a hero without a plan, pushed on by events alone, endowed more properly with sentiments than with a character-in a word, weak. But the Hamlet of the critics and the Hamlet of Shakespeare are two different persons. A close review of the play will show that Hamlet is strong, not weak-that the basis of his character is strength, illimitable strength. There is not an act or an utterance of his, from first to last, which is not a manifestation of power. Slow, cautious, capricious, he may sometimes be, or seem to be; but always strong, always large-souled, always resistless.

With too much reason, Hamlet had lost all trust in his mother; and when we cease to trust our mothers, we cease to trust humanity. Hamlet belonged to that middle circle of the Sons of Light, who became cynics, instead of villains, in adversity. Characters of perfect sincerity, of exhaustless tenderness, of ready trust, when once deceived by the few that were dearest, become irrevocably mistrustful of all. Your commonplace neighbor who knows himself a sham, accepts, perhaps prefers, a society of shams; has no idea of being very true to anybody, or of anybody's being very true to him; leads a sham life and dies a sham death, as near as the latter achievement is possible, leaving a set of sham mourners behind him. But your heart, whose perfect insight was blinded only by its perfect love, once fooled in its tenderest faith, must be either saint or cynic; must belong either to God or to doubt forevermore. A blighted gentleness is as savage in the expression of its scorn as your born misanthropist or your natural villain; save that the hatred of the one is for vice and cant, and cunning, of the other for credulity and virtue; save that the last is cruel in word and deed, the first in word

alone.

By the inexorable logic of events, Hamlet is ranged against the throne, the conspicuous head and front of a moral opposition, an inevitable, though passive, rebel. If Horatio is loyal, no matter what their previous friendship, they are thenceforth foes. One must have lived through civil war to appreciate the dexterous nicety with which Hamlet feels former friend.

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

his

Ham.-I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor.-Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.

Even this little, from a man like Horatio, is enough; they are on the same side, rebels both. Quick as lightning the glance is given and returned; he can trust Marcellus and Bernardo, too, and bares his heart to them with a fierce sigh of relief.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in Heaven
Ere ever I had seen that day, Horatio.
My father-methinks I see my father.

*

Whatever may be thought of the words, the action-that doomed figure, crouching over its tables in the dim midnight —is a flash of positive madness, brief as lightning, but as terrible, too. In this moment of supreme trial, his mind gives way the remainder of the act is a struggle to restore the lost equilibrium. And in all the annals of tragedy, there is nothing half so frightful as this tremendous conflict of a godlike reason battling for its throne against Titanic terror and despair.

The walking ghost of a murdered king, fresh from the glare of penal fires, swearing an only son to vengeance, must be quite as trying to the soul of innocence as the chimeras of remorse to the nerves of guilt. If Hamlet's reason is momentarily dethroned, it is only to reassert its supremacy-only to pass triumphantly through the ordeal of delirious reaction.

The future is vague and hopeless, but, come what may, he means to be master of the situation. His manner must necessarily change, but he will mask the change with madnessan easy mask for one whose whole life is spent in holding real madness at bay-whose reason would be lost in dark abysses of despair, but for the quenchless truth and splendor of an imagination which encircles and upholds him like an outstretched angel's wing.

THE FOUNDING OF ISLAM

From Mohammed.'

ACT I

SCENE I. Night of Al Kadir.-Cave of Hara, three miles from Mecca.-Mohammed is seen prostrate upon the slope of a rock, resembling a rude pedestal, his face concealed by his turban.-Enter Cadijah.

CADIJAH (looking timidly around).—He bade me meet him here, before the moon

Had silvered half the night; but, as he spoke,
His flashing eyes were full of mystery;
His words were few, and stern, and tremulous.
And, knotted on his brow, the laboring vein
So fiercely swelled, that in his nervous grasp
I quivered like a leaf-and still my heart
Seems not to beat, but, with my creeping flesh,
To shudder. Yes-I tremble still.
Asleep? (She approaches, and bends over him.)
Asleep!-O, sweet surprise-I breathe again!

