with him; Miranda could but have wondered at him: but Ophelia loves him.
Ophelia, the young, fair, inexperienced girl, facile to every
impression, fond in her simplicity, and credulous in her innocence,
loves Hamlet; not from what he is in himself, but for that which appears
to her--the gentle, accomplished prince, upon whom she has been
accustomed to see all eyes fixed in hope and admiration, "the expectancy
and rose of the fair state," the star of the court in which she moves,
the first who has ever whispered soft vows in her ear: and what can be
more natural?

But it is not singular, that while no one entertains a doubt of
Ophelia's love for Hamlet--though never once expressed by herself, or
asserted by others, in the whole course of the drama--yet it is a
subject of dispute whether Hamlet loves Ophelia, though she herself
allows that he had importuned her with love, and "had given countenance
to his suit with almost all the holy vows of heaven;" although in the
letter which Polonius intercepted, Hamlet declares that he loves her
"best, O most best!"--though he asserts himself, with the wildest
vehemence,--

I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum:

--still I have heard the question canvassed; I have even heard it denied
that Hamlet did love Ophelia. The author of the finest remarks I have
yet seen on the play and character of Hamlet, leans to this opinion. As
the observations I allude to are contained in a periodical publication,
and may not be at hand for immediate reference, I shall indulge myself
(and the reader no less) by quoting the opening paragraphs of this noble
piece of criticism, upon the principle, and for the reason I have
already stated in the introduction.

"We take up a play, and ideas come rolling in upon us, like waves
impelled by a strong wind. There is in the ebb and flow of Shakspeare's
soul all the grandeur of a mighty operation of nature; and when we think
or speak of him, it should be with humility where we do not understand,
and a conviction that it is rather to the narrowness of our own mind
than to any failing in the art of the great magician, that we ought to
attribute any sense of weakness, which may assail us during the
contemplation of his created worlds.

"Shakspeare himself, had he even been as great a critic as a poet, could
not have written a regular dissertation upon Hamlet. So ideal, and yet
so real