HORATIO        Such was the very armour he had on

When he the ambitious Norway combated.

So frowned he once, when in an angry parle

He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.

’Tis strange.

MARCELLUS   Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,

With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

HORATIO        In what particular thought to work, I know not,

But in the gross and scope of mine opinion

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.     (1.1.59-68)

More detail about this ghost, and about the dead king: such was the very armour he had on when he the ambitious Norway combated. That’s exactly the armour he was wearing when he fought the king of Norway! Famous armour, and a famous victory, it seems. (It doesn’t necessarily mean that Horatio witnessed this, it could be that the armour’s been in the museum, or else this is the image of the king that’s been on all the coins and stamps, all the official portraits.) And, so frowned he once, when in an angry parle he smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. This is a textually contested bit: is it polacks, meaning Poles—as in Polish army—or poleaxe, a weapon? In a way it doesn’t matter: what Horatio is evoking, or perhaps remembering, is another incident in this king’s career as a fearsome warrior, when, during a parley, a temporary truce for negotiations which had turned bad-tempered, got out of hand, he attacked his enemies, perhaps striking at the Poles in their sleds, on the ice, knocking them down? Or else—if it’s poleaxe, he struck at the ice with his weapon, a foolhardy gesture, surely? The main thing is, he frowned, he looked formidable, enraged. This is the terrifying ghost of a fierce and warlike king, with a terrific reputation in battle. ’Tis strange, concludes Horatio, slightly lamely—strange that the likeness should be so acute, so instantly recognisable in appearance and expression.

Marcellus is keen to emphasise that this is exactly what’s happened previously: thus twice before—twice!—and jump at this dead hour, at precisely this time, midnight, the dead of night, with martial stalk he hath gone by our watch. He’s marched in front of us here, as we’ve stood on guard, stately, haughty, every inch a king and a warrior.

Horatio’s been thinking, quickly, and he chooses his words carefully, hedges his bets. In what particular thought to work, I know not: I can’t be sure as to what all this means, what line of enquiry to pursue? But in the gross and scope of mine opinion this bodes some strange eruption to our state: if I had to hazard a guess, express a view—well, it doesn’t look good for Denmark. Unrest, disorder, even rebellion. And eruption is key here, something bursting out, bursting through, a stable boundary—the earth! death!—breached, a chasm opened, and infernal forces unleashed. Nope, not looking good for Denmark at all.