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FROM  THE 

PERSONAL  LIBRARY  OF 

JAMES  BUELL  MUNN 

1890-  1967 

BOSTON  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

\1M 


EVERYMAN'S     LIBRARY 
EDITED  BY  ERNEST  RHYS 


ESSAYS 


COLERIDGE'S       LECTURES 

ON      SHAKSPEARE     AND 

OTHER        POETS        AND 

DRAMATISTS 


THE  PUBLISHERS  OF  SFS^irM^CK^S 
LJB^E^%T  WILL  BE  PLEASED  TO  SEND 
FREELY  TO  ALL  APPLICANTS  A  LIST 
OF  THE  PUBLISHED  AND  PROJECTED 
VOLUMES  TO  BE  COMPRISED  UNDER 
THE   FOLLOWING  THIRTEEN  HEADINGS: 


TPvAVEL     -^      SCIENCE     -^     FICTION 

THEOLOGY   &   PHILOSOPHY 

HISTORY  ^         CLASSICAL 

FOR      YOUNG      PEOPLE 

ESSAYS   ^   ORATORY 

POETRY  &  DRAMA 

BIOGRAPHY 

REFERENCE 

ROMANCE 


IN  FOUR  STYLES  OF  BINDING:  CLOTH, 
FLAT  BACK,  COLOURED  TOP;  LEATHER, 
ROUND  CORNERS,  GILT  TOP;  LIBRARY 
BINDING  IN  CLOTH,  &  QUARTER  PIGSKIN 


London  :  J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS,  Ltd. 
New   York:    E.   P.    DUTTON   &   CO. 


COIERFDGES 

ESSAYS  ©  ^■ 
LECTURES^ 
SHAKSPEARE 

©Some  Otfier 
OLD  POETS 
©DRAMATISTS, 


LOFOON:PU.BLISHED 
^JMDENTSSONS-IS 
ANP  IN  NEW  YORK 
BY  EPDUTTONSCO 


First  Issue  of  this  Edition     .      1907 
Reprinted        ....      1909,  1911,  19^4 


PR  2  9  74 

\9o7cx 
Munn 


All  rights  reserved 


EDITOR'S    INTRODUCTION 

In  treating  of  Shakspeare,  said  one  of  the  best  of  Coleridge's 
critics,  "he  set  the  sun  in  heaven."  The  present  volume,  im- 
perfect record  as  it  is,  contains  the  greater  substance  of  all  that 
the  most  inspired  English  critic  said,  whether  casually  or 
deliberately,  of  the  most  inspired  poet.  Its  contents  are  those  of 
the  two  posthumous  miscellanies  of  notes  for  lectures  and  reports 
of  lectures,  which  were  prepared  by  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge  and 
his  wife — Coleridge's  daughter,  Sarah — in  1836,  and  by  Payne 
Collier  in  1856.  The  first  deals  principally  with  the  lectures 
given  by  Coleridge  in  181 8,  but  it  contains  many  notes  and 
memoranda  which  belong  equally  to  the  earlier  period.  And 
one  suspects  Payne  Collier's  contribution  of  the  1811-12  lectures, 
although  he  was  a  less  unreliable  recorder  than  is  usually  sup- 
posed, to  have  been  in  some  instances  from  the  earlier  publica- 
tion. Perhaps  the  best  way  to  read  in  this  double  collection  is  to 
turn  up  first  the  Notes  upon  Shakspeare's  plays—"  Hamlet"  for 
preference,  in  which  Coleridge  (who  was  himself  an  intellectual 
Hamlet)  used  to  perfection  the  subtle  mirror  afforded  by  his  own 
mind  ;  and  then  from  that  to  work  through  the  maze  of  his 
lectures  and  poetic  homilies.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
whole  book,  as  here  constituted,  is  the  tell-tale  memorial  of 
the  Coleridge  who  was  too  indolent  to  make  good  his  harvest. 
He  had  a  magnificent  intellect,  a  superb  imagination,  but  no 
corresponding  will-power.  The  consequence  is  that  his  lectures 
on  Shakspeare  were  imperfectly  prepared,  often  ill-delivered,  and 
left  in  the  end  to  the  mercy  of  careless  reporters.  But  to  those 
who  can  discern  the  god  in  the  cloud,  these  transcripts  are  of 
inestimable  value.  Intermittent  flashes  of  creative  criticism  break 
continually  through  the  misty  envelope,  and  the  brilliance  is 
according  to  the  assimilative  or  the  refractive  quality  of  the 
reader.  For,  as  Coleridge  quotes  and  says,  "we  are  not  all 
Mogul  diamonds,  to  take  the  light."     There  are  readers  that  are 


viii  Editor's  Introduction 

sponges,  and  others  that  are  sand-glasses  or  strain-bags,  who  let 
the  creative  element  escape,  and  retain  only  the  dregs.  There 
are  plentiful  dregs  in  these  pages. 

A  page  ought  to  be  added  to  enable  us  the  better  to  realise 
Coleridge,  the  lecturer,  as  he  appeared  to  his  hearers  and 
contemporaries. 

Byron,  in  one  of  his  letters,  says  :  "  We  are  going  in  a  party  to 
hear  the  new  Art  of  Poetry  by  the  reformed  schismatic."  ^  This 
was  toward  the  end  of  the  course,  which  according  to  Crabb 
Robinson  ended  with  eclat.  "  The  room  was  crowded,  and  the 
lecture  had  several  passages  more  than  brilliant."  This  was  after 
a  very  fluctuating  success.  At  a  December  lecture,  ostensibly 
on  Romeo  and  Juliet,  he  is  said  to  have  "  surpassed  himself  in  the 
art  of  talking  in  a  very  interesting  way  without  speaking  at  all  on 
the  subject  announced."  On  the  same  occasion  Charles  Lamb 
whispered  to  his  neighbour  in  the  audience  :  "  This  is  not 
much  amiss.  He  promised  a  lecture  on  the  Nurse  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  and  he  has  given  us  instead  one  in  the  manner  of  the 
nurse."  Four  times  in  all  were  his  hearers  invited  to  a  lecture  on 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  it  seems  ;  and  at  least  three  times  did  he  dis- 
appoint them.  Instead  of  the  expected  discourse,  "  We  have,"  said 
Crabb  Robinson  in  a  letter  to  Mrs  Clarkson,  "  an  immethodical 
rhapsody.  .  .  .  Yet  I  cannot  but  be  charmed  with  their  splendida 
vitia,  and  my  chief  displeasure  is  occasioned  by  my  being  forced 
to  hear  the  strictures  of  persons  infinitely  below  Coleridge, 
without  any  power  of  refuting  or  contradicting  them." 

For  this  course  of  1811-12,  Coleridge  did  not  write  out  his 
lectures,  and  they  were  nearly  all  delivered  extemporaneously. 
The  Morgans,  with  whom  he  was  staying  at  the  time,  found  it 
hard  to  get  him  to  make  any  direct  preparation.  He  would  not 
look  into  his  Shakspeare,  although  they  purposely  put  it  in  his 
way,  and  an  old  MS.  commonplace  book  seemb  to  have  been  his 
sole  remembrancer. 

For  the  course  of  18 18,  he  did,  on  his  own  declaration, 
make  a  more  settled  preparation,  on  an  eclectic  plan  of  his 
own. 

"  During  a  course  of  lectures,"  he  writes,  "  I  faithfully  employ 
all  the  intervening  days  in  collecting  and  digesting  the  materials. 
The  day  of  the  lecture  I  devote  to  the  consideration,  what  of  the 

1  Crabb  Robinson  speaks  of  seeing  Byron  and  Rogers  at  one  of  the  lectures  of  this 
course.  He  says  of  Bryon  :  "  He  was  wrapped  up,  but  I  recognised  his  club-foot,  and 
indeed  his  countenance  and  general  appearance." 


Editors  Introduction  ix 

mass  before  me  is  best  fitted  to  answer  the  purpose  of  a  lecture, 
that  is,  to  keep  the  audience  awake  and  interested  during  the 
delivery,  and  to  leave  a  sting  behind,"  that  is,  he  explains,  a 
wish  to  study  the  subject  anew,  in  the  light  of  a  new  principle. 
"  I  take  far,  far  more  pains,"  he  adds,  "  than  would  go  to  the  set 
composition  of  a  lecture,  both  by  varied  reading  and  by  medita- 
tion ;  but  for  the  words,  illustrations,  etc.,  I  know  almost  as  little 
as  any  one  of  the  audience  .  .  .  what  they  will  be  five  minutes 
before  the  lecture  begins." 

The  1811-12  lectures  were  delivered  in  rooms  in  Crane  Court, 
Fetter  Lane,  Fleet  Street.  The  18 18  course  was  held  in  rooms 
at  Flower-de-Luce  Court — "near  the  Temple,"  Gilman  says  ;  but 
no  doubt  the  Fleur-de-Hs  Court,  off  Fetter  Lane,  is  the  actual 
place,  Coleridge,  it  is  well  to  note,  gave  some  earlier  courses  of 
lectures  in  London  ;  one  in  1806-7,  at  the  Royal  Institution,  was 
"  On  the  Principles  of  the  Fine  Arts"  ;  and  in  1807-8,  he  actually 
began  five  courses  of  five  lectures  each  on  the  English  poets,  of 
which  only  the  first  course,  that  on  Shakspeare,  was  delivered. 
But  this  first  course,  and  its  date,  are  important,  because  of  the 
old  question  of  Coleridge's  debt  to  Schlegel.  Schlegel's  lectures 
were  given  in  1808,  as  Mr.  Ashe  points  out  in  this  connection  (in 
his  interesting  edition  of  Coleridge's  Lectures  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1883).  Coleridge  himself  speaks  of  one  London  detached 
lecture  of  his,  at  the  "  Crown  and  Anchor,"  whose  date  was  pro- 
bably 1817  or  1818. 

Other  lectures  were  given  in  1813  at  the  Surrey  Institution,  on 
Belles  Lettres  ;  and  in  Bristol,  at  the  great  room  of  the  "  White 
Lion,"  in  1813-14.  After  some  characteristic  delays  and  dis- 
appointments, these  Bristol  lectures  gave  immense  pleasure  to  the 
few  elect  who  went  to  them.  Cottle  describes  them  as  of  a 
conversational  character,  and  says,  "  The  attention  of  his  hearers 
never  flagged,  and  his  large  dark  eyes,  and  his  countenance,  in 
an  excited  state,  glowing  with  intellect,  predisposed  his  audience 
in  his  favour."  We  gather  from  other  references  that  they  did 
not  bring  him  much  gold,  greatly  as  he  and  his  unlucky  family 
needed  it.  The  London  course  of  181 8  ends  his  career  as  a 
lecturer  ;  and  if  it  was  a  rather  more  profitable  adventure,  it  was 
hardly  one  to  reinstate  his  poor  fortunes.  He  was  then  a  man  of 
forty-six.     In  1834  he  died. 


Editor's   Introduction 


THE    FOLLOWING    IS    A    LIST   OF    HIS    PUBLISHED    WORKS 

Greek  Prize  Ode  on  the  Slave  Trade,  Cambridge,  1792.  Monody  on 
the  Death  of  Chatterton  (first  draft),  1 794.  The  Fall  of  Robespierre :  An 
Historic  Drama  (Coleridge  and  Southey),  1794.  Contributions  to  The 
Cambridge  Intelligencer  and  The  Morning  Chronicle,  1 794- 179 5.  The 
Watchman,  1796.  Poems  on  Various  Subjects,  1796,  The  Vision  of  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  {^owihty^s  Joan  of  Arc),  republished  as  The  Destiny  of 
Nations,  1796,  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,  1 796.  Contributions  to 
The  Monthly  Magazine,  1 796- 1 797.  Fears  in  Solitude;  France,  an 
Ode  ;  Frost  at  Midnight,  1 798.  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798  (containing  "  The 
Ancient  Mariner  "  and  other  poems).  Contributions  to  The  Morning  Post, 
1798-1802.  Poems  in  Annual  Anthology,  1799-1800.  Wallenstein  {ixova. 
the  German  of  Schiller),  1800.  Contributions  in  Prose  and  Verse  to  The 
Courier,  1807-1811.  The  Friend,  1  June,  1809,  to  15  March,  1 8 ID. 
Contributions  to  Southey's  Omniana,  1812.  Remorse,  181 3  (remodelled 
from  Osorio,  written  in  1797  ;  pub.  1873).  Essays  on  the  Fine  Arts 
(Felix  Farley's  Bristol  Journal,  1814).  Christabel ;  Kubla  Khan  ;  Pains 
of  Sleep,  1816  (first  and  second  parts  of  Christabel,  written  1797  and  1800). 
The  States7nan's  Manual;  or.  The  Bible  the  Best  Guide  to  Political  Skill 
and  Foresight,  1816.  Sibylline  Leaves,  1817.  Zapolya:  A  Christmas 
Tale,  1817.  Biographia  Literaria,  1817.  On  Method  {Esssiy  forming 
the  General  Introduction  to  Encyclopcedia  Metropolitana,  18 17- 18 18). 
Contributions  to  Blackwood' s  Magazine,  1819-1822.  Aids  to  Reflection, 
1825.     On  the  Constitution  of  the  Church  and  State,  1830. 


A  Moral  and  Political  Lecture,  1795.  Condones  ad  Populam ;  or, 
Addresses  to  the  People,  1795.  The  Plot  Discovered :  An  Address  to  the 
People,  1795. 


First  Collected  Edition  of  Poems  and  Dramas,  1828. 


POSTHUMOUS    WORKS 

Specimens  of  his  Table  Talk  (Edited  by  H.  N.  Coleridge),  1835. 
Letters,  Conversations,  atid  Recollections  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 
(Edited  by  T.  Allsop),  1836,  58,  64.  Literary  Remains  (Edited  by  H. 
N.  Coleridge),  1836-1839.  Confessions  of  an  Inquiring  Spirit  (Edited 
by  H.  N.  Coleridge),  1840.  Hints  towards  the  Formation  of  a  more 
Comprehensive  Theory  of  Life  (Edited  by  S.  B.  Watson),  1848.  Notes 
and  Lectures  upon  Shakspeare  and  some  of  the  Old  Dramatists  (Edited  by 


Editors  Introduction  xi 

Sara  Coleridge),  1849.  Essays  on  his  own  Times  (Edited  by  S.  Cole- 
ridge), 3  vols.,  1850.  Notes  upon  English  Divines  (Edited  by  Derwent 
Coleridge),  1853.  Notes:  Theological,  Political^  and  Miscellaneous 
(Edited  by  D.  Coleridge),  1853.  Lectures  on  Shakespeare,  from  Notes  by 
J.  P.  Collier,  1856.  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  founded  on  the 
Author's  latest  edition  of  1834  (Edited  by  R.  H.  Shepherd),  4  vols., 
London  and  Boston,  1 877-1 881.  Co7nplete  Works  (Edited  by  Professor 
Shedd),  1884.  Miscellanies:  ^Esthetic  and  Literary  {Edited  hy  T.  Ashe), 
1885.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (Edited  by  James 
Dyke  Campbell),  1893.  Letters  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  1785-1S34 
(Edited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge),  2  vols.,  1895. 


CONTENTS 


Extract  from  a  Letter  written  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  in  February 

1818,  to  a  Gentleman  who  attended  the  Course  of  Lectures 

given  in  the  Spring  of  that  Year 

Extract  from  a  Letter  to  J.  Biiton,  Esq 

Shakspeare,  with  introductory  matter  on  poetry,  the 

drama,  and  the  stage 

Definition  of  Poetry  .... 

Greek  Drama    ..... 

Progress  of  the  Drama 

The  Drama  generally,  and  Public  Taste 

Shakspeare,  a  Poet  generally 

Shakspeare' s  Judgment  equal  to  his  Genius 

Recapitulation,  and  Summary  of  the  Characteristics  of 
Shakspeare' s  Dramas       ..... 

Outline  of  an  Introductory  Lecture  upon  Shakspeare 

Order  of  Shakspeare' s  Plays 

Notes  on  the  Tempest 

Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

Comedy  of  Errors 

As  You  Like  It 

Twelfth  Night 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Measure  for  Measure 

Cymbeline 

Titus  Andronicus 

Troilus  and  Cressida 

Coriolanus 

Julius  Cassar 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 

Timon  of  Athens 

Romeo  and  Juliet 


xiv  Contents 

Shakspeare — continued  : — 

Shakspeare's  English  Historical  Plays 

King  John 

Richard  11. 

Henry  IV.     Part  I. 

Henry  IV.     Part  II. 

Henry  V. 

Henry  VI.     Part  I. 

Richard  III. 

Lear 

Hamlet     . 

Notes  on  Macbeth 

Notes  on  the  Winter's  Tale 

Notes  on  Othello 
Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

Whalley's  Preface 

Whalley's  Life  of  Jonson 

Every  Man  out  of  His  Humour 

Poetaster 

Fall  of  Sejanus 

Volpone    . 

Epicaene    . 

The  Alchemist 

Catiline's  Conspiracy 

Bartholomew  Fair 

The  Devn  is  an  Ass 

The  Staple  of  News 

The  New  Inn     . 
Notes  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Harris's  Commendatory  Poem  on  Fletcher 

Life  of  Fletcher  in  Stockdale's  Edition,      i^ 

Maid's  Tragedy 

A  King  and  no  King  . 

The  Scornful  La4y  . 
The  Custom  of  the  Country 
The  Elder  Brother  . 
The  Spanish  Curate  . 
Wit  Without  Money  . 
The  Humorous  Lieutenant 


Contents 

XV 

Notes  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher — continued: —                page 

The  ISlad  Lover           ..,..,.      200 

The  Loyal  Subject 

.     200 

Rule  a  Wife  and  have  a  Wife 

201 

The  Laws  of  Candy     . 

.     201 

The  Little  French  Lawyer  . 

.     202 

Valentin  ian 

.     202 

Rollo         .          .          . 

•     20s 

The  Wildgoose  Chase 

.     206 

A  Wife  for  a  Month    . 

.     207 

The  Pilgrim 

.     207 

The  Queen  of  Corinth 

.     207 

The  Noble  Gentleman 

.     208 

The  Coronation 

.     209 

Wit  at  Several  Weapons      . 

.     209 

The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn     . 

.     210 

The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen     . 

.     211 

The  Woman  Hater     . 

.     212 

A    COURSE    OF    LECTURES 


Prospectus     ......... 

Lecture  L    General   Character  of  the  Gothic  Mind  in  the 
Middle  Ages       ...... 

n.   General  Character  of    the  Gothic  Literature  and 

Art 

III.   The     Troubadours,    Boccaccio,    Petrarch,    Pulci, 
Chaucer,  Spenser         ..... 
VII.   Ben    Jonson,  Beaumont  and   Fletcher,  and  Mas- 
singer.     Notes  on  Massinger 
VIII.   Don  Quixote,  Cervantes     ..... 
IX.   On  the  Distinctions  of   the  Witty,  the  Droll,  the 
Odd,  and  the  Humorous  ;  the  Nature  and  Con- 
stituents of  Humour  ;  Rabelais,  Swift,  Sterne 
X.   Donne,  Dante,  Milton,  Paradise  Lost 
XI.   Asiatic  and  Greek  Mythologies,  Robinson  Crusoe, 

Use  of  works  of  Imagination  in  Education 
XII.   Dreams,  Apparitions,  Alchemists,  Personality   of 
the  Evil  Being,  Bodily  Identity    . 

XIII.  On  Poesy  or  Art 

XIV.  On  Style 


213 
216 

218 

223 

236 
247 


258 
269 

291 

301 
311 
319 


XVI 


Contents 


the 


On  the  Prometheus  of  iEschylus  .... 

Summary  of  an  Essay  on  the  fundamental  position  of 

Mysteries  in  Relation  to  Greek  Tragedy 
Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Taste.      1810 
Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Beauty.      18 18 
Notes  on  Chapman's  Homer.     Extract  of  a  Letter  sent  with 

the  Volume.      1807    . 
Note  in  Casaubon's  Persius.     1807 
Notes  on  Barclay's  Argenis.     1803 
Notes  on  Chalmers's  Life  of  Samuel  Daniel 
Bishop  Corbet  .... 

Notes  on  Selden's  Table  Talk 
Notes  on  Tom  Jones 
Another  set  of  Notes  on  Tom  Jones     . 
Jonathan  Wild  .... 

Notes  on  Junius.      1807     . 
Wonderfulness  of  Prose     . 

Notes  on  Herbert's  Temple  and  Harvey's  Synagogue 
Extract  from  a  Letter  of  S.  T.  Coleridge  to  W.  Collins,  R.A. 

Printed  in  the  Life  of  Collins  by  his  Son.     Vol.  i.    . 
Notes  on  Mathias'  Edition  of  Gray.     On  a  distant  prospect 

Eton  College       ....... 

Barry  Cornwall         ....... 

On  the  Mode  of  Studying  Kant.     Extract  from  a  Letter  of 

Mr.  Coleridge  to  J.  Gooden,  Esq. 
Notes  on  the  Palingenesien  of  Jean  Paul 


PAGB 

326 

349 
351 
354 

356 
359 
359 
361 
361 
362 
Z^Z 
365 
366 

367 

371 
372 

1>77 

378 
382 

383 


LECTURES    ON    SHAKSPEARE    AND    MILTON. 


The  First  Lecture  . 
The  Second  Lecture 
The  Sixth  Lecture  . 
The  Seventh  Lecture 
The  Eighth  Lecture 
The  Ninth  Lecture 
The  Twelfth  Lecture 


389 
396 
405 
419 
435 
445 
465 


JOSEPH     HENRY    GREEN,    Esq. 

MEMBER   OF   THE   ROYAL   COLLEGE   OF    SURGEONS 

THE    APPROVED     FRIEND 

OF  COLERIDGE 

THESE  VOLUMES  ARE  GRATEFULLY   INSCRIBED 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  1836  EDITION  OF  *  LITERARY 
REMAINS ' 

Mr.  Coleridge  by  his  will,  dated  in  September,  1829, 
authorized  his  executor,  if  he  should  think  it  expedient, 
to  publish  any  of  the  notes  or  writing  made  by  him 
(Mr.  C.)  in  his  books,  or  any  other  of  his  manuscripts  or 
writings,  or  any  letters  which  should  thereafter  be  collected 
from,  or  suppUed  by,  his  friends  or  correspondents. 
Agreeably  to  this  authority,  an  arrangement  was  made, 
under  the  superintendence  of  Mr.  Green,  for  the  collection 
of  Coleridge's  Uterary  remains  ;  and  at  the  same  time  the 
preparation  for  the  press  of  such  part  of  the  materials  as 
should  consist  of  criticism  and  general  literature,  was 
entrusted  to  the  care  of  the  present  Editor.  The  volumes 
now  offered  to  the  public  are  the  first  results  of  that 
arrangement.  They  must  in  any  case  stand  in  need  of 
much  indulgence  from  the  ingenuous  reader ; — multa 
sunt  condonanda  in  opere  postumo  ;  but  a  short  state- 
ment of  the  difficulties  attending  the  compilation  may 
serve  to  explain  some  apparent  anomalies,  and  to  preclude 
some  unnecessary  censure. 

The  materials  were  fragmentary  in  the  extreme  — 
Sibylline  leaves  ; — notes  of  the  lecturer,  memoranda  of 
the  investigator,  out-pourings  of  the  solitary  and  self- 
communing  student.     The  fear  of  the  press  was  not  in 

3 


4  Preface 

them.  Numerous  as  they  were,  too,  they  came  to  light, 
or  were  communicated,  at  different  times,  before  and 
after  the  printing  was  commenced  ;  and  the  dates,  the 
occasions,  and  the  references,  in  most  instances  remained 
to  be  discovered  or  conjectured.  To  give  to  such  materials 
method  and  continuity,  as  far  as  might  be, — to  set  them 
forth  in  the  least  disadvantageous  manner  which  the 
circumstances  would  permit, — was  a  delicate  and  per- 
plexing task  ;  and  the  Editor  is  painfully  sensible  that 
he  could  bring  few  qualifications  for  the  undertaking,  but 
such  as  were  involved  in  a  many  years'  intercourse  with 
the  author  himself,  a  patient  study  of  his  writings,  a 
reverential  admiration  of  his  genius,  and  an  affectionate 
desire  to  help  in  extending  its  beneficial  influence. 

The  contents  of  these  volumes  are  drawn  from  a  portion 
only  of  the  manuscripts  entrusted  to  the  Editor  :  the 
remainder  of  the  collection,  which,  under  favourable 
circumstances,  he  hopes  may  hereafter  see  the  light,  is  at 
least  of  equal  value  with  what  is  now  presented  to  the 
reader  as  a  sample.  In  perusing  the  following  pages,  the 
reader  will,  in  a  few  instances,  meet  with  disquisitions  of 
a  transcendental  character,  which,  as  a  general  rule, 
have  been  avoided  :  the  truth  is,  that  they  were  sometimes 
found  so  indissolubly  intertwined  with  the  more  popular 
matter  which  preceded  and  followed,  as  to  make  separa- 
tion impracticable.  There  are  very  many  to  whom  no 
apology  will  be  necessary  in  this  respect ;  and  the  Editor 
only  adverts  to  it  for  the  purpose  of  obviating,  as  far  as 
may  be,  the  possible  complaint  of  the  more  general  reader. 
But  there  is  another  point  to  which,  taught  by  past 
experience,  he  attaches  more  importance,  and  as  to 
which,  therefore,  he  ventures  to  put  in  a  more  express 


Preface  5 

and  particular  caution.  In  many  of  the  books  and  papers, 
which  have  been  used  in  the  compilation  of  these  volumes, 
passages  from  other  writers,  noted  down  by  Mr.  Coleridge 
as  in  some  way  remarkable,  were  mixed  up  with  his  own 
comments  on  such  passages,  or  with  his  reflections  on 
other  subjects,  in  a  manner  very  embarrassing  to  the  eye 
of  a  third  person  undertaking  to  select  the  original  matter, 
after  the  lapse  of  several  years.  The  Editor  need  not  say 
that  he  has  not  knowingly  admitted  any  thing  that  was 
not  genuine,  without  an  express  declaration  as  in  Vol.  I. 
p.  I  ;  1  and  in  another  instance.  Vol.  II.  p.  379,^  he  has 
intimated  his  own  suspicion  ;  but,  besides  these,  it  is 
possible  that  some  cases  of  mistake  in  this  respect  may 
have  occurred.  There  may  be  one  or  two  passages — they 
cannot  well  be  more — printed  in  these  volumes,  which 
belong  to  other  writers  ;  and  if  such  there  be,  the  Editor 
can  only  plead  in  excuse,  that  the  work  has  been  prepared 
by  him  amidst  many  distractions,  and  hope  that,  in  this 
instance  at  least,  no  ungenerous  use  will  be  made  of  such 
a  circumstance  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  author,  and 
that  persons  of  greater  reading  or  more  retentive  memories 
than  the  Editor,  who  may  discover  any  such  passages, 
will  do  him  the  favour  to  communicate  the  fact. 

To  those  who  have  been  kind  enough  to  communicate 
books  and  manuscripts  for  the  purpose  of  the  present 
publication,  the  Editor  and,  through  him,  Mr.  Coleridge's 
executor  return  their  grateful  thanks.  In  most  cases  a 
specific  acknowledgment  has  been  made.  But,  above 
and  independently  of  all  others,  it  is  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

1  The  Editor  is  here  speaking  of  his  note  to  the  Fall  of  Robespierre,  published  in  the 
former  Vol.  i.  of  the  Literary  Remains^  shewing  that  th«:  second  and  third  acts  were 
by  Mr.  Southey. 

3  This  reference  is  to  his  remark  on  an  extract  from  Crashaw's //>'«/.*«  to  the  name  of 
Jesus,  printed  in  Vol.  ii.  of  the  Lit.  Rem.  as  first  published. 


6  Preface 

Gillman,  and  to  Mr.  Green  himself,  that  the  pubUc  are 
indebted  for  the  preservation  and  use  of  the  principal 
part  of  the  contents  of  these  volumes.  The  claims  of 
those  respected  individuals  on  the  gratitude  of  the  friends 
and  admirers  of  Coleridge  and  his  works  are  already  well 
known,  and  in  due  season  those  claims  will  receive  addi- 
tional confirmation. 

With  these  remarks,  sincerely  conscious  of  his  own 
inadequate  execution  of  the  task  assigned  to  him,  yet 
confident  withal  of  the  general  worth  of  the  contents  of 
the  following  pages — the  Editor  commits  the  reliques  of 
a  great  man  to  the  indulgent  consideration  of  the  Public. 

Lincoln's  Inn, 
August  II,  1836. 


LITERARY   REMAINS 


Extract  from  a  Letter  written  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  in  February, 
1818,  to  a  gentleman  who  attended  the  course  of  Lectures 
given  in  the  spring  of  that  year. 

My  next  Friday's  lecture  will,  if  I  do  not  grossly  flatter- 
blind  myself,  be  interesting,  and  the  points  of  view  not 
only  original,  but  new  to  the  audience.  I  make  this 
distinction,  because  sixteen  or  rather  seventeen  years 
ago,  I  delivered  eighteen  lectures  on  Shakspeare,  at  the 
Royal  Institution  ;  three-fourths  of  which  appeared  at 
that  time  startling  paradoxes,  although  they  have  since 
been  adopted  even  by  men,  who  then  made  use  of  them 
as  proofs  of  my  flighty  and  paradoxical  turn  of  mind  ; 
all  to  prove  that  Shakspeare' s  judgment  was,  if  possible, 
still  more  wonderful  than  his  genius  ;  or  rather,  that 
the  contradistinction  itself  between  judgment  and  genius 
rested  on  an  utterly  false  theory.  This,  and  its  proofs 
and  grounds  have  been — I  should  not  have  said  adopted, 
but  produced  as  their  own  legitimate  children  by  some, 
and  by  others  the  merit  of  them  attributed  to  a  foreign 
writer,  whose  lectures  were  not  given  orally  till  two  years 
after  mine,  rather  than  to  their  countryman  ;  though 
I  dare  appeal  to  the  most  adequate  judges,  as  Sir  George 
Beaumont,  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  Mr.  Sotheby,  and 
afterwards  to  Mr.  Rogers  and  Lord  Byron,  whether  there 
is  one  single  principle  in  Schlegel's  work  (which  is  not 
an  admitted  drawback  from  its  merits),  that  was  not 
established  and  applied  in  detafl  by  me.  Plutarch  tells 
us,  that  egotism  is  a  venial  fault  in  the  unfortunate,  and 
justifiable  in  the  calumniated,  &c. 


8  Letter 

Extract  from  a  Letter  to  J.  Briton,  Esq. 

28th  Feb.,  18 19,  Highgate. 

Dear  Sir, — First  permit  me  to  remove  a  very  natural, 
indeed  almost  inevitable,  mistake,  relative  to  my  lectures  : 
namely,  that  I  have  them,  or  that  the  lectures  of  one 
place  or  season  are  in  any  way  repeated  in  another.  So 
far  from  it,  that  on  any  point  that  I  had  ever  studied 
(and  on  no  other  should  I  dare  discourse — I  mean,  that 
I  would  not  lecture  on  any  subject  for  which  I  had  to 
acquire  the  main  knowledge,  even  though  a  month's  or 
three  months'  previous  time  were  allowed  me  ;  on  no 
subject  that  had  not  employed  my  thoughts  for  a  large 
portion  of  my  life  since  earliest  manhood,  free  of  all 
outward  and  particular  purpose) — on  any  point  within 
my  habit  of  thought,  I  should  greatly  prefer  a  subject 
I  had  never  lectured  on,  to  one  which  I  had  repeatedly 
given  ;  and  those  who  have  attended  me  for  any  two 
seasons  successively  will  bear  witness,  that  the  lecture 
given  at  the  London  Philosophical  Society,  on  the  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  for  instance,  was  as  different  from  that  given 
at  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  as  if  they  had  been  by  two 
individuals  who,  without  any  communication  with  each 
other,  had  only  mastered  the  same  principles  of  philo- 
sophic criticism.  This  was  most  strikingly  evidenced 
in  the  coincidence  between  my  lectures  and  those  of 
Schlegel ;  such,  and  so  close,  that  it  was  fortunate  for 
my  moral  reputation  that  I  had  not  only  from  five  to 
seven  hundred  ear  witnesses  that  the  passages  had  been 
given  by  me  at  the  Royal  Institution  two  years  before 
Schlegel  commenced  his  lectures  at  Vienna,  but  that 
notes  had  been  taken  of  these  by  several  men  and  ladies 
of  high  rank.  The  fact  is  this ;  during  a  course  of 
lectures,  I  faithfully  employ  all  the  intervening  days  in 
collecting  and  digesting  the  materials,  whether  I  have 
or  have  not  lectured  on  the  same  subject  before,  making 
no  difference.  The  day  of  the  lecture,  till  the  hour  of 
commencement,  I  devote  to  the  consideration,  what  of 
the  mass  before  me  is  best  fitted  to  answer  the  purposes 
of  a  lecture,  that  is,  to  keep  the  audience  awake  and 
interested  during  the  dehvery,  and  to  leave  a  sting  behind, 
that  is,  a  disposition  to  study  the  subject  anew,  under 


Definition  of  Poetry  9 

the  light  of  a  new  principle.  Several  times,  however, 
partly  from  apprehension  respecting  my  health  and 
animal  spirits,  partly  from  the  wish  to  possess  copies 
that  might  afterwards  be  marketable  among  the  publishers, 
I  have  previously  written  the  lecture  ;  but  before  I  had 
proceeded  twenty  minutes,  I  have  been  obliged  to  push 
the  MS.  away,  and  give  the  subject  a  new  turn.  Nay, 
this  was  so  notorious,  that  many  of  my  auditors  used 
to  threaten  me,  when  they  saw  any  number  of  written 
papers  upon  my  desk,  to  steal  them  away ;  declaring 
they  never  felt  so  secure  of  a  good  lecture  as  when  they 
perceived  that  I  had  not  a  single  scrap  of  writing  before 
me.  I  take  far,  far  more  pains  than  would  go  to  the 
set  composition  of  a  lecture,  both  by  varied  reading 
and  by  meditation ;  but  for  the  words,  illustrations, 
&c.,  I  know  almost  as  little  as  any  one  of  the  audience 
(that  is,  those  of  any  thing  like  the  same  education 
with  myself)  what  they  will  be  five  minutes  before  the 
lecture  begins.  Such  is  my  way,  for  such  is  my  nature  ; 
and  in  attempting  any  other,  I  should  only  torment 
myself  in  order  to  disappoint  my  auditors — torment 
myself  during  the  delivery,  I  mean  ;  for  in  all  other 
respects  it  would  be  a  much  shorter  and  easier  task  to 
deliver  them  from  writing.  I  am  anxious  to  preclude 
any  semblance  of  affectation  ;  and  have  therefore  troubled 
you  with  this  lengthy  preface  before  I  have  the  hardihood 
to  assure  you,  that  you  might  as  well  ask  me  what  my 
dreams  were  in  the  year  1814,  as  what  my  course  of 
lectures  was  at  the  Surrey  Institution.     Fuimus  Troes. 


SHAKSPEARE, 

With  introductory  matter  on  Poetry,  the  Drama,  and 
the  Stage. 

DEFINITION    OF    POETRY. 

Poetry  is  not  the  proper  antithesis  to  prose,  but  to 
science.  Poetry  is  opposed  to  science,  and  prose  to 
metre.  The  proper  and  immediate  object  of  science 
is  the  acquirement,  or  communication,  of  truth;  the 
proper   and    immediate   Oioject    of  poetry   is   the  50m- 


lo  Definition  of  Poetry 

munication  of  immediate  pleasure.  This  definition 
is  useful ;  but  as  it  would  include  novels  and  other 
works  of  fiction,  which  yet  we  do  not  call  poems, 
there  must  be  some  additional  character  by  which  poetry 
is  not  only  divided  from  opposites,  but  Hkewise  dis- 
tinguished from  disparate,  though  similar,  modes  of 
composition.  Now  how  is  this  to  be  effected  ?  In 
animated  prose,  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  passions 
and  accidents  of  human  nature,  are  often  expressed  in 
that  natural  language  which  the  contemplation  of  them 
would  suggest  to  a  pure  and  benevolent  mind ;  yet 
still  neither  we  nor  the  writers  call  such  a  work  a  poem, 
though  no  work  could  deserve  that  name  which  did 
not  include  all  this,  together  with  something  else.  What 
is  this  ?  It  is  that  pleasurable  emotion,  that  peculiar 
state  and  degree  of  excitement,  which  arises  in  the  poet 
himself  in  the  act  of  composition  ; — and  in  order  to  under- 
stand this,  we  must  combine  a  more  than  ordinary 
sympathy  with  the  objects,  emotions,  or  incidents  con- 
templated by  the  poet,  consequent  on  a  more  than 
common  sensibility,  with  a  more  than  ordinary  activity 
of  the  mind  in  respect  of  the  fancy  and  the  irnaginatipn. 
Hence  is  produced  a  more  viviO^eflection  of  the  truths 
of  nature  and  of  the  human  heart,  united  with  a  constant 
activity  modifying  and  correcting  these  truths  by  that 
sort  of  pleasurable  emotion,  which  the  exertion  of  all 
our  faculties  gives  in  a  certain  degree ;  but  which  can 
only  be  felt  in  perfection  under  the  fuU  play  of  those 
powers  of  mind,  which  are  spontaneous  rather  than 
voluntary,  and  in  which  the  effort  required  bears  no 
proportion  to  the  activity  enjoyed.  This  is  the  state 
which  permits  the  production  of  a  highly  pleasurable 
whole,  of  which  each  part  shall  also  communicate  for 
itself  a  distinct  and  conscious  pleasure  ;  and  hjgpce^  arises 
the  definition,  which  I  trust  is  now  inteUigiBle,  that 
poetry,  or  rather  a  poem,  is  a  species  of  composition, 
opposed  to  science,  as  having  intellectual  pleasure  for 
its  object,  and  as  attaining  its  end  by  the  use  of  language 
natural  to  us  in  a  state  of  excitement, — but  distinguished 
from  other  species  of  composition,  not  excluded  by  the 
former  criterion,  by  permitting  a  pleasure  from  the 
whole  consistent  with  a  consciousness  of  pleasure  from 
the    component    parts ; — and    the    perfection    of    which 


Definition  of  Poetry  ii 

is,  to  communicate  from  each  part  the  greatest  immediate 
pleasure  compatible  with  the  largest  sum  of  pleasure 
on  the  whole.  This,  of  course,  will  vary  with  the  different 
modes  of  poetry ; — and  that  splendour  of  particular 
lines,  which  would  be  worthy  of  admiration  in  an  im- 
passioned elegy,  or  a  short  indignant  satire,  would  be 
a  blemish  and  proof  of  vile  taste  in  a  tragedy  or  an  epic 
poem. 

It  is  remarkable,  by  the  way,  that  Milton  in  three 
incidental  words  has  implied  all  which  for  the  purposes 
of  more  distinct  apprehension,  which  at  first  must  be 
slow-paced  in  order  to  be  distinct,  I  have  endeavoured 
to  develope  in  a  precise  and  strictly  adequate  definition. 
Speaking  of  poetry,  he  says,  as  in  a  parenthesis,  "  which 
is  simple,  sensuous,  passionate."  How  awful  is  the 
power  of  words  ! — fearful  often  in  their  consequences 
when  merely  felt,  not  understood ;  but  most  awful 
when  both  felt  and  understood  ! — Had  these  three  words 
only  been  properly  understood  by,  and  present  in  the 
minds  of,  general  readers,  not  only  almost  a  library 
of  false  poetry  would  have  been  either  precluded  or 
still-born,  but,  what  is  of  more  consequence,  works  truly 
excellent  and  capable  of  enlarging  the  understanding, 
warming  and  purifying  the  heart,  and  placing  in  the  centre 
of  the  whole  being  the  germs  of  noble  and  manlike 
actions,  would  have  been  the  common  diet  of  the  intellect 
instead.  For  the  first  condition,  simplicity, — while,  on  the 
one  hand,  it  distinguishes  poetry  from  the  arduous  pro- 
cesses of  science,  labouring  towards  an  end  not  yet  arrived 
at,  and  supposes  a  smooth  and  finished  road,  on  which 
the  reader  is  to  walk  onward  easily,  with  streams  murmur- 
ing by  his  side,  and  trees  and  flowers  and  human  dwellings 
to  make  his  journey  as  delightful  as  the  object  of  it  is 
desirable,  instead  of  having  to  toil  with  the  pioneers 
and  painfully  make  the  road  on  which  .others  are  to 
travel, — precludes,  on  the  other  hand,  every  affectation 
and  morbid  peculiarity  ; — the  second  condition,  sensu- 
ousness,  insures  that  framework  of  objectivity,  that 
definiteness  and  articulation  of  imagery,  and  that 
modification  of  the  images  themselves,  without  which 
poetry  becomes  flattened  into  mere  didactics  of  practice, 
or  evaporated  into  a  hazy,  unthoughtful,  day-dream- 
ing ;    and   the   third    condition,  passion,    provides    that 


12  Definition  of  Poetry 

neither  thought  nor  imagery  shall  be  simply  objective, 
but  that  the  passio  vera  of  humanity  shall  warm  and 
animate  both. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  previous  definition,  this 
most  general  and  distinctive  character  of  a  poem  originates 
in  the  poetic  genius  itself ;  and  though  it  comprises 
whatever  can  with  any  propriety  be  called  a  poem  (unless 
that  word  be  a  mere  lazy  synonyme  for  a  composition 
in  metre,)  it  yet  becomes  a  just,  and  not  merely  dis- 
criminative, but  full  and  adequate,  definition  of  poetry 
in  its  highest  and  most  pecuHar  sense,  only  so  far  as 
the  distinction  still  results  from  the  poetic  genius,  which 
sustains  and  modifies  the  emotions,  thoughts,  and  vivid 
representations  of  the  poem  by  the  energy  without  effort 
of  the  poet's  own  mind, — by  the  spontaneous  activity 
of  his  imagination  and  fancy,  and  by  whatever  else  with 
these  reveals  itself  in  the  balancing  and  reconciling  of 
opposite  or  discordant  qualities,  sameness  with  difference, 
a  sense  of  novelty  and  freshness  with  old  or  customary 
objects,  a  more  than  usual  state  of  emotion  with  more 
than  usual  order,  self-possession  and  judgment  with 
enthusiasm  and  vehement  feeling, — and  which,  while  it 
blends  and  harmonizes  the  natural  and  the  artificial, 
still  subordinates  art  to  nature,  the  manner  to  the  matter, 
and  our  admiration  of  the  poet  to  our  sympathy  with 
the  images,  passions,  characters,  and  incidents  of  the 
poem  : — 

Doubtless,  this  could  not  be,  but  that  she  turns 
Bodies  to  spirit  by  sublimation  strange, 
As  fire  converts  to  fire  the  things  it  burns — 
As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change  ! 

From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their  forms, 
And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from  things, 
Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms 
To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings  ! 

Thus  doth  she,  when  from  individual  states 
She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds, 
Which  then  reclothed  in  divers  names  and  fates 
Steal  access  thro'  our  senses  to  our  minds} 

1  Sir  John  Davies  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,  sect.  iv.  The  words  and  lines  in 
italics  are  substituted  to  apply  these  verses  to  the  poetic  genius.  The  greater  part  of 
ihis  latter  paragraph  may  be  found  adopted,  with  some  alterations,  in  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  vol.   ii.   c.   14 ;    but  I  have   thought  it  better  in  this  instance  and   some 


Greek  Drama  13 

GREEK    DRAMA. 

It  is  truly  singular  that  Plato, — whose  philosophy  and 
religion  were  but  exotic  at  home,  and  a  mere  opposition 
to  the  finite  in  all  things,  genuine  prophet  and  anticipator 
as  he  was  of  the  Protestant  Christian  aera, — should  have 
given  in  his  Dialogue  of  the  Banquet,  a  justification  of 
our  Shakspeare.  For  he  relates  that,  when  all  the 
other  guests  had  either  dispersed  or  fallen  asleep,  Socrates 
only,  together  with  Aristophanes  and  Agathon,  remained 
awake,  and  that,  while  he  continued  to  drink  with  them 
out  of  a  large  goblet,  he  compelled  them,  though  most 
reluctantly,  to  admit  that  it  was  the  business  of  one 
and  the  same  genius  to  excel  in  tragic  and  comic  poetry, 
or  that  the  tragic  poet  ought,  at  the  same  time,  to  contain 
within  himself  the  powers  of  comedy. ^  Now,  as  this 
was  directly  repugnant  to  the  entire  theory  of  the  ancient 
critics,  and  contrary  to  all  their  experience,  it  is  evident 
that  Plato  must  have  fixed  the  eye  of  his  contemplation 
on  the  innermost  essentials  of  the  drama,  abstracted 
from  the  forms  of  age  or  country.  In  another  passage 
he  even  adds  the  reason,  namely,  that  opposites  illustrate 
each  other's  nature,  and  in  their  struggle  draw  forth 
the  strength  of  the  combatants,  and  display  the  conqueror 
as  sovereign  even  on  the  territories  of  the  rival  power. 

Nothing  can  more  forcibly  exemplify  the  separative 
spirit  of  the  Greek  arts  than  their  comedy  as  opposed 
to  their  tragedy.  But  as  the  immediate  struggle  of 
contraries  supposes  an  arena  common  to  both,  so  both 
were  alike  ideal ;  that  is,  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes 
rose  to  as  great  a  distance  above  the  ludicrous  of  real 
life,  as  the  tragedy  of  Sophocles  above  its  tragic  events 
and  passions, — and  it  is  in  this   one  point,   of  absolute 

others,  to  run  the  chance  of  bringing  a  few  passages  twice  over  to  the  recollection  of 
the  reader,  than  to  weaken  the  force  of  the  original  argument  by  breaking  the 
connection.     Ed. 

^  €^€yp6/jL€vos  S^  Idelv  rods  fiiv  dWovs  KadevoofTas  Kal  olxofi^povs, 

'Ayddoifa  5^  Kal  ' KpLaT0(p6.vi]v  koI  Sw/cpdrT?  Irt  ixbvovs  iyp'/jyopevai,  Kal 
irlveLV  eK  (pidXrjs  fj.€yd\7}$  eTride^La.  rbv  oZv  Sw/cparT;  avrots  diaXeyecrdai,' 
Kal  TO.  fxkv  aXKa  6  'ApLarddTj/jios  ovk  ^(prj  fjie/JLvija dai  tov  \byov'  (oi^re  ydp  e^ 
dpxv^  Trapayeviadai,  virovvaTa^eiv  re)  rb  p.kvTOL  KecpdXaiov  ^(prj,  irpoaavay' 
Ka^eLu  rbv  liiOKparr]  6jj.oKoyeiy  avrodi  tov  avTov  dv8p6s  e'Cvat  KU3fi(i}diav  Kal 
TpayuSiav  iiriaraadaL  Troieiv,  Kal  Toy  t^x^V  Tpayi^doiroLov  tvra,  Kal  Koofuf- 
ooTTotoV  elvai..  Symp.  sub  fine. 


14  Greek  Drama 

ideality,  that  the  comedy  of  Shakspeare  and  the  old 
comedy  of  Athens  coincide.  In  this  also  alone  did  the 
Greek  tragedy  and  comedy  unite  ;  in  every  thing  else 
they  were  exactly  opposed  to  each  other.  Tragedy 
is  poetry  in  its  deepest  earnest ;  comedy  is  poetry  in 
unlimited  jest.  Earnestness  consists  in  the  direction 
and  convergence  of  all  the  powers  of  the  soul  to  one 
aim,  and  in  the  voluntary  restraint  of  its  activity  in 
consequence  ;  the  opposite,  therefore,  lies  in  the  apparent 
abandonment  of  all  definite  aim  or  end,  and  in  the  removal 
of  all  bounds  in  the  exercise  of  the  mind, — attaining  its 
real  end,  as  an  entire  contrast,  most  perfectly,  the  greater 
the  display  is  of  intellectual  wealth  squandered  in  the 
wantonness  of  sport  without  an  object,  and  the  more 
abundant  the  life  and  vivacity  in  the  creations  of  the 
arbitrary  ¥/ill. 

The  later  comedy,  even  where  it  was  really  comic, 
was  doubtless  likewise  more  comic,  the  more  free  it 
appeared  from  any  fixed  aim.  Misunderstandings  of 
intention,  fmitless  struggles  of  absurd  passion,  contra- 
dictions of  temper,  and  laughable  situations  there  were  ; 
but  still  the  form  of  the  representation  itself  was  serious  ; 
it  proceeded  as  much  according  to  settled  laws,  and  used 
as  much  the  same  means  of  art,  though  to  a  different 
purpose,  as  the  regular  tragedy  itself.  But  in  the  old 
comedy  the  very  form  itself  is  whimsical ;  the  whole 
work  is  one  great  jest,  comprehending  a  world  of  jests 
within  it,  among  which  each  maintains  its  own  place 
without  seeming  to  concern  itself  as  to  the  relation  in 
which  it  may  stand  to  its  fellows.  In  short,  in  Sophocles, 
the  constitution  of  tragedy  is  monarchical,  but  such  as 
it  existed  in  elder  Greece,  limited  by  laws,  and  therefore 
the  more  venerable, — all  the  parts  adapting  and  sub- 
mitting themselves  to  the  majesty  of  the  heroic  sceptre  : 
— in  Aristophanes,  comedy,  on  the  contrary,  is  poetry 
in  its  most  democratic  form,  and  it  is  a  fundamental 
principle  with  it,  rather  to  risk  all  the  confusion  of  anarchy, 
than  to  destroy  the  independence  and  privileges  of  its 
individual  constituents, — place,  verse,  characters,  even 
single  thoughts,  conceits,  and  allusions,  each  turning 
on  the  pivot  of  its  own  free  will. 

The  tragic  poet  idealizes  his  characters  by  giving  to 
the  spiritual  part  of  our  nature  a  more  decided  prepon- 


Greek  Drama  15 

derance  over  the  animal  cravings  and  impulses,  than 
is  met  with  in  real  life  :  the  comic  poet  idealizes  his 
characters  by  making  the  animal  the  governing  power, 
and  the  intellectual  the  mere  instrument.  But  as  tragedy 
is  not  a  collection  of  virtues  and  perfections,  but  takes 
care  only  that  the  vices  and  imperfections  shall  spring 
from  the  passions,  errors,  and  prejudices  which  arise 
out  of  the  soul ; — so  neither  is  comedy  a  mere  crowd 
of  vices  and  follies,  but  whatever  qualities  it  represents, 
even  though  they  are  in  a  certain  sense  amiable,  it  still 
displays  them  as  having  their  origin  in  some  dependence 
on  our  lower  nature,  accompanied  with  a  defect  in  true 
freedom  of  spirit  and  self-subsistence,  and  subject  to 
that  unconnection  by  contradictions  of  the  inward  being, 
to  which  all  folly  is  owing. 

The  ideal  of  earnest  poetry  consists  in  the  union  and 
harmonious  melting  down,  and  fusion  of  the  sensual 
into  the  spiritual, — of  man  as  an  animal  into  man  as  a 
power  of  reason  and  self-government.  And  this  we 
have  represented  to  us  most  clearly  in  the  plastic  art, 
or  statuary  ;  where  the  perfection  of  outward  form  is 
a  symbol  of  the  perfection  of  an  inward  idea  ;  where 
the  body  is  wholly  penetrated  by  the  soul,  and  spiritualized 
even  to  a  state  of  glory,  and  like  a  transparent  substance, 
the  matter,  in  its  own  nature  darkness,  becomes  alto- 
gether a  vehicle  and  fixture  of  light,  a  means  of  developing 
its  beauties,  and  unfolding  its  wealth  of  various  colours 
without  disturbing  its  unity,  or  causing  a  division  of  the 
parts.  The  sportive  ideal,  on  the  contrary,  consists  in 
the  perfect  harmony  and  concord  of  the  higher  nature 
with  the  animal,  as  with  its  ruHng  principle  and  its  acknow- 
ledged regent.  The  understanding  and  practical  reason 
are  represented  as  the  willing  slaves  of  the  senses  and 
appetites,  and  of  the  passions  arising  out  of  them.  Hence 
we  may  admit  the  appropriateness  to  the  old  comedy, 
as  a  work  of  defined  art,  of  allusions  and  descriptions, 
which  morality  can  never  justify,  and,  only  with  reference 
to  the  author  himself,  and  only  as  being  the  effect  or 
rather  the  cause  of  the  circumstances  in  which  he  wrote, 
can  consent  even  to  palliate. 

The  old  comedy  rose  to  its  perfection  in  Aristophanes, 
and  in  him  also  it  died  with  the  freedom  of  Greece.  Then 
arose   a  species   of   drama,   more  fitly   called,   dramatic 


1 6  Greek  Drama 

entertainment  than  comedy,  but  of  which,  nevertheless, 
our  modem  comedy  (Shakspeare's  altogether  excepted) 
is  the  genuine  descendant.  Euripides  had  already 
brought  tragedy  lower  down  and  by  many  steps  nearer 
to  the  real  world  than  his  predecessors  had  ever  done, 
and  the  passionate  admiration  which  Menander  and 
Philemon  expressed  for  him,  and  their  open  avowals 
that  he  was  their  great  master,  entitle  us  to  consider 
their  dramas  as  of  a  middle  species,  between  tragedy 
and  comedy, — not  the  tragi-comedy,  or  thing  of  hetero- 
geneous parts,  but  a  complete  whole,  founded  on  principles 
of  its  own.  Throughout  we  find  the  drama  of  Menander 
distinguishing  itself  from  tragedy,  but  not,  as  the  genuine 
old  comedy,  contrasting  with,  and  opposing  it.  Tragedy, 
indeed,  carried  the  thoughts  into  the  mythologic  world, 
in  order  to  raise  the  emotions,  the  fears,  and  the  hopes, 
which  convince  the  inmost  heart  that  their  final  cause 
is  not  to  be  discovered  in  the  hmits  of  mere  mortal  life, 
and  force  us  into  a  presentiment,  however  dim,  of  a 
state  in  which  those  struggles  of  inward  free  will  with 
outward  necessity,  which  form  the  true  subject  of  the 
tragedian,  shall  be  reconciled  and  solved  ; — the  enter- 
tainment or  new  comedy,  on  the  other  hand,  remained 
within  the  circle  of  experience.  Instead  of  the  tragic 
destiny,  it  introduced  the  power  of  chance ;  even  in 
the  few  fragments  of  Menander  and  Philemon  now  re- 
maining to  us,  we  find  many  exclamations  and  reflections 
concerning  chance  and  fortune,  as  in  the  tragic  poets 
concerning  destiny.  In  tragedy,  the  moral  law,  either 
as  obeyed  or  violated,  above  all  consequences — its  own 
maintenance  or  violation  constituting  the  most  important 
of  all  consequences — forms  the  ground  ;  the  new  comedy, 
and  our  modern  comedy  in  general,  (Shakspeare  excepted 
as  before)  lies  in  prudence  or  imprudence,  enlightened 
or  misled  self-love.  The  whole  moral  system  of  the 
entertainment  exactly  like  that  of  fable,  consists  in 
rules  of  prudence,  with  an  exquisite  conciseness,  and 
at  the  same  time  an  exhaustive  fulness  of  sense.  An  old 
critic  said  that  tragedy  was  the  flight  or  elevation  of  life, 
comed}'  (that  of  Menander)  its  arrangement  or  ordonnance. 
Add  to  these  features  a  portrait-like  truth  of  character, 
— not  so  far  indeed  as  that  a  bona  fide  individual  should 
be  described  or  imagined,  but  yet  so  that  the  features 


Greek  Drama  17 

which  give  interest  and  permanence  to  the  class  should 
be  individualized.  The  old  tragedy  moved  in  an  ideal 
world, — the  old  comedy  in  a  fantastic  world.  As  the 
entertainment,  or  new  comedy,  restrained  the  creative 
activity  both  of  the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  it  in- 
demnified the  understanding  in  appealing  to  the  judgment 
for  the  probability  of  the  scenes  represented.  The 
ancients  themselves  acknowledged  the  new  comedy  as 
an  exact  copy  of  real  life.  The  grammarian,  Aristophanes, 
somewhat  affectedly  exclaimed  : — "  O  Life  and  Menander  ! 
which  of  you  two  imitated  the  other  ?  "  In  short  the 
form  of  this  species  of  drama  was  poetry,  the  stuff  or 
matter  was  prose.  It  was  prose  rendered  delightful  by 
the  blandishments  and  measured  motions  of  the  muse. 
Yet  even  this  was  not  universal.  The  mimes  of  Sophron, 
so  passionately  admired  by  Plato,  were  written  in  prose, 
and  were  scenes  out  of  real  life  conducted  in  dialogue. 
The  exquisite  Feast  of  Adonis  ('2vpaxoUiai  Jj  *A6wi//a^oL»<ra/) 
in  Theocritus,  we  are  told,  with  some  others  of  his 
eclogues,  were  close  imitations  of  certain  mimes  of  Sophron 
— free  translations  of  the  prose  into  hexameters. 

It  will  not  be  improper,  in  this  place,  to  make  a  few 
remarks  on  the  remarkable  character  and  functions  of 
the  chorus  in  the  Greek  tragic  drama. 

The  chorus  entered  from  below,  close  by  the  orchestra, 
and  there,  pacing  to  and  fro  during  the  choral  odes, 
performed  their  solemn  measured  dance.  In  the  centre 
of  the  orchestra,  directly  over  against  the  middle  of  the 
scene,  there  stood  an  elevation  with  steps  in  the  shape  of 
a  large  altar,  as  high  as  the  boards  of  the  logeion  or  move- 
able stage.  This  elevation  was  named  the  thymele, 
{^vfxsXr,)  and  served  to  recall  the  origin  and  original 
purpose  of  the  chorus,  as  an  altar-song  in  honour  of 
the  presiding  deity.  Here,  and  on  these  steps  the  persons 
of  the  chorus  sate  collectively,  when  they  were  not  sing- 
ing ;  attending  to  the  dialogue  as  spectators,  and  acting 
as  (what  in  truth  they  were)  the  ideal  representatives 
of  the  real  audience,  and  of  the  poet  himself  in  his  own 
character,  assuming  the  supposed  impressions  made  by 
the  drama,  in  order  to  direct  and  rule  them.  But  when 
the  chorus  itself  formed  part  of  the  dialogue,  then  the 
leader  of  the  band,  the  foreman  or  coryphceus,  ascended, 
as  some  think,  the  level  summit  of  the  thymele  in  order 


1 8  Greek  Drama 

to  command  the  stage,  or,  perhaps,  the  whole  chorus 
advanced  to  the  front  of  the  orchestra,  and  thus  put 
themselves  in  ideal  connection,  as  it  were,  with  the 
dramatis  personce  there  acting.  This  thymele  was  in  the 
centre  of  the  whole  edifice,  all  the  measurements  were 
calculated,  and  the  semicircle  of  the  amphitheatre  was 
drawn,  from  this  point.  It  had  a  double  use,  a  twofold 
purpose  ;  it  constantly  reminded  the  spectators  of  the 
origin  of  tragedy  as  a  religious  service,  and  declared 
itself  as  the  ideal  representative  of  the  audience  by  having 
its  place  exactly  in  the  point,  to  which  all  the  radii  from 
the  different  seats  or  benches  converged. 

In  this  double  character,  as  constituent  parts,  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  as  spectators,  of  the  drama,  the 
chorus  could  not  but  tend  to  enforce  the  unity  of  place  ; 
— not  on  the  score  of  any  supposed  improbability,  which 
the  understanding  or  common  sense  might  detect  in  a 
change  of  place ; — but  because  the  senses  themselves 
put  it  out  of  the  power  of  any  imagination  to  conceive 
a  place  coming  to,  and  going  away  from  the  persons, 
instead  of  the  persons  changing  their  place.  Yet  there 
are  instances,  in  which,  during  the  silence  of  the  chorus, 
the  poets  have  hazarded  this  by  a  change  in  that  part 
of  the  scenery  which  represented  the  more  distant  objects 
to  the  eye  of  the  spectator — a  demonstrative  proof,  that 
this  alternately  extolled  and  ridiculed  unity  (as  ignorantly 
ridiculed  as  extolled)  was  grounded  on  no  essential  prin- 
ciple of  reason,  but  arose  out  of  circumstances  which 
the  poet  could  not  remove,  and  therefore  took  up  into 
the  form  of  the  drama,  and  co-organised  it  with  all  the 
other  parts  into  a  living  whole. 

The  Greek  tragedy  may  rather  be  compared  to  our 
serious  opera  than  to  the  tragedies  of  Shakspeare  ;  never- 
theless, the  difference  is  far  greater  than  the  likeness. 
In  the  opera  aU  is  subordinated  to  the  music,  the  dresses 
and  the  scenery  ; — the  poetry  is  a  mere  vehicle  for  articu- 
lation, and  as  little  pleasure  is  lost  by  ignorance  of  the 
Itahan  language,  so  is  little  gained  by  the  knowledge 
of  it.  But  in  the  Greek  drama  all  was  but  as  instruments 
and  accessaries  to  the  poetry ;  and  hence  we  should 
form  a  better  notion  of  the  choral  music  from  the  solemn 
hymns  and  psalms  of  austere  church  music  than  from 
any  species  of  theatrical  singing.     A  single  flute  or  pipe 


Greek  Drama  19 

v/as  the  ordinary  accompaniment ;  and  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed,  that  any  display  of  musical  power  was  allowed 
to  obscure  the  distinct  hearing  of  the  words.  On  the 
contrary,  the  evident  purpose  was  to  render  the  words 
more  audible,  and  to  secure  by  the  elevations  and  pauses 
greater  facility  of  understanding  the  poetry.  For  the 
choral  songs  are,  and  ever  must  have  been,  the  most 
difficult  part  of  the  tragedy  ;  there  occur  in  them  the 
most  involved  verbal  compounds,  the  newest  expressions, 
the  boldest  images,  the  most  recondite  allusions.  Is  it 
credible  that  the  poets  would,  one  and  all,  have  been 
thus  prodigal  of  the  stores  of  art  and  genius,  if  they  had 
known  that  in  the  representation  the  whole  must  have 
been  lost  to  the  audience, — at  a  time  too,  when  the  means 
of  after  publication  were  so  difficult  and  expensive,  and  the 
copies  of  their  works  so  slowly  and  narrowly  circulated  ? 

The  masks  also  must  be  considered — their  vast  variety 
and  admirable  workmanship.  Of  this  we  retain  proof 
by  the  marble  masks  which  represented  them  ;  but  to 
this  in  the  real  mask  we  must  add  the  thinness  of  the 
substance  and  the  exquisite  fitting  on  to  the  head  of  the 
actor;  so  that  not  only  were  the  very  eyes  painted 
with  a  single  opening  left  for  the  pupil  of  the  actor's 
eye,  but  in  some  instances,  even  the  iris  itself  was 
painted,  when  the  colour  was  a  known  characteristic  of 
the  divine  or  heroic  personage  represented. 

Finally,  I  will  note  down  those  fundamental  character- 
istics which  contradistinguish  the  ancient  literature 
from  the  modern  generally,  but  which  more  especially 
appear  in  prominence  in  the  tragic  drama.  The  ancient 
was  allied  to  statuary,  the  modern  refers  to  painting. 
In  the  first  there  is  a  predominance  of  rhythm  and  melody, 
in  the  second  of  harmony  and  counterpoint.  The  Greeks 
idolized  the  finite,  and  therefore  v/ere  the  masters  of  all 
grace,  elegance,  proportion,  fancy,  dignity,  majesty — 
of  whatever,  in  short,  is  capable  of  being  definitely  con- 
veyed by  defined  forms  or  thoughts  :  the  moderns  revere 
the  infinite,  and  affect  the  indefinite  as  a  vehicle  of  the 
infinite ; — hence  their  passions,  their  obscure  hopes 
and  fears,  their  wandering  through  the  unknown,  their 
grander  moral  feelings,  their  more  august  conception  of 
man  as  man,  their  future  rather  than  their  past — in  a 
Vv^ord,  their  sublimity. 


20  Progress  of  the  Drama 

PROGRESS    OF    THE   DRAMA. 

Let  two  persons  join  in  the  same  scheme  to  ridicule 
a  third,  and  either  take  advantage  of,  or  invent,  some 
story  for  that  purpose,  and  mimicry  will  have  already 
produced  a  sort  of  rude  comedy.  It  becomes  an  inviting 
treat  to  the  populace,  and  gains  an  additional  zest  and 
burlesque  by  following  the  already  established  plan 
of  tragedy  ;  and  the  first  man  of  genius  who  seizes  the 
idea,  and  reduces  it  into  form, — into  a  work  of  art, — 
by  metre  and  music,  is  the  Aristophanes  of  the  country. 

How  just  this  account  is  wtll  appear  from  the  fact 
that  in  the  first  or  old  comedy  of  the  Athenians,  most 
of  the  dramatis  personce  were  living  characters  intro- 
duced under  their  own  names  ;  and  no  doubt,  their 
ordinary  dress,  manner,  person  and  voice  were  closely 
mimicked.  In  less  favourable  states  of  society,  as  that 
of  England  in  the  middle  ages,  the  beginnings  of  comedy 
would  be  constantly  taking  place  from  the  mimics  and 
satirical  minstrels  ;  but  from  want  of  fixed  abode,  popular 
government,  and  the  successive  attendance  of  the  same 
auditors,  it  would  stiU  remain  in  embryo.  I  shall, 
perhaps,  have  occasion  to  observe  that  this  remark  is 
not  without  importance  in  explaining  the  essential 
differences  of  the  modern  and  ancient  theatres. 

Phenomena,  similar  to  those  which  accompanied  the 
origin  of  tragedy  and  comedy  among  the  Greeks,  would 
take  place  among  the  Romans  much  more  slowly,  and 
the  drama  would,  in  any  case,  have  much  longer  re- 
mained in  its  first  irregular  form  from  the  character  of 
the  people,  their  continual  engagements  in  wars  of  con- 
quest, the  nature  of  their  government,  and  their  rapidly 
increasing  empire.  But,  however  this  might  have  been, 
the  conquest  of  Greece  precluded  both  the  process  and 
the  necessity  of  it ;  and  the  Roman  stage  at  once  pre- 
sented imitations  or  translations  of  the  Greek  drama. 
This  continued  till  the  perfect  establishment  of  Chris- 
tianity. Some  attempts,  indeed,  were  made  to  adapt 
the  persons  of  Scriptural  or  ecclesiastical  history  to  the 
drama  ;  and  sacred  plays,  it  is  probable,  were  not  unknown 
in  Constantinople  under  the  emperors  of  the  East.  The 
first  of  the  kind  is,  I  believe,  the  only  one  preserved, — 


Progress  of  the  Drama  21 

namely,  the  Xpiffrog  udffx^v,  or,  "  Christ  in  his  suffer- 
ings," by  Gregory  Nazianzen, — possibly  written  in  con- 
sequence of  the  prohibition  of  profane  literature  to  the 
Christians  by  the  apostate  Julian.^  In  the  West,  however, 
the  enslaved  and  debauched  Roman  world  became  too 
barbarous  for  any  theatrical  exhibitions  more  refined 
than  those  of  pageants  and  chariot-races ;  while  the 
spirit  of  Christianity,  which  in  its  most  corrupt  form 
still  breathed  general  humanity,  whenever  controversies 
of  faith  were  not  concerned,  had  done  away  the  cruel 
combats  of  the  gladiators,  and  the  loss  of  the  distant 
provinces  prevented  the  possibility  of  exhibiting  the 
engagements  of  wild  beasts. 

I  pass,  therefore,  at  once  to  the  feudal  ages  which 
soon  succeeded,  confining  my  observation  to  this  country  ; 
though,  indeed,  the  same  remark  with  very  few  alterations 
will  apply  to  all  the  other  states,  into  which  the  great 
empire  was  broken.  Ages  of  darkness  succeeded ; — 
not,  indeed,  the  darkness  of  Russia  or  of  the  barbarous 
lands  unconquered  by  Rome ;  for  from  the  time  of 
Honorius  to  the  destruction  of  Constantinople  and  the 
consequent  introduction  of  ancient  literature  into  Europe, 
there  was  a  continued  succession  of  individual  intellects  ; 
— the  golden  chain  was  never  wholly  broken,  though 
the  connecting  links  were  often  of  baser  metal.  A  dark 
cloud,  like  another  sky,  covered  the  entire  cope  of  heaven, 
— but  in  this  place  it  thinned  away,  and  white  stains 
of  light  showed  a  half  eclipsed  star  behind  it, — in  that 
place  it  was  rent  asunder,  and  a  star  passed  across  the 
opening  in  all  its  brightness,  and  then  vanished.  Such 
stars  exhibited  themselves  only ;  surrounding  objects 
did  not  partake  of  their  light.  There  were  deep  wells 
of  knowledge,  but  no  fertilizing  rills  and  rivulets.  For 
the  drama,  society  was  altogether  a  state  of  chaos,  out 
of  which  it  was,  for  a  while  at  least,  to  proceed  anew, 
as  if  there  had  been  none  before  it.  And  yet  it  is  not 
undelightful  to  contemplate  the  eduction  of  good  from 
evil.  The  ignorance  of  the  great  mass  of  our  countrymen 
was  the  efficient  cause  of  the  reproduction  of  the  drama  ; 
and  the  preceding  darkness  and  the  returning  light  were 
alike  necessary  in  order  to  the  creation  of  a  Shakspeare. 

