structs me," in answer to her message desiring him | breath;" (though it has been said that these words to "use some gentle entertainment to Laertes, before were introduced as a sort of apologetic reference to they fall to play." the obesity of the first actor of the part-Burbage; There is, moreover, subtle indication of his habi-yet they are borne out elsewhere as relating to Hamlet tually placid manner, conveyed in his own surprise at finding himself railing, when he rebukes himself that he should In short, Hamlet's nature is sensitive and sweet; but wrenched and warped from the calm of its original tenour, into wayward starts and fitful moods of sarcasm and scorn. He is the victim of an onerous and abhorrent task, imposed by inexorable destiny, and not a ranting, harsh, inveterate misanthrope. What touching and passionate deprecation of the burthen unexpectedly devolving upon him is there in the words: "The time is out of joint; O cursed spite! That ever I was born to set it right!" And how affecting is the profound melancholy with which he abandons himself to the fulfilment of the stern behest from which his sensitive nature shrinks in conscious weakness and unfitness: 66 Hold, hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there, And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by Heaven!" Shakspeare has dwelt with such minute and elaborate touches upon Hamlet's peculiar characteristics, that we behold him palpably, in his bearing, manner, and personal habits, no less than in his moral and mental individuality. We see him first with downcast eyes and mourning garment, where his mother bids him cast his "nighted colour" off, and speaks of the "vailed lids" with which he "ever seeks his father in the dust;" of his negligent attire, his pale face, his trembling knees, his piteous looks and sighs, and heedless carriage, we hear from Ophelia, where she describes to her father the prince's sad visit to her chamber. But he himself tells us: ""Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, And, therefore, in order that we may receive full conviction that Hamlet has "that within, which passeth show," Shakspeare has not failed to give us still surer indication of his peculiar temperament. How well is the constitution of the contemplative student, the sedentary inactive man, depicted in the several passages which describe him as "fat and scant of himself;) as being of a "complexion" that makes him feel the weather "sultry and hot;" and as daring not to drink while he is warm with the fencing-bout, when his mother offers to wipe the moisture from his face. All these circumstances are better suited to the ideal image we form in reading, than well adapted for stage representation. The very supineness, and passive despondency with which he submits to the mortal effects of his death-blow, are entirely consistent with his particular disposition: "Had I but time, (as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,) O! I could tell you,But let it be "Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, That would not let me sleep: methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes." An impression of his susceptible temperament is well conveyed by the circumstance of his shivering with cold as he comes upon the castle platform; the night air is not only chill in itself-but he feels it through his excited nerves, which are intensely and thrillingly conscious of the expected visitation from his father's spirit. And then, his abhorrence of the Danish intemperance is finely in keeping with his character as a refined scholar, accustomed to find delight in the recreations of imagination and study, rather than in sensual pursuits. Concerning his own tastes and habits, we are informed that he "sometimes walks four hours together in the lobby;" and he himself talks of its being "the breathing time of the day" with him, which gives the idea of a custom of taking set exercise, proper to a sedentary student; besides, we know that he is an adept in fencing, and says to Horatio, that he has "been in continual practice" during Laertes' absence. It has been said, "it is in the scene with the Queen that Hamlet vindicates his own sanity." He does so, in distinct words; but surely he most effectually proves that he is not essentially in madness, but mad in craft," by his own conduct in the scenes where he is 66 alone, or unwatched. In his soliloquies he is meditative, profoundly philosophical, and rationally argumentative. If he waver, it is the irresolution of a man more prone to reflection than to action ;-of a mind that takes delight in the subtleties of speculation and thought, rather than in the bold deductions and resolves that should be the result of conscientious argument, and self-scrutiny. In the unacted scene with the captain of Fortinbras's forces, and in the one with the grave-digger, where there is no need to "put an antic disposition on," he is coherent, and calmly reasonable. Hamlet's feigning himself to be mad is of a piece with the Earl of Kent's determination in the play of King Lear. Kent, with his disguise of servingman, assumes a blunt straightforward boldness of manner, as best suited to his former habits of command when a powerful nobleman; and Hamlet resolves upon sheltering himself beneath the cloak of avowed madness, as most appropriate to