of Shakespeare? Certainly I should hardly have found courage to add
another to the many studies of Hamlet had it not been for the hope of
bringing out a characteristic of our great national poet that is rather
unobtrusive than obscure. I mean a singular unworldliness of thought and
feeling; a cherished idealism; an inborn magnanimity. Not the
unworldliness of the study and the cloister, or the other-worldliness of
such poets as Dante and Milton, but the unworldliness of a man of the
world, the idealism that is closely allied with humour. And it is in
this union and not elsewhere that the "breadth" of Shakespeare, of which
we hear so much, is found. This unworldliness is elusive, ubiquitous,
full of disguise. Now it is militant, and now observant; now it is
fastidious in its scorn, and now it is piercing in its dissection; now
it is satire, and now it is melancholy. He gives the most knightly
chivalry of friendship to a merchant, and the most exquisite fidelity of
service to a fool, and makes the ingrained worldliness of Cleopatra die
before her love. He not only scatters through his pages rebukes of the
arrogance of power and the more pitiable pride of wealth, but makes his
kings deride their own ceremonies and mock their own state. Who has not
observed the easy and effortless way in which his heroes and heroines
move from one station to the other, from authority to service like Kent,
from obscurity to splendour like Perdita, or to the greenwood from the
palace like Rosalind. The change affects their happiness no more than
the change of their position in the sky affects the brightness of the
stars. It is all so truthful and clear that we grow more simple as we
read. Lear utters but one cry of joy, and that is when he is entering a
prison with Cordelia:
"Come, let's away to prison!
We two alone will sing like birds in a cage;"
while the Queen of France has just said:
"For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down,
Myself could else outfrown false fortune's frown."
In these two lines the magnanimity of Shakespeare is pure, unveiled, as
he gives us the last words of his favourite heroine: we must read them
backwards and forwards to catch the portrait they enclose. We see the
unconscious elevation of Cordelia's mind, not so much superior as
invulnerable to mortal ills; we see this dignity and lovely pride cast
down by pity and love, and then in answer to Lear's troubled and anxious
look we hear in measured and steadfast tones the reassurance of perfect
peace.
Remark too Shakespeare's habit of looking upon the world as a masque or
pageant, not to be treated with too much respectful anxiety as if it
were as real as ourselves. He who can give so perfectly the texture of
common life, the solidities of common sense, likes to wave his wand over
the domain of sturdy prose and incontrovertible custom, and to show how
plastic it is, and how easily pierced, and how readily transformed. He
has a malicious pleasure in confusing the boundaries of nature and
fancy, and mocking the purblind understanding. In the "Midsummer Night's
Dream" we have an ambiguous and bewildering light, with the horizon
always shifting, and the boundaries of fact and fable confused with an
inseparable mingling of forms; both outwardly, as when Theseus enters
the forest on the skirts of the fairy crew; and inwardly in the memories
of the lovers. And we are expressly told after the enchantment of the
"Tempest" that this summary dealing with the solid world was not merely
by way of entertainment but was a presentation of truth. And Macbeth,
after grasping all that life could offer of tangible reward or palpable
power, pronounces it
"such stuff as dreams are made of."
No doubt something will be said on the other side, of Shakespeare's
broad and indulgent humanity, and of his toleration even of vice itself
when it is convivial and amusing. It should be remembered, however, that
his comedies while more realistic are not so real as his tragedies. They
are, as he himself insists, entertainments; to which jovial sensuality,
witty falsehood, and even hypocrisy when it is not morose are admitted,
as diverting in their very aberration from the mean rule of life. So
that a touch of rascality is a genuine element in comedy, as a touch of
danger in sport, and the provocation of the moral sense is part of the
fun. But they are all under guard. The moment they pass a certain
boundary and break into reality, the moment that intemperance leads to
disorder, and vice to suffering, as in real life, then suddenly Harry
turns upon Falstaff, or Olivia on Sir Toby, and vice is called by its
right name.
