I must here remark, that there is but one character in this immortal poet's works which always appeared to me ill-drawn and unnatural, nor does any excite less interest in general. This is the king in Hamlet. To mention only one trait, it appears to me quite psycologically false, when the author makes the king kneel down, and then exclaim, "I cannot pray." The king is never represented as an irreligious man, a subtle sceptic, but merely as a coarse sensual sinner; now we daily see that a man of this cast cannot only pray regularly and zealously, but even pray that his crimes may prosper: like that woman who was found alone in a robber's cave, after the capture of the gang, on her knees, praying earnestly to heaven that the expedition in which she believed them then engaged might be successful, and that they might return laden with booty. Nay even public pre-appointed prayers have often no better aim. What examples of this kind does not history afford! No, the sinful king _can_ pray,--the person in this tragedy who _cannot_, is Hamlet. For it is only the unbelieving; the man who wants to fathom everything; the spiritual chemist who sees one apparently firm substance after another melt away; this man--till he is enabled by the divine influence to construct one,[30] inward and indestructible, (and this point Hamlet has manifestly not reached) this man alone, I say, _cannot pray_, for the Object fails him. He cannot deny it to himself,--when he prays, he is only acting a part with himself. This is a melancholy process to pass through, and is imputed to unhappy mortals as a crime by those who first place the poor child on the bed of Procrustes, and by that means often render it impossible for the cramped and shortened limbs ever to extend themselves again to their natural length. But back to the play. It concluded with a melo-drama, in which a large Newfoundland dog really acted admirably; he defended a banner for a long time, pursued the enemy, and afterwards came on the stage wounded, lame, and bleeding, and died in the most masterly manner, with a last wag of the tail that was really full of genius. You would have sworn that the good beast knew at least as well as any of his human companions what he was about. I left the theatre in such good humour that I won eight rubbers at whist after it at the Club, for luck at play goes with good spirits and confidence.--But good night. _December 4th._ In consequence of the opening of Parliament, society begins to be more lively, though London 'en gros' is still empty. The most elegant ladies of the first circles now give small parties, access to which is far more difficult to most Englishmen than to foreigners of rank; for the despotism of fashion, as I have already told you, rules in this land of freedom with iron sceptre, and extends through all classes in a manner we on the Continent have no conception of.