Hamlet's terrace, Kronborg.

Hamlet's grave.

Kronborg, however, calls to mind more memories than those of maritime control. Close to its moat, and dominated by its guns, lies Elsinore, the home of Hamlet. Here Shakespeare laid the scene of his great tragedy, and on the terrace which he styled the " Platform before the Castle of Elsinore " the Danish prince held watch at midnight with Horatio and Marcellus, and saw his father's restless ghost, while in the neighboring banquet-hall the royal murderer and guilty queen were feasting. However much we may in distant lands attempt to separate fact from fiction in the play of "Hamlet," when we are standing in the shadow of these stately towers, or pacing thoughtfully along the battlements which Shakespeare has immortalized, it is not possible to doubt the story, and even the reputed grave of the unhappy prince, not far away, does not appear incredible. For here the spirit of the Bard of Stratford reigns supreme, and holds our fancy captive by his genius.

A Corner Of Kronborc.

It was a memorable hour that I spent in reverie here, one lovely summer afternoon.

Reading again, on " Hamlet's Terrace," the familiar lines, and looking off from time to time upon the spires of Elsinore, or on the blue Sound dotted with white sails, I had but to close my eyes to see once more the many representations of that drama which had impressed it on my memory, and different actors in the role of Hamlet appeared before me with such vividness that I recalled the very intonations of their voices. Alas, of all whom I had seen, how few remained ! Salvini, it is true, still lives, though in retirement; but Fechter, Barrett, and the ideal Hamlet, Booth, have passed on into the Unknown, to learn perhaps the answer to that query, old, yet ever new: "To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

An Evening At Kronborg.

Peace to their ashes! The world, too negligent of Shakespeare now, owes much to those who once interpreted his genius to America. Their mantles can, apparently, find no shoulders strong enough to bear them. Strangely enough, it is in German theatres, subsidized by the government, that Shakespeare's tragedies are at present heard far oftener than in the United States. But in a foreign tongue these plays can never be the same to one familiar with the grand, sonorous lines of the original. I felt, therefore, on leaving Kronborg, a strong desire to revisit at the earliest opportunity the grave of Edwin Booth in beautiful Mount Auburn, and gratefully and reverently to lay upon his quiet resting-place some flowers gathered on the spot with which his genius has identified him.

It was a perfect evening when I crossed the Sound from Elsinore to Sweden. The sun had set, and yet it was not night. As I looked backward toward the glorious west, the castle's silhouette stood out in dark relief against a red-gold sky, while at its feet lay, like an outstretched Persian rug, the gorgeously illumined sea. Thus seen, the outlines of the fortress shaped themselves into the form of a gigantic dragon, having for its crested head the tall bronze spires, its darting tongue the flashes from the lighthouse tower, and for its glittering coils the double walls and moats. The weird appearance of the place recalled the curious legend that down in Kronborg's deepest vault, unseen and unapproachable, sleeps the old national hero, Holger Danske. For more than a thousand years has he been sitting there, his long beard meantime growing fast to the stone table over which it trails. While no calamity threatens Denmark, he will slumber undisturbed. But should the independence of the nation become jeopardized, he will awaken, wrench his white beard from its stony bed, and rush forth to the rescue of the Fatherland. Sleep on, old hero! If thy country's danger be the only reason for thy wakening, may thy repose be as serene as summer twilight on the Oeresund, as deep as Denmark's love for thee, and as enduring as the ocean's murmur by the walls of Elsinore.