A.D.  363.  But  I  believe  the  prevailing  opinion  amongst  scholars  now  is,  that  tht 
'Kpiarbs  lldo-xwJ'  is  not  genuine.    £d. 


22  Progress  of  the  Drama 

The  drama  re-commenced  in  England,  as  it  first  began 
in  Greece,  in  religion.  The  people  were  not  able  to  read, 
— the  priesthood  were  unwilling  that  they  should  read  ; 
and  yet  their  own  interest  compelled  them  not  to  leave 
the  people  wholly  ignorant  of  the  great  events  of  sacred 
history.  They  did  that,  therefore,  by  scenic  repre- 
sentations, which  in  after  ages  it  has  been  attempted 
to  do  in  Roman  Catholic  countries  by  pictures.  They 
presented  Mysteries,  and  often  at  great  expense  ;  and 
reliques  of  this  system  still  remain  in  the  south  of  Europe, 
and  indeed  throughout  Italy,  where  at  Christmas  the 
convents  and  the  great  nobles  rival  each  other  in  the 
scenic  representation  of  the  birth  of  Christ  and  its  circum- 
stances. I  heard  two  instances  mentioned  to  me  at 
different  times,  one  in  Sicily  and  the  other  in  Rome, 
of  noble  devotees,  the  ruin  of  whose  fortunes  was  said 
to  have  commenced  in  the  extravagant  expense  which 
had  been  incurred  in  presenting  the  prcesepe  or  manger. 
But  these  Mysteries,  in  order  to  answer  their  design, 
must  not  only  be  instructive,  but  entertaining ;  and 
as,  when  they  became  so,  the  people  began  to  take  pleasure 
in  acting  them  themselves — in  interloping, — (against 
which  the  priests  seem  to  have  fought  hard  and  yet  in 
vain)  the  most  ludicrous  images  were  mixed  with  the 
most  awful  personations ;  and  whatever  the  subject 
might  be,  however  sublime,  however  pathetic,  yet  the 
Vice  and  the  Devil,  who  are  the  genuine  antecessors  of 
Harlequin  and  the  Clown,  were  necessary  component 
parts.  I  have  myself  a  piece  of  this  kind,  which  I  tran- 
scribed a  few  years  ago  at  Helmstadt,  in  Germany,  on 
the  education  of  Eve's  children,  in  which  after  the  fall 
and  repentance  of  Adam,  the  offended  Maker,  as  in  proof 
of  his  reconciliation,  condescends  to  visit  them,  and  to 
catechise  the  children, — who  with  a  noble  contempt  of 
chronology  are  all  brought  together  from  Abel  to  Noah. 
The  good  children  say  the  ten  Commandments,  the 
Belief  and  the  Lord's  Prayer  ;  but  Cain  and  his  rout, 
after  he  had  received  a  box  on  the  ear  for  not  taking  off 
his  hat,  and  afterwards  offering  his  left  hand,  is  prompted 
by  the  devil  so  to  blunder  in  the  Lord's  Prayer  as  to 
reverse  the  petitions  and  say  it  backward  !  ^ 

1  See  vol.  i.  p.  76,  where  this  is  told  more  at  length  and  attributed  to  Hans  Sachs, 
Ed.     Vol.  ii.  pp.  16,  17,  2nQ  edit.    S.  C 


Progress  of  the  Drama  23 

"  Unaffectedly  I  declare  I  feel  pain  at  repetitions  like 
these,  however  innocent.  As  historical  documents  they 
are  valuable  ;  but  I  am  sensible  that  what  I  can  read 
with  my  eye  with  perfect  innocence,  I  cannot  without 
inward  fear  and  misgivings  pronounce  with  my  tongue. 

Let  me,  however,  be  acquitted  of  presumption  if  I 
say  that  I  cannot  agree  with  Mr.  Malone,  that  our  ancestors 
did  not  perceive  the  ludicrous  in  these  things,  or  that 
they  paid  no  separate  attention  to  the  serious  and  comic 
parts.  Indeed  his  own  statement  contradicts  it.  For 
what  purpose  should  the  Vice  leap  upon  the  Devil's 
back  and  belabour  him,  but  to  produce  this  separate 
attention  ?  The  people  laughed  heartily,  no  doubt. 
Nor  can  I  conceive  any  meaning  attached  to  the  words 
"  separate  attention,"  that  is  not  fully  answered  by 
one  part  of  an  exhibition  exciting  seriousness  or  pity, 
and  the  other  raising  mirth  and  loud  laughter.  That 
they  felt  no  impiety  in  the  affair  is  most  true.  For  it 
is  the  very  essence  of  that  system  of  Christian  poly- 
theism, which  in  all  its  essentials  is  now  fully  as  gross 
in  Spain,  in  Sicily  and  the  south  of  Italy,  as  it  ever  was 
in  England  in  the  days  of  Henry  VI. — (nay,  more  so, 
for  a  Wicliffe  had  not  then  appeared  only,  but  scattered 
the  good  seed  widely,)  it  is  an  essential  part,  I  say,  of 
that  system  to  draw  the  mind  whoUy  from  its  own  inward 
whispers  and  quiet  discriminations,  and  to  habituate 
the  conscience  to  pronounce  sentence  in  every  case  accord- 
ing to  the  established  verdicts  of  the  church  and  the 
casuists.  I  have  looked  through  volume  after  volume 
of  the  most  approved  casuists, — and  still  I  find  dis- 
quisitions whether  this  or  that  act  is  right,  and  under 
what  circumstances,  to  a  minuteness  that  makes  reason- 
ing ridiculous,  and  of  a  callous  and  unnatural  immodesty, 
to  which  none  but  a  monk  could  harden  himself,  who 
has  been  stripped  of  all  the  tender  charities  of  life,  yet 
is  goaded  on  to  make  war  against  them  by  the  unsubdued 
hauntings  of  our  meaner  nature,  even  as  dogs  are  said 
to  get  the  hydrophobia  from  excessive  thirst.  I  fully 
believe  that  our  ancestors  laughed  as  heartily,  as  their 
posterity  do  at  Grimaldi ; — and  not  having  been  told  that 
they  would  be  punished  for  laughing,  they  thought  it  very 
innocent ; — and  if  their  priest  had  left  out  murder  in  the 
catalogue  of  their  prohibitions  (as  indeed  they  did  under 


24  Progress  of  the  Drama 

certain  circumstances  of  heresy),  the  greater  part  of  them, 
— the  moral  instincts  common  to  all  men  having  been 
smothered  and  kept  from  development, — would  have 
thought  as  httle  of  murder. 

However  this  may  be,  the  necessity  of  at  once  instructing 
and  gratifying  the  people  produced  the  great  distinction 
between  the  Greek  and  the  English  theatres  ; — for  to  this 
we  must  attribute  the  origin  of  tragi-comedy,  or  a  repre- 
sentation of  human  events  more  lively,  nearer  the  truth, 
and  permitting  a  larger  field  of  moral  instruction,  a  more 
ample  exhibition  of  the  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  under 
all  the  trials  and  circumstances  that  most  concern  us,  than 
WcLS  known  or  guessed  at  by  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  of 
Euripides  ; — and  at  the  same  time  we  learn  to  account 
for,  and — relatively  to  the  author — perceive  the  necessity 
of,  the  Fool  or  Clown  or  both,  as  the  substitutes  of  the 
Vice  and  the  Devil,  which  our  ancestors  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  see  in  every  exhibition  of  the  stage,  that 
they  could  not  feel  any  performance  perfect  without  them. 
Even  to  this  day  in  Italy,  every  opera — (even  Metastasio 
obeyed  the  claim  throughout) — must  have  six  characters, 
generally  two  pairs  of  cross  lovers,  a  tyrant  and  a  confidant, 
or  a  father  and  two  confidants,  themselves  lovers  ; — and 
when  a  new  opera  appears,  it  is  the  universal  fashion  to 
ask — which  is  the  tyrant,  which  the  lover  ?  &c. 

It  is  the  especial  honour  of  Christianity,  that  in  its  worst 
and  most  corrupted  form  it  cannot  wholly  separate  itself 
from  morality  ; — whereas  the  other  religions  in  their  best 
form  (I  do  not  include  Mohammedanism,  which  is  only  an 
anomalous  corruption  of  Christianity,  like  Swedenbor- 
gianism,)  have  no  connection  with  it.  The  very  imper- 
sonation of  moral  evil  under  the  name  of  Vice,  facilitated 
all  other  impersonations  ;  and  hence  we  see  that  the 
Mysteries  were  succeeded  by  Moralities,  or  dialogues  and 
plots  of  allegorical  personages.  Again,  some  character  in 
real  history  had  become  so  famous,  so  proverbial,  as  Nero 
for  instance,  that  they  were  introduced  instead  of  the  moral 
quahty,  for  which  they  were  so  noted  ; — and  in  this  mannei 
the  stage  was  moving  on  to  the  absolute  production  of 
heroic  and  comic  real  characters,  when  the  restoration  of 
literature,  followed  by  the  ever-blessed  Reformation,  let  in 
upon  the  kingdom  not  only  new  knowledge,  but  new  motive. 
A  useful  rivalry  commenced  between  the  metropolis  on  the 


Progress  of  the  Drama  25 

one  hand,  the  residence,  independently  of  the  court  and 
nobles,  of  the  most  active  and  stirring  spirits  who  had  not 
been  regularly  educated,  or  who,  from  mischance  or  other- 
wise, had  forsaken  the  beaten  track  of  preferment, — and 
the  universities  on  the  other.  The  latter  prided  them- 
selves on  their  closer  approximation  to  the  ancient  rules 
and  ancient  regularity — taking  the  theatre  of  Greece,  or 
rather  its  dim  reflection,  the  rhetorical  tragedies  of  the 
poet  Seneca,  as  a  perfect  ideal,  without  any  critical 
collation  of  the  times,  origin,  or  circumstances  ; — whilst, 
in  the  mean  time,  the  popular  writers,  who  could  not 
and  would  not  abandon  what  they  had  found  to  delight 
their  countrymen  sincerely,  and  not  merely  from  in- 
quiries first  put  to  the  recollection  of  rules,  and  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  as  if  it  had  been  an  arithmetical  sum, 
did  yet  borrow  from  the  scholars  whatever  they  advan- 
tageously could,  consistently  with  their  own  peculiar 
means  of  pleasing. 

And  here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment's  contemplation 
of  this  interesting  subject. 

We  call,  for  we  see  and  feel,  the  swan  and  the  dove 
both  transcendantly  beautiful.  As  absurd  as  it  would 
be  to  institute  a  comparison  between  their  separate 
claims  to  beauty  from  any  abstract  rule  common  to 
both,  without  reference  to  the  life  and  being  of  the  animals 
themselves, — or  as  if,  having  first  seen  the  dove,  we 
abstracted  its  outlines,  gave  them  a  false  generalization, 
called  them  the  principles  or  ideal  of  bird-beauty,  and 
then  proceeded  to  criticise  the  swan  or  the  eagle ; — 
not  less  absurd  is  it  to  pass  judgment  on  the  works  of  a 
poet  on  the  mere  ground  that  they  have  been  called  by  the 
same  class-name  with  the  works  of  other  poets  in  other 
times  and  circumstances,  or  on  any  ground,  indeed,  save 
that  of  their  inappropriateness  to  their  own  end  and  being, 
their  want  of  significance,  as  symbols  or  physiognomy. 

O  !  few  have  there  been  among  critics,  who  have 
followed  with  the  eye  of  the  imagination  the  imperishable 
yet  ever  wandering  spirit  of  poetry  through  its  various 
metempsychoses,  and  consequent  metamorphoses  ; — or 
who  have  rejoiced  in  the  light  of  clear  perception  at 
beholding  with  each  new  birth,  with  each  rare  avatar, 
the  human  race  frame  to  itself  a  new  body,  by  assimi- 
lating materials  of  nourishment  out  of  its  new  circum- 


26  Progress  of  the  Drama 

stances,  and  work  for  itself  new  organs  of  power  appro- 
priate to  the  new  sphere  of  its  motion  and  activity  ! 

I  have  before  spoken  of  the  Romance,  or  the  language 
formed  out  of  the  decayed  Roman  and  the  Northern 
tongues  ;  and  comparing  it  with  the  Latin,  we  find  it 
less  perfect  in  simplicity  and  relation — the  privileges  of 
a  language  formed  by  the  mere  attraction  of  homo- 
geneous parts ; — but  yet  more  rich,  more  expressive 
and  various,  as  one  formed  by  more  obscure  affinities 
out  of  a  chaos  of  apparently  heterogeneous  atoms.  As 
more  than  a  metaphor, — as  an  analogy  of  this,  I  have 
named  the  true  genuine  modern  poetry  the  romantic  ; 
and  the  works  of  Shakspeare  are  romantic  poetry  reveal- 
ing itself  in  the  drama.  If  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles 
are  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word  tragedies,  and  the 
comedies  of  Aristophanes  comedies,  we  must  emancipate 
ourselves  from  a  false  association  arising  from  misapplied 
names,  and  find  a  new  word  for  the  plays  of  Shakspeare. 
For  they  are,  in  the  ancient  sense,  neither  tragedies  nor 
comedies,  nor  both  in  one, — but  a  different  genus,  diverse 
in  kind,  and  not  merely  different  in  degree.  They  may 
be  called  romantic  dramas,  or  dramatic  romances. 

A  deviation  from  the  simple  forms  and  unities  of  the 
ancient  stage  is  an  essential  principle,  and,  of  course, 
an  appropriate  excellence,  of  the  romantic  drama.  For 
these  unities  were  to  a  great  extent  the  natural  form  of 
that  which  in  its  elements  was  homogeneous,  and  the 
representation  of  which  was  addressed  pre-eminently  to 
the  outward  senses  ; — and  though  the  fable,  the  language 
and  the  characters  appealed  to  the  reason  rather  than  to 
the  mere  understanding,  inasmuch  as  they  supposed 
an  ideal  state  rather  than  referred  to  an  existing  reality, 
— yet  it  was  a  reason  which  was  obliged  to  accommodate 
itself  to  the  senses,  and  so  far  became  a  sort  of  more 
elevated  understanding.  On  the  other  hand,  the  roman- 
tic poetry  —  the  Shakspearian  drama  —  appealed  to  the 
imagination  rather  than  to  the  senses,  and  to  the  reason 
as  contemplating  our  inward  nature,  and  the  workings 
of  the  passions  in  their  most  retired  recesses.  But  the 
reason,  as  reason,  is  independent  of  time  and  space  ;  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  them  :  and  hence  the  certainties 
of  reason  have  been  called  eternal  truths.  As  for  example 
— the  endless  properties  of  the  circle  : — what  connection 


Progress  of  the  Drama  27 

have  they  with  this  or  that  age,  with  this  or  that  country  ? 
— The  reason  is  aloof  from  time  and  space  ;  the  imagination 
is  an  arbitrary  controller  over  both  ; — and  if  only  the 
poet  have  such  power  of  exciting  our  internal  emotions 
as  to  make  us  present  to  the  scene  in  imagination  chiefly, 
he  acquires  the  right  and  privilege  of  using  time  and 
space  as  they  exist  in  imagination,  and  obedient  only 
to  the  laws  by  which  the  imagination  itself  acts.  These 
laws  it  will  be  my  object  and  aim  to  point  out  as  the 
examples  occur,  which  illustrate  them.  But  here  let 
me  remark  what  can  never  be  too  often  reflected  on  by 
all  who  would  intelligently  study  the  works  either  of 
the  Athenian  dramatists,  or  of  Shakspeare,  that  the 
very  essence  of  the  former  consists  in  the  sternest  separa- 
tion of  the  diverse  in  kind  and  the  disparate  in  the  degree, 
whilst  the  latter  delights  in  interlacing,  by  a  rainbow- 
like transfusion  of  hues,  the  one  with  the  other. 

And  here  it  will  be  necessary  to  say  a  few  words  on 
the  stage  and  on  stage-illusion. 

A  theatre,  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word,  is  the  general 
term  for  all  places  of  amusement  through  the  ear  or  eye, 
in  which  men  assemble  in  order  to  be  amused  by  some 
entertainment  presented  to  all  at  the  same  time  and  in 
common.  Thus,  an  old  Puritan  divine  says  : — "  Those 
who  attend  public  worship  and  sermons  only  to  amuse 
themselves,  make  a  theatre  of  the  church,  and  turn 
God's  house  into  the  devil's.  Theatra  cedes  diabolola- 
triccB."  The  most  important  and  dignified  species  of 
this  gemts  is,  doubtless,  the  stage,  {res  theatralis  histri- 
onic a),  which,  in  addition  to  the  generic  definition  above 
given,  may  be  characterized  in  its  idea,  or  according  to 
what  it  does,  or  ought  to,  aim  at,  as  a  combination  of 
several  or  of  all  the  fine  arts  in  an  harmonious  whole, 
having  a  distinct  end  of  its  own,  to  which  the  peculiar 
end  of  each  of  the  component  arts,  taken  separately, 
is  made  subordinate  and  subservient, — that,  namely, 
of  imitating  reality — whether  external  things,  actions, 
or  passions — under  a  semblance  of  reality.  Thus,  Claude 
imitates  a  landscape  at  sunset,  but  only  as  a  picture ; 
while  a  forest-scene  is  not  presented  to  the  spectators 
as  a  picture,  but  as  a  forest ;  and  though,  in  the  full 
sense  of  the  word,  we  are  no  more  deceived  by  the  one 
than  by  the  other,  yet  are  our  feelings  very  differently 


28  Progress  of  the  Drama 

affected ;  and  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  one  is  not 
composed  of  the  same  elements  as  that  afforded  by  the 
other,  even  on  the  supposition  that  the  quantum  of 
both  were  equal.  In  the  former,  a  picture,  it  is  a 
condition  of  all  genuine  delight  that  we  should  not  be 
deceived  ;  in  the  latter,  stage-scenery,  (inasmuch  as  its 
principal  end  is  not  in  or  for  itself,  as  is  the  case  in  a 
picture,  but  to  be  an  assistance  and  means  to  an  end 
out  of  itself)  its  very  purpose  is  to  produce  as  much 
illusion  as  its  nature  permits.  These,  and  all  other 
stage  presentations,  are  to  produce  a  sort  of  temporary 
half-faith,  which  the  spectator  encourages  in  himself 
and  supports  by  a  voluntary  contribution  on  his  own 
part,  because  he  knows  that  it  is  at  all  times  in  his  power 
to  see  the  thing  as  it  really  is.  I  have  often  observed 
that  little  children  are  actually  deceived  by  stage-scenery, 
never  by  pictures  ;  though  even  these  produce  an  effect 
on  their  impressible  minds,  which  they  do  not  on  the 
minds  of  adults.  The  child,  if  strongly  impressed,  does 
not  indeed  positively  think  the  picture  to  be  the  reality  ; 
but  yet  he  does  not  think  the  contrary.  As  Sir  George 
Beaumont  was  shewing  me  a  very  fine  engraving  from 
Rubens,  representing  a  storm  at  sea  without  any  vessel 
or  boat  introduced,  my  little  boy,  then  about  five  years 
old,  came  dancing  and  singing  into  the  room,  and  all 
at  once  (if  I  may  so  say)  tumbled  in  upon  the  print.  He 
instantly  started,  stood  silent  and  motionless,  with  the 
strongest  expression,  first  of  wonder  and  then  of  grief 
in  his  eyes  and  countenance,  and  at  length  said,  "  And 
where  is  the  ship  ?  But  that  is  sunk,  and  the  men  are 
all  drowned  !  "  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  print. 
Now  what  pictures  are  to  little  children,  stage  illusion 
is  to  men,  provided  they  retain  any  part  of  the  child's 
sensibility ;  except,  that  in  the  latter  instance,  the 
suspension  of  the  act  of  comparison,  which  permits  this 
sort  of  negative  belief,  is  somewhat  more  assisted  by  the 
will,  than  in  that  of  a  child  respecting  a  picture. 

The  true  stage-illusion  in  this  and  in  all  other  things 
consists — not  in  the  mind's  judging  it  to  be  a  forest,  but, 
in  its  remission  of  the  judgment  that  it  is  not  a  forest. 
And  this  subject  of  stage-illusion  is  so  important,  and  so 
many  practical  errors  and  false  criticisms  may  arise,  and 
indeed  have  arisen,  either  from  reasoning  on  it  as  actual 


Progress  of  the  Drama  29 

delusion,  (the  strange  notion,  on  which  the  French  critics 
built  up  their  theory,  and  on  which  the  French  poets 
justify  the  construction  of  their  tragedies),  or  from  deny- 
ing it  altogether,  (which  seems  the  end  of  Dr.  Johnson's 
reasoning,  and  which,  as  extremes  meet,  would  lead  to  the 
very  same  consequences,  by  excluding  whatever  would 
not  be  judged  probable  by  us  in  our  coolest  state  of  feeling, 
with  all  our  faculties  in  even  balance),  that  these  few 
remarks  will,  I  hope,  be  pardoned,  if  they  should  serve 
either  to  explain  or  to  illustrate  the  point.  For  not  only 
are  we  never  absolutely  deluded — or  any  thing  like  it, 
but  the  attempt  to  cause  the  highest  delusion  possible 
to  beings  in  their  senses  sitting  in  a  theatre,  is  a  gross 
fault,  incident  only  to  low  minds,  which,  feeling  that  they 
cannot  affect  the  heart  or  head  permanently,  endeavour 
to  call  forth  the  momentary  affections.  There  ought 
never  to  be  more  pain  than  is  compatible  with  co-existing 
pleasure,  and  to  be  amply  repaid  by  thought. 

Shakspeare  found  the  infant  stage  demanding  an 
intermixture  of  ludicrous  character  as  imperiously  as 
that  of  Greece  did  the  chorus,  and  high  language  accordant. 
And  there  are  many  advantages  in  this ; — a  greater 
assimilation  to  nature,  a  greater  scope  of  power,  more 
truths,  and  more  feelings  ; — the  effects  of  contrast,  as 
in  Lear  and  the  Fool ;  and  especially  this,  that  the  true 
language  of  passion  becomes  sufficiently  elevated  by  your 
having  previously  heard,  in  the  same  piece,  the  lighter 
conversation  of  men  under  no  strong  emotion.  The 
very  nakedness  of  the  stage,  too,  was  advantageous, — 
for  the  drama  thence  became  something  between  recita- 
tion and  a  re-presentation  ;  and  the  absence  or  paucity 
of  scenes  allowed  a  freedom  from  the  laws  of  unity  of 
place  and  unity  of  time,  the  observance  of  which  must 
either  confine  the  drama  to  as  few  subjects  as  may  be 
counted  on  the  fingers,  or  involve  gross  improbabilities, 
far  more  striking  than  the  violation  would  have  caused. 
Thence,  also,  wels  precluded  the  danger  of  a  false  ideal, 
— of  aiming  at  more  than  what  is  possible  on  the  whole. 
What  play  of  the  ancients,  with  reference  to  their  ideal, 
does  not  hold  out  more  glaring  absurdities  than  any  in 
Shakspeare  ?  On  the  Greek  plan  a  man  could  more 
easily  be  a  poet  than  a  dramatist ;  upon  our  plan  more 
easily  a  dramatist  than  a  poet. 


30  The  Drama  Generally 

THE  DRAMA  GENERALLY,  AND 
PUBLIC  TASTE. 

Unaccustomed  to  address  such  an  audience,  and  having 
lost  by  a  long  interval  of  confinement  the  advantages 
of  my  former  short  schooling,  I  had  miscalculated  in 
my  last  Lecture  the  proportion  of  my  matter  to  my  time, 
and  by  bad  economy  and  unskilful  management,  the 
several  heads  of  my  discourse  failed  in  making  the  entire 
performance  correspond  with  the  promise  publicly  circu- 
lated in  the  weekly  annunciation  of  the  subjects,  to  be 
treated.  It  would  indeed  have  been  wiser  in  me,  and 
perhaps  better  on  the  whole,  if  I  had  caused  my  Lectures 
to  be  announced  only  as  continuations  of  the  main  subject. 
But  if  I  be,  as  perforce  I  must  be,  gratified  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  whatever  has  appeared  to  give  you  pleasure,  I 
am  conscious  of  something  better,  though  less  flattering, 
a  sense  of  unfeigned  gratitude  for  your  forbearance  with 
my  defects.  Like  affectionate  guardians,  you  see  with- 
out disgust  the  awkwardness,  and  witness  with  sym- 
pathy the  growing  pains,  of  a  youthful  endeavour,  and 
look  forward  with  a  hope,  which  is  its  own  reward,  to 
the  contingent  results  of  practice — to  its  intellectual 
maturity. 

In  my  last  address  I  defined  poetry  to  be  the  art, 
or  whatever  better  term  our  language  may  afford,  of 
representing  external  nature  and  human  thoughts,  both 
relatively  to  human  affections,  so  as  to  cause  the  pro- 
duction of  as  great  immediate  pleasure  in  each  part, 
as  is  compatible  with  the  largest  possible  sum  of  pleasure 
on  the  whole.  Now  this  definition  applies  equally  to 
painting  and  music  as  to  poetry  ;  and  in  truth  the  term 
poetry  is  alike  applicable  to  all  three.  The  vehicle  alone 
constitutes  the  difference ;  and  the  term  *  poetry '  is 
rightly  applied  by  eminence  to  measured  words,  only 
because  the  sphere  of  their  action  is  far  wider,  the  power 
of  giving  permanence  to  them  much  more  certain,  and 
incomparably  greater  the  facility,  by  which  men,  not 
defective  by  nature  or  disease,  may  be  enabled  to  derive 
habitual  pleasure  and  instruction  from  them.  On  my 
mentioning   these   considerations   to   a   painter   of  great 


and  Public  Taste  31 

genius,  who  had  been,  from  a  most  honourable  enthusiasm, 
extolling  his  own  art,  he  was  so  struck  with  their  truth, 
that  he  exclaimed,  "  I  want  no  other  arguments  ; — 
poetry,  that  is,  verbal  poetry,  must  be  the  greatest ; 
all  that  proves  final  causes  in  the  world,  proves  this  ; 
it  would  be  shocking  to  think  otherwise  !  " — And  in 
truth,  deeply,  O !  far  more  than  words  can  express, 
as  I  venerate  the  Last  Judgment  and  the  Prophets  of 
Michel  Angelo  Buonaroti, — yet  the  very  pain  which  I 
repeatedly  felt  as  I  lost  myself  in  gazing  upon  them, 
the  painful  consideration  that  their  having  been  painted 
in  fresco  was  the  sole  cause  that  they  had  not  been  aban- 
doned to  all  the  accidents  of  a  dangerous  transportation 
to  a  distant  capital,  and  that  the  same  caprice,  which 
made  the  Neapolitan  soldiery  destroy  all  the  exquisite 
masterpieces  on  the  walls  of  the  church  of  the  Trinitado 
Monte,  after  the  retreat  of  their  antagonist  barbarians, 
might  as  easily  have  made  vanish  the  rooms  and  open 
gallery  of  Raffael,  and  the  yet  more  unapproachable 
wonders  of  the  sublime  Florentine  in  the  Sixtine  Chapel, 
forced  upon  my  mind  the  reflection ;  How  grateful 
the  human  race  ought  to  be  that  the  works  of  Euclid, 
Newton,  Plato,  Milton,  Shakspeare,  are  not  subjected 
to  similar  contingencies, — that  they  and  their  fellows, 
and  the  great,  though  inferior,  peerage  of  undying  in- 
tellect, are  secured  ; — secured  even  from  a  second  irruption 
of  Goths  and  Vandals,  in  addition  to  many  other  safe- 
guards, by  the  vast  empire  of  English  language,  laws, 
and  religion  founded  in  America,  through  the  overflow 
of  the  power  and  the  virtue  of  my  country  ; — and  that 
now  the  great  and  certain  works  of  genuine  fame  can 
only  cease  to  act  for  mankind,  when  men  themselves 
cease  to  be  men,  or  when  the  planet  on  which  they  exist, 
shall  have  altered  its  relations,  or  have  ceased  to  be. 
Lord  Bacon,  in  the  language  of  the  gods,  if  I  may  use  an 
Homeric  phrase,   has  expressed  a  similar  thought : — 

Lastly,  leaving  the  vulgar  arguments,  that  by  learning  man 
excelleth  man  in  that  wherein  man  excelleth  beasts  ;  that  by 
learning  man  ascendeth  to  the  heavens  and  their  motions,  where 
in  body  he  cannot  come,  and  the  like  ;  let  us  conclude  with  the 
dignity  and  excellency  of  knowledge  and  learning  in  that  where- 
unto  man's  nature  doth  most  aspire,  which  is,  immortality  or  con- 
tinuance :  for  to  this  tendeth  generation,  and  raising  of  houses  and 
families  ;    to  this  tend  buildings,  foundations,  and  monuments  ; 


32  The  Drama  Generally 

to  this  tendeth  the  desire  of  memory,  fame,  and  celebration,  and 
in  effect  the  strength  of  all  other  human  desires.  We  see  then  how 
far  the  monuments  of  wit  and  learning  are  more  durable  than 
the  monuments  of  power,  or  of  the  hands.  For  have  not  the  verses 
of  Homer  continued  twenty-five  hundred  years,  or  more,  without 
the  loss  of  a  syllable  or  letter  ;  during  which  time,  infinite  palaces, 
temples,  castles,  cities,  have  been  decayed  and  demolished  ?  It  is 
not  possible  to  have  the  true  pictures  or  statues  of  Cyrus,  Alexander, 
Caesar  ;  no,  nor  of  the  kings  or  great  personages  of  much  later 
years  ;  for  the  originals  cannot  last,  and  the  copies  cannot  but  lose 
of  the  life  and  truth.  But  the  images  of  men's  wits  and  know- 
ledges remain  in  books,  exempted  from  the  wrong  of  time,  and 
capable  of  perpetual  renovation.  Neither  are  they  fitly  to  be  called 
images,  because  they  generate  still,  and  cast  their  seeds  in  the  minds 
of  others,  provoking  and  causing  infinite  actions  and  opinions  in 
succeeding  ages  :  so  that,  if  the  invention  of  the  ship  was  thought 
so  noble,  which  carrieth  riches  and  commodities  from  place  to  place, 
and  consociateth  the  most  remote  regions  in  participation  of  their 
fruits  ;  how  much  more  are  letters  to  be  magnified,  which,  as  ships, 
pass  through  the  vast  seas  of  time,  and  make  ages  so  distant  to 
participate  of  the  wisdom,  illuminations,  and  inventions,  the  one 
of  the  other  ?  ^ 

But  let  us  now  consider  what  the  drama  should  be. 
And  first,  it  is  not  a  copy,  but  an  imitation,  of  nature. 
This  is  the  universal  principle  of  the  fine  arts.  In  all 
well  laid  out  grounds  what  delight  do  we  feel  from  that 
balance  and  antithesis  of  feelings  and  thoughts  !  How 
natural  !  we  say  ; — but  the  very  wonder  that  caused 
the  exclamation,  implies  that  we  perceived  art  at  the 
same  moment.  We  catch  the  hint  from  nature  itself. 
Whenever  in  mountains  or  cataracts  we  discover  a  like- 
ness to  any  thing  artificial  which  yet  we  know  is  not 
artificial — what  pleasure  !  And  so  it  is  in  appearances 
known  to  be  artificial,  which  appear  to  be  natural.  This 
applies  in  due  degrees,  regulated  by  steady  good  sense, 
from  a  clump  of  trees  to  the  Paradise  Lost  or  Othello. 
It  would  be  easy  to  apply  it  to  painting  and  even,  though 
with  greater  abstraction  of  thought,  and  by  more  subtle 
yet  equally  just  analogies — to  music.  But  this  belongs 
to  others  ;  suffice  it  that  one  great  principle  is  common 
to  all  the  fine  arts,  a  principle  which  probably  is  the 
condition  of  all  consciousness,  without  which  we  should 
feel  and  imagine  only  by  discontinuous  moments,  and 
be  plants  or  brute  animals  instead  of  men  ; — I  mean 
that  ever-varying  balance,  or  balancing,  of  images,  notions, 

1  Advancement  of  Learning,  book  i,  sub  fine. 


and  Public  Taste  33 

or  feelings,  conceived  as  in  opposition  to  each  other ; 
— in  short,  the  perception  of  identity  and  contrariety  ; 
the  least  degree  of  which  constitutes  likeness,  the  greatest 
absolute  di^erence  ;  but  the  infinite  gradations  between 
these  two  form  all  the  play  and  all  the  interest  of  our 
intellectual  and  moral  being,  till  it  leads  us  to  a  feeJing 
and  an  object  more  awful  than  it  seems  to  me  compatible 
with  even  the  present  subject  to  utter  aloud,  though 
I  am  most  desirous  to  suggest  it.  For  there  alone  are 
all  things  at  once  different  and  the  same  ;  there  alone, 
as  the  principle  of  all  things,  does  distinction  exist  un- 
aided by  division  ;  there  are  will  and  reason,  succession 
of  time  and  unmoving  eternity,  infinite  change  and 
ineffable  rest ! — 

Return  Alpheus  !    the  dread  voice  is  past 
Which  shrunk  thy  streams  ! 


-Thou  honour'd  flood. 


Smooth-flowing  Avon,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard,  was  of  a  higher  mood  I — 
But  now  my  voice  proceeds. 

We  may  divide  a  dramatic  poet's  characteristics  before 
we  enter  into  the  component  merits  of  any  one  work, 
and  with  reference  only  to  those  things  which  are  to  be 
the  materials  of  all,  into  language,  passion,  and  character  ; 
always  bearing  in  mind  that  these  must  act  and  react  on 
each  other, — the  language  inspired  by  the  passion,  and 
the  language  and  the  passion  modified  and  differenced 
by  the  character.  To  the  production  of  the  highest 
excellencies  in  these  three,  there  are  requisite  in  the 
mind  of  the  author  ; — good  sense  ;  talent ;  sensibility  ; 
imagination  ; — and  to  the  perfection  of  a  work  we  should 
add  two  faculties  of  lesser  importance,  yet  necessary 
for  the  ornaments  and  foliage  of  the  column  and  the  roof 
— fancy  and  a  quick  sense  of  beauty. 

As  to  language ; — it  cannot  be  supposed  that  the  poet 
should  make  his  characters  say  all  that  they  would,  or 
that,  his  whole  drama  considered,  each  scene,  or  paragraph 
should  be  such  as,  on  cool  examination,  we  can  conceive 
it  likely  that  men  in  such  situations  would  say,  in  that 
order,  or  with  that  perfection.  And  yet,  according  to 
my  feelings,  it  is  a  very  inferior  kind  of  poetry,  in  which, 
as  in  the  French  tragedies,  men  are  made  to  talk  in  a 

B 


34  The  Drama  Generally 

style  which  few  indeed  even  of  the  wittiest  can  be  supposed 
to  converse  in,  and  which  both  is,  and  on  a  moment's 
reflection  appears  to  be,  the  natural  produce  of  the  hot- 
bed of  vanity,  namely,  the  closet  of  an  author,  who  is 
actuated  originally  by  a  desire  to.  excite  surprise  and 
wonderment  at  his  own  superiority  to  other  men, — 
instead  of  having  felt  so  deeply  on  certain  subjects,  or 
in  consequence  of  certain  imaginations,  as  to  make  it 
almost  a  necessity  of  his  nature  to  seek  for  sympathy, 
— no  doubt,  wdth  that  honourable  desire  of  permanent 
action  which  distinguishes  genius. — Where  then  is  the 
difference  ? — In  this  that  each  part  should  be  propor- 
tionate, though  the  whole  may  be  perhaps  impossible. 
At  all  events,  it  should  be  compatible  with  sound  sense 
and  logic  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  himself. 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  we  judge  of  books  by  books, 
instead  of  referring  what  we  read  to  our  own  experience. 
One  great  use  of  books  is  to  make  their  contents  a  motive 
for  observation.  The  German  tragedies  have  in  some 
respects  been  justly  ridiculed.  In  them  the  dramatist 
often  becomes  a  novelist  in  his  directions  to  the  actors, 
and  thus  degrades  tragedy  into  pantomime.  Yet  still 
the  consciousness  of  the  poet's  mind  must  be  diffused 
over  that  of  the  reader  or  spectator  ;  but  he  himself, 
according  to  his  genius,  elevates  us,  and  by  being  always 
in  keeping,  prevents  us  from  perceiving  any  strangeness, 
though  we  feel  great  exultation.  Many  different  kinds 
of  style  may  be  admirable,  both  in  different  men,  and  in 
different  parts  of  the  same  poem. 

See  the  different  language  which  strong  feelings  may 
justify  in  Shylock,  and  learn  from  Shakspeare's  conduct 
of  that  character  the  terrible  force  of  every  plain  and 
calm  diction,  when  known  to  proceed  from  a  resolved  and 
impassioned  man. 

It  is  especially  with  reference  to  the  drama,  and  its 
characteristics  in  any  given  nation,  or  at  any  particular 
period,  that  the  dependence  of  genius  on  the  public  taste 
becomes  a  matter  of  the  deepest  importance.  I  do  not 
mean  that  taste  which  springs  merely  from  caprice  or 
fashionable  imitation,  and  which,  in  fact,  genius  can, 
and  by  degrees  will,  create  for  itself ;  but  that  which 
arises  out  of  wide-grasping  and  heart-enrooted  causes, 
which  is  epidemic,  and  in  the  very  air  that  all  breathe. 


and  Public  Taste  35 

This  it  is  which  kills,  or  withers,  or  corrupts.  Socrates, 
indeed,  might  walk  arm  and  arm  with  Hygeia,  whilst 
pestilence,  with  a  thousand  furies  running  to  and  fro, 
and  clashing  against  each  other  in  a  complexity  and 
agglomeration  of  horrors,  was  shooting  her  darts  of  fire 
and  venom  all  around  him.  Even  such  was  Milton  ; 
yea,  and  such,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  babbled  by 
his  critics  in  pretended  excuse  for  his  damning,  because 
for  them  too  profound,  excellencies, — such  was  Shak- 
speare.  But  alas  !  the  exceptions  prove  the  rule.  For 
who  will  dare  to  force  his  way  out  of  the  crowd, — not  of 
the  mere  vulgar, — but  of  the  vain  and  banded  aristocracy 
of  intellect,  and  presume  to  join  the  almost  supernatural 
beings  that  stand  by  themselves  aloof  ? 

Of  this  diseased  epidemic  influence  there  are  two  forms 
especially  preclusive  of  tragic  worth.  The  first  is  the 
necessary  growth  of  a  sense  and  love  of  the  ludicrous, 
and  a  morbid  sensibility  of  the  assimilative  power, — 
an  inflammation  produced  by  cold  and  weakness, — 
which  in  the  boldest  bursts  of  passion  will  lie  in  wait  for  a 
jeer  at  any  phrase,  that  may  have  an  accidental  coinci- 
dence in  the  mere  words  with  something  base  or  trivial. 
For  instance, — to  express  woods,  not  on  a  plain,  but 
clothing  a  hiU,  which  overlooks  a  valley,  or  dell,  or  river, 
or  the  sea, — the  trees  rising  one  above  another,  as  the 
spectators  in  an  ancient  theatre, — I  know  no  other  word 
in  our  language,  (bookish  and  pedantic  terms  out  of  the 
question,)  but  hanging  woods,  the  sylvcB  superimpen- 
dentes  of  Catullus  ;  ^  yet  let  some  wit  call  out  in  a  slang 
tone, — "  the  gallows  !  "  and  a  peal  of  laughter  would 
damn  the  play.  Hence  it  is  that  so  many  dull  pieces  have 
had  a  decent  run,  only  because  nothing  unusual  above, 
or  absurd  below,  mediocrity  furnished  an  occasion, — a 
spark  for  the  explosive  materials  collected  behind  the 
orchestra.  But  it  would  take  a  volume  of  no  ordinary 
size,  however  laconically  the  sense  were  expressed,  if  it 
were  meant  to  instance  the  effects,  and  unfold  all  the 
causes,  of  this  disposition  upon  the  moral,  intellectual, 
and  even  physical  character  of  a  people,  with  its  influences 
on  domestic  life  and  individual  deportment.  A  good 
document  upon  this  subject  would  be  the  history  of  Paris 

1  Confestim  Peneos  adest,  viridantia  Tempe, 
Tempae,  quae  cingunt  sylvae  superimpendentes. 

£pi^h.  Pel.  et  Tk.  3S6. 


36  The  Drama  Generally 

society  and  of  French,  that  is,  Parisian,  Hterature  from 
the  commencement  of  the  latter  half  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV.  to  that  of  Buonaparte,  compared  with  the 
preceding  philosophy  and  poetry  even  of  Frenchmen 
themselves. 

The  second  form,  or  more  properly,  perhaps,  another 
distinct  cause,  of  this  diseased  disposition  is  matter  of 
exultation  to  the  philanthropist  and  philosopher,  and  of 
regret  to  the  poet,  the  painter,  and  the  statuary  alone, 
and  to  them  only  as  poets,  painters,  and  statuaries  ; — 
namely,  the  security,  the  comparative  equability,  and 
ever  increasing  sameness  of  human  life.  Men  are  now  so 
seldom  thrown  into  wild  circumstances,  and  violences  of 
excitement,  that  the  language  of  such  states,  the  laws  of 
association  of  feeling  with  thought,  the  starts  and  strange 
far-flights  of  the  assimilative  power  on  the  slightest  and 
least  obvious  likeness  presented  by  thoughts,  words,  or 
objects, — these  are  all  judged  of  by  authority,  not  by 
actual  experience, — by  what  men  have  been  accustomed 
to  regard  as  symbols  of  these  states,  and  not  the  natural 
sjmibols,  or  self-manifestations  of  them. 

Even  so  it  is  in  the  language  of  man,  and  in  that  of 
nature.  The  sound  sun,  or  the  figures  s,  u,  n,  are  purely 
arbitrary  modes  of  recalling  the  object,  and  for  visual 
mere  objects  they  are  not  only  sufficient,  but  have  infinite 
advantages  from  their  very  nothingness  per  se.  But  the 
language  of  nature  is  a  subordinate  Logos,  that  was  in  the 
beginning,  and  was  with  the  thing  it  represented,  and  was 
the  thing  it  represented. 

Now  the  language  of  Shakspeare,  in  his  Lear  for  instance, 
is  a  something  intermediate  between  these  two  ;  or  rather 
it  is  the  former  blended  with  the  latter, — the  arbitrary, 
not  merely  recalling  the  cold  notion  of  the  thing,  but 
expressing  the  reality  of  it,  and,  as  arbitrary  language  is 
an  heir-loom  of  the  human  race,  being  itself  a  part  of  that 
which  it  manifests.  What  shall  I  deduce  from  the  pre- 
ceding positions  ?  Even  this, — the  appropriate,  the  never 
to  be  too  much  valued  advantage  of  the  theatre,  if  only 
the  actors  were  what  we  know  they  have  been, — a  delight- 
ful, yet  most  effectual  remedy  for  this  dead  palsy  of  the 
public  mind.  What  would  appear  mad  or  ludicrous  in  a 
book,  when  presented  to  the  senses  under  the  form  of 
reality,  and  with  the  truth  of  nature,  supplies  a  species  of 


and  Public  Taste  37 

actual  experience.  This  is  indeed  the  special  privilege 
of  a  great  actor  over  a  great  poet.  No  part  was  ever 
played  in  perfection,  but  nature  justified  herself  in  the 
hearts  of  all  her  children,  in  what  state  soever  they  were, 
short  of  absolute  moral  exhaustion,  or  downright  stupidity. 
There  is  no  time  given  to  ask  questions,  or  to  pass  judg- 
ments ;  v/e  are  taken  by  storm,  and,  though  in  the  histri- 
onic art  many  a  clumsy  counterfeit,  by  caricature  of  one 
or  two  features,  may  gain  applause  as  a  fine  likeness,  yet 
never  was  the  very  thing  rejected  as  a  counterfeit.  O  ! 
when  I  think  of  the  inexhaustible  mine  of  virgin  treasure 
in  our  Shakspeare,  that  I  have  been  almost  daily  reading 
him  since  I  was  ten  years  old, — that  the  thirty  inter- 
vening years  have  been  unintermittingly  and  not  fruit- 
lessly employed  in  the  study  of  the  Greek,  Latin,  English, 
Italian,  Spanish  and  German  helle  lettrists,  and  the  last 
fifteen  years  in  addition,  far  more  intensely  in  the  analysis 
of  the  laws  of  life  and  reason  as  they  exist  in  man, — and 
that  upon  every  step  I  have  made  forward  in  taste,  in 
acquisition  of  facts  from  history  or  my  own  observation, 
and  in  knowledge  of  the  different  laws  of  being  and  their 
apparent  exceptions,  from  accidental  collision  of  disturbing 
forces, — that  at  every  new  accession  of  information,  after 
every  successful  exercise  of  meditation,  and  every  fresh 
presentation  of  experience,  I  have  unfailingly  discovered 
a  proportionate  increase  of  wisdom  and  intuition  in 
Shakspeare  ; — when  I  know  this,  and  know  too,  that  by 
a  conceivable  and  possible,  though  hardly  to  be  expected, 
arrangement  of  the  British  theatres,  not  all,  indeed,  but 
a  large,  a  very  large,  proportion  of  this  indefinite  all — 
(round  which  no  comprehension  has  yet  drawn  the  line 
of  circumscription,  so  as  to  say  to  itself,  *I  have  seen  the 
whole') — might  be  sent  into  the  heads  and  hearts — into 
the  very  souls  of  the  mass  of  mankind,  to  whom,  except 
by  this  living  comment  and  interpretation,  it  must  remain 
for  ever  a  sealed  volume,  a  deep  well  without  a  wheel  or 
a  windlass  ; — it  seems  to  me  a  pardonable  enthusiasm 
to  steal  away  from  sober  likelihood,  and  share  in  so  rich 
a  feast  in  the  faery  world  of  possibility  !  Yet  even  in 
the  grave  cheerfulness  of  a  circumspect  hope,  much,  very 
much,  might  be  done  ;  enough,  assuredly,  to  furnish  a 
kind  and  strenuous  nature  with  ample  motives  for  the 
attempt  to  effect  what  may  be  effected. 


38       Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally 

SHAKSPEARE,    A    POET    GENERALLY. 

Clothed  in  radiant  armour,  and  authorized  by  titles  sure 
and  manifold,  as  a  poet,  Shakspeare  came  forward  to 
demand  the  throne  of  fame,  as  the  dramatic  poet  of 
England.  His  excellences  compelled  even  his  contem- 
poraries to  seat  him  on  that  throne,  although  there  were 
giants  in  those  days  contending  for  the  same  honour. 
Hereafter  I  would  fain  endeavour  to  make  out  the  title 
of  the  English  drama  as  created  by,  and  existing  in,  Shak- 
speare, and  its  right  to  the  supremacy  of  dramatic  excel- 
lence in  general.  But  he  had  shown  himself  a  poet,  pre- 
viously to  his  appearance  as  a  dramatic  poet ;  and  had 
no  Lear,  no  Othello,  no  Henry  IV.,  no  Twelfth  Night  ever 
appeared,  we  must  have  admitted  that  Shakspeare  pos- 
sessed the  chief,  if  not  every,  requisite  of  a  poet, — deep 
feeling  and  exquisite  sense  of  beauty,  both  as  exhibited 
to  the  eye  in  the  combinations  of  form,  and  to  the  ear  in 
sweet  and  appropriate  melody  ;  that  these  feelings  were 
under  the  command  of  his  own  will ;  that  in  his  very  first 
productions  he  projected  his  mind  out  of  his  own  particular 
being,  and  felt,  and  made  others  feel,  on  subjects  no  way 
connected  with  himself,  except  by  force  of  contemplation 
and  that  sublime  faculty  by  which  a  great  mind  becomes 
that,  on  which  it  meditates.  To  this  must  be  added  that 
affectionate  love  of  nature  and  natural  objects,  without 
which  no  man  could  have  observed  so  steadily,  or  painted 
so  truly  and  passionately,  the  very  minutest  beauties  of 
the  external  world  : — 

And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare, 
Mark  the  poor  wretch  ;   to  overshoot  his  troubles, 
How  he  outruns  the  wind,  and  with  what  care, 
He  cranks  and  crosses  with  a  thousand  doubles  : 
The  many  musits  through  the  which  he  goes 
Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

Sometimes  he  runs  among  the  flock  of  sheep, 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell  ; 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep. 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  ^'■ell  ; 
And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  herd  of  deer  : 
Danger  deviseth  shifts,  wit  waits  on  fear. 

For  there  his  smell  with  others'  being  mmgled, 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt. 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry,  till  they  have  singled. 


Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally       39 

With  much  ado,  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out, 
Then  do  they  spend  their  mouths  ;   echo  replies, 
As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

By  this  poor  Wat  far  off,  upon  a  hill, 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear. 
To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still  : 
Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear, 
And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 
To  one  sore-sick,  that  hears  the  passing  bell. 

Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way  : 
Each  envious  briar  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay. 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low,  never  relieved  by  any. 

Venus  and  Adonis. 

And  the  preceding  description  : — 

But  lo  !   from  forth  a  copse  that  neighbours  by, 
A  breeding  jennet,  lusty,  young  and  proud,  &c. 

is  much  more  admirable,  but  in  parts  less  fitted  for  quota- 
tion. 

Moreover  Shakspeare  had  shown  that  he  possessed 
fancy,  considered  as  the  faculty  of  bringing  together 
images  dissimilar  in  the  main  by  some  one  point  or  more 
of  likeness,  as  in  such  a  passage  as  this  : — 

Full  gently  now  she  takes  him  by  the  hand, 

A  lily  prisoned  in  a  jail  of  snow. 

Or  ivory  in  an  alabaster  band  : 

So  white  a  friend  ingirts  so  white  a  foe  !     Ih. 

And  still  mounting  the  intellectual  ladder,  he  had  as 
unequivocally  proved  the  indwelling  in  his  mind  of  im- 
agination, or  the  power  by  which  one  image  or  feeling  is 
made  to  modify  many  others,  and  by  a  sort  of  fusion  to 
force  many  into  one  ; — that  which  afterwards  showed 
itself  in  such  might  and  energy  in  Lear,  where  the  deep 
anguish  of  a  father  spreads  the  feeling  of  ingratitude  and 
cruelty  over  the  very  elements  of  heaven  ; — and  which, 
combining  many  circumstances  into  one  moment  of  con- 
sciousness, tends  to  produce  that  ultimate  end  of  all 
human  thought  and  human  feeling,  unity,  and  thereby 
the  reduction  of  the  spirit  to  its  principle  and  fountain, 
who  is  alone  truly  one.  Various  are  the  workings  of  this 
the  greatest  faculty  of  the  human  mind,  both  passionate 


40       Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally 

and  tranquil.  In  its  tranquil  and  purely  pleasurable 
operation,  it  acts  chiefly  by  creating  out  of  many  things, 
as  they  would  have  appeared  in  the  description  of  an 
ordinary  mind,  detailed  in  unimpassioned  succession,  a 
oneness,  even  as  nature,  the  greatest  of  poets,  acts  upon 
us,  when  we  open  our  eyes  upon  an  extended  prospect. 
Thus  the  flight  of  Adonis  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  : — 

Look  !   how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky  ; 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye  ! 

How  many  images  and  feelings  are  here  brought  to- 
gether without  effort  and  without  discord,  in  the  beauty 
of  Adonis,  the  rapidity  of  his  flight,  the  yearning,  yet 
hopelessness,  of  the  enamoured  gazer,  while  a  shadowy 
ideal  character  is  thrown  over  the  whole  !  Or  this  power 
acts  by  impressing  the  stamp  of  humanity,  and  of  human 
feelings,  on  inanimate  or  mere  natural  objects  : — 

Lo  !    here  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 

From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high, 

And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 

The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty, 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 

The  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  burnish'd  gold. 

Or  again,  it  acts  by  so  carrying  on  the  eye  of  the  reader 
as  to  make  him  almost  lose  the  consciousness  of  words, — 
to  make  him  see  every  thing  flashed,  as  Wordsworth  has 
grandly  and  appropriately  said, — 

Flashed  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; — 

and  this  without  exciting  any  painful  or  laborious  atten- 
tion, without  any  anatomy  of  description,  (a  fault  not 
uncommon  in  descriptive  poetry) — but  with  the  sweet- 
ness and  easy  movement  of  nature.  This  energy  is  an 
absolute  essential  of  poetry,  and  of  itself  would  constitute 
a  poet,  though  not  one  of  the  highest  class  ; — it  is,  however, 
a  most  hopeful  S37mptom,  and  the  Venus  and  Adonis  is 
one  continued  specimen  of  it. 

In  this  beautiful  poem  there  is  an  endless  activity  of 
thought  in  all  the  possible  associations  of  thought  with 
thought,  thought  with  feeling,  or  with  words,  of  feelings 
with  feelings,  and  of  words  with  words. 


Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally       41 

Even  as  the  sun,  with  purple-colour' d  face. 
Had  ta'en  his  last  leave  of  the  weeping  morn, 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis  hied  him  to  the  chase  : 
Hunting  he  loved,  but  love  he  laughed  to  scorn. 
Sick-thoughted  Venus  makes  amain  unto  him, 
And  like  a  bold-faced  suitor  'gins  to  woo  him. 

Remark  the  humanizing  imagery  and  circumstances  of 
the  first  two  lines,  and  the  activity  of  thought  in  the  play 
of  words  in  the  fourth  line.  The  whole  stanza  presents  at 
once  the  time,  the  appearance  of  the  morning,  and  the  two 
persons  distinctly  characterized,  and  in  six  simple  verses 
puts  the  reader  in  possession  of  the  whole  argument  of  the 
poem. 

Over  one  arm  the  lusty  courser's  rein. 
Under  the  other  was  the  tender  boy. 
Who  blush' d  and  pouted  in  a  dull  disdain. 
With  leaden  appetite,  unapt  to  toy. 
She  red  and  hot,  as  coals  of  glowing  fire. 
He  red  for  shame,  but  frosty  to  desire  : — 

This  stanza  and  the  two  following  afford  good  instances 
of  that  poetic  power,  which  I  mentioned  above,  of  making 
every  thing  present  to  the  imagination — both  the  forms, 
and  the  passions  which  modify  those  forms,  either  actually, 
as  in  the  representations  of  love,  or  anger,  or  other  human 
affections  ;  or  imaginatively,  by  the  different  manner  in 
which  inanimate  objects,  or  objects  unimpassioned  them- 
selves, are  caused  to  be  seen  by  the  mind  in  moments  of 
strong  excitement,  and  according  to  the  kind  of  the  ex- 
citement,— whether  of  jealousy,  or  rage,  or  love,  in  the  only 
appropriate  sense  of  the  word,  or  of  the  lower  impulses  of 
our  nature,  or  finally  of  the  poetic  feeling  itself.  It  is, 
perhaps,  chiefly  in  the  power  of  producing  and  reproduc- 
ing the  latter  that  the  poet  stands  distinct. 

The  subject  of  the  Venus  and  Adonis  is  unpleasing  ; 
but  the  poem  itself  is  for  that  very  reason  the  more  illustra- 
tive of  Shakspeare.  There  are  men  who  can  write  passages 
of  deepest  pathos  and  even  sublimity  on  circumstances 
personal  to  themselves  and  stimulative  of  their  own  pas- 
sions ;  but  they  are  not,  therefore,  on  this  account  poets. 
Read  that  magnificent  burst  of  woman's  patriotism  and 
exultation,  Deborah's  song  of  victory  ;  it  is  glorious,  but 
nature  is  the  poet  there.  It  is  quite  another  matter  to 
become  all  things  and  yet  remain  the  same, — to  make  the 


42       Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally 

changeful  god  be  felt  in  the  river,  the  lion  and  the  flame  ; — 
this  it  is,  that  is  the  true  imagination.  Shakspeare  writes 
in  this  poem,  as  if  he  were  of  another  planet,  charming 
you  to  gaze  on  the  movements  of  Venus  and  Adonis,  as 
you  would  on  the  twinkling  dances  of  two  vernal  butterflies. 
Finally,  in  this  poem  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece,  Shak- 
speare gave  ample  proof  of  his  possession  of  a  most  pro- 
found, energetic,  and  philosophical  mind,  without  which 
he  might  have  pleased,  but  could  not  have  been  a  great 
dramatic  poet.  Chance  and  the  necessity  of  his  genius 
combined  to  lead  him  to  the  drama  his  proper  province  : 
in  his  conquest  of  which  we  should  consider  both  the  diffi- 
culties which  opposed  him,  and  the  advantages  by  which 
he  was  assisted. 


Shakspeare' s  Judgment  equal  to  his  Genius. 

Thus  then  Shakspeare  appears,  from  his  Venus  and 
Adonis  and  Rape  of  Lucrece  alone,  apart  from  all  his 
great  works,  to  have  possessed  all  the  conditions  of  the 
true  poet.  Let  me  now  proceed  to  destroy,  as  far  as  may 
be  in  my  power,  the  popular  notion  that  he  was  a  great 
dramatist  by  mere  instinct,  that  he  grew  immortal  in  his 
own  despite,  and  sank  below  men  of  second  or  third-rate 
power,  when  he  attempted  aught  beside  the  drama — 
even  as  bees  construct  their  cells  and  manufacture  their 
honey  to  admirable  perfection  ;  but  would  in  vain  attempt 
to  build  a  nest.  Now  this  mode  of  reconciling  a  compelled 
sense  of  inferiority  with  a  feeling  of  pride,  began  in  a  few 
pedants,  who  having  read  that  Sophocles  was  the  great 
model  of  tragedy,  and  Aristotle  the  infallible  dictator  of 
its  rules,  and  finding  that  the  Lear,  Hamlet,  Othello  and 
other  master-pieces  were  neither  in  imitation  of  Sophocles, 
nor  in  obedience  to  Aristotle, — and  not  having  (with  one 
or  two  exceptions)  the  courage  to  affirm,  that  the  delight 
which  their  country  received  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, in  defiance  of  the  alterations  of  circumstances  and 
habits,  was  wholly  groundless, — took  upon  them,  as  a 
happy  medium  and  refuge,  to  talk  of  Shakspeare  as  a  sort 
of  beautiful  lusus  natiirce,  a  delightful  monster, — wild, 
indeed,  and  without  taste  or  judgment,  but  like  the 
inspired  idiots  so  much  venerated  in  the  East,  uttering, 


Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally       43 

amid  the  strangest  follies,  the  sublimest  truths.  In  nine 
places  out  of  ten  in  which  I  find  his  awful  name  mentioned, 
it  is  with  some  epithet  of  'wild/  'irregular,'  'pure  child 
of  nature,*  &c.  If  all  this  be  true,  we  must  submit  to  it; 
though  to  a  thinking  mind  it  cannot  but  be  painful  to  find 
any  excellence,  merely  human,  thrown  out  of  all  human 
analogy,  and  thereby  leaving  us  neither  rules  for  imita- 
tion, nor  motives  to  imitate  ; — but  if  false,  it  is  a  dangerous 
falsehood  ; — for  it  affords  a  refuge  to  secret  self-conceit, 
— enables  a  vain  man  at  once  to  escape  his  reader's 
indignation  by  general  swoln  panegyrics,  and  merely  by 
his  ipse  dixit  to  treat,  as  contemptible,  what  he  has  not 
intellect  enough  to  comprehend,  or  soul  to  feel,  without 
assigning  any  reason,  or  referring  his  opinion  to  any 
demonstrative  principle  ; — thus  leaving  Shakspeare  as  a 
sort  of  grand  Lama,  adored  indeed,  and  his  very  excre- 
ments prized  as  relics,  but  with  no  authorit}^  or  real 
influence.  I  grieve  that  every  late  voluminous  edition  of 
his  works  would  enable  me  to  substantiate  the  present 
charge  with  a  variety  of  facts  one  tenth  of  which  would 
of  themselves  exhaust  the  time  allotted  to  me.  Every 
critic,  who  has  or  has  not  made  a  collection  of  black 
letter  books — in  itself  a  useful  and  respectable  amuse- 
ment,— puts  on  the  seven-league  boots  of  self-opinion,  and 
strides  at  once  from  an  illustrator  into  a  supreme  judge, 
and  blind  and  deaf,  fills  his  three-ounce  phial  at  the  waters 
of  Niagara  ;  and  determines  positively  the  greatness  of 
the  cataract  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  his  three- 
ounce  phial  has  been  able  to  receive. 

I  think  this  a  very  serious  subject.  It  is  my  earnest 
desire — my  passionate  endeavour, — to  enforce  at  various 
times  and  by  various  arguments  and  instances  the  close 
and  reciprocal  connexion  of  just  taste  with  pure  morality. 
Without  that  acquaintance  with  the  heart  of  man,  or  that 
docility  and  childlike  gladness  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  it,  which  those  only  can  have,  who  dare  look  at  their 
own  hearts — and  that  with  a  steadiness  which  religion 
only  has  the  power  of  reconciling  with  sincere  humility  ; 
— without  this,  and  the  modesty  produced  by  it,  I  am 
deeply  convinced  that  no  man,  however  wide  his  erudition, 
however  patient  his  antiquarian  researches,  can  possibly 
understand,  or  be  worthy  of  understanding,  the  writings 
of  Shakspeare. 


44       Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally 

Assuredly  that  criticism  of  Shakspeare  will  alone  be 
genial  which  is  reverential.  The  Englishman,  who  without 
reverence,  a  proud  and  affectionate  reverence,  can  utter 
the  name  of  William  Shakspeare,  stands  disquahfied  for 
the  ofi&ce  of  critic.  He  wants  one  at  least  of  the  very 
senses,  the  language  of  which  he  is  to  employ,  and  will 
discourse,  at  best,  but  as  a  blind  man,  while  the  whole 
harmonious  creation  of  light  and  shade  with  all  its  subtle 
interchange  of  deepening  and  dissolving  colours  rises  in 
silence  to  the  silent  flat  of  the  uprising  Apollo.  However 
inferior  in  ability  I  may  be  to  some  who  have  followed  me, 
I  own  I  am  proud  that  I  was  the  first  in  time  who  pubhcly 
demonstrated  to  the  full  extent  of  the  position,  that  the 
supposed  irregularity  and  extravagances  of  Shakspeare 
were  the  mere  dreams  of  a  pedantry  that  arraigned  the 
eagle  because  it  had  not  the  dimensions  of  the  swan.  In 
all  the  successive  courses  of  lectures  delivered  by  me,  since 
my  first  attempt  at  the  Royal  Institution,  it  has  been,  and 
it  still  remains,  my  object,  to  prove  that  in  aU  points  from 
the  most  important  to  the  most  minute,  the  judgment  of 
Shakspeare  is  commensurate  vv^ith  his  genius, — nay,  that 
his  genius  reveals  itself  in  his  judgment,  as  in  its  most 
exalted  form.  And  the  more  gladly  do  I  recur  to  this 
subject  from  the  clear  conviction,  that  to  judge  aright, 
and  with  distinct  consciousness  of  the  grounds  of  our 
judgment,  concerning  the  works  of  Shakspeare,  implies 
the  power  and  the  means  of  judging  rightly  of  aU  other 
works  of  intellect,  those  of  abstract  science  alone  excepted. 

It  is  a  painful  truth  that  not  only  individuals,  but  even 
whole  nations,  are  ofttimes  so  enslaved  to  the  habits  of 
their  education  and  immediate  circumstances,  as  not  to 
judge  disinterestedly  even  on  those  subjects,  the  very 
pleasure  arising  from  which  consists  in  its  disinterested- 
ness, namely,  on  subjects  of  taste  and  polite  literature. 
Instead  of  deciding  concerning  their  own  modes  and 
customs  by  any  rule  of  reason,  nothing  appears  rational, 
becoming,  or  beautiful  to  them,  but  what  coincides  with 
the  peculiarities  of  their  education.  In  this  narrow  circle, 
individuals  may  attain  to  exquisite  discrimination,  as  the 
French  critics  have  done  in  their  own  literature  ;  but  a 
true  critic  can  no  more  be  such  without  placing  himself 
on  some  central  point,  from  which  he  may  command  the 
whole,  that  is,  some  general  rule,  which,  founded  in  reason. 


Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally       45 

or  the  faculties  common  to  all  men,  must  therefore  apply 
to  each, — than  an  astronomer  can  explain  the  move- 
ments of  the  solar  system  without  taking  his  stand  in  the 
sun.  And  let  me  remark,  that  this  will  not  tend  to  produce 
despotism,  but,  on  the  contrary,  true  tolerance,  in  the 
critic.  He  will,  indeed,  require,  as  the  spirit  and  substance 
of  a  work,  something  true  in  human  nature  itself,  and 
independent  of  all  circumstances  ;  but  in  the  mode  of 
applying  it,  he  will  estimate  genius  and  judgment  accord- 
ing to  the  felicity  with  which  the  imperishable  soul  of 
intellect  shall  have  adapted  itself  to  the  age,  the  place, 
and  the  existing  manners.  The  error  he  will  expose,  Ues 
in  reversing  this,  and  holding  up  the  mere  circumstances 
as  perpetual  to  the  utter  neglect  of  the  power  which  can 
alone  animate  them.  For  art  cannot  exist  without,  or 
apart  from,  nature  ;  and  what  has  man  of  his  own  to  give 
to  his  fellow  man,  but  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  and 
his  observations,  so  far  as  they  are  modified  by  his  own 
thoughts  or  feelings  ? 

Let  me,  then,  once  more  submit  this  question  to  minds 
emancipated  alike  from  national,  or  party,  or  sectarian 
prejudice  : — Are  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  works  of  rude 
uncultivated  genius,  in  which  the  splendour  of  the  parts 
compensates,  if  aught  can  compensate,  for  the  barbarous 
shapelessness  and  irregularity  of  the  whole  ? — Or  is  the 
form  equally  admirable  with  the  matter,  and  the  judg- 
ment of  the  great  poet,  not  less  deserving  our  wonder  than 
his  genius  ? — Or,  again,  to  repeat  the  question  in  other 
words  : — Is  Shakspeare  a  great  dramatic  poet  on  account 
only  of  those  beauties  and  excellences  which  he  possesses 
in  common  with  the  ancients,  but  with  diminished  claims 
to  our  love  and  honour  to  the  full  extent  of  his  differences 
from  them  ? — Or  are  these  very  differences  additional 
proofs  of  poetic  wisdom,  at  once  results  and  symbols  of 
living  power  as  contrasted  with  lifeless  mechanism — of 
free  and  rival  originality  as  contra-distinguished  from 
servile  imitation,  or,  more  accurately,  a  blind  copying  of 
effects,  instead  of  a  true  imitation,  of  the  essential  prin- 
ciples ? — Imagine  not  that  I  am  about  to  oppose  genius 
to  rules.  No  !  the  comparative  value  of  these  rules  is  the 
very  cause  to  be  tried.  The  spirit  of  poetry,  like  all  other 
living  powers,  must  of  necessity  circumscribe  itself  by 
rules,  were  it  only  to  unite  power  with  beauty.     It  must 


46       Shakspeare,  a  Poet  Generally 

embody  in  order  to  reveal  itself  ;  but  a  living  body  is  oi 
necessity  an  organized  one  ;  and  what  is  organization  but 
the  connection  of  parts  in  and  for  a  whole,  so  that  each 
part  is  at  once  end  and  means  ? — This  is  no  discovery  of 
criticism  ; — it  is  a  necessity  of  the  human  mind  ;  and  all 
nations  have  felt  and  obeyed  it,  in  the  invention  of  metre, 
and  measured  sounds,  as  the  vehicle  and  involucriim  oi 
poetry — itself  a  fellow-growth  from  the  same  life, — even 
as  the  bark  is  to  the  tree  ! 

