Puslapio vaizdai

he can no longer walk in the House of God as friends. He is called upon to sever himself from his own people. To put it another way, he must decide whether the various motives that impel him to acknowledge the Church of Rome as the one true Church of God, and submission to its claims as his indisputable duty, are in very deed and truth the Divine Voice saying to him, "This is the way; walk thou in it. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.” This is the account he has to give of these motives, or not to give. Is God calling him through the claims of the Roman Church? Or is the Divine Voice speaking in the considerations of duty towards parents and kinsfolk and friends. “That, whereinsoever thou mightest be benefited by me, is Corban"—is that, or is it not, the meaning of submission to Rome? That the voice of Rome is the voice of God may be suggested to him by another, or the thought may occur to him—he cannot tell how -in the course of his own meditations. In either case, he may decide that God calls him through the claims and the attraction of Rome, because the call is a call to renounce, to sacrifice, to suffer. This will not be the only consideration that moves him. He believes that in the Roman Communion he will find that rest for his soul, the possibility of which he can discern nowhere else. He is much more than half persuaded that the Church of Rome is as a city that is at unity within itself. "Fundamenta ejus super montes sacros." On what, he asks, are other Churches built? On the shifting sands of private judgment. But how does he come to this decision? By exercise of his own reasoning faculty, his own judgment. Yet the majestic order, the long-drawn history, the indubitable power and achievements of the Roman Church have not yet brought him to the point of action. "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Roman." But not quite. The "freedom" has to be purchased “with a great sum.” What makes our friend pay it—this price of suffering in separation from his own people and his father's. house? The thought that Another has suffered for him. The love of Christ constrains him, through the recognition of the fact that one died for all, to the end that the living should no longer live for themselves. Of course, it will be said that this is a misunderstanding, a misinterpretation, of the debt laid upon us by Christ's sufferings and death. But it is an inter

pretation that may be made, and in entire sincerity. Is the action that ensues merely the outcome of an emotional outburst? Emotion plays its part in the issue, but it is not the only factor. The determining factor is an act of judgment"for the love of Christ constrains us, because we judge, etc.". and judgment is an act of the reasoning mind.* What else can it be?

I do not say that all "conversions" or "perversions" to Rome (as they are variously styled) take place in this way. But for every case an account of some sort will be given “in the Judgment," and the account will be a statement of “reasons.” Not in every case will reason have had its perfect work. Some will say, that in no case of the sort could reason ever have any work at all. Others again will say that under the same condemnation lie those who from Methodism transfer their allegiance to Anglicanism, or from the Law of Moses to the Institutes of Calvin. But, much or little, reason has had its work. There has been a weighing of considerations, an assignment of values.

Let it be admitted that the practical assent to the claims of Rome, the confession “Vox Romae, Vox Christi" is matter of opinion, not of knowledge. But how is any opinion formed? And, for practical purposes, does not opinion often enough (and even more than often enough) serve as effectively as knowledge? Possunt, quia posse videntur. The native hue of resolution is apt to be sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, in certain natures. St. Paul "reckons" that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed. How does he know? Has he seen that glory? It is a dóa, this utterance—or, rather, a doforoyla. But is is also a Loylouós. It is written in enthusiasm—but the enthusiasm is not that of a Rufai Dervish. It is not a sudden, accidental guess at values. The fullness of the glory is still to be revealed, and eye hath not seen nor ear heard, what things God hath prepared for those who love Him. Yet something had been vouchsafed, on which the "estimate", the "reckoning", could be made. In the gleams discerned through the

*Compare the original of Acts ΧΧ. 16 (κεκρίκει..όπως μή..)

clouds and darkness that are about the throne of God, something had been seen of the beauty of the sapphire pavement, of the righteousness and judgment that are the foundation of that throne.


Note on the working of authority in the Church of Rome.