Son of Abdallah and Amina, hear!

(She sees him.)

(She embraces him.)

Mohammed, wake! (She tries to arouse him.) 'Tis strange!-his slumbers ever

Fled at the gentlest whisper of my voice,

Or at the faintest murmur of his babes.

(She tries again to wake him.) Awake! Awake! 'Tis thy Cadijah calls thee! (She starts up.).

Alas, this is not sleep! Some evil spirit
O'ershadows thee:-and, with prophetic soul,
Thou didst invoke Cadijah's presence here,
To share thy danger or avert the spell.

(She falls upon her knees, with her back to him.)

Hear, great Taâla! gleaming Sirius, hear!

Al Uzza, Hobal, guardian gods of Mecca,

Assist me now!

(At the mention of these idols, Mohammed lifts his head:

as she pronounces the last words, he rises, with his eyes fixed on the top of the rock.)

MOHAMMED.-Gone!-Gone!-Celestial messenger! Angel of light!-Whence came those damnèd sounds? CAD. My own dear lord!

MOH.-What!-thou?-Begone! Away!

The ground is holy!-Yes 'twas there-'twas there
The angel stood, in more than mortal splendor,
Before my dazzled vision!-I have heard thee,
Ambassador from Allah to my soul,

Have heard, and will obey!

(He bows reverently before the rock.)

CAD. Alas, he raves!

My lord, what aileth thee?

MOH.-Cadijah!-Tell me

Was it from thy most pure and cherished lips
Those names accursèd fell?

CAD.-What names, dear lord?

MOн. Al Uzza, Hobal, Sirius-Pah! they choke meThe names by which the idols are invoked!

CAD. Yes, I did ask our gods to bless thee.

MOH.-Hush!

Call them not gods—those blind and monstrous things,
Those crude deformities, misshapen lumps

Of lifeless clay! THERE IS NO GOD BUT ONE—
MOHAMMED IS HIS PROPHET!

Hear me, Cadijah. Thou rememberest well
When first I led to fruitful Syria

Thy caravan: my fifteenth summer still
Was blooming in my cheeks. I there beheld
The rites of Jew and Christian, and oft heard
The precepts of their sacred volumes. Then
The unknown truths, of which my pining soul
Had vaguely dreamed, began to dawn in beauty.
In solitude and silence, years rolled by:
Scorning idolatry, mistrusting all
The subtle heresies of monk and Jew,
Mine eye, unsatisfied, was ever raised

To its Creator, asking light! light! light!

It came, at last, Cadijah-here!-this night!-
This very hour!

I was here alone,

Expecting thee, when, suddenly, I heard
My name pronounced, with voice more musical
Than Peri warbling in the dreamy ear.
Ravished, I turned, and saw upon that rock,
Resplendent hovering there, an angel form:
I knew 'twas Gabriel, Allah's messenger.
Celestial glories compassed him around;
Arched o'er his splendid head, his glistening wings
Shed light, and musk, and melody. No more
I saw no more my mortal eye could bear.
Prone on my face I fell, and, from the dust,
Besought him quench his superhuman radiance.
"Look up!" he said: I stole a trembling glance;
And there, a beauteous youth, he stood and smiled.
Then, as his ruby lips unclosed, I heard-

"GO, TEACH WHAT MORTALS KNOW NOT YET—THERE IS No GOD BUT ONE-MOHAMMED IS HIS PROPHET!"

My mission is to all mankind, but first

To thee! Dost thou believe?

CAD. My lord!

Moн. My wife!

Believe! for though thy breath is half my life,
And though I hold thy deep maternal love
Dearer than all the wealth that lines the sea,
Or decks the Persian priest, or tyrant Greek-
Dearer than all the beauty in the world
Gathered and moulded into one fair woman—
Yet, by the throne of Allah, whose commands
Possess my soul, if thou believest not,

With thy whole heart and mind, thou shalt expire,
A victim to thy infidelity!

(She falls upon her knees.)

Who will believe, if thou art recreant?