No  work  of  true  genius  dares  want  its  appropriate  form, 
neither  indeed  is  there  any  danger  of  this.  As  it  must 
not,  so  genius  cannot,  be  lawless  ;  for  it  is  even  this  that 
constitutes  it  genius — the  power  of  acting  creatively  under 
laws  of  its  ov/n  origination.  How  then  comes  it  that  not 
only  single  Zoili,  but  whole  nations  have  combined  in 
unhesitating  condemnation  of  our  great  dramatist,  as  a 
sort  of  African  nature,  rich  in  beautiful  monsters — as  a 
wild  heath  where  islands  of  fertility  look  the  greener  from 
the  surrounding  waste,  where  the  loveliest  plants  now 
shine  out  among  unsightly  weeds,  and  now  are  choked  by 
their  parasitic  growth,  so  intertwined  that  we  cannot  dis- 
entangle the  weed  without  snapping  the  flower  ? — In  this 
statement  I  have  had  no  reference  to  the  vulgar  abuse  of 
Voltaire,^  save  as  far  as  his  charges  are  coincident  with 
the  decisions  of  Shakspeare's  own  commentators  and  (so 
they  would  tell  you)  almost  idolatrous  admirers.  The  trae 
ground  of  the  mistake  lies  in  the  confounding  mechanical 
regularity  with  organic  form.  The  form  is  mechanic,  when 
on  any  given  material  we  impress  a  pre-determined  form, 
not  necessarily  arising  out  of  the  properties  of  the  material ; 
— as  when  to  a  mass  of  wet  clay  we  give  whatever  shape 
we  wish  it  to  retain  when  hardened.  The  organic  form, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  innate  ;  it  shapes,  as  it  developes, 
itself  from  within,  and  the  fulness  of  its  development  is 

1  Take  a  slight  specimen  of  it. 

Je  suis  bien  loin  assurdment  de  justifier  en  tout  la  tragddie  d'Haralet :  c'est  une piice 
grassier e  et  bar  bare,  qui  ne  serait  pas  suf>portee  par  la  plus  vile  populace  de  la  I'rance 
et  de  ritalie.  Hamlei  y  devient  fou  au  second  acte,  et  sa  maltressefolleau  troisi^me  ; 
le  prince  tue  le  pere  de  sa  maitresse,  feignant  de  tuer  un  rat,  et  I'heroine  se  jette  dans 
la  riviere.  On  fait  sa  fosse  sur  le  theatre  ;  des  fossoyeurs  disent  des  quolibets  dignes 
d'eux,  en  tenant  dans  leurs  mains  des  tetes  de  morts  ;  le  prince  Hamlet  rdpond  a  leurs 
^rossieretes  abominables  par  des /dies  non  mains  degcrAtantes.  Pendant  ce  temps-Ik, 
un  des  acteurs  fait  la  conquete  de  la  Pologne.  Hamlet,  sa  mere,  et  son  beau-pere 
boivent  ensemble  sur  le  theatre ;  on  chante  a  table,  on  s'y  querelle,  on  se  bat,  on  se  tue  : 
en  croirait  que  cet  ouvrage  est  Ic  fruit  d£  V imagination  dun  sauvage  ivre.  Disserta- 
tion before  Semiramis. 

This  is  not,  perhaps,  very  like  Hamlet  ;  but  nothing  can  be  more  like  Voltaire.     Ed, 


Characteristics  of  Shakspeare's  Dramas  47 

one  and  the  same  with  the  perfection  of  its  outward  form. 
Such  as  the  Ufe  is,  such  is  the  form.  Nature,  the  prime 
genial  artist,  inexhaustible  in  diverse  powers,  is  equally 
inexhaustible  in  forms  ; — each  exterior  is  the  physiog- 
nomy of  the  being  within, — its  true  image  reflected  and 
thrown  out  from  the  concave  mirror  ; — and  even  such 
is  the  appropriate  excellence  of  her  chosen  poet,  of  our 
own  Shakspeare, — himself  a  nature  humanized,  a  genial 
understanding  directing  self-consciously  a  power  and  an 
implicit  wisdom  deeper  even  than  our  consciousness. 

I  greatly  dislike  beauties  and  selections  in  general ;  but 
as  proof  positive  of  his  unrivalled  excellence,  I  should  like 
to  try  Shakspeare  by  this  criterion.  Make  out  your 
amplest  catalogue  of  all  the  human  faculties,  as  reason  or 
the  moral  law,  the  will,  the  feeling  of  the  coincidence  of 
the  two  (a  feeling  sui  generis  et  demonstratio  demonstrati- 
onum)  called  the  conscience,  the  understanding  or  prud- 
ence, wit,  fancy,  imagination,  judgment, — and  then  of  the 
objects  on  which  these  are  to  be  employed,  as  the  beauties, 
the  terrors,  and  the  seeming  caprices  of  nature,  the  realities 
and  the  capabilities,  that  is,  the  actual  and  the  ideal,  of 
the  human  mind,  conceived  as  an  individual  or  as  a  social 
being,  as  in  innocence  or  in  guilt,  in  a  play-paradise,  or  in 
a  war-field  of  temptation  ; — and  then  compare  with  Shak- 
speare under  each  of  these  heads  all  or  any  of  the  writers 
in  prose  and  verse  that  have  ever  lived  !  Who,  that  is 
competent  to  judge,  doubts  the  result  ? — And  ask  your 
own  hearts, — ask  your  own  common  sense — to  conceive 
the  possibility  of  this  man  being — I  say  not,  the  drunken 
savage  of  that  wretched  sciolist,  whom  Frenchmen,  to 
their  shame,  have  honoured  before  their  elder  and  better 
worthies, — but  the  anomalous,  the  wild,  the  irregular, 
genius  of  our  daily  criticism  !  What !  are  we  to  have 
miracles  in  sport  ? — Or,  I  speak  reverently,  does  God 
choose  idiots  by  whom  to  convey  divine  truths  to  man  ? 


RECAPITULATION,    AND    SUMMARY 

Of  the  Characteristics  of  Shakspeare' s  Dramas} 

In  lectures,  of  which  amusement  forms  a  large  part  of  the 
object,  there  are  some  peculiar  difficulties.     The  architect 

1  For  the  most  part  communicated  by  Mr.  Justice  Coleridge.     Ed. 


48  Characteristics  of 

places  his  foundation  out  of  sight,  and  the  musician  tunes 
his  instrument  before  he  makes  his  appearance  ;  but  the 
lecturer  has  to  try  his  chords  in  the  presence  of  the  assem- 
bly ;  an  operation  not  likely,  indeed,  to  produce  much 
pleasure,  but  yet  indispensably  necessary  to  a  right  under- 
standing of  the  subject  to  be  developed. 

Poetry  in  essence  is  as  familiar  to  barbarous  as  to 
civilized  nations.  The  Laplander  and  the  savage  Indian 
are  cheered  by  it  as  well  as  the  inhabitants  of  London  and 
Paris  ; — its  spirit  takes  up  and  incorporates  surrounding 
materials,  as  a  plant  clothes  itself  with  soil  and  climate, 
whilst  it  exhibits  the  working  of  a  vital  principle  within 
independent  of  all  accidental  circumstances.  And  to  judge 
with  fairness  of  an  author's  works,  we  ought  to  distinguish 
what  is  inward  and  essential  from  what  is  outward  and 
circumstantial.  It  is  essential  to  poetry  that  it  be  simple, 
and  appeal  to  the  elements  and  primary  laws  of  our  nature  ; 
that  it  be  sensuous,  and  by  its  imagery  elicit  truth  at  a 
flash  ;  that  it  be  impassioned,  and  be  able  to  move  our 
feelings  and  awaken  our  affections.  In  comparing  different 
poets  with  each  other,  we  should  inquire  which  have 
brought  into  the  fullest  play  our  imagination  and  our 
reason,  or  have  created  the  greatest  excitement  and  pro- 
duced the  completest  harmony.  If  we  consider  great 
exquisiteness  of  language  and  sweetness  of  metre  alone,  it 
is  impossible  to  deny  to  Pope  the  character  of  a  delightful 
writer  ;  but  whether  he  be  a  poet,  must  depend  upon 
our  definition  of  the  word;  and,  doubtless,  if  every 
thing  that  pleases  be  poetry,  Pope's  satires  and  epistles 
must  be  poetry.  This,  I  must  say,  that  poetry,  as 
distinguished  from  other  modes  of  composition,  does  not 
rest  in  metre,  and  that  it  is  not  poetry,  if  it  make  no 
appeal  to  our  passions  or  our  imagination.  One  character 
belongs  to  all  true  poets,  that  they  write  from  a  principle 
within,  not  originating  in  any  thing  without  ;  and  that 
the  true  poet's  work  in  its  form,  its  shapings,  and  its  modi- 
fications, is  distinguished  from  all  other  works  that  assume 
to  belong  to  the  class  of  poetry,  as  a  natural  from  an 
artificial  flower,  or  as  the  mimic  garden  of  a  child  from  an 
enamelled  meadow.  In  the  former  the  flowers  are  broken 
from  their  stems  and  stuck  into  the  ground  ;  they  are 
beautiful  to  the  eye  and  fragrant  to  the  sense,  but  their 
colours  soon  fade,  and  their  odour   is  transient   as   the 


Shakspeare's   Dramas  49 

smile  of  the  planter ;  —  while  the  meadow  may  be 
visited  again  and  again  with  renewed  dehght  ;  its  beauty 
is  innate  in  the  soil,  and  its  bloom  is  of  the  freshness  of 
nature. 

The  next  ground  of  critical  judgment,  and  point  of  com- 
parison, will  be  as  to  how  far  a  given  poet  has  been  in- 
fluenced by  accidental  circumstances.  As  a  living  poet 
must  surely  write,  not  for  the  ages  past,  but  for  that  in 
which  he  lives,  and  those  which  are  to  follow,  it  is,  on  the 
one  hand,  natural  that  he  should  not  violate,  and  on  the 
other,  necessary  that  he  should  not  depend  on,  the  mere 
manners  and  modes  of  his  day.  See  how  little  does  Shak- 
speare  leave  us  to  regret  that  he  was  born  in  his  particular 
age !  The  great  asra  in  modem  times  was  what  is  called 
the  Restoration  of  Letters  ; — the  ages  preceding  it  are 
called  the  dark  ages  ;  but  it  would  be  more  wise,  perhaps, 
to  call  them  the  ages  in  which  we  were  in  the  dark. 
It  is  usually  overlooked  that  the  supposed  dark  period 
was  not  universal,  but  partial  and  successive,  or  alter- 
nate ;  that  the  dark  age  of  England  was  not  the 
dark  age  of  Italy,  but  that  one  country  was  in  its 
light  and  vigour,  whilst  another  was  in  its  gloom  and 
bondage.  But  no  sooner  had  the  Reformation  sounded 
through  Europe  like  the  blast  of  an  archangel's  trumpet, 
than  from  king  to  peasant  there  arose  an  enthusiasm  for 
knowledge ;  the  discovery  of  a  manuscript  became  the 
subject  of  an  embassy ;  Erasmus  read  by  moonlight, 
because  he  could  not  afford  a  torch,  and  begged  a  penny, 
not  for  the  love  of  charity,  but  for  the  love  of  learning. 
The  three  great  points  of  attention  were  religion,  morals,  and 
taste ;  men  of  genius  as  well  as  men  of  learning,  who  in  this 
age  need  to  be  so  widely  distinguished,  then  alike  became 
copyists  of  the  ancients  ;  and  this,  indeed,  was  the  only 
way  by  which  the  taste  of  mankind  could  be  improved,  or 
their  understandings  informed.  Whilst  Dante  imagined 
himself  a  humble  follower  of  Virgil,  and  Ariosto  of  Homer, 
they  were  both  unconscious  of  that  greater  power  working 
within  them,  which  in  many  points  carried  them  beyond 
their  supposed  originals.  All  great  discoveries  bear  the 
stamp  of  the  age  in  which  they  are  made ; — hence  we  per- 
ceive the  effects  of  the  purer  religion  of  the  moderns,  visible 
for  the  most  part  in  their  lives  ;  and  in  reading  their  works 
we  should  not  content  ourselves  with  the  mere  narratives 


50  Characteristics  of 

of  events  long  since  passed,  but  should  learn  to  apply  their 
maxims  and  conduct  to  ourselves. 

Having  intimated  that  times  and  manners  lend  their 
form  and  pressure  to  genius,  let  me  once  more  draw  a  slight 
parallel  between  the  ancient  and  modern  stage,  the  stages 
of  Greece  and  of  England.  The  Greeks  were  polytheists ; 
their  religion  was  local ;  almost  the  only  object  of  all  their 
knowledge,  art  and  taste,  was  their  gods  ;  and,  accordingly, 
their  productions  were,  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed, 
statuesque,  whilst  those  of  the  moderns  are  picturesque. 
The  Greeks  reared  a  structure,  which  in  its  parts,  and  as  a 
whole,  filled  the  mind  with  the  calm  and  elevated  im- 
pression of  perfect  beauty,  and  symmetrical  proportion. 
The  moderns  also  produced  a  whole,  a  more  striking  whole ; 
but  it  was  by  blending  materials  and  fusing  the  parts 
together.  And  as  the  Pantheon  is  to  York  Minster  or 
Westminster  Abbey,  so  is  Sophocles  compared  with  Shak- 
speare ;  in  the  one  a  completeness,  a  satisfaction,  an 
excellence,  on  which  the  mind  rests  with  complacency; 
in  the  other  a  multitude  of  interlaced  materials,  great  and 
little,  magnificent  and  mean,  accompanied,  indeed,  with 
the  sense  of  a  falling  short  of  perfection,  and  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  so  promising  of  our  social  and  individual  pro- 
gression, that  we  would  not,  if  we  could,  exchange  it  for 
that  repose  of  the  mind  which  dwells  on  the  forms  of  sym- 
metry in  the  acquiescent  admiration  of  grace.  This 
general  characteristic  of  the  ancient  and  modem  drama 
might  be  illustrated  by  a  parallel  of  the  ancient  and  modern 
music ; — the  one  consisting  of  melody  arising  from  a  suc- 
cession only  of  pleasing  sounds, — the  modern  embracing 
harmony  sJzo,  the  result  of  combination  and  the  effect  of  a 
whole. 

I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  again,  that  great  as  was  the 
genius  of  Shakspeare,  his  judgment  was  at  least  equal  to  it. 
Of  this  any  one  will  be  convinced,  who  attentively  con- 
siders those  points  in  which  the  dramas  of  Greece  and 
England  differ,  from  the  dissimilitude  of  circumstances  by 
which  each  was  modified  and  influenced.  The  Greek  stage 
had  its  origin  in  the  ceremonies  of  a  sacrifice,  such  as  of  the 
goat  to  Bacchus,  whom  we  most  erroneously  regard  as 
merely  the  jolly  god  of  wine; — for  among  the  ancients  he 
was  venerable,  as  the  symbol  of  that  power  which  acts 
without  our  consciousness  in  the  vital  energies  of  nature, — 


Shakspeare's   Dramas  51 

the  vinum  mundi, — as  Apollo  was  that  of  the  conscious 
agency  of  our  intellectual  being.  The  heroes  of  old  under 
the  influences  of  this  Bacchic  enthusiasm  performed  more 
than  human  actions ; — hence  tales  of  the  favorite  cham- 
pions soon  passed  into  dialogue.  On  the  Greek  stage  the 
chorus  was  always  before  the  audience ;  the  curtain  was 
never  dropped,  as  we  should  say  ;  and  change  of  place 
being  therefore,  in  general,  impossible,  the  absurd  notion 
of  condemning  it  merely  as  improbable  in  itself  was  never 
entertained  by  any  one.  If  we  can  believe  ourselves  at 
Thebes  in  one  act,  we  may  believe  ourselves  at  Athens  in 
the  next.  If  a  story  lasts  twenty-four  hours  or  twenty-four 
years,  it  is  equally  improbable.  There  seems  to  be  no  just 
boundary  but  what  the  feelings  prescribe.  But  on  the 
Greek  stage  where  the  same  persons  were  perpetually 
before  the  audience,  great  judgment  was  necessary  in 
venturing  on  any  such  change.  The  poets  never,  there- 
fore, attempted  to  impose  on  the  senses  by  bringing  places 
to  men,  but  they  did  bring  men  to  places,  as  in  the  well 
known  instance  in  the  Eumenides,  where  during  an  evident 
retirement  of  the  chorus  from  the  orchestra,  the  scene  is 
changed  to  Athens,  and  Orestes  is  first  introduced  in  the 
temple  of  Minerva,  and  the  chorus  of  Furies  come  in  after- 
wards in  pursuit  of  him.^ 

In  the  Greek  drama  there  were  no  formal  divisions  into 
scenes  and  acts  ;  there  were  no  means,  therefore,  of  allow- 
ing for  the  necessary  lapse  of  time  between  one  part  of  the 
dialogue  and  another,  and  unity  of  time  in  a  strict  sense 
was,  of  course,  impossible.  To  overcome  that  difficulty  of 
accounting  for  time,  which  is  effected  on  the  modern  stage 
by  dropping  a  curtain,  the  judgment  and  great  genius  of 
the  ancients  supplied  music  and  measured  motion,  and 
with  the  lyric  ode  filled  up  the  vacuity.  In  the  story  of  the 
Agamemnon  of  iEschylus,  the  capture  of  Troy  is  supposed 
to  be  announced  by  a  fire  lighted  on  the  Asiatic  shore,  and 
the  transmission  of  the  signal  by  successive  beacons  to 
Mycenae.  The  signal  is  first  seen  at  the  21st  line,  and  the 
herald  from  Troy  itself  enters  at  the  486th,  and  Agamemnon 
himself  at  the  783rd  Une.     But  the  practical  absurdity  of 

1  ^sch.  Eumen.  v.  230-239.  NotandUm  est,  icenam  jam  Athenas  translatam  sic 
institui,  ut  primo  Orestes  solus  conspiciatur  in  templo  Minervce  supplex  ejus  simula- 
crum venerans;  paulo  post  autem  euin  consequantur  Eumenides,  dr»c.  Schutz's  note. 
The  recessions  of  the  chorus  were  termed  fisTavaar da €li.  There  is  another  instance 
in  the  Ajax,  v.  814.     Ed. 


52  Characteristics  of 

this  was  not  felt  by  the  audience,  who,  in  imagination 
stretched  minutes  into  hours,  while  they  listened  to  the 
lofty  narrative  odes  of  the  chorus  which  almost  entirely 
filled  up  the  interspace.  Another  fact  deserves  attention 
here,  namely,  that  regularly  on  the  Greek  stage  a  drama, 
or  acted  story,  consisted  in  reality  of  three  dramas,  called 
together  a  trilogy,  and  performed  consecutively  in  the 
course  of  one  day.  Now  you  may  conceive  a  tragedy  of 
Shakspeare's  as  a  trilogy  connected  in  one  single  repre- 
sentation. Divide  Lear  into  three  parts,  and  each  would 
be  a  play  with  the  ancients  ;  or  take  the  three  .^schylean 
dramas  of  Agamemnon,  and  divide  them  into,  or  call  them, 
as  many  acts,  and  they  together  would  be  one  play.  The 
first  act  would  comprise  the  usurpation  of  ^Egisthus,  and 
the  murder  of  Agamemnon ;  the  second,  the  revenge  of 
Orestes,  and  the  murder  of  his  mother ;  and  the  third,  the 
penance  and  absolution  of  Orestes ; — occupying  a  period  of 
twenty-two  years. 

The  stage  in  Shakspeare's  time  was  a  naked  room  with  a 
blanket  for  a  curtain ;  but  he  made  it  a  field  for  monarchs. 
That  law  of  unity,  which  has  its  foundations,  not  in  the 
factitious  necessity  of  custom,  but  in  nature  itself,  the  unity 
of  feeling,  is  every  where  and  at  all  times  observed  by  Shak- 
speare  in  his  plays.  Read  Romeo  and  Juliet ; — all  is  youth 
and  spring ; — youth  with  its  follies,  its  virtues,  its  precipit- 
ancies ; — spring  with  its  odours,  its  flowers,  and  its  transi- 
ency ;  it  is  one  and  the  same  feeling  that  commences,  goes 
through,  and  ends  the  play.  The  old  men,  the  Capulets 
and  the  Montagues,  are  not  common  old  men  ;  they  have 
an  eagerness,  a  heartiness,  a  vehemence,  the  effect  of  spring ; 
with  Romeo,  his  change  of  passion,  his  sudden  marriage, 
and  his  rash  death,  are  all  the  effects  of  youth  ; — whilst  in 
Juhet  love  has  all  that  is  tender  and  melancholy  in  the 
nightingale,  all  that  is  voluptuous  in  the  rose,  with  what- 
ever is  sweet  in  the  freshness  of  spring  ;  but  it  ends  with 
a  long  deep  sigh  like  the  last  breeze  of  the  Italian  evening. 
This  unity  of  feeling  and  character  pervades  every  drama  of 
Shakspeare. 

It  seems  to  me  that  his  plays  are  distinguished  from 
those  of  aU  other  dramatic  poets  by  the  following  char- 
acteristics : 

I.  Expectation  in  preference  to  surprise.  It  is  like  the 
true  reading  of  the  passage  ; — *  God  said,  Let  there  be  light, 


Shakspeare's  Dramas  53 

and  there  was  light ; ' — not  there  was  light.  As  the  feehng 
with  which  we  startle  at  a  shooting  star  compared  with  that 
of  watching  the  sunrise  at  the  pre-established  moment,  such 
and  so  low  is  surprise  compared  with  expectation. 

2.  Signal  adherence  to  the  great  law  of  nature,  that  all 
opposites  tend  to  attract  and  temper  each  other.  Passion 
in  Shakspeare  generally  displays  libertinism,  but  involves 
morality ;  and  if  there  are  exceptions  to  this,  they  are,  in- 
dependently of  their  intrinsic  value,  all  of  them  indicative 
of  individual  character,  and,  like  the  farewell  admonitions 
of  a  parent,  have  an  end  beyond  the  parental  relation. 
Thus  the  Countess's  beautiful  precepts  to  Bertram,  by 
elevating  her  character,  raise  that  of  Helena  her  favorite, 
and  soften  dov/n  the  point  in  her  which  Shakspeare  does 
not  mean  us  not  to  see,  but  to  see  and  to  forgive,  and  at 
length  to  justify.  And  so  it  is  in  Polonius,  who  is  the  per- 
sonified memory  of  wisdom  no  longer  actually  possessed. 
This  admirable  character  is  always  misrepresented  on  the 
stage.  Shakspeare  never  intended  to  exhibit  him  as  a 
bufioon;  for  although  it  was  natural  that  Hamlet, — a 
young  man  of  fire  and  genius,  detesting  formality,  and  dis- 
liking Polonius  on  political  grounds,  as  imagining  that  he 
had  assisted  his  uncle  in  his  usurpation, — should  express 
himself  satirically, — yet  this  must  not  be  taken  as  exactly 
the  poet's  conception  of  him.  In  Polonius  a  certain  indura- 
tion of  character  had  arisen  from  long  habits  of  business ; 
but  take  his  advice  to  Laertes,  and  Ophelia's  reverence  for 
his  memory,  and  we  shall  see  that  he  was  meant  to  be  repre- 
sented as  a  statesman  somewhat  past  his  faculties, — his 
recollections  of  Ufe  all  full  of  wisdom,  and  showing  a  know- 
ledge of  human  nature,  whilst  what  immediately  takes 
place  before  him,  and  escapes  from  him,  is  indicative  of 
weakness. 

But  as  in  Homer  all  the  deities  are  in  armour,  even 
Venus  ;  so  in  Shakspeare  all  the  characters  are  strong. 
Hence  real  folly  and  dulness  are  made  by  him  the  vehicles 
of  wisdom.  There  is  no  difficulty  for  one  being  a  fool  to 
imitate  a  fool ;  but  to  be,  remain,  and  speak  hke  a  wise  man 
and  a  great  wit,  and  yet  so  as  to  give  a  vivid  representation 
of  a  veritable  fool, — hie  labor,  hoc  opus  est.  A  drunken 
constable  is  not  uncommon,  nor  hard  to  draw  ;  but  see 
and  examine  what  goes  to  make  up  a  Dogberry. 

3.  Keeping  at  all  times  in  the  high  road  of  hfe.     Shak- 


54  Characteristics  of 

speare  has  no  innocent  adulteries,  no  interesting  incests, 
no  virtuous  vice  ; — he  never  renders  that  amiable  which 
religion  and  reason  alike  teach  us  to  detest,  or  clothes  im- 
purity in  the  garb  of  virtue,  like  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
the  Kotzebues  of  the  day.  Shakspeare's  fathers  are  roused 
by  ingratitude,  his  husbands  stung  by  unfaithfulness  ;  in 
him,  in  short,  the  affections  are  wounded  in  those  points  in 
which  all  may,  nay,  must,  feel.'  Let  the  morality  of  Shak- 
speare  be  contrasted  with  that  of  the  writers  of  his  own,  or 
the  succeeding,  age,  or  of  those  of  the  present  day,  who 
boast  their  superiority  in  this  respect.  No  one  can  dispute 
that  the  result  of  such  a  comparison  is  altogether  in  favour 
of  Shakspeare  ; — even  the  letters  of  women  of  high  rank 
in  his  age  were  often  coarser  than  his  writings.  If  he 
occasionally  disgusts  a  keen  sense  of  delicacy,  he  never 
injures  the  mind;  he  neither  excites,  nor  flatters,  passion, 
in  order  to  degrade  the  subject  of  it;  he  does  not  use 
the  faulty  thing  for  a  faulty  purpose,  nor  carries  on 
warfare  against  virtue,  by  causing  wickedness  to  appear 
as  no  wickedness,  through  the  medium  of  a  morbid  sym- 
pathy with  the  unfortunate.  In  Shakspeare  vice  never 
walks  as  in  twilight  ;  nothing  is  purposely  out  of  its  place  ; 
— he  inverts  not  the  order  of  nature  and  propriety, — does 
not  make  every  magistrate  a  drunkard  or  glutton,  nor 
every  poor  man  meek,  humane,  and  temperate  ;  he  has  no 
benevolent  butchers,  nor  any  sentimental  rat-catchers. 

4.  Independence  of  the  ciramatic  interest  on  the  plot. 
The  interest  in  the  plot  is  always  in  fact  on  account  of  the 
characters,  not  vice  versa,  as  in  almost  all  other  writers  ;  the 
plot  is  a  mere  canvass  and  no  more.  Hence  arises  the  true 
justification  of  the  same  stratagem  being  used  in  regard  to 
Benedict  and  Beatrice, — the  vanity  in  each  being  alike. 
Take  away  from  the  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  all  that 
which  is  not  indispensable  to  the  plot,  either  as  having 
little  to  do  with  it,  or,  at  best,  like  Dogberry  and  his  com- 
rades, forced  into  the  service,  when  any  other  less  ingeni- 
ously absurd  watchmen  and  night-constables  would  have 
answered  the  mere  necessities  of  the  action  ; — take  away 
Benedict,  Beatrice,  Dogberry,  and  the  reaction  of  the 
former  on  the  character  of  Hero, — and  what  will  remain  ? 
In  other  writers  the  main  agent  of  the  plot  is  always  the 
prominent  character  ;  in  Shakspeare  it  is  so,  or  is  not  so, 
as  the  character  is  in  itself  calculated,  or  not  calculated,  to 


Shakspeare's  Dramas  55 

form  the  plot.     Don  John  is  the  main-spring  of  the  plot  of 
this  play  ;  but  he  is  merely  shown  and  then  withdrawn. 

5.  Independence  of  the  interest  on  the  story  as  the 
ground-work  of  the  plot.  Hence  Shakspeare  never  took 
the  trouble  of  inventing  stories.  It  was  enough  for  him  to 
select  from  those  that  had  been  already  invented  or  re- 
corded such  as  had  one  or  other,  or  both,  of  two  recom- 
mendations, namely,  suitableness  to  his  particular  purpose, 
and  their  being  parts  of  popular  tradition, — names  of  which 
we  had  often  heard,  and  of  their  fortunes,  and  as  to  which 
all  we  wanted  was,  to  see  the  man  himself.  So  it  is  just  the 
man  himself,  the  Lear,  the  Shylock,  the  Richard,  that 
Shakspeare  makes  us  for  the  first  time  acquainted  with. 
Omit  the  first  scene  in  Lear,  and  yet  every  thing  wiU  re- 
main ;  so  the  first  and  second  scenes  in  the  Merchant  of 
Venice.     Indeed  it  is  universally  true. 

6.  Interfusion  of  the  lyrical — that  which  in  its  very 
essence  is  poetical — not  only  with  the  dramatic,  as  in  the 
plays  of  Metastasio,  where  at  the  end  of  the  scene  comes 
the  aria  as  the  exit  speech  of  the  character, — but  also  in  and 
through  the  dramatic.  Songs  in  Shakspeare  are  intro- 
duced as  songs  only,  just  as  songs  are  in  real  life,  beautifully 
as  some  of  them  are  characteristic  of  the  person  who  has 
sung  or  called  for  them,  as  Desdemona's  'Willow,'  and 
Ophelia's  wild  snatches,  and  the  sweet  caroUings  in  As  You 
Like  It.  But  the  whole  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
is  one  continued  specimen  of  the  dramatized  lyrical.  And 
observe  how  exquisitely  the  dramatic  of  Hotspur ; — 

Marry,  and  I'm  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart ; 
I'd  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry — mew,  &c. 

melts  away  into  the  lyric  of  Mortimer  ; — 

I  understand  thy  looks  :    that  pretty  Welsh 

Which  thou  pourest  down  from  these  swelling  heavens, 

I  am  too  perfect  in,  &c. 

Henry  IV.  part  i.  act  hi.  sc.  i. 

7.  The  characters  of  the  dramatis  personce,  like  those 
in  real  hfe,  are  to  be  inferred  by  the  reader  ; — they  are 
not  told  to  him.  And  it  is  well  worth  remarking  that 
Shakspeare's  characters,  like  those  in  real  life,  are  very 
commonly  misunderstood,  and  almost  always  understood 
by  different  persons  in  different  ways.     The  causes  are 


56  Outline  of  an  Introductory 

the  same  in  either  case.  If  you  take  only  what  the  friends 
of  the  character  say,  you  may  be  deceived,  and  still  more 
so,  if  that  which  his  enemies  say  ;  nay,  even  the  character 
himself  sees  himself  through  the  medium  of  his  character, 
and  not  exactly  as  he  is.  Take  all  together,  not  omitting 
a  shrewd  hint  from  the  clown  or  the  fool,  and  perhaps  your 
impression  will  be  right ;  and  you  may  know  whether  you 
have  in  fact  discovered  the  poet's  own  idea,  by  all  the 
speeches  receiving  light  from  it,  and  attesting  its  reality 
by  reflecting  it. 

Lastly,  in  Shakspeare  the  heterogeneous  is  united,  as  it 
is  in  nature.  You  must  not  suppose  a  pressure  or  passion 
always  acting  on  or  in  the  character  ! — passion  in  Shak- 
speare is  that  by  which  the  individual  is  distinguished 
from  others,  not  that  which  makes  a  different  kind  of  him. 
Shakspeare  followed  the  main  march  of  the  human  affec- 
tions. He  entered  into  no  analysis  of  the  passions  or  faiths 
of  men,  but  assured  himself  that  such  and  such  passions 
and  faiths  were  grounded  in  our  common  nature,  and  not 
in  the  mere  accidents  of  ignorance  or  disease.  This  is  an 
important  consideration,  and  constitutes  our  Shakspeare 
the  morning  star,  the  guide  and  the  pioneer,  of  true 
philosophy. 


Outline  of 

AN    INTRODUCTORY    LECTURE    UPON 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Of  that  species  of  writing  termed  tragi-comedy,  much  has 
been  produced  and  doomed  to  the  shelf.  Shakspeare's 
comic  are  continually  re-acting  upon  his  tragic  characters. 
Lear,  wandering  amidst  the  tempest,  has  all  his  feelings 
of  distress  increased  by  the  overflowings  of  the  wild  wit 
of  the  Fool,  as  vinegar  poured  upon  wounds  exacerbates 
their  pain.  Thus  even  his  comic  humour  tends  to  the 
developement  of  tragic  passion. 

The  next  characteristic  of  Shakspeare  is  his  keeping  at 
all  times  in  the  high  road  of  life,  &c.^  Another  evidence 
of  his  exquisite  judgment  is,  that  he  seizes  hold  of  popular 

J  See  the  foregoing  Essay.     S.  C. 


Lecture  upon  Shakspeare  57 

tales  ;  Lear  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice  were  popular 
tales,  but  are  so  excellently  managed,  that  both  are  the 
representations  of  men  in  all  countries  and  of  all  times. 

His  dramas  do  not  arise  absolutely  out  of  some  one  ex- 
traordinary circumstance,  the  scenes  may  stand  independ- 
ently of  any  such  one  connecting  incident,  as  faithful 
representations  of  men  and  manners.  In  his  mode  of 
drawing  characters  there  are  no  pompous  descriptions  of 
a  man  by  himself  ;  his  character  is  to  be  drawn,  as  in  real 
life,  from  the  whole  course  of  the  play,  or  out  of  the  mouths 
of  his  enemies  or  friends.  This  may  be  exemplified  in 
Polonius,  whose  character  has  been  often  misrepresented. 
Shakspeare  never  intended  him  for  a  buffoon,  &c.^ 

Another  excellence  of  Shakspeare  in  which  no  writer 
equals  him,  is  in  the  language  of  nature.  So  correct  is 
it,  that  we  can  see  ourselves  in  every  page.  The  style  and 
manner  have  also  that  felicity,  that  not  a  sentence  can 
be  read,  without  its  being  discovered  if  it  is  Shaksperian. 
In  observation  of  living  characters — of  landlords  and  pos- 
tilions Fielding  has  great  excellence ;  but  in  drawing 
from  his  own  heart,  and  depicting  that  species  of  character, 
which  no  observation  could  teach,  he  failed  in  comparison 
with  Richardson,  who  perpetually  places  himself,  as  it 
were,  in  a  day-dream.  Shakspeare  excels  in  both.  Witness 
the  accuracy  of  character  in  Juliet's  Name  ;  while  for  the 
great  characters  of  lago,  Othello,  Hamlet,  Richard  III., 
to  which  he  could  never  have  seen  any  thing  similar,  he 
seems  invariably  to  have  asked  himself.  How  should  I  act 
or  speak  in  such  circumstances  ?  His  comic  characters  are 
also  peculiar.  A  drunken  constable  was  not  uncommon  ; 
but  he  makes  folly  a  vehicle  for  wit,  as  in  Dogberry  :  every 
thing  is  a  sub-stratum  on  which  his  genius  can  erect  the 
mightiest  superstructure. 

To  distinguish  that  which  is  legitimate  in  Shakspeare 
from  what  does  not  belong  to  him,  we  must  observe  his 
varied  images  symbolical  of  novel  truth,  thrusting  by, 
and  seeming  to  trip  up  each  other,  from  an  impetuosity  of 
thought,  producing  a  flowing  metre  and  seldom  closing 
with  the  line.  In  Pericles,  a  play  written  fifty  years  before, 
but  altered  by  Shakspeare,  his  additions  may  be  recognised 

1  See  the  Notes  on  Hamlet,  which  contain  the  same  general  view  of  the  character  of 
Polonius.  As  there  are  a  few  additional  hints  in  the  present  report,  I  have  thought  it 
worth  printing.     S.  C. 


58  Outline  of  an  Introductory  Lecture 

to  half  a  line,  from  the  metre,  which  has  the  same  perfec- 
tion in  the  flowing  continuity  of  interchangeable  metrical 
pauses  in  his  earliest  plays,  as  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost.^ 
Lastly  contrast  his  morality  with  the  writers  of  his  own 
or  of  the  succeeding  age,  &c.2  If  a  man  speak  injuriously 
of  our  friend,  our  vindication  of  him  is  naturally  warm. 
Shakspeare  has  been  accused  of  profaneness.  I  for  my 
part  have  acquired  from  perusal  of  him,  a  habit  of  looking 
into  my  own  heart,  and  am  confident  that  Shakspeare  is 
an  author  of  all  others  the  most  calculated  to  make  his 
readers  better  as  well  as  wiser. 


Shakspeare,  possessed  of  wit,  humour,  fancy  and  imagi- 
nation, built  up  an  outward  world  from  the  stores  within 
his  mind,  as  the  bee  finds  a  hive  ^  from  a  thousand  sweets 
gathered  from  a  thousand  flowers.  He  was  not  only  a 
great  poet,  but  a  great  philosopher.  Richard  IIL,  lago,  and 
Falstaff  are  men  who  reverse  the  order  of  things,  who  place 
intellect  at  the  head,  whereas  it  ought  to  follow,  Hke  Geo- 
metry, to  prove  and  to  confirm.  No  man, either  hero  or  saint, 
ever  acted  from  an  unmixed  motive  ;  for  let  him  do  what 
he  will  rightly,  still  Conscience  whispers  "it  is  your  duty." 
Richard,  laughing  at  conscience  and  sneering  at  religion, 
felt  a  confidence  in  his  intellect,  which  urged  him  to  commit 
the  most  horrid  crimes,  because  he  felt  himself,  although 
inferior  in  form  and  shape,  superior  to  those  around  him  ; 
he  felt  he  possessed  a  power,  which  they  had  not.  lago, 
on  the  same  principle,  conscious  of  superior  intellect,  gave 
scope  to  his  envy,  and  hesitated  not  to  ruin  a  gallant,  open 
and  generous  friend  in  the  moment  of  felicity,  because  he 
was  not  promoted  as  he  expected.  Othello  was  superior 
in  place,  but  lago  felt  him  to  be  inferior  in  intellect,  and 
unrestrained  by  conscience,  trampled  upon  him. — Falstaff, 
not  a  degraded  man  of  genius,  like  Burns,  but  a  man  of 
degraded  genius,  with  the  same  consciousness  of  superiority 
to  his  companions,  fastened  himself  on  a  young  Prince, 

1  Lamb,  comparing  Fletcher  with  Shakspeare,  writes  thus  :  "  Fletcher's  ideas  moved 
slow  ;  his  versification,  though  sweet,  is  tedious,  it  stops  at  ever}'  turn  ;  he  lays  line 
upon  line,  making  up  one  after  the  other,  adding  image  to  image  so  deliberately,  that  we 
see  their  junctures.  Shakspeare  mingles  every  thing,  runs  line  into  line,  embarrasses 
sentences  and  metaphors  ;  before  one  idea  has  burst  its  shell,  another  is  hatched  and 
clamorous  for  disclosure."     Characters  of  Dram.  Writers,  contetfip.  with  Shakspea.re. 

~  See  the  foregoing  Essay. 

3  There  must  have  been  some  mistake  in  the  report  of  this  sentence,  unless  there  was 
a  momentary  lapse  of  mind  on  the  part  of  the  lecturer. 


Order  of  Shakspeare's  Plays        59 

to  prove  how  much  his  influence  on  an  heir  apparent 
would  exceed  that  of  a  statesman.  With  this  view  he 
hesitated  not  to  adopt  the  most  contemptible  of  all  char- 
acters, that  of  an  open  and  professed  liar  :  even  his  sen- 
suality was  subservient  to  his  intellect ;  for  he  appeared 
to  drink  sack,  that  he  might  have  occasion  to  show  off  his 
wit.  One  thing,  however,  worthy  of  observation,  is  the 
perpetual  contrast  of  labour  in  Falstaff  to  produce  wit, 
with  the  ease  with  which  Prince  Henry  parries  his  shafts  ; 
and  the  final  contempt  which  such  a  character  deserves 
and  receives  from  the  young  king,  when  Falstaff  exhibits 
the  struggle  of  inward  determination  with  an  outward 
show  of  humility. 


ORDER    OF    SHAKSPEARE'S    PLAYS. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  to  arrange  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare,  each  according  to  its  priority  in  time,  by 
proofs  derived  from  external  documents.  How  unsuccess- 
ful these  attempts  have  been  might  easily  be  shewn,  not 
only  from  the  widel}^  different  results  arrived  at  by  men,  all 
deeply  versed  in  the  black-letter  books,  old  plays,  pam- 
phlets, manuscript  records  and  catalogues  of  that  age,  but 
also  from  the  fallacious  and  unsatisfactory  nature  of  the 
facts  and  assumptions  on  which  the  evidence  rests.  In  that 
age,  when  the  press  was  chiefly  occupied  with  controversial 
or  practical  divinity, — when  the  law,  the  church  and  the 
state  engrossed  all  honour  and  respectability, — when  a 
degree  of  disgrace,  levior  qucedam  infamicB  macula,  was 
attached  to  the  publication  of  poetry,  and  even  to  have 
sported  with  the  Muse,  as  a  private  relaxation,  was  sup- 
posed to  be — a  venial  fault,  indeed,  yet  —  something 
beneath  the  gravity  of  a  wise  man, — when  the  professed 
poets  were  so  poor,  that  the  very  expenses  of  the  press 
demanded  the  Uberality  of  some  wealthy  individual,  so  that 
two  thirds  of  Spenser's  poetic  works,  and  those  most  highly 
praised  by  his  learned  admirers  and  friends,  remained  for 
many  years  in  manuscript,  and  in  manuscript  perished, — 
when  the  amateurs  of  the  stage  were  comparatively  few, 
and  therefore  for  the  greater  part  more  or  less  known  to 
each  other, — when  we  know  that  the  plays  of  Shakspeare, 


6o        Order  of  Shakspeare's  Plays 

both  during  and  after  his  Ufe,  were  the  property  of  the  stage, 
and  pubUshed  by  the  players,  doubtless  according  to  their 
notions  of  acceptability  with  the  visitants  of  the  theatre, — ■ 
in  such  an  age,  and  under  such  circumstances,  can  an 
allusion  or  reference  to  any  drama  or  poem  in  the  publica- 
tion of  a  contemporary  be  received  as  conclusive  evidence, 
that  such  drama  or  poem  had  at  that  time  been  published  ? 
Or,  further,  can  the  priority  of  publication  itself  prove  any 
thing  in  favour  of  actually  prior  composition  ? 

We  are  tolerably  certain,  indeed,  that  the  Venus  and 
Adonis,  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece,  were  his  two  earliest 
poems,  and  though  not  printed  until  1593,  in  the  twenty- 
ninth  year  of  his  age,  yet  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  they 
had  remained  by  him  in  manuscript  many  years.  For  Mr. 
Malone  has  made  it  highly  probable,  that  he  had  com- 
menced a  writer  for  the  stage  in  1591,  when  he  was  twenty- 
seven  years  old,  and  Shakspeare  himself  assures  us  that  the 
Venus  and  Adonis  was  the  first  heir  of  his  invention.^ 

Baffled,  then,  in  the  attempt  to  derive  any  satisfaction 
from  outward  documents,  we  may  easily  stand  excused  if 
we  turn  our  researches  towards  the  internal  evidences 
furnished  by  the  writings  themselves,  with  no  other 
positive  data  than  the  known  facts,  that  the  Venus  and 
Adonis  was  printed  in  1593,  the  Rape  of  Lucrece  in  1594, 
and  that  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  had  appeared  in  1595, — 
and  with  no  other  presumptions  than  that  the  poems,  his 
very  first  productions,  were  written  many  years  earlier, — 
(for  who  can  believe  that  Shakspeare  could  have  remained 
to  his  twenty-ninth  or  thirtieth  year  without  attempting 
poetic  composition  of  any  kind  ?) — and  that  between  these 
and  Romeo  and  Juliet  there  had  intervened  one  or  two 
other  dramas,  or  the  chief  materials,  at  least,  of  them, 
although  they  may  very  possibly  have  appeared  after  the 
success  of  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  some  other  circum- 
stances had  given  the  poet  an  authority  with  the  pro- 
prietors, and  created  a  prepossession  in  his  favour  with  the 
theatrical  audiences. 

1  But  if  the  first  heir  of  my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had  so  noble 
a  godfather,  &c. 

Dedication  of  the  V.  and  A.  to  Lord  Southampton. 


Order  of  Shakspeare's  Plays        6i 

CLASSIFICATION    ATTEMPTED,    l802. 

First  Epoch. 

The  London  Prodigal. 

Cromwell. 

Henry  VI.,  three  parts,  first  edition. 

The  old  King  John. 

Edward  III. 

The  old  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Pericles. 
AH  these  are  transition-works,  Uehergangswerke  ;  not  his, 
yet  of  him. 

Second  Epoch. 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well ; — but  afterwards  worked 

up  afresh  (umgearbeitet) ,  especially  Parolles. 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ;    a  sketch. 
Romeo  and  Juliet ;    first  draft  of  it. 

Third  Epoch 

rises  into  the  full,  although  youthful,  Shakspeare ;   it  was 
the  negative  period  of  his  perfection. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

Twelfth  Night. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Richard  II. 

Henry  IV.  and  V. 

Henry  VIII.  ;    Gelegenheitsgedicht. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  as  at  present. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Fourth  Epoch. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ;  first  edition. 
Henry  VI.  ;   rifacimento. 

Fifth  Epoch. 

The  period  of  beauty  was  now  past ;  and  that  of  dimrrjs 
and  grandeur  succeeds. 

Lear. 

Macbeth. 


62        Order  of  Shakspeare's  Plays 

Hamlet. 

Timon  of  Athens  ;   an  after  vibration  of  Hamlet, 

Troilus  and  Cressida  ;    Uebergang  in  die  Ironie, 

The  Roman  Plays. 

King  John,  as  at  present. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.^  ... 

Taming  of  the  Shrew.        j  ^^^^<^^^^^^^^' 

Measure  for  Measure. 

OtheUo. 

Tempest. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Cymbeline. 

CLASSIFICATION   ATTEMPTED,    181O. 

Shakspeare's  earliest  dramas  I  take  to  be. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost. 
All's  Well  That  Ends  WelL 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Romeo  and  Juliet, 

In  the  second  class  I  reckon 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Tempest. 
Twelfth  Night. 

In  the  third,  as  indicating  a  greater  energy — not  merely 
of  poetry,  but — of  all  the  world  of  thought,  yet  stiU  \vith 
some  of  the  grov/ing  pains,  and  the  awkwardness  of  growth, 
I  place 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Cjnnbeline. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

In  the  fourth,  I  place  the  plays  containing  the  greatest 
characters  ; 

Macbeth. 
Lear. 
Hamlet. 
OtheUo. 

And  lastly,  the  historic  dramas,  in  order  to  be  able  to  show 


Order  of  Shakspeare's  Plays        63 

my  reasons  for  rejecting  some  whole  plays,  and  very  many 
scenes  in  others. 

CLASSIFICATION   ATTEMPTED,    1819. 

I  think  Shakspeare's  earliest  dramatic  attempt — ^perhaps 
even  prior  in  conception  to  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and 
planned  before  he  left  Stratford — was  Love's  Labour's 
Lost.  Shortly  afterwards  I  suppose  Pericles  and  certain 
scenes  in  Jeronymo  to  have  been  produced  ;  and  in  the 
same  epoch,  I  place  the  Winter's  Tale  and  Cymbeline, 
differing  from  the  Pericles  by  the  entire  rifacimento  of  it, 
when  Shakspeare's  celebrity  as  poet,  and  his  interest,  no 
less  than  his  influence  as  manager,  enabled  him  to  bring 
forward  the  laid  by  labours  of  his  youth.  The  example 
of  Titus  Andronicus,  which,  as  well  as  Jeronymo,  was 
most  popular  in  Shakspeare's  first  epoch,  had  led  the 
young  dramatist  to  the  lawless  mixture  of  dates  and 
manners.  In  this  same  epoch  I  should  place  the  Comedy 
of  Errors,  remarkable  as  being  the  only  specimen  of 
poetical  farce  in  our  language,  that  is,  intentionally  such  ; 
so  that  all  the  distinct  kinds  of  drama,  which  might  be 
educed  a  priori,  have  their  representatives  in  Shakspeare's 
works.  I  say  intentionally  such  ;  for  many  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  plays,  and  the  greater  part  of  Ben  Jonson's 
comedies  are  farce-plots.  I  add  All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,  originally  intended  as  the  counterpart  of  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet. 


Second  Epoch. 
Richard  IL 
King  John. 

Henry  VL, — rifacimento  only. 
Richard  in. 

Third  Epoch. 
Henry  IV. 
Henry  V. 

Merry  Wives  of  Wmdsor. 

Henry  VIII., — a  sort  of  historical  masque,  or  show 
play. 


64  Notes  on  the  Tempest 

Fourth  Epoch 

gives  all  the  graces  and  facilities  of  a  genius  in  full  posses- 
sion and  habitual  exercise  of  power,  and  peculiarly  of  the 
feminine,  the  lady's  character. 

Tempest. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Twelfth  Night. 
and,  finally  at  its  very  point  of  culmination, — 

Lear. 

Hamlet. 

Macbeth. 

OtheUo. 

Last  Epoch, 

when  the  energies  of  intellect  in  the  cycle  of  genius  were, 
though  in  a  rich  and  more  potentiated  form,  becoming 
predominant  over  passion  and  creative  self -manifestation. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Coriolanus. 

Julius  Caesar. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Merciful,   wonder-making  Heaven  !    what  a  man  was 
this  Shakspeare  !     Myriad-minded,  indeed,  he  was. 


NOTES    ON    THE    TEMPEST. 

There  is  a  sort  of  improbability  with  which  we  are  shocked 
in  dramatic  representation,  not  less  than  in  a  narrative  of 
real  life.  Consequently,  there  must  be  rules  respecting  it ; 
and  as  rules  are  nothing  but  means  to  an  end  previously 
ascertained — (inattention  to  which  simple  truth  has  been 
the  occasion  of  all  the  pedantry  of  the  French  school), — 
we  must  first  determine  what  the  immediate  end  or  object 
of  the  drama  is.  And  here,  as  I  have  previously  remarked, 
I  find  two  extremes  of  critical  decision  ; — the  French, 
which  evidently  presupposes  that  a  perfect  delusion  is  to 
be  aimed  at, — an  opinion  which  needs  no  fresh  confutation  ; 
and  the  exact  opposite  to  it,   brought  forward  by  Dr. 


Notes  on  the  Tempest  65 

Johnson,  who  supposes  the  auditors  throughout  in  the  full 
reflective  knowledge  of  the  contrary.  In  evincing  the 
impossibility  of  delusion,  he  makes  no  sufficient  allowance 
for  an  intermediate  state,  which  I  have  before  distin- 
guished by  the  term,  illusion,  and  have  attempted  to 
illustrate  its  quality  and  character  by  reference  to  our 
mental  state,  when  dreaming.  In  both  cases  we  simply 
do  not  judge  the  imagery  to  be  unreal ;  there  is  a  negative 
reality,  and  no  more.  Whatever,  therefore,  tends  to 
prevent  the  mind  from  placing  itself,  or  being  placed, 
gradually  in  that  state  in  which  the  images  have  such 
negative  realitj^  for  the  auditor,  destroys  this  illusion,  and 
is  dramatically  improbable. 

Now  the  production  of  this  effect — a  sense  of  improba- 
bility— will  depend  on  the  degree  of  excitement  in  which 
the  mind  is  supposed  to  be.  Many  things  would  be  intoler- 
able in  the  first  scene  of  a  play,  that  would  not  at  all 
interrupt  our  enjoyment  in  the  height  of  the  interest, 
when  the  narrow  cockpit  may  be  made  to  hold 

The  vasty  field  of  France,  or  we  may  cram 
Within  its  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt. 

Again,  on  the  other  hand,  many  obvious  improbabilities 
will  be  endured,  as  belonging  to  the  groundwork  of  the 
story  rather  than  to  the  drama  itself,  in  the  first  scenes, 
which  would  disturb  or  disentrance  us  from  all  illusion  in 
the  acme  of  our  excitement ;  as  for  instance,  Lear's 
division  of  his  kingdom,  and  the  banishment  of  Cordelia. 
But,  although  the  other  excellences  of  the  drama  besides 
this  dramatic  probability,  as  unity  of  interest,  with 
distinctness  and  subordination  of  the  characters,  and 
appropriateness  of  style,  are  all,  so  far  as  they  tend  to 
increase  the  inward  excitement,  means  towards  accom- 
plishing the  chief  end,  that  of  producing  and  supporting 
this  willing  illusion, — yet  they  do  not  on  that  account 
cease  to  be  ends  themselves  ;  and  we  must  remember  that, 
as  such,  they  carry  their  own  justification  with  them,  as 
long  as  they  do  not  contravene  or  interrupt  the  total 
illusion.  It  is  not  even  always,  or  of  necessity,  an  objection 
to  them,  that  they  prevent  the  illusion  from  rising  to  as 
great  a  height  as  it  might  otherwise  have  attained  ; — it  is 
enough  that  they  are  simply  compatible  with  as  high  a 
c 


66  Notes  on  the  Tempest 

degree  of  it  as  is  requisite  for  the  purpose.  Nay,  upon 
particular  occasions,  a  palpable  improbability  may  be 
hazarded  by  a  great  genius  for  the  express  purpose  of 
keeping  down  the  interest  of  a  merely  instrumental  scene, 
which  would  otherwise  make  too  great  an  impression  for 
the  harmony  of  the  entire  illusion.  Had  the  panorama 
been  invented  in  the  time  of  Pope  Leo  X.,  Raffael  would 
still,  I  doubt  not,  have  smiled  in  contempt  at  the  regret, 
that  the  broom-twigs  and  scrubby  bushes  at  the  back  of 
some  of  his  grand  pictures  were  not  as  probable  trees  as 
those  in  the  exhibition. 

The  Tempest  is  a  specimen  of  the  purely  romantic 
drama,  in  which  the  interest  is  not  historical,  or  depen- 
dent upon  fidelity  of  portraiture,  or  the  natural  connexion 
of  events, — but  is  a  birth  of  the  imagination,  and  rests 
only  on  the  coaptation  and  union  of  the  elements  granted 
to,  or  assumed  by,  the  poet.  It  is  a  species  of  drama 
which  owes  no  allegiance  to  time  or  space,  and  in  which, 
therefore,  errors  of  chronology  and  geography — no  mortal 
sins  in  any  species — are  venial  faults,  and  count  for 
nothing.  It  addresses  itself  entirely  to  the  imaginative 
faculty  ;  and  although  the  illusion  may  be  assisted  by  the 
effect  on  the  senses  of  the  complicated  scenery  and  decora- 
tions of  modern  times,  yet  this  sort  of  assistance  is  danger- 
ous. For  the  principal  and  only  genuine  excitement  ought 
to  come  from  within, — from  the  moved  and  sympathetic 
imagination  ;  whereas,  where  so  much  is  addressed  to  the 
mere  external  senses  of  seeing  and  hearing,  the  spiritual 
vision  is  apt  to  languish,  and  the  attraction  from  without 
will  withdraw  the  mind  from  the  proper  and  only  legitimate 
interest  which  is  intended  to  spring  from  within. 

The  romance  opens  with  a  busy  scene  admirably  appro- 
priate to  the  kind  of  drama,  and  giving,  as  it  were,  the 
key-note  to  the  whole  harmony.  It  prepares  and  initiates 
the  excitement  required  for  the  entire  piece,  and  yet  does 
not  demand  any  thing  from  the  spectators,  which  their 
previous  habits  had  not  fitted  them  to  understand.  It  is 
the  bustle  of  a  tempest,  from  which  the  real  horrors  are 
abstracted  ; — therefore  it  is  poetical,  though  not  in  strict- 
ness natural — (the  distinction  to  which  I  have  so  often 
alluded) — and  is  purposely  restrained  from  concentering 
the  interest  on  itself,  but  used  merely  as  an  induction  or 
tuning  for  what  is  to  foUow. 


Notes  on  the  Tempest  67 

In  the  second  scene,  Prospero's  speeches,  till  the  entrance 
of  Ariel,  contain  the  finest  example,  I  remember,  of  retro- 
spective narration  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  immediate 
interest,  and  putting  the  audience  in  possession  of  all  the 
information  necessary  for  the  understanding  of  the  plot.^ 
Observe,  too,  the  perfect  probability  of  the  moment  chosen 
by  Prospero  (the  very  Shakspeare  himself,  as  it  were,  of 
the  tempest)  to  open  out  the  truth  to  his  daughter,  his  own 
romantic  bearing,  and  how  completely  any  thing  that  might 
have  been  disagreeable  to  us  in  the  magician,  is  reconciled 
and  shaded  in  the  humanity  and  natural  feelings  of  the 
father.  In  the  very  first  speech  of  Miranda  the  simplicity 
and  tenderness  of  her  character  are  at  once  laid  open  ; — 
it  would  have  been  lost  in  direct  contact  with  the  agitation 
of  the  first  scene.  The  opinion  once  prevailed,  but,  happily, 
is  now  abandoned,  that  Fletcher  alone  wrote  for  women  ; — 
the  truth  is,  that  with  very  few,  and  those  partial,  excep- 
tions, the  female  characters  in  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  are,  when  of  the  light  kind,  not  decent ;  when 
heroic,  complete  viragos.  But  in  Shakspeare  all  the 
elements  of  womanhood  are  holy,  and  there  is  the  sweet, 
yet  dignified  feehng  of  all  that  continuates  society,  as  sense 
of  ancestry  and  of  sex,  with  a  purity  unassailable  by 
sophistry,  because  it  rests  not  in  the  analytic  processes, 
but  in  that  same  equipoise  of  the  faculties,  during  which 
the  feelings  are  representative  of  all  past  experience, — not 
of  the  individual  only,  but  of  all  those  by  whom  she  has 
been  educated,  and  their  predecessors  even  up  to  the  first 
mother  that  lived.  Shakspeare  saw  that  the  want  of  pro- 
minence, which  Pope  notices  for  sarcasm,  was  the  blessed 
beauty  of  the  woman's  character,  and  knew  that  it  arose  not 
from  any  deficiency,  but  from  the  more  exquisite  harmony 
of  aU  the  parts  of  the  moral  being  constituting  one  living 
total  of  head  and  heart.  He  has  drawn  it,  indeed,  in  all 
its  distinctive  energies  of  faith,  patience,  constancy,  forti- 

1  Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  th'  event ;  then  tell  me, 

If  th\^  might  be  a  brother. 
Mira.  I  should  sin, 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother  ; 
Good  wombs  have  bore  bad  sons. 
Pro.  Now  the  condition,  &c. 

Theobald   has  a  note  upon   this  passage,   and  suggests   that   Shakspeare   placed  it 
thus  :— 

Pro.  Good  wombs  have  bore  bad  sons,— 
Now  the  condition. 
Mr.  Coleridge  writes  in  the  margin:    'I  cannot  but  believe  that  Theobald   is  quite 
right,'— ^<^.  ^ 


68  Notes  on  the  Tempest 

tude, — shown  in  all  of  them  as  follov/ing  the  heart,  which 
gives  its  results  by  a  nice  tact  and  happy  intuition,  without 
the  intervention  of  the  discursive  faculty,  sees  aU  things  in 
and  by  the  hght  of  the  affections,  and  errs,  if  it  ever  err,  in 
the  exaggerations  of  love  alone.  In  all  the  Shakspearian 
women  there  is  essentially  the  same  foundation  and  prin- 
ciple ;  the  distinct  individuahty  and  variety  are  merely 
the  result  of  the  modification  of  circumstances,  whether  in 
Miranda  the  maiden,  in  Imogen  the  wife,  or  in  Katherine 
the  queen. 

But  to  return.  The  appearance  and  characters  of  the 
super  or  ultra-natural  servants  are  finely  contrasted.  Ariel 
has  in  every  thing  the  airy  tint  which  gives  the  name ;  and 
it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Miranda  is  never  directly 
brought  into  comparison  with  Ariel,  lest  the  natural  and 
human  of  the  one  and  the  supernatural  of  the  other  should 
tend  to  neutralize  each  other  ;  Caliban,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  all  earth,  all  condensed  and  gross  in  feelings  and  images  ; 
he  has  the  dawnings  of  understanding  without  reason  or 
the  moral  sense,  and  in  him,  as  in  some  brute  animals,  this 
advance  to  the  intellectual  faculties,  without  the  moral 
sense,  is  marked  by  the  appearance  of  vice.  For  it  is  in 
the  primacy  of  the  moral  being  only  that  man  is  truly 
human  ;  in  his  intellectual  powers  he  is  certainly  ap- 
proached by  the  brutes,  and,  man's  whole  system  duly  con- 
sidered, those  powers  cannot  be  considered  other  than 
means  to  an  end,  that  is,  to  morality. 

In  this  scene,  as  it  proceeds,  is  displayed  the  impression 
made  by  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  on  each  other  ;  it  is  love 
at  first  sight ; — 

at  the  first  sight 
They  have  chang'd  eyes  : — 

and  it  appears  to  me,  that  in  all  cases  of  real  love,  it  is  at 
one  moment  that  it  takes  place.  That  moment  may  have 
been  prepared  by  previous  esteem,  admiration,  or  even 
affection, — yet  love  seems  to  require  a  momentary  act  of 
vohtion,  by  which  a  tacit  bond  of  devotion  is  imposed, — 
a  bond  not  to  be  thereafter  broken  without  violating  what 
should  be  sacred  in  our  nature.  How  finely  is  the  true 
Shakspearian  scene  contrasted  with  Dryden's  vulgar 
alteration  of  it  in  which  a  mere  ludicrous  psychological 
experiment,  as  it  were,  is  tried — displaying  nothing  but 


Notes  on  the  Tempest  69 

indelicacy  without  passion.  Prospero's  interruption  of 
the  courtship  has  often  seemed  to  me  to  have  no  sufficient 
motive  ;   still  his  alleged  reason — 

lest  too  light  winning 
Make  the  prize  light — 

is  enough  for  the  ethereal  connections  of  the  romantic 
imagination,  although  it  would  not  be  so  for  the  historical.^ 
The  whole  courting  scene,  indeed,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
third  act,  between  the  lovers,  is  a  masterpiece  ;  and  the 
first  dawn  of  disobedience  in  the  mind  of  Miranda  to  the 
command  of  her  father  is  very  finely  drawn,  so  as  to  seem 
the  working  of  the  Scriptural  command  Thou  shall  leave 
father  and  mother,  Sec.  O  !  with  what  exquisite  purity  this 
scene  is  conceived  and  executed  !  Shakspeare  may  some- 
times be  gross,  but  I  boldly  say  that  he  is  always  moral  and 
modest.  Alas  !  in  this  our  day  decency  of  manners  is 
preserved  at  the  expense  of  morality  of  heart,  and  delicacies 
for  vice  are  allowed,  whilst  grossness  against  it  is  hypo- 
critically, or  at  least  morbidly,  condemned. 

In  this  play  are  admirably  sketched  the  vices  generally 
accompanying  a  low  degree  of  civilization  ;  and  in  the  first 
scene  of  the  second  act  Shakspeare  has,  as  in  many  other 
places,  shown  the  tendency  in  bad  men  to  indulge  in  scorn 
and  contemptuous  expressions,  as  a  mode  of  getting  rid  of 
their  own  uneasy  feelings  of  inferiority  to  the  good,  and 
also,  by  making  the  good  ridiculous,  of  rendering  the 
transition  of  others  to  wickedness  easy.  Shakspeare  never 
puts  habitual  scorn  into  the  mouths  of  other  than  bad  men, 
as  here  in  the  instances  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian.  The 
scene  of  the  intended  assassination  of  Alonzo  and  Gonzalo 
is  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  scene  between  Macbeth  and 
his  lady,  only  pitched  in  a  lower  key  throughout,  as  de- 
signed to  be  frustrated  and  concealed,  and  exhibiting  the 
same  profound  management  in  the  manner  of  familiarizing 
a  mind,  not  immediately  recipient,  to  the  suggestion  of 
guilt,  by  associating  the  proposed  crime  with  something 
ludicrous  or  out  of  place, — something  not  habitually  matter 
of  reverence.     By  this  kind  of  sophistry  the  imagination 

1  Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  Lords,  the  Duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 
Theobald  remarks  that  no  body  was  lost  in  the  wreck  ;  and  yet  that  no  such  character 
is  introduced  in  the  fable,  as  the  Duke  of  Milan's  son.     Mr.  C.   notes  :    '  Must  not 
Ferdinand  have  believed  he  was  lost  in  the  fleet  that  the  tempest  scattered  ?  '—Ed. 


yo  Notes  on  the  Tempest 

and  fancy  are  first  bribed  to  contemplate  the  suggested 
act,  and  at  length  to  become  acquainted  with  it.  Observe 
how  the  effect  of  this  scene  is  heightened  by  contrast  with 
another  counterpoint  of  it  in  low  life, — that  between  the 
conspirators  Stephano,  Caliban,  and  Trinculo  in  the  second 
scene  of  the  third  act,  in  which  there  are  the  same  essential 
characteristics. 

In  this  play  and  in  this  scene  of  it  are  also  shown  the 
springs  of  the  vulgar  in  politics, — of  that  kind  of  politics 
which  is  inwoven  with  human  nature.  In  his  treatment 
of  this  subject,  wherever  it  occurs,  Shakspeare  is  quite 
peculiar.  In  other  writers  we  find  the  particular  opinions 
of  the  individual ;  in  Massinger  it  is  rank  republicanism  ; 
in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  even  jure  divino  principles  are 
carried  to  excess  ; — but  Shakspeare  never  promulgates  any 
party  tenets.  He  is  always  the  philosopher  and  the 
moralist,  but  at  the  same  time  with  a  profound  veneration 
for  all  the  established  institutions  of  society,  and  for  those 
classes  which  form  the  permanent  elements  of  the  state — 
especially  never  introducing  a  professional  character,  as 
such,  otherwise  than  as  respectable.  If  he  must  have  any 
name,  he  should  be  styled  a  philosophical  aristocrat,  delight- 
ing in  those  hereditary  institutions  which  have  a  tendency 
to  bind  one  age  to  another,  and  in  that  distinction  of  ranks, 
of  which,  although  few  may  be  in  possession,  all  enjoy  the 
advantages.  Hence,  again,  you  will  observe  the  good 
nature  with  which  he  seems  always  to  make  sport  with  the 
passions  and  follies  of  a  mob,  as  with  an  irrational  animal. 
He  is  never  angry  with  it,  but  hugely  content  with  holding 
up  its  absurdities  to  its  face  ;  and  sometimes  you  may 
trace  a  tone  of  almost  affectionate  superiority,  something 
like  that  in  which  a  father  speaks  of  the  rogueries  of  a  child. 
See  the  good-humoured  way  in  which  he  describes  Stephano 
passing  from  the  most  licentious  freedom  to  absolute 
despotism  over  Trinculo  and  Caliban.  The  truth  is,  Shak- 
speare's  characters  are  all  genera  intensely  individualized  ; 
the  results  of  meditation,  of  which  observation  supplied 
the  drapery  and  the  colours  necessary  to  combine  them 
with  each  other.  He  had  virtually  surveyed  all  the  great 
component  powers  and  impulses  of  human  nature, — had 
seen  that  their  different  combinations  and  subordinations 
were  in  fact  the  individualizers  of  men,  and  showed  how 
their  harmony  was  produced  by  reciprocal  disproportions 


Notes  on  Love's  Labour's  Lost       71 

of  excess  or  deficiency.  The  language  in  which  these 
truths  are  expressed  was  not  drawn  from  any  set  fashion, 
but  from  the  profoundest  depths  of  his  moral  being,  and  is 
therefore  for  all  ages. 

LOVE'S    LABOUR'S    LOST. 

The  characters  in  this  play  are  either  impersonated  out  of 
Shakspeare's  own  multiformity  by  imaginative  self-position 
or  out  of  such  as  a  country  town  and  schoolboy's  observa- 
tion might  supply, — the  curate,  the  schoolmaster,  the 
Armado,  (who  even  in  my  time  was  not  extinct  in  the 
cheaper  inns  of  North  Wales)  and  so  on.  The  satire  is 
chiefly  on  follies  of  words.  Biron  and  Rosaline  are 
evidently  the  pre-existent  state  of  Benedict  and  Beatrice, 
and  so,  perhaps,  is  Boyet  of  Lafeu,  and  Costard  of  the 
Tapster  in  Measure  for  Measure  ;  and  the  frequency  of 
the  rhymes,  the  sweetness  as  well  as  the  smoothness  of  the 
metre,  and  the  number  of  acute  and  fancifully  illustrated 
aphorisms,  are  all  as  they  ought  to  be  in  a  poet's  youth. 
True  genius  begins  by  generalizing  and  condensing  ;  it 
ends  in  realizing  and  expanding.  It  first  collects  the 
seeds. 

Yet  if  this  juvenile  drama  had  been  the  only  one  extant 
of  our  Shakspeare,  and  we  possessed  the  tradition  only  of 
his  riper  works,  or  accounts  of  them  in  writers  who  had  not 
even  mentioned  this  play, — how  many  of  Shakspeare's 
char»acteristic  features  might  we  not  still  have  discovered 
in  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  though  as  in  a  portrait  taken  of 
him  in  his  boyhood  ? 