And as life awakens and reality enters, either the grace or the
sentiment or the passion of unworldliness is more and more distinctly
present. And in the tragedies even the pleasant vices are seen as part
of a world-wide corruption that wrongs, debases, and betrays.
Shakespeare has painted every phase of antagonism to the world, from the
pensive aloofness of Antonio to the impassioned misanthropy of Timon.
Every excited feeling emits light into the dark places of the earth, and
every suffering is a revelation of more than its own injury. It is as if
the soul, fully aroused, became aware by its own light of the oppression
and injustice abroad upon the earth.
But there is a more vague and general disaffection to the world than is
the outcome of any particular experience. It may be called a spiritual
discontent which few have felt as a passion, but many have known as a
mood: when that average goodness of human nature which we have found so
companionable, and to which we have so pleasantly adapted ourselves,
becomes "very tolerable and not to be endured;" when the world seems to
be made of our vices, and our virtues seem to be looking on, or if they
enter into the fray are too tame and conventional for the selfish fire
and unscrupulous industry of their rivals; and when to our excited
sensibility there is a taint in the moral atmosphere, and we long to
escape if only to breathe more freely. This is more than a mood with
Shakespeare, and is present in those slight but distinctive touches that
mark the unconscious intrusion of character in an artist's work; and is
frankly confessed in one of his Sonnets:---
"Tired with all these; for restful death I cry;
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing drest in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn.....
Tired with all these, from, these would I be gone."
We find, then, scattered through the dramas of Shakespeare a
disaffection to the world as deep-grained as it is comprehensive; and we
find the various elements of it--the contempt of fortune, the ideal
virtue, the disinterested passion, the mysticism, the fellowship with
the oppressed, the distaste of the world's enjoyment and the weariness
of its burden--concentrated in Hamlet for full and exhaustive study;
thus presenting what I have called the interior or fundamental drama of
the soul and the world.
But the tragedy of "Hamlet" includes more than this. It is not merely
the doom of suffering on a soul above a certain strain, still less is it
the accidental death of a sluggard in revenge; it is the implication of
a noble mind in the intrigues and malignities of a world it has
renounced. In vain Hamlet contracts his ambition till it is bounded by a
nutshell; he is ordered to strike for a throne. No abnegation clears him
from entanglement. The world permits not his escape, but drags him back
with those crooked hands of which Dante speaks, which pierce while they
hold. This is the tragedy in all its fulness, the involution of the
inward and outward drama to the immense advantage of both. For while the
spiritual agony of Hamlet gives an incomparable dignity to the
ghost-story, yet by the very interruptions and checkings and crossings
of it through the accidents and oppositions of the plot, its physiognomy
is more distinctly and delicately revealed. Instead of the majestic but
monotonous declamation of Timon, we have every variety of that ironical
humour (indicating some yet unconquered province of the soul) that
guards and embalms the purer strength of feeling, keeps it airy and
spiritual, and frees it from moan and heaviness. Here we have no
insistance on suffering, no literary heart-breaks, no dilettante
pessimism; but those indefinable harmonies of freedom and law, of the
ascendency of the soul and the sovereignty of fate, of Nature and the
spaces of the mind, that in the works of the great masters represent, if
they do not explain, the mystery of life.
The religion of Hamlet is that faith in God which survives after the
extinction of the faith in man. Losing the light of human worth and
dignity through which, alone the soul can reach to the idea of what is
truly divine, and with it the link between earth and heaven, Hamlet's
religion is reduced to its elements again; to the vague and fragmentary
hints of Nature, and instincts of the spirit; to intimations of
limitless power, of mysterious destiny, of a "something after death,"
of a "divinity that shapes our ends;" and with these, gleams of a
transcendent religion of humanity, for devotion to which he was
suffering; and on the other side, binding him to the stage-plot, relics
of childish superstition, half-beliefs, inherited opinions, "_our_
circumstance and course of thought," which he adopted when he
pleased,--as, for instance, when he feared lest he should dismiss the
murderer to heaven, or half-believed that his blameless father was
tormented in sulphurous flames for having endured a horrible death. But
however obscure and indefinite the religion of Hamlet may be, and partly
because it is so, and hence of universal experience, it adds reach and
depth to his struggle with the world. His soul flies out of bounds and
away in airy liberty on these excursions to the vast unknown, and
escapes at last victorious with the light through the darkness of
conscious immortality, and the lamp in his hand of "the readiness is
all." There is always a certain vacuity in the positive or realistic
treatment of passion, in which it is confined to the area of mortality,
and after a sultry strife delivered over to the mercy of its enemies.