account for the "wild and whirling words," which he feels must occasionally burst from the promptings of his crushed and writhing spirit. The sense of relief with which his pent heart relaxes, in the utterance of those four simple words, "now i am alone," after the long scene of worrying, spying, besetting persecution he has just endured from Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern, communicates itself sympathetically to the reader, and we echo the sigh with which he breathes them forth, as he feels that he is released from the irksome necessity of acting a part. It is interesting to notice how emphatically Shakspeare has stated the age of this, the finest of all his characters. Polonius and Horatio both mention him as young Hamlet; but this may be partly from their being accustomed to speak of the late king, (whose name was the same as his son's,) and from their wish to distinguish the prince by this designation. His youth, also, is frequently adverted to in general terms, by several persons in the drama; but the author has, in one instance, precisely stated the exact age he wishes to be known as that of his hero. It will be remembered that in the church-yard scene, Hamlet asks the grave-digger: "How long hast thou been a grave maker ?" Clown. Of all the days i'the year I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. Hamlet. How long is that since? Clown. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that! It was the very day that young Hamlet was born." And very shortly after, he says:— "I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years." It is singular, and worthy of note, that Shakspeare has taken the pains to define the precise age of another of his characters, who is an argumentative, reflective man, like Hamlet; and he has given him almost a similar number of years; as if he believed that to be the age when a man's mind attains its highest point of maturity and perfection. Iago is eight-and-twenty; he says: "I have looked upon the world for four times seven years." Iago and Hamlet are both pre-eminently men of intellect: they are both proud of this divine gift; and both fond of exercising its powers. They are even made to use a similar expression as to the supremacy of volition. Hamlet says: "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." And Iago maintains that "'Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus." But then, how beautifully has our beloved Shakspeare taken the opportunity afforded him in the pourtrayal of these two characters-both so highly gifted in their mental faculty-of discriminating between the merely intellectual man, and the man who has heart as well as mind! Iago is selfish, wicked, and utterly sceptical in moral worth, either as existing in himself or in others. His total want of faith in goodness prevents his advancing any claim to our respect and esteem, and mars the impression of his otherwise commanding and undeniable genius. The very success of his schemes, and the influence obtained by his mental superiority over the objects of his hatred, are impaired by this moral defect in himself. The lesson is a profound one. Hamlet, on the contrary, not more firmly claims our admiration, than he attracts our regard. As the philosopher, the scholar, the princely student, the wise logician, the accomplished gentleman, he in turn wins our emulative respect; but not more securely than, as the affectionate son, the unhappily alienated lover, the tender confiding friend, the gentle-hearted man, he gains our fond attachment, our dearest consideration, our affection, our love. Hazlitt says:-"We have been so used to this tragedy, that we hardly know how to criticise it, any more than we should know how to describe our own faces." How simply true this is! And yet, reverential affection for the sublime drama that has furnished us with so many ardent aspirations and consoling reflections, leads us still to add our own poor thoughts upon the inexhaustible theme. It is this admiring love, joined with the tenderness of intimacy, which lends us courage to profess our creed (however imperfect the expression may be), with respect to a subject as well known, but better prized than a (haply) plain set of features. But, at the same time, it is this familiar feeling of loving regard, combining with high estimation of its infinite merits, that makes us prefer enjoying this sublime play in the tranquil retirement of our own room, to beholding it acted in a crowded theatre. Thus apart, we indulge a sense of exclusive and entire fruition, akin to the one with which we welcome a cherished friend to the sanctuary of our own home after meeting in a thronged society. Hamlet on the stage we see and hear; but Hamlet in Shakspeare's immortal book, we know and love! FACTS ABOUT THE FUNGI. THE Fungi are a despised family, principally because so much ignorance prevails about them; and they are a neglected family, because their real value is scarcely dreamt of. Both these popular estimates of fungi are unjust. Humble as their position in the world of vegetation appears, their importance is proportionate to their humility; and much as a nation of roastbeef-eating Englishmen may scoff at fungi as an article of diet, they form the delight of gourmands on the continent, the food of some nations in South America, and the intoxicating