I  can  never  sufficiently  admire  the  wonderful  activity 
of  thought  throughout  the  whole  of  the  first  scene  of  the 
play,  rendered  natural,  as  it  is,  by  the  choice  of  the  char- 
acters, and  the  whimsical  determination  on  which  the 
drama  is  founded.  A  whimsical  determination  certainly  ; 
— yet  not  altogether  so  very  improbable  to  those  who  are 
conversant  in  the  history  of  the  middle  ages,  with  their 
Courts  of  Love,  and  all  that  lighter  drapery  of  chivalry, 
which  engaged  even  mighty  kings  with  a  sort  of  serio-comic 
interest,  and  may  well  be  supposed  to  have  occupied  more 
completely  the  smaller  princes,  at  a  time  when  the  noble's 
or  prince's  court  contained  the  only  theatre  of  the  domain 


72       Notes  on  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

or  principality.  This  sort  of  story,  too,  was  admirably 
suited  to  Shakspeare's  times,  when  the  Enghsh  court  was 
still  the  foster-mother  of  the  state,  and  the  muses  ;  and 
when,  in  consequence,  the  courtiers,  and  men  of  rank  and 
fashion,  affected  a  display  of  wit,  point,  and  sententious 
observation,  that  would  be  deemed  intolerable  at  present, 
— but  in  which  a  hundred  years  of  controversy,  involving 
every  great  political,  and  every  dear  domestic,  interest,  had 
trained  all  but  the  lowest  classes  to  participate.  Add  to 
this  the  very  style  of  the  sermons  of  the  time,  and  the 
eagerness  of  the  Protestants  to  distinguish  themselves  by 
long  and  frequent  preaching,  and  it  will  be  found  that, 
from  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  to  the  abdication  of  James 
II.  no  country  ever  received  such  a  national  education  as 
England. 

Hence  the  comic  matter  chosen  in  the  first  instance  is  a 
ridiculous  imitation  or  apery  of  this  constant  striving  after 
logical  precision,  and  subtle  opposition  of  thoughts,  to- 
gether with  a  making  the  most  of  every  conception  or  image, 
by  expressing  it  under  the  least  expected  property  belong- 
ing to  it,  and  this,  again,  rendered  specially  absurd  by  being 
applied  to  the  most  current  subjects  and  occurrences.  The 
phrases  and  modes  of  combination  in  argument  were 
caught  by  the  most  ignorant  from  the  custom  of  the  age, 
and  their  ridiculous  misapplication  of  them  is  most  amus- 
ingly exhibited  in  Costard  ;  whilst  examples  suited  only  to 
the  gravest  propositions  and  impersonations,  or  apostrophes 
to  abstract  thoughts  impersonated,  which  are  in  fact  the 
natural  language  only  of  the  most  vehement  agitations  of 
the  mind,  are  adopted  by  the  coxcombry  of  Armado  as 
mere  artifices  of  ornament. 

The  same  kind  of  intellectual  action  is  exhibited  in  a 
more  serious  and  elevated  strain  in  many  other  parts  of 
this  play.  Biron's  speech  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act  is  an 
excellent  specimen  of  it.  It  is  logic  clothed  in  rhetoric  ; 
— but  observe  how  Shakspeare,  in  his  two-fold  being  of 
poet  and  philosopher,  avails  himself  of  it  to  convey  pro- 
found truths  in  the  most  lively  images, — the  whole  re- 
maining faithful  to  the  character  supposed  to  utter  the 
lines,  and  the  expressions  themselves  constituting  a 
further  developement  of  that  character  : — 

other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain  : 
And  therefore  finding  barren  practisers, 


Notes  on  Lovers  Labour's   Lost      73 

Scarce  shew  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil  : 

But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 

Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain  ; 

But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements, 

Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power  ; 

And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power. 

Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 

It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye, 

A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind  ; 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound. 

When  the  suspicious  tread  of  theft  is  stopp'd  : 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft  and  sensible. 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails  ; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste  ; 

For  valour,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides  ? 

Subtle  as  Sphinx  ;   as  sweet  and  musical, 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair  ; 

And  when  love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write. 

Until  his  ink  were  temper' d  with  love's  sighs  ; 

O,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive  : 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire  ; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes, 

That  shew,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world  ; 

Else,  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent  ; 

Then  fools  you  were  these  women  to  forsweaj* ; 

Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools. 

For  wisdom's  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love  ; 

Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men  ; 

Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women  ; 

Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  are  men  ; 

Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths,  to  find  ourselves, 

Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths  : 

It  is  religion,  to  be  thus  forsworn  : 

For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law  : 

And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? — 

This  is  quite  a  study  ; — sometimes  you  see  this  youthful 
god  of  poetry  connecting  disparate  thoughts  purely  by 
means  of  resemblances  in  the  words  expressing  them, — 
a  thing  in  character  in  lighter  comedy,  especially  of  that 
kind  in  which  Shakspeare  delights,  namely,  the  purposed 
display  of  wit,  though  sometimes,  too,  disfiguring  his 
graver  scenes  ; — but  more  often  you  may  see  him  doubhng 
the  natural  connection  or  order  of  logical  consequence  in 
the   thoughts   by   the   introduction   of   an   artificial   and 


74      Notes  on  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

sought-for  resemblance  in  the  words,  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  third  line  of  the  play, — 

And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death  ; — 

this  being  a  figure  often  having  its  force  and  propriety,  as 
justified  by  the  law  of  passion,  which,  inducing  in  the 
mind  an  unusual  activity,  seeks  for  means  to  waste  its 
superfluity, — when  in  the  highest  degree — in  lyric  repeti- 
tions and  sublime  tautology — (at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  jell, 
he  lay  down  ;  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell  ;  where  he  bowed, 
there  he  fell  down  dead), — and,  in  lower  degrees,  in  making 
the  words  themselves  the  subjects  and  materials  of  that 
surplus  action,  and  for  the  same  cause  that  agitates  our 
limbs,  and  forces  our  very  gestures  into  a  tempest  in  states 
of  high  excitement. 

The  mere  style  of  narration  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
like  that  of  ^Egeon  in  the  first  scene  of  the  Comedy  of 
Errors,  and  of  the  Captain  in  the  second  scene  of  Macbeth, 
seems  imitated  with  its  defects  and  its  beauties  from  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  ;  whose  Arcadia,  though  not  then  published, 
was  already  well-known  in  manuscript  copies,  and  could 
hardly  have  escaped  the  notice  and  admiration  of  Shak- 
speare  as  the  friend  and  client  of  the  Earl  of  Southampton. 
The  chief  defect  consists  in  the  parentheses  and  parenthetic 
thoughts  and  descriptions,  suited  neither  to  the  passion  of 
the  speaker,  nor  the  purpose  of  the  person  to  whom  the 
information  is  to  be  given,  but  manifestly  betraying  the 
author  himself, — not  by  way  of  continuous  undersong, 
but — palpably,  and  so  as  to  show  themselves  addressed  to 
the  general  reader.  However,  it  is  not  unimportant  to 
notice  how  strong  a  presumption  the  diction  and  allusions 
of  this  play  afford,  that,  though  Shakspeare's  acquirements 
in  the  dead  languages  might  not  be  such  as  we  suppose  in 
a  learned  education,  his  habits  had,  nevertheless,  been 
scholastic,  and  those  of  a  student.  For  a  young  author's 
first  work  almost  always  bespeaks  his  recent  pursuits,  and 
his  first  observations  of  life  are  either  drawn  from  the 
immediate  employments  of  his  youth,  and  from  the 
characters  and  images  most  deeply  impressed  on  his  mind 
in  the  situations  in  which  those  employments  had  placed 
him  ; — or  else  they  are  fixed  on  such  objects  and  occur- 
rences in  the  world,  as  are  easily  connected  with,  and  seem 
to  bear  upon,  his  studies  and  the  hitherto  exclusive  subjects 


Notes  on  Love's  Labour's  Lost     75 

of  his  meditation.  Just  as  Ben  Jonson,  who  applied 
himself  to  the  drama  after  having  served  in  Flanders,  fills 
his  earliest  plays  with  true  or  pretended  soldiers,  the 
wrongs  and  neglects  of  the  former,  and  the  absurd  boasts 
and  knavery  of  their  counterfeits.  So  Lessing's  first 
comedies  are  placed  in  the  universities,  and  consist  of 
events  and  characters  conceivable  in  an  academic  life. 

I  will  only  further  remark  the  sweet  and  tempered 
gravity,  with  which  Shakspeare  in  the  end  draws  the  only 
fitting  moral  which  such  a  drama  afforded.  Here  Rosaline 
rises  up  to  the  full  height  of  Beatrice  : — 

Ros.  Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  lord  Biron. 
Before  I  saw  you,  and  the  world's  large  tongue 
Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks  ; 
Full  of  comparisons,  and  wounding  flouts, 
Which  you  on  all  estates  will  execute 
That  lie  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit : 
To  weed  this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful  brain. 
And  therewithal,  to  win  me,  if  you  please, 
(Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won,) 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  day  to  day 
Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
W^ith  groaning  wretches  ;    and  your  talk  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  of  your  wit, 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile, 

Biron.  To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat  of  death  ? 
It  cannot  be  ;    it  is  impossible  ; 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ros.  Why,  that's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing  spirit, 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace. 
Which  shallow  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools  : 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it  :    then,  if  sickly  ears, 
Deaf'd  with  the  clamours  of  their  own  dear  groans, 
W^ill  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  then, 
And  I  will  have  you,  and  that  fault  withal  ; 
But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault. 
Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 

Act  v.  sc.  2.     In  Biron's  speech  to  the  Princess : 

— and,  therefore,  like  the  eye. 
Full  of  straying  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms — 

Either  read  stray,  which  I  prefer  ;  or  throw  full  back  to 
the  preceding  lines, — 

like  the  eye,  full 
Of  straying  shapes,  &c. 


76  Notes  on  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

In  the  same  scene  : 

Biron.  And  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  and  what  to  me  ? 

Ros.  You  must  be  purged  too,  your  sins  are  rank  ; 
You  are  attaint  with  fault  and  perjury  : 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favour  mean  to  get, 
A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest, 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  indeed,  about  the  propriety  of 
expunging  this  speech  of  RosaUne's  ;  it  soils  the  very  page 
that  retains  it.  But  I  do  not  agree  with  Warburton  and 
others  in  striking  out  the  preceding  Hne  also.  It  is  quite 
in  Biron' s  character ;  and  Rosaline  not  answering  it 
immediately,  Dumain  takes  up  the  question  for  him,  and, 
after  he  and  Longaville  are  answered,  Biron,  with  evident 
propriety,  says  ; — 

Studies  my  mistress  ?  &c. 


MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM. 
Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Her.  O  cross  !   too  high  to  be  enthrall'd  to  low — 
Lys.  Or  else  misgrafted,  in  respect  of  3'ears ; 
Her.  O  spite  !   too  old  to  be  engag'd  to  young — 
Lys.   Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends 
Her.  O  hell  !   to  chuse  love  by  another's  eye  ! 

There  is  no  authority  for  any  alteration  ; — but  I  never 
can  help  feeling  how  great  an  improvement  it  would  be, 
if  the  two  former  of  Hermia's  exclamations  were  omitted  ; 
— the  third  and  only  appropriate  one  would  then  become 
a  beauty,  and  most  natural. 
lb.     Helena's  speech  : — 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight,  &c. 

I  am  convinced  that  Shakspeare  availed  himself  of  the 
title  of  this  play  in  his  own  mind,  and  worked  upon  it  as  a 
dream  throughout,  but  especially,  and,  perhaps,  unpleas- 
ingly,  in  this  broad  determination  of  ungrateful  treachery 
in  Helena,  so  undisguisedly  avowed  to  herself,  and  this, 
too,  after  the  witty  cool  philosophizing  that  precedes. 
The  act  itself  is  natural,  and  the  resolve  so  to  act  is,  I  fear, 
likewise  too  true  a  picture  of  the  lax  hold  which  principles 


Notes  on  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  77 

have  on  a  woman's  heart,  when  opposed  to,  or  even 
separated  from,  passion  and  indination.  For  women  are 
less  hypocrites  to  their  own  minds  than  men  are,  because 
in  general  they  feel  less  proportionate  abhorrence  of  moral 
evil  in  and  for  itself,  and  more  of  its  outward  consequences, 
as  detection,  and  loss  of  character  than  men, — their 
natures  being  almost  wholly  extroitive.  Still,  however 
just  in  itself,  the  representation  of  this  is  not  poetical ; 
we  shrink  from  it,  and  cannot  harmonize  it  with  the  ideal. 
Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Theobald's  edition. 

Through  bush,  through  briar — 

SfC  9|C  SfS  «|C  S|C 

Through  flood,  through  fire — 

What  a  noble  pair  of  ears  this  worthy  Theobald  must 
have  had  !      The  eight  amphimacers  or  cretics, — 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 
Thoro'  bush,  thoro'  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 
Thoro'  flood,  thoro'  fire — 

have  a  delightful  effect  on  the  ear  in  their  sweet  transition 
to  the  trochaic, — 

I  do  wander  ev'ry  where 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere,  &c. — 

The  last  words  as  sustaining  the  rhyme,  must  be  considered, 
as  in  fact  they  are,  trochees  in  time. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  give  some  correct  examples  in 
English  of  the  principal  metrical  feet : — 

Pyrrhic  or  Dibrach,  u  u  =  body,  spirit. 
Tribrach,  u  u  u  =  nobody,  hastily  pronounced. 
Iambus,  u  —  =  delight. 
Trochee,  —  u  =  lightly. 
Spondee, =  God  spake. 

The  paucity  of  spondees  in  single  words  in  English  and, 
indeed,  in  the  modern  languages  in  general,  makes,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  distinction,  metrically  considered,  between 
them  and  the  Greek  and  Latin. 

Dactyl,  —  u  o  =  merrily. 

Anap^st,  u  u  —  =  a  propos,  or  the  first  three  syllables 
of  ceremony.'^ 

1  Written  probably  by  mistake  for  "  ceremonious." 


yS         Notes    on  Comedy  of  Errors 

Amphibrachys,  u  —  o  =  del'tghtful. 
Amphimacer,  —  u  —  =  over  hill. 

Antibacchius,  u =  the  Lord  God. 

Bacchius u  =  Helvellyn. 

Molossus, =  John  James  Jones. 

These  simple  feet  may  suffice  for  understanding  the 
metres  of  Shakspeare,  for  the  greater  part  at  least ; — but 
Milton  cannot  be  made  harmoniously  intelligible  without 
the  composite  feet,  the  Ionics,  Paeons,  and  Epitrites. 

lb.  sc.  2.  Titania's  speech : — (Theobald  adopting 
Warburton's  reading.) 

Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gate 
Follying  (her  womb  then  rich  with  my  young  squire) 
Would  imitate,  &c. 

Oh  !    oh  !    Heaven  have  mercy  on  poor  Shakspeare,  and 
also  on  Mr.  Warburton's  mind's  eye  ! 

Act  V.  sc.  I.     Theseus'  speech  : — (Theobald.) 

And  what  poor  [willing]  duty  cannot  do, 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 

To  my  ears  it  would  read  far  more  Shakspearian  thus  : — 

And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do,  yet  would, 
Noble  respect,  &c. 

lb.  sc.  2. 

Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores 
All  with  weary  task  foredone,  &c. 

Very  Anacreon  in  perfectness,  proportion,  grace,  and 
spontaneity  !  So  far  it  is  Greek  ; — but  then  add,  O  ! 
what  wealth,  what  wild  ranging,  and  yet  what  compression 
and  condensation  of,  English  fancy  !  In  truth,  there  is 
nothing  in  Anacreon  more  perfect  than  these  thirty  lines, 
or  half  so  rich  and  imaginative.  They  form  a  speckless 
diamond. 


COMEDY    OF    ERRORS. 

The  myriad-minded  man,  our,  and  all  men's,  Shakspeare, 
has  in  this  piece  presented  us  with  a  legitimate  farce  in 
exactest  consonance  with  the  philosophical  principles  and 
character  of  farce,  as  distinguished  from  comedy  and  from 


Notes  on  As  You  Like  It  79 

entertainments.  A  proper  farce  is  mainly  distinguished  from 
comedy  by  the  Ucense  allowed,  and  even  required,  in  the 
fable,  in  order  to  produce  strange  and  laughable  situations. 
The  story  need  not  be  probable,  it  is  enough  that  it  is 
possible.  A  comedy  would  scarcely  allow  even  the  two 
Antipholuses  ;  because,  although  there  have  been  instances 
of  almost  indistinguishable  likeness  in  two  persons,  yet 
these  are  mere  individual  accidents,  casus  ludentis  naturcB, 
and  the  verum  will  not  excuse  the  inverisimile.  But  farce 
dares  add  the  two  Dromios,  and  is  justified  in  so  doing  by 
the  laws  of  its  end  and  constitution.  In  a  word,  farces 
commence  in  a  postulate,  which  must  be  granted. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 
Act  i.  sc.  I. 

OH.  What,  boy  1 

Orla.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  in  this. 

OH.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

There  is  a  beauty  here.  The  word  'boy'  naturally  pro- 
vokes and  awakens  in  Orlando  the  sense  of  his  manly 
powers  ;  and  with  the  retort  of  *  elder  brother,*  he  grasps 
him  with  firm  hands,  and  makes  him  feel  he  is  no  boy. 

lb.  OH.  Farewell,  good  Charles. — Now  will  I  stir  this  gamester  : 
I  hope,  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ;  for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why, 
hates  nothing  more  than  him.  Yet  he's  gentle  ;  never  school'd, 
and  yet  learn' d  ;  full  of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly 
beloved  !  and,  indeed,  so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and 
especially  of  my  own  people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  al- 
together misprized  :  but  it  shall  not  be  so  long  ;  this  wrestler  shall 
clear  all. 

This  has  always  appeared  to  me  one  of  the  most  un- 
Shakspearian  speeches  in  all  the  genuine  works  of  our  poet ; 
yet  I  should  be  nothing  surprized,  and  greatly  pleased,  to 
find  it  hereafter  a  fresh  beauty,  as  has  so  often  happened 
to  me  with  other  supposed  defects  of  great  men.     1810. 

It  is  too  venturous  to  charge  a  passage  in  Shakspeare 
with  want  of  truth  to  nature  ;  and  yet  at  first  sight  this 
speech  of  Oliver's  expresses  truths,  which  it  seems  almost 
impossible  that  any  mind  should  so  distinctly,  so  hvehly, 
and  so  voluntarily,  have  presented  to  itself,  in  connection 
with  feehngs  and  intentions  so  malignant,  and  so  contrary 


8o  Notes  on  Twelfth  Night 

to  those  which  the  qualities  expressed  would  naturally 
have  called  forth.  But  I  dare  not  say  that  this  seeming 
unnaturalness  is  not  in  the  nature  of  an  abused  wilfulness, 
when  united  with  a  strong  intellect.  In  such  characters 
there  is  sometimes  a  gloomy  self-gratification  in  making 
the  absoluteness  of  the  will  (sit  pro  ratione  volurJas  /) 
evident  to  themselves  by  setting  the  reason  and  the  con- 
science in  full  array  against  it.  1818. 
lb.  5c.  2. 

Celia.  If  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself 
with  your  judgment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel 
you  to  a  more  equal  enterprize. 

Surely  it  should  be  'our  eyes'  and  'our  judgment.' 
lb.  sc.  3. 

Cel.   But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  child's  father. 

Theobald  restores  this  as  the  reading  of  the  older 
editions.  It  may  be  so  :  but  who  can  doubt  that  it  is  a 
mistake  for  'my  father's  child,'  meaning  herself  ?  Accord- 
ing to  Theobald's  note,  a  most  indelicate  anticipation  is 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Rosalind  without  reason  ; — and 
besides  what  a  strange  thought,  and  how  out  of  place,  and 
unintelligible  ! 

Act.  iv.  sc.  2. 

Take  thou  no  scorn 

To  wear  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn  ; 

It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born. 

I  question  whether  there  exists  a  parallel  instance  of  a 
phrase,  that  like  this  of  'horns'  is  universal  in  all  languages, 
and  yet  for  which  no  one  has  discovered  even  a  plausible 
origin. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Duke's  speech  : — 

— so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy. 
That  it  alone  is  high  fantastical. 

Warburton's  alteration  of  is  into  in  is  needless.  'Fancy* 
may  very  well  be  interpreted  'exclusive  affection,'  or 
'passionate  preference.'  Thus,  bird-fanciers,  gentlemen 
of  the  fancy,  that  is,  amateurs  of  boxing,  &c.     The  play  of 


Notes  on  Twelfth  Night  8i 

assimilation, — the  meaning  one  sense  chiefly,  and  yet  keep- 
ing both  senses  in  view,  is  perfectly  Shakspearian. 

Act.  ii.  sc.  3.     Sir  Andrew's  speech  : — 

An  explanatory  note  on  Pigrogromitus  would  have  been 
more  acceptable  than  Theobald's  grand  discovery  that 
*  lemon'  ought  to  be  *  leman.' 

lb.  Sir  Toby's  speech :  (Warburton's  note  on  the 
Peripatetic  philosophy.) 

Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that  will  draw  three 
souls  out  of  one  weaver  ? 

O  genuine,  and  inimitable  (at  least  I  hope  so)  Warburton! 
This  note  of  thine,  if  but  one  in  five  millions,  would  be  half 
a  one  too  much. 

lb.  sc.  4. 

Duke.  My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves  ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is't  ? 

And  yet  Viola  was  to  have  been  presented  to  Orsino  as  a 
eunuch  ! — Act  i.  sc.  2.     Viola's  speech.     Either  she  forgot 
this,  or  else  she  had  altered  her  plan, 
lb. 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord  :   she  never  told  her  love  1 — 
But  let  concealment,  &c. 

After  the  first  line,  (of  which  the  last  five  words  should  be 
spoken  with,  and  drop  down  in,  a  deep  sigh)  the  actress 
ought  to  make  a  pause  ;  and  then  start  afresh,  from  the 
activity  of  thought,  born  of  suppressed  feelings,  and  which 
thought  had  accumulated  during  the  brief  interval,  as 
vital  heat  under  the  skin  during  a  dip  in  cold  water. 
lb.  sc.  5. 

Fabian.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  by  cars,  yet  peace. 

Perhaps,  'cables.* 
Act  iii.  sc.  I. 

Clown.  A  sentence  is  but  a  chevetil  glove  to  a  good  wit.  (Theo- 
bald's note.) 

Theobald's  etymology  of  'cheveril'  is,  of  course,  quite 
right ; — but  he  is  mistaken  in  supposing  that  there  were  no 


82     Notes  on  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

such  things  as  gloves  of  chicken-skin.     They  were  at  one 
time  a  main  article  in  chirocosmetics. 
Act  V.  sc.  I.     Clown's  speech  : — 

So  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,  if  your  four  negatives  make 
your  two  af5rmatives,  why,  then,  the  worse  for  my  friends,  and  the 
better  for  my  foes. 

(Warburton  reads  'conclusion  to  be  asked,  is.') 
Surely  Warburton  could  never  have  wooed  by  kisses 
and  won,  or  he  would  not  have  flounder-flatted  so 
just  and  humorous,  nor  less  pleasing  than  humorous,  an 
image  into  so  profound  a  nihility.  In  the  name  of  love 
and  wonder,  do  not  four  kisses  make  a  double  affirmative  ? 
The  humour  lies  in  the  whispered  'No  !'  and  the  inviting 
'Don't !'  with  which  the  maiden's  kisses  are  accompanied, 
and  thence  compared  to  negatives,  which  by  repetition 
constitute  an  affirmative. 


ALL'S    WELL   THAT    ENDS    WELL. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Count.  If  the  Hving  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess  makes  it 
soon  mortal. 

Bert.   Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 
Laf.    How  understand  we  that  ? 

Bertram  and  Lafeu,  I  imagine,  both  speak  together, — 
Lafeu  referring  to  the  Countess's  rather  obscure  remark. 
Act  ii.  sc.  I.     (Warburton' s  note.) 

King,  — let  higher  Italy 

(Those  'hated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy)  see,  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it. 

It  would  be,  I  own,  an  audacious  and  unjustifiable 
change  of  the  text ;  but  yet,  as  a  mere  conjecture,  I 
venture  to  suggest  'bastards,'  for  "bated.'  As  it  stands, 
in  spite  of  Warburton's  note,  I  can  make  little  or  nothing 
of  it.  Why  should  the  king  except  the  then  most  illus- 
trious states,  which,  as  being  republics,  were  the  more 
truly  inheritors  of  the  Roman  grandeur  ? — With  my  con- 
jecture, the  sense  would  be  ; — 'let  higher,  or  the  more 
northern  part  of  Italy — (unless  'higher'  be  a  corruption 


Notes  on  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  83 

for  'hir'd,' — the  metre  seeming  to  demand  a  monosyl- 
lable) (those  bastards  that  inherit  the  infamy  only  of 
their  fathers)  see,  &c.'  The  following  'woo'  and  'wed' 
axe  so  far  confirmative  as  they  indicate  Shakspeare's 
manner  of  connexion  by  unmarked  influences  of  associa- 
tion from  some  preceding  metaphor.  This  it  is  which 
makes  his  style  so  peculiarly  vital  and  organic.  Likewise 
'those  girls  of  Italy'  strengthen  the  guess.  The  absurdity 
of  Warburton's  gloss,  which  represents  the  king  calling 
Italy  superior,  and  then  excepting  the  only  part  the  lords 
were  going  to  visit,  must  strike  every  one. 
lb.  sc.  3. 

Laj.  They  say,  miracles  are  past  ;  and  we  have  our  philosophical 
persons  to  make  modern  and  familiar,  things  supernatural  and 
causeless. 

Shakspeare,  inspired,  as  it  might  seem,  with  all  know- 
ledge, here  uses  the  word  'causeless'  in  its  strict  philo- 
sophical sense ; — cause  being  truly  predicable  only  of 
phenomena,  that  is,  things  natural,  and  not  of  noumena, 
or  things  supernatural. 

Act  iii.  sc.  5. 

Dia,  The  Count  Rousillon  : — know  you  such  a  one  ? 
Hel.  But  by  the  ear  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him  ; 
His  face  I  know  not. 

Shall  we  say  here,  that  Shakspeare  has  unnecessarily 
made  his  loveliest  character  utter  a  lie  ? — Or  shall  we 
dare  think  that,  where  to  deceive  was  necessary,  he  thought 
a  pretended  verbal  verity  a  double  crime,  equally  with  the 
other  a  lie  to  the  hearer,  and  at  the  same  time  an  attempt 
to  lie  to  one's  own  conscience  ? 


MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish,  the  salt  fish  is  an  old  coat. 

I  CANNOT  understand  this.  Perhaps  there  is  a  corruption 
both  of  words  and  speakers.  Shallow  no  sooner  corrects 
one  mistake  of  Sir  Hugh's,  namely,  'louse'  for  'luce,'  a 
pike,  but  the  honest  Welchman  falls  into  another,  namely, 
'cod'  [haccald],  Camhrice  'cot'  for  coat. 


84      Notes  on  Measure  for  Measure 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish — 
Evans.  The  salt  fish  is  an  old  cot. 

'Luce  is  a  fresh  fish,   and  not  a  louse  ;  '  says  Shallow. 
'Aye,  aye,'  quoth  Sir  Hugh  ;  '  the  fresh  fish  is  the  luce  ; 
it  is  an  old  cod  that  is  the  salt  fish.'     At  all  events,  as  the 
text  stands,  there  is  no  sense  at  all  in  the  words, 
lb.  so.  3. 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule  of  her  husband's 
purse  ;   she  hath  a  legion  of  angels. 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain  ;   and  To  her,  boy.  say  I. 

Perhaps  it  is — 

As  many  devils  enter  (or  enter'd)  swine  ;  and  to  her,  hoy,  say  I : — 

a  somewhat  profane,  but  not  un-Shakspearian,  allusion  to 
the  'legion'  in  St.  Luke's  'gospel.' 


MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE. 

This  play,  which  is  Shakspeare's  throughout,  is  to  me  the 
most  painful — say  rather,  the  only  painful — part  of  his 
genuine  works.  The  comic  and  tragic  parts  equally  border 
on  the  /jbiGrjTov,  —  the  one  being  disgusting,  the  other 
horrible  ;  and  the  pardon  and  marriage  of  Angelo  not 
merely  baffles  the  strong  indignant  claim  of  justice — (for 
cruelty,  with  lust  and  damnable  baseness,  cannot  be  for- 
given, because  we  cannot  conceive  them  as  being  morally 
repented  of ;)  but  it  is  likewise  degrading  to  the  character 
of  woman.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  who  can  follow  Shak- 
speare  in  his  errors  only,  have  presented  a  still  worse, 
because  more  loathsome  and  contradictory,  instance  of 
the  same  kind  in  the  Night-Walker,  in  the  marriage  of 
Alathe  to  Algripe.  Of  the  counter-balancing  beauties  of 
Measure  for  Measure,  I  need  say  nothing  ;  for  T  have 
already  remarked  that  the  play  is  Shakspeare's  throughout. 
Act  iii.  sc.  I. 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where,  &c. 
This  natural  fear  of  Claudio,   from  the  antipathy  we  have  to 
death,  seems  very  little  varied  from  that  infamous  wish  of  Msecenas, 
recorded  in  the  loist  epistle  of  Seneca  : 
Debtlem  facito  manu, 
Debilem  pede,  coxa,  &-c.     Warburton's  note. 

I  cannot  but  think  this  rather  an  heroic  resolve,  than 


Notes  on  Cymbeline  85 

an  infamous  wish.  It  appears  to  me  to  be  the  grandest 
symptom  of  an  immortal  spirit,  when  even  that  bedimmed 
and  overwhehned  spirit  recked  not  of  its  own  immortahty, 
still  to  seek  to  be, — to  be  a  mind,  a  will. 

As  fame  is  to  reputation,  so  heaven  is  to  an  estate,  or 
immediate  advantage.  The  difference  is,  that  the  self- 
love  of  the  former  cannot  exist  but  by  a  complete  suppres- 
sion and  habitual  supplantation  of  immediate  selfishness. 
In  one  point  of  view,  the  miser  is  more  estimable  than 
the  spendthrift ; — only  that  the  miser's  present  feelings 
are  as  much  of  the  present  as  the  spendthrift's.  But 
ccBteris  paribus,  that  is,  upon  the  supposition  that  whatever 
is  good  or  lovely  in  the  one  coexists  equally  in  the  other, 
then,  doubtless,  the  master  of  the  present  is  less  a  selfish 
being,  an  animal,  than  he  who  lives  for  the  moment  with 
no  inheritance  in  the  future.  Whatever  can  degrade 
man,  is  supposed  in  the  latter  case,  whatever  can  elevate 
him,  in  the  former.  And  as  to  self ; — strange  and  generous 
self !  that  can  only  be  such  a  self  by  a  complete  divestment 
of  all  that  men  call  self, — of  aU  that  can  make  it  either 
practically  to  others,  or  consciously  to  the  individual  him- 
self, different  from  the  human  race  in  its  ideal.  Such  self 
is  but  a  perpetual  religion,  an  inalienable  acknowledgment 
of  God,  the  sole  basis  and  ground  of  being.  In  this  sense, 
how  can  I  love  God,  and  not  love  myself,  as  far  as  it  is  of 
God? 
lb.  sc.  2. 

Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 

Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go. 

Worse  metre,  indeed,  but  better  English  would  be, — 
Grace  to  stand,  virtue  to  go. 


CYMBELINE. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

You  do  not  meet  a  man,  but  frowns  :   our  bloods 
No  more  obey  the  heavens,  than  our  courtiers' 
Still  seem,  as  does  the  king's. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  of  Mr.  T5n:whitt's  emendations 
of  'courtiers'  and  'king,'  as  to  the  sense  ; — only  it  is  not 
impossible  that  Shakspeare's  dramatic  language  may  aUow 
of  the  word,  'brows'  or  'faces'  being  understood  after  the 


86  Notes  on  Cymbeline 

word  'courtiers,'  which  might  then  remain  in  the  genitive 
case  plural.  But  the  nominative  plural  makes  excellent 
sense,  and  is  sufficiently  elegant,  and  sounds  to  my  ear 
Shakspearian.  What,  however,  is  meant  by  'our  bloods 
no  more  obey  the  heavens  ?  ' — Dr.  Johnson's  assertion 
that  'bloods'  signify  'countenances,'  is,  I  think,  mistaken 
both  in  the  thought  conveyed — (for  it  was  never  a  popular 
beUef  that  the  stars  governed  men's  countenances,)  and 
in  the  usage,  which  requires  an  antithesis  of  the  blood, — or 
the  temperament  of  the  four  humours,  choler,  melancholy, 
phlegm,  and  the  red  globules,  or  the  sanguine  portion, 
which  was  supposed  not  to  be  in  our  own  power,  but, 
to  be  dependent  on  the  influences  of  the  heavenly  bodies, — 
and  the  countenances  which  are  in  our  power  really,  though 
from  flattery  we  bring  them  into  a  no  less  apparent  de- 
pendence on  the  sovereign,  than  the  former  are  in  actual 
dependence  on  the  constellations. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  word  'courtiers'  was 
a  misprint  for  'countenances,'  arising  from  an  anticipa- 
tion, by  foreglance  of  the  compositor's  eye,  of  the  word 
'courtier'  a  few  lines  below.  The  written  r  is  easily  and 
often  confounded  with  the  written  n.  The  compositor 
read  the  first  syllable  court,  and — his  eye  at  the  same  time 
catching  the  word  'courtier '  lower  down — he  completed 
the  word  without  reconsulting  the  copy.  It  is  not  unlikely 
that  Shakspeare  intended  first  to  express,  generally  the 
same  thought,  which  a  little  afterwards  he  repeats  with  a 
particular  application  to  the  persons  meant ; — a  common 
usage  of  the  pronominal  'our,'  where  the  speaker  does  not 
really  mean  to  include  himself  ;  and  the  word  'you'  is  an 
additional  confirmation  of  the  'our,'  being  used  in  this 
place,  for  'men'  generally  and  indefinitely,  just  as  'you  do 
not  meet,'  is  the  same  as,  'one  does  not  meet.' 

Act  i.  sc.  2.     Imogen's  speech  : — 

— My  dearest  husband, 
I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath  ;   but  nothing 
(Always  reserv'd  my  holy  duty)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me. 

Place  the  emphasis  on  'me  ; '  for  'rage'  is  a  mere  repetition 
of  '  wrath. ' 

Cym.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  should' st  repair  my  youth,  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me  1 


Notes  on  Cymbeline  87 

How  is  it  that  the  commentators  take  no  notice  of  the 
un-Shakspearian  defect  in  the  metre  of  the  second  Une,  and 
what  in  Shakspeare  is  the  same,  in  the  harmony  with  the 
sense  and  feehng  ?  Some  word  or  words  must  have  sHpped 
out  after  'youth,' — possibly  'and  see  :' — 

That  should'st  repair  my  youth  ! — and  see,  thou  heap'st,  &c. 

lb.  sc.  4.     Pisanio's  speech  : — 

— For  so  long 
As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  &c. 

But  Hhis  eye,'  in  spite  of  the  supposition  of  its  being 
used  hixrixug  is  very  awkward.  I  should  think  that 
either  'or' — or  'the'  was  Shakspeare' s  word  ; — 

As  he  could  make  me  or  with  eye  or  ear. 

lb.  sc.  7.     lachimo's  speech  : — 

Hath  nature  given  them  eyes 
To  see  this  vaulted  arch,  and  the  rich  crop 
Of  sea  and  land,  which  can  distinguish  'twixt 
The  fiery  orbs  above,  and  the  twinn'd  stones 
Upon  the  number' d  beach. 

I  would  suggest  'cope'  for  'crop.*  As  to  'twinn'd 
stones' — may  it  not  be  a  bold  catachresis  for  muscles, 
cockles,  and  other  empty  shells  with  hinges,  which  are 
truly  twinned  ?  I  would  take  Dr.  Farmer's  'umber'd,' 
which  I  had  proposed  before  I  ever  heard  of  its  having  been 
already  offered  by  him  :  but  I  do  not  adopt  his  interpreta- 
tion of  the  word,  which  I  think  is  not  derived  from  umbra,  a 
shade,  but  from  tcmber,  a  dingy  yellow-brown  soil,  which 
most  commonly  forms  the  mass  of  the  sludge  on  the  sea 
shore,  and  on  the  banks  of  tide-rivers  at  low  water.  One 
other  possible  interpretation  of  this  sentence  has  occurred 
to  me,  just  barely  worth  mentioning  ; — that  the  'twinn'd 
stones'  are  the  augrim  stones  upon  the  number'd  beech, 
that  is,  the  astronomical  tables  of  beech-wood. 

Act  V.  sc.  5. 

Sooth.  When  as  a  lion's  whelp,  &c. 

It  is  not  easy  to  conjecture  why  Shakspeare  should  have 
introduced  this  ludicrous  scroll,  which  answers  no  one 
purpose,  either  propulsive,  or  explicatory,  unless  as  a  joke 
on  etymology. 


88         Notes  on  Titus  Andronicus 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS. 
Act  i.  sc.  I.     Theobald's  note. 

I  never  heard  it  so  much  as  intimated,  that  he  (Shakspeare)  had 
turned  his  genius  to  stage-writing,  before  he  associated  with  the 
players,  and  became  one  of  their  body. 

That  Shakspeare  never  'turned  his  genius  to  stage-writ- 
ing,' as  Theobald  most  Theohaldice  phrases  it,  before  he 
became  an  actor,  is  an  assertion  of  about  as  much  authority, 
as  the  precious  story  that  he  left  Stratford  for  deer-steal- 
ing, and  that  he  lived  by  holding  gentlemen's  horses  at  the 
doors  of  the  theatre,  and  other  trash  of  that  arch-gossip, 
old  Aubrey.  The  metre  is  an  argument  against  Titus 
Andronicus  being  Shakspeare's,  worth  a  score  such  chrono- 
logical surmises.  Yet  I  incline  to  think  that  both  in  this 
play  and  in  Jeronymo,  Shakspeare  wrote  some  passages, 
and  that  they  are  the  earliest  of  his  compositions. 

Act  V.  sc.  2. 

I  think  it  not  improbable  that  the  lines  from — 

I  am  not  mad  ;    I  know  thee  well  enough ; 
*  4:  *  «  *  «  « 

So  thou  destroy  Rapine,  and  Murder  there, 

were  written  by  Shakspeare  in  his  earliest  period.  But 
instead  of  the  text — 

Revenge,  which  makes  the  foul  o-ffender  quake. 
Tit.   Art  thou  Revenge  ?    and  art  thou  sent  to  me  ? — 

the  words  in  italics  ought  to  be  omitted. 


TROILUS    AND    CRESSIDA. 

Mr.  Pope  (after  Dryden)  informs  us,  that  the  story  of  Troilus  and 
Cressida  was  originally  the  work  of  one  Lollius,  a  Lombard  :  but 
Dryden  goes  yet  further  ;  he  declares  it  to  have  been  written  in 
Latin  verse,  and  that  Chaucer  translated  it. — Lollius  was  a  historio- 
grapher of  U rhino  in  Italy.     Note  in  Stockdale's  edition,  1807. 

*  Lollius  was  a  historiographer  of  Urbino  in  Italy.'  So 
affirms  the  notary,  to  whom  the  Sieur  Stockdale  committed 
the  disfacimento  of  Ayscough's  excellent  edition  of  Shak- 
speare.    Pitv  that  the  researchful  notary  has  not  either 


Notes  on  Troilus  and  Cressida     89 

told  us  in  what  century,  and  of  what  history,  he  was  a 
writer,  or  been  simply  content  to  depose,  that  LoUius,  if  a 
writer  of  that  name  existed  at  all,  was  a  somewhat  some- 
where. The  notary  speaks  of  the  Troy  Boke  of  Lydgate, 
printed  in  15 13.  I  have  never  seen  it ;  but  I  deeply  regret 
that  Chalmers  did  not  substitute  the  whole  of  Lydgate's 
works  from  the  MSS.  extant,  for  the  almost  worthless 
Gower. 

The  Troilus  and  Cressida  of  Shakspeare  can  scarcely  be 
classed  with  his  dramas  of  Greek  and  Roman  history  ;  but 
it  forms  an  intermediate  link  between  the  fictitious  Greek 
and  Roman  histories,  which  we  may  call  legendary  dramas, 
and  the  proper  ancient  histories  ;  that  is,  between  the 
Pericles  or  Titus  Andronicus,  and  the  Coriolanus,  or  Julius 
Caesar.  Cymbeline  is  a  congener  with  Pericles,  and  dis- 
tinguished from  Lear  by  not  having  any  declared  pro- 
minent object.  But  where  shall  we  class  the  Timon  of 
Athens  ?  Perhaps  immediately  below  Lear.  It  is  a  Lear 
of  the  satirical  drama  ;  a  Lear  of  domestic  or  ordinary 
life  ; — a  local  eddy  of  passion  on  the  high  road  of  society, 
while  all  around  is  the  week-day  goings  on  of  wind  and 
weather  ;  a  Lear,  therefore,  without  its  soul-searching 
flashes,  its  ear-cleaving  thunder-claps,  its  meteoric 
splendours, — without  the  contagion  and  the  fearful  sym- 
pathies  of  nature,  the  fates,  the  furies,  the  frenzied  elements, 
dancing  in  and  out,  now  breaking  through,  and  scattering, 
— now  hand  in  hand  with, — the  fierce  or  fantastic  group 
of  human  passions,  crimes,  and  anguishes,  reeling  on  the 
unsteady  ground,  in  a  wild  harmony  to  the  shock  and  the 
swell  of  an  earthquake.  But  my  present  subject  was 
Troilus  and  Cressida  ;  and  I  suppose  that,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  to  say  of  it,  I  by  a  cunning  of  instinct  ran  off  to 
subjects  on  which  I  should  find  it  difficult  not  to  say  too 
much,  though  certain  after  all  that  I  should  still  leave  the 
better  part  unsaid,  and  the  gleaning  for  others  richer  than 
my  own  harvest. 

Indeed,  there  is  no  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays  harder  to 
characterize.  The  name  and  the  remembrances  connected 
with  it,  prepare  us  for  the  representation  of  attachment  no 
less  faithful  than  fervent  on  the  side  of  the  youth,  and  of 
sudden  and  shameless  inconstancy  on  the  part  of  the  lady. 
And  this  is,  indeed,  as  the  gold  thread  on  which  the  scenes 
are  strung,  though  often  kept  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind 


90      Notes  on  Troilus  and  Cressida 

by  gems  of  greater  value  than  itself.  But  as  Shakspeare 
calls  forth  nothing  from  the  mausoleum  of  history,  or  the 
catacombs  of  tradition,  without  giving,  or  eliciting,  some 
permanent  and  general  interest,  and  brings  forward  no 
subject  which  he  does  not  moralize  or  intellectualize, — so 
here  he  has  drawn  in  Cressida  the  portrait  of  a  vehement 
passion,  that,  having  its  true  origin  and  proper  cause  in 
warmth  of  temperament,  fastens  on,  rather  than  fixes  to, 
some  one  object  by  liking  and  temporary  preference. 

There's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  Hp, 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks  ;   her  wanton  spirits  look  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 

This  Shakspeare  has  contrasted  with  the  profound  affec- 
tion represented  in  Troilus,  and  alone  worthy  the  name 
of  love  ; — affection,  passionate  indeed, — swoln  with  the 
confluence  of  youthful  instincts  and  youthful  fancy,  and 
growing  in  the  radiance  of  hope  newly  risen,  in  short 
enlarged  by  the  collective  sympathies  of  nature  ; — but 
still  having  a  depth  of  calmer  element  in  a  will  stronger 
than  desire,  more  entire  than  choice,  and  which  gives  per- 
manence to  its  own  act  by  converting  it  into  faith  and 
duty.  Hence  with  excellent  judgment,  and  with  an  ex- 
cellence higher  than  mere  judgment  can  give,  at  the  close 
of  the  play,  when  Cressida  has  sunk  into  infamy  below 
retrieval  and  beneath  hope,  the  same  will,  which  had  been 
the  substance  and  the  basis  of  his  love,  while  the  restless 
pleasures  and  passionate  longings,  like  sea- waves,  had 
tossed  but  on  its  surface, — this  same  moral  energy  is  repre- 
sented as  snatching  him  aloof  from  all  neighbourhood 
with  her  dishonour,  from  all  lingering  fondness  and  languish- 
ing regrets,  whilst  it  rushes  with  him  into  other  and  nobler 
duties,  and  deepens  the  channel,  which  his  heroic  brother's 
death  had  left  empty  for  its  collected  flood.  Yet  another 
secondary  and  subordinate  purpose  Shakspeare  has  in- 
woven with  his  delineation  of  these  two  characters, — 
that  of  opposing  the  inferior  civilization,  but  purer  morals, 
of  the  Trojans  to  the  refinements,  deep  policy,  but  duplicity 
and  sensual  corruptions  of  the  Greeks. 

To  all  this,  however,  so  little  comparative  projection  is 
given, — nay,  the  masterly  group  of  Agamemnon,  Nestor, 
and  Ulysses,  and,  still  more  in  advance,  that  of  Achilles, 
Ajax,  and  Thersites,  so  manifestly  occupy  the  fore-ground. 


Notes  on  Troilus  and  Cressida      91 

that  the  subservience  and  vassalage  of  strength  and  animal 
courage  to  intellect  and  policy  seems  to  be  the  lesson  most 
often  in  our  poet's  view,  and  which  he  has  taken  little 
pains  to  connect  with  the  former  more  interesting  moral 
impersonated  in  the  titular  hero  and  heroine  of  the  drama. 
But  I  am  half  inclined  to  believe,  that  Shakspeare's  main 
object,  or  shall  I  rather  say,  his  ruling  impulse,  was  to 
translate  the  poetic  heroes  of  paganism  into  the  not  less 
rude,  but  more  intellectually  vigorous,  and  more  featurely, 
warriors  of  Christian  chivalry, — and  to  substantiate  the 
distinct  and  graceful  profiles  or  outlines  of  the  Homeric 
epic  into  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the  romantic  drama, — in 
short,  to  give  a  grand  history-piece  in  the  robust  style  of 
Albert  Durer. 

The  character  of  Thersites,  in  particular,  well  deserves 
a  more  careful  examination,  as  the  Caliban  of  demagogic 
life  ; — the  admirable  portrait  of  intellectual  power  deserted 
by  all  grace,  all  moral  principle,  all  not  momentary  im- 
pulse ; — just  wise  enough  to  detect  the  weak  head,  and 
fool  enough  to  provoke  the  armed  fist  of  his  betters  ; — one 
whom  malcontent  Achilles  can  inveigle  from  malcontent 
Ajax,  under  the  one  condition,  that  he  shall  be  called  on 
to  do  nothing  but  abuse  and  slander,  and  that  he  shall  be 
allowed  to  abuse  as  much  and  as  purulently  as  he  likes, 
that  is,  as  he  can  ; — in  short,  a  mule, — quarrelsome  by 
the  original  discord  of  his  nature, — a  slave  by  tenure  of 
his  own  baseness, — made  to  bray  and  be  brayed  at,  to 
despise  and  be  despicable.  'Aye,  Sir,  but  say  what  you 
will,  he  is  a  very  clever  fellow,  though  the  best  friends 
will  fall  out.  There  was  a  time  when  Ajax  thought  he 
deserved  to  have  a  statue  of  gold  erected  to  him,  and  hand- 
some Achilles,  at  the  head  of  the  Myrmidons,  gave  no 
Uttle  credit  to  his  friend  Thersites  !' 

Act  iv.  sc.  5.     Speech  of  Ulysses  : 

O,  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue, 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes — 

Should  it  be  'accosting  ?'  'Accost  her,  knight,  accost  !* 
in  the  Twelfth  Night.  Yet  there  sounds  a  something  so 
Shakspearian  in  the  phrase — 'give  a  coasting  welcome,' 
('coasting'  being  taken  as  the  epithet  and  adjective  of 
'welcome,')  that  had  the  following  words  been,  'ere  they 
land,'  instead  of  'ere  it  comes,'  I  should  have  preferred 


92  Notes  on  Coriolanus 

the  interpretation.     The  sense  now  is,  'that  give  welcome 
to  a  salute  ere  it  comes.' 


CORIOLANUS. 

This  play  illustrates  the  wonderfully  philosophic  im- 
partiality of  Shakspeare's  politics.  His  own  country's 
history  furnished  him  with  no  matter,  but  what  was  too 
recent  to  be  devoted  to  patriotism.  Besides,  he  knew 
that  the  instruction  of  ancient  history  would  seem  more 
dispassionate.  In  Coriolanus  and  Julius  Caesar,  you  see 
Shakspeare's  good-natured  laugh  at  mobs.  Compare 
this  with  Sir  Thomas  Brown's  aristocracy  of  spirit. 
Act  i.  sc.  I.     Coriolanus'  speech  : — 

He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favours,  swims  with  fins  of  lead, 
And  hews  down  oaks  with  rushes.     Hang  ye  !   Trust  ye  ? 

I  suspect  that  Shakspeare  wrote  it  transposed ; 
Trust  ye  ?    Hang  ye  ! 

lb.  sc.  10.     Speech  of  Aufidius  : — 

Mine  emulation 
Hath  not  that  honour  in't,  it  had  ;   for  where 
I  thought  to  crush  him  in  an  equal  force. 
True  sword  to  sword  ;    I'll  potch  at  him  some  way. 
Or  wrath,  or  craft  may  get  him. — 

My  valour's  poison'd 
With  only  suffering  stain  by  him  for  him 
Shall  fly  out  of  itself:  nor  sleep,  nor  sanctuary, 
Being  naked,  sick,  nor  fane,  nor  capitol, 
The  prayers  of  priests,  nor  times  of  sacrifices, 
Embarquements  all  of  fury,  shall  lift  up 
Their  rotten  privilege  and  custom  'gainst 
My  hate  to  Marcius. 

I  have  such  deep  faith  in  Shakspeare's  heart-lore,  that 
I  take  for  granted  that  this  is  in  nature,  and  not  as  a  mere 
anomaly  ;  although  I  cannot  in  myself  discover  any  germ 
of  possible  feeling,  which  could  wax  and  unfold  itself  into 
such  sentiment  as  this.  However,  I  perceive  that  in  this 
speech  is  meant  to  be  contained  a  prevention  of  shock 
at  the  after-change  in  Aufidius'  character. 


Notes  on  Julius  Caesar  93 

Act.  ii.  sc.  I.     Speech  of  Menenius  : — 

The  most  sovereign  prescription  in  Galen,  &c. 

Was  it  without,  or  in  contempt  of,  historical  information 
that  Shakspeare  made  the  contemporaries  of  Coriolanus 
quote  Cato  and  Galen  ?  I  cannot  decide  to  my  own 
satisfaction. 

lb.  sc.  3.     speech  of  Coriolanus  : — 

Why  in  this  wolvish  gown  should  I  stand  here — 

That  the  gown  of  the  candidate  was  of  whitened  wool, 
we  know.  Does  'wolvish'  or  'woolvish'  mean  'made  of 
wool'  ?     If  it  means  'wolfish,'  what  is  the  sense  ? 

Act.  iv.  sc.  7.     Speech  of  Aufidius  : 

All  places  yield  to  him  ere  he  sits  down,  &c. 

I  have  always  thought  this,  in  itself  so  beautiful  speech, 
the  least  explicable  from  the  mood  and  full  intention  of 
the  speaker  of  any  in  the  whole  works  of  Shakspeare.  I 
cherish  the  hope  that  I  am  mistaken,  and  that,  becoming 
wiser,  I  shall  discover  some  profound  excellence  in  that,  in 
which  I  now  appear  to  detect  an  imperfection. 

JULIUS    CJESAR. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Mar.  What  meanest  thou  by  that  ?  Mend  me,  thou  saucy 
fellow  ! 

The  speeches  of  Flavins  and  Marullus  are  in  blank  verse. 
Wherever  regular  metre  can  be  rendered  truly  imitative  of 
character,  passion,  or  personal  rank,  Shakspeare  seldom, 
if  ever,  neglects  it.     Hence  this  hne  should  be  read  : — 

What  mean'st  by  that  ?  mend  me,  thou  saucy  fellow  ! 

I  say  regular  metre  :  for  even  the  prose  has  in  the  highest 
and  lowest  dramatic  personage,  a  Cobbler  or  a  Hamlet,  a 
rhythm  so  felicitous  and  so  severally  appropriate,  as  to  be 
a  virtual  metre. 
lb.  sc.  2. 
Bru.  A  soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  Ides  of  March. 
If  my  ear  does  not  deceive  me,  the  metre  of  this  line  was 


94  Notes  on  Julius  Cassar 

meant  to  express  that  sort  of  mild  philosophic  contempt, 
characterizing  Brutus  even  in  his  first  casual  speech.  The 
line  is  a  trimeter, — each  dipohia  containing  two  accented 
and  two  unaccented  syllables,  but  variously  arranged,  as 
thus ; — 

u     —     —    u     I     —       o      u     —      I      o     —      o         — 

A  soothsayer  |  bids  you  beware  I  the  Ides  of  March, 
lb.     Speech  of  Brutus  : 

Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently. 

Warburton  would  read  'death'  for  'both'  ;  but  I  prefer 
the  old  text.  There  are  here  three  things,  the  public 
good,  the  individual  Brutus'  honour,  and  his  death.  The 
latter  two  so  balanced  each  other,  that  he  could  decide  for 
the  first  by  equipoise  ;  nay — the  thought  growing — that 
honour  had  more  weight  than  death.  That  Cassius  under- 
stood it  as  Warburton,  is  the  beauty  of  Cassius  as  con- 
trasted with  Brutus. 
lb.     Caesar's  speech  : — 

He  loves  no  plays. 
As  thou  dost,  Antony  ;   he  hears  no  music,  &c 

This  is  not  a  trivial  observation,  nor  does  our  poet  mean  barely 
by  it,  that  Cassius  was  not  a  merry,  sprightly  man  ;  but  that  he 
had  not  a  due  temperament  of  harmony  in  his  disposition.  Theo- 
bald's Note. 

0  Theobald  !  what  a  commentator  wast  thou,  when  thou 
would' st  affect  to  understand  Shakspeare,  instead  of  con- 
tenting thyself  with  collating  the  text  !  The  meaning  here 
is  too  deep  for  a  line  ten-fold  the  length  of  thine  to  fathom. 

lb.  sc.  3.     Casca's  speech  : — 

Be  factious  for  redress  of  all  these  griefs  ; 
And  I  will  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far, 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

1  understand  it  thus  :  'You  have  spoken  as  a  con- 
spirator ;  be  so  in  fact,  and  I  will  join  you.  Act  on  your 
principles,  and  realize  them  in  a  fact.' 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Speech  of  Brutus  : — 

It  must  be  by  his  death  ;  and,  for  my  part, 

I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him. 

But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crown'd  : 

How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there's  the  question. 


Notes  on  Julius  Caesar  95 

And,  to  speak  truth  of  Caesax, 

I  have  not  known  when  his  afiections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason. 

So  Caesar  may  ; 

Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent. 

This  speech  is  singular  ; — at  least,  I  do  not  at  present  see 
into  Shakspeare's  motive,  his  rationale,  or  in  what  point  of 
view  he  meant  Brutus'  character  to  appear.  For  surely — 
(this,  I  mean,  is  what  I  say  to  myself,  with  my  present 
quantum  of  insight,  only  modified  by  my  experience  in  how 
many  instances  I  have  ripened  into  a  perception  of  beauties, 
where  I  had  before  descried  faults  ;)  surely,  nothing  can 
seem  more  discordant  with  our  historical  preconceptions  of 
Brutus,  or  more  lowering  to  the  intellect  of  the  Stoico- 
Platonic  tyrannicide,  than  the  tenets  here  attributed  to 
him — to  him,  the  stern  Roman  repubUcan  ;  namely, — that 
he  would  have  no  objection  to  a  king,  or  to  Caesar,  a 
monarch  in  Rome,  would  Caesar  but  be  as  good  a  monarch 
as  he  now  seems  disposed  to  be  !  How,  too,  could  Brutus 
say  that  he  found  no  personal  cause — none  in  Caesar's  past 
conduct  cLs  a  man  ?  Had  he  not  passed  the  Rubicon  ? 
Had  he  not  entered  Rome  as  a  conqueror  ?  Had  he  not 
placed  his  Gauls  in  the  Senate  ? — Shakspeare,  it  may  be 
said,  has  not  brought  these  things  forwards — True  ; — and 
this  is  just  the  ground  of  my  perplexity.  What  character 
did  Shakspeare  mean  his  Brutus  to  be  ? 

lb.     Speech  of  Brutus  : — 

For  if  thou  path,  thy  native  semblance  on — 

Surely,  there  need  be  no  scruple  in  treating  this  'path' 
as  a  mere  misprint  or  mis-script  for  'put.'  In  what  place 
does  Shakspeare, — where  does  any  other  writer  of  the  same 
age — use  'path'  as  a  verb  for  'walk  ?' 

lb.  sc.  2.     Caesar's  speech  : — 

She  dreamt  last  night,  she  saw  my  statue — 

No  doubt,  it  should  be  statua,  as  in  the  same  age,  they  more 
often  pronounced  'heroes'  as  a  trisyllable  than  dissyllable. 
A  modern  tragic  poet  would  have  written, — 

Last  night  she  dreamt,  that  she  my  statue  saw — 

But  Shakspeare  never  avails  himself  of  the  supposed 
license  of  transposition,  merely  for  the  metre.  There  is 
always  some  logic  either  of  thought  or  passion  to  justify  it. 


96  Notes  on  Julius  Caesar 

Act  iii.  sc.  I.     Antony's  speech  : — 

Pardon  me,  Julius — here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave  hart ; 
Here  didst  thou  fall  ;   and  here  thy  hunters  stand 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimson' d  in  thy  death. 
O  world  I  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart, 
And  this,  indeed,  O  world  !  the  heart  of  thee. 

I  doubt  the  genuineness  of  the  last  two  lines  ; — not  because 
they  are  vile  ;  but  first,  on  account  of  the  rhythm,  which  is 
not  Shakspearian,  but  just  the  very  tune  of  some  old  play, 
from  which  the  actor  might  have  interpolated  them  ; — 
and  secondly,  because  they  interrupt,  not  only  the  sense 
and  connection,  but  likewise  the  flow  both  of  the  passion, 
and,  (what  is  with  me  still  more  decisive)  of  the  Shak- 
spearian link  of  association.  As  with  many  another 
parenthesis  or  gloss  slipt  into  the  text,  we  have  only  to  read 
the  passage  without  it,  to  see  that  it  never  was  in  it.  I 
venture  to  say  there  is  no  instance  in  Shakspeare  fairly 
like  this.  Conceits  he  has  ;  but  they  not  only  rise  out  of 
some  word  in  the  lines  before,  but  also  lead  to  the  thought 
in  the  lines  following.  Here  the  conceit  is  a  mere  alien  : 
Antony  forgets  an  image,  when  he  is  even  touching  it,  and 
then  recollects  it,  when  the  thought  last  in  his  mind  must 
have  led  him  away  from  it. 

Act  iv.  sc.  3.     Speech  of  Brutus  : — 

What,  shall  one  of  us, 

That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world. 
But  for  supporting  robbers. 

This  seemingly  strange  assertion  of  Brutus  is  unhappily 
verified  in  the  present  day.  What  is  an  immense  army,  in 
which  the  lust  of  plunder  has  quenched  all  the  duties  of  the 
citizen,  other  than  a  horde  of  robbers,  or  differenced  only 
as  fiends  are  from  ordinarily  reprobate  men  ?  Caesar  sup- 
ported, and  was  supported  by,  such  as  these  ; — and  even  so 
Buonaparte  in  our  days. 

I  know  no  part  of  Shakspeare  that  more  impresses  on 
me  the  belief  of  his  genius  being  superhuman,  than  this 
scene  between  Brutus  and  Cassius.  In  the  Gnostic  heresy 
it  might  have  been  credited  with  less  absurdity  than 
most  of  their  dogrnas,  that  the  Supreme  had  employed 
him  to  create,  previously  to  his  function  of  representing, 
characters. 


Notes  on  Antony  and  Cleopatra     97 

ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Shakspeare  can  be  complimented  only  by  comparison 
with  himself  :  all  other  eulogies  are  either  heterogeneous, 
as  when  they  are  in  reference  to  Spenser  or  Milton  ;  or  they 
are  fiat  truisms,  as  when  he  is  gravely  preferred  to  Comeille, 
Racine,  or  even  his  own  immediate  successors,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  Massinger  and  the  rest.  The  highest  praise, 
or  rather  form  of  praise,  of  this  play,  which  I  can  offer  in 
my  own  mind,  is  the  doubt  which  the  perusal  always 
occasions  in  me,  whether  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  not, 
in  all  exhibitions  of  a  giant  power  in  its  strength  and  vigour 
of  maturity,  a  formidable  rival  of  Macbeth,  Lear,  Hamlet, 
and  Othello.  Feliciter  audax  is  the  motto  for  its  style  com- 
paratively with  that  of  Shakspeare' s  other  works,  even  as 
it  is  the  general  motto  of  all  his  works  compared  with  those 
of  other  poets.  Be  it  remembered,  too,  that  this  happy 
valiancy  of  style  is  but  the  representative  and  result  of  all 
the  material  excellencies  so  expressed. 

This  play  should  be  perused  in  mental  contrast  with 
Romeo  and  Juliet ; — as  the  love  of  passion  and  appetite 
opposed  to  the  love  of  affection  and  instinct.  But  the  art 
displayed  in  the  character  of  Cleopatra  is  profound  ;  in 
this,  especially,  that  the  sense  of  criminality  in  her  passion 
is  lessened  by  our  insight  into  its  depth  and  energy,  at  the 
very  moment  that  we  cannot  but  perceive  that  the  passion 
itself  springs  out  of  the  habitual  craving  of  a  licentious 
nature,  and  that  it  is  supported  and  reinforced  by  voluntary 
stimulus  and  sought-for  associations,  instead  of  blossoming 
out  of  spontaneous  emotion. 

Of  all  Shakspeare' s  historical  plays,  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra is  by  far  the  most  wonderful.  There  is  not  one  in 
which  he  has  followed  history  so  minutely,  and  yet  there 
are  few  in  which  he  impresses  the  notion  of  angelic  strength 
so  much  ; — perhaps  none  in  which  he  impresses  it  more 
strongly.  This  is  greatly  owing  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
fiery  force  is  sustained  throughout,  and  to  the  numerous 
momentary  flashes  of  nature  counteracting  the  historic 
abstraction.  As  a  wonderful  specimen  of  the  way  in  which 
Shakspeare  lives  up  to  the  very  end  of  this  play,  read  the 
last  part  of  the  concluding  scene.  And  if  you  would  feel 
the  judgment  as  well  as  the  genius  of  Shakspeare  in  your 


98     Notes  on  Antony  and  Cleopatra 

heart's  core,  compare  this  astonishing  drama  with  Dryden's 
All  For  Love. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Philo's  speech  : 

His  captain's  heart 
Which  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  hath  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneges  all  temper — 

It  should  be  'reneagues/  or  'reniegues/  as  'fatigues/  &c. 
lb. 

Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform' d 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool. 

Warburton's  conjecture  of  'stool'  is  ingenious,  and  would 
be  a  probable  reading,  if  the  scene  opening  had  discovered 
Antony  with  Cleopatra  on  his  lap.  But,  represented  as 
he  is  walking  and  jesting  with  her,  'fool'  must  be  the  word. 
Warburton's  objection  is  shallow,  and  implies  that  he 
confounded  the  dramatic  with  the  epic  style.  The  'pillar' 
of  a  state  is  so  common  a  metaphor  as  to  have  lost  the 
image  in  the  thing  meant  to  be  imaged, 
lb.  sc.  2. 

Much  is  breeding  ; 

Which,  like  the  courser's  hair,  hath  yet  but  life, 

And  not  a  serpent's  poison. 

This  is  so  far  true  to  appearance,  that  a  horse-hair, 
*laid,'  as  Hollinshed  says,  'in  a  pail  of  water,'  will  become 
the  supporter  of  seemingly  one  worm,  though  probably 
of  an  immense  number  of  small  sUmy  water-lice.  The 
hair  will  twirl  round  a  finger,  and  sensibly  compress  it. 
It  is  a  common  experiment  with  school  boys  in  Cumberland 
and  Westmorland. 

Act.  ii.  sc.  2.     Speech  of  Enobarbus  : — 

Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereids, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  th'  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings.     At  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers. 

I  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  beheving  that  Shakspeare 
wrote  the  first  'mermaids.'  He  never,  I  think,  would  have 
so  weakened  by  useless  anticipation  the  fine  image  im- 
mediately following.  The  epithet  'seeming'  becomes  so 
extremely  improper  after  the  whole  number  had  been  posi- 
tively called  'so  many  mermaids.' 


Notes  on  Timon  of  Athens         99 

TIMON    OF    ATHENS. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Tim.  The  man  is  honest. 
Old  Ath.   Therefore  he  will  be,  Timon. 

His  honesty  rewards  him  in  itself 

Warburton's  comment — *If  the  man  be  honest,  for  that 
reason  he  will  be  so  in  this,  and  not  endeavour  at  the 
injustice  of  gaining  my  daughter  without  my  consent' — is, 
like  almost  all  his  comments,  ingenious  in  blunder  ;  he 
can  never  see  any  other  writer's  thoughts  for  the  mist- 
working  swarm  of  his  own.  The  meaning  of  the  first  line 
the  poet  himself  explains,  or  rather  unfolds,  in  the  second. 
'The  man  is  honest !' — 'True  ; — and  for  that  very  cause, 
and  with  no  additional  or  extrinsic  motive,  he  will  be  so. 
No  man  can  be  justly  called  honest,  who  is  not  so  for 
honesty's  sake,  itself  including  its  own  reward.'  Note, 
that  'honesty'  in  Shakspeare's  age  retained  much  of  its 
old  dignity,  and  that  contradistinction  of  the  honestum 
from  the  utile,  in  which  its  very  essence  and  definition 
consists.  If  it  be  honestum,  it  cannot  depend  on  the  utile. 
lb.  Speech  of  Apemantus,  printed  as  prose  in  Theo- 
bald's edition  : — 

So,  so  !   aches  contract,  and  starve  your  supple  joints  ! 

I  may  remark  here  the  fineness  of  Shakspeare's  sense 
of  musical  period,  which  would  almost  by  itself  have 
suggested  (if  the  hundred  positive  proofs  had  not  been 
extant,)  that  the  word  'aches'  was  then  ad  libitum,  a 
dissyllable — aitches.  For  read  it,  'aches,'  in  this  sentence, 
and  I  would  challenge  you  to  find  any  period  in  Shakspeare's 
writings  with  the  same  musical  or,  rather  dissonant,  nota- 
tion. Try  the  one,  and  then  the  other,  by  your  ear,  reading 
the  sentence  aloud,  first  with  the  word  as  a  dissyllable  and 
then  as  a  monosyllable,  and  you  will  feel  what  I  mean.^ 

1  It  is,  of  course,  a  verse, — 

Achfes  contract,  and  starve  your  supple  joints, — 

and  is  so  printed  in  all  later  editions.  But  Mr.  C.  was  reading  it  in  prose  in  Theobald; 
and  it  is  curious  to  see  how  his  ear  detected  the  rhythmical  necessity  for  pronouncing 
'  aches '  as  a  dissyllable,  although  the  metrical  necessity  seems  for  the  moment  to  have 
escaped  him.     Ed. 


lOO       Notes  on  Timon  of  Athens 

lb.  sc.  2.  Cupid's  speech :  Warburton's  correction 
of— 

There  taste,  touch,  all  pleas' d  from  thy  table  rise — 
into 

Th'  ear,  taste,  touch,  smell,  &c. 

This  is  indeed  an  excellent  emendation. 
Act.  ii.  sc.  I.     Senator's  speech  : — 

— nor  then  silenc'd  when 
•  Commend  me  to  your  master' — and  the  cap 
Plays  in  the  right  hand,  thus  : — 

Either,   methinks,    'plays'    should  be   'play'd/   or   'and' 
should  be  changed  to  'while.'     I  can  certainly  understand 
it  as  a  parenthesis,  an  interadditive  of  scorn  ;   but  it  does 
not  sound  to  my  ear  as  in  Shakspeare's  manner, 
lb.  sc.  2.     Timon's  speech  :    (Theobald.) 

