THE MARCH OF THE HAMLETS

Hamlet read is one thing, Hamlet studied another, and Hamlet acted still another,--the critics agree. But there they stop and the argument begins.

"Barrymore's new Hamlet is the best I have ever seen," says one.

"No doubt," says another. "But then you can't remember Forbes-Robertson!"

It is too bad there is no century-coupling antiquarian who has seen all the great Hamlets from Garrick down and could give a real standard for comparison. Even at that such a man would probably exasperate everyone by doting upon some obscure Hamlet of two hundred years ago whom he saw just after falling in love for the first time.

As it is we are forced to go to the encyclopedia or its equivalent for our facts, as Shakespeare did. Nothing need be said about that long line of Hamlets of the century after Garrick. People went to the theatre for the joy of it. No clever criticism wrinkled the brow, and no tongue was stuck in the cheek over any performance. A jovial mob lounged in the theatre and awaited the actors. If they liked the play they broke out a clapping and a-yelling; if they did not like it they let fly any bric-a-brac that came to hand,--and the unfortunate tragedians did not have to consult the papers to learn the success of their efforts.

After those strenuous hundred years come Hamlets whom men now living can remember. An eye-witness talks of one Henry Irving, a "travelling Hamlet" and his ovation at the Lyceum,--such as only a presidential candidate or Babe Ruth would get today. Then came Booth, the admirable nobleman, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, flawless in technique.

There followed a series of pretenders to the throne--men like the lesser Roman emperors who fill up the gaps in the annals. At last Beerbohm Tree, in the name of variety, appeared as a red-headed, red-bewhiskered Hamlet, but failed. With no ghost and no Ophelia it is conceivable that a sandy lunatic might have been a great hit. Next the gentle Forbes-Robertson carried off the laurels with a kind of paradoxical, superplussed magnetism. Then, after Southern's admirable elocution and Walter Hampden's colloquialism -- which doesn't at all describe his acting--we come to Barrymore.

Since every generation has declared its Hamlet the best, are we to be left behind? Of course not! We bring out the old phrases used by our ancestors and invert the predicates, arranging the whole with a clever and unequalled style, so as to give zest and originality to our praise. But we have more than one Hamlet; therefore we shall have something to argue about after disposing of the Hamlets of history.

It seems that success in acting the part is largely accidental. An actor stalks up and down the stage, and the audience is enthralled. Or he steps gracefully, chides his mother considerately, and soothes his Ophelia, and what can the easy-going audience do--save applaud. Success appears a tyrant, and arbitrary both as concerns actors and audiences.

All this is too bad--especially since Shakespeare probably said to himself: "By the jolly Eliza, here is a play, at last, but where can I get an actor? Ah--I must write some directions." And so he told how to trip it on the tongue, and how to avoid sawing the air too much, or tearing a passion to tatters.

But most Hamlets, like most other people, do not like to study. "If I can act Hamlet" one of them might say, "why study him?" And so he rants like Mr. X, or mouths his lines like Mr. Y. While poor William lies a-cursing in his grave.