But the world cannot so beset and beleaguer the soul as to block up the
access and passage of invisible allies, or intercept the communications
of infinite strength and infinite charity, or follow to its distant
haunts and inaccessible refuges the migrations of thought--
"In the hoar deep to colonize."
FRANKLIN LEIFCHILD.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] "To see Lear acted, to see an old man tottering about the stage with
a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy night,
has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting."--_Lamb's Essays._
[4] "Shakspere: His Mind and Art," p. 96.
[5] "A Study of Shakespeare," p. 166.
PANISLAMISM AND THE CALIPHATE.[6]
I use the word "Panislamism," simply because it is one of the political
catchwords of the day. The prefix _Pan_ is supposed to have some great
and terrible significance. It is not long since Europe exerted all her
power to save Islam from the jaws of Panslavism, but now that a _Pan_
has been added to Islam, it has become in its turn the bugbear of
Europe. It is even supposed that England was fighting with this new
monster, when she put down the revolution in Egypt. England could never
have so far forgotten her liberality as to take up arms against Islam,
but Panislam must be crushed by a new crusade. Such is the wondrous
power of a prefix. So far as I can understand the mysterious force of
this word, it is designed to express the idea that the scattered
fragments of the Mohammedan world have all rallied around the Caliph to
join in a new attack upon Christendom, or that they are about to do so.
There is just enough of truth in this idea to give it currency, and to
make it desirable that the whole truth should be known. Most of the
mistakes of Europe in dealing with the Ottoman empire, during the
present century, have come from a misapprehension of the forces of
Islam, and the position, and influence of the Sultan of Turkey. There is
danger now of such a misapprehension as may lead to the most unfortunate
complications.
The first essential point, which must always be kept in mind by those
who would understand the movements of the Mohammedan world, is the exact
relation of the Ottoman Sultans to the Caliphate. The word Caliph means
the vicar or the successor of the Prophet. The origin and history of the
Caliphate is well known, but it may be well to give a brief _résumé_ of
it here. During the life of the Prophet it was his custom to name a
Caliph to act for him when he was absent from Medina. During his last
illness he named his father-in-law, Abou-Bekir, and after his death this
appointment was confirmed by election. Omar, Osman, and Ali were
successively chosen to this office, and these four are recognized by all
orthodox Mohammedans as perfect Caliphs. The Persians and other Shiites
recognize only Ali. It is said that the Prophet predicted that the true
Caliphate would continue only thirty years. His words are quoted: "The
Caliphate after me will be for thirty years. After this there will be
only powers established by force, usurpation, and tyranny." The death of
Ali and the usurpation of Mouawiye came just thirty years after the
death of the Prophet, and this was the end of the true and perfect
Caliphate. The sixty-eight imperfect Caliphs who followed were all of
the family of the Prophet, although of different branches, but they
fulfilled the demand of the sacred law, that the Caliph must be of the
family of Koreish, who was a direct descendant from Abraham. Mouawiye
and the Ommiades, fourteen in all, were of the same branch as Osman, the
third Caliph. The Abassides of Kufa, Bagdad, and Cairo, fifty-four in
all, descended from Abas, the great-uncle of the Prophet. There were
many others who at different times usurped the name of Caliph, but these
seventy-two are all who are recognized as universal Caliphs. Mohammed
XII., the last of these died in obscurity in Egypt in 1538. The power of
the Caliphs gradually decayed, until for hundreds of years it was little
more than nominal, and exclusively religious.
