pray. These wild and hurling words are not listened to without comment by Horatio, in whom they can but cause friendly solicitude; and the interview is thus prolonged. Hamlet is still pursuing some imagined scheme of action, including secresy as to the great fact of the ghost's appearance, which he requires the other witnesses of it not to reveal. The voice of the ghost is still in his ear; its tones could not be forgotten; and even now, again, that voice is heard as from the earth beneath, ascending to him where he stands and wherever he moves: it adjures his friends to swear to the secresy he is enjoining, but it comes to him without solemnity, and only adds to his wild excitement. He jests with the uneasy ghost, calls it boy, and true-penny, and old mole, and fellow in the cellarage. The awe which its appearance had first inspired, before its dreadful tale was told, has passed away, or been lost in the confusion of all natural |