media of nations in the north-eastern parts of Asia. Creation's homily throughout is, "Despise not small things;" and the fungi are an instance in point. However, despised or cared for, it is all one to the fungi, as to all things else in this harmonious scheme. They have their allotted duties to fulfil in the universe, and in obedience to the Creator's laws they "act well their part." Will man take no heed of them, and trample under thoughtless foot their wonderful organization? It is his own loss, not their harm. Possibly our article may call some degree of attention to them, and add, at the same time, somewhat to fungal dignity, and to the esculent resources of our country. Such, at all events, is our intention in its composition. The fungi are propagated by two processes: either by means of "spores" attached to the cellular tissue within the cap which we are familiar with as rising above the ground; or by means of what is called "spawn," consisting of a number of filamentous processes often residing principally in the portion of the fungus on or under ground; the spawn is technically called mycelium. One of the most familiar examples of a fungal is the common mouldiness which appears on decaying substances. When a minute portion of this delicate substance is placed on the field of the microscope, a curious spectacle presents itself. A vast array of little drumsticks seems paraded before the eye. These are the simply formed heads and filaments of the "mould." Looking at them more closely they are found to consist of little articulated filaments, placed end to end, surmounted by minute round spherules which contain the spores. The cellule which encloses these microscopic spores generally bursts, and the spores are scattered abroad to the winds to seek a suitable place of development. By this means mould extends with the utmost rapidity. The rupture of the cellule, and dispersion of the spores, forms a most interesting sight on the stage of a good microscope. These germs are exceedingly minute, and being very light they float with every passing air. Their number is Let us deal with them scientifically first, and amazing; it is not to be adequately expressed we shall then have freedom to investigate the by figures, or conceived by the imagination. curiosities of their natural history. Fungi "The sporules," says Fries, "are so numerous, have been examined chemically by M. Payen. in a single individual I have reckoned above Their constituents are:-1, water; 2, cellulose; 10,000,000; so subtle they are scarcely visible 3, three substances containing nitrogen; 4, fatty to the naked eye, and often resemble thin matter, analogous to wax; 5, other fatty sub-smoke; so light, raised perhaps by evaporation stances of different fluidity; 6, sugar; 7, some peculiar substance which turns brown when exposed to air; 8, an aromatic substance; 9, traces of sulphur; and 10, minute traces of salts of silex and potash. Botany tells us that the fungi belong to the cellular flowerless plants; that is, that they consist entirely of a congeries of minute cells or filaments; they are without floral appendages, and have no structures analogous to the leaves, roots, or branches of the more highly organized forms of vegetation. It will be asked then, how are they nourished, and how propagated? The fungi derive their nutriment by simply imbibing the juices of the material from whence they are produced. If, for example, a choice fruit has been laid aside in a damp place, speedily a crop of fungi springs up on it, and live luxurious by drinking in the luscious juices destined probably for the regalement of very different creatures. Thus they are able to dispense with the cumbrous apparatus of roots and spongioles, and are thereby the more fitted for rapid development in every suitable position. into the atmosphere, and are dispersed in so many ways by the attraction of the sun, insects, wind, electricity, adhesion, &c., that it is difficult to conceive a place from which they can be excluded." For aught we know, then, the vital air we breathe may carry on its wings such messengers of life with every breath; or they may be upborne in myriads on the mimic ocean of a tumbler of water. Whether this be so or not, it is truly wonderful to observe the ubiquity of the fungal principle. How often in dismay does the housekeeper carefully open her long bottled-up fruit, half suspecting the result, and find a forest of fungi pressing up against the cork! In short, no place is secure against their invasion. The larder and the cellar, the drawing-room and the kitchen, are free to them. Yes, and the loftiest attic and the deepest well are all one to them; they luxuriate upon our dainty food, or they revel upon our damp and dusty papers; or even swim in islands of the most delicate pale blue, upon the black seas of our ink-bottles. Wherever the wild wind penetrates, there are they. In consequence of this fact, so hard to realize, and of some peculiarities in the development of the fungals, it has even been a serious question whether the fungi were rightly considered to be vegetable productions at all; and it has been proposed to constitute them as an independent kingdom, equally distinct from animals and vegetables. It has been doubted by others also, that spores were actually necessary to their production; and