And  that  unaptness  made  you  minister, 
Thus  to  excuse  yourself. 

Read  your  ; — at  least  I  cannot  otherwise  understand  the 
line.  You  made  my  chance  indisposition  and  occasional 
unaptness  your  minister — that  is,  the  ground  on  which 
you  now  excuse  yourself.  Or,  perhaps,  no  correction 
is  necessary,  if  we  construe  'made  you'  as  'did  you  make  ;' 
'and  that  unaptness  did  you  make  help  you  thus  to  excuse 
yourself.'  But  the  former  seems  more  in  Shakspeare's 
manner,  and  is  less  Hable  to  be  misunderstood.^ 
Act  iii.  sc.  3.     Servant's  speech  : — 

How  fairly  this  lord  strives  to  appear  foul  ! — takes  virtuous 
copies  to  be  wicked  ;  like  those  that  under  hot,  ardent,  zeal  would 
set  whole  realms  on  fire.     Of  such  a  nature  is  his  politic  love. 

This  latter  clause  I  grievously  suspect  to  have  been  an 
addition  of  the  players,  which  had  hit,  and,  being  con- 
stantly applauded,  procured  a  settled  occupancy  in  the 
prompter's  copy.  Not  that  Shakspeare  does  not  elsewhere 
sneer  at  the  Puritans  ;  but  here  it  is  introduced  so  nolenter 
volenfer  (excuse  the  phrase)  by  the  head  and  shoulders  ! — 
and  is  besides  so  much  more  likely  to  have  been  conceived 
in  the  age  of  Charles  I. 

Act  iv.  sc.  2.     Timon's  speech  : — 

Raise  me  this  beggar,  and  deny't  that  lord. — 
Warburton  reads  'denude.' 

1  '  Vour  '  is  the  received  reading;  now.     Ed. 


Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet       loi 

I  cannot  see  the  necessity  of  this  alteration.  The 
editors  and  commentators  are,  all  of  them,  ready  enough 
to  cry  out  against  Shakspeare's  laxities  and  licenses  of 
style,  forgetting  that  he  is  not  merely  a  poet,  but  a  dramatic 
poet ;  that,  when  the  head  and  the  heart  are  swelling 
with  fulness,  a  man  does  not  ask  himself  whether  he  has 
grammatically  arranged,  but  only  whether  (the  context 
taken  in)  he  has  conveyed,  his  meaning.  'Deny'  is  here 
clearly  equal  to  'withhold  ;'  and  the  *it/  quite  in  the 
genius  of  vehement  conversation,  which  a  syntaxist  ex- 
plains by  ellipses  and  suhauditurs  in  a  Greek  or  Latin 
classic,  yet  triumphs  over  as  ignorances  in  a  contemporary, 
refers  to  accidental  and  artificial  rank  or  elevation,  implied 
in  the  verb  'raise.'  Besides,  does  the  word  'denude'  occur 
in  any  writer  before,  or  of,  Shakspeare's  age  ? 

ROMEO    AND    JULIET. 

I  HAVE  previously  had  occasion  to  speak  at  large  on  the 
subject  of  the  three  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action,  as 
applied  to  the  drama  in  the  abstract,  and  to  the  particular 
stage  for  which  Shakspeare  wrote,  as  far  as  he  can  be  said 
to  have  written  for  any  stage  but  that  of  the  universal 
mind.  I  hope  I  have  in  some  measure  succeeded  in 
demonstrating  that  the  former  two,  instead  of  being  rules, 
were  mere  inconveniences  attached  to  the  local  peculiarities 
of  the  Athenian  drama  ;  that  the  last  alone  deserved  the 
name  of  a  principle,  and  that  in  the  preservation  of  this 
unity  Shakspeare  stood  pre-eminent.  Yet,  instead  of 
unity  of  action,  I  should  greatly  prefer  the  more  appro- 
priate, though  scholastic  and  uncouth,  words  homogeneity, 
proportionateness,  and  totahty  of  interest, — expressions, 
which  involve  the  distinction,  or  rather  the  essential 
difference,  betwixt  the  shaping  skill  of  mechanical  talent, 
and  the  creative,  productive,  life-power  of  inspired  genius. 
In  the  former  each  part  is  separately  conceived,  and  then 
by  a  succeeding  act  put  together  ; — not  as  watches  are 
made  for  wholesale — (for  there  each  part  supposes  a  pre- 
conception of  the  whole  in  some  mind) — but  more  like 
pictures  on  a  motley  screen.  Whence  arises  the  harmony 
that  strikes  us  in  the  wildest  natural  landscapes, — 
in  the  relative  shapes  of  rocks,  the  harmony  of   colours 


I02        Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet 

in  the  heaths,  ferns,  and  Uchens,  the  leaves  of  the 
beech  and  the  oak,  the  stems  and  rich  brown  branches  of 
the  birch  and  other  mountain  trees,  varying  from  verging 
autumn  to  returning  spring, — compared  with  the  visual 
effect  from  the  greater  number  of  artificial  plantations  ? 
— From  this,  that  the  natural  landscape  is  effected,  as  it 
were,  by  a  single  energy  modified  ah  intra  in  each  com- 
ponent part.  And  as  this  is  the  particular  excellence  of 
the  Shakspearian  drama  generally,  so  is  it  especially 
characteristic  of  the  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  groundwork  of  the  tale  is  altogether  in  family  life, 
and  the  events  of  the  play  have  their  first  origin  in  family 
feuds.  Filmy  as  are  the  eyes  of  party-spirit,  at  once  dim 
and  truculent,  still  there  is  commonly  some  real  or  supposed 
object  in  view,  or  principle  to  be  maintained  ;  and  though 
but  the  twisted  wires  on  the  plate  of  rosin  in  the  prepara- 
tion for  electrical  pictures,  it  is  still  a  guide  in  some  degree, 
an  assimilation  to  an  outline.  But  in  family  quarrels, 
which  have  proved  scarcely  less  injurious  to  states,  wilful- 
ness, and  precipitancy,  and  passion  from  mere  habit  and 
custom,  can  alone  be  expected.  With  his  accustomed 
judgment,  Shakspeare  has  begun  by  placing  before  us  a 
lively  picture  of  all  the  impulses  of  the  play  ;  and,  as 
nature  ever  presents  two  sides,  one  for  Heraclitus,  and  one 
for  Democritus,  he  has,  by  way  of  prelude,  shown  the 
laughable  absurdity  of  the  evil  by  the  contagion  of  it 
reaching  the  servants,  who  have  so  little  to  do  with  it,  but 
who  are  under  the  necessity  of  letting  the  superfluity  of 
sensoreal  power  fly  off  through  the  escape-valve  of  wit- 
combats,  and  of  quarrelling  with  weapons  of  sharper  edge, 
all  in  humble  imitation  of  their  masters.  Yet  there  is  a 
sort  of  unhired  fidelity,  an  ourishness  about  all  this  that 
makes  it  rest  pleasant  on  one's  feelings.  All  the  first  scene, 
down  to  the  conclusion  of  the  Priace's  speech,  is  a  motley 
dance  of  all  ranks  and  ages  to  one  tune,  as  if  the  horn  of 
Huon  had  been  pla5dng  behind  the  scenes. 

Benvolio's  speech — 

Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd  sun 
Peer'd  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east — 

and,    far   more   strikingly,    the   following   speech   of   old 

Montague — 

Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been  seen 

With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning's  dew- 


Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet      103 

prove  that  Shakspeare  meant  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  to 
approach  to  a  poem,  which,  and  indeed  its  early  date,  ma^r 
be  also  inferred  from  the  multitude  of  rhyming  couplets 
throughout.  And  if  we  are  right,  from  the  internal 
evidence,  in  pronouncing  this  one  of  Shakspeare's  early 
dramas,  it  affords  a  strong  instance  of  the  fineness  of  his 
insight  into  the  nature  of  the  passions,  that  Romeo  is 
introduced  already  love-bewildered.  The  necessity  of 
loving  creates  an  object  for  itself  in  man  and  woman  ;  and 
yet  there  is  a  difference  in  this  respect  between  the  sexes, 
though  only  to  be  known  by  a  perception  of  it.  It  would 
have  displeased  us  if  Juliet  had  been  represented  as  already 
in  love,  or  as  fancying  herself  so  ; — but  no  one,  I  believe, 
ever  experiences  any  shock  at  Romeo's  forgetting  his 
Rosaline,  who  had  been  a  mere  name  for  the  yearning  of 
his  youthful  imagination,  and  rushing  into  his  passion  for 
JuHet.  Rosaline  was  a  mere  creation  of  his  fancy  ;  and 
we  should  remark  the  boastful  positiveness  of  Romeo  in 
a  love  of  his  own  making,  which  is  never  shown  where  love 
is  really  near  the  heart. 

When  the  devout  religion  of  mine  eye 
Maintains  such  falsehood,  then  turn  tears  to  fires  ! 
♦  *  «  * 

One  fairer  than  my  love  !   the  all-seeing  sun 
Ne'er  saw  her  match,  since  first  the  world  begun. 

The  character  of  the  Nurse  is  the  nearest  of  any  thing  in 
Shakspeare  to  a  direct  borrowing  from  mere  observation  ; 
and  the  reason  is,  that  as  in  infancy  and  childhood  the 
individual  in  nature  is  a  representative  of  a  class, — just  as 
in  describing  one  larch  tree,  you  generalize  a  grove  of  them, 
— so  it  is  nearly  as  much  so  in  old  age.  The  generalization 
is  done  to  the  poet's  hand.  Here  you  have  the  garrulity 
of  age  strengthened  by  the  feelings  of  a  long-trusted 
servant,  whose  sympathy  with  the  mother's  affections 
gives  her  privileges  and  rank  in  the  household  ;  and  observe 
the  mode  of  connection  by  accidents  of  time  and  place,  and 
the  childHke  fondness  of  repetition  in  a  second  childhood, 
and  also  that  happy,  humble,  ducking  under,  yet  constant 
resurgence  against,  the  check  of  her  superiors  ! — 

Yes,  madam  ! — Yet  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh,  &c. 

In  the  fourth  scene  we  have  Mercutio  introduced  to  us. 
0  !    how  shall  I  describe  that  exquisite  ebullience  and 


104      Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet 

overflow  of  youthful  life,  wafted  on  over  the  laughing  waves 
of  pleasure  and  prosperity,  as  a  wanton  beauty  that  dis- 
torts the  face  on  which  she  knows  her  lover  is  gazing 
enraptured,  and  wrinkles  her  forehead  in  the  triumph  of 
its  smoothness  !  Wit  ever  wakeful,  fancy  busy  and  pro- 
creative  as  an  insect,  courage,  an  easy  mind  that,  without 
cares  of  its  own,  is  at  once  disposed  to  laugh  away  those  of 
others,  and  yet  to  be  interested  in  them, — these  and  all 
congenial  qualities,  melting  into  the  common  copula  of 
them  all,  the  man  of  rank  and  the  gentleman,  with  all  its 
excellences  and  all  its  weaknesses,  constitute  the  character 
of  Mercutio  ! 
Act  i.  sc.  5. 

Tyh.  It  fits  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest  ; 
I'll  not  endure  him. 

Cap.  He  shall  be  endur'd. 
What,  goodman  boy  ! — I  say,  he  shall  : — Go  to  ; — 
Am  I  the  master  he*re,  or  you  ? — Go  to. 
You'll  not  endure  him  ! — God  shall  mend  my  soul — 
You'll  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests  ! 
You  will  set  cock-a-hoop  !   you'll  be  the  man  1 

Tyb.    Why,  uncle,  'tis  a  shame. 

Cap.   Go  to,  go  to. 
You  are  a  saucy  boy  !    &c. — 

How  admirable  is  the  old  man's  impetuosity  at  once 
contrasting,  yet  harmonized,  with  young  Tybalt's  quarrel- 
some violence  !  But  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  observa- 
tions of  this  sort.  Every  leaf  is  different  on  an  oak  tree  ; 
but  still  we  can  only  say — our  tongues  defrauding  our  eyes 
— 'This  is  another  oak-leaf!* 

Act  ii.  sc.  2.     The  garden  scene  : 

Take  notice  in  this  enchanting  scene  of  the  contrast  of 
Romeo's  love  with  his  former  fancy  ;  and  v/eigh  the  skill 
shown  in  justifjdng  him  from  his  inconstancy  by  making 
us  feel  the  difference  of  his  passion.  Yet  this,  too,  is  a  love 
in,  although  not  merely  of,  the  imagination. 

lb. 

Jul.   Well,  do  not  swear  ;   although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night  : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden,  &c. 

With  love,  pure  love,  there  is  always  an  anxiety  for  the 
safety  of  the  object,  a  disinterestedness,  by  which  it  is 
distinguished  from  the  counterfeits  of  its  name.     Compare 


Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet       105 

this  scene  with  Act  iii.  sc.  i.  of  the  Tempest.  I  do  not 
know  a  more  wonderful  instance  of  Shakspeare's  mastery 
in  playing  a  distinctly  rememberable  variety  on  the  same 
remembered  air,  than  in  the  transporting  love  confessions 
of  Romeo  and  JuHet  and  Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  There 
seems  more  passion  in  the  one,  and  more  dignity  in  the 
other  ;  yet  you  feel  that  the  sweet  girHsh  lingering  and  busy 
movement  of  Juhet,  and  the  calmer  and  more  maidenly 
fondness  of  Miranda,  might  easily  pass  into  each  other. 

lb.  sc.  3.     The  Friar's  speech  : — 

The  reverend  character  of  the  Friar,  hke  all  Shakspeare's 
representations  of  the  great  professions,  is  very  delightful 
and  tranquillizing,  yet  it  is  no  digression,  but  immediately 
necessary  to  the  carrying  on  of  the  plot. 

lb.  sc.  4. 

Rom.  Good  morrow  to  you  both.  What  counterfeit  did  I  give 
you  ?  &c. 

Compare  again,  Romeo's  half-exerted,  and  half-real, 
ease  of  mind  with  his  first  manner  when  in  love  with 
Rosaline  !    His  will  had  come  to  the  clenching  point. 

lb.  sc.  6. 

Rom.  Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words. 
Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare, 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine. 

The  precipitancy,  which  is  the  character  of  the  play,  is 
well  marked  in  this  short  scene  of  waiting  for  Juliet's 
arrival. 

Act  iii.  sc.  I. 

Mer.  No,  'tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church 
door  ;  but  'tis  enough  :  'twill  serve  :  ask  for  me  to-morrow,  and 
you  shall  find  me  a  grave  man,  &c. 

How  fine  an  effect  the  wit  and  raillery  habitual  to  Mer- 
cutio,  even  struggling  with  his  pain,  give  to  Romeo's 
following  speech,  and  at  the  same  time  so  completely 
justifying  his  passionate  revenge  on  Tybalt ! 

lb.     Benvolio's  speech  : 

But  that  he  tilts 
With  piercing  steel  at  bold  Mercutio's  breast. 

This  small  portion  of  untruth  in  Benvolio's  narrative 
is  finely  conceived. 


io6       Notes  on  Romeo  and  Juliet 

lb.  sc.  2.     Juliet's  speech  : 

For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back. — 

Indeed  the  whole  of  this  speech  is  imagination  strained 
to  the  highest ;  and  observe  the  blessed  effect  on  the  purity 
of  the  mind.     What  would  Dryden  have  made  of  it  ? — 

lb. 

Nurse.  Shame  come  to  Romeo. 
Jul.   Blister' d  be  thy  tongue 
For  such  a  wish  ! 

Note  the  Nurse's  mistake  of  the  mind's  audible  struggles 
with  itself  for  its  decision  in  toto. 
lb.  sc.  3.     Romeo's  speech  : — 

'Tis  torture,  and  not  mercy  :   heaven  is  here. 
Where  Juliet  lives,  &c. 

All  deep  passions  are  a  sort  of  atheists,  that  believe  no 
future, 
lb.  sc.  5. 

Cap.  Soft,  take  me  with  you,  take  me  with  you,  wife — 
How  !   will  she  none  ?  &c. 

A  noble  scene  !  Don't  I  see  it  with  my  own  eyes  ? — 
Yes  !  but  not  with  Juliet's.  And  observe  in  Capulet's 
last  speech  in  this  scene  his  mistake,  as  if  love's  causes 
were  capable  of  being  generalized. 

Act  iv.  sc.  3.     Juliet's  speech  : — 

O,  look  !    methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point  : — Stay,  Tybalt,  stay  ! — 
Romeo,  I  come  !    this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 

Shakspeare  provides  for  the  finest  decencies.  It  would 
have  been  too  bold  a  thing  for  a  girl  of  fifteen  ; — but  she 
swallows  the  draught  in  a  fit  of  fright. 

lb.  sc.  5. 

As  the  audience  know  that  Juliet  is  not  dead,  this  scene 
is,  perhaps,  excusable.  But  it  is  a  strong  warning  to 
minor  dramatists  not  to  introduce  at  one  time  many 
separate  characters  agitated  by  one  and  the  same  circum- 
stance. It  is  difficult  to  understand  what  effect,  whether 
that  of  pity  or  of  laughter,  Shakspeare  meant  to  produce  ; 
— the   occasion   and   the   characteristic   speeches   are   so 


Shakspeare's  Historical  Plays       107 

little  in  harmony  !  For  example,  what  the  Nurse  says  is 
excellently  suited  to  the  Nurse's  character,  but  grotesquely 
unsuited  to  the  occasion. 

Act  V.  sc.  I.     Romeo's  speech  : — 

O  mischief  !    thou  art  swift 
To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men  1 
I  do  remember  an  apothecary,  &c. 

This  famous  passage  is  so  beautiful  as  to  be  self-justified  ; 
yet,  in  addition,  what  a  fine  preparation  it  is  for  the  tomb 
scene  ! 

lb.  sc.  3.     Romeo's  speech  : — 

Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man. 
Fly  hence  and  leave  me. 

The  gentleness  of  Romeo  was  shown  before,  as  softened 
by  love  ;  and  now  it  is  doubled  by  love  and  sorrow  and 
awe  of  the  place  where  he  is. 

lb.     Romeo's  speech  : — 

How  oft  when  men  are  at  the  point  of  death 
Have  they  been  merry  !   which  their  keepers  call 
A  lightning  before  death.     O,  how  may  I 
Call  this  a  lightning  ? — O,  my  love,  my  wife  !    &c. 

Here,  here,  is  the  master  example  how  beauty  can  at 
once  increase  and  modify  passion  ! 

lb.  Last  scene. 

How  beautiful  is  the  close  !  The  spring  and  the  winter 
meet ; — winter  assumes  the  character  of  spring,  and  spring 
the  sadness  of  winter. 


SHAKSPEARE'S    ENGLISH    HISTORICAL 
PLAYS. 

The  first  form  of  poetry  is  the  epic,  the  essence  of  which 
may  be  stated  as  the  successive  in  events  and  characters. 
This  must  be  distinguished  from  narration,  in  which  there 
must  always  be  a  narrator,  from  whom  the  objects  re- 
presented receive  a  colouring  and  a  manner  ; — whereas  in 
the  epic,  as  in  the  so  called  poems  of  Homer,  the  whole 
is  completely  objective,  and  the  representation  is  a  pure 
reflection.     The  next  form  into  which  poetry  passed  was 


io8  Shakspeare's  English 

the  dramatic  ; — both  forms  having  a  common  basis  with 
a  certain  difference,  and  that  difference  not  consisting  in 
the  dialogue  alone.  Both  are  founded  on  the  relation  of 
providence  to  the  human  will ;  and  this  relation  is  the 
universal  element,  expressed  under  different  points  of  view 
according  to  the  difference  of  religion,  and  the  moral  and 
intellectual  cultivation  of  different  nations.  In  the  epic 
poem  fate  is  represented  as  overruling  the  will,  and  making 
it  instrumental  to  the  accomplishment  of  its  designs  : — 

Albs  S^  TeXetero  jSouXij. 

In  the  drama,  the  wiU  is  exhibited  as  struggling  with  fate, 
a  great  and  beautiful  instance  and  illustration  of  which  is 
the  Prometheus  of  iEschylus  ;  and  the  deepest  effect  is 
produced,  when  the  fate  is  represented  as  a  higher  and 
intelligent  will,  and  the  opposition  of  the  individual  as 
springing  from  a  defect. 

In  order  that  a  drama  may  be  properly  historical,  it  is 
necessary  that  it  should  be  the  history  of  the  people  to 
whom  it  is  addressed.  In  the  composition,  care  must  be 
taken  that  there  appear  no  dramatic  improbability,  as  the 
reality  is  taken  for  granted.  It  must,  likewise,  be 
poetical ; — that  only,  I  mean,  must  be  taken  which  is  the 
permanent  in  our  nature,  which  is  common,  and  therefore 
deeply  interesting  to  all  ages.  The  events  themselves  are 
immaterial,  otherwise  than  as  the  clothing  and  manifesta- 
tion of  the  spirit  that  is  working  within.  In  this  mode,  the 
unity  resulting  from  succession  is  destroyed,  but  is  supplied 
by  a  unity  of  a  higher  order,  which  connects  the  events  by 
reference  to  the  workers,  gives  a  reason  for  them  in  the 
motives,  and  presents  men  in  their  causative  character. 
It  takes,  therefore,  that  part  of  real  history  which  is  the 
least  known,  and  infuses  a  principle  of  life  and  organization 
into  the  naked  facts,  and  makes  them  all  the  framework  of 
an  animated  whole. 

In  my  happier  days,  while  I  had  yet  hope  and  onward- 
looking  thoughts,  I  planned  an  historical  drama  of  King 
Stephen,  in  the  manner  of  Shakspeare.  Indeed  it  would 
be  desirable  that  some  man  of  dramatic  genius  should 
dramatize  all  those  omitted  by  Shakspeare,  as  far  down  as 
Henry  VII.  Perkin  Warbeck  would  make  a  most  interest- 
ing drama.  A  few  scenes  of  Marlow's  Edward  II.  might 
be  preserved.     After  Henry  VIII.,  the  events  are  too  weU 


Historical  Plays  109 

and  distinctly  known,  to  be,  without  plump  inverisimili- 
tude,  crowded  together  in  one  night's  exhibition.  Where- 
as, the  history  of  our  ancient  kings — the  events  of  their 
reigns,  I  mean, — are  like  stars  in  the  sky  ; — whatever  the 
real  interspaces  may  be,  and  however  great,  they  seem 
close  to  each  other.  The  stars — the  events — strike  us  and 
remain  in  our  eye,  little  modified  by  the  difference  of  dates. 
An  historic  drama  is,  therefore,  a  collection  of  events 
borrowed  from  history,  but  connected  together  in  respect 
of  cause  and  time,  poetically  and  by  dramatic  fiction.  It 
would  be  a  fine  national  custom  to  act  such  a  series  of 
dramatic  histories  in  orderly  succession,  in  the  yearly 
Christmas  holidays,  and  could  not  but  tend  to  counteract 
that  mock  cosmopolitism,  which  under  a  positive  term 
really  implies  nothing  but  a  negation  of,  or  indifference  to, 
the  particular  love  of  our  country.  By  its  nationality 
must  every  nation  retain  its  independence  ; — I  mean  a 
nationality  quoad  the  nation.  Better  thus  ; — nationality 
in  each  individual,  quoad  his  country,  is  equal  to  the  sense 
of  individuality  quoad  himself  ;  but  himself  as  subsen- 
suous,  and  central.  Patriotism  is  equal  to  the  sense  of 
individuality  reflected  from  every  other  individual.  There 
may  come  a  higher  virtue  in  both — just  cosmopolitism. 
But  this  latter  is  not  possible  but  by  antecedence  of  the 
former. 

Shakspeare  has  included  the  most  important  part  of 
nine  reigns  in  his  historical  dramas — namely — King  John, 
Richard  II.— Henry  IV.  (two)— Henry  V.— Henry  VI. 
(three)  including  Edward  V.  and  Henry  VIII.,  in  all  ten 
plays.  There  remain,  therefore,  to  be  done,  with  the 
exception  of  a  single  scene  or  two  that  should  be  adopted 
from  Marlow — eleven  reigns — of  which  the  first  two  appear 
the  only  unpromising  subjects  ; — and  those  two  dramas 
must  be  formed  whoUy  or  mainly  of  invented  private 
stories,  which,  however,  could  not  have  happened  except 
in  consequence  of  the  events  and  measures  of  these  reigns, 
and  which  should  furnish  opportunity  both  of  exhibiting 
the  manners  and  oppressions  of  the  times,  and  of  narrating 
dramatically  the  great  events  ; — if  possible,  the  death  of 
the  two  sovereigns,  at  least  of  the  latter,  should  be  made 
to  have  some  influence  on  the  finale  of  the  story.  All  the 
rest  are  glorious  subjects  ;  especially  Henry  ist.  (being 
the  struggle  between  the  men  of  arms  and  of  letters,  in  the 


no  Shakspeare's  English 

persons    of    Henry    and    Becket,)    Stephen,    Richard    I., 
Edward  II.,  and  Henry  VII. 


KING    JOHN. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Bast.   James  Gurney,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave  awhile  ? 
Gur.  Good  leave,  good  Philip. 
Bast.  Philip  ?    sparrow  I   James,  &c. 

Theobald  adopts  Warburton's  conjecture  of  'spare  me.' 

0  true  Warburton  !  and  the  sanota  simplicitas  of  honest 
dull  Theobald's  faith  in  him  !  Nothing  can  be  more 
hvely  or  characteristic  than  'Philip?  Sparrow!'  Had 
Warburton  read  old  Skelton's  'Philip  Sparrow,'  an  ex- 
quisite and  original  poem,  and,  no  doubt,  popular  in 
Shakspeare's  time,  even  Warburton  would  scarcely  have 
made  so  deep  a  plunge  into  the  bathetic  as  to  have  deathified 
'sparrow'   into   'spare  me!' 

Act  iii.  sc.   2.     Speech  of  Faulconbridge  : — 

Now,  by  my  life,  this  day  grows  wondrous  hot ; 
Some  airy  devil  hovers  in  the  sky,  &c. 

Theobald  adopts  Warburton's  conjecture  of  'fiery.' 

1  prefer  the  old  text  :  the  word  'devil'  implies  'fiery.' 
You  need  only  read  the  line,  laying  a  full  and  strong 
emphasis  on  'devil,'  to  perceive  the  uselessness  and  taste- 
iessness   of   W^ar burton's   alteration. 


RICHARD    II. 

I  HAVE  stated  that  the  transitional  link  between  the  epic 
poem  and  the  drama  is  the  historic  drama  ;  that  in  the 
epic  poem  a  pre-announced  fate  gradually  adjusts  and 
employs  the  will  and  the  events  as  its  instruments,  whilst 
the  drama,  on  the  other  hand,  places  fate  and  will  in 
opposition  to  each  other,  and  is  then  most  perfect,  when 
the  victory  of  fate  is  obtained  in  consequence  of  imperfec- 
tions in  the  opposing  will,  so  as  to  leave  a  final  impression 
that  the  fate  itself  is  but  a  higher  and  a  more  intelhgent 
will. 


Historical    Plays  iii 

From  the  length  of  the  speeches,  and  the  circumstance 
that,  with  one  exception,  the  events  are  all  historical,  and 
presented  in  their  results,  not  produced  by  acts  seen  by, 
or  taking  place  before,  the  audience,  this  tragedy  is  ill 
suited  to  our  present  large  theatres.  But  in  itself,  and 
for  the  closet,  I  feel  no  hesitation  in  placing  it  as  the  first 
and  most  admirable  of  all  Shakspeare's  purely  historical 
plays.  For  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  form  a  species  of 
themselves,  which  may  be  named  the  mixed  drama.  The 
distinction  does  not  depend  on  the  mere  quantity  of 
historical  events  in  the  play  compared  with  the  fictions  ; 
for  there  is  as  much  history  in  Macbeth  as  in  Richard, 
but  in  the  relation  of  the  history  to  the  plot.  In  the  purely 
historical  plays,  the  history  forms  the  plot ;  in  the  mixed, 
it  directs  it ;  in  the  rest,  as  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  C5nTibeline, 
Lear,  it  subserves  it.  But,  however  unsuited  to  the  stage 
this  drama  may  be,  God  forbid  that  even  there  it  should 
fall  dead  on  the  hearts  of  jacobinized  Englishmen  !  Then, 
indeed,  we  might  say — -prcBteriit  gloria  mundi  !  For  the 
spirit  of  patriotic  reminiscence  is  the  all-permeating  soul 
of  this  noble  work.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  most  purely 
historical  of  Shakspeare's  dramas.  There  are  not  in  it, 
as  in  the  others,  characters  introduced  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  a  greater  individuality  and  realness, 
as  in  the  comic  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  by  presenting,  as  it 
were,  our  very  selves.  Shakspeare  avails  himself  of  every 
opportunity  to  effect  the  great  object  of  the  historic 
drama,  that,  namely,  of  familiarizing  the  people  to  the 
great  names  of  their  country,  and  thereby  of  exciting  a 
steady  patriotism,  a  love  of  just  liberty,  and  a  respect  for 
aU  those  fundamental  institutions  of  social  hfe,  which  bind 
men  together  : — 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle. 

This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 

This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself, 

Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea. 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  home, 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands  ; 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 

Fear'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth,  &c. 


112  Shakspeare's  English 

Add  the  famous  passage  in  King  John : — 

This  England  never  did,  nor  ever  shall, 

Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 

But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 

Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 

Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms. 

And  we  shall  shock  them  :   nought  shall  make  us  rue. 

If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true. 

And  it  certainly  seems  that  Shakspeare's  historic  dramas 
produced  a  very  deep  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  EngUsh 
people,  and  in  earUer  times  they  were  familiar  even  to  the 
least  informed  of  all  ranks,  according  to  the  relation  of 
Bishop  Corbett.  Marlborough,  we  know,  was  not  ashamed 
to  confess  that  his  principal  acquaintance  with  English 
history  was  derived  from  them  ;  and  I  believe  that  a  large 
part  of  the  information  as  to  our  old  names  and  achieve- 
ments even  now  abroad  is  due,  directly  or  indirectly,  to 
Shakspeare. 

Admirable  is  the  judgment  with  which  Shakspeare 
cdways  in  the  first  scenes  prepares,  yet  how  naturally,  and 
with  what  concealment  of  art,  for  the  catastrophe.  Observe 
how  he  here  presents  the  germ  of  all  the  after  events 
in  Richard's  insincerity,  partiality,  arbitrariness,  and 
favoritism,  and  in  the  proud,  tempestuous,  temperament 
of  his  barons.  In  the  very  beginning,  also,  is  displayed 
that  feature  in  Richard's  character,  which  is  never  for- 
gotten throughout  the  play — his  attention  to  decorum, 
and  high  feeling  of  the  kingly  dignity.  These  anticipations 
show  with  what  judgment  Shakspeare  wrote,  and  illustrate 
his  care  to  connect  the  past  and  future,  and  unify  them 
with  the  present  by  forecast  and  reminiscence. 

It  is  interesting  to  a  critical  ear  to  compare  the  six  open- 
ing lines  of  the  play — 

Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour' d  Lancaster, 
Hast  thou,  according  to  thy  oath  and  band,  &c. 

each  closing  at  the  tenth  syllable,  with  the  rhythmless 
metre  of  the  verse  in  Henry  VI.  and  Titus  Andronicus,  in 
order  that  the  difference,  indeed,  the  heterogeneity,  of  the 
two  may  be  felt  etiam  in  simillimis  prima  siiperficie.  Here 
the  weight  of  the  single  words  supplies  all  the  rehef  afforded 
by  intercurrent  verse,  while  the  whole  represents  the  mood. 


Historical  Plays  113 

And  compare  the  apparently  defective  metre  of  Boling- 
broke's  first  line, — 

Many  years  of  happy  days  befall — 
with  Prospero's, 

Twelve  years  since,  Miranda  !    twelve  years  since — 

The  actor  should  supply  the  time  by  emphasis,  and  pause 
on  the  first  syllable  of  each  of  these  verses. 
Act  i.  sc.  I.     Bolingbroke's  speech  : — 

First,  (heaven  be  the  record  to  my  speech  !) 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love,  &c. 

I  remember  in  the  Sophoclean  drama  no  more  striking 
example  of  the  ro  Trpivov  %ai  6ifjjvov  than  this  speech ; 
and  the  rh57mes  in  the  last  six  lines  well  express  the  pre- 
concertedness  of  Bolingbroke's  scheme  so  beautifully 
contrasted  with  the  vehemence  and  sincere  irritation  of 
Mowbray. 

lb.     Bolingbroke's  speech  : — 

Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries. 
Even  from  the  tongueless  caverns  of  the  earth, 
To  me,  for  justice  and  rough  chastisement. 

Note  the  bimv  of  this  'to  me,'  which  is  evidently  felt  by 
Richard  : — 

How  high  a  pitch  his  resolution  soars  1 

and  the  affected  depreciation  afterwards  ; — 

As  he  is  but  my  father's  brother's  son. 

lb.     Mowbray's  speech  : — 

In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 
Your  highness  to  aissign  our  trial  day. 

The  occasional  interspersion  of  rhymes,  and  the  more 
frequent  winding  up  of  a  speech  therewith — what  purpose 
was  this  designed  to  answer  ?  In  the  earnest  drama,  I 
mean.  Deliberateness  ?  An  attempt,  ais  in  Mowbray, 
to  collect  himself  and  be  cool  at  the  close  ? — I  can  see  that 
in  the  following  speeches  the  rhyme  answers  the  end  of  the 
Greek  chorus,  and  distinguishes  the  general  truths  from 
the  passions  of  the  dialogue  ;  but  this  does  not  exactly 
justify  the  practice,  which  is  unfrequent  in  proportion  to 
the  excellence  of  Shakspeare's  plays.     One  thing,  however. 


114  Shakspeare's  English 

is  to  be  observed, — that  the  speakers  are  historical,  known, 
and  so  far  formal,  characters,  and  their  reality  is  already 
a  fact.  This  should  be  borne  in  mind.  The  whole  of  this 
scene  of  the  quarrel  between  Mowbray  and  Bolingbroke 
seems  introduced  for  the  purpose  of  showing  by  anticipa- 
tion the  characters  of  Richard  and  Bolingbroke.  In  the 
latter  there  is  observable  a  decorous  and  courtly  checking 
of  his  anger  in  subservience  to  a  predetermined  plan, 
especially  in  his  calm  speech  after  receiving  sentence  of 
banishment  compared  with  Mowbray's  unaffected  lamenta- 
tion. In  the  one,  all  is  ambitious  hope  of  something  yet 
to  come  ;  in  the  other  it  is  desolation  and  a  looking 
backward  of  the  heart, 
lb.  sc.  2. 

Gaunt.  Heaven's  is  the  quarrel  ;    for  heaven's  substitute. 
His  deputy  anointed  in  his  right, 
Hath  caus'd  his  death  :    the  which,  ii  wrongfully, 
Let  heaven  revenge  ;   for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Without  the  hollow  extravagance  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  ultra-royalism,  how  carefully  does  Shakspeare 
acknowledge  and  reverence  the  eternal  distinction  between 
the  mere  individual,  and  the  symbolic  or  representative, 
on  which  all  genial  law,  no  less  than  patriotism,  depends. 
The  whole  of  this  second  scene  commences,  and  is  anti- 
cipative  of,  the  tone  and  character  of  the  play  at  large. 

lb.  sc.  3.  In  none  of  Shakspeare's  fictitious  dramas,  or 
in  those  founded  on  a  history  as  unknown  to  his  auditors 
generally  as  fiction,  is  this  violent  rupture  of  the  succession 
of  time  found  : — a  proof,  I  think,  that  the  pure  historic 
drama,  like  Richard  II.  and  King  John,  had  its  own  laws. 

lb.     Mowbray's  speech  : — 

A  dearer  merit 

Have  I  deserved  at  your  highness'  hands. 

O,  the  instinctive  propriety  of  Shakspeare  in  the  choice 
of  words  ! 

lb.     Richard's  speech  : 

Nor  never  by  advised  purpose  meet, 
To  plot,  contrive,  or  complot  any  ill, 
'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 

Already   the   selfish   weakness   of   Richard's   character 


Historical  Plays  115 

opens.     Nothing  will  such  minds  so  readily  embrace,  as 
indirect  ways  softened  down  to   their  quasi-consciences 
by  policy,  expedience,  &c. 
lb.     Mowbray's  speech  : — 

' All  the  world's  my  way.* 

'  The  world  was  all  before  him.' — Milt. 

lb. 

Baling.  How  long  a  time  lies  in  our  little  word ! 

Four  lagging  winters,  and  four  wanton  springs, 
End  in  a  word :  such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 

Admirable  anticipation  ! 

lb.  sc.  4.  This  is  a  striking  conclusion  of  a  first  act, — 
letting  the  reader  into  the  secret ; — having  before  impressed 
us  with  the  dignified  and  kingly  manners  of  Richard,  yet 
by  well  managed  anticipations  leading  us  on  to  the  full 
gratification  of  pleasure  in  our  own  penetration.  In  this 
scene  a  new  light  is  thrown  on  Richard's  character.  Until 
now  he  has  appeared  in  all  the  beauty  of  royalty  ;  but 
here,  as  soon  as  he  is  left  to  himself,  the  inherent  weakness 
of  his  character  is  immediately  shown.  It  is  a  weakness, 
however,  of  a  pecuhar  kind,  not  arising  from  want  of 
personal  courage,  or  any  specific  defect  of  faculty,  but 
rather  an  intellectual  feminineness,  which  feels  a  necessity 
of  ever  leaning  on  the  breasts  of  others,  and  of  reclining  on 
those  who  are  aU  the  while  known  to  be  inferiors.  To  this 
must  be  attributed  as  its  consequences  aU  Richard's  vices, 
his  tendency  to  concealment,  and  his  cunning,  the  whole 
operation  of  which  is  directed  to  the  getting  rid  of  present 
difficulties.  Richard  is  not  meant  to  be  a  debauchee  ; 
but  we  see  in  him  that  sophistry  which  is  common  to  man, 
by  which  we  can  deceive  our  own  hearts,  and  at  one  and 
the  same  time  apologize  for,  and  yet  commit,  the  error. 
Shakspeare  has  represented  this  character  in  a  very 
peculiar  manner.  He  has  not  made  him  amiable  with 
counterbalancing  faults  ;  but  has  openly  and  broadly 
drawn  those  faults  without  reserve,  relying  on  Richard's 
disproportionate  sufferings  and  gradually  emergent  good 
qualities  for  our  sympathy  ;  and  this  was  possible,  because 
his  faults  are  not  positive  vices,  but  spring  entirely  from 
defect  of  character. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I. 

K.  Rich.  Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their  names  ? 


ii6  Shakspeare's  English 

Yes  !  on  a  death-bed  there  is  a  feeling  which  may  make 
all  things  appear  but  as  puns  and  equivocations.  And  a 
passion  there  is  that  carries  off  its  own  excess  by  plays  on 
words  as  naturally,  and,  therefore,  as  appropriately  to 
drama,  as  by  gesticulations,  looks,  or  tones.  This  belongs 
to  human  nature  as  such,  independently  of  associations 
and  habits  from  any  particular  rank  of  hfe  or  mode  of 
employment ;  and  in  this  consists  Shakspeare's  vulgarisms, 
as  in  Macbeth' s — 

The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-fac'd  loon  !  &c. 

This  is  (to  equivocate  on  Dante's  words)  in  truth  the  nohile 
volgare  eloqiienza.  Indeed  it  is  profoundly  true  that  there 
is  a  natural,  an  almost  irresistible,  tendency  in  the  mind, 
when  immersed  in  one  strong  feeling,  to  connect  that 
feeling  with  every  sight  and  object  around  it ;  especially 
if  there  be  opposition,  and  the  words  addressed  to  it  are 
in  any  way  repugnant  to  the  feeling  itself,  as  here  in  the 
instance  of  Richard's  unkind  language  : 

Misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself. 
No  doubt,  something  of  Shakspeare's  punning  must  be 
attributed  to  his  age,  in  which  direct  and  formal  combats 
of  wit  were  a  favourite  pastime  of  the  courtly  and  accom- 
plished. It  was  an  age  more  favourable,  upon  the  whole, 
to  vigour  of  intellect  than  the  present,  in  which  a  dread  of 
being  thought  pedantic  dispirits  and  flattens  the  energies  of 
original  minds.  But  independently  of  this,  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  a  pun,  if  it  be  congruous  with  the 
feeling  of  the  scene,  is  not  only  allowable  in  the  dramatic 
dialogue,  but  oftentimes  one  of  the  most  effectual  in- 
tensives  of  passion. 

K.  Rich.    Right  ;   you  say  true  :    as  Hereford's  love,  so  his ; 
As  theirs,  so  mine  ;   and  all  be  as  it  is. 

The  depth  of  this  compared  with  the  first  scene  : — 
How  high  a  pitch,  &c. 

There  is  scarcely  anything  in  Shakspeare  in  its  degree, 
more  admirably  drawn  than  York's  character  ;  his  religious 
loyalty  struggling  with  a  deep  grief  and  indignation  at  the 
king's  follies  ;  his  adherence  to  his  word  and  faith,  once 
given  in  spite  of  all,  even  the  most  natural,  feelings.  You 
see  in  him  the  weakness  of  old  age,  and  the  oven.vhelming- 


Historical  Plays  117 

ness  of  circumstances,  for  a  time  surmounting  his  sense  of 
duty, — the  junction  of  both  exhibited  in  his  boldness  in 
words  and  feebleness  in  immediate  act ;  and  then  again 
his  effort  to  retrieve  himself  in  abstract  loyalty,  even  at  the 
heavy  price  of  the  loss  of  his  son.  This  species  of  accidental 
and  adventitious  weakness  is  brought  into  parallel  with 
Richard's  continually  increasing  energy  of  thought,  and 
as  constantly  diminishing  power  of  acting  ; — and  thus  it 
is  Richard  that  breathes  a  harmony  and  a  relation  into  all 
the  characters  of  the  play. 
lb.  sc.  2. 

Queen.  To  please  the  king  I  did  ;   to  please  myself 
I  cannot  do  it ;   yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief, 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard  :    yet  again,  methinks, 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  sorrow's  womb, 
Is  coming  toward  me  ;   and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembl-es  :    at  something  it  grieves. 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

It  is  clear  that  Shakspeare  never  meant  to  represent 
Richard  as  a  vulgar  debauchee,  but  a  man  with  a  wanton- 
ness of  spirit  in  external  show,  a  feminine  friendism,  an 
intensity  of  woman-like  love  of  those  immediately  about 
him,  and  a  mistaking  of  the  delight  of  being  loved  by  him 
for  a  love  of  him.  And  mark  in  this  scene  Shakspeare's 
gentleness  in  touching  the  tender  superstitions,  the 
tence-  incognitce  of  presentiments,  in  the  human  mind  ;  and 
how  sharp  a  line  of  distinction  he  commonly  draws  between 
these  obscure  forecastings  of  general  experience  in  each 
individual,  and  the  vulgar  errors  of  mere  tradition.  Indeed 
it  may  be  taken  once  for  all  as  the  truth,  that  Shakspeare, 
in  the  absolute  universality  of  his  genius,  always  rever- 
ences whatever  arises  out  of  our  moral  nature  ;  he  never 
profanes  his  muse  with  a  contemptuous  reasoning  away  of 
the  genuine  and  general,  however  unaccountable,  feelings 
of  mankind. 

The  amiable  part  of  Richard's  character  is  brought  full 
upon  us  by  his  queen's  few  words — 

....  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard  ; — 

and  Shakspeare  has  carefully  shown  in  him  an  intense  love  of 
his  country,  well-knowing  how  that  feeling  would,  in  a  pure 


ii8  Shakspeare's  English 

historic  drama,  redeem  him  in  the  hearts  of  the  audience. 
Yet  even  in  this  love  there  is  something  feminine  and 
personal : — 

Deax  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand, — 
As  a  long  parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears,  and  smiles  in  meeting  ; 
So  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth. 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. 

With  this  is  combined  a  constant  overflow  of  emotions 
from  a  total  incapability  of  controlling  them,  and  thence  a 
waste  of  that  energy,  which  should  have  been  reserved  for 
actions,  in  the  passion  and  effort  of  mere  resolves  and 
menaces.  The  consequence  is  moral  exhaustion,  and  rapid 
alternations  of  unmanly  despair  and  ungrounded  hope, — 
every  feeling  being  abandoned  for  its  direct  opposite  upon 
the  pressure  of  external  accident.  And  yet  when  Richard's 
inward  weakness  appears  to  seek  refuge  in  his  despair,  and 
his  exhaustion  counterfeits  repose,  the  old  habit  of  kingU- 
ness,  the  effect  of  flatterers  from  his  infancy,  is  ever  and 
anon  producing  in  him  a  sort  of  wordy  courage  which  only 
serves  to  betray  more  clearly  his  internal  impotence.  The 
second  and  third  scenes  of  the  third  act  combine  and 
illustrate  all  this  : — 

A  umerle.  He  means,  my  lord,  that  we  are  too  remiss  ; 
Whilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security, 
Grows  strong  and  great,  in  substance,  and  in  friends. 

K,  Rich.  Discomfortable  cousin  !    know'st  thou  not. 

That  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 

Behind  the  globe,  and  lights  the  lower  world. 

Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen. 

In  murders  and  in  outrage,  boldly  here ; 

But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball. 

He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines, 

And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole. 

Then  murders,  treasons,  and  detested  sins, 

The  cloke  of  night  being  pluck' d  from  off  their  backs. 

Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves  ? 

So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor,  Bolingbroke,  &c. 

*  *  *  * 

Aumerle.  Where  is  the  Duke  my  father  with  his  power  ? 

K.  Rich.   No  matter  where  ;   of  comfort  no  man  speak  : 
Let's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs, 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  &c. 
*  *  *  * 

Aumerle.  My  father  hath  a  power,  enquire  of  him  ; 
And  learn  to  make  a  body  of  a  limb. 


Historical  Plays  119 

K.  Rich.   Thou  chid'st  me  well  :   proud  Bolingbroke,  I  come 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom. 
This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown  ; 
An  easy  task  it  is  to  win  our  own, 

*  *  *  * 

Scroop.  Your  uncle  York  is  join'd  with  Bolingbroke. — 

*  *  *  * 

K.  Rich.  Thou  hast  said  enough, 

Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  didst  lead  me  forth 

Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair  ! 

What  say  you  now  ?  what  comfort  have  we  now  ? 

By  heaven,  I'll  hate  him  everlastingly, 

That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 

*  *  ♦  * 

Act  iii.  sc.  3.     Bolingbroke's  speech : 

Noble  lord, 

Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle,  &c. 

Observe  the  fine  struggle  of  a  haughty  sense  of  power  and 
ambition  in  BoUngbroke  with  the  necessity  for  dissimula- 
tion. 

lb.  sc.  4.  See  here  the  skill  and  judgment  of  our  poet  in 
giving  reality  and  individual  life,  by  the  introduction  of 
accidents  in  his  historic  plays,  and  thereby  making  them 
dramas,  and  not  histories.  How  beautiful  an  islet  of 
repose — a  melancholy  repose,  indeed — is  this  scene  with 
the  Gardener  and  his  Servant.  And  how  truly  affecting 
and  realizing  is  the  incident  of  the  very  horse  Barbary,  in 
the  scene  with  the  Groom  in  the  last  act ! — 

Groom.  I  was  a  poor  groom  of  thy  stable.  King, 

When  thou  wert  King  ;    who,  travelling  towards  York, 
With  much  ado,  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometimes  master's  face. 
O,  how  it  yearn'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld. 
In  London  streets,  that  coronation  day, 
\^^len  Bolingbroke  rode  on  roan  Barbary  ! 
That  horse,  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid  ; 
That  horse,  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd  I 
K.  Rich.  Rode  he  on  Barbary  ? 

Bolingbroke's  character,  in  general,  is  an  instance  how 
Shakspeare  makes  one  play  introductory  to  another  ;  for 
it  is  evidently  a  preparation  for  Henry  IV.,  as  Gloster 
in  the  third  part  of  Henry  VI.  is  for  Richard  III. 

I  would  once  more  remark  upon  the  exalted  idea  of  the 
only  true  loyalty  developed  in  this  noble  and  impressive 
play.     We    have    neither    the    rants    of    Beaumont    and 


I20  Shakspeare's  English 

Fletcher,  nor  the  sneers  of  Massinger ; — the  vast  import- 
ance of  the  personal  character  of  the  sovereign  is  distinctly 
enounced,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  the  genuine  sanctity 
which  surrounds  him  is  attributed  to,  and  grounded  on, 
the  position  in  which  he  stands  as  the  convergence  and 
exponent  of  the  life  and  power  of  the  state. 

The  great  end  of  the  body  politic  appears  to  be  to 
humanize,  and  assist  in  the  progressiveness  of,  the  animal 
man  ; — but  the  problem  is  so  complicated  with  contin- 
gencies as  to  render  it  nearly  impossible  to  lay  down  rules 
for  the  formation  of  a  state.  And  should  we  be  able  to 
form  a  system  of  government,  which  should  so  balance  its 
different  powers  as  to  form  a  check  upon  each,  and  so 
continually  remedy  and  correct  itself,  it  would,  neverthe- 
less, defeat  its  own  aim  ; — for  man  is  destined  to  be  guided 
by  higher  principles,  by  universal  views,  which  can  never 
be  fulfilled  in  this  state  of  existence, — by  a  spirit  of  pro- 
gressiveness which  can  never  be  accomplished,  for  then  it 
would  cease  to  be.  Plato's  Republic  is  like  Bunyan's 
Town  of  Man-Soul, — a  description  of  an  individual,  all  of 
whose  faculties  are  in  their  proper  subordination  and  inter- 
dependence ;  and  this  it  is  assumed  may  be  the  prototype 
of  the  state  as  one  great  individual.  But  there  is  this 
sophism  in  it,  that  it  is  forgotten  that  the  human  faculties, 
indeed,  are  parts  and  not  separate  things  ;  but  that  you 
could  never  get  chiefs  who  were  wholly  reason,  ministers 
who  were  wholly  understanding,  soldiers  all  wrath, 
labourers  all  concupiscence,  and  so  on  through  the  rest. 
Each  of  these  partakes  of,  and  interferes  with,  all  the 
others. 


HENRY    IV.     PART    I. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     King  Henry's  speech  : 

No  more  the  thirsty  entrance  of  this  soil 

Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own  children's  blood. 

A  MOST  obscure  passage  :  but  I  think  Theobald's  inter- 
pretation right,  namely,  that  'thirsty  entrance'  means  the 
dry  penetrability,  or  bibulous  drought,  of  the  soil.  The 
obscurity  of  this  passage  is  of  the  Shakspearian  sort. 

lb.  sc.   2.     In  this,  the  first  introduction  of  Falstaff, 


Historical  Plays  121 

observe  the  consciousness  and  the  intentionality  of  his 
wit,  so  that  when  it  does  not  flow  of  its  own  accord,  its 
absence  is  felt,  and  an  effort  visibly  made  to  recall  it. 
Note  also  throughout  how  Falstaff's  pride  is  gratified  in 
the  power  of  influencing  a  prince  of  the  blood,  the  heir 
apparent,  by  means  of  it.  Hence  his  dishke  to  Prince  John 
of  Lancaster,  and  his  mortification  when  he  finds  his  wit 
fail  on  him  : — 

P.  John.  Fare  you  well,  Falstaff  :    I,  in  my  condition. 
Shall  better  speak  of  you  than  you  deserve. 

Fal.  I  would  you  had  but  the  wit  ;  'twere  better  than  your 
dukedom. — Good  faith,  this  same  young  sober-blooded  boy  doth 
not  love  me  ; — nor  a  man  cannot  make  him  laugh. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Second  Carrier's  speech  : — 
....  breeds  fleas  like  a  loach. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  misprint,  or  a  provincial  pronunciation, 
for  'leach,'  that  is,  blood-suckers.  Had  it  been  gnats, 
instead  of  fleas,  there  might  have  been  some  sense,  though 
small  probability,  in  Warbur ton's  suggestion  of  the  Scottish 
*loch.'  Possibly  'loach,'  or  'lutch,'  may  be  some  lost 
word  for  dovecote,  or  poultry-lodge,  notorious  for  breeding 
fleas.  In  Stevens's  or  my  reading,  it  should  properly  be 
'loaches,'  or  'leeches,'  in  the  plural ;  except  that  I  think 
I  have  heard  anglers  speak  of  trouts  hke  a  salmon. 

Act  iii.  sc.  I. 

Glend.   Nay,  if  you  melt,  then  will  she  run  mad. 

This  'nay'  so  to  be  dwelt  on  in  speaking,  as  to  be  equiva- 
lent to  a  dissyllable  -u,  is  characteristic  of  the  solemn 
Glendower  ;  but  the  imperfect  line 

She  bids  you 

On  the  wanton  rushes  lay  you  down,  &c. 

is  one  of  those  fine  hair-strokes  of  exquisite  judgment 
peculiar  to  Shakspeare ;  —  thus  detaching  the  Lady's 
speech,  and  giving  it  the  individuality  and  entireness  of 
a  little  poem,  while  he  draws  attention  to  it. 


122  Shakspeare's   English 

HENRY    IV.     PART    II. 
Act  ii.  sc.  2. 

P.  Hen.  Sup  any  women  with  him  ? 

Page.  None,  my  lord,  but  old  mistress  Quickly,  and  mistress 
Doll  Tear-sheet. 

»  *  4:  * 

P.  Hen.  This  Doll  Tear-sheet  should  be  some  road. 

I  AM  sometimes  disposed  to  think  that  this  respectable 
young  lady's  name  is  a  very  old  corruption  for  Tear-street — 
street-walker,  terere  stratam  (viam.)  Does  not  the  Prince's 
question  rather  show  this  ? — 

'  This  Doll  Tear-street  should  be  some  road  ?  * 

Act  iii.  sc.  I.     King  Henry's  speech  : 

Then,  happy  low,  lie  down  ; 

Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

I  know  no  argument  by  which  to  persuade  any  one  to  be 
of  my  opinion,  or  rather  of  my  feeling  ;  but  yet  I  cannot 
help  feeling  that  'Happy  low-lie-down  !'  is  either  a  pro- 
verbial expression,  or  the  burthen  of  some  old  song,  and 
means,  'Happy  the  man,  who  lays  himself  down  on  his 
straw  bed  or  chaff  pallet  on  the  ground  or  floor  ! ' 

lb.  sc.  2.     Shallow's  speech  : — 

Rah,  tah,  tah,  would  'a  say  ;   bounce,  would  'a  say,  &c. 

That  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  more  than  once  been 
guilty  of  sneering  at  their  great  master,  cannot,  I  fear,  be 
denied  ;  but  the  passage  quoted  by  Theobald  from  the 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle  is  an  imitation.  If  it  be 
chargeable  with  any  fault,  it  is  with  plagiarism,  not  with 
sarcasm. 


HENRY    V. 

Act  i.  sc.  2.      Westmoreland's  speech  : — 

They  know  your  grace  hath  cause,  and  means,  and  might ; 
So  hath  your  highness  ;   never  King  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer,  &c. 

Does  'grace'  mean  the  king's  own  peculiar  domains  and 
legal   revenue,   and    'highness'    his   feudal   rights   in   the 


Historical   Plays  123 

military  service  of  his  nobles  ? — I  have  sometimes  thought 
it  possible  that  the  words  'grace*  and  'cause'  may  have 
been  transposed  in  the  copying  or  printing  ; — 

They  know  your  cause  hath  grace,  &c. 

What  Theobald  meant,  I  cannot  guess.  To  me  his  point- 
ing makes  the  passage  still  more  obscure.  Perhaps  the 
lines  ought  to  be  recited  dramatically  thus  : 

They  know  your  Grace  hath  cause,  and  means,  and  might : — 
So  hath  your  Highness — never  King  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer,  &c. 

He  breaks  off  from  the  grammar  and  natural  order  from 
earnestness,  and  in  order  to  give  the  meaning  more 
passionately. 

lb.     Exeter's  speech  : — 

Yet  that  is  but  a  crush' d  necessity. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  'crash'  for  'crass'  from  crassus, 
clumsy  ;  or  it  may  be  'curt,'  defective,  imperfect :  any- 
thing would  be  better  than  Warburton's  "scus'd,'  which 
honest  Theobald,  of  course,  adopts.  By  the  by,  it  seems 
clear  to  me  that  this  speech  of  Exeter's  properly  belongs  to 
Canterbury,  and  was  altered  by  the  actors  for  convenience. 

Act  iv.  sc.  3.     K.  Henry's  speech  : — 

We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 

Should  it  not  be  'live'  in  the  first  line  ? 
lb.  sc.  5. 

Const.  O  diable  I 

Orl.  O  seigneur  !   le  jour  est  perdu,  tout  est  perdu  t 

Dan.  Mart  de  ma  vie  !   all  is  confounded,  all  ! 

Reproach  and  everlasting  shame 

Sit  mocking  in  our  plumes  ! — O  meschante  fortune  I 

Do  not  run  away  ! 

Ludicrous  as  these  introductory  scraps  of  French  appear, 
so  instantly  followed  by  good,  nervous  mother-English, 
yet  they  are  judicious,  and  produce  the  impression  which 
Shakspeare  intended, — a  sudden  feeling  struck  at  once  on 
the  ears,  as  well  as  the  eyes,  of  the  audience,  that  'here 
come  the  French,  the  baffled  French  braggards  !' — And 
this  will  appear  still  more  judicious,  when  we  reflect  on 
the  scanty  apparatus  of  distinguishing  dresses  in  Shak- 
speare's  tyring-room. 


124  Shakspeare's  English 

HENRY    VI.      PART    I. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Bedford's  speech  : — 

Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black,  yield  day  to  night  I 
Comets,  importing  change  of  times  and  states. 
Brandish  your  crystal  tresses  in  the  sky  ; 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death  ! 
King  Henry  the  fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long  ! 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  much  worths 

Read  aloud  any  two  or  three  passages  in  blank  verse  even 
from  Shakspeare's  earUest  dramas,  as  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,  or  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  and  then  read  in  the  same 
way  this  speech,  with  especial  attention  to  the  metre  ; 
and  if  you  do  not  feel  the  impossibility  of  the  latter  having 
been  written  by  Shakspeare,  all  I  dare  suggest  is,  that  you 
may  have  ears, — for  so  has  another  animal, — but  an  ear 
you  cannot  have,  me  judice. 


RICHARD    III. 

This  play  should  be  contrasted  with  Richard  II.  Pride 
of  intellect  is  the  characteristic  of  Richard,  carried  to  the 
extent  of  even  boasting  to  his  own  mind  of  his  villany, 
whilst  others  are  present  to  feed  his  pride  of  superiority  ; 
as  in  his  first  speech,  act  ii.  sc.  i.  Shakspeare  here,  as  in 
aU  his  great  parts,  developes  in  a  tone  of  sublime  morality 
the  dreadful  consequences  of  placing  the  moral,  in  sub- 
ordination to  the  mere  intellectual,  being.  In  Richard 
there  is  a  predomincince  of  irony,  accompanied  with 
apparently  blunt  manners  to  those  immediately  about 
him,  but  formalized  into  a  more  set  hypocrisy  towards  the 
people  as  represented  by  their  magistrates. 


LEAR. 

Of  all  Shakspeare's  plays  Macbeth  is  the  most  rapid, 
Hamlet  the  slowest,  in  movement.  Lear  combines  length 
with  rapidity, — hke  the  hurricane  and  the  whirlpool, 
absorbing  while  it  advances.     It  begins  as  a  stormy  day 


Historical  Plays  125 

in  summer,  with  brightness  ;  but  that  brightness  is  lurid, 
and  anticipates  the  tempest. 

It  was  not  without  forethought,  nor  is  it  without  its  due 
significance,  that  the  division  of  Lear's  kingdom  is  in  the 
first  six  hues  of  the  play  stated  as  a  thing  already  deter- 
mined in  all  its  particulars,  previously  to  the  trial  of 
professions,  as  the  relative  rewards  of  which  the  daughters 
were  to  be  made  to  consider  their  several  portions.  The 
strange,  yet  by  no  means  unnatural,  mixture  of  selfishness, 
sensibility,  and  habit  of  feeling  derived  from,  and  fostered 
by,  the  particular  rank  and  usages  of  the  individual ; — 
the  intense  desire  of  being  intensely  beloved, — selfish,  and 
yet  characteristic  of  the  selfishness  of  a  loving  and  kindly 
nature  alone  ; — the  self-supportless  leaning  for  all  pleasure 
on  another's  breast ; — the  craving  after  sympathy  with  a 
prodigal  disinterestedness,  frustrated  by  its  own  ostenta- 
tion, and  the  mode  and  nature  of  its  claims  ; — the  anxiety, 
the  distrust,  the  jealousy,  which  more  or  less  accompany 
all  selfish  affections,  and  are  amongst  the  surest  contra- 
distinctions of  mere  fondness  from  true  love,  and  which 
originate  Lear's  eager  wish  to  enjoy  his  daughter's  violent 
professions,  whilst  the  inveterate  habits  of  sovereignty 
convert  the  wish  into  claim  and  positive  right,  and  an 
incompliance  with  it  into  crime  and  treason  ; — these  facts, 
these  passions,  these  moral  verities,  on  which  the  whole 
tragedy  is  founded,  are  all  prepared  for,  and  will  to  the 
retrospect  be  found  implied,  in  these  first  four  or  five  lines 
of  the  play.  They  let  us  know  that  the  trial  is  but  a  trick  ; 
and  that  the  grossness  of  the  old  king's  rage  is  in  part  the 
natural  result  of  a  silly  trick  suddenly  and  most  unex- 
pectedly baffled  and  disappointed. 

It  may  here  be  worthy  of  notice,  that  Lear  is  the  only 
serious  performance  of  Shakspeare,  the  interest  and  situa- 
tions of  which  are  derived  from  the  assumption  of  a  gross 
improbability  ;  whereas  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  tra- 
gedies are,  almost  all  of  them,  founded  on  some  out  of 
the  way  accident  or  exception  to  the  general  experience 
of  mankind.  But  observe  the  matchless  judgment  of  our 
Shakspeare.  First,  improbable  as  the  conduct  of  Lear 
is  in  the  first  scene,  yet  it  was  an  old  story  rooted  in  the 
popular  faith, — a  thing  taken  for  granted  already,  and 
consequently  without  any  of  the  effects  of  improbabiUty. 
Secondly,  it  is  merely  the  canvass  for  the  characters  and 


126  Shakspeare's  English 

passions, — a  mere  occasion  for, — and  not,  in  the  manner 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  perpetually  recurring  as  the 
cause,  and  sine  qua  non  of, — the  incidents  and  emotions. 
Let  the  first  scene  of  this  play  have  been  lost,  and  let  it 
only  be  understood  that  a  fond  father  had  been  duped  by 
hypocritical  professions  of  love  and  duty  on  the  part  of  two 
daughters  to  disinherit  the  third,  previously,  and  de- 
servedly, more  dear  to  him  ; — and  all  the  rest  of  the 
tragedy  would  retain  its  interest  undiminished,  and  be 
perfectly  intelligible.  The  accidental  is  nowhere  the 
groundwork  of  the  passions,  but  that  which  is  cathohc, 
which  in  all  ages  has  been,  and  ever  will  be,  close  and 
native  to  the  heart  of  man, — parental  anguish  from  filial 
ingratitude,  the  genuineness  of  worth,  though  confined  in 
bluntness,  and  the  execrable  vileness  of  a  smooth  iniquity. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  added  the  Merchant  of  Venice  ; 
but  here  too  the  same  remarks  apply.  It  was  an  old  tale  ; 
and  substitute  any  other  danger  than  that  of  the  pound  of 
flesh  (the  circumstance  in  which  the  improbability  lies), 
yet  all  the  situations  and  the  emotions  appertaining  to 
them  remain  equally  excellent  and  appropriate.  Where- 
as take  away  from  the  Mad  Lover  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  the  fantastic  hypothesis  of  his  engagement  to  cut 
out  his  own  heart,  and  have  it  presented  to  his  mistress, 
and  all  the  main  scenes  must  go  with  it. 

Kotzebue  is  the  German  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  with- 
out their  poetic  powers,  and  without  their  vis  comica. 
But,  like  them,  he  always  deduces  his  situations  and 
passions  from  marvellous  accidents,  and  the  trick  of  bring- 
ing one  part  of  our  moral  nature  to  counteract  another ; 
as  our  pity  for  misfortune  and  admiration  of  generosity 
and  courage  to  combat  our  condemnation  of  guilt,  as  in 
adultery,  robbery,  and  other  heinous  crimes  ; — and,  like 
them  too,  he  excels  in  his  mode  of  telling  a  story  clearly 
and  interestingly,  in  a  series  of  dramatic  dialogues.  Only 
the  trick  of  making  tragedy-heroes  and  heroines  out  of 
shopkeepers  and  barmaids  was  too  low  for  the  age,  and 
too  unpoetic  for  the  genius,  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
inferior  in  every  respect  as  they  are  to  their  great  pre- 
decessor and  contemporary.  How  inferior  would  they 
have  appeared,  had  not  Shakspeare  existed  for  them  to 
imitate  ; — which  in  every  play,  more  or  less,  they  do,  and 
in  their  tragedies  most  glaringly  : — and  yet — (O  shame  ! 


Historical  Plays  127 

shame  !) — they  miss  no  opportunity  of  sneering  at  the 
divine  man,  and  sub-detracting  from  his  merits  ! 

To  return  to  Lear,  Having  thus  in  the  fewest  words, 
and  in  a  natural  reply  to  as  natural  a  question, — which 
yet  answers  the  secondary  purpose  of  attracting  our  atten- 
tion to  the  difference  or  diversity  between  the  characters 
of  Cornwall  and  Albany, — provided  the  premisses  and 
data,  as  it  were,  for  our  after  insight  into  the  mind  and 
mood  of  the  person,  whose  character,  passions,  and  suffer- 
ings are  the  main  subject-matter  of  the  play  ; — from  Lear, 
the  persona  patiens  of  his  drama,  Shakspeare  passes  without 
delay  to  the  second  in  importance,  the  chief  agent  and 
prime  mover,  and  introduces  Edmund  to  our  acquaintance, 
preparing  us  with  the  same  felicity  of  judgment,  and  in 
the  same  easy  and  natural  way,  for  his  character  in  the 
seemingly  casual  communication  of  its  origin  and  occasion. 
From  the  first  drawing  up  of  the  curtain  Edmund  has 
stood  before  us  in  the  united  strength  and  beauty  of  earliest 
manhood.  Our  eyes  have  been  questioning  him.  Gifted 
as  he  is  with  high  advantages  of  person,  and  further  en- 
dowed by  nature  with  a  powerful  intellect  and  a  strong 
energetic  will,  even  without  any  concurrence  of  circum- 
stances and  accident,  pride  will  necessarily  be  the  sin  that 
most  easily  besets  him.  But  Edmund  is  also  the  known 
and  acknowledged  son  of  the  princely  Gloster  :  he,  there- 
fore, has  both  the  germ  of  pride,  and  the  conditions  best 
fitted  to  evolve  and  ripen  it  into  a  predominant  feeling. 
Yet  hitherto  no  reason  appears  why  it  should  be  other 
than  the  not  unusual  pride  of  person,  talent,  and  birth, — 
a  pride  auxiliary,  if  not  akin,  to  many  virtues,  and  the 
natural  ally  of  honourable  impulses.  But  alas  !  in  his 
own  presence  his  own  father  takes  shame  to  himself  for 
the  frank  avowal  that  he  is  his  father, — he  has  'blushed 
so  often  to  acknowledge  him  that  he  is  now  brazed  to 
it  ! '  Edmund  hears  the  circumstances  of  his  birth  spoken 
of  with  a  most  degrading  and  licentious  levity, — his 
mother  described  as  a  wanton  by  her  own  paramour,  and 
the  remembrance  of  the  animal  sting,  the  low  criminal 
gratifications  connected  with  her  wantonness  and  pro- 
stituted beauty,  assigned  as  the  reason,  why  'the 
whoreson  must  be  acknowledged  !'  This,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  its  notoriety  ;  the  gnawing  conviction  that 
every  show  of  respect  is  an  effort  of  courtesy,  which  recalls, 


128  Notes  on  Lear 

while  it  represses,  a  contrary  feeling  ; — this  is  the  ever 
trickling  flow  of  wormwood  and  gall  into  the  wounds  of 
pride, — the  corrosive  virus  which  inoculates  pride  with 
a  venom  not  its  own,  with  envy,  hatred,  and  a  lust  for  that 
power  which  in  its  blaze  of  radiance  would  hide  the  dark 
spots  on  his  disc, — with  pangs  of  shame  personally  un- 
deserved, and  therefore  felt  as  wrongs,  and  with  a  blind 
ferment  of  vindictive  working  towards  the  occasions 
and  causes,  especially  towards  a  brother,  whose  stainless 
birth  and  lawful  honours  were  the  constant  remembrancers 
of  his  own  debasement,  and  were  ever  in  the  way  to  prevent 
all  chance  of  its  being  unknown,  or  overlooked  and  for- 
gotten. Add  to  this,  that  with  excellent  judgment,  and 
provident  for  the  claims  of  the  moral  sense, — for  that 
which,  relatively  to  the  drama,  is  called  poetic  justice,  and 
as  the  fittest  means  for  reconciling  the  feelings  of  the 
spectators  to  the  horrors  of  Gloster's  after  sufferings, — 
at  least,  of  rendering  them  somewhat  less  unendurable  ; — 
(for  I  will  not  disguise  my  conviction,  that  in  this  one 
point  the  tragic  in  this  play  has  been  urged  beyond  the 
outermost  mark  and  ne  plus  ultra  of  the  dramatic) — Shak- 
speare  has  precluded  all  excuse  and  palliation  of  the  guilt 
incurred  by  both  the  parents  of  the  base-born  Edmund,  by 
Gloster's  confession  that  he  was  at  the  time  a  married  man, 
and  already  blest  with  a  lawful  heir  of  his  fortunes.  The 
mournful  alienation  of  brotherly  love,  occasioned  by  the 
law  of  primogeniture  in  noble  families,  or  rather  by  the 
unnecessary  distinctions  engrafted  thereon,  and  this  in 
children  of  the  same  stock,  is  still  almost  proverbial  on 
the  continent, — especially,  as  I  know  from  my  own  observa- 
tion, in  the  south  of  Europe, — and  appears  to  have  been 
scarcely  less  common  in  our  own  island  before  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1688,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  characters  and 
sentiments  so  frequent  in  our  elder  comedies.  There  is 
the  younger  brother,  for  instance,  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  play  of  the  Scornful  Lady,  on  the  one  side,  and 
Oliver  in  Shakspeare's  As  You  Like  It,  on  the  other. 
Need  it  be  said  how  heavy  an  aggravation,  in  such  a  case, 
the  stain  of  bastardy  must  have  been,  were  it  only  that 
the  younger  brother  was  liable  to  hear  his  own  dishonour 
and  his  mother's  infamy  related  by  his  father  with  an 
excusing  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  in  a  tone  betwixt 
waggery  and  shame  ! 