The claim of the Ottoman Sultans to the Caliphate dates back to the time
of Sultan Selim I. This Sultan conquered Egypt and over-threw the
dynasty of the Mamelukes. He found at Cairo the Caliph Mohammed XII.,
and brought him as a prisoner to Constantinople. He was kept at the
fortress of the Seven Towers for several years, and then sent back to
Egypt with a small pension. While Selim was in Cairo, the Shereeff of
Mecca presented to him the keys of the holy cities, and accepted him as
their protector. In 1517 Mohammed XII. also made over to him all his
right and title to the Caliphate. This involuntary cession, and the
voluntary homage of the Shereeff of Mecca are the only titles possessed
by the Ottoman Sultans to the Caliphate, which, according to the word of
the Prophet himself, must always remain in his own family. If the
Ommiades and the Abassides were imperfect Caliphs, it is plain that the
Ottoman Sultans must be doubly imperfect. It was easy, however, for an
all-powerful Sultan to obtain an opinion from the Ulema that his claim
was well-founded; and it has been very generally recognized by orthodox
Mohammedans, in spite of its essential weakness. When the time comes,
however, that the Ottoman Sultans are no longer powerful, it will be
still more easy to obtain an opinion that the Shereeff of Mecca, who is
of the family of the Prophet, is the true Caliph.
The Ottoman Sultans have also assumed the other and more generally used
title of _Imam-ul-Mussilmin_, which may be roughly translated Grand
Pontiff of all the Moslems, although, strictly speaking, the functions
of an Imam are not priestly. This title is based upon an article of the
Mohammedan faith which says--"The Mussulmans ought to be governed by an
Imam, who has the right and authority to secure obedience to the law, to
defend the frontiers, to raise armies, to collect tithes, to put down
rebels, to celebrate public prayers on Fridays, and at Beiram," &c. This
article of faith is based upon the words of the Prophet--"He who dies
without recognizing the authority of the Imam of his time, is judged to
have died in ignorance and infidelity."
The law goes on to say--"All Moslems ought to be governed by one Imam.
His authority is absolute, and embraces everything. All are bound to
submit to him. No country can render submission to any other."
Under this law the Ottoman Sultans claim absolute and unquestioning
obedience from all Moslems throughout the world; but their right to this
title rests upon the same foundation as that upon which is based the
title of Caliph. The Prophet himself said, and the accepted law repeats,
that the Imam-ul-Mussilmin must be of the family of Koreish. The Ottoman
Sultans belong not only to a different family, but to a different race.
With this evident weakness in their title to the Caliphate, and the
accompanying rank of universal Imam, it is a question of interest on
what grounds the doctors of Mohammedan law have justified their claims,
and how far these have been recognized.
In addition to the rights said to have been conferred by the Caliph
Mohammed XII. and by the Shereef of Mecca upon Sultan Selim I., and by
him transmitted to his posterity, the Mohammedan doctors make use of a
very different argument. They say--
"The rights of the house of Othman are based upon its power and
success, for one of the most ancient canonical books declares that
the authority of a prince who has usurped the Caliphate by force
and violence, ought not the less to be considered legitimate,
because, since the end of the perfect Caliphate, the sovereign
power is held to reside in the person of him who is the strongest,
who is the actual ruler, and whose right to command rests upon the
power of his armies."
This statement presents the real basis of the claims of the Sultans to
the Caliphate. It is the right of the strongest. Any man who disputes
it, does so at his peril; and, since 1517, the Ottoman Sultans have been
able to command the submission of the Mohammedan world. Their title has
not been seriously disputed.
But the title has this weak point in it. It is good only so long as the
Sultan is strong enough to maintain it. It has not destroyed the rights
of the family of Koreish. It only holds them in abeyance, until some
one of that family is strong enough to put an end to the Turkish
usurpation. The power of the Sultan does not depend upon the title, but
the title depends upon his power. This is a point the political
importance of which should never be overlooked.