some singular arguments are adducible, which would almost seem to justify the opinion. By this theory fungi are conceived to be merely accidental developments of vegetable matter, called into existence by special conditions of light, heat, earth, and air. It is possible, for example, by a certain mixture of organic and inorganic ingredients, and by subsequently exposing it to proper conditions of temperature, &c. to produce invariably a particular species of fungal the ordinary mushroom. Now, say they, if the mushroom sprang from seeds or sporules floating in the air, this invariable result could not happen, as in that case many different species would necessarily spring up. Again, fungi are often produced constantly upon the same kind of matter, and upon nothing else; apparently strong evidence in favour of the accidental production of these plants. Moreover, fungals often spring up after storms, or only in particular states of the atmosphere. We believe a consideration, which, to our knowledge at least, has not been before suggested, will explain the difficulty, and reassure the naturalist in his belief of the really plant-like habits and development of the fungals. It is well known that all plants require the presence of certain constituents in the soil for their development, and they will only grow where such constituents are to be found; hence, as has been well demonstrated by Liebig, some plants will invariably follow the steps of man whithersoever he wanders, because, in the excreta of human life, they find the peculiar conditions most favourable to their development. What, therefore, is the gardener accomplishing when he mingles certain ingredients together, and apparently manufactures mushrooms? Simply bringing together those constituents most favourable to the development of that particular tribe; the omnipresent sporules find the place suitable to their growth, while those of other species do not, and hence the invariable consequence is, that these die, while the others live, and become edible fungi. Upon similar principles the growth of fungi from particular tissues may be explained, since these tissues themselves contain different ingredients, some possibly more adapted to some species than they would be to others. Such a solution to the enigma has at all events all the force of analogy in higher forms of plants, and this is a weighty consideration. While, however, it appears a matter of indifference to the fungals where they make their appearance, they have their choice spots of development, where they increase to the largest extent. Where are these? Not in the broad sun-light of the tropics, not in the pure sweet air of the wholesome fields, not in the carefully tended pastures of the amateur florist. No! they are lucifugous plants; they hate the sharp penetrating glitter of the open day, their paradise is in the dark and dismal regions of the long-darkened and forgotten cellar; or they rejoice in putrid numbers crowding the neglected mines; or deep in forest dells they squat beneath overshadowing trunks and boughs, nourished by yellow streams of decomposing vegetation. And, as a general rule, they are equally dainty about their food; they almost universally luxuriate upon decaying animal or vegetable substances; and while many substances appear to resist their attacks when sound, such as fruit, yet, let the smallest speck of decay commence, and the fungals crowd upon the spot, and in a little while they alone remain, the fruit itself having been consumed in their production. Several remarkable exceptions exist to this law. Many fungi attack living vegetables; they produce vast destruction of property in so doing. Many of the so-called "blights,” are simply parasitic fungi; they are found on the leaves, stems, grain, and even the chaff of plants. The red rust, and red-robin of wheat, the mildew, smut, ergot, which so frequently disappoint the hopes of the harvest, and threaten the very existence of thousands, are after all minute parasitic fungi. Not only do they attack the outer surface of the plants, but also they actually enter its structure, penetrate its tissues, and may even emerge and display themselves at the stomata, or breathing orifices, of the leaves. But the most singular fact connected with their place of growth is, that they are frequently found upon living animal tissues. It has been observed by Dr. Bennett, that a species of mould grows occasionally within the human lungs when in a diseased condition! Mouldiness has also been found on the internal surface of the air-cells of an eider-duck while alive, and by Professor Owen in the lungs of a flamingo. Curiously enough, the eruptions of some forms of cutaneous disease are accompanied by the appearance of moulds. It is also well known that gold-fish frequently perish by the spread of a minute parasitic fungus called the Achlea prolifera. Insects are particularly subject to their attacks. The "regetable wasps" of the West Indies are insects which have been attacked, and are ultimately destroyed by a parasitic fungus. While the unhappy creature lives, it is a curious being-half vegetable, and half animal. But we need not go so far from home; our busy summer companions, the house | no fewer than two thousand species within flies, are subject as the chills of autumn draw the space of a square