Notes  on  Lear  129 

By  the  circumstances  here  enumerated  as  so  many  pre- 
disposing causes,  Edmund's  character  might  well  be 
deemed  already  sufficiently  explained  ;  and  our  minds 
prepared  for  it.  But  in  this  tragedy  the  story  or  fable 
constrained  Shakspeare  to  introduce  wickedness  in  an 
outrageous  form  in  the  persons  of  Regan  and  Goneril. 
He  had  read  nature  too  heedfully  not  to  know,  that  courage, 
intellect,  and  strength  of  character  are  the  most  impressive 
forms  of  power,  and  that  to  power  in  itself,  without  re- 
ference to  any  moral  end,  an  inevitable  admiration  and 
complacency  appertains,  whether  it  be  displayed  in  the 
conquests  of  a  Buonaparte  or  Tamerlane,  or  in  the  foam  and 
the  thunder  of  a  cataract.  But  in  the  exhibition  of  such  a 
character  it  was  of  the  highest  importance  to  prevent  the 
guilt  from  passing  into  utter  monstrosity, — which  again 
depends  on  the  presence  or  absence  of  causes  and  tempta- 
tions sufficient  to  account  for  the  wickedness,  without  the 
necessity  of  recurring  to  a  thorough  fiendishness  of  nature 
for  its  origination.  For  such  are  the  appointed  relations  of 
intellectual  power  to  truth,  and  of  truth  to  goodness,  that 
it  becomes  both  morally  and  poetically  unsafe  to  present 
what  is  admirable, — what  our  nature  compels  us  to  admire 
— in  the  mind,  and  what  is  most  detestable  in  the  heart,  as 
co-existing  in  the  same  individual  without  any  apparent 
connection,  or  any  modification  of  the  one  by  the  other. 
That  Shakspeare  has  in  one  instance,  that  of  lago, 
approached  to  this,  and  that  he  has  done  it  successfully,  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  astonishing  proof  of  his  genius,  and 
the  opulence  of  its  resources.  But  in  the  present  tragedy, 
in  which  he  was  compelled  to  present  a  Goneril  and  a 
Regan,  it  was  most  carefully  to  be  avoided  ; — and  there- 
fore the  only  one  conceivable  addition  to  the  inauspicious 
influences  on  the  pre-formation  of  Edmund's  character  is 
given,  in  the  information  that  all  the  kindly  counteractions 
to  the  mischievous  feelings  of  shame,  which  might  have 
been  derived  from  co-domestication  with  Edgar  and  their 
common  father,  had  been  cut  off  by  his  absence  from  home, 
and  foreign  education  from  boyhood  to  the  present  time, 
and  a  prospect  of  its  continuance,  as  if  to  preclude  all  risk 
of  his  interference  with  the  father's  views  for  the  elder  and 
legitimate  son  : — 

He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away  he  shall  again. 
E 


130  Notes  on  Lear 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 
Lear.   Nothing  ? 

Cor.  Nothing. 
Lear.   Nothing  can  come  of  nothing  :    speak  again. 
Cor.   Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 

My  heart  into  my  mouth  :    I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond  ;   nor  more,  nor  less. 

There  is  something  of  disgust  at  the  ruthless  hypocrisy 
of  her  sisters,  and  some  Httle  faulty  admixture  of  pride  and 
sullenness  in  Cordelia's  'Nothing;'  and  her  tone  is  well 
contrived,  indeed,  to  lessen  the  glaring  absurdity  of  Lear's 
conduct,  but  answers  the  yet  more  important  purpose  of 
forcing  away  the  attention  from  the  nursery-tale,  the 
moment  it  has  served  its  end,  that  of  supplying  the  canvass 
for  the  picture.  This  is  also  materially  furthered  by  Kent's 
opposition,  which  displays  Lear's  moral  incapability  of 
resigning  the  sovereign  power  in  the  very  act  of  disposing 
of  it.  Kent  is,  perhaps,  the  nearest  to  perfect  goodness 
in  all  Shakspeare's  characters,  and  yet  the  most  in- 
dividualized. There  is  an  extraordinary  charm  in  his 
bluntness,  which  is  that  only  of  a  nobleman  arising  from 
a  contempt  of  overstrained  courtesy,  and  combined  with 
easy  placability  where  goodness  of  heart  is  apparent. 
His  passionate  affection  for,  and  fidelity  to,  Lear  act  on 
our  feelings  in  Lear's  own  favour  :  virtue  itself  seems 
to  be  in  company  with  him. 

lb.  sc.  2.     Edmund's  speech  : — 

Who,  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature,  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality 
Than  doth,  &c. 

Warburton's  note  upon  a  quotation  from  Vanini. 

Poor  Vanini ! — Any  one  but  Warburton  would  have 
thought  this  precious  passage  more  characteristic  of  Mr. 
Shandy  than  of  atheism.  If  the  fact  really  were  so, 
{which  it  is  not,  but  almost  the  contrary,)  I  do  not  see  why 
the  most  confirmed  theist  might  not  very  naturally  utter 
the  same  wish.  But  it  is  proverbial  that  the  youngest  son 
in  a  lai'ge  family  is  commonly  the  man  of  the  greatest 
talents  in  it  ;  and  as  good  an  authority  as  Vanini  has  said 
— incalescere  in  vetierem  ardeniius,  spei  sobolis  injuriosum 
esse. 


Notes  on  Lear  131 

In  this  speech  of  Edmund  you  see,  as  soon  as  a  man 
cannot  reconcile  himself  to  reason,  how  his  conscience  flies 
off  by  way  of  appeal  to  nature,  who  is  sure  upon  such 
occasions  never  to  find  fault,  and  also  how  shame  sharpens 
a  predisposition  in  the  heart  to  evil.  For  it  is  a  profound 
moral,  that  shame  will  naturally  generate  guilt ;  the 
oppressed  will  be  vindictive,  like  Shylock,  and  in  the 
anguish  of  undeserved  ignominy  the  delusion  secretly 
springs  up,  of  getting  over  the  moral  quality  of  an  action 
by  fixing  the  mind  on  the  mere  physical  act  alone. 

lb.     Edmund's  speech  : — 

This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world  !  that,  when  we  are 
sick  in  fortune,  (often  the  surfeit  of  our  own  behaviour,)  we  make 
guilty  of  our  disasters,  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  &c. 

Thus  scorn  and  misanthropy  are  often  the  anticipations 
and  mouth-pieces  of  wisdom  in  the  detection  of  super- 
stitions. Both  individuals  and  nations  may  be  free  from 
such  prejudices  by  being  below  them,  as  well  as  by  rising 
above  them. 

lb.  sc.  3.  The  Steward  should  be  placed  in  exact 
antithesis  to  Kent,  as  the  only  character  of  utter  irredeem- 
able baseness  in  Shakspeare.  Even  in  this  the  judgment 
and  invention  of  the  poet  are  very  observable  ; — for  what 
else  could  the  willing  tool  of  a  Goneril  be  ?  Not  a  vice  but 
this  of  baseness  was  left  open  to  him. 

lb.  sc.  4.  In  Lear  old  age  is  itself  a  character, — its 
natural  imperfections  being  increased  by  life-long  habits 
of  receiving  a  prompt  obedience.  Any  addition  of  in- 
dividuality would  have  been  unnecessary  and  painful  ; 
for  the  relations  of  others  to  him,  of  wondrous  fidelity  and 
of  frightful  ingratitude,  alone  sufficiently  distinguish  him. 
Thus  Lear  becomes  the  open  and  ample  play-room  of 
nature's  passions. 

lb. 

Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going  into  France,  Sir  ;  the 
fool  hath  much  pin'd  away. 

The  Fool  is  no  comic  buffoon  to  make  the  groundlings 
laugh, — no  forced  condescension  of  Shakspeare's  genius  to 
the  taste  of  his  audience.  Accordingly  the  poet  prepares 
for  his  introduction,  which  he  never  does  with  any  of  his 
common  clowns  and  fools,  by  bringing  him  into  living  con- 
nection with  the  pathos  of  the  play.     He  is  as  wonderful 


132  Notes  on  Lear 

a  creation  as  Caliban  ; — his  wild  babblings,  and  inspired 
idiocy,  articulate  and  gauge  the  horrors  of  the  scene. 

The  monster  Goneril  prepares  what  is  necessary,  while  the 
character  of  Albany  renders  a  still  more  maddening 
grievance  possible,  namely,  Regan  and  Cornwall  in  perfect 
sympathy  of  monstrosity.  Not  a  sentiment,  not  an  image, 
which  can  give  pleasure  on  its  own  account,  is  admitted  ; 
whenever  these  creatures  are  introduced,  and  they  are 
brought  forward  as  little  as  possible,  pure  horror  reigns 
throughout.  In  this  scene  and  in  all  the  early  speeches  of 
Lear,  the  one  general  sentiment  of  filial  ingratitude  pre- 
vails as  the  main  spring  of  the  feelings  ; — in  this  early 
stage  the  outward  object  causing  the  pressure  on  the  mind, 
which  is  not  yet  sufficiently  familiarized  with  the  anguish 
£or  the  imagination  to  work  upon  it. 

lb. 

Gon.   Do  you  mark  that,  my  lord  ? 

^.  Alb.    I  cannot  be  so  partial,  Goneril, 

To  the  great  love  I  bear  you. 
Gon.   Pray  you  content,  &c. 

Observe  the  baffled  endeavour  of  Goneril  to  act  on  the 
fears  of  Albany,  and  yet  his  passiveness,  his  inertia  ;  he  is 
not  convinced,  and  yet  he  is  afraid  of  looking  into  the  thing. 
Such  characters  always  yield  to  those  who  will  take  the 
trouble  of  governing  them,  or  for  them.  Perhaps,  the 
influence  of  a  princess,  whose  choice  of  him  had  royalized 
his  state,  may  be  some  little  excuse  for  Albany's  weakness, 

lb.  sc.  5. 

Lear.  O  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet  heaven  ! 
Keep  me  in  temper  !    I  would  not  be  mad  ! — 

The  mind's  own  anticipation  of  madness  !  The  deepest 
tragic  notes  are  often  struck  by  a  half  sense  of  an  impend- 
ing blow.  The  Fool's  conclusion  of  this  act  by  a  grotesque 
prattling  seems  to  indicate  the  dislocation  of  feeling  that 
has  begun  and  is  to  be  continued. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Edmund's  speech  : — 

He  replied, 
Thou  unpossessing  bastard  !  &c. 

Thus  the  secret  poison  in  Edmund's  own  heart  steals 
forth  ;   and  then  observe  poor  Gloster's  — 

Loyal  and  natural  boy  ! 

as  if  praising  the  crime  of  Edmund's  birth  ! 


Notes  on  Lear  133 

lb.     Compare  Regan's — 

What,  did  my  father's  godson  seek  your  life  ? 
He  whom  my  father  named  ? 

with  the  unfeminine  violence  of  her — 

All  vengeance  comes  too  short,  &c. 

and  yet  no  reference  to  the  guilt,  but  only  to  the  accident, 
which  she  uses  as  an  occasion  for  sneering  at  her  father. 
Regan  is  not,  in  fact,  a  greater  monster  than  Goneril,  but 
she  has  the  power  of  casting  more  venom, 
lb.  sc.  2.     Cornwall's  speech  : — 

This  is  some  fellow, 
Who,  having  been  praised  for  bluntness,  doth  affect 
A  saucy  roughness,  &c. 

In  thus  placing  these  profound  general  truths  in  the 
mouths  of  such  men  as  Cornwall,  Edmund,  lago,  &c. 
Shakspeare  at  once  gives  them  utterance,  and  yet  shows 
how  indefinite  their  application  is. 

lb.  sc.  3.  Edgar's  assumed  madness  serves  the  great 
purpose  of  taking  off  part  of  the  shock  which  would  other- 
wise be  caused  by  the  true  madness  of  Lear,  and  further 
displays  the  profound  difference  between  the  two.  In 
every  attempt  at  representing  madness  throughout  the 
whole  range  of  dramatic  literature,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  Lear,  it  is  mere  lightheadedness,  as  especially  in 
Otway.  In  Edgar's  ravings  Shakspeare  all  the  while  lets 
you  see  a  fixed  purpose,  a  practical  end  in  view  ; — in  Lear's, 
there  is  only  the  brooding  of  the  one  anguish,  an  eddy 
without  progression. 

lb.  sc.  4.     Lear's  speech  : — 

The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall  ;   the  dear  father 
Would  with  his  daughter  speak,  &c. 

«  *  «  * 

No,  but  not  yet :   may  be  he  is  not  well,  &c. 

The   strong  interest  now  felt   by  Lear  to  try  to   find 
excuses  for  his  daughter  is  most  pathetic, 
lb.     Lear's  speech  : — 

Beloved  Regan. 


Thy  sister's  naught ; — O  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture,  here. 
I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee ; — thou'lt  not  beUeve 
With  how  deprav'd  a  quality — O  Regan  ! 


134  Notes  on  Lear 


Reg.  I  pray  you.  Sir,  take  patience  ;    I  have  hope. 
You  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert, 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty. 

Lear.   Say,  how  is  that  ? 

Nothing  is  so  heart-cutting  as  a  cold  unexpected  defence 
or  palliation  of  a  cruelty  passionately  complained  of,  or  so 
expressive  of  thorough  hard-heartedness.  And  feel  the 
excessive  horror  of  Regan's  *0,  Sir,  you  are  old!' — and 
then  her  drawing  from  that  universal  object  of  reverence 
and  indulgence  the  very  reason  for  her  frightful  con- 
clusion— 

Say,  you  have  wrong'd  her  I 

All  Lear's  faults  increase  our  pity  for  him.     We  refuse  to 
know  them  otherwise  than  as  means  of  his  sufferings,  and 
aggravations  of  his  daughter's  ingratitude. 
lb.     Lear's  speech  : — 

O,  reason  not  the  need  :   our  basest  beggars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous,  &c. 

Observe  that  the  tranquillity  which  follows  the  first 
stunning  of  the  blow  permits  Lear  to  reason. 

Act  iii.  sc.  4.  O,  what  a  world's  convention  of  agonies 
is  here  !  All  external  nature  in  a  storm,  all  moral  nature 
convulsed, — the  real  madness  of  Lear,  the  feigned  madness 
of  Edgar,  the  babbling  of  the  Fool,  the  desperate  fidelity  of 
Kent — surely  such  a  scene  was  never  conceived  before  or 
since  !  Take  it  but  cLS  a  picture  for  the  eye  only,  it  is  more 
terrific  than  any  which  a  Michel  Angelo,  inspired  by  a 
Dante,  could  have  conceived,  and  which  none  but  a  Michel 
Angelo  could  have  executed.  Or  let  it  have  been  uttered 
to  the  blind,  the  bowlings  of  nature  would  seem  converted 
into  the  voice  of  conscious  humanity.  This  scene  ends 
with  the  first  symptoms  of  positive  derangement ;  and 
the  intervention  of  the  fifth  scene  is  particularly  judicious, 
— the  interruption  allowing  an  interval  for  Lear  to  appear 
in  full  madness  in  the  sixth  scene. 

lb.  sc.  7.     Gloster's  blinding  : — 

What  can  I  say  of  this  scene  ? — There  is  my  reluctance  to 
think  Shakspeare  wrong,  and  yet — 

Act  iv.  sc.  6.     Lear's  speech  : — 

Ha  I  Goneril  1 — with  a  white  beard  ! — They  flattered  me  like  a 
dog  ;    and  told  me,  I  had  white  hairs  in  my  beard,  ere  the  black 


Notes  on  Hamlet  135 

ones  were  there.  To  say  Ay  and  No  to  every  thing  that  I  said  ! 
— Ay  and  No  too  was  no  good  divinity.  When  the  rain  came  to 
wet  me  once,  &c. 

The  thunder  recurs,  but  still  at  a  greater  distance  from 
our  feelings. 

lb.  sc.  7.     Lear's  speech  : — 

Where  have  I  been  ?     Where  am  I  ? — Fair  daylight  ? — 
I  am  mightily  abused. — I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus,  &c. 

How  beautifully  the  affecting  return  of  Lear  to  reason, 
and  the  mild  pathos  of  these  speeches  prepare  the  mind  for 
the  last  sad,  yet  sweet,  consolation  of  the  aged  sufferer's 
death  I 


HAMLET. 

Hamlet  was  the  play,  or  rather  Hamlet  himself  was  the 
character,  in  the  intuition  and  exposition  of  which  I  first 
made  my  turn  for  philosophical  criticism,  and  especially 
for  insight  into  the  genius  of  Shakspeare,  noticed.  This 
happened  first  amongst  my  acquaintances,  as  Sir  George 
Beaumont  will  bear  witness  ;  and  subsequently,  long 
before  Schlegel  had  delivered  at  Vienna  the  lectures  on 
Shakspeare,  which  he  afterwards  published,  I  had  given  on 
the  same  subject  eighteen  lectures  substantially  the  same, 
proceeding  from  the  very  same  point  of  view,  and  deducing 
the  same  conclusions,  so  far  as  I  either  then  agreed,  or  now 
agree,  with  him.  I  gave  these  lectures  at  the  Royal 
Institution,  before  six  or  seven  hundred  auditors  of  rank 
and  eminence,  in  the  spring  of  the  same  year,  in  which  Sir 
Humphrey  Davy,  a  fellow-lecturer,  made  his  great  re- 
volutionary discoveries  in  chemistry.  Even  in  detail  the 
coincidence  of  Schlegel  with  my  lectures  was  so  extra- 
ordinary, that  all  who  at  a  later  period  heard  the  same 
words,  taken  by  me  from  my  notes  of  the  lectures  at  the 
Royal  Institution,  concluded  a  borrowing  on  my  part  from 
Schlegel.  Mr.  Hazlitt,  whose  hatred  of  me  is  in  such  an 
inverse  ratio  to  my  zealous  kindness  towards  him,  as  to  be 
defended  by  his  warmest  admirer,  Charles  Lamb — (who, 
God  bless  him  !  besides  his  characteristic  obstinacy  of 
adherence  to  old  friends,  as  long  at  least  as  they  are  at  all 


136  Notes  on  Hamlet 

down  in  the  world,  is  linked  as  by  a  charm  to  Hazlitt's  con- 
versation)— only  as  'frantic'  ; — Mr.  Hazlitt,  I  say,  himself 
repHed  to  an  assertion  of  my  plagiarism  from  Schlegel  in 
these  words  ; — "  That  is  a  lie  ;  for  I  myself  heard  the  very 
same  character  of  Hamlet  from  Coleridge  before  he  went 
to  Germany,  and  when  he  had  neither  read  nor  could  read  a 
page  of  German  !  "  Now  Hazlitt  was  on  a  visit  to  me  at 
my  cottage  at  Nether  Stowey,  Somerset,  in  the  summer  of 
the  year  1798,  in  the  September  of  which  year  I  first  was 
out  of  sight  of  the  shores  of  Great  Britain.  Recorded  by 
me,  S.  T.  Coleridge,  7th  January,  1819. 

The  seeming  inconsistencies  in  the  conduct  and  character 
of  Hamlet  have  long  exercised  the  conjectural  ingenuity  of 
critics  ;  and,  as  we  are  always  loth  to  suppose  that  "the 
cause  of  defective  apprehension  is  in  ourselves,  the  mystery 
has  been  too  commonly  explained  by  the  very  easy  pro- 
cess of  setting  it  down  as  in  fact  inexplicable,  and  by 
resolving  the  phenomenon  into  a  misgrowth  or  lusus  of  the 
capricious  and  irregular  genius  of  Shakspeare.  The  shallow 
and  stupid  arrogance  of  these  vulgar  and  indolent  de- 
cisions I  would  fain  do  my  best  to  expose.  I  beUeve  the 
character  of  Hamlet  may  be  traced  to  Shakspeare' s  deep 
and  accurate  science  in  mental  philosophy.  Indeed,  that 
this  character  must  have  some  connection  with  the  common 
fundamental  laws  of  our  nature  may  be  assumed  from  the 
fact,  that  Hamlet  has  been  the  darling  of  every  country  in 
which  the  literature  of  England  has  been  fostered.  In  order 
to  understand  him,  it  is  essential  that  we  should  reflect  on 
the  constitution  of  our  own  minds.  Man  is  distinguished 
from  the  brute  animals  in  proportion  as  thought  prevails 
over  sense  :  but  in  the  healthy  processes  of  the  mind,  a 
balance  is  constantly  maintained  between  the  impressions 
from  outward  objects  and  the  inward  operations  of  the 
intellect ; — for  if  there  be  an  overbalance  in  the  contem- 
plative faculty,  man  thereby  becomes  the  creature  of 
mere  meditation,  and  loses  his  natural  power  of  action. 
Now  one  of  Shakspeare' s  modes  of  creating  characters  is, 
to  conceive  any  one  intellectual  or  moral  faculty  in  morbid 
excess,  and  then  to  place  himself,  Shakspeare,  thus  muti- 
lated or  diseased,  under  given  circumstances.  In  Hamlet 
he  seems  to  have  wished  to  exemplify  the  moral  necessity 
of  a  due  balance  between  our  attention  to  the  objects  of 
our  senses,  and  our  meditation  on  the  workings  of  our 


Notes  on  Hamlet  137 

minds, — an  equilibrium  between  the  real  and  the  imaginary 
worlds.  In  Hamlet  this  balance  is  disturbed  :  his  thoughts, 
and  the  images  of  his  fancy,  are  far  more  vivid  than  his 
actual  perceptions,  and  his  very  perceptions,  instantly 
passing  through  the  medium  of  his  contemplations,  acquire, 
as  they  pass,  a  form  and  a  colour  not  naturally  their  own. 
Hence  we  see  a  great,  an  almost  enormous,  intellectual 
activity,  and  a  proportionate  aversion  to  real  action, 
consequent  upon  it,  with  all  its  symptoms  and  accom- 
panying qualities.  This  character  Shakspeare  places 
in  circumstances,  under  which  it  is  obliged  to  act  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  : — Hamlet  is  brave  and  careless  of 
death  ;  but  he  vacillates  from  sensibihty,  and  procrasti- 
nates from  thought,  and  loses  the  power  of  action  in  the 
energy  of  resolve.  Thus  it  is  that  this  tragedy  presents  a 
direct  contrast  to  that  of  Macbeth  ;  the  one  proceeds  with 
the  utmost  slowness,  the  other  with  a  crowded  and  breath- 
less rapidity. 

The  effect  of  this  overbalance  of  the  imaginative  power  is 
beautifully  illustrated  in  the  everlasting  broodings  and 
superfluous  activities  of  Hamlet's  mind,  which,  unseated 
from  its  healthy  relation,  is  constantly  occupied  with  the 
world  within,  and  abstracted  from  the  world  without, — 
giving  substance  to  shadows,  and  throwing  a  mist  over  all 
common-place  actualities.  It  is  the  nature  of  thought  to  be 
indefinite  ; — definiteness  belongs  to  external  imagery  alone. 
Hence  it  is  that  the  sense  of  sublimity  arises,  not  from  the 
sight  of  an  outward  object,  but  from  the  beholder's  re- 
flection upon  it ; — not  from  the  sensuous  impression, 
but  from  the  imaginative  reflex.  Few  have  seen  a 
celebrated  waterfall  without  feeling  something  akin  to 
disappointment :  it  is  only  subsequently  that  the  image 
comes  back  full  into  the  mind,  and  brings  with  it  a  train 
of  grand  or  beautiful  associations.  Hamlet  feels  this  ; 
his  senses  are  in  a  state  of  trance,  and  he  looks  upon  ex- 
ternal things  as  hieroglyphics.     His  solfloquy — 

O  !   that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt,  &c. 

springs  from  that  craving  after  the  indefinite — for  that 
which  is  not — which  most  easily  besets  men  of  genius  ; 
and  the  self-delusion  common  to  this  temper  of  mind  is 
finely  exemplified  in  the  character  which  Hamlet  gives 
of  himself : — 


138  Notes  on  Hamlet 

— It  cannot  be 
But  I  am  pigeon-livered,  and  lack  gall 
To  make  oppression  bitter. 

He  mistakes  the  seeing  his  chains  for  the  breaking  them, 
delays  action  till  action  is  of  no  use,  and  dies  the  victim 
of  mere  circumstance  and  accident. 

There  is  a  great  significancy  in  the  names  of  Shakspeare's 
plays.  In  the  Twelfth  Night,  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
As  You  Like  It,  and  Winter's  Tale,  the  total  effect  is 
produced  by  a  co-ordination  of  the  characters  as  in  a 
\\Teath  of  flowers.  But  in  Coriolanus,  Lear,  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Hamlet,  Othello,  &c.  the  effect  arises  from  the 
subordination  of  all  to  one,  either  as  the  prominent  person, 
or  the  principal  object.  Cymbeline  is  the  only  exception  ; 
and  even  that  has  its  advantages  in  preparing  the  audience 
for  the  chaos  of  time,  place,  and  costume,  by  throwing  the 
date  back  into  a  fabulous  king's  reign. 

But  as  of  more  importance,  so  more  striking,  is  the 
judgment  displayed  by  our  truly  dramatic  poet,  as  well 
as  poet  of  the  drama,  in  the  management  of  his  first  scenes. 
With  the  single  exception  of  Cymbeline,  they  either  place 
before  us  at  one  glance  both  the  past  and  the  future  in 
some  effect,  which  implies  the  continuance  and  fuU  agency 
of  its  cause,  as  in  the  feuds  and  party-spirit  of  the  servants 
of  the  two  houses  in  the  first  scene  of  Romeo  and  Juliet; 
or  in  the  degrading  passion  for  shews  and  public  spectacles, 
and  the  overwhelming  attachment  for  the  newest  success- 
ful war-chief  in  the  Roman  people,  already  become  a 
populace,  contrasted  with  the  jealousy  of  the  nobles  in 
Julius  Caesar  ; — or  they  at  once  commence  the  action  so 
as  to  excite  a  curiosity  for  the  explanation  in  the  following 
scenes,  as  in  the  storm  of  wind  and  waves,  and  the  boat- 
swain in  the  Tempest,  instead  of  anticipating  our  curiosity, 
as  in  most  other  first  scenes,  and  in  too  many  other  first 
acts  ; — or  they  act,  by  contrast  of  diction  suited  to  the 
characters,  at  once  to  heighten  the  effect,  and  yet  to  give 
a  naturalness  to  the  language  and  rhythm  of  the  principal 
personages,  either  as  that  of  Prospero  and  Miranda  by  the 
appropriate  lowness  of  the  style, — or  as  in  King  John,  by 
the  equally  appropriate  stateliness  of  official  harangues 
or  narratives,  so  that  the  after  blank  verse  seems  to  belong 
to  the  rank  and  quality  of  the  speakers,  and  not  to  the 
poet ; — or  they  strike  at  once  the  key-note,  and  give  the 


Notes  on  Hamlet  139 

predominant  spirit  of  the  play,  as  in  the  Twelfth  Night  and 
in  Macbeth  ; — or  finally,  the  first  scene  comprises  all  these 
advantages  at  once,  as  in  Hamlet. 

Compare  the  easy  language  of  common  life,  in  which 
this  drama  commences,  with  the  direful  music  and  wild 
wayward  rhythm  and  abrupt  lyrics  of  the  opening  of 
Macbeth.  The  tone  is  quite  familiar  ; — there  is  no  poetic 
description  of  night,  no  elaborate  information  conveyed 
by  one  speaker  to  another  of  what  both  had  immediately 
before  their  senses — (such  as  the  first  distich  in  Addison's 
Cato,  which  is  a  translation  into  poetry  of  'Past  four 
o'clock  and  a  dark  morning  !')  ; — and  yet  nothing  border- 
ing on  the  comic  on  the  one  hand,  nor  any  striving  of  the 
intellect  on  the  other.  It  is  precisely  the  language  of 
sensation  among  men  who  feared  no  charge  of  effeminacy 
for  feeling  what  they  had  no  want  of  resolution  to  bear. 
Yet  the  armour,  the  dead  silence,  the  watchfulness  that 
first  interrupts  it,  the  welcome  relief  of  the  guard,  the  cold, 
the  broken  expressions  of  compelled  attention  to  bodily 
feehngs  still  under  control — all  excellently  accord  with, 
and  prepare  for,  the  after  gradual  rise  into  tragedy  ; — 
but,  above  all,  into  a  tragedy,  the  interest  of  which  is  as 
eminently  ad  et  apud  intra,  as  that  of  Macbeth  is  directly 
ad  extra. 

In  all  the  best  attested  stories  of  ghosts  and  visions, 
as  in  that  of  Brutus,  of  Archbishop  Cranmer,  that  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini  recorded  by  himself,  and  the  vision  of 
Galileo  communicated  by  him  to  his  favourite  pupil 
Torricelli,  the  ghost-seers  were  in  a  state  of  cold  or  chilling 
damp  from  without,  and  of  anxiety  inwardly.  It  has 
been  with  all  of  them  as  with  Francisco  on  his  guard, — 
alone,  in  the  depth  and  silence  of  the  night ; — "twas 
bitter  cold,  and  they  were  sick  at  heart,  and  not  a  mouse 
stirring.'  The  attention  to  minute  sounds, — naturally 
associated  with  the  recollection  of  minute  objects,  and 
the  more  familiar  and  trifling,  the  more  impressive  from 
the  unusualness  of  their  producing  any  impression  at  all 
— gives  a  philosophic  pertinency  to  this  last  image  ;  but 
it  has  hkewise  its  dramatic  use  and  purpose.  For  its 
commonness  in  ordinary  conversation  tends  to  produce 
the  sense  of  reality,  and  at  once  hides  the  poet,  and  yet 
approximates  the  reader  or  spectator  to  that  state  in 
which  the  highest  poetry  will  appear,  and  in  its  component 


140  Notes  on  Hamlet 

parts,  though  not  in  the  whole  composition,  really  is,  the 
language  of  nature.  If  I  should  not  speak  it,  I  feel  that 
I  should  be  thinking  it ; — the  voice  only  is  the  poet's, — 
the  words  are  my  own.  That  Shakspeare  meant  to  put 
an  effect  in  the  actor's  power  in  the  very  first  words — 
"  Who's  there  ?  "  —  is  evident  fromt  he  impatience  ex- 
pressed by  the  startled  Francisco  in  the  words  that  follow 
— "  Nay,  answer  me :  stand  and  unfold  yourself."  A  brave 
man  is  never  so  peremptory,  as  when  he  fears  that  he  is 
afraid.  Observe  the  gradual  transition  from  the  silence 
and  the  still  recent  habit  of  listening  in  Francisco's — "  I 
think  I  hear  them  " — to  the  more  cheerful  call  out,  which 
a  good  actor  would  observe,  in  the — "  Stand  ho  !  Who  is 
there  ? "  Bernardo's  inquiry  after  Horatio,  and  the 
repetition  of  his  name  and  in  his  own  presence  indicate  a 
respect  or  an  eagerness  that  implies  him  as  one  of  the 
persons  who  are  in  the  foreground  ;  and  the  scepticism 
attributed  to  him, — 

Horatio  says,  'tis  but  our  fantasy  ; 

And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him — 

prepares  us  for  Hamlet's  after  eoilogy  on  him  as  one  whose 
blood  and  judgment  were  happily  commingled.  The 
actor  should  also  be  careful  to  distinguish  the  expectation 
and  gladness  of  Bernardo's  'Welcome,  Horatio  !'  from 
the  mere  courtesy  of  his  'Welcome,  good  Marcellus  !* 

Now  observe  the  admirable  indefiniteness  of  the  first 
opening  out  of  the  occasion  of  all  this  anxiety.  The 
preparation  informative  of  the  audience  is  just  as  much  as 
was  precisely  necessary,  and  no  more  ; — it  begins  with  the 
uncertainty  appertaining  to  a  question  : — 

Mar.  What,  has  this  thing  appear'd  again  to-night  ? — 

Even  the  word  'again'  has  its  credihilizing  effect.  Then 
Horatio,  the  representative  of  the  ignorance  of  the 
audience,  not  himself,  but  by  Marcellus  to  Bernardo, 
anticipates  the  common  solution — "tis  but  our  fantasy  !' 
upon  which  Marcellus  rises  into 

This  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us — 

which  immediately  afterwards  becomes  'this  apparition,* 
and  that,  too,  an  intelligent  spirit,  that  is,  to  be  spoken  to  ! 
Then  comes  the  confirmation  of  Horatio's  disbelief ; — 

Tush  !  tush  !  'twill  not  appear  ! — 


Notes  on  Hamlet  141 

and  the  silence,  with  which  the  scene  opened,  is  again 
restored  in  the  shivering  feeUng  of  Horatio  sitting  down, 
at  such  a  time,  and  with  the  two  eye-witnesses,  to  hear  a 
story  of  a  ghost,  and  that,  too,  of  a  ghost  which  had 
appeared  twice  before  at  the  very  same  hour.  In  the 
deep  feeUng  which  Bernardo  has  of  the  solemn  nature  of 
what  he  is  about  to  relate,  he  makes  an  effort  to  master  his 
own  imaginative  terrors  by  an  elevation  of  style, — itself 
a  continuation  of  the  effort, — and  by  turning  off  from  the 
apparition,  as  from  something  which  would  force  him  too 
deeply  into  himself,  to  the  outward  objects,  the  realities 
of  nature,  which  had  accompanied  it : — 

Ber.  Last  night  of  all. 
When  yon  same  star,  that's  westward  from  the  pole 
Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus  and  myself. 
The  bell  then  beating  one — 

This  passage  seems  to  contradict  the  critical  law  that 
what  is  told,  makes  a  faint  impression  compared  with 
what  is  beholden  ;  for  it  does  indeed  convey  to  the  mind 
more  than  the  eye  can  see  ;  whilst  the  interruption  of  the 
narrative  at  the  very  moment  when  we  are  most  intensely 
listening  for  the  sequel,  and  have  our  thoughts  diverted 
from  the  dreaded  sight  in  expectation  of  the  desired,  yet 
almost  dreaded,  tale — this  gives  all  the  suddenness  and 
surprise  of  the  original  appearance  ; — 

Mar.    Peace,  break  thee  oflE  ;   look,  where  it  comes  again  ! — 

Note  the  judgment  displayed  in  having  the  two  persons 
present,  who,  as  having  seen  the  Ghost  before,  are  naturally 
eager  in  confirming  their  former  opinions, — whilst  the 
sceptic  is  silent,  and  after  having  been  twice  addressed  by 
his  friends,  answers  with  two  hasty  syllables — 'Most  like,' 
— and  a  confession  of  horror  : 

— It  harrows  me  with  fear  and  wonder. 

O  heaven !  words  are  wasted  on  those  who  feel,  and  to 
those  who  do  not  feel  the  exquisite  judgment  of  Shak- 
speare  in  this  scene,  what  can  be  said  ? — Hume  himself 
could  not  but  have  had  faith  in  this  Ghost  dramatically, 
let  his  anti-ghostism  have  been  as  strong  as  Sampson 
against  other  ghosts  less  powerfully  raised. 


142  Notes  on  Hamlet 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Mar,   Good  now,  sit  down,  and  tell  me,  he  that  knows, 
Why  this  same  strict  and  most  observant  watch,  &c. 

How  delightfully  natural  is  the  transition  to  the  retro- 
spective  narrative  !  And  observe,  upon  the  Ghost's  re- 
appearance, how  much  Horatio's  courage  is  increased  by 
having  translated  the  late  individual  spectator  into  general 
thought  and  past  experience, — and  the  sympathy  of 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo  with  his  patriotic  surmises  in 
daring  to  strike  at  the  Ghost ;  whilst  in  a  moment,  upon 
its  vanishing  the  former  solemn  awe-stricken  feeling 
returns  upon  them  : — 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical. 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence. — 

lb.     Horatio's  speech  : — 

I  have  heard, 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn. 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day,  &c. 

No  Addison  could  be  more  careful  to  be  poetical  in  diction 
than  Shakspeare  in  providing  the  grounds  and  sources  of 
its  propriety.  But  how  to  elevate  a  thing  almost  mean 
by  its  familiarity,  young  poets  may  learn  in  this  treatment 
of  the  cock-crow. 

lb.     Horatio's  speech  : — 

And,  by  my  advice. 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet;  for,  upon  my  life. 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him. 

Note  the  inobtrusive  and  yet  fully  adequate  mode  of 
introducing  the  main  character,  'young  Hamlet,'  upon 
whom  is  transferred  all  the  interest  excited  for  the  acts 
and  concerns  of  the  king  his  father. 

lb.  sc.  2.  The  audience  are  now  relieved  by  a  change 
of  scene  to  the  royal  court,  in  order  that  Hamlet  may  not 
have  to  take  up  the  leavings  of  exhaustion.  In  the  king's 
speech,  observe  the  set  and  pedantically  antithetic  form 
of  the  sentences  when  touching  that  which  galled  the  heels 
of  conscience, — the  strain  of  undignified  rhetoric, — and 
yet  in  what  follows  concerning  the  public  weal,  a  certain 
appropriate  majesty.    Indeed  was  he  not  a  royal  brother  ? — 


Notes  on  Hamlet  143 

lb.     King's  speech  : — 

And  now,  Laertes,  what's  the  news  with  you  ?  &c. 
Thus  with  great  art  Shakspeare  introduces  a  most  impor- 
tant, but  still  subordinate  character  first,  Laertes,  who  is 
yet  thus  graciously  treated  in  consequence  of  the  assistance 
given  to  the  election  of  the  late  king's  brother  instead  of 
his  son  by  Polonius. 

lb. 

Ham.   A  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind. 
King.   How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you  ? 
Ham.   Not  so,  my  lord,  I  am  too  much  i'  the  sun. 

Hamlet  opens  his  mouth  with  a  playing  on  words,  the 
complete  absence  of  which  throughout  characterizes 
Macbeth.  This  playing  on  words  may  be  attributed  to 
many  causes  or  motives,  as  either  to  an  exuberant  activity 
of  mind,  as  in  the  higher  comedy  of  Shakspeare  generally  ; 
— or  to  an  imitation  of  it  as  a  mere  fashion,  as  if  it  were 
said — Ts  not  this  better  than  groaning  ?' — or  to  a  con- 
temptuous exultation  in  minds  vulgarized  and  overset  by 
their  success,  as  in  the  poetic  instance  of  Milton's  Devils 
in  the  battle  ; — or  it  is  the  language  of  resentment,  as  is 
familiar  to  every  one  who  has  witnessed  the  quarrels  of  the 
lower  orders,  where  there  is  invariably  a  profusion  of 
punning  invective,  whence,  perhaps,  nicknames  have  in  a 
considerable  degree  sprung  up  ; — or  it  is  the  language  of 
suppressed  passion,  and  especially  of  a  hardly  smothered 
personal  dislike.  The  first  and  last  of  these  combine  in 
Hamlet's  case  ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  Farmer  is 
right  in  supposing  the  equivocation  carried  on  in  the 
expression  'too  much  i'  the  sun,'  or  son. 

lb. 

Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Here  observe  Hamlet's  deUcacy  to  his  mother,  and  how 
the  suppression  prepares  him  for  the  overflow  in  the  next 
speech,  in  which  his  character  is  more  developed  by  bring- 
ing forward  his  aversion  to  externals,  and  which  betrays 
his  habit  of  brooding  over  the  world  within  him,  coupled 
with  a  prodigality  of  beautiful  words,  which  are  the  half 
embodyings  of  thought,  and  are  more  than  thought,  and 
have  an  outness,  a  reality  sui  generis,  and  yet  retain  their 
correspondence  and  shadowy  affinity  to  the  images  and 
movements  within.     Note  also  Hamlet's  silence   to  the 


144  Notes  on  Hamlet 

long  speech  of  the  king  which  follows,  and  his  respectful, 
but  general,  answer  to  his  mother. 
lb.     Hamlet's  first  soliloquy  : — 

O,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  !    &c. 

This  tcBdium  vUcb  is  a  common  oppression  on  minds  cast 
in  the  Hamlet  mould,  and  is  caused  by  disproportionate 
mental  exertion,  which  necessitates  exhaustion  of  bodily 
feeling.  Where  there  is  a  just  coincidence  of  external  and 
internal  action,  pleasure  is  always  the  result ;  but  where 
the  former  is  deficient,  and  the  mind's  appetency  of  the 
ideal  is  unchecked,  realities  will  seem  cold  and  unmoving. 
In  such  cases,  passion  combines  itself  with  the  indefinite 
alone.  In  this  mood  of  his  mind  the  relation  of  the 
appearance  of  his  father's  spirit  in  arms  is  made  all  at  once 
to  Hamlet : — it  is — Horatio's  speech,  in  particular — a 
perfect  model  of  the  true  style  of  dramatic  narrative  ; — 
the  purest  poetry,  and  yet  in  the  most  natural  language, 
equally  remote  from  the  ink-horn  and  the  plough. 

lb.  sc.  3.  This  scene  must  be  regarded  as  one  of  Shak- 
speare's  lyric  movements  in  the  play,  and  the  skiU  with 
which  it  is  interwoven  with  the  dramatic  parts  is  peculiarly 
an  excellence  of  our  poet.  You  experience  the  sensation 
of  a  pause  without  the  sense  of  a  stop.  You  will  observe 
in  OpheUa's  short  and  general  answer  to  the  long  speech 
of  Laertes  the  natural  carelessness  of  innocence,  which 
cannot  think  such  a  code  of  cautions  and  prudences 
necessary  to  its  own  preservation. 

lb.  Speech  of  Polonius  : — (in  Stockdale's  edition.) 

Or  (not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase,) 
Wronging  it  thus,  you'll  tender  me  a  fool. 

I  suspect  this  'wronging'  is  here  used  much  in  the  same 
sense  as  'wringing'  or  'wrenching'  ;  and  that  the  paren- 
thesis should  be  extended  to  'thus.'  ^ 
lb.     Speech  of  Polonius  : — 

How  prodigal  the  soul 

Lends  the  tongue  vows  : — these  blazes,  daughter,  &c. 

A  spondee  has,  I  doubt  not,  dropped  out  of  the  text. 
Either  insert  'Go  to'  after  'vows '  ; — 

1  It  is  so  pointed  in  the  modern  editions. — Ed. 


Notes  on  Hamlet  145 

Lends  the  tongue  vows  :    Go  to,  these  blazes,  daughter — 
or  read 

Lends  the  tongue  vows  : — These  blazes,  daughter,  mark  you — 

Shakspeare  never  introduces  a  catalectic  line  without 
intending  an  equivalent  to  the  foot  omitted  in  the  pauses, 
or  the  dwelling  emphasis,  or  the  diffused  retardation.  I 
do  not,  however,  deny  that  a  good  actor  might  by  employ- 
ing the  last  mentioned  means,  namely,  the  retardation,  or 
solemn  knowing  drawl,  supply  the  missing  spondee  with 
good  effect.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  in  this  or  any  other 
of  the  foregoing  speeches  of  Polonius,  Shakspeare  meant 
to  bring  out  the  senility  or  weakness  of  that  personage's 
mind.  In  the  great  ever-recurring  dangers  and  duties 
of  life,  where  to  distinguish  the  fit  objects  for  the  applica- 
tion of  the  maxims  collected  by  the  experience  of  a  long 
life,  requires  no  fineness  of  tact,  as  in  the  admonitions  to 
his  son  and  daughter,  Polonius  is  uniformly  made  respect- 
able. But  if  an  actor  were  even  capable  of  catching  these 
shades  in  the  character,  the  pit  and  the  gallery  would  be 
malcontent  at  their  exhibition.  It  is  to  Hamlet  that 
Polonius  is,  and  is  meant  to  be,  contemptible,  because  in 
inwardness  and  uncontrollable  activity  of  movement, 
Hamlet's  mind  is  the  logical  contrary  to  that  of  Polonius, 
and  besides,  as  I  have  observed  before,  Hamlet  dislikes 
the  man  as  false  to  his  true  allegiance  in  the  matter  of  the 
succession  to  the  crown. 

lb.  sc.  4.  The  unimportant  conversation  with  which 
this  scene  opens  is  a  proof  of  Shakspeare's  minute  know- 
ledge of  human  nature.  It  is  a  well  established  fact,  that 
on  the  brink  of  any  serious  enterprise,  or  event  of  moment, 
men  almost  invariably  endeavour  to  elude  the  pressure  of 
their  own  thoughts  by  turning  aside  to  trivial  objects  and 
familiar  circumstances  :  thus  this  dialogue  on  the  platform 
begins  with  remarks  on  the  coldness  of  the  air,  and  inquiries, 
obliquely  connected,  indeed,  with  the  expected  hour  of 
the  visitation,  but  thrown  out  in  a  seeming  vacuity  of 
topics,  as  to  the  striking  of  the  clock  and  so  forth.  The 
same  desire  to  escape  from  the  impending  thought  is  carried 
on  in  Hamlet's  account  of,  and  moralizing  on,  the  Danish 
custom  of  wassailing  :  he  runs  off  from  the  particular  to  the 
universal,  and,  in  his  repugnance  to  personal  and  individual 
concerns,  escapes,  as  it  were,  from  himself  in  generaliza- 


146  Notes  on  Hamlet 

tions,  and  smothers  the  impatience  and  uneasy  feelings 
of  the  moment  in  abstract  reasoning.  Besides  this,  an- 
other purpose  is  answered  ; — for  by  thus  entangling  the 
attention  of  the  audience  in  the  nice  distinctions  and 
parenthetical  sentences  of  this  speech  of  Hamlet's,  Shak- 
speare  takes  them  completely  by  surprise  on  the  appearance 
of  the  Ghost,  which  comes  upon  them  in  all  the  sudden- 
ness of  its  visionary  character.  Indeed,  no  modem  writer 
would  have  dared,  like  Shakspeare,  to  have  preceded  this 
last  visitation  by  two  distinct  appearances, — or  could  have 
contrived  that  the  third  should  rise  upon  the  former  two 
in  impressiveness  and  solemnity  of  interest. 

But  in  addition  to  all  the  other  excellences  of  Hamlet's 
speech  concerning  the  wassel-music — so  finely  revealing 
the  predominant  ideahsm,  the  ratiocinative  meditativeness, 
of  his  character — it  has  the  advantage  of  giving  nature 
and  probability  to  the  impassioned  continuity  of  the  speech 
instantly  directed  to  the  Ghost.  The  momentum  had  been 
given  to  his  mental  activity  ;  the  full  current  of  the 
thoughts  and  words  had  set  in,  and  the  very  forgetfulness, 
in  the  fervour  of  his  argumentation,  of  the  purpose  for 
which  he  was  there,  aided  in  preventing  the  appearance 
from  benumbing  the  mind.  Consequently,  it  acted  as  a 
new  impulse, — a  sudden  stroke  which  increased  the  velocity 
of  the  body  already  in  motion,  whilst  it  altered  the  direc- 
tion. The  co-presence  of  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo 
is  most  judiciously  contrived  ;  for  it  renders  the  courage 
of  Hamlet  and  his  impetuous  eloquence  perfectly  intel- 
ligible. The  knowledge, — the  unthought  of  consciousness, 
— the  sensation, — of  human  auditors, — of  flesh  and  blood 
sympathists — acts  as  a  support  and  a  stimulation  a  tergo, 
while  the  front  of  the  mind,  the  whole  consciousness  of 
the  speaker,  is  filled,  yea,  absorbed,  by  the  apparition. 
Add  too,  that  the  apparition  itself  has  by  its  previous 
appearances  been  brought  nearer  to  a  thing  of  this  world. 
This  accrescence  of  objectivity  in  a  Ghost  that  yet  retains 
all  its  ghostly  attributes  and  fearful  subjectivity,  is  truly 
wonderful. 

lb.  sc.  5.     Hamlet's  speech  : — 

O  all  3'^ou  host  of  heaven  !     O  earth  !     What  else  ? 
And  shall  I  couple  hell  ?  — 

1  remember  nothing  equal  to  this  burst  unless  it  be  the 


Notes  on  Hamlet  147 

first  speech  of  Prometheus  in  the  Greek  drama,  after  the 
exit  of  Vulcan  and  the  two  Afrites.  But  Shakspeare  alone 
could  have  produced  the  vow  of  Hamlet  to  make  his 
memory  a  blank  of  all  maxims  and  generalized  truths, 
that  'observation  had  copied  there,* — followed  immediately 
by  the  speaker  noting  down  the  generalized  fact, 

That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain  I 

lb. 

Mar.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord  I 

Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy  !   come  bird,  come,  &c. 

This  part  of  the  scene  after  Hamlet's  interview  with  the 
Ghost  has  been  charged  with  an  improbable  eccentricity. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  after  the  mind  has  been  stretched 
beyond  its  usual  pitch  and  tone,  it  must  either  sink  into 
exhaustion  and  inanity,  or  seek  rehef  by  change.  It  is 
thus  well  known,  that  persons  conversant  in  deeds  of 
cruelty  contrive  to  escape  from  conscience  by  connecting 
something  of  the  ludicrous  with  them,  and  by  inventing 
grotesque  terms  and  a  certain  technical  phraseology  to 
disguise  the  horror  of  their  practices.  Indeed,  paradoxical 
as  it  may  appear,  the  terrible  by  a  law  of  the  human  mind 
always  touches  on  the  verge  of  the  ludicrous.  Both  arise 
from  the  perception  of  something  out  of  the  common  order 
of  things — something,  in  fact,  out  of  its  place  ;  and  if  from 
this  we  can  abstract  danger,  the  uncommonness  wiU  alone 
remain,  and  the  sense  of  the  ridiculous  be  excited.  The 
close  aUiance  of  these  opposites — they  are  not  contraries — 
appears  from  the  circumstance,  that  laughter  is  equally 
the  expression  of  extreme  anguish  and  horror  as  of  joy  : 
as  there  are  tears  of  sorrow  and  tears  of  joy,  so  is  there  a 
laugh  of  terror  and  a  laugh  of  merriment.  These  complex 
causes  will  naturally  have  produced  in  Hamlet  the  dis- 
position to  escape  from  his  own  feelings  of  the  overwhelm- 
ing and  supernatural  by  a  wild  transition  to  the  ludicrous, 
— a  sort  of  cunning  bravado,  bordering  on  the  flights  of 
delirium.  For  you  may,  perhaps,  observe  that  Hamlet's 
wildness  is  but  half  false  ;  he  plays  that  subtle  trick  of 
pretending  to  act  only  when  he  is  very  near  really  being 
what  he  acts. 

The  subterraneous  speeches  of  the  Ghost  are  hardly 
defensible  : — but  I  would  call  your  attention  to  the  char- 
acteristic difference  between  this  Ghost,  as  a  superstition 


14B  Notes  on  Hamlet 

connected  with  the  most  mysterious  truths  of  revealed 
religion, — and  Shakspeare's  consequent  reverence  in  his 
treatment  of  it, — and  the  foul  earthly  witcheries  and  wild 
language  in  Macbeth. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Polonius  and  Reynaldo. 

In  all  things  dependent  on,  or  rather  made  up  of,  fine 
address,  the  manner  is  no  more  or  otherwise  rememberable 
than  the  light  motions,  steps,  and  gestures  of  youth  and 
health.  But  this  is  almost  everything  : — no  wonder,  there- 
fore if  that  which  can  be  put  down  by  rule  in  the  memory 
should  appear  to  us  as  mere  poring,  maudlin,  cunning, — 
slyness  blinking  through  the  watery  eye  of  superannuation. 
So  in  this  admirable  scene,  Polonius,  who  is  throughout  the 
skeleton  of  his  own  former  skill  and  statecraft,  hunts  the 
trail  of  policy  at  a  dead  scent,  supphed  by  the  weak  fever- 
smell  in  his  own  nostrils. 

lb.  sc.  2.     Speech  of  Polonius  : — 

My  liege,  and  madam,  to  expostulate,  &c. 

Warburton's  note. 

Then  as  to  the  jingles,  and  play  on  words,  let  us  but  look  into 
the  sermons  of  Dr.  Donne  (the  wittiest  man  of  that  age)  and  we 
shall  find  them  full  of  this  vein. 

I  have,  and  that  most  carefully,  read  Dr.  Donne's 
sermons,  and  find  none  of  these  jingles.  The  great 
art  of  an  orator — to  make  whatever  he  talks  of  appear 
of  importance  —  this,  indeed,  Donne  has  effected  with 
consunamate  skill. 

lb. 

Ham.  Excellent  well  ; 
You  are  a  fishmonger. 

That  is,  you  are  sent  to  fish  out  this  secret.       This  is 
Hamlet's  own  meaning. 
lb. 

Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breeds  maggots  in  a  dead  dog, 
Being  a  god,  kissing  carrion — 

These  purposely  obscure  lines,  I  rather  think,  refer  to  some 
thought  in  Hamlet's  mind,  contrasting  the  lovely  daughter 
with  such  a  tedious  old  fool,  her  father,  as  he,  Hamlet, 
represents  Polonius  to  himself : — 'Why,  fool  as  he  is,  he  is 
some  degrees  in  rank  above  a  dead  dog's  carcase  ;  and  if 
the  sun,  being  a  god  that  kisses  carrion,  can  raise  Ufe  out 


Notes  on  Hamlet  149 

of  a  dead  dog, — why  may  not  good  fortune,  that  favours 
fools,  have  raised  a  lovely  girl  out  of  this  dead-alive  old 
fool  ?'  Warburton  is  often  led  astray,  in  his  interpreta- 
tions, by  his  attention  to  general  positions  without  the  due 
Shakspearian  reference  to  what  is  probably  passing  in  the 
mind  of  his  speaker,  characteristic,  and  expository  of  his 
particular  character  and  present  mood.  The  subsequent 
passage, — 

O  Jephtha,  judge  of  Israel  !   what  a  treasure  hadst  thou  ! 

is  confirmatory  of  my  view  of  these  lines, 
lb. 

Ham.  You  cannot,  Sir,  take  from  me  any  thing  that  I  will  more 
willingly  part  withal  ;  except  my  life,  except  my  life,  except  my 
life. 

This  repetition  strikes  me  as  most  admirable, 
lb. 

Ham.  Then  are  our  beggars,  bodies  ;  and  our  monarchs,  and 
out-stretched  heroes,  the  beggars'  shadows. 

I  do  not  understand  this  ;  and  Shakspeare  seems  to 
have  intended  the  meaning  not  to  be  more  than  snatched 
at : — 'By  my  fay,  I  cannot  reason  !' 

The  rugged  Pyrrhus — he  whose  sable  arms,  &c. 

This  admirable  substitution  of  the  epic  for  the  dramatic, 
giving  such  a  reality  to  the  impassioned  dramatic  diction 
of  Shakspeare' s  own  dialogue,  and  authorized  too,  by  the 
actual  style  of  the  tragedies  before  his  time  (Porrex  and 
Ferrex,  Titus  Andronicus,  &c.) — is  well  worthy  of  notice. 
The  fancy,  that  a  burlesque  was  intended,  sinks  below 
criticism  :    the  lines,  as  epic  narrative,  are  superb. 

In  the  thoughts,  and  even  in  the  separate  parts  of  the 
diction,  this  description  is  highly  poetical :  in  truth,  taken 
by  itself,  that  is  its  fault  that  it  is  too  poetical ! — the 
language  of  lyric  vehemence  and  epic  pomp,  and  not  of 
the  drama.  But  if  Shakspeare  had  made  the  diction  truly 
dramatic,  where  would  have  been  the  contrast  between 
Hamlet  and  the  play  in  Hamlet  ? 

lb. 

had  seen  the  mobled  queen,  &c. 

A  mob-cap  is  still  a  word  in  common  use  for  a  morning 


150  Notes  on  Hamlet 

cap,  which  conceals  the  whole  head  of  hair,  and  passes 
under  the  chin.  It  is  nearly  the  same  as  the  night-cap, 
that  is,  it  is  an  imitation  of  it,  so  as  to  answer  the  purpose 
(*I  am  not  drest  for  company'),  and  yet  reconciling  it  with 
neatness  and  perfect  purity, 
lb.     Hamlet's  sohloquy  : 

O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I  !  &c. 

This  is  Shakspeare's  own  attestation  to  the  truth  of  the 
idea  of  Hamlet  which  I  have  before  put  forth, 
lb. 

The  spirit  that  I  have  seen, 

May  be  a  devil  :   and  the  devil  hath  power 

To  assume  a  pleasing  shape  ;   yea,  and,  perhaps 

Out  of  my  weakness,  and  my  melancholy, 

(As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits) 

Abuses  me  to  damn  me. 

See  Sir  Thomas  Brown  : 

I  believe that  those  apparitions  and  ghosts  of  departed 

persons  are  not  the  wandering  souls  of  men,  but  the  unquiet  walks 
of  devils,  prompting  and  suggesting  us  unto  mischief,  blood  and 
vUlany,  instilling  and  stealing  into  our  hearts,  that  the  blessed 
spirits  are  not  at  rest  in  their  graves,  but  wander  solicitous  of  the 
affairs  of  the  world.     Relig.  Med.  Pt.  I.  Sect.  37. 

Act  iii.  sc.  I.     Hamlet's  soliloquy  : 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question,  &c. 

This  speech  is  of  absolutely  universal  interest, — and  yet 
to  which  of  all  Shakspeare's  characters  could  it  have  been 
appropriately  given  but  Hamlet  ?  For  Jaques  it  would 
have  been  too  deep,  and  for  lago  too  habitual  a  communion 
with  the  heart ;  which  in  every  man  belongs,  or  ought  to 
belong,  to  all  mankind. 

lb. 

The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveller  returns. — 

Theobald's  note  in  defence  of  the  supposed  contradiction 
of  this  in  the  apparition  of  the  Ghost. 

O  miserable  defender  !  If  it  be  necessary  to  remove 
the  apparent  contradiction, — if  it  be  not  rather  a  great 
beauty, — surely,  it  were  easy  to  say,  that  no  traveller 
returns  to  this  world,  as  to  his  home,  or  abiding-place. 


Notes  on  Hamlet  151 

lb. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha  !  axe  you  honest  ? 
Oph.  My  lord  ? 
Ham.  Are  you  fair  ? 

Here  it  is  evident  that  the  penetrating  Hamlet  perceives, 
from  the  strange  and  forced  manner  of  Opheha,  that  the 
sweet  girl  was  not  acting  a  part  of  her  own,  but  was  a 
decoy;  and  his  after  speeches  are  not  so  much  directed 
to  her  as  to  the  listeners  and  spies.  Such  a  discovery  in 
a  mood  so  anxious  and  irritable  accounts  for  a  certain 
harshness  in  him  ; — and  yet  a  wild  up-working  of  love, 
sporting  with  opposites  in  a  wilful  self-tormenting  strain 
of  irony,  is  perceptible  throughout,  *I  did  love  you  once  :' 
— 'I  lov'd  you  not  :' — and  particularly  in  his  enumeration 
of  the  faults  of  the  sex  from  which  Ophelia  is  so  free,  that 
the  mere  freedom  therefrom  constitutes  her  character. 
Note  Shakspeare's  charm  of  composing  the  female  char- 
acter by  the  absence  of  characters,  that  is,  marks  and 
out-juttings. 

lb.     Hamlet's  speech  : — 

I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages  :  those  that  are  married 
already,  all  but  one,  shall  live  :    the  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are. 

Observe  this  dallying  with  the  inward  purpose,  char- 
acteristic of  one  who  had  not  brought  his  mind  to  the 
steady  acting  point.  He  would  fain  sting  the  uncle's  mind; 
— but  to  stab  his  body  ! — The  soliloquy  of  Ophelia,  which 
follows,  is  the  perfection  of  love — so  exquisitely  unselfish  ! 

lb.  sc.  2.  This  dialogue  of  Hamlet  with  the  players 
is  one  of  the  happiest  instances  of  Shakspeare's  power  of 
diversifying  the  scene  while  he  is  carrying  on  the  plot. 

lb. 

Ham.  My  lord,  you  play'd  once  i'  the  university,  you  say  ?  {To 
Polonius.) 

To  have  kept  Hamlet's  love  for  Ophelia  before  the  audience 
in  any  direct  form,  would  have  made  a  breach  in  the  unity 
of  the  interest ;— but  yet  to  the  thoughtful  reader  it  is 
suggested  by  his  spite  to  poor  Polonius,  whom  he  cannot 
let  rest. 

lb.  The  style  of  the  interlude  here  is  distinguished  from 
the  real  dialogue  by  rhyme,  as  in  the  first  interview  with 
the  players  by  epic  verse. 


152  Notes  on  Hamlet 

lb. 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Ham.   So  I  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and  stealers, 

I  never  heard  an  actor  give  this  word  *so'  its  proper 
emphasis.  Shakspeare's  meaning  is — 'lov'd  you  ?  Hum  ! 
— so  I  do  still,  &c.'  There  has  been  no  change  in  my 
opinion  :--I  think  as  ill  of  you  as  I  did.  Else  Hamlet 
tells  an  ignoble  falsehood,  and  a  useless  one,  as  the  last 
speech  to  Guildenstern — 'Why,  look  you  now,'  &c. — 
proves. 

lb.     Hamlet's  soliloquy  : — 

Now  could  I  drink  hot  blood, 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the  day 
Would  quake  to  look  on. 

The  utmost  at  which  Hamlet  arrives,  is  a  disposition, 
a  mood,  to  do  something  : — but  what  to  do,  is  still  left 
undecided,  while  every  word  he  utters  tends  to  betray 
his  disguise.  Yet  observe  how  perfectly  equal  to  any 
call  of  the  moment  is  Hamlet,  let  it  only  not  be  for  the 
future. 

lb.  sc.  4.  Speech  of  Polonius.  Polonius's  volunteer 
obtrusion  of  himself  into  this  business,  while  it  is  appro- 
priate to  his  character,  still  itching  after  former  importance, 
removes  all  likelihood  that  Hamlet  should  suspect  his 
presence,  and  prevents  us  from  making  his  death  injure 
Hamlet  in  our  opinion. 

lb.     The  king's  speech  : — 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven,  &c. 

This  speech  well  marks  the  difference  between  crime 
and  guilt  of  habit.  The  conscience  here  is  still  admitted 
to  audience.  Nay,  even  as  an  audible  soliloquy,  it  is  far 
less  improbable  than  is  supposed  by  such  as  have  watched 
men  only  in  the  beaten  road  of  their  feelings.  But  the 
final — 'all  may  be  well !'  is  remarkable  ; — the  degree  of 
merit  attributed  by  the  self-flattering  soul  to  its  own 
struggle,  though  baffled,  and  to  the  indefinite  half-promise, 
half-command,  to  persevere  in  religious  duties.  The 
solution  is  in  the  divine  medium  of  the  Christian  doctrine 
of  expiation  : — not  what  you  have  done,  but  what  you  are, 
must  determine. 


Notes  on  Hamlet  153 

lb.     Hamlet's  speech  : — 

Now  might  I  do  it,  pat,  now  he  is  praying  : 
And  now  I'll  do  it  : — And  so  he  goes  to  heaven  : 
And  so  am  I  revenged  ?    That  would  be  scann'd,  &c. 

Dr.  Johnson's  mistaking  of  the  marks  of  reluctance  and 
procrastination  for  impetuous,  horror-striking,  fiendish- 
ness !  —  Of  such  importance  is  it  to  understand  the 
germ  of  a  character.  But  the  interval  taken  by  Hamlet's 
speech  is  truly  awful !     And  then — 

My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain  below  : 
Words,  without  thoughts,  never  to  heaven  go, — 

0  what  a  lesson  concerning  the  essential  difference 
between  wishing  and  willing,  and  the  folly  of  all  motive- 
mongering,  while  the  individual  self  remains  ! 

lb.  sc.  4. 

Ham.   A  bloody  deed  ; — almost  as  bad,  good  mother. 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. 
Queen.    As  kill  a  king  ? 

1  confess  that  Shakspeare  has  left  the  character  of  the 
Queen  in  an  unpleasant  perplexity.  Was  she,  or  was  she 
not,  conscious  of  the  fratricide  ? 

Act  iv.  sc.  2. 

Ros.  Take  you  me  for  a  spunge,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  Sir  ;  that  soaks  up  the  King's  countenance,  his 
rewards,  his  authorities,  &c. 

Hamlet's  madness  is  made  to  consist  in  the  free  utter- 
ance of  all  the  thoughts  that  had  passed  through  his  mind 
before  ; — in  fact,  in  telling  home-truths. 

Act  iv.  sc.  5.  Opheha's  singing.  O,  note  the  conjunc- 
tion here  of  these  two  thoughts  that  had  never  subsisted 
in  disjunction,  the  love  for  Hamlet,  and  her  filial  love,  with 
the  guileless  floating  on  the  surface  of  her  pure  imagina- 
tion of  the  cautions  so  lately  expressed,  and  the  fears  not 
too  delicately  avowed,  by  her  father  and  brother,  concern- 
ing the  dangers  to  which  her  honour  lay  exposed.  Thought, 
affliction,  passion,  murder  itself — she  turns  to  favour  and 
prettiness.  This  play  of  association  is  instanced  in  the 
close  : — 

My  brother  shall  know  of  it,  and  so  I  thank  you  for  your  good 
counsel. 


154  Notes  on  Hamlet 

lb.     Gentleman's  speech  : — 

And  as  the  world  were  now  but  to  begin 
Antiquity  forgot,  custom  not  known, 
The  ratifiers  and  props  of  every  word — 
They  cry,  &c. 

Fearful  and  self-suspicious  as  I  always  feel,  when  1 
seem  to  see  an  error  of  judgment  in  Shakspeare,  yet  I  can- 
not reconcile  the  cool,  and,  as  Warburton  calls  it,  'rational 
and  consequential,'  reflection  in  these  lines  with  the  anony- 
mousness,  or  the  alarm,  of  this  Gentleman  or  Messenger, 
as  he  is  called  in  other  editions. 

lb.     King's  speech  : — 

There's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king, 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would, 
Acts  little  of  his  will. 

Proof,  as  indeed  aU  else  is,  that  Shakspeare  never  in- 
tended us  to  see  the  King  with  Hamlet's  eyes  ;  though, 
I  suspect,  the  managers  have  long  done  so. 

lb.  Speech  of  Laertes  : — 

To  hell,  allegiance  !   vows,  to  the  blackest  devil  1 
Laertes  is  a  good  character,  but,  &c.     Warburton. 

