L. He was one by nature adapted to “consider too curiously,” for his own peace.
A. All thoughtful minds are so.
L. All geniuses have not been sad.
A. So far as they are artistic, merely, they differ not from instinctive, practical characters, they find relief in work. But so far as they tend to evolve thought, rather than to recreate the forms of things, they suffer again and again the pain of death, because they open the gate to the next, the higher realm of being. Shakspeare knew both, the joy of creation, the deep pang of knowledge, and this last he has expressed in Hamlet with a force that vibrates almost to the centre of things.
L. It is marvellous, indeed, to hear the beautiful young prince catalogue—
“The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, * * * *
* * The whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, * * *
* * * * The spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.”
To thee, Hamlet, so complete a nature,
“The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The noble and most sovereign reason,
The unmatched form and feature of blown youth,”
could such things come so near? Who then shall hope a refuge, except through inborn stupidity or perfected faith?
A. Ay, well might he call his head a globe! It was fitted to comprehend all that makes up that “quintessence of dust, how noble in reason; how infinite in faculties; in form, and moving, how express and admirable; in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god; the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!” yet to him, only a quintessence of dust!
L. And this world only “a sterile promontory.”