furlong in Sweden ! on apace, to be infected by a little fungus, Of the lower tribes the number appears infiwhich soon destroys them; and they are often nite. The fungi are cosmopolitic. The teemto be found enveloped in their vegetable wind-ing inhabitants of North America claim kin, ing-sheet, sticking to the neglected pane. In and are, in fact, many of them identical with the caterpillar condition insects are often like- those of our own land, and this by hundreds of wise the subjects of this disease. The silkworm species. is most extensively destroyed by a minute fungus called the Muscardine. A singular instance of a similar kind also occurs in the caterpillar of a New Zealand moth; in these cases the fungus consumes the juices of the body, and the whole interior is rapidly replaced by a mass of vegetable filaments. Accustomed as we are to the opposite contemplation, it is something surprising thus to behold the powers of vegetable life overcoming those of animal vitality. Now for a few fungal curiosities. It has been already said, fungi love the dark, even the absence of the smallest twinkling of daylight. Cultivators are well aware of this, and select such spots for bringing up this light-hating family in. Some of the places they select are curious enough. Often it is at the bottom of some old pit where these funny vegetables thrive in the dark, visible to no eye but His that created them. In the ancient quarries which tunnel under the great French metropoIt need scarcely be said that the fungals lis, are very large beds for the cultivation of present us with an infinite variety of form and fungi, and so pitch dark is their abode that colours. It is a great mistake to suppose that accidents occasionally occur in the efforts of the all are as sombre as the common mushroom. cultivator to get at his plants. One that had A day's excursion into the damp depths of our nearly proved fatal took place a little while woods would dispel the illusion, and repay the since, and was reported in the papers; the incollector with specimens as lively in colour as dividual in question losing his way, and unable the most beautiful flower. Even the minute to return, was nearly starved to death when a fungi are often beautifully tinted-some red, party of friends providentially discovered him. some blue, some yellow, or of the snowiest As if their aversion to light arose from selfwhite. In the tropical forests, where the exu-consciousness of a source thereof in themselves, berant strength of the soil displays itself in the most marvellous forms, the most gorgeously painted fungi are to be occasionally found in the darker portions, whither daylight scarcely descends. The pity is, that they wither away almost as soon as they are born. The fungi differ in this remarkable particular from other plants, that they are never green; and this seems connected with another note-worthy fact, that, contrary to the general law, they absorb oxygen, and exhale carbonic acid. Their variety of form is even more striking. While some are quite microscopic, others grow to a very large size; some of the mushrooms brought to our markets are examples; but what are these compared to some Australian fungi, which attain occasionally the weight of two pounds! Some of the Agarics are of the most graceful form-a delicate, slightly tumid, tapering stalk, supporting a lovely canopy, dotted with scarlet above, and fringed in delicate rays beneath. Some, as we have said, are like microscopic drumsticks; others, equally minute, are beautifully branched like trees, and some resemble architectural ornaments. Some, again, are tough and resisting in structure, others soft and gelatinous; and many are fleshy, while others are paper-like, or dry membraneous cases full of powder. It does not seem possible to assign any limits to the number of their species. The Rev. W. Berkeley states that Fries discovered it is an extraordinary fact that some fungals are beautifully luminous. Of these the genus rhizomorpha is the most singular. These fungi appear to be composed of fungous tissue, developed either imperfectly, or in some anomalous form; their name is derived from the supposed resemblance of masses of them to bundles of roots. A paper in the Edinburgh Philosophical Journal contains an interesting account of these fungi, as they are found in the coal mines near Dresden. Those dayless regions have, by the means of these fungi, all the appearance of an enchanted castle; the roof, walls, and pillars, are entirely covered with them, their beautiful light almost dazzling the eye. It is curious that the brilliancy of the light increases with the temperature of the mines. How one could wish that this admirable substitute for the Davy lamp could gain admission into our explosive coal drifts: Some fungals found thriving in open daylight, even the daylight of Brazil, growing upon the leaves of a particular species of palm, are also luminous, and are described, by a recent traveller, as illuminating the forests like so many stars, in the still night of these regions-their light being plainly visible at the distance of several hundred yards. It is not accurately known, but the probability is, that this disengagement of light is due to a kind of phosphorescence. Another curious circumstance is, that fungi appear to be in some manner connected with |