Mercy  on  Warburton's  notion  of  goodness  !  Please  to 
refer  to  the  seventh  scene  of  this  act ; — 

I  will  do  it ; 

And  for  that  purpose  I'll  anoint  my  sword,  &c. 

uttered  by  Laertes  after  the  King's  description  of 
Hamlet ; — 

He  being  remiss. 

Most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving, 

Will  not  peruse  the  foOs. 

Yet  I  acknowledge  that  Shakspeare  evidently  wishes,  as 
much  as  possible,  to  spare  the  character  of  Laertes, — to 
break  the  extreme  turpitude  of  his  consent  to  become  an 
agent  and  accomplice  of  the  King's  treachery  ; — and  to 
this  end  he  re-introduces  Ophelia  at  the  close  of  this  scene 
to  afford  a  probable  stimulus  of  passion  in  her  brother. 

lb.  sc.  6.  Hamlet's  capture  by  the  pirates.  This  is 
almost  the  only  play  of  Shakspeare,  in  which  mere  accidents, 
independent  of  all  will,  form  an  essential  part  of  the  plot ; 
— but  here  how  judiciously  in  keeping  with  the  character 


Notes  on  Hamlet  155 

of  the  over-meditative  Hamlet,  ever  at  last  determined  by 
accident  or  by  a  fit  of  passion  ! 

lb.  sc.  7.  Note  how  the  King  first  awakens  Laertes's 
vanity  by  praising  the  reporter,  and  then  gratifies  it  by  the 
report  itself,  and  finally  points  it  by — 

Sir,  this  report  of  his 
Did  Hamlet  so  envenom  with  his  envy  I — 

lb.     King's  speech  : 

For  goodness,  growing  to  a  pleurisy, 
Dies  in  his  own  too  much. 

Theobald's  note  from  Warburton,  who  conjectures 
'plethory.' 

I  rather  think  that  Shakspeare  meant  'pleurisy,'  but 
involved  in  it  the  thought  of  plethora,  as  supposing  pleurisy 
to  arise  from  too  much  blood  ;  otherwise  I  cannot  explain 
the  following  line — 

And  then  this  should  is  like  a  spendthrift  sigh, 
That  hurts  by  easing. 

In  a  stitch  in  the  side  every  one  must  have  heaved  a  sigh 
that  'hurt  by  easing.' 

Since  writing  the  above  I  feel  confirmed  that  'pleurisy' 
is  the  right  word  ;  for  I  find  that  in  the  old  medical 
dictionaries  the  pleurisy  is  often  called  the  'plethory.' 

Queen.   Your  sister's  drown'd,  Laertes. 
Laer.  Drown'd  !    O,  where  ? 

That  Laertes  might  be  excused  in  some  degree  for  not 
cooling,  the  Act  concludes  with  the  affecting  death  of 
Ophelia, — who  in  the  beginning  lay  like  a  little  projection 
of  land  into  a  lake  or  stream,  covered  with  spray-flowers, 
quietly  reflected  in  the  quiet  waters,  but  at  length  is  under- 
mined or  loosened,  and  becomes  a  faery  isle,  and  after  a 
brief  vagrancy  sinks  almost  without  an  eddy  ! 

Act  V.  sc.  I.  O,  the  rich  contrast  between  the  Clowns 
and  Hamlet,  as  two  extremes  !  You  see  in  the  former  the 
mockery  of  logic,  and  a  traditional  wit  valued,  Hke  truth, 
for  its  antiquity,  and  treasured  up,  like  a  tune,  for  use. 

lb.  sc.  I  and  2.  Shakspeare  seems  to  mean  aU  Hamlet's 
character  to  be  brought  together  before  his  final  dis- 
appearance from  the  scene  ; — his  meditative  excess  in  the 


156 


Notes  on  Macbeth 


grave-digging,  his  yielding  to  passion  with  Laertes,  his 
love  for  Ophelia  blazing  out,  his  tendency  to  generalize 
on  all  occasions  in  the  dialogue  with  Horatio,  his  fine 
gentlemanly  manners  with  Osrick,  and  his  and  Shak- 
speare's  own  fondness  for  presentiment : 

But  thou  would'st  not  think,  how  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart : 
but  it  is  no  matter. 


NOTES    ON    MACBETH. 

Macbeth  stands  in  contrast  throughout  with  Hamlet ; 
in  the  manner  of  opening  more  especially.  In  the  latter, 
there  is  a  gradual  ascent  from  the  simplest  forms  of  con- 
versation to  the  language  of  impassioned  intellect, — yet 
the  intellect  still  remaining  the  seat  of  passion  :  in  the 
former,  the  invocation  is  at  once  made  to  the  imagination 
and  the  emotions  connected  therewith.  Hence  the  move- 
ment throughout  is  the  most  rapid  of  all  Shakspeare's 
plays  ;  and  hence  also,  with  the  exception  of  the  disgusting 
passage  of  the  Porter  (Act  ii.  sc.  3),  which  I  dare  pledge 
myself  to  demonstrate  to  be  an  interpolation  of  the  actors, 
there  is  not,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance,  a  single  pun 
or  play  on  words  in  the  whole  drama.  I  have  previously 
given  an  answer  to  the  thousand  times  repeated  charge 
against  Shakspeare  upon  the  subject  of  his  punning,  and 
I  here  merely  mention  the  fact  of  the  absence  of  any  puns 
in  Macbeth,  as  justifying  a  candid  doubt  at  least,  whether 
even  in  these  figures  of  speech  and  fanciful  modifications 
of  language,  Shakspeare  may  not  have  followed  rules  and 
principles  that  merit  and  would  stand  the  test  of  philo- 
sophic examination.  And  hence,  also,  there  is  an  entire 
absence  of  comedy,  nay,  even  of  irony  and  philosophic 
contemplation  in  Macbeth, — the  play  being  wholly  and 
purely  tragic.  For  the  same  cause,  there  are  no  reasonings 
of  equivocal  morality,  which  would  have  required  a  more 
leisurely  state  and  a  consequently  greater  activity  of 
mind  ; — no  sophistry  of  self-delusion, — except  only  that 
previously  to  the  dreadful  act,  Macbeth  mistranslates  the 
recoilings  and  ominous  whispers  of  conscience  into  pru- 
dential and  selfish  reasonings,  and,  after  the  deed  done, 
the  terrors  of  remorse  into  fear  from  external  dangers, — 


Notes  on  Macbeth  157 

like  delirious  men  who  run  away  from  the  phantoms  of 
their  own  brains,  or,  raised  by  terror  to  rage,  stab  the  real 
object  that  is  within  their  reach  : — whilst  Lady  Macbeth 
merely  endeavours  to  reconcile  his  and  her  own  sinkings 
of  heart  by  anticipations  of  the  worst,  and  an  affected 
bravado  in  confronting  them.  In  all  the  rest,  Macbeth's 
language  is  the  grave  utterance  of  the  very  heart,  con- 
science-sick, even  to  the  last  faintings  of  moral  death. 
It  is  the  same  in  all  the  other  characters.  The  variety 
arises  from  rage,  caused  ever  and  anon  by  disruption  of 
anxious  thought,  and  the  quick  transition  of  fear  into  it. 

In  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  the  scene  opens  with  super- 
stition ;  but,  in  each  it  is  not  merely  different,  but  opposite. 
In  the  first  it  is  connected  with  the  best  and  holiest  feel- 
ings ;  in  the  second  with  the  shadowy,  turbulent,  and 
ansanctified  cravings  of  the  individual  will.  Nor  is  the 
purpose  the  same  ;  in  the  one  the  object  is  to  excite, 
whilst  in  the  other  it  is  to  mark  a  mind  already  excited. 
Superstition,  of  one  sort  or  another,  is  natural  to 
victorious  generals  ;  the  instances  are  too  notorious  to 
need  mentioning.  There  is  so  much  of  chance  in  warfare, 
and  such  vast  events  are  connected  with  the  acts  of  a  single 
individual, — the  representative,  in  truth,  of  the  efforts  of 
myriads,  and  yet  to  the  public  and,  doubtless,  to  his  own 
feelings,  the  aggregate  of  all, — that  the  proper  tempera- 
ment for  generating  or  receiving  superstitious  impres- 
sions is  naturally  produced.  Hope,  the  master  element  of 
a  commanding  genius,  meeting  with  an  active  and  combin- 
ing intellect,  and  an  imagination  of  just  that  degree  of  vivid- 
ness which  disquiets  and  impels  the  soul  to  try  to  realize 
its  images,  greatly  increases  the  creative  power  of  the 
mind  ;  and  hence  the  images  become  a  satisfying  world  of 
themselves,  as  is  the  case  in  every  poet  and  original 
philosopher  : — but  hope  fully  gratified,  and  yet,  the  ele- 
mentary basis  of  the  passion  remaining,  becomes  fear  ; 
and,  indeed,  the  general,  who  must  often  feel,  even  though 
he  may  hide  it  from  his  own  consciousness,  how  large  a 
share  chance  had  in  his  successes,  may  very  naturally  be 
irresolute  in  a  new  scene,  where  he  knows  that  all  will 
depend  on  his  own  act  and  election. 

The  Weird  Sisters  are  as  true  a  creation  of  Shakspeare's, 
as  his  Ariel  and  Caliban, — fates,  furies,  and  materializing 
witches  being  the  elements.     They  are  wholly  different 


158  Notes  on  Macbeth 

from  any  representation  of  witches  in  the  contemporary 
writers,  and  yet  presented  a  sufficient  external  resemblance 
to  the  creatures  of  vulgar  prejudice  to  act  immediately  on 
the  audience.  Their  character  consists  in  the  imagina- 
tive disconnected  from  the  good  ;  they  are  the  shadowy 
obscure  and  fearfully  anomalous  of  physical  nature,  the 
lawless  of  human  nature, — elemental  avengers  without 
sex  or  kin  : 

Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair  ; 

Hover  thro'  the  fog  and  filtliy  air. 

How  much  it  were  to  be  wished  in  playing  Macbeth,  that 
an  attempt  should  be  made  to  introduce  the  flexile  char- 
acter-mask of  the  ancient  pantomime  ; — that  Flaxman 
would  contribute  his  genius  to  the  embodying  and  making 
sensuously  perceptible  that  of  Shakspeare  ! 

The  style  and  rhythm  of  the  Captain's  speeches  in  the 
second  scene  should  be  illustrated  by  reference  to  the 
interlude  in  Hamlet,  in  which  the  epic  is  substituted  for 
the  tragic,  in  order  to  make  the  latter  be  felt  as  the  real-hfe 
diction.  In  Macbeth,  the  poet's  object  was  to  raise  the 
mind  at  once  to  the  high  tragic  tone,  that  the  audience 
might  be  ready  for  the  precipitate  consummation  of  guilt 
in  the  early  part  of  the  play.  The  true  reason  for  the  first 
appearance  of  the  Witches  is  to  strike  the  key-note  of  the 
character  of  the  whole  drama,  as  is  proved  by  their  re- 
appearance in  the  third  scene,  after  such  an  order  of  the 
king's  as  establishes  their  supernatural  power  of  informa- 
tion. I  say  information, — for  so  it  only  is  as  to  Glamis 
and  Cawdor  ;  the  'king  hereafter'  was  still  contingent, — 
still  in  Macbeth' s  moral  will ;  although,  if  he  should  yield 
to  the  temptation,  and  thus  forfeit  his  free  agency,  the 
link  of  cause  and  effect  more  physico  would  then  com- 
mence. I  need  not  say,  that  the  general  idea  is  all  that 
can  be  required  from  the  poet, — not  a  scholastic  logical 
consistency  in  all  the  parts  so  as  to  meet  metaphysical 
objectors.  But  O  !  how  truly  Shakspearian  is  the  opening 
of  Macbeth's  character  given  in  the  unpossessedness  of 
Banquo's  mind,  whoU}^  present  to  the  present  object, — 
an  unsullied,  unscarified  mirror  ! — And  how  strictly  true 
to  nature  it  is,  that  Banquo,  and  not  Macbeth  himself, 
directs  our  notice  to  the  effect  produced  on  Macbeth's 
mind,  rendered  temptible  by  previous  dalliance  of  the 
fancy  with  ambitious  thoughts  : 


Notes  on  Macbeth  159 

Good  Sir,  why  do  you  start  ;   and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ? 

And  then,  again,  still  unintroitive,  addresses  the  Witches : — 

I'  the  name  of  truth. 
Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  sho^  ? 

Banquo's  questions  are  those  of  natural  curiosity, — such 
as  a  girl  would  put  after  hearing  a  gipsy  tell  her  school- 
fellow's fortune  ; — all  perfectly  general,  or  rather  planless. 
But  Macbeth,  lost  in  thought,  raises  himself  to  speech 
only  by  the  Witches  being  about  to  depart  : — 

Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more  : — 

and  all  that  follows  is  reasoning  on  a  problem  already 
discussed  in  his  mind, — on  a  hope  which  he  welcomes,  and 
the  doubts  concerning  the  attainment  of  which  he  wishes 
to  have  cleared  up.  Compare  his  eagerness, — the  keen 
eye  with  which  he  has  pursued  the  Witches'  evanishing — 

Speak,  I  charge  you  ! 

with  the  easily  satisfied  mind  of  the  self -uninterested 
Banquo  : — 

The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 

And  these  are  of  them  : — Whither  are  they  vanished  ? 

and  then  Macbeth's  earnest  reply, — 

Into  the  air  ;   and  what  seem'd  corporal,  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind. — '  Would  they  had  staid  I 

Is  it  too  minute  to  notice  the  appropriateness  of  the  simile 
'as  breath,'  &c.,  in  a  cold  climate  ? 

Still  again  Banquo  goes  on  wondering  like  any  common 
spectator  : 

Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about  ? 

whilst  Macbeth  persists  in  recurring  to  the  self-concern- 
ing :— 

Your  children  shall  be  kings. 
Ban.    You  shall  be  king. 
Macb.   And  thane  of  Cawdor  too  :    went  it  not  so  ? 

So  surely  is  the  guilt  in  its  germ  anterior  to  the  supposed 
cause,  and  immediate  temptation  !     Before  he  can  cool. 


i6o  Notes  on  Macbeth 

the  confirmation  of  the  tempting  half  of  the  prophecy 
arrives,  and  the  concatenating  tendency  of  the  imagination 
is  fostered  by  the  sudden  coincidence  : — 

Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor  : 
The  greatest  is  behind. 

Oppose  this  to  Banquo's  simple  surprise  : — > 

What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

lb.     Banquo's  speech  : — 

That,  trusted  home. 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown. 

Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor. 

I  doubt  whether  'enkindle'  has  not  another  sense  than 
that  of  'stimulating  ;'  I  mean  of  'kind'  and  'kin,'  as  when 
rabbits  are  said  to  'kindle.'  However  Macbeth  no  longer 
hears  any  thing  ah  extra  : — 

Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 

Of  the  imperial  theme. 

Then  in  the  necessity  of  recollecting  himself — 

1  thank  you,  gentlemen. 

Then  he  relapses  into  himself  again,  and  every  word  of  his 
soliloquy  shows  the  early  birth-date  of  his  guilt.  He  is 
all-powerful  without  strength  ;  he  wishes  the  end,  but  is 
irresolute  as  to  the  means  ;  conscience  distinctly  warns 
him,  and  he  lulls  it  imperfectly  : — 

If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance  may  crown  me 
Without  my  stir. 

Lost  in  the  prospective  of  his  guilt,  he  turns  round  alarmed 
lest  others  may  suspect  what  is  passing  in  his  own  mind, 
and  instantly  vents  the  lie  of  ambition  : 

My  dull  brain  was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten  ; — 

And  immediately  after  pours  forth  the  promising  courtesies 
of  a  usurper  in  intention  : — 

Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them. 


Notes  on  Macbeth  i6i 

lb.     Macbeth's  speech  : 

Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings. 

Warburton's  note,  and  substitution  of  'feats'  for  'fears.* 
Mercy  on  this  most  wilful  ingenuity  of  blundering, 
which,  nevertheless,  was  the  very  Warburton  of  Warburton 
— his  inmost  being !  'Fears,'  here,  are  present  fear- 
striking  objects,  terrihilia  adstantia. 

lb.   sc.   4.     O  !   the   affecting   beauty  of  the  death  of 
Cawdor,  and  the  presentimental  speech  of  the  king  : 

There's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face  : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust — 

Interrupted  by — 

O  worthiest  cousin  ! 

Dn  the  entrance  of  the  deeper  traitor  for  whom  Cawdor 
tiad  made  way  !  And  here  in  contrast  with  Duncan's 
'plenteous  joys,'  Macbeth  has  nothing  but  the  common- 
places of  loyalty,  in  which  he  hides  himself  with  'our 
duties.'  Note  the  exceeding  effort  of  Macbeth's  addresses 
to  the  king,  his  reasoning  on  his  allegiance,  and  then 
especially  when  a  new  difficulty,  the  designation  of  a 
successor,  suggests  a  new  crime.  This,  however,  seems 
the  first  distinct  notion,  as  to  the  plan  of  realizing  his 
wishes  ;  and  here,  therefore,  with  great  propriety, 
Macbeth's  cowardice  of  his  own  conscience  discloses 
itself.  I  always  think  there  is  something  especially  Shak- 
spearian  in  Duncan's  speeches  throughout  this  scene,  such 
pourings  forth,  such  abandonments,  compared  with  the 
language  of  vulgar  dramatists,  whose  characters  seem  to 
have  made  their  speeches  as  the  actors  learn  them. 
lb.     Duncan's  speech  : — 

Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes, 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know, 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest  Malcolm,  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  Prince  of  Cumberland  :    which  honour  must 
Not  unaccompanied,  invest  him  only  ; 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers. 

It  is  a  fancy  ; — but  I  can  never  read  this  and  the  follow- 

F 


1 62  Notes  on  Macbeth 

ing  speeches  of  Macbeth,  without  involuntarily  thinking 
of  the  Miltonic  Messiah  and  Satan. 

lb.  sc.  5.  Macbeth  is  described  by  Lady  Macbeth  so 
as  at  the  same  time  to  reveal  her  own  character.  Could 
he  have  every  thing  he  v/anted,  he  would  rather  have  it 
innocently  ; — ignorant,  as  alas  !  how  many  of  us  are,  that 
he  who  wishes  a  temporal  end  for  itself,  does  in  truth  will 
the  means  ;  and  hence  the  danger  of  indulging  fancies. 
Lady  Macbeth,  hke  all  in  Shakspeare,  is  a  class  individua- 
lized : — of  high  rank,  left  much  alone,  and  feeding  herself 
with  day-dreams  of  ambition,  she  mistakes  the  courage 
of  fantasy  for  the  power  of  bearing  the  consequences  of  the 
realities  of  guilt.  Hers  is  the  mock  fortitude  of  a  mind 
deluded  by  ambition  ;  she  shames  her  husband  with  a 
superhuman  audacity  of  fancy  which  she  cannot  support, 
but  sinks  in  the  season  of  remorse,  and  dies  in  suicidal 
agony.     Her  speech  : 

Come,  all  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here,  &c. 

is  that  of  one  who  had  habitually  familiarized  her  imagina- 
tion to  dreadful  conceptions,  and  was  trying  to  do  so  still 
more.  Her  invocations  and  requisitions  are  all  the  false 
efforts  of  a  mind  accustomed  only  hitherto  to  the  shadows 
of  the  imagination,  vivid  enough  to  throw  the  every-day 
substances  of  life  into  shadow,  but  never  as  yet  brought 
into  direct  contact  with  their  own  correspondent  realities. 
She  evinces  no  womanly  life,  no  wifely  joy,  at  the  return 
of  her  husband,  no  pleased  terror  at  the  thought  of  his 
past  dangers,  whilst  Macbeth  bursts  forth  naturally — 

My  dearest  love — 

and  shrinks  from  the  boldness  with  which  she  presents  his 
own  thoughts  to  him.  With  consummate  art  she  at  first 
uses  as  incentives  the  very  circumstances,  Duncan's 
coming  to  their  house,  &c.  which  Macbeth's  conscience 
would  most  probably  have  adduced  to  her  as  motives  of 
abhorrence  or  repulsion.     Yet  Macbeth  is  not  prepared  : 

We  will  speak  further. 

lb.  SC.  6.  The  lyrical  movement  with  which  this  scene 
opens,  and  the  free  and  unengaged  mind  of  Banquo,  loving 
nature,   and  rewarded  in  the  love  itself,   form  a  highly 


Notes  on  Macbeth  163 

dramatic  contrast  with  the  laboured  rhythm  and  hypo- 
critical over-much  of  Lady  Macbeth's  welcome,  in  which 
you  cannot  detect  a  ray  of  personal  feeling,  but  all  is 
thrown  upon  the  'dignities,'  the  general  duty, 
lb.  sc.  7.     Macbeth's  speech  : 

We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business  : 
He  hath  honor'd  me  of  late  ;   and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people. 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss. 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Note   the   inward   pangs   and   warnings   of   conscience 
interpreted  into  prudential  reasonings. 
Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Banquo's  speech  : 

A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep.     Merciful  powers  ! 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts,  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose. 

The  disturbance  of  an  innocent  soul  by  painful  suspicions 
of  another's  guilty  intentions  and  wishes,  and  fear  of  the 
cursed  thoughts  of  sensual  nature. 

lb.  sc.  2.  Now  that  the  deed  is  done  or  doing — now 
that  the  first  reahty  commences.  Lady  Macbeth  shrinks. 
The  most  simple  sound  strikes  terror,  the  most  natural 
consequences  are  horrible,  whilst  previously  every  thing, 
however  awful,  appeared  a  mere  trifle  ;  conscience,  which 
before  had  been  hidden  to  Macbeth  in  selfish  and  prudential 
fears,  now  rushes  in  upon  him  in  her  own  veritable  person  : 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry — Sleep  no  more  I 

I  could  not  say  Amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us  ! 

And  see  the  novelty  given  to  the  most  familiar  images  by 
a  new  state  of  feeling. 

lb.  sc.  3.  This  low  soliloquy  of  the  Porter  and  his  few 
speeches  afterwards,  I  believe  to  have  been  written  for  the 
mob  by  some  other  hand,  perhaps  with  Shakspeare's 
consent ;  and  that  finding  it  take,  he  with  the  remaining 
ink  of  a  pen  otherwise  employed,  just  interpolated  the 
words — 

I'll  devil-porter  it  no  further  :  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some 
of  all  professions,  that  go  the  primrose  way  to  th'  everlasting 
bonfire. 


164  Notes  on  Macbeth 

Of  the  rest  not  one  syllable  has  the  ever-present  being  of 
Shakspeare. 

Act  iii.  sc.  I.  Compare  Macbeth' s  mode  of  working  on 
the  murderers  in  this  place  with  Schiller's  mistaken  scene 
between  Butler,  Devereux,  and  Macdonald  in  Wallenstein. 
(Part  II.  act  iv.  sc.  2.)  The  comic  was  whoUy  out  of 
season.  Shakspeare  never  introduces  it,  but  when  it  may 
react  on  the  tragedy  by  harmonious  contrast. 

lb.  sc.  2.     Macbeth's  speech  : 

But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds  suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 
That  shake  us  nightly. 

Ever  and  ever  mistaking  the  anguish  of  conscience  for 
fears  of  selfishness,  and  thus  as  a  punishment  of  that 
selfishness,  plunging  still  deeper  in  guilt  and  ruin. 

lb.     Macbeth's  speech  : 

Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed. 

This  is  Macbeth's  sympathy  with  his  own  feelings,  and 
liis  mistaking  his  wife's  opposite  state. 
lb.  sc.  4. 

Mach.  It  will  have  blood,  they  say ;    blood  will  have  blood  : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to  speak  ; 
Augurs,  and  understood  relations,  have 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought  forth 
The  secret' st  man  of  blood. 

The  deed  is  done  ;  but  Macbeth  receives  no  comfort,  no 
additional  security.  He  has  by  guilt  torn  himself  live- 
asunder  from  nature,  and  is,  therefore,  himself  in  a  preter- 
natural state  :  no  wonder,  then,  that  he  is  inclined  to 
superstition,  and  faith  in  the  unknown  of  signs  and  tokens, 
and  super-human  agencies. 

Act  iv.  sc.  I. 

Len.   'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word, 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 
Mach.   Fled  to  England  1 

The  acme  of  the  avenging  conscience. 

lb.  sc.  2.  This  scene,  dreadful  as  it  is,  is  still  a  relief, 
because  a  variety,  because  domestic,  and  therefore  sooth- 
ing, as  associated  with  the  only  real  pleasures  of  life.     The 


Notes  on  Macbeth  165 

conversation  between  Lady  Macduff  and  her  child  heightens 
the  pathos,  and  is  preparatory  for  the  deep  tragedy  of  their 
assassination.  Shakspeare's  fondness  for  children  is  every 
where  shown  ; — in  Prince  Arthur,  in  King  John  ;  in  the 
sweet  scene  in  the  Winter's  Tale  between  Hermione  and 
her  son  ;  nay,  even  in  honest  Evans's  examination  of 
Mrs.  Page's  schoolboy.  To  the  objection  that  Shakspeare 
wounds  the  moral  sense  by  the  unsubdued,  undisguised 
description  of  the  most  hateful  atrocity — that  he  tears  the 
feelings  without  mercy,  and  even  outrages  the  eye  itself 
with  scenes  of  insupportable  horror — I,  omitting  Titus 
Andronicus,  as  not  genuine,  and  excepting  the  scene  of 
Gloster's  blinding  in  Lear,  answer  boldly  in  the  name  of 
Shakspeare,  not  guilty. 

lb.  sc.  3.     Malcolm's  speech : 

Better  Macbeth, 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign. 

The  moral  is — the  dreadful  effects  even  on  the  best 
minds  of  the  soul-sickening  sense  of  insecurity. 

lb.  How  admirably  Macduff's  grief  is  in  harmony  with 
the  whole  play  !  It  rends,  not  dissolves,  the  heart.  'The 
tune  of  it  goes  manly. '  Thus  is  Shakspeare  always  master 
of  himself  and  of  his  subject, — a  genuine  Proteus  : — we 
see  all  things  in  him,  as  images  in  a  calm  lake,  most  distinct, 
most  accurate, — only  more  splendid,  more  glorified.  This 
is  correctness  in  the  only  philosophical  sense.  But  he 
requires  your  sympathy  and  your  submission  ;  you  must 
have  that  recipiency  of  moral  impression  without  which  the 
purposes  and  ends  of  the  drama  would  be  frustrated,  and 
the  absence  of  which  demonstrates  an  utter  want  of  all 
imagination,  a  deadness  to  that  necessary  pleasure  of  being 
innocently — shall  I  say,  deluded  ? — or  rather,  drawn  away 
from  ourselves  to  the  music  of  noblest  thought  in  har- 
monious sounds.  Happy  he,  who  not  only  in  the  public 
theatre,  but  in  the  labours  of  a  profession,  and  round  the 
light  of  his  own  hearth,  still  carries  a  heart  so  pleasure- 
fraught  ! 

Alas  for  Macbeth  !  now  all  is  inward  with  him  ;  he  has 
no  more  prudential  prospective  reasonings.  His  wife,  the 
only  being  who  could  have  had  any  seat  in  his  affections, 
dies  ;  he  puts  on  despondency,  the  final  heart-armour  of 
the  wretched,  and  would  fain  think  every  thing  shadowy 


i66      Notes  on  The  Winters  Tale 

and  unsubstantial,  as  indeed  all  things  are  to  those  who 
cannot  regard  them  as  symbols  of  goodness  : — 

Out  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;    a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage. 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  ;   it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing. 


NOTES  ON  THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Although,  on  the  whole,  this  play  is  exquisitely  respondent 
to  its  title,  and  even  in  the  fault  I  am  about  to  mention, 
still  a  winter's  tale  ;  yet  it  seems  a  mere  indolence  of  the 
great  bard  not  to  have  provided  in  the  oracular  response 
(Act  ii.  sc.  2)  some  ground  for  Hermione's  seeming  death 
and  fifteen  years  voluntary  concealment.  This  might 
have  been  easily  effected  by  some  obscure  sentence  of 
the  oracle,  as  for  example  : — 

'  Nor  shall  he  ever  recover  an  heir,  if  he  have  a  wife  before  thit 
recovery. ' 

The  idea  of  this  delightful  drama  is  a  genuine  jealousy 
of  disposition,  and  it  should  be  immediately  followed  by 
the  perusal  of  Othello,  which  is  the  direct  contrast  of  it 
in  every  particular.  For  jealousy  is  a  vice  of  the  mind, 
a  culpable  tendency  of  the  temper,  having  certain  well 
known  and  well  defined  effects  and  concomitants,  all  of 
which  are  visible  in  Leontes,  and,  I  boldly  say,  not  one  of 
which  marks  its  presence  in  Othello  ; — such  as,  first,  an 
excitability  by  the  most  inadequate  causes,  and  an  eager- 
ness to  snatch  at  proofs  ;  secondly,  a  grossness  of  concep- 
tion, and  a  disposition  to  degrade  the  object  of  the  passion 
by  sensual  fancies  and  images  ;  thirdly,  a  sense  of  shame 
of  his  own  feelings  exhibited  in  a  solitary  moodiness  of 
humour,  and  yet  from  the  violence  of  the  passion  forced 
to  utter  itself,  and  therefore  catching  occasions  to  ease 
the  mind  by  ambiguities,  equivoques,  by  talking  to  those 
who  cannot,  and  who  are  known  not  to  be  able  to,  under- 
stand what  is  said  to  them, — in  short,  by  soliloquy  in  the 
form  of  dialogue,  and  hence  a  confused,  broken,  and 
fragmentary,  manner  ;  fourthly,  a  dread  of  vulgar  ridicule, 


Notes  on  The  Winter's  Tale      167 

as  distinct  from  a  high  sense  of  honour,  or  a  mistaken  sense 
of  duty  ;  and  lastly,  and  immediately,  consequent  on  this, 
a  spirit  of  selfish  vindictiveness. 

Act  i.  sc.  I — 2. 

Observe  the  easy  style  of  chitchat  between  Camillo  and 
iVrchidamus  as  contrasted  with  the  elevated  diction  on 
the  introduction  of  the  kings  and  Hermione  in  the  second 
scene  :  and  how  admirably  Polixenes'  obstinate  refusal 
to  Leontes  to  stay — 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves  ;   none,  none  i'  the  world 
So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me  ; — 

prepares  for  the  effect  produced  by  his  afterwards  yielding 
to  Hermione  ; — which  is,  nevertheless,  perfectly  natural 
from  mere  courtesy  of  sex,  and  the  exhaustion  of  the  will 
by  former  efforts  of  denial,  and  well  calculated  to  set  in 
nascent  action  the  jealousy  of  Leontes.  This,  when  once 
excited,  is  unconsciously  increased  by  Hermione  : — 

Yet,  good  deed,  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  o'  the  clock  behind 
What  lady  she  her  lord  ; — 

accompanied,  as  a  good  actress  ought  to  represent  it,  by 
an  expression  and  recoil  of  apprehension  that  she  had  gone 
too  far. 

At  my  request,  he  would  not : — 

The  first  working  of  the  jealous  fit  ; — 

Too  hot,  too  hot  : — 

The  morbid  tendency  of  Leontes  to  lay  hold  of  the 
merest  trifles,  and  his  grossness  immediately  afterwards — 

Paddling  palms  and  pinching  fingers  ; — 

followed  by  his  strange  loss  of  self-control  in  his  dialogue 
Vvdth  the  little  boy. 

Act  iii.  sc.  2.     Paulina's  speech  : 

That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  'twas  nothing  ; 
That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,  inconstant, 
And  damnable  ingrateful. — 

Theobald  reads  'soul.' 

I  think  the  original  word  is  Shakspeare's.  i.  My  ear 
feels  it  to  be  Shakspearian  ;    2.  The  involved  grammar  is 


1 68       Notes  on  The  Winter's  Tale 

Shakspearian  ; — 'show  thee,  being  a  fool  naturally,  to 
have  improved  thy  folly  by  inconstancy  ;  '  3.  The  altera- 
tion is  most  flat,  and  un-Shakspearian.  As  to  the  grossness 
of  the  abuse — she  calls  him  'gross  and  foolish'  a  few  lines 
below. 

Act  iv.  sc.  2.     Speech  of  Autolycus  : — 

For  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought  of  it. 

Fine  as  this  is,  and  delicately  characteristic  of  one  who 
had  lived  and  been  reared  in  the  best  society,  and  had  been 
precipitated  from  it  by  dice  and  drabbing  ;  yet  still  it 
strikes  against  my  feelings  as  a  note  out  of  tune,  and  as 
not  coalescing  with  that  pastoral  tint  which  gives  such  a 
charm  to  this  act.  It  is  too  Macbeth-like  in  the  'snapper 
up  of  unconsidered  trifles.' 

lb.  sc.  3.     Perdita's  speech  : — 

From  Dis's  waggon  !    daffodils. 

An  epithet  is  wanted  here,  not  merely  or  chiefly  for  the 
metre,  but  for  the  balance,  for  the  aesthetic  logic. 
Perhaps,  'golden'  was  the  word  which  would  set  off  the 
'violets  dim.' 

lb. 

Pale  primroses 
That  die  unmarried. — 

Milton's — 

And  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 

lb.     Perdita's  speech  : — 

Even  here  undone  : 

I  was  not  much  afear'd  ;  for  once  or  twice 
I  was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  self-same  sun,  that  shines  upon  his  court, 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike.     Wilt  please  you,  Sir,  be  gone  ! 

{To  Florizel.) 
I  told  you,  what  would  come  of  this.     Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care :  this  dream  of  mine, 
Being  now  awake,  I'll  queen  it  no  inch  farther. 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

O  how  more  than  exquisite  is  this  whole  speech  ! — And 
that  profound  nature  of  noble  pride  and  grief  venting 
themselves  in  a  momentary  peevishness  of  resentment 
towards  Florizel : — 

Wilt  please  you.  Sir,  be  gone  I 


Notes  on  Othello  169 

lb.     Speech  of  Autolyciis  : — 

Let  me  have  no  lying  ;  it  becomes  none  but  tradesmen,  and  they 
often  give  us  soldiers  the  lie  ;  but  we  pay  them  for  it  in  stamped 
coin,  not  stabbing  steel  ; — therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie. 

As  we  pay  them,  they,  therefore,  do  not  give  it  us. 

NOTES    ON    OTHELLO. 

Act  i.  sc.  I. 
Admirable  is  the  preparation,  so  truly  and  peculiarly 
Shakspearian,  in  the  introduction  of  Roderigo,  as  the  dupe 
on  whom  lago  shall  first  exercise  his  art,  and  in  so  doing 
display  his  own  character.  Roderigo,  without  any  fixed 
principle,  but  not  without  the  moral  notions  and  sym- 
pathies with  honour,  which  his  rank  and  connections  had 
hung  upon  him,  is  already  well  fitted  and  predisposed  for 
the  purpose  ;  for  very  want  of  character  and  strength  of 
passion,  like  wind  loudest  in  an  empty  house,  constitute 
his  character.  The  first  three  lines  happily  state  the  nature 
and  foundation  of  the  friendship  between  him  and  lago, — 
the  purse, — as  also  the  contrast  of  Roderigo's  intemperance 
of  mind  with  lago's  coolness, — the  coolness  of  a  precon- 
ceiving experimenter.   The  mere  language  of  protestation — 

If  ever  I  did  dream  of  such  a  matter,  abhor  me, — 

which  falling  in  with  the  associative  link,  determines 
Roderigo's  continuation  of  complaint — 

Thou  told'st  me,  thou  didst  hold  him  in  thy  hate — 

elicits  at  length  a  true  feeling  of  lago's  mind,  the  dread 
of  contempt  habitual  to  those,  who  encourage  in  themselves, 
and  have  their  keenest  pleasure  in,  the  expression  of  con- 
tempt for  others.  Observe  lago's  high  self-opinion,  and 
the  moral,  that  a  wicked  man  will  employ  real  feelings,  as 
well  as  assume  those  most  alien  from  his  own,  as  instru- 
ments of  his  purposes  : — 

And,  by  the  faith  of  man, 

I  know  my  price,  I  am  worth  no  worse  a  place. 

I  think  Tyrwhitt's  reading  of  'life'  for  Svife' — 

A  fellow  almost  damn'd  in  a  fair  wife — 


lyo  Notes  on  Othello 

the  true  one,  as  fitting  to  lago's  contempt  for  whatever  did 
not  display  power,  and  that  intellectual  power.  In  what 
follows,  let  the  reader  feel  how  by  and  through  the  glass 
of  two  passions,  disappointed  vanity  and  envy,  the  very 
vices  of  which  he  is  complaining,  are  made  to  act  upon 
him  as  if  they  were  so  many  excellences,  and  the  more 
appropriately,  because  cunning  is  always  admired  and 
wished  for  by  minds  conscious  of  inward  weakness  ; — but 
they  act  only  by  half,  like  music  on  an  inattentive  auditor, 
swelling  the  thoughts  which  prevent  him  from  listening 
to  it. 
lb. 

Rod.  "SVliat  a  full  fortune  does  the  thick-lips  owe, 
If  he  can  carry  't  thus. 

Roderigo  turns  off  to  Othello  ;  and  here  comes  one, 
if  not  the  only,  seeming  justification  of  our  blackamoor 
or  negro  Othello.  Even  if  we  supposed  this  an  uninter- 
rupted tradition  of  the  theatre,  and  that  Shakspeare  him- 
self, from  want  of  scenes,  and  the  experience  that  nothing 
could  be  made  too  marked  for  the  senses  of  his  audience, 
had  practically  sanctioned  it, — would  this  prove  aught 
concerning  his  own  intention  as  a  poet  for  all  ages  ?  Can 
we  imagine  him  so  utterly  ignorant  as  to  make  a  barbarous 
negro  plead  royal  birth, — at  a  time,  too,  when  negroes 
were  not  known  except  as  slaves  ? — As  for  lago's  language 
to  Brabantio,  it  implies  merely  that  Othello  was  a  Moor, 
that  is,  black.  Though  I  think  the  rivalry  of  Roderigo 
sufficient  to  account  for  his  wilful  confusion  of  Moor  and 
Negro, — yet,  even  if  compelled  to  give  this  up,  I  should 
think  it  only  adapted  for  the  acting  of  the  day,  and  should 
complain  of  an  enormity  built  on  a  single  word,  in  direct 
contradiction  to  lago's  'Barbary  horse.'  Besides,  if  we 
could  in  good  earnest  believe  Shakspeare  ignorant  of  the 
distinction,  still  why  should  we  adopt  one  disagreeable 
possibility  instead  of  a  ten  times  greater  and  more  pleasing 
probability  ?  It  is  a  common  error  to  mistake  the  epithets 
apphed  by  the  dramatis  personcB  to  each  other,  as  truly 
descriptive  of  what  the  audience  ought  to  see  or  know. 
No  doubt  Desdemona  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind  ; 
yet,  as  we  are  constituted,  and  most  surely  as  an  Enghsh 
audience  was  disposed  in  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  it  would  be  something  monstrous  to  conceive  this 
beautiful  Venetian  girl  falling  in  love  with  a  veritable  negro. 


Notes  on  Othello  171 

It  would  argue  a  disproportionateness,  a  want  of  balance, 
in  Desdemona,  which  Shakspeare  does  not  appear  to  have 
in  the  least  contemplated, 
lb.     Brabantio's  speech  : — 

This  accident  is  not  unlike  my  dream  : — 

The  old  careful  senator,  being  caught  careless,  transfers 
his  caution  to  his  dreaming  power  at  least, 
lb.     lago's  speech  : — 

— For  their  souls, 
Another  of  his  fathom  they  have  not. 
To  lead  their  business  : — 

The  forced  praise  of  Othello  followed  by  the  bitter  hatred 
of  him  in  this  speech  !  And  observe  how  Brabantio's 
dream  prepares  for  his  recurrence  to  the  notion  of  philtres, 
and  how  both  prepare  for  carrying  on  the  plot  of  the 
arraignment  of  Othello  on  this  ground. 

lb.  sc.  2. 

0th,  'Tis  better  as  it  is. 

How  well  these  few  words  impress  at  the  outset  the 
truth  of  Othello's  own  character  of  himself  at  the  end — 
'that  he  was  not  easily  wrought !'  His  self-government 
contradistinguishes  him  throughout  from  Leontes. 

lb.     Othello's  speech  : — 

— And  my  demerits 
May  speak,  unbonnetted — 

The  argument  in  Theobald's  note,  where  'and  bonnetted* 
is  suggested,  goes  on  the  assumption  that  Shakspeare  could 
not  use  the  same  word  differently  in  different  places  ; 
whereas  I  should  conclude,  that  as  in  the  passage  in  Lear 
the  word  is  employed  in  its  direct  meaning,  so  here  it  is 
used  metaphorically  ;  and  this  is  confirmed  by  what  has 
escaped  the  editors,  that  it  is  not  'I,'  but  'my  demerits' 
that  may  speak  unbonnetted, — without  the  symbol  of  a 
petitioning  inferior. 

lb.     Othello's  speech  : — 

So  please  your  grace,  my  ancient ; 
A  man  he  is  of  honesty  and  trust : 
To  his  conveyance  I  assign  my  wife. 

Compare  this  with  the  behaviour  of  Leontes  to  his  true 
friend  Camillo. 


172  Notes  on  Othello 

lb.  sc.  3. 

Bra.   Look  to  her,  Moor  ;   have  a  quick  eye  to  see  ; 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee. 
0th.  My  life  upon  her  faith. 

In  real  life,  how  do  we  look  back  to  little  speeches  as 
presentimental  of,  or  contrasted  with,  an  affecting  event ! 
Even  so,  Shakspeare,  as  secure  of  being  read  over  and  over, 
of  becoming  a  family  friend,  provides  this  passage  for  his 
readers,  and  leaves  it  to  them. 

lb.     lago's  speech  : — 

Virtue  ?   a  fig  1   'tis  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  thus,  or  thus,  &c. 

This  speech  comprises  the  passionless  character  of  lago. 
It  is  all  will  in  intellect ;  and  therefore  he  is  here  a  bold 
partizan  of  a  truth,  but  yet  of  a  truth  converted  into  a 
falsehood  by  the  absence  of  all  the  necessary  modifications 
caused  by  the  frail  nature  of  man.  And  then  comes  the 
last  sentiment, — 

Our  raging  motions,  our  carnal  stings,  our  unbitted  lusts,  whereof 
I  take  this,  that  you  call — love,  to  be  a  sect  or  scion  ! 

Here  is  the  true  lagoism  of,  alas  !  how  many  1  Note 
lago's  pride  of  mastery  in  the  repetition  of  'Go,  make 
money  ! '  to  his  anticipated  dupe,  even  stronger  than  his 
love  of  lucre  :  and  when  Roderigo  is  completely  won — 

I  am  chang'd.     I'll  go  sell  all  my  land — 

when  the  effect  has  been  fully  produced,  the  repetition  of 
triumph — 

Go  to  ;   farewell  ;   put  money  enough  in  your  purse  ! 

The  remainder — lago's  soliloquy — the  motive-hunting  of 
a  motiveless  malignity — how  awful  it  is  !  Yea,  whilst  he 
is  still  allowed  to  bear  the  divine  image,  it  is  too  fiendish 
for  his  own  steady  view, — for  the  lonely  gaze  of  a  being 
next  to  devil,  and  only  not  quite  devil, — and  yet  a  char- 
acter which  Shakspeare  has  attempted  and  executed, 
without  disgust  and  without  scandal ! 

Dr.  Johnson  has  remarked  that  little  or  nothing  is  want- 
ing to  render  the  Othello  a  regular  tragedy,  but  to  have 
opened  the  play  with  the  arrival  of  OtheUo  in  Cyprus,  and 
to  have  thrown  the  preceding  act  into  the  form  of  narration. 
Here  then  is  the  place  to  determine,  whether  such  a  change 


Notes  on  Othello  173 

would  or  would  not  be  an  improvement ; — nay,  (to  throw 
down  the  glove  with  a  full  challenge)  whether  the  tragedy 
would  or  not  by  such  an  arrangement  become  more  regular, 
— that  is,  more  consonant  with  the  rules  dictated  by 
universal  reason,  on  the  true  common-sense  of  mankind, 
in  its  application  to  the  particular  case.  For  in  all  acts 
of  judgment,  it  can  never  be  too  often  recollected,  and 
scarcely  too  often  repeated,  that  rules  are  means  to  ends, 
and,  consequently,  that  the  end  must  be  determined  and 
understood  before  it  can  be  known  what  the  rules  are  or 
ought  to  be.  Now,  from  a  certain  species  of  drama,  pro- 
posing to  itself  the  accomplishment  of  certain  ends, — 
these  partly  arising  from  the  idea  of  the  species  itself,  but 
in  part,  likewise,  forced  upon  the  dramatist  by  accidental 
circumstances  beyond  his  power  to  remove  or  control, — 
three  rules  have  been  abstracted  ; — in  other  words,  the 
means  most  conducive  to  the  attainment  of  the  proposed 
ends  have  been  generalized,  and  prescribed  under  the 
names  of  the  three  unities, — the  unity  of  time,  the  unity 
of  place,  and  the  unity  of  action, — which  last  would, 
perhaps,  have  been  as  appropriately,  as  well  as  more 
intelligibly,  entitled  the  unity  of  interest.  With  this  last 
the  present  question  has  no  immediate  concern  :  in  fact, 
its  conjunction  with  the  former  two  is  a  mere  delusion  of 
words.  It  is  not  properly  a  rule,  but  in  itself  the  great 
end  not  only  of  the  drama,  but  of  the  epic  poem,  the  lyric 
ode,  of  all  poetry,  down  to  the  candle-flame  cone  of  an 
epigram, — nay  of  poesy  in  general,  as  the  proper  generic 
term  inclusive  of  all  the  fine  arts  as  its  species.  But  of 
the  unities  of  time  and  place,  which  alone  are  entitled  to 
the  name  of  rules,  the  history  of  their  origin  will  be  their 
best  criterion.  You  might  lake  the  Greek  chorus  to  a 
place,  but  you  could  not  bring  a  place  to  them  without  as 
palpable  an  equivoque  as  bringing  Birnam  wood  to 
Macbeth  at  Dunsinane.  It  was  the  same,  though  in  a 
less  degree,  with  regard  to  the  unity  of  time  : — the  positive 
fact,  not  for  a  moment  removed  from  the  senses,  the 
presence,  I  mean,  of  the  same  identical  chorus,  was  a  con- 
tinued measure  of  time  ; — and  although  the  imagination 
may  supersede  perception,  yet  it  must  be  granted  to  be  an 
imperfection — however  easily  tolerated — to  place  the  two 
in  broad  contradiction  to  each  other.  In  truth,  it  is  a 
mere  accident  of  terms  ;    for  the  Trilogy  of  the  Greek 


174  Notes  on  Othello 

theatre  was  a  drama  in  three  acts,  and  notwithstanding 
this,  what  strange  contrivances  as  to  place  there  are  in  the 
Aristophanic  Frogs.  Besides,  if  the  law  of  mere  actual 
perception  is  once  violated — as  it  repeatedly  is  even  in  the 
Greek  tragedies — why  is  it  more  difficult  to  imagine  three 
hours  to  be  three  years  than  to  be  a  whole  day  and  night  ? 

Act  ii.  sc.  I. 

Observe  in  how  many  ways  Othello  is  made,  first,  our 
acquaintance,  then  our  friend,  then  the  object  of  our 
anxiety,  before  the  deeper  interest  is  to  be  approached ! 

lb. 

Mont.  But,  good  lieutenant,  is  your  general  wiv'd  ? 

Cas.  Most  fortunately  :    he  hath  achiev'd  a  maid 
That  paragons  description,  and  wild  fame  ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens. 
And,  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation, 
Does  bear  all  excellency. 

Here  is  Cassio's  warm-hearted,  yet  perfectly  disengaged, 
praise  of  Desdemona,  and  sympathy  with  the  'most 
fortunately'  wived  Othello  ; — and  yet  Cassio  is  an  enthusi- 
astic admirer,  almost  a  worshipper,  of  Desdemona.  O, 
that  detestable  code  that  excellence  cannot  be  loved  in 
any  form  that  is  female,  but  it  must  needs  be  selfish  ! 
Observe  Othello's  'honest,'  and  Cassio's  'bold'  lago,  and 
Cassio's  full  guileless-hearted  wishes  for  the  safety  and 
love  raptures  of  Othello  and  'the  divine  Desdemona.' 
And  also  note  the  exquisite  circumstance  of  Cassio's 
kissing  lago's  wife,  as  if  it  ought  to  be  impossible  that  the 
dullest  auditor  should  not  feel  Cassio's  religious  love  of 
Desdemona's  purity.  lago's  answers  are  the  sneers 
which  a  proud  bad  intellect  feels  towards  women,  and 
expresses  to  a  wife.  Surely  it  ought  to  be  considered  a 
very  exalted  compliment  to  women,  that  all  the  sarcasms 
on  them  in  Shakspeare  are  put  in  the  mouths  of  villains, 
lb. 

Des.  I  am  not  merry  ;   but  I  do  beguile,  &c. 

The  struggle  of  courtesy  in  Desdemona  to  abstract  her 
attention. 
lb. 

{lago  aside).  He  takes  her  by  the  palm  :  Ay,  well  said,  whisper  ; 
with  as  little  a  web  as  this,  will  I  ensnare  as  great  a  fly  as  Cassio. 
Ay,  smile  upon  her,  do,  &c. 


Notes  on  Othello  175 

The  importance  given  to  trifles,  and  made  fertile  by  the 
villany  of  the  observer. 

lb.     lago's  dialogue  with  Roderigo  : 

This  is  the  rehearsal  on  the  dupe  of  the  traitor's  inten- 
tions on  Othello. 

lb.     lago's  soliloquy  : 

But  partly  led  to  diet  my  revenge, 
For  that  I  do  suspect  the  lusty  Moor 
Hath  leap'd  into  my  seat. 

This  thought,  originally  by  lago's  own  confession  a  mere 
suspicion,  is  now  ripening,  and  gnaws  his  base  nature  as  his 
own  'poisonous  mineral'  is  about  to  gnaw  the  noble  heart 
of  his  general. 

lb.  sc.  3.     Othello's  speech  : 

I  know,  lago, 

Thy  honesty  and  love  doth  mince  this  matter. 

Making  it  light  to  Cassio. 

Honesty  and  love  !     Ay,  and  who  but  the  reader  of  the 
play  could  think  otherwise  ? 
lb.     lago's  soliloquy  : 

And  what's  he  then  that  says — I  play  the  villain  ? 
When  this  advice  is  free  I  give,  and  honest, 
Probal  to  thinking,  and,  indeed,  the  course 
To  win  the  Moor  again. 

He  is  not,  you  see,  an  absolute  fiend  ;    or,  at  least,  he 
wishes  to  think  himself  not  so. 
Act  iii.  sc.  3. 

Des.  Before  ^Emilia  here, 
i  give  the  warrant  of  thy  place. 

The  over-zeal  of  innocence  in  Desdemona. 
lb. 

Enter  Desdemona  and  Emilia. 

0th.  If  she  be  false,  O,  then,  heaven  mocks  itself  ! 
I'll  not  believe  it. 

Divine  !     The  effect  of  mnocence  and  the  better  genius  ! 
Act  iv.  sc.  3. 

Mmil.  Why,  the  wrong  is  but  a  wrong  i'  the  world  ;  and  having 
the  world  for  your  labour,  'tis  a  wrong  in  your  own  world,  and  you 
might  quickly  make  it  right. 

Warburton's  note. 

What  any  other  man,  who  had  learning  enough,  might 


176 


Notes  on  Othello 


have  quoted  as  a  playful  and  witty  illustration  of  his 
remarks  against  the  Calvinistic  thesis,  Warburton  gravely 
attributes  to  Shakspeare  as  intentional ;    and  this,  too,  in 
the  mouth  of  a  lady's  woman  ! 
Act  V.  last  scene.     Othello's  speech  : — 

Of  one,  whose  hand, 

Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tiube,  &c. 

Theobald's  note  from  Warburton. 

Thus  it  is  for  no-poets  to  comment  on  the  greatest  of 
poets  !  To  make  Othello  say  that  he,  who  had  killed  his 
wife,  was  like  Herod  who  killed  Mariamne  ! — O,  how  many 
beauties,  in  this  one  line,  were  impenetrable  to  the  ever 
thought-swarming,  but  idealess,  Warburton  !  Othello 
wishes  to  excuse  himself  on  the  score  of  ignorance,  and  yet 
not  to  excuse  himself, — to  excuse  himself  by  accusing. 
This  struggle  of  feeling  is  finely  conveyed  in  the  word 
'base,'  which  is  applied  to  the  rude  Indian,  not  in  his  own 
character,  but  as  the  momentary  representative  of  Othello's 
'Indian' — for  I  retain  the  old  reading — means  American, 
a  savage  in  genere. 

Finally,  let  me  repeat  that  OtheUo  does  not  kill  Desde- 
mona  in  jealousy,  but  in  a  conviction  forced  upon  him  by 
the  almost  superhuman  art  of  lago,  such  a  conviction  as 
any  man  would  and  must  have  entertained  who  had  be- 
lieved lago's  honesty  as  OtheUo  did.  We,  the  audience, 
know  that  lago  is  a  villain  from  the  beginning  ;  but  in 
considering  the  essence  of  the  Shakspearian  OtheUo,  we 
must  perseveringly  place  ourselves  in  his  situation,  and 
under  his  circumstances.  Then  we  shaU  immediately  feel 
the  fundamental  difference  between  the  solemn  agony  of 
the  noble  Moor,  and  the  wretched  fishing  jealousies  of 
Leontes,  and  the  morbid  suspiciousness  of  Leonatus,  who  is, 
in  other  respects,  a  fine  character.  OtheUo  had  no  life  but 
in  Desdemona  : — the  belief  that  she,  his  angel,  had  faUen 
from  the  heaven  of  her  native  innocence,  wrought  a  civil 
war  in  his  heart.  She  is  his  counterpart ;  and,  like  him, 
is  almost  sanctified  in  our  eyes  by  her  absolute  unsus- 
piciousness,  and  holy  entireness  of  love.  As  the  curtain 
drops,  which  do  we  pity  the  most  ? 

Extremum  hunc .     There  are  three  powers  : — 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  177 

Wit,  which  discovers  partial  Hkeness  hidden  in  general 
diversity;  subtlety,  which  discovers  the  diversity  con- 
cealed in  general  apparent  sameness  ; — and  profundity, 
which  discovers  an  essential  unity  under  all  the  sem- 
blances of  difference. 

Give  to  a  subtle  man  fancy,  and  he  is  a  wit ;  to  a  deep 
man  imagination,  and  he  is  a  philosopher.  Add,  again, 
pleasurable  sensibility  in  the  threefold  form  of  sympathy 
with  the  interesting  in  morals,  the  impressive  in  form,  and 
the  harmonious  in  sound, — and  you  have  the  poet. 

But  combine  all, — wit,  subtlety,  and  fancy,  with  pro- 
fundity, imagination,  and  moral  and  physical  suscepti- 
bility of  the  pleasurable, — and  let  the  object  of  action  be 
man  universal ;  and  we  shall  have — O,  rash  prophecy  I 
say,  rather,  we  have — a  Shakspeare  ! 

NOTES    ON    BEN    JONSON. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  collect  out  of  our  dramatists  from 
Ehzabeth  to  Charles  I.  proofs  of  the  manners  of  the  times. 
One  striking  symptom  of  general  coarseness  of  manners, 
which  may  co-exist  with  great  refinement  of  morals,  as, 
alas  !  vice  versa,  is  to  be  seen  in  the  very  frequent  allusions 
to  the  olfactories  with  their  most  disgusting  stimulants, 
and  these,  too,  in  the  conversation  of  virtuous  ladies. 
This  would  not  appear  so  strange  to  one  who  had  been 
on  terms  of  familiarity  with  Sicilian  and  Italian  woimn 
of  rank  :  and  bad  as  they  may,  too  many  of  them,  actually 
be,  yet  I  doubt  not  that  the  extreme  grossness  of  their 
language  has  impressed  many  an  Englishman  of  the  present 
era  with  far  darker  notions  than  the  same  language  would 
have  produced  in  the  mind  of  one  of  Elizabeth's  or  James's 
courtiers.  Those  who  have  read  Shakspeare  only,  com- 
plain of  occasional  grossness  in  his  plays  ;  but  compare 
him  with  his  contemporaries,  and  the  inevitable  conviction, 
is  that  of  the  exquisite  purity  of  his  imagination. 

The  observation  I  have  prefixed  to  the  Volpone  is  the 
key  to  the  faint  interest  which  these  noble  efforts  of  intel- 
lectual power  excite,  with  the  exception  of  the  fragment 
of  the  Sad  Shepherd  ;  because  in  that  piece  only  is  there 
any  character  with  whom  you  can  morally  sympathize. 
On  the  other  hand,  Measure  for  Measure  is  the  only  play 


lyS  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

of  Shakspeare's  in  which  there  are  not  some  one  or  more 
characters,  generally  many,  whom  you  follow  with  affec- 
tionate feeling.  For  I  confess  that  Isabella,  of  all  Shak- 
speare's  female  characters,  pleases  me  the  least ;  and 
Measure  for  Measure  is,  indeed,  the  only  one  of  his  genuine 
works,  which  is  painful  to  me. 

Let  me  not  conclude  this  remark,  however,  without  a 
thankful  acknowledgment  to  the  manes  of  Ben  Jonson, 
that  the  more  I  study  his  writings,  I  the  more  admire 
them  ;  and  the  more  my  study  of  him  resembles  that  of 
an  ancient  classic,  in  the  minniicB  of  his  rhythm,  metre, 
choice  of  words,  forms  of  connection,  and  so  forth,  the 
more  numerous  have  the  points  of  my  admiration  become. 
I  may  add,  too,  that  both  the  study  and  the  admiration 
cannot  but  be  disinterested,  for  to  expect  therefrom  any 
advantage  to  the  present  drama  would  be  ignorance. 
The  latter  is  utterly  heterogeneous  from  the  drama  of  the 
Shakspearian  age,  with  a  diverse  object  and  contrary 
principle.  The  on€  was  to  present  a  model  by  imitation 
of  real  life,  taking  from  real  life  all  that  in  it  which  it  ought 
to  be,  and  supplying  the  rest  ; — the  other  is  to  copy  what 
is,  and  as  it  is, — at  best  a  tolerable,  but  most  frequently 
a  blundering,  copy.  In  the  former  the  difference  was  an 
essential  element ;  in  the  latter  an  involuntary  defect. 
We  should  think  it  strange,  if  a  tale  in  dance  were  an- 
nounced, and  the  actors  did  not  dance  at  all ; — and  yet 
such  is  modern  comedy. 


WHALLEY'S    PREFACE. 

But  Jonson  was  soon  sensible,  how  inconsistent  this  medley  of 
names  and  manners  was  in  reason  and  nature  ;  and  with  how  little 
propriety  it  could  ever  have  a  place  in  a  legitimate  and  just  picture 
of  real  life. 

But  did  Jonson  reflect  that  the  very  essence  of  a  play, 
the  very  language  in  which  it  is  written,  is  a  fiction  to 
which  all  the  parts  must  conform  ?  Surely,  Greek  manners 
in  English  should  be  a  still  grosser  improbability  than  a 
Greek  name  transferred  to  English  manners.  Ben's  per- 
soncB  are  too  often  not  characters,  but  derangements  ; — 
the  hopeless  patients  of  a  mad-doctor  rather, — exhibitions 
-of  folly  betraying  itself  in  spite  of  existing  reason  and 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  179 

prudence.  He  not  poetically,  but  painfully  exaggerates 
every  trait  ;  that  is,  not  by  the  drollery  of  the  circum- 
stance, but  by  the  excess  of  the  originating  feeling. 

But  to  this  we  might  reply,  that  far  from  being  thought  to  build 
his  characters  upon  abstract  ideas,  he  was  really  accused  of  re- 
presenting particular  persons  then  existing  ;  and  that  even  those 
characters  which  appear  to  be  the  most  exaggerated,  are  said  to 
have  had  their  respective  archetypes  in  nature  and  life. 

This  degrades  Jonson  into  a  libeller,  instead  of  justifying 
him  as  a  dramatic  poet.  Non  quod  verum  est,  sed  quod 
verisimile,  is  the  dramatist's  rule.  At  aU  events,  the  poet 
who  chooses  transitory  manners,  ought  to  content  himself 
with  transitory  praise.  If  his  object  be  reputation,  he 
ought  not  to  expect  fame.  The  utmost  he  can  look 
forwards  to,  is  to  be  quoted  by,  and  to  enliven  the  writings 
of,  an  antiquarian.  Pistol,  Nym  and  id  genus  omne,  do 
not  please  us  as  characters,  but  are  endured  as  fantastic 
creations,  foils  to  the  native  wit  of  Falstaff. — I  say  wit 
emphatically  ;  for  this  character  so  often  extolled  as  the 
masterpiece  of  humour,  neither  contains,  nor  was  meant 
to  contain,  any  humour  at  all. 


WHALLEY'S  LIFE  OF  JONSON. 

It  is  to  the  honour  of  Jonson's  judgment,  that  the  greatest  poet  of 
our  nation  had  the  same  opinion  of  Donne's  genius  and  wit ;  and 
hath  preserved  part  of  him  from  perishing,  by  putting  his  thoughts 
and  satire  into  modern  verse. 

Videlicet  Pope  ! 

He  said  further  to  Drummond,  Shakspeare  wanted  art,  and  some- 
times sense  ;  for  in  one  of  his  plays  he  brought  in  a  number  of  men, 
saying  they  had  suffered  shipwreck  in  Bohemia,  where  is  no  sea 
near  by  a  hundred  miles. 

I  HAVE  often  thought  Shakspeare  justified  in  this  seeming 
anachronism.  In  Pagan  times  a  single  name  of  a  German 
kingdom  might  weU  be  supposed  to  comprise  a  hundred 
miles  more  than  at  present.  The  truth  is,  these  notes  of 
Drummond' s  are  more  disgraceful  to  himself  than  to 
Jonson.  It  would  be  easy  to  conjecture  how  grossly 
Jonson  must  have  been  misunderstood,  and  what  he  had 
said  in  jest,   as  of  Hippocrates,  interpreted  in  earnest. 


i8o  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

But  this  is  characteristic  of  a  Scotchman  ;  he  has  no 
notion  of  a  jest,  unless  you  tell  him — 'This  is  a  joke  !'  — 
and  still  less  of  that  finer  shade  of  feeling,  the  half-and- 
half,  in  which  Englishmen  naturally  delight. 

EVERY    MAN    OUT    OF    HIS    HUMOUR. 

Epilogue. 

The  throat  of  war  be  stopt  within  her  land, 
And  turtle-footed  peace  dance  fairie  rings 
About  her  court. 

Turtle-footed  is  a  pretty  word,  a  very  pretty  word  : 
pray,  what  does  it  mean  ?  Doves,  I  presume,  are  not 
dancers  ;  and  the  other  sort  of  turtle,  land  or  sea,  green-fat 
or  hawksbill,  would,  I  should  suppose,  succeed  better  in 
slow  minuets  than  in  the  brisk  rondillo.  In  one  sense,  to 
be  sure,  pigeons  and  ring-doves  could  not  dance  but  with 
€clat — a  claw  ? 


POETASTER. 

Introduction. 

Light  !    I  salute  thee,  biit  with  wounded  nen'es, 
Wishing  thy  golden  splendour  pitchy  darkness. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  Satan's  address  to  the  sun 
in  the  Paradise  Lost,  more  than  a  mere  coincidence  with 
these  lines  ;  but  were  it  otherwise,  it  would  be  a  fine 
instance,  what  usurious  interest  a  great  genius  pays  in 
borrowing.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  give  a  detailed 
psychological  proof  from  these  constant  outbursts  of 
anxious  self-assertion,  that  Jonson  was  not  a  genius,  a 
creative  power.  Subtract  that  one  thing,  and  you  may 
safely  accumulate  on  his  name  all  other  excellences  of  a 
capacious,  vigorous,  agile,  and  richly-stored  intellect. 
Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Ovid.   While  slaves  be  false,  fathers  hard,  and  bawds  be  whorish — 

The  roughness  noticed  by  Theobald  and  Whalley,  may  be 
cured  by  a  simple  transposition  : — 

While  fathers  hard,  slaves  false,  and  bawds  be  whorish. 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  i8i 

Act  iv.  sc.  3. 

Crisp.   O — oblatrant — furibund — fatuate — strenuous. 
O — conscious. 

It  would  form  an  interesting  essay,  or  rather  series  of 
essays,  in  a  periodical  work,  were  all  the  attempts  to 
ridicule  new  phrases  brought  together,  the  proportion 
observed  of  words  ridiculed  which  have  been  adopted,  and 
are  now  common,  such  as  strenuous,  conscious,  &c.,  and  a 
trial  made  how  far  any  grounds  can  be  detected,  so  that 
one  might  determine  beforehand  whether  a  word  was 
invented  under  the  conditions  of  assimilability  to  our 
language  or  not.  Thus  much  is  certain,  that  the  ridiculers 
were  as  often  wrong  as  right  ;  and  Shakspeare  himself 
could  not  prevent  the  naturalization  of  accommodation, 
remuneration,  &c.  ;  or  Swift  the  gross  abuse  even  of  the 
word  idea. 


FALL    OF    SEJANUS. 
Act  i. 

Arruntiiis.  The  name  Tiberius, 
I  hope,  will  keep,  howe'er  he  hath  foregone 
The  dignity  and  power. 

Silius.  Sure,  while  he  lives. 

Art.  And  dead,  it  comes  to  Drusus.     Should  he  fail. 
To  the  brave  issue  of  Germanicus  ; 
And  they  are  three  :   too  many  (ha  ?)  for  him 
To  have  a  plot  upon  ? 

Sil.   I  do  not  know 
The  heart  of  his  designs  ;   but,  sure,  their  face 
Looks  farther  than  the  present. 

Arr.  By  the  gods, 
If  I  could  guess  he  had  but  such  a  thought, 
My  sword  should  cleave  him  down,  &c. 

The  anachronic  mixture  in  this  Arruntius  of  the  Roman 
republican,  to  whom  Tiberius  must  have  appeared  as  much 
a  tyrant  as  Sejanus  with  his  James-and-Charles-the-First 
zeal  for  legitimacy  of  descent,  in  this  passage,  is  amusing. 
Of  our  great  names  Milton  was,  I  think,  the  first  who 
could  properly  be  called  a  repubHcan.  My  recollections 
of  Buchanan's  works  are  too  faint  to  enable  me  to  judge 
whether  the  historian  is  not  a  fair  exception. 


i82  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

Act  ii.     Speech  of  Sejanus  : — 

Adultery  !   it  is  the  lightest  ill 
I  will  commit.     A  race  of  wicked  acts 
Shall  flow  out  of  my  anger,  and  o'erspread 
The  world's  wide  face,  which  no  posterity 
Shall  e'er  approve,  nor  yet  keep  silent,  &c. 

The  more  we  reflect  and  examine,  examine  and  reflect, 
the  more  astonished  shall  we  be  at  the  immense  superiority 
of  Shakspeare  over  his  contemporaries  : — and  yet  what 
contemporaries  !  —  giant  minds  indeed !  Think  of 
Jonson's  erudition,  and  the  force  of  learned  authority  in 
that  age  ;  and  yet  in  no  genuine  part  of  Shakspeare' s 
works  is  there  to  be  found  such  an  absurd  rant  and  ven- 
triloquism as  this,  and  too,  too  many  other  passages 
ferruminated  by  Jonson  from  Seneca's  tragedies  and  the 
writings  of  the  later  Romans.  I  call  it  ventriloquism, 
because  Sejanus  is  a  puppet,  out  of  which  the  poet  makes 
his  own  voice  appear  to  come. 

Act  V.  Scene  of  the  sacrifice  to  Fortune.  This  scene 
is  unspeakably  irrational.  To  believe,  and  yet  to  scoff  at, 
a  present  miracle  is  little  less  than  impossible.  Sejanus 
should  have  been  made  to  suspect  priestcraft  and  a  secret 
conspiracy  against  him. 


VOLPONE. 

