Here, on the other hand, in contrast to this, is an example of the older impressionist method; a short notice written in a cheap newspaper, by a critic who has not had time to see the last act, and to whom the manager has refused to give a sketch of the plot:-- _Hamlet: Puzzle-Play at the Pantheon_ Mr. Shakespeare is presumably a new writer. I don’t remember having seen any of his work before, although it was rumoured last night that he had once been guilty of some sonnets. He may be able to write sonnets; but writing sonnets is one thing and writing a play is another. Not that there is no cleverness and no promise in “Hamlet”; but it is a literary cleverness, and not a dramatic cleverness. The play suffers from dullness, length, and want of action. There is far too much talk from beginning to end. And the talk is not dramatic. Mr. Shakespeare has made the unpardonable mistake of not making his intention clear. Is Hamlet, the hero of this rather disagreeable family imbroglio, meant to be mad, or is he meant to be simulating madness? Is the ghost a real ghost? Are we to take it seriously, or is it merely the practical mystification of a royal buffoon? And what are we to think of the heroine? Is she really mad also? Or is her madness a literary device contrived so as to afford Mr. Shakespeare opportunities for “lyricism” and incidental music? Either Mr. Shakespeare meant to write a serious tragedy on the subject of madness, or he meant to parody the prevalent mania for so-called psychological studies: but the audience, being at a loss to know what he meant, was merely puzzled and bored. The actors did their best with their thankless task, and Mrs. Siddons, who celebrated her diamond jubilee last Thursday, looked younger than ever in the somewhat ungrateful part of the peevish and provoking heroine. The upshot of all this digression is that I wish to excuse myself for having written at random by the exposition of current models and precedents. * * * * * After a four days’ voyage from Sydney, I have arrived at the other end of the world: Antipodes. _Wellington: August 10_ It is the end of winter here, the beginning of spring; and colder, of course, than it is in Australia. The Wellington wind which you hear so much of you feel and hear a great deal as soon as you get up on to the hills. In the town I think you feel it less than one is told. Before sailing from London, five people told me that you can always tell a Wellington man because he holds on his hat when he walks round a corner of a street, because the wind blows round the corners. Everybody in the ship coming out, to whom I mentioned New Zealand, told me the story again, until at last I thought of having a small placard hanging round my neck with “I know how to tell a Wellington man” written on it, or “Don’t tell me the story of the Wellington man and wind; I know it.”