We come now to our second question. How far is the claim of the Ottoman
Sultans to the Caliphate now recognized in the Mohammedan world? Except
with the Shiites, who have never acknowledged it, there is no open
rebellion against it. But the decay of the Ottoman Empire during the
last hundred years has been obvious to all the world. Not only has it
been gradually dismembered, not only have many of its Mohammedan
subjects been brought under the dominion of Christian Powers, and many
of its Christian subjects set free, not only have its African
possessions become practically independent, except Tripoli, but the
house of Othman exists to-day, only because Christian Europe interfered
to defend it against its own Mohammedan subjects. The house of Mohammed
Ali would otherwise have taken its place. Again and again have the
Sultans shown their inability to defend the frontiers of Islam. Since
the advent of the present Sultan, the process of dismemberment has gone
on more rapidly than ever.
The influence of these facts upon the Mohammedan world has been very
marked. I cannot speak from personal knowledge of the people of India
and Central Asia, but from the best information that I can obtain, I
conclude that while they have lost none of their interest in Islam,
while they are still interested in the fate of their Turkish brethren,
they would not lift a finger to maintain the right of the Sultan to the
Caliphate against any claimant of the family of the Prophet. The feeling
of the Arabic-speaking Mohammedans is well known. Islam is an Arab
religion; the Prophet was an Arab; the Caliph should be an Arab. The
Ottoman Sultans are barbarian usurpers, who have taken and hold the
Caliphate by force. The Arabs have been ready for open revolt for years,
and have only waited for a leader of the house of the Prophet. Their
natural leader would be the Shereef of Mecca; and it is understood that
the Shereef who has just been deposed by the Sultan, as well as his
predecessor who was mysteriously assassinated, was on the point of
declaring himself Caliph. The new Shereef is a young man of the same
family.
So far as the Turkish, Circassian, and Slavic Mohammedans are concerned,
their interests are bound up with those of the Sultan. They do not
distinguish between the Caliphate and the Sultanat. Their ruler is the
Imam-ul-Mussilmin, their law is the Sheraat, their country is the
Dar-Islam; and when they are fighting for their Sultan they are fighting
for their faith. They know nothing of any other possible Caliph. But if
a new Caliph should appear at Mecca, and declare the Sultan a usurper
and a Kaffir, it is very doubtful whether they would stand by the
Sultan. They would not know what to do.
Another element enters just now into the question of the Caliphate, of
which so much has been written of late that it is only necessary to
mention it here. The Mohammedan world is looking for the coming of the
Mehdy. The time appointed by many traditions for his appearance has
already come, the year of the Hedjira 1300. Other traditions, however,
fix no definite time--they only say "towards the end of the world," and
many impostors have already appeared at different times and places
claiming to be the Mehdy. According to Shiite tradition, it is the
twelfth Imam of the race of Ali who is to appear. At the age of twelve
he was lost in a cave, where he still lives, awaiting his time.
According to the Sunnis, the _Mehdy_ is to come from Heaven with 360
celestial spirits, to purify Islam and convert the world. He will be a
perfect Caliph, and will rule over all nations.
It is impossible for any Christian to speak with absolute certainty of
the real feeling of Mohammedans; but it is evident that this expected
Mehdy is talked of by Mohammedans everywhere, and that there is more or
less faith in his speedy appearance. No one who anticipates his coming,
can have any interest in the claims of the Sultan to be the Caliph.
Should any one appear to fulfil the demands of the tradition, and meet
with success in rousing any part of the Mohammedan world, the excitement
would become intense, especially in Africa and Arabia. The claims of the
Sultan would be repudiated at once. Still I think it probable that too
much has been made of this Mehdy in Europe. I do not think that the
Pachas of Constantinople have any more faith in his coming than Mr.
Herbert Spencer has in the second coming of Christ. They only fear that
some impostor may take advantage of the tradition to create division in
the empire. This is the real danger.