"chastise," or rather, "bring to judg ment" the man who was murderer, incestuous, and a usurper. Hamlet knew perfectly the law of God as to suicide, for in one of his earlier communings he wishes either to die at once, Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter. Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory Unmix'd with baser matter. This phrase, "All forms, all pressures," the poet was partial to, for he describes He then breaks into an appeal to his the players as representing "the form and Maker: O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, Possess it merely. which is inconsistent enough with his later admiration of the human race: What a thing is man! All these seem the contradictions of a mind that had cast off the yoke and the practice, or knew not the law of religious teaching, which is to bear all things, to accept trials as sent for the best. The whole of the debate on suicide is at least of an "agnostic" character. -- pressure " of the times. It must be admitted, however, that his affection for his mother prompts him to enjoin her the virtues of repentance and satisfaction. Confess yourself to Heaven; Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue. His plea for killing Polonius was that he was irresponsible. To die, - to sleep, — shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep, — To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, "Puzzles the will," "What dreams may come," "The undiscovered country." Surely the country is sufficiently discovered for the Christian to know the "ills " that must certainly await him. But audiences ever listen to this little debate with sympathy and seem to think a handsome concession has been made in the admission that there may be something beyond which might make suicide an injudicious and unsafe thing. This casting away of everything, religion even, that was likely to stand between him and his purpose seems to be foreshadowed in his speech after the disappearance of the Ghost. --- And this with me," that is, it was for the ends of "Heaven "the innocent Polo. nius should suffer also. He was carrying - that is, out the direction of the Ghostof "Heaven"-and if in acting as the "scourge and minister" of this supernatural power he killed one person by mistake, that was not his affair. For Hamlet himself nothing can be said, and it is a fresh triumph of Shakespeare's genius that he should make so flagitious and even bloodthirsty a character interest. ing, while apparently devoid of all religious or moral feeling. This may seem a rashly profane declaration, but here is his record: two attempts on the king's life, and the third successful; the murder of Polonius, an inoffensive old man and the father of his "sweetheart; " the murder of her brother; a deliberation with himself as to whether he should commit suicide; barbarous treatment of his mistress, the cause of her suicide; a prepared assassination of the king forborne for the moment on grounds so diabolical and malignant that up to recent times the scene has been always omitted on the supposition that the natural feeling of the audi ence would not tolerate it. Now might I do it, pat, now he is praying; A villain kills my father; and, for that, He took my father grossly, full of bread; And am I then reveng'd, Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid Laertes, expecting the usual prayers and blessings, asks: What ceremony else? Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranty: her death was doubtful; She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd, Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants (ie., Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Laer. Must there no more be done? We should profane the service of the dead, Laer. Lay her i' the earth :- When thou liest howling. "Her Nothing could have been more in accordance with the canonical rule. death was doubtful," though it was all but certain she had drowned herself. Still, not to be too harsh, "her obsequies had been as far enlarged as we have warranty." She was placed in consecrated ground, the bell was tolled, and the priests of the State in this business is thus dis attended. The share of the Church and Her father, Polonius, uses the phrase, "By the Mass!" Ophelia, distraught, drowns herself, and it was at first doubted whether she is to have Christian burial: but a sort of verdict having been charitably found that she was distraught, she was interred in consecrated ground, but with "maimed rites." Here, again, Shake- tinguished. It is evidence of this clear speare shows himself profoundly intimate comprehension of Shakespeare that one with the Catholic indulgence which the of his commentators, the aforesaid Dr. Church on occasion can show, however Whalley of Bath, sapiently suggests: "As we have warranty.' Is there any allusion uncompromising she is. The goodman delver first explains the case to his fel-here to the coroner's warrant, directed to the minister and churchwardens of a parish, and permitting the body of a person, who comes to an untimely end, to receive Christian burial?" low: I Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, that wilfully seeks her own salvation? 2 Clo. I tell thee, she is ; therefore make her grave straight; the crowner hath set on her, and finds it Christian burial. 1 Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence? 2 Clo. Why, 'tis found so. But when the funeral procession arrives, the officiating priest explains the situation with more authority. Hamlet asks: Who is this they follow, And with such maimed rites! This doth betoken, King. O, my offence is rank, it smells to It hath the primal eldest curse upon't. The corse, they follow, did with desperate But to confront the visage of offence? hand Fordo its own life. 