Is the religion of the Romanist a doyeren Natpeía? In some cases, the presence of το λογικόν is not obvious. In others, it is conspicuous enough. The Roman hierarchy, whose chief is proclaimed supreme judge of the world (as Vicarius Christi) in all questions of faith and morals (which properly include politics), occupies itself in a ministry of catechism. The catechizer asks "why?" and "what?" It is true that he may be said to dictate the answers. But at least he may be said to "give reasons." The children of the Roman Church are put under the catechetical discipline in order that they may be able to give an account (Nóryov Soûvai) of the faith and the hope that is in them. They take a certain amount of theology with their religion. Because of the “theological tendencies” of the teaching, the practice is censured. But this antithesis of theology and religion is an αντιθεσις της ψευδωνύμου γνώσεως (not to say ψευδολόγου άγνωσίας), for the statement that God delights not in burnt-offerings is every whit as “theological” as the statement that “the Father is God, the Son is God, and the Holy Ghost is God: and yet they are not three Gods but One God.” Theology has been derided by a famous historian as the bastard offspring of science and superstition. But even in superstition there is loylouos though it is the work of Loriotikov working in the dark, and therefore making a mess of things. Nevertheless, it is loycotiKÓv. The ministry of Catechism is a ministry of theological teaching. It includes an appeal to the faculty of comparison, inference, and valuation. The "lessons” seem to be simple. But so (whatever they themselves may think) are the catechumens. The "lectures" of the university professors of theology are only the katnxńcers of the curé "developed in detail.”


WHY did. Hamlet not kill King Claudius promptly? For

more than a hundred years some aspect of this question has been the most keenly debated problem in a play whose literature of discussion bulkily transcends that of any other. And through all the winds of doctrine the theory set forth by Coleridge and Schlegel in the early years of the nineteenth century has occupied the highest point in public favour. That theory, in brief, attributes to Hamlet "an almost enormous intellectual activity, and a proportionate aversion to real action consequent upon it .... he vacillates from sensibility and procrastinates from thought.” Recently, however, Dr. A. C. Bradley in his distinguished Oxford lectures on Shakespearian Tragedy has proposed a new solution. Hamlet's melancholy, he says, is the prime reason for his inaction: "I have no doubt that many readers of the play would understand it better if they read an account of melancholia in a work on mental diseases. If we like to use the word 'disease' loosely, Hamlet's condition may truly be called diseased.” From this abnormal condition proceeded "an endless and futile mental dissection of the required deed," "an unconscious weaving of pretexts for inaction, aimless tossings on a sick bed," "unavailing selfreproaches, and the tragic results of his delay.”

Both theories present a Hamlet who for the time being is constitutionally unable to kill the king. But Dr. Bradley vigorously attacks Coleridge's view, alleging that it degrades Hamlet by making him a man who, because of an inherent incapacity for action, could not at any time in his life have killed the king. And so the ghost was very foolish to ask such a Hamlet to undertake revenge. Dr. Bradley hopes to save Hamlet's reputation and the ghost's by insisting that the normal Hamlet was capable of the task assigned, though by the irony of fate the command to act came at the one moment in his career when he was sunk in weakness. Even so, however, the ghost cannot be entirely acquitted of folly, and the notion of a sick man vainly struggling with a great task is surely not a fit tragic theme. That Hamlet had been "the expectancy and rose of the fair state” two months before the play began cannot be allowed to atone for the artistic deficiencies of the only Hamlet the audience sees face to face.

For a long time there has been a strong undercurrent of protest against regarding Hamlet as a man who cannot act. Klein in 1846 ridiculed the conception that made the prince "a German half-professor, all tongue and no hand, forever cackling, and hatching nothing," and Werder, in his Vorlesungen über Hamlet, published in 1875, took the ground that Hamlet failed, not because of some subjective deficiency, but because he was confronted with an impossible task. About six years ago Professor Kittredge of Harvard University, in his brilliant Lowell Institute lectures on Shakespeare, undertook to show that Hamlet's delay was due, not to weakness of will, but to a complex series of causes creditable for the most part to his heart and mind. The view I wish to maintain agrees with all these in its conception of Hamlet as a man of will, force, and dignity; it differs in the methods of approach and in the particular conclusions involved.

Too many critics have tried to study Hamlet in a vacuum. In such isolation the poetry gleams refulgently, but the solution of many important problems cannot be discovered.

The play must be seen in relation to other plays of the same kind and time, to its source, to the theatrical conventions of the day, to the audience, and to the playwright. Accordingly, for the sake of making clear the purport of subsequent references, I wish first to mention some facts connected with the history of Hamlet.

The play was known in 1602 as The Revenge of Hamlet Prince of Denmark. This title, as well as the matter, assigns it to a very popular genre—the revenge tragedies. The first great example of the type was Kyd's The Spanish Tragedy (c. 1586), one of the most successful of Elizabethan plays. To the same author is usually attributed a lost play on Hamlet which was well known for some years following 1589. Ten years later revenge plays seemed to be in particular demand. Marston's Antonio's Revenge was acted in 1599. Chettle's Hoffman and Tourneur's The Atheist's Tragedy were written about 1602. In the same year The Spanish Tragedy was republished with additions by Ben Jonson, and Shakespeare's

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