'Twas of some estate : And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force, - murder! My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer | the sacraments, and even attendance at Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul church, feels a growing alarm at his condition, but nothing beyond that. He will say:Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will; My stronger guilt defeats my strong in That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe; ! tent; ... I stand in pause where I shall first begin. He knows, too, and has heard again and again, that mercy and forgiveness are found when asked for For what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,- All this is perpetually insisted on in our Church manuals and in all devotional books, in the perpetual need of guarding against sin by prayer, and strengthening the virtuous principle by acts. Then comes another eminently Catholic doctrine: no tranquil reliance on "the Blood of the Lamb, which sufficeth for all Now this wonderful picture of "heart-things," but the sure and certain reckon. searching," this self-anatomizing of a guilty soul, in every shade and stage, is purely Catholic. It exhibits clearly and perfectly all the elements of the Catholic doctrine of repentance. There is here a wholesome probing, the discipline of "a man proving himself," taking stock of his guilty state, and debating which is the best of two remedies. He comes to his task with what seems the best dispositions. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood? At the end and after much logical reason- Try what repentance can: What can it not? ing that awaits us. There is no shuffling: there the action lies An awful picture indeed. Then would come the pinch. The question of restitution, or rather satisfaction and self-punishment, which he feels must be proportioned, whatever shape it is to take, to the enor mity of his act. And many a Catholic in this thought, driven to "put off," as he these dispositions has found himself, by thinks, but in reality wholly to forego, his repentance. He may be tempted, like the king, to say, Then I'll look up: my fault is past. But instantly this foolish doubt recurs, And so he finds it. He goes his way de- that, "struggling to be free," was only claring: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below, more "engaged." He will pray, "All may yet be well." Álas, no! He will rise, like the king; his words will fly up; but his thought This dreadful picture, as many a Catho will remain below. And this must be so lic confessor can tell, is the most ordinary so long as he shuns the necessary process, and natural mind for the Catholic sinner namely, confession. The whole, as I said, who wishes to change his life. Such a is a common picture of the would-be reone after a long course of sin, hardened it pentant Catholic, "the limed soul," that may be by neglect of all Catholic duties, | is disturbed and afraid, but will not con sult his physician. Thousands, with a strange lack of confidence in the implicit direction of the Church, have risen from their knees with the king's words on their lips: What then? what rests? Try what repentence can: What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? and so in despair have given up the attempt. There is a passage in one of Cardinal Manning's smaller devotional works, which exactly meets this wretched case. He bids the sinner who, like the king, protests, "What can it, when one cannot repent?" not to heed such callousness, nor to be waiting for some emotional gust of sorrow, but hie at once to the tribunal of penitence. Only those who have tried it know the all but supernatural change that is wrought. This the guilty king would not do, which is implied in his refusal to make "satisfaction." Had this intention been in his mind, it may be said that his state of callousness was more seeming than real, and he would have found his heart touched. His dissuasion of Hamlet from indulging in excess of grief is orthodox enough: To do obsequious sorrow: but to perséver Fie! 'tis a fault to Heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd; whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse, till he that died to-day. This must be so. ing the ground instead of the air; indeed, it seemed to come out of the earth itself, the body of the bird being hidden by the grass. This black wing flapped and flapped, but could not lift itself— a single wing of course could not fly. A rook had dropped out of the elm and was lying helpless at the foot of the tree - it is a favorite tree with rooks; they build in it, and at that moment there were twenty or more perched aloft, cawing and conversing comfortably, without the least thought of their dying comrade. Not one of all the number descended to see what was the matter, nor even fluttered half-way down. This elm is their clubhouse, where they meet every afternoon as the sun gets low to discuss the scandals of the day, before retiring to roost in the avenues and treegroups of the park adjacent. While we looked, a peacock came round the corner of the barn; he had caught sight of the flapping wing, and approached with long, deliberate steps and outstretched neck. "What's this? What's this?" he inquired in bird language. "My friends, see here!" Gravely, and step by step, he came nearer and nearer, slowly, and not without some fear, till curiosity had brought him within a yard. In a moment or two a peahen followed and also stretched out her neck-the two long necks pointing at the black, flapping wing. A second peacock and peahen approached, and the four great birds stretched out their necks towards the dying rook-a "crowner's quest" upon the unfortunate creature. If any one had been at hand to sketch it, the scene would have been very grotesque, and not without a ludicrous sadThese few reflections illustrate what we ness. There was the tall elm tinted with have been contending for: which is not yellow, the black rooks high above flying that Shakespeare was a Catholic-in-in and out, yellow leaves twirling down, deed, the only logical proof to be drawn from a man's writings would be a positive profession of faith but that the spirit of his writing is more than consistent with his being a Catholic. the blue peacocks with their crests, the red barn behind, the golden sun afar shining low through the trees of the park, the brown autumn sward, a gray horse, orange maple bushes. There was the quiet tone of the coming evening the early evening of October-such an evening as the rook had seen many a time from the tops of the trees. A man dies, and the crowd goes on passing under the window along the street without a thought. The rook died, and his friends, who had that day been with him in the oaks feasting on acorns, who had been with him in the fresh-turned furrows, born perhaps in the same nest, utterly forgot him before he was dead. With a great common caw — a common shout-they suddenly left the In falling out of the elm, the rook had alighted partly on his side and partly on his back, so that he could only flutter one wing, the other being held down by his own weight. He had probably died from picking up poisoned grain somewhere, or from a parasite. The weather had been open, and he could not have been starved. At a distance, the rook's plumage appears black; but close at hand it will be found a fine blue-black, glossy, and handsome. tree in a bevy and flew towards the park. | you have fed him every day and come to The peacocks, having brought in their take an interest in him-after you have verdict, departed, and the dead bird was seen a hundred turkey-cocks, then he may left alone. become passable, or, if you have the fancier's taste, exquisite. Education is requisite first; you do not fall in love at first sight. The same applies to fancy pigeons, and indeed many pet animals, as pugs, which come in time to be animated with a soul in some people's eyes. Compare a pug with a greyhound straining at the leash. Instantly he is slipped, he is gone as a wave let loose. His flexible back bends and undulates, arches and unarches, rises and falls as a wave rises and rolls on. His pliant ribs open; his whole frame "gives" and stretches, and closing again in a curve, springs forward. Movement is as easy to him as to the wave, which melting, is re-moulded, and sways onward. The curve of the grey. hound is not only the line of beauty, but a line which suggests motion; and it is the idea of motion, I think, which so strongly appeals to the mind. These peacocks are the best "rainmakers" in the place; whenever they cry much, it is sure to rain; and if they persist day after day, the rain is equally continuous. From the wall by the barn, or the elm-branch above them, 66 Pa-ong, pa-ong" resounds like the wail of a gigantic cat, and is audible half a mile or more. In the summer I found one of them, a peacock in the full brilliance of his colors, on a rail in the hedge under a spreading maple bush. His rich-hued neck, the bright light and shadow, the tall green meadow grass, brought together the finest colors. It is curious that a bird so distinctly foreign, plumed for the Asiatic sun, should fit so well with English meads. His splendid neck immediately pleases, pleases the first time it is seen, and on the fiftieth occasion. I see these every day, and always stop to look at them; the color excites the sense of beauty in the eye, and the shape satisfies the idea of form. The undulating curve of the neck is at once approved by the intuitive judgment of the mind, and it is a pleasure to the mind to reiterate that judg. ment frequently. It needs no teaching to see its beauty - the feeling comes of itself. How different with the turkey-cock which struts round the same barn! A fine big bird he is, no doubt; but there is no intrinsic beauty about him; on the contrary, there is something fantastic in his style and plumage. He has a way of drooping his wings as if they were armorplates to shield him from a shot. The ornaments upon his head and beak are in the most awkward position. He was put together in a dream, of uneven and odd pieces that live and move, but do not fit. Ponderously gawky, he steps as if the world was his, like a "motley" crowned in sport. He is good eating, but he is not beautiful. After the eye has been accustomed to him for some time-after We are often scornfully treated as a nation by people who write about art, because they say we have no taste; we cannot make art jugs for the mantelpiece, crockery for the bracket, screens for the fire; we cannot even decorate the wall of a room as it should be done. If these are the standards by which a sense of art is to be tried, their scorn is to a certain degree just. But suppose we try another standard. Let us put aside the altogether false opinion that art consists alone in something actually made, or painted, or decorated, in carvings, colorings, touches of brush or chisel. Let us look at our lives. I mean to say that there is no nation so thoroughly and earnestly artistic as the English in their lives, their joys, their thoughts, their hopes. Who loves nature like an Englishman? Do Italians care for their pale skies? I never heard so. We go all over the world in search of beauty to the keen north, to the cape whence the midnight sun is visible, to the extreme south, to the interior of Africa, gazing on the vast expanse of Tanganyika or the marvellous falls of the Zambesi. We admire the temples and tombs and palaces of India; we speak of the Alhambra of Spain almost in whispers, so deep is our reverent admiration; we visit the Parthenon. There is not a picture nor a statue in Europe we have not sought. We climb the mountains for their views and the sense of grandeur they inspire; we roam over the wide ocean to the coral islands of the far |