This  admirable,  indeed,  but  yet  more  wonderful  than 
admirable,  play  is  from  the  fertility  and  vigour  of  inven- 
tion, character,  language,  and  sentiment  the  strongest 
proof,  how  impossible  it  is  to  keep  up  any  pleasurable 
interest  in  a  tale,  in  which  there  is  no  goodness  of  heart 
in  any  of  the  prominent  characters.  After  the  third  act, 
this  play  becomes  not  a  dead,  but  a  painful,  weight  on  the 
feelings.  Zeluco  is  an  instance  of  the  same  truth.  Bonario 
and  Celia  should  have  been  made  in  some  way  or  other 
principals  in  the  plot  ;  which  they  might  have  been,  and 
the  objects  of  interest,  without  having  been  made  char- 
acters. In  novels,  the  person,  in  whose  fate  you  are  most 
interested,  is  often  the  least  marked  character  of  the  whole. 
If  it  were  possible  to  lessen  the  paramountcy  of  Volpone 
himself,  a  most  delightful  comedy  might  be  produced,  by 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  183 

making  Celia  the  ward  or  niece  of  Corvino,  instead  of  his 
wife,  and  Bonario  her  lover. 


EPICiENE. 

This  is  to  my  feehngs  the  most  entertaining  of  old  Ben's 
comedies,  and,  more  than  any  other,  would  admit  of  being 
brought  out  anew,  if  under  the  management  of  a  judicious 
and  stage-understanding  play-wright  ;  and  an  actor,  who 
had  studied  Morose,  might  make  his  fortune. 
Act  i.  sc.  I.     Clerimont's  speech  : — 

He  would  have  hanged  a  pewterer's  'prentice  once  on  a  Shrove 
Tuesday's  riot,  for  being  o'  that  trade,  when  the  rest  were  quiet. 

The  old  copies  read  quit,  i.e.  discharged  from  working,  and  gone 
to  divert  themselves.     Whalley's  note. 

It  should  be  quit,  no  doubt ;  but  not  meaning  'dis- 
charged from  working,'  &c. — but  quit,  that  is,  acquitted. 
The  pewterer  was  at  his  holiday  diversion  as  well  as  the 
other  apprentices,  and  they  as  forward  in  the  riot  as  he. 
But  he  alone  was  punished  under  pretext  of  the  riot,  but 
in  fact  for  his  trade. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I. 

Morose.  Cannot  I,  yet,  find  out  a  more  compendious  method, 
than  by  this  trunk,  to  save  my  servants  the  labour  of  speech,  and 
mine  ears  the  discord  of  sounds  ? 

What  does  'trunk'  mean  here  and  in  the  ist  scene  oi 
the  1st  act  ?  Is  it  a  large  ear-trumpet  ? — or  rather  a 
tube,  such  as  passes  from  parlour  to  kitchen,  instead  of 
a  bell  ? 

Whalley's  note  at  the  end. 

Some  critics  of  the  last  age  imagined  the  character  of  Morose 
to  be  wholly  out  of  nature.  But  to  vindicate  our  poet,  Mr.  Dryden 
tells  us  from  tradition,  and  we  may  venture  to  take  his  word,  that 
Jonson  was  really  acquainted  with  a  person  of  this  whimsical  turn 
of  mind  :  and  as  humour  is  a  personal  quality,  the  poet  is  acquitted 
from  the  charge  of  exhibiting  a  monster,  or  an  extravagant  un- 
natural caricatura. 

If  Dryden  had  not  made  all  additional  pfoof  superfluous 
by  his  own  plays,  this  very  vindication  would  evince  that 
he  had  formed  a  false  and  vulgar  conception  of  the  nature 


184  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

and  conditions  of  the  drama  and  dramatic  personation. 
Ben  Jonson  would  himself  have  rejected  such  a  plea : — 

For  he  knew,  poet  never  credit  gain'd 

By  writing  truths,  but  things,  Uke  truths,  well  feign'd. 

By  'truths*  he  means  'facts.'  Caricatures  are  not  less 
so,  because  they  are  found  existing  in  real  life.  Comedy 
demands  characters,  and  leaves  caricatures  to  farce.  The 
safest  and  truest  defence  of  old  Ben  would  be  to  call  the 
Epicaene  the  best  of  farces.  The  defect  in  Morose,  as  in 
other  of  Jonson's  dramatis  persons,  lies  in  this  ; — that  the 
accident  is  not  a  prominence  growing  out  of,  and  nourished 
by,  the  character  which  still  circulates  in  it,  but  that  the 
character,  such  as  it  is,  rises  out  of,  or,  rather,  consists 
in,  the  accident.  Shakspeare's  comic  personages  have 
exquisitely  characteristic  features  ;  however  awry,  dis- 
proportionate, and  laughable  they  may  be,  still,  like 
Bardolph's  nose,  they  are  features.  But  Jonson's  are 
either  a  man  with  a  huge  wen,  having  a  circulation  of  its 
own,  and  which  we  might  conceive  amputated,  and  the 
patient  thereby  losing  all  his  character  ;  or  they  are 
mere  wens  themselves  instead  of  men, — wens  personified, 
or  with  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  cut  out,  mandrake-fashion. 
Nota  bene.  All  the  above,  and  much  more,  will  have 
justly  been  said,  if,  and  whenever,  the  drama  of  Jonson 
is  brought  into  comparisons  of  rivalry  with  the  Shak- 
spearian.  But  this  should  not  be.  Let  its  inferiority  to 
the  Shakspearian  be  at  once  fairly  owned, — but  at  the  same 
time  as  the  inferiority  of  an  altogether  different  genus  of 
the  drama.  On  this  ground,  old  Ben  would  still  maintain 
his  proud  height.  He,  no  less  than  Shakspeare,  stands 
on  the  summit  of  his  hill,  and  looks  round  him  like  a 
master, — though  his  be  Lattrig  and  Shakspeare's  Skiddaw. 


THE    ALCHEMIST. 

Act  i.  sc.  2.     Face's  speech  : — 

Will  take  his  oath  o'  the  Greek  Xenophon, 
If  need  be,  in  his  pocket. 

Another  reading  is  'Testament.' 

Probably,  the  meaning  is — that  intending  to  give  false 
evidence,  he  carried  a  Greek  Xenophon  to  pass  it  off  for 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  185 

ft  Greek  Testament,  and  so  avoid  perjury — as  the  Irish  do, 
by  contriving  to  kiss  their  thumb-nails  instead  of  the  book. 
Act  ii.  sc.  2.     Mammon's  speech  : — 

I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up  ;  not  stuft : 
Down  is  too  hard. 

Thus  the  air-cushions,  though  perhaps  only  lately 
brought  into  use,  were  invented  in  idea  in  the  seventeenth 
century  ! 


CATILINE'S    CONSPIRACY. 

A  FONDNESS  for  judging  one  work  by  comparison  with 
others,  perhaps  altogether  of  a  different  class,  argues  a 
vulgar  taste.  Yet  it  is  chiefly  on  this  principle  that  the 
Catiline  has  been  rated  so  low.  Take  it  and  Sejanus,  as 
compositions  of  a  particular  kind,  namely,  as  a  mode  of 
relating  great  historical  events  in  the  liveliest  and  most 
interesting  manner,  and  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  we 
had  whole  volumes  of  such  plays.  We  might  as  rationally 
expect  the  excitement  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  from 
Goldsmith's  History  of  England,  as  that  of  Lear,  Othello, 
&c.  from  the  Sejanus  or  Catiline. 
Act  i.  sc.  4. 

Cat.  Sirrah,  what  ail  you  ? 

{He  spies  one  of  his  boys  not  answer.) 
Pag.  Nothing. 
Best.   Somewhat  modest. 
Cat.  Slave,  I  will  strike  your  soul  out  with  my  foot,  &c. 

This  is  either  an  unintelligible,  or,  in  every  sense,  a 
most  unnatural,  passage, — improbable,  if  not  impossible, 
at  the  moment  of  signing  and  swearing  such  a  conspiracy, 
to  the  most  libidinous  satyr.  The  very  presence  of  the  boys 
is  an  outrage  to  probability.  I  suspect  that  these  lines 
down  to  the  words  'throat  opens,'  should  be  removed  back 
so  as  to  follow  the  words  'on  this  part  of  the  house,'  in  th< 
speech  of  Catiline  soon  after  the  entry  of  the  conspirators. 
A  total  erasure,  however,  would  be  the  best,  or,  ratheu 
the  only  possible,  amendment. 

Act  ii.  sc.  2.     Sempronia's  speech  : — 

— He  is  but  a  new  fellow, 
An  inmate  here  in  Rome,  as  Catiline  calls  him— 


i86  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 

A  'lodger'  would  have  been  a  happier  imitation  of  the 
utquilinus  of  Sallust. 

Act  iv.  sc.  6.     Speech  of  Cethegus  : — 

Can  these  or  such  be  any  aids  to  us,  &c. 

What  a  strange  notion  Ben  must  have  formed  of  a 
determined,  remorseless,  all-daring,  fool-hardiness,  to  have 
represented  it  in  such  a  mouthing  Tamburlane,  and  bom- 
bastic tonguebully  as  this  Cethegus  of  his  1 


BARTHOLOMEW    FAIR. 

Induction.     Scrivener's  speech  : — 

If  there  be  never  a  servant-monster  i'  the  Fair,  who  can  help  it, 
he  says,  nor  a  nest  of  antiques  ? 

The  best  excuse  that  can  be  made  for  Jonson,  and  in  a 
somewhat  less  degree  for  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  in 
respect  of  these  base  and  silly  sneers  at  Shakspeare,  is, 
that  his  plays  were  present  to  men's  minds  chiefly  as  acted. 
They  had  not  a  neat  edition  of  them,  as  we  have,  so  as, 
by  comparing  the  one  with  the  other,  to  form  a  just  notion 
of  the  mighty  mind  that  produced  the  whole.  At  all 
events,  and  in  every  point  of  view,  Jonson  stands  far 
higher  in  a  moral  light  than  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  He 
was  a  fair  contemporary,  and  in  his  way,  and  as  far  as 
Shakspeare  is  concerned,  an  original.  But  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  were  always  imitators  of,  and  often  borrowers 
from,  him,  and  yet  sneer  at  him  with  a  spite  far  more 
malignant  than  Jonson,  who,  besides,  has  made  noble 
compensation  by  his  praises. 
Act  ii.  sc.  3. 

Just.  I  mean  a  child  of  the  horn-thumb,  a  babe  of  booty,  boy,  a 
cut  purse. 

Does  not  this  confirm,  what  the  passage  itself  cannot 
but  suggest,  the  propriety  of  substituting  'booty'  for 
'beauty'  in  Falstaff's  speech,  Henry  IV.  Pt.  I.  act  i.  sc.  2. 
'Let  not  us,  &c.  ?  ' 

It  is  not  often  that  old  Ben  condescends  to  imitate  a 
modem  author  ;  but  Master  Dan.  Knockhum  Jordan  and 
his  vapours  are  manifest  reflexes  of  Nym  and  Pistol. 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  187 

lb.  sc.  5. 

Quart.  She'll  make  excellent  geer  for  the  coachmakers  here  in 
Smithfield,  to  anoint  wheels  and  axletrees  with. 

Good  !  but  yet  it  falls  short  of  the  speech  of  a  Mr. 
Johnes,  M.P.,  in  the  Common  Council,  on  the  invasion 
intended  by  Buonaparte :  'Houses  plundered — then  burnt ; 
— sons  conscribed — wives  and  daughters  ravished/  &c.,  &c. 
— "  But  as  for  you,  you  luxurious  Aldermen  !  with  your 
fat  will  he  grease  the  wheels  of  his  triumphant  chariot !  " 

lb.  sc.  6. 

Cok.  Avoid  i'  your  satin  doublet,  Numps. 

This  reminds  me  of  Shakspeare's  'Aroint  thee,  witch  !' 
I  find  in  several  books  of  that  age  the  words  aloigne  and 
doigne — that  is,  'keep  your  distance  !'  or  'off  with  you  !' 
Perhaps  'aroint'  was  a  corruption  of  'aloigne'  by  the 
vulgar.  The  common  etymology  from  ronger  to  gnaw 
seems  unsatisfactory. 

Act  iii.  sc.  4. 

Quurl.  How  now,  Numps  !  almost  tired  i'  your  protectorship  ? 
overparted,  overparted  ? 

An  odd  sort  of  propheticality  in  this  Numps  and  old 
Noll! 

lb.  sc.  6.     Knockhum's  speech  : — 

He  eats  with  his  eyes,  as  well  as  his  teeth. 

A  good  motto  for  the  Parson  in  Hogarth's  Election 
Dinner, — who  shows  how  easily  he  might  be  reconciled 
to  the  Church  of  Rome,  for  he  worships  what  he  eats. 

Act  V.  sc.  5. 

Pup.  Di.    It  is  not  prophane. 

Lan.  It  is  not  prophane,  he  says. 

Boy.   It  is  prophane. 

Pup.   It  is  not  prophane. 

Boy.   It  is  prophane. 

Pup.  It  is  not  prophane. 

Lan.  Well  said,  confute  him  with  Not,  still. 

An  imitation  of  the  quarrel  between  Bacchus  and  the 
Frogs  in  Aristophanes  : — 

Xopos. 
dXXa  fiTfjv  KeKpa^6/j.i:cr9d  7', 
ovhaov  T)  c^pvy^  3.v  i)fiCov 


i88  Notes  on  Ben  Jonson 


XavSayT],  St,'  i}/j.ipas, 
^p€KeK€K^^,  Koa^,  Koa^. 

Ai6vva-os. 
Tovri^  yap  ou  vLKfjcreTe. 

Xop6s. 
ovSk  fi^v  -^ftds  ail  iravTios. 

Aiovvcos. 
oid^  /j.r]v  v/xeTs  ye  d-q  fi'  ovdiirore. 


THE    DEVIL    IS    AN    ASS. 
Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Pug.  Why  any  :    Fraud, 
Or  Covetousness,  or  lady  Vanity, 
Or  old  Iniquity,  I'll  call  him  hither. 

The  words  in  italics  should  probably  be  given  to  the  master- 
devil,  Satan.     Whalley's  note. 

That  is,  against  all  probability,  and  with  a  (for  Jonson) 
impossible  violation  of  character.  The  words  plainly 
belong  to  Pug,  and  mark  at  once  his  simpleness  and  his 
impatience. 

lb.  sc.  4.     Fitz-dottrel's  soliloquy  : — 

Compare  this  exquisite  piece  of  sense,  satire,  and  sound 
philosophy  in  1616  with  Sir  M.  Hale's  speech  from  the 
bench  in  a  trial  of  a  witch  many  years  afterwards.^ 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Meercraft's  speech  : — 

Sir,  money's  a  whore,  a  bawd,  a  drudge. — 

I  doubt  not  that  'money'  was  the  first  word  of  the  line, 
and  has  dropped  out : — 

Money  !    Sir,  money's  a,  &c. 


THE    STAPLE    OF   NEWS. 

Act  iv.  sc.  3.     Pecunia's  speech  : — 

No,  he  would  ha'  done. 

That  lay  not  in  his  power  :   he  had  the  use 

Of  your  bodies,  Band  and  Wax,  and  sometimes  Statute's. 

Read  (1815), 

— he  had  the  use  of 
Your  bodies,  &c. 

Now,  however,  I  doubt  the  legitimacy  of  my  transposition 
of  the  'of  from  the  beginning  of  this  latter  line  to  the  end 

^  In  1664,  at  Bury  St.  Edmonds  on  the  trial  of  Rose  Cullender  and  Amy  Duny.     Jid. 


Notes  on  Ben  Jonson  189 

of  the  one  preceding  ; — for  though  it  facilitates  the  metre 
and  reading  of  the  latter  line,  and  is  frequent  in  Massinger, 
this  disjunction  of  the  preposition  from  its  case  seems  to 
have  been  disallowed  by  Jonson.  Perhaps  the  better 
reading  is — 

C  your  bodies,  &c. — 

the  two  syllables  being  slurred  into  one,  or  rather  snatched, 
or  sucked,  up  into  the  emphasized  'your.'  In  all  points 
of  view,  therefore,  Ben's  judgment  is  just ;  for  in  this  way, 
the  line  cannot  be  read,  as  metre,  without  that  strong  and 
quick  emphasis  on  'your'  which  the  sense  requires  ; — and 
had  not  the  sense  required  an  emphasis  on  '  your,'  the 
tmesis  of  the  sign  of  its  cases  'of,'  'to,'  &c.  would  destroy 
almost  all  boundary  between  the  dramatic  verse  and 
prose  in  comedy  : — a  lesson  not  to  be  rash  in  conjectural 
amendments.  1818. 
lb.  sc.  4. 

P.  jun.  I  love  all  men  of  virtue,  frommy  Princess. — 

'Frommy,'  fromme,  pious,  dutiful,  &c. 
Act  V.  sc.  4.     Penny-boy  sen.  and  Porter  : — 
I  dare  not,  will  not,  think  that  honest  Ben  had  Lear  in 
his  mind  in  this  mock  mad  scene. 


THE    NEW    INN. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Host's  speech  : — 

A  heavy  purse,  and  then  two  turtles,  makes. — 

'Makes,'  frequent  in  old  books,  and  even  now  used  in 
some  counties  for  mates,  or  pairs, 
lb.  sc.  3.     Host's  speech  : — 

— And  for  a  leap 
C  the  vaulting  horse,  to  play  the  vaulting  house. — 

Instead  of  reading  with  Whalley  'ply*  for  'play,'  I 
would  suggest  'horse'  for  'house.'  The  meaning  would 
then  be  obvious  and  pertinent.  The  punlet,  or  pun- 
maggot,  or  pun  intentional,  'horse  and  house,'  is  below 
Jonson.     The  jeu-de-mots  just  below — 


IQO  Notes  on 

Read  a  lecture 
Upon  AquinsiS  at  St.  Thomas  a  Waterings — 

had  a  learned  smack  in  it  to  season  its  insipidity, 
lb.  sc.  6.     Lovel's  speech  : — 

Then  shower'd  his  bounties  on  me,  like  the  Hours, 
That  open-handed  sit  upon  the  clouds, 
And  press  the  liberality  of  heaven 
Down  to  the  laps  of  thankful  men  I 

Like  many  other  similar  passages  in  Jonson,  this  is 
tldog  ;;^aX£'Toi'  /deTv — a  sight  which  it  is  difficult  to  make 
one's  self  see, — a  picture  my  fancy  cannot  copy  detached 
from  the  words. 

Act  ii.  sc.  5.  Though  it  was  hard  upon  old  Ben,  yet 
Felton,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  in  the  right  in  consider- 
ing the  Fly,  Tipto,  Bat  Burst,  &c.  of  this  play  mere  dotages. 
Such  a  scene  as  this  was  enough  to  damn  a  new  play  ;  and 
Nick  Stuff  is  worse  still, — most  abominable  stuff  indeed  ! 

Act  iii.  sc.  2.     Lovel's  speech  : — 

So  knowledge  first  begets  benevolence, 
Benevolence  breeds  friendship,  friendship  love. — 

Jonson  has  elsewhere  proceeded  thus  far  ;  but  the  part 
most  difficult  and  delicate,  yet,  perhaps,  not  the  least 
capable  of  being  both  morally  and  poetically  treated,  is 
the  union  itself,  and  what,  even  in  this  life,  it  can  be. 


NOTES    ON    BEAUMONT   AND    FLETCHER. 

Seward's  Preface.     1750. 

The  King  And  No  King,  too,  is  extremely  spirited  in  all  its  char- 
acters ;  Arbaces  holds  up  a  mirror  to  all  men  of  virtuous  principles 
but  violent  passions.  Hence  he  is,  as  it  were,  at  once  magnanimity 
and  pride,  patience  and  fury,  gentleness  and  rigour,  chastity  and 
incest,  and  is  one  of  the  finest  mixtures  of  virtues  and  vices  that  any 
poet  has  drawn,  &c. 

These  are  among  the  endless  instances  of  the  abject  state 
to  which  pyschology  had  sunk  from  the  reign  of  Charles 
L  to  the  middle  of  the  present  reign  of  George  IIL  ;  and 
even  now  it  is  but  just  awaking. 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  igi 

lb.  Seward's  comparison  of  Julia's  speech  in  the  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  act  iv.  last  scene — 

Madam,  'twas  Ariadne  passioning,  &c. 

with  Aspatia's  speech  in  the  Maid's  Tragedy — 

I  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now,  &c.     Act  ii. 

and  preference  of  the  latter. 

It  is  strange  to  take  an  incidental  passage  of  one  writer, 
intended  only  for  a  subordinate  part,  and  compare  it  with 
the  same  thought  in  another  writer,  who  had  chosen  it  for 
a  prominent  and  principal  figure. 

lb.  Seward's  preference  of  Alphonso's  poisoning  in  A 
Wife  for  a  Month,  act  i.  sc.  i,  to  the  passage  in  King  John, 
act  V.  sc.  7, — 

Poison'd,  ill  fare  !  dead,  forsook,  cast  off  I 

Mr.  Seward  !    Mr.  Seward  !    you  may  be,  and  I  trust  you 
are,  an  angel ;  but  you  were  an  ass. 
lb. 

Every  reader  of  taste  will  see  how  superior  this  is  to  the  quotation 
from  Shakspeare. 

Of  what  taste  ? 

lb.     Seward's  classification  of  the  plays  : — 
Surely  Monsieur  Thomas,  the  Chances,  Beggar's  Bush, 
and  the  Pilgrim,  should  have  been  placed  in  the  very  first 
class  !     But  the  whole  attempt  ends  in  a  woful  failure. 


HARRIS'S    COMMENDATORY    POEM    ON 
FLETCHER. 

I'd  have  a  state  of  wit  convok'd,  which  hath 
A  power  to  take  up  on  common  faith  : — 

This  is  an  instance  of  that  modifying  of  quantity  by 
emphasis,  without  which  our  elder  poets  cannot  be  scanned. 
'Power,'  here,  instead  of  being  one  long  syllable — pow'r — 
must  be  sounded,  not  indeed  as  a  spondee,  nor  yet  as  a 
trochee  ;   but  as  — "  u  ; — the  first  syllable  is  ij. 

We  can,  indeed,  never  expect  an  authentic  edition  of 
our  elder  dramatic  poets  (for  in  those  times  a  drama  was 
a  poem),  until  some  man  undertakes  the  work,  who  has 
studied  the  philosophy  of  metre.     This  has  been  found 


192  Notes  on 

the  main  torch  of  sound  restoration  in  the  Greek  dramatists 
by  Bentley,  Porson,  and  their  followers  ; — how  much  more, 
then,  in  writers  in  our  own  language  !  It  is  true  that 
quantity,  an  almost  iron  law  with  the  Greek,  is  in  English 
rather  a  subject  for  a  peculiarly  fine  ear,  than  any  law  or 
even  rule  ;  but,  then,  instead  of  it,  we  have,  first,  accent ; 
secondly,  emphasis  ;  and  lastly,  retardation,  and  accelera- 
tion of  the  times  of  syllables  according  to  the  meaning  of 
the  words,  the  passion  that  accompanies  them,  and  even 
the  character  of  the  person  that  uses  them.  With  due 
attention  to  these, — above  all,  to  that,  which  requires  the 
most  attention  and  the  finest  taste,  the  character,  Mas- 
singer,  for  example,  might  be  reduced  to  a  rich  and  yet 
regular  metre.  But  then  the  regulce  must  be  first  known  ; 
— though  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  he  who  does  not  find 
a  line  (not  corrupted)  of  Massinger's  flow  to  the  time  total 
of  a  trimeter  catalectic  iambic  verse,  has  not  read  it  aright. 
But  by  virtue  of  the  last  principle — the  retardation  or 
acceleration   of  time — we  have   the  proceleusmatic  foot 

K)  Kj  Kj  Kj,  and  the  dispondceus ,  not  to  mention 

the  choriamhus,  the  ionics,  paeons,  and  epitrites.  Since 
Dryden,  the  metre  of  our  poets  leads  to  the  sense  :  in  our 
elder  and  more  genuine  bards,  the  sense,  including  the 
passion,  leads  to  the  metre.  Read  even  Donne's  satires 
as  he  meant  them  to  be  read,  and  as  the  sense  and  passion 
demand,  and  you  will  find  in  the  lines  a  manly  harmony. 

LIFE    OF    FLETCHER    IN    STOCKDALE'S 
EDITION.     1811. 

In  general  their  plots  are  more  regular  than  Shakspeare's. — 

This  is  true,  if  true  at  aU,  only  before  a  court  of  criticism, 
which  judges  one  scheme  by  the  laws  of  another  and  a 
diverse  one.  Shakspeare's  plots  have  their  own  laws  or 
regulcB,  and  according  to  these  they  are  regular. 


MAID'S    TRAGEDY. 

Act   i.      The   metrical   arrangement   is   most   slovenly 
throughout. 

Strat.  As  well  as  masque  can  be,  &c. 


Beaumont  and   Fletcher  193 

and  all  that  follows  to  'who  is  return'd' — is  plainly  blank 
verse,  and  falls  easily  into  it. 
lb.     Speech  of  Melantius  : — 

These  soft  and  silken  wars  are  not  for  me  : 
The  music  must  be  shrill,  and  all  confus'd. 
That  stirs  my  blood  ;    and  then  I  dance  with  arms. 

What  strange  self-trumpeters  and  tongue-bulhes  all  the 
brave  soldiers  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  !  Yet  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  was  the  fashion  of  the  age  from  the 
Soldier's  speech  in  the  Counter  Scuffle ;  and  deeper  than 
the  fashion  B.  and  F.  did  not  fathom. 

lb.     Speech  of  Lysippus  : — 

Yes,  but  this  lady- 
Walks  discontented,  with  her  wat'ry  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth,  &c. 

Opulent  as  Shakspeare  was,  and  of  his  opulence  prodigal, 
he  yet  would  not  have  put  this  exquisite  piece  of  poetry 
in  the  mouth  of  a  no-character,  or  as  addressed  to  a 
Melantius.  I  wish  that  B.  and  F.  had  written  poems 
instead  of  tragedies, 
lb. 

Mel.   I  might  run  fiercely,  not  more  hastily, 
Upon  my  foe. 
Read 

I  might  run  more  fiercely,  not  more  hastily. — 

lb.     Speech  of  Calianax  : — 

Office  !    I  would  I  could  put  it  off  !    I  am  sure  I  sweat  quite 
through  my  office  ! 

The  syllable  off  reminds  the  testy  statesman  of  his  robe, 
and  he  carries  on  the  image, 
lb.     Speech  of  Melantius  : — 

—Would  that  blood, 
That  sea  of  blood,  that  I  have  lost  in  fight,  &c. 

All  B.  and  F.'s  generals  are  pugilists,  or  cudgel-fighters, 
that  boast  of  their  bottom  and  of  the  claret  they  have  shed, 
lb.     The  Masque  ; — Cinthia's  speech  : — 

But  I  will  give  a  greater  state  and  glory. 
And  raise  to  time  a  noble  mem5ry 
Of  what  these  lovers  are, 

I  suspect  that  'nobler,'  pronounced  as  'nobiler'  —  o  — , 


194  Notes  on 

was  the  poet's  word,  and  that  the  accent  is  to  be  placed 
on  the  penultimate  of  'memory.'     As  to  the  passage — 

Yet,  while  our  reign  lasts,  let  us  stretch  our  power,  &c. 

removed  from  the  text  of  Cinthia's  speech  by  these  foolish 
editors  cls  unworthy  of  B.  and  F. — the  first  eight  lines  are 
not  worse,  and  the  last  couplet  incomparably  better,  than 
the  stanza  retained. 

Act  ii.     Amintor's  speecii  : — 

Oh,  thou  hast  nam'd  a  word,  that  wipes  away- 
All  thoughts  revengeful  !     In  that  sacred  name, 
'The  king,'  there  lies  a  terror. 

It  is  worth  noticing  that  of  the  three  greatest  tragedians, 
Massinger  was  a  democrat,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  the 
most  servile  jure  divino  royalist,  and  Shakspeare  a  philo- 
sopher ; — if  aught  personal,  an  aristocrat. 


A    KING   AND    NO    KING. 

Act  iv.     Speech  of  Tigranes  : — 

She,  that  forgat  the  greatness  of  her  grief 

And  miseries,  that  must  follow  such  mad  passions, 

Endless  and  wild  as  women  !    &c, 

Seward's  note  and  suggestion  of  *in.' 

It  would  be  amusing  to  learn  from  some  existing  friend 
of  Mr.  Seward  what  he  meant,  or  rather  dreamed,  in  this 
note.  It  is  certainly  a  difficult  passage,  of  which  there 
are  two  solutions  ; — one,  that  the  writer  was  somewhat 
more  injudicious  than  usual ; — the  other,  that  he  was  very, 
very  much  more  profound  and  Shakspearian  than  usual. 
Seward's  emendation,  at  aU  events,  is  right  and  obvious. 
Were  it  a  passage  of  Shakspeare,  I  should  not  hesitate  to 
interpret  it  as  characteristic  of  Tigranes'  state  of  mind,  dis- 
liking the  very  virtues,  and  therefore  half-consciously 
representing  them  as  mere  products  of  the  violence  of  the 
sex  in  general  in  all  their  whims,  and  yet  forced  to  admire, 
and  to  feel  and  to  express  gratitude  for,  the  exertion  in  his 
own  instance.  The  inconsistency  of  the  passage  would 
be  the  consistency  of  the  author.  But  this  is  above 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  195 

THE    SCORNFUL    LADY. 
Act  ii.     Sir  Roger's  speech  : — 

Did  I  for  this  consume  my  quarters  in  meditations,  vows,  and 
woo'd  her  in  heroical  epistles  ?  Did  I  expound  the  Owl,  and 
undertake,  with  labour  and  expense,  the  recollection  of  those 
thousand  pieces,  consum'd  in  cellars  and  tobacco-shops,  of  that 
our  honour'd  Englishman,  Nic.  Broughton  ?  &c. 

Strange,  that  neither  Mr.  Theobald,  nor  Mr.  Seward, 
should  have  seen  that  this  mock  heroic  speech  is  in  full- 
mouthed  blank  verse  !  Had  they  seen  this,  they  would 
have  seen  that  'quarters'  is  a  substitution  of  the  players 
for  'quires'  or  'squares,'  (that  is)  of  paper  : — 

Consume  my  quires  in  meditations,  vows. 
And  woo'd  her  in  heroical  epistles. 

They  ought,  likewise,  to  have  seen  that  the  abbreviated 
*Ni.   Br.'  of  the  text  was  properly   'Mi.  Dr.' — and  that 
Michael  Drayton,  not  Nicholas  Broughton,  is  here  ridiculed 
for  his  poem  The  Owl  and  his  Heroical  Epistles. 
lb.     Speech  of  Younger  Loveless  : — 

Fill  him  some  wine.     Thou  dost  not  see  me  mov'd,  &c. 

These  Editors  ought  to  have  learnt,  that  scarce  an  in- 
stance occurs  in  B.  and  F.  of  a  long  speech  not  in  metre. 
This  is  plain  staring  blank  verse. 


THE    CUSTOM    OF    THE    COUNTRY. 

I  CANNOT  but  think  that  in  a  country  conquered  by  a 
nobler  race  than  the  natives,  and  in  which  the  latter 
became  villeins  and  bondsmen,  this  custom,  lex  merchetce, 
may  have  been  introduced  for  wise  purposes, — as  of  im- 
proving the  breed,  lessening  the  antipathy  of  different 
races,  and  producing  a  new  bond  of  relationship  between 
the  lord  and  the  tenant,  who,  as  the  eldest  bom,  would, 
at  least,  have  a  chance  of  being,  and  a  probability  of  being 
thought,  the  lord's  child.  In  the  West  Indies  it  cannot 
have  these  effects,  because  the  mulatto  is  marked  by 
nature  different  from  the  father,  and  because  there  is  no 
bond,  no  law,  no  custom,  but  of  mere  debauchery.     1815. 


196 


Notes  on 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Rutilio's  speech  : — 

Yet  if  you  play  not  fair  play,  &c. 

Evidently  to  be  transposed  and  read  thus  : — 

Yet  if  you  play  not  fair,  above-board  too, 
I'll  tell  you  what — 

I've  a  foolish  engine  here  : — I  say  no  more — 
But  if  your  Honour's  guts  are  not  enchanted — 

Licentious  as  the  comic  metre  of  B.  and  F.  is, — a  far  more 
lawless,  and  yet  far  less  happy,  imitation  of  the  rhythm 
of  animated  talk  in  real  life  tiian  Massinger's — still  it  is 
made  worse  than  it  really  is  by  ignorance  of  the  halves, 
thirds,  and  two- thirds  of  a  line  which  B.  and  F.  adopted 
from  the  Itahan  and  Spanish  dramatists.  Thus  in  Rutilio's 
speech  : — 

Though  I  confess 

Any  man  would  desire  to  have  her,  and  by  any  means,  &c. 

Correct  the  whole  passage — 

Though  I  confess 

Any  man  would 

Desire  to  have  her,  and  by  any  means, 

At  any  rate  too,  yet  this  common  hangman 

That  hath  whipt  off  a  thousand  maids'  heads  already — 

That  he  should  glean  the  harvest,  sticks  in  my  stomach  ! 

In  all  comic  metres  the  gulping  of  short  syllables,  and  the 
abbreviation  of  syllables  ordinarily  long  by  the  rapid 
pronunciation  of  eagerness  and  vehemence,  are  not  so 
much  a  license,  as  a  law, — a  faithful  copy  of  nature,  and 
let  them  be  read  characteristically,  the  times  will  be  found 
nearly  equal.  Thus  the  three  words  marked  above  make 
a  choriamhus  —  u  u  — ,  or  perhaps  a  pceon  primus  —  u  u  u  ; 
a  dactyl,  by  virtue  of  comic  rapidity,  being  only  equal  to 
an  iambus  when  distinctly  pronounced.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  all  B.  and  F.'s  works  might  be  safely  corrected  by 
attention  to  this  rule,  and  that  the  editor  is  entitled  to 
transpositions  of  all  kinds,  and  to  not  a  few  omissions. 
For  the  rule  of  the  metre  once  lost — what  was  to  restrain 
the  actors  from  interpolation  > 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  197 

THE  ELDER  BROTHER. 

Act  i.  sc.  2.     Charles's  speech  : — 

— For  what  concerns  tillage. 
Who  better  can  deliver  it  than  Virgil 
In  his  Georgicks  ?   and  to  cure  your  herds, 
His  Bucolicks  is  a  master-piece. 

Fletcher  was  too  good  a  scholar  to  fall  into  so  gross  a 
blunder,  as  Messrs.  Sympson  and  Colman  suppose.  I  read 
the  passage  thus  : 

— For  what  concerns  tillage, 
Who  better  can  deliver  it  than  Virgil, 
In  his  Gdorgicks,  or  to  cure  your  herds  ; 
(His  Bucolicks  are  a  master-piece.)      But  when,  &c. 

Jealous  of  Virgil's  honour,  he  is  afraid  lest,  by  referring  to 
the  Georgics  alone,   he  might  be  understood  as  under- 
valuing the  preceding  work.     'Not  that  I  do  not  admire 
the  Bucolics,  too,  in  their  way  : — But  when,  &c.' 
Act  iii.  sc.  3.     Charles's  speech  : — 

— She  has  a  face  looks  like  a  story  ; 
The  story  of  the  heavens  looks  very  like  her. 

Seward  reads  'glory;'  and  Theobald  quotes  from 
Phil  aster — 

That  reads  the  story  of  a  woman's  face. — 

I  can  make  sense  of  this  passage  as  little  as  Mr.  Seward  ; 
— the  passage  from  Philaster  is  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
Instead  of  *  a  story,'  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  proposing 
'Astraea.' 

lb.     Angelina's  speech  : — 

— You're  old  and  dim.  Sir, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  earth  eclips'd  your  judgment. 

Inappropriate  to  Angellina,  but  one  of  the  finest  lines 
in  our  language. 

Act  iv.  sc.  3.     Charles's  speech  : — 

And  lets  the  serious  part  of  life  run  by 

As  thin  neglected  sand,  whiteness  of  name. 

You  must  be  mine,  &c. 

Seward's  note,  and  reading — 

— Whiteness  of  name. 
You  must  be  mine  I 


198  Notes  on 

Nonsense  !  'Whiteness  of  name'  is  in  apposition  to 
'the  serious  part  of  Ufe/  and  means  a  deservedly  pure 
reputation.  The  following  line — 'You  must  be  mine!' 
means — 'Though  I  do  not  enjoy  you  to-day,  I  shall  here- 
after, and  without  reproach. ' 

THE    SPANISH    CURATE. 

Act  iv.  sc.  7.     Amaranta's  speech  : — 

And  still  I  push'd  him  on,  as  he  had  been  coming. 

Perhaps  the  true  word  is  'conning,'  that  is,  learning,  or 
reading,  and  therefore  inattentive. 


WIT    WITHOUT    MONEY, 

Act  i.     Valentine's  speech  : — 

One  without  substance,  &c. 

The  present  text,  and  that  proposed  by  Seward,  are  equally 
vile.  I  have  endeavoured  to  make  the  lines  sense,  though 
the  whole  is,  I  suspect,  incurable  except  by  bold  con- 
jectural reformation.     I  would  read  thus  : — 

One  without  substance  of  herself,  that's  woman  ; 
Without  the  pleasure  of  her  life,  that's  wanton  ; 
Tho'  she  be  young,  forgetting  it  ;   tho'  fair. 
Making  her  glass  the  eyes  of  honest  men, 
Not  her  own  admiration, 

'That's  wanton,'  or,  'that  is  to  say,  wantonness.* 
Act  ii.     Valentine's  speech  : — 

Of  half-a-crown  a  week  for  pins  and  puppets — 

As  there  is  a  syllable  wanting  in  the  measure  here.     Seward. 

A  syllable  wanting  !     Had  this  Seward  neither  ears  nor 
fingers  ?     The  line  is  a  more  than  usually  regular  iambic 
hendecasyUable. 
lb. 

With  one  man  satisfied,  with  one  rein  guided ; 

With  one  faith,  one  content,  one  bed  ; 

Aged,  she  makes  the  wife,  preserves  the  fame  and  issue  ; 

A  widow  is.  &c. 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  199 

Is  'apaid' — contented — too  obsolete  for  B.  and  F.  ?     If 
not,  we  might  read  it  thus  : — 

Content  with  one  faith,  with  one  bed  apaid. 

She  makes  the  wife,  preserves  the  fame  and  issue  ; — 

Or  it  may  be — 

— with  one  breed  apaid — 

that  is,  satisfied  with  one  set  of  children,  in  opposition  to — 

A  widow  is  a  Christmas-box,  &c. 

Colman's  note  on  Seward's  attempt  to  put  this  play  into 
metre. 

The  editors,  and  their  contemporaries  in  general,  were 
ignorant  of  any  but  the  regular  iambic  verse.  A  study  of 
the  Aristophanic  and  Plautine  metres  would  have  enabled 
them  to  reduce  B.  and  F.  throughout  into  metre,  except 
where  prose  is  really  intended. 


THE    HUMOROUS    LIEUTENANT. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Second  Ambassador's  speech  : — 

— When  your  angers, 
Like  so  many  brother  billows,  rose  together, 
And,  curling  up  your  foaming  crests,  defied,  &c. 

This  worse  than  superfluous  'like'  is  very  like  an  inter- 
polation of  some  matter  of  fact  critic — all  pus,  prose  atque 
venemim.  The  'your'  in  the  next  hne,  instead  of  'their,' 
is  likewise  yours,  Mr.  Critic  ! 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Timon's  speech  : — 

Another  of  a  new  way  will  be  look'd  at. — 

We  must  suspect  the  poets  wrote,  'of  a  new  day.'     So  immedi- 
ately after, 

Time  may 

For  all  his  wisdom,  yet  give  us  a  day. 

Seward's  Note. 

For  this  very  reason  I  more  than  suspect  the  contrary, 
lb.  sc.  3.     Speech  of  Leucippe  : — 

I'll  put  her  into  action  for  a  wastcoat. — 
What  we  call  a  riding-habit, — some  mannish  dress. 


200  Notes  on 

THE    MAD    LOVER. 

Act  iv.     Masque  of  beasts  : — 

— This  goodly  tree, 
An  usher  that  still  grew  before  his  lady, 
Wither'd  at  root  :  this,  for  he  could  not  woo, 
A  grumbling  lawyer  :  &c. 

Here  must  have  been  omitted  a  line  rhyming  to  'tree  ;* 
and  the  words  of  the  next  Une  have  been  transposed  : — 

— This  goodly  tree. 
Which  leafless,  and  obscur'd  with  moss  you  see, 
An  usher  this,  that  'fore  his  lady  grew, 
Wither'd  at  root  :  this,  for  he  could  not  woo,  &c. 


THE    LOYAL    SUBJECT. 

It  is  well  worthy  of  notice,  and  yet  has  not  been,  I  believe, 
noticed  hitherto,  what  a  marked  difference  there  exists  in 
the  dramatic  writers  of  the  Elizabetho-Jacobasan  age — 
(Mercy  on  me  !  what  a  phrase  for  'the  writers  during  the 
reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  L  !') — in  respect  of  their 
political  opinions.  Shakspeare,  in  this  as  in  all  other 
things,  himself  and  alone,  gives  the  permanent  politics  of 
human  nature,  and  the  only  predilection,  which  appears, 
shews  itself  in  his  contempt  of  mobs  and  the  populacy. 
Massinger  is  a  decided  Whig  ; — Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
high-flying,  passive-obedience  Tories.  The  Spanish  dra- 
matists furnished  them  with  this,  as  with  many  other 
ingredients.  By  the  by,  an  accurate  and  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  all  the  productions  of  the  Spanish  stage  pre- 
viously to  1620,  is  an  indispensable  qualification  for  an 
editor  of  B.  and  F,  ; — and  with  this  qualification  a  most 
interesting  and  instructive  edition  might  be  given.  This 
edition  of  Colman's  (Stockdale  181 1,)  is  below  criticism. 

In  metre,  B.  and  F.  are  inferior  to  Shakspeare,  on  the 
one  hand,  as  expressing  the  poetic  part  of  the  drama,  and 
to  Massinger,  on  the  other,  in  the  art  of  reconciling  metre 
with  the  natural  rhythm  of  conversation, — in  which, 
indeed,  Massinger  is  unrivalled.  Read  him  aright,  and 
measure  by  time,  not  syllables,  and  no  lines  can  be  more 
legitimate, — none  in  which  the  substitution  of  equipollent 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  201 

feet,  and  the  modifications  by  emphasis,  are  managed  with 
such  exquisite  judgment.  B.  and  F.  are  fond  of  the 
twelve  syllable  (not  Alexandrine)  line,  as — 

Too  many  fears  'tis  thought  too  :   and  to  nourish  those — 

This  has,  often,  a  good  effect,  and  is  one  of  the  varieties 
most  common  in  Shakspeare. 


RULE    A    WIFE    AND    HAVE    A    WIFE. 
Act  iii.     Old  Woman's  speech  : — 

— I  fear  he  will  knock  my 
Brains  out  for  lying. 

Mr.  Seward  discards  the  words  'for  lying,'  because  'most 
of  the  things  spoke  of  Estifania  are  true,  with  only  a  little 
exaggeration,  and  because  they  destroy  all  appearance  of 
measure.'     Colman's  note. 

Mr.  Seward  had  his  brains  out.  The  humour  lies  in 
Estifania's  having  ordered  the  Old  Woman  to  tell  these 
tales  of  her  ;  for  though  an  intriguer,  she  is  not  represented 
as  other  than  chaste  ;  and  as  to  the  metre,  it  is  perfectly 
correct, 
lb. 

Marg.  As  you  love  me,  give  way. 

Leon,   It  shall  be  better,  I  will  give  none,  madam,  &c. 

The  meaning  is :  'It  shall  be  a  better  way,  first ; — as  it 
is,  I  will  not  give  it,  or  any  that  you  in  your  present  mood 
would  wish.' 


THE    LAWS    OF    CANDY. 

Act  i.     Speech  of  Melitus  : — 

Whose  insolence  and  never  yet  match'd  pride 
Can  by  no  character  be  well  express' d. 
But  in  her  only  name,  the  proud  Erota. 

Colman's  note. 

The  poet  intended  no  allusion   to   the  word    'Erota* 
itself ;    but  says  that  her  very  name,  'the  proud  Erota,' 


202  Notes  on 

became  a  character  and  adage  ;  as  we  say,  a  Quixote  or  a 
Brutus  :  so  to  say  an  'Erota,'  expressed  female  pride  and 
insolence  of  beauty. 

lb.     Speech  of  Antinous  : — 

Of  my  peculiar  honours,  not  deriv'd 

From  successary,  but  purchas'd  with  my  blood. — 

The  poet  doubtless  wrote  'successry/  which,  though 
not  adopted  in  our  language,  would  be,  on  many  occasions, 
as  here,  a  much  more  significant  phrase  than  ancestry. 


THE    LITTLE    FRENCH    LAWYER. 

Act  i.  sc.  I.     Dinant's  speech  : — 

Are  you  become  a  patron  too  ?     'Tis  a  new  one, 
No  more  on't,  &c. 

Seward  reads  : — 

Are  you  become  a  patron  too  ?     How  long 

Have  you  been  conning  this  speech  ?     'Tis  a  new  one,  &c. 

If  conjectural  emendation,  hke  this,  be  allowed,  we  might 
venture  to  read  : — 


or, 
lb. 


Are  you  become  a  patron  to  a  new  tune  ? 

Are  you  become  a  patron  ?     'Tis  a  new  tune. 

Din.  Thou  wouldst  not  willingly 
Live  a  protested  coward,  or  be  call'd  one  ? 
Cler.  Words  are  but  words. 
Din.  Nor  wouldst  thou  take  a  blow  ? 

Seward's  note. 

O  miserable  !  Dinant  sees  through  Cleremont's  gravity, 
and  the  actor  is  to  explain  it.  'Words  are  but  words/  is 
the  last  struggle  of  affected  morality. 

VALENTINIAN. 

Act  i.  sc.  3. 

It  is  a  real  trial  of  charity  to  read  this  scene  with  tolerable 
temper  towards  Fletcher.     So  very  slavisli — so  reptile — 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  203 

are  the  feelings  and  sentiments  represented  as  duties.  And 
yet  remember  he  was  a  bishop's  son,  and  the  duty  to  God 
was  the  supposed  basis. 

Personals,  including  body,  house,  home,  and  religion  ; 
— property,  subordination,  and  inter-community  ; — these 
are  the  fundamentals  of  society.  I  mean  here,  religion 
negatively  taken, — so  that  the  person  be  not  compelled  to 
do  or  utter,  in  relation  of  the  soul  to  God,  what  would  be, 
in  that  person,  a  lie  ; — such  as  to  force  a  man  to  go  to 
church,  or  to  swear  that  he  believes  what  he  does  not 
believe.  Religion,  positively  taken,  may  be  a  great  and 
useful  privilege,  but  cannot  be  a  right, — were  it  for  this 
only  that  it  cannot  be  pre-defined.  The  ground  of  this 
distinction  between  negative  and  positive  religion,  as  a 
social  right,  is  plain.  No  one  of  my  fellow-citizens  is 
encroached  on  by  my  not  declaring  to  him  what  I  believe 
respecting  the  super-sensual ;  but  should  every  man  be 
entitled  to  preach  against  the  preacher,  who  could  hear 
any  preacher  ?  Now  it  is  different  in  respect  of  loyalty. 
There  we  have  positive  rights,  but  not  negative  rights  ; — 
for  every  pretended  negative  would  be  in  effect  a  positive  ; 
— as  if  a  soldier  had  a  right  to  keep  to  himself,  whether 
he  would,  or  would  not,  fight.  Now,  no  one  of  these 
fundamentals  can  be  rightfully  attacked,  except  when  the 
guardian  of  it  has  abused  it  to  subvert  one  or  more  of  the 
rest.  The  reason  is,  that  the  guardian,  as  a  fluent,  is  le^s 
than  the  permanent  which  he  is  to  guard.  He  is  the 
temporary  and  mutable  mean,  and  derives  his  whole  value 
from  the  end.  In  short,  as  robbery  is  not  high  treason,  so 
neither  is  every  unjust  act  of  a  king  the  converse.  All 
must  be  attacked  and  endangered.  Why  ?  Because  the 
king,  as  a.  to  A.,  is  a  mean  to  A.  or  subordination,  in  a  far 
higher  sense  than  a  proprietor,  as  6.  to  B.  is  a  mean  to  B. 
or  property. 

Act  ii.  sc.  2.     Claudia's  speech  : — 

Chimney-pieces  1  &c. 

The  whole  of  this  speech  seems  corrupt ;  and  if  accu- 
rately printed, — that  is,  if  the  same  in  all  the  prior  editions, 
irremediable  but  by  bold  conjecture.  'Till  my  tackle,* 
should  be,  I  think,  while,  &c. 

Act  iii.  sc.  I.  B.  and  F.  always  write  as  if  virtue  or 
goodness  were  a  sort  of  talisman,  or  strange  something, 


204  Notes  on 

that  might  be  lost  without  the  least  fault  on  the  part  of  the 
owner.  In  short  their  chaste  ladies  value  their  chastity 
as  a  material  thing, — not  as  an  act  or  state  of  being  ;  and 
this  mere  thing  being  imaginary,  no  wonder  that  all  their 
women  are  represented  with  the  minds  of  strumpets, 
except  a  few  irrational  humorists,  far  less  capable  of  ex- 
citing our  sympathy  than  a  Hindoo,  who  has  had  a  bason 
of  cow-broth  thrown  over  him  ; — for  this,  though  a  debas- 
ing superstition,  is  still  real,  and  we  might  pity  the  poor 
wretch,  though  we  cannot  help  despising  him.  But  B.  and 
F.'s  Lucinas  are  clumsy  fictions.  It  is  too  plain  that  the 
authors  had  no  one  idea  of  chastity  as  a  virtue,  but  only 
such  a  conception  as  a  blind  man  might  have  of  the  power 
of  seeing,  by  handHng  an  ox's  eye.  In  The  Queen  of 
Corinth,  indeed,  they  talk  differently  ;  but  it  is  all  talk, 
and  nothing  is  real  in  it  but  the  dread  of  losing  a  reputation. 
Hence  the  frightful  contrast  between  their  women  (even 
those  who  are  meant  for  virtuous)  and  Shakspeare's.  So, 
for  instance.  The  Maid  in  the  Mill : — a  woman  must  not 
merely  have  grown  old  in  brothels,  but  have  chuckled  over 
every  abomination  committed  in  them  with  a  rampant 
sympathy  of  imagination,  to  have  had  her  fancy  so  drunk 
with  the  minuticB  of  lechery  as  this  icy  chaste  virgin  evinces 
hers  to  have  been. 

It  would  be  worth  while  to  note  how  many  of  these  plays 
are  founded  on  rapes, — how  many  on  incestuous  passions, 
and  how  many  on  mere  lunacies.  Then  their  virtuous 
women  are  either  crazy  superstitions  of  a  merely  bodily 
negation  of  having  been  acted  on,  or  strumpets  in  their 
imaginations  and  wishes,  or,  as  in  this  Maid  in  the  Mill, 
both  at  the  same  time.  In  the  men,  the  love  is  merely 
lust  in  one  direction, — exclusive  preference  of  one  object. 
The  tyrant's  speeches  are  mostly  taken  from  the  mouths 
of  indignant  denouncers  of  the  t5n-ant's  character,  with 
the  substitution  of  T  for  'he,'  and  the  omission  of  the 
prefatory  'he  acts  as  if  he  thought'  so  and  so.  The  only 
feelings  they  can  possibly  excite  are  disgust  at  the  Aeciuses, 
if  regarded  as  sane  loyalists,  or  compassion,  if  considered 
as  Bedlamites.  So  much  for  their  tragedies.  But  even 
their  comedies  are,  most  of  them,  disturbed  by  the  fantas- 
ticalness,  or  gross  caricature,  of  the  persons  or  incidents. 
There  are  few  characters  that  you  can  really  like, — (even 
though  you  should  have  erased  from  your  mind  all  the 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  205 

filth  which  bespatters  the  most  Ukeable  of  them,  as  Piniero 
in  The  Island  Princess  for  instance,) — scarcely  one  whom 
you  can  love.  How  different  this  from  Shakspeare,  who 
makes  one  have  a  sort  of  sneaking  affection  even  for  his 
Barnardines  ; — whose  very  lagos  and  Richards  are  awful, 
and,  by  the  counteracting  power  of  profound  intellects, 
rendered  fearful  rather  than  hateful ; — and  even  the  ex- 
ceptions, as  Goneril  and  Regan,  are  proofs  of  superlative 
judgment  and  the  finest  moral  tact,  in  being  left  utter 
monsters,  mdla  virtiUe  redeniptcB,  and  in  being  kept  out  of 
sight  as  much  as  possible, — they  being,  indeed,  only  means 
for  the  excitement  and  deepening  of  noblest  emotions 
towards  the  Lear,  Cordelia,  &c.  and  employed  with  the 
severest  economy  !  But  even  Shakspeare's  grossness — 
that  which  is  really  so,  independently  of  the  increase  in 
modern  times  of  vicious  associations  with  things  indifferent 
— (for  there  is  a  state  of  manners  conceivable  so  pure,  that 
the  language  of  Hamlet  at  Ophelia's  feet  might  be  a  harm- 
less rallying,  or  playful  teazing,  of  a  shame  that  would 
exist  in  Paradise) — at  the  worst,  how  diverse  in  kind  is  it 
from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  !  In  Shakspeare  it  is  the 
mere  generalities  of  sex,  mere  words  for  the  most  part, 
seldom  or  never  distinct  images,  all  head-work,  and  fancy- 
drolleries  ;  there  is  no  sensation  supposed  in  the  speaker. 
I  need  not  proceed  to  contrast  this  with  B.  and  F. 


ROLLO. 

This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  energetic  of  Fletcher's  tragedies. 
He  evidently  aimed  at  a  new  Richard  III.  in  Rollo  ; — but 
as  in  all  his  other  imitations  of  Shakspeare,  he  was  not 
philosopher  enough  to  bottom  his  original.  Thus,  in 
Rollo,  he  has  produced  a  mere  personification  of  outrageous 
wickedness,  with  no  fundamental  characteristic  impulses 
to  make  either  the  tyrant's  words  or  actions  philosophi- 
cally intelligible.  Hence  the  most  pathetic  situations 
border  on  the  horrible,  and  what  he  meant  for  the  terrible, 
is  either  hateful,  ro  fxicrirov^  or  ludicrous.  The  scene  of 
Baldwin's  sentence  in  the  third  act  is  probably  the  grandest 
working  of  passion  in  all  B.  and  F.'s  dramas  ; — but  the 
very  magnificence  of  filial  affection  given  to  Edith,  in  this 


2o6  Notes  on 

noble  scene,  renders  the  after  scene — (in  imitation  of  one 
of  the  least  Shakspearian  of  all  Shakspeare's  works,  if  it 
be  his,  the  scene  between  Richard  and  Lady  Anne,) — in 
which  Edith  is  yielding  to  a  few  words  and  tears,  not  only 
unnatural,  but  disgusting.  In  Shakspeare,  Lady  Anne  is 
described  as  a  weak,  vain,  very  woman  throughout. 
Act  i.  sc.  I. 

Gis.  He  is  indeed  the  perfect  character 
Of  a  good  man,  and  so  his  actions  speak  him. 

This  character  of  Aubrey,  and  the  whole  spirit  of  this 
and  several  other  plays  of  the  same  authors,  are  interesting 
as  traits  of  the  morals  which  it  was  fashionable  to  teach 
in  the  reigns  of  James  1.  and  his  successor,  who  died  a 
martyr  to  them.  Stage,  pulpit,  law,  fashion, — all  con- 
spired to  enslave  the  realm.  Massinger's  plays  breathe 
the  opposite  spirit  ;  Shakspeare's  the  spirit  of  wisdom 
which  is  for  all  ages.  By  the  by,  the  Spanish  dramatists 
— Calderon,  in  particular, — had  some  influence  in  this 
respect,  of  romantic  loyalty  to  the  greatest  monsters,  as 
well  as  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  B.  and  F.'s  plays. 


THE    WILDGOOSE    CHASE. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I.     Belleur's  speech  :— 

— That  wench,  methinks, 
If  I  were  but  well  set  on,  for  she  is  a  fable. 
If  I  were  but  hounded  right,  and  one  to  teach  me. 

Sympson  reads  'affable,'  which  Colman  rejects,  and  says, 
'the  next  line  seems  to  enforce'  the  reading  in  the  text. 

Pity,  that  the  editor  did  not  explain  wherein  the  sense, 
'seemingly  enforced  by  the  next  line,'  consists.  May  the 
true  word  be  'a  sable,'  that  is,  a  black  fox,  hunted  for  its 
precious  fur  ?  Or  'at-able,' — as  we  now  say, — 'she  is 
come-at-able  ?' 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  207 

A    WIFE    FOR    A    MONTH. 
Act  iv.  sc.  I.     Alphonso's  speech  : — 

BetAvixt  the  cold  bear  and  the  raging  lion 
Lies  my  safe  way. 

Seward's  note  and  alteration  to — 

'Twixt  the  cold  bears,  far  from  the  raging  lion — 

This  Mr.  Seward  is  a  blockhead  of  the  provoking  species. 
In  his  itch  for  correction,  he  forgot  the  words — 'Hes  my 
safe  way  !'  The  Bear  is  the  extreme  pole,  and  thither 
he  would  travel  over  the  space  contained  between  it  and 
'the  raging  lion.' 

THE    PILGRIM. 

Act  iv.  sc.  2. 

Alinda's  interview  with  her  father  is  lively,  and  happily 
hit  off ;  but  this  scene  with  Roderigo  is  truly  excellent. 
Altogether,  indeed,  this  play  holds  the  first  place  in  B.  and 
F.'s  romantic  entertainments,  Lusispiele,  which  collectively 
are  their  happiest  performances,  and  are  only  inferior  to  the 
romance  of  Shakspeare  in  the  As  You  Like  It,  Twelfth 
Night,  &c. 
lb. 

Alin.  To-day  you  shall  wed  Sorrow, 
And  Repentance  will  come  to-morrow. 

Read  'Pentience,'  or  else — 

Repentance,  she  will  come  to-morrow. 

THE    QUEEN    OF    CORINTH. 

Act  ii.  sc.  I. 

Merione's  speech.  Had  the  scene  of  this  tragi-comedy 
been  laid  in  Hindostan  instead  of  Corinth,  and  the  gods 
here  addressed  been  the  Veeshnoo  and  Co.  of  the  Indian 
Pantheon,  this  rant  would  not  have  been  much  amiss. 


2o8  Notes  on 

In  respect  of  style  and  versification,  this  play  and  the 
following  of  Bonduca  may  be  taken  as  the  best,  and  yet 
as  characteristic,  specimens  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
dramas.  I  particularly  instance  the  first  scene  of  the 
Bonduca.  Take  Shakspeare's  Richard  II.,  and  having 
selected  some  one  scene  of  about  the  same  number  of  lines, 
and  consisting  mostly  of  long  speeches,  compare  it  with  the 
first  scene  in  Bonduca, — not  for  the  idle  purpose  of  finding 
out  which  is  the  better,  but  in  order  to  see  and  under- 
stand the  difference.  The  latter,  that  of  B.  and  F.,  you 
will  find  a  well  arranged  bed  of  flowers,  each  having  its 
separate  root,  and  its  position  determined  aforehand  by  the 
will  of  the  gardener, — each  fresh  plant  a  fresh  volition.  In 
the  former  you  see  an  Indian  figtree,  as  described  by 
Milton; — all  is  growth,  evolution,  yiveffig ;  —  each  line, 
each  word  almost,  begets  the  following,  and  the  will  of 
the  writer  is  an  interfusion,  a  continuous  agency,  and  not 
a  series  of  separate  acts.  Shakspeare  is  the  height,  breadth, 
and  depth  of  Genius  :  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  the  excellent 
mechanism,  in  juxta-position  and  succession,  of  talent. 


THE    NOBLE    GENTLEMAN. 

Why  have  the  dramatists  of  the  times  of  Elizabeth,  James 
I.  and  the  first  Charles  become  almost  obsolete,  with  the 
exception  of  Shakspeare  ?  Why  do  they  no  longer  belong 
to  the  English,  being  once  so  popular  ?  And  why  is  Shak- 
speare an  exception  ? — One  thing,  among  fifty,  necessary 
to  the  full  solution  is,  that  they  all  employed  poetry  and 
poetic  diction  on  unpoetic  subjects,  both  characters  and 
situations,  especially  in  their  comedy.  Now  Shakspeare 
is  all,  all  ideal, — of  no  time,  and  therefore  for  all  times. 
Read,  for  instance.  Marine's  panegyric  in  the  first  scene 
of  this  play  : — 

Know 
The  eminent  court,  to  them  that  can  be  wise, 
And  fasten  on  her  blessings,  is  a  sun,  &c. 

What  can  be  more  unnatural  and  inappropriate — (not 
only  is,  but  must  be  felt  as  such) — than  such  poetry  in 
the  mouth  of  a  silly  dupe  ?  In  short,  the  scenes  are  mock 
dialogues,  in  which  the  poet  solus  plays  the  ventriloquist, 
but  cannot  keep  down  his  own  way  of  expressing  himself. 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  209 

Heavy  complaints  have  been  made  respecting  the  trans- 
posing of  the  old  plays  by  Gibber  ;  but  it  never  occurred 
to  these  critics  to  ask,  how  it  came  that  no  one  ever  at- 
tempted to  transpose  a  comedy  of  Shakspeare's. 


THE    CORONATION. 

Act  i.     Speech  of  Seleucus  : — 

Altho'  he  be  my  enemy,  should  any 
Of  the  gay  flies  that  buz  about  the  court, 
Sit  to  catch  trouts  i'  the  summer,  tell  me  so, 
I  durst,  &c. 

Colman's  note. 

Pshaw  !  'Sit'  is  either  a  misprint  for  'set,'  or  the  old  and 
still  provincial  word  for  'set/  as  the  participle  passive  of 
'seat'  or  'set.'  I  have  heard  an  old  Somersetshire  gardener 
say  : — "  Look,  Sir  !  I  set  these  plants  here  ;  those  yonder 
I  sit  yesterday." 

Act  ii.     Speech  of  Arcadius  : — 

Nay,  some  will  swear  they  love  their  mistress. 
Would  hazard  lives  and  fortunes,  &c. 

Read  thus  : — 

Nay,  some  will  swear  they  love  their  mistress  so. 
They  would  hazard  lives  and  fortunes  to  preserve 
One  of  her  hairs  brighter  than  Berenice's, 
Or  young  Apollo's  ;    and  yet,  after  this,  &c. 

'They  would  hazard' — furnishes  an  anapaest  for  an  iambus. 
'And  5^et,'  which  must  be  read,  anyei,  is  an  instance  of  the 
enclitic  force  in  an  accented  monosyllable.  'And  yet,' 
is  a  complete  iambus  ;  but  anyet  is,  like  spirit,  a  dibrach 
o  u,  trocheized,  however,  by  the  arsis  or  first  accent 
damping,  though  not  extinguishing,  the  second. 


WIT    AT    SEVERAL    WEAPONS. 

Act  i.     Oldcraft's  speech  : 

I'm  arm'd  at  all  points,  &c. 
It  would  be  very  easy  to  restore  all  this  passage  to  metre, 
by  supplying  a  sentence  of  four  syllables,  which  the  reason- 


2IO  Notes  on 

ing   almost   demands,   and   by   correcting   the  grammar. 
JRead  thus  : — 

Arm'd  at  all  points  'gainst  treachery,  I  hold 

My  humour  firm.     If,  living,  I  can  see  thee 

Thrive  by  thy  wits,  I  shall  have  the  more  courage, 

Dying,  to  trust  thee  with  my  lands.      If  not, 

The  best  wit,  I  can  hear  of,  carries  them. 

For  since  so  many  in  my  time  and  knowledge. 

Rich  children  of  the  city,  have  concluded 

For  lack  of  wrt  in  beggary,  I'd  rather 

Make  a  wise  stranger  my  executor. 

Than  a  fool  son  my  heir,  and  have  my  lands  call'd 

After  my  wit  than  name  :   and  that's  my  nature  ! 

lb.     Oldcraft's  speech  : — 

To  prevent  which  I  have  sought  out  a  match  for  her. — 

Read 

Which  to  prevent  I've  sought  a  match  out  for  her. 

lb.     Sir  Gregory's  speech  : — 

Do  you  think 

I'll  have  any  of  the  wits  hang  upon  me  after  I  am  married  once  ? 

Read  it  thus  : — 

Do  you  think 
That  I'll  have  any  of  the  wits  to  hang 
Upon  me  after  I  am  married  once  ? 

and  afterwards — 

Is  it  a  fashion  in  London 
To  marry  a  woman,  and  to  never  see  her  ? 

The  superfluous  'to'  gives  it  the  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek 
character. 


THE    FAIR    MAID    OF    THE    INN. 
Act  ii.     Speech  of  Albertus  : — 

But,  Sir, 
By  my  life,  I  vow  to  take  assurance  from  you, 
That  right  hand  never  more  shall  strike  my  son, 

:»:  «  *  *  4:  « 

Chop  his  hand  off  ! 

In  this  (as,  indeed,  in  all  other  respects  ;  but  most  in  this) 
it  is  that  Shakspeare  is  so  incomparably  superior  to  Fletcher 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher  211 

and  his  friend, — in  judgment !  What  can  be  conceived 
more  unnatural  and  motiveless  than  this  brutal  resolve  ? 
How  is  it  possible  to  feel  the  least  interest  in  Albertus 
afterwards  ?   or  in  Cesario  after  his  conduct  ? 


THE    TWO    NOBLE    KINSMEN. 

Ox  comparing  the  prison  scene  of  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
Act  ii.  sc.  2,  with  the  dialogue  between  the  same  speakers, 
Act  i.  sc.  2,  I  can  scarcely  retain  a  doubt  as  to  the  first  act's 
having  been  written  by  Shakspeare.  Assuredly  it  was  not 
written  by  B.  and  F.  I  hold  Jonson  more  probable  than 
either  of  these  two. 

The  main  presumption,  however,  for  Shakspeare's  share 
in  this  play  rests  on  a  point,  to  which  the  sturdy  critics 
of  this  edition  (and  indeed  all  before  them)  were  blind, — 
that  is,  the  construction  of  the  blank  verse,  which  proves 
beyond  all  doubt  an  intentional  imitation,  if  not  the  proper 
hand,  of  Shakspeare.  Now,  whatever  improbability  there 
is  in  the  former,  (which  supposes  Fletcher  conscious  of  the 
inferiority,  the  too  poematic  wmz^s-dramatic  nature,  of 
his  versification,  and  of  which  there  is  neither  proof,  nor 
likelihood),  adds  so  much  to  the  probabihty  of  the  latter. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  harshness  of  many  of  these  very 
passages,  a  harshness  unrelieved  by  any  lyrical  inter- 
breathings,  and  still  more  the  want  of  profundity  in  the 
thoughts,  keep  me  from  an  absolute  decision. 

Act  i.  sc.  3.     Emilia's  speech  : — 

Since  his  depart,  his  sports, 

Tho'  craving  seriousness  and  skill,  &c. 

I  conjecture  'unports,'  that  is,  duties  or  offices  of  import- 
ance. The  flow  of  the  versification  in  this  speech  seems 
to  demand  the  trochaic  ending  —  o  ;  while  the  text  blends 
jingle  and  hisses  to  the  annoyance  of  less  sensitive  ears 
than  Fletcher's — not  to  say,  Shakspeare's. 


212     Notes  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

THE    WOMAN    HATER. 

Act  i.  sc.  2. 

This  scene  from  the  beginning  is  prose  printed  as  blank 
verse,  down  to  the  line — 

E'en  all  the  valiant  stomachs  in  the  court — 

where  the  verse  recommences.  This  transition  from  the 
prose  to  the  verse  enhances,  and  indeed  forms,  the  comic 
effect.  Lazarillo  concludes  his  soliloquy  with  a  hymn  to 
the  goddess  of  plenty. 


A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES. 


PROSPECTUS. 

There  are  few  families,  at  present,  in  the  higher  and 
middle  classes  of  English  society,  in  which  literary  topics 
and  the  productions  of  the  Fine  Arts,  in  some  one  or  other 
of  their  various  forms,  do  not  occasionally  take  their  turn 
in  contributing  to  the  entertainment  of  the  social  board, 
and  the  amusement  of  the  circle  at  the  fire  side.  The  ac- 
quisitions and  attainments  of  the  intellect  ought,  indeed, 
to  hold  a  very  inferior  rank  in  our  estimation,  opposed  to 
moral  worth,  or  even  to  professional  and  specific  skill, 
prudence,  and  industry.  But  why  should  they  be  opposed, 
when  they  may  be  made  subservient  merely  by  being  sub- 
ordinated ?  It  can  rarely  happen,  that  a  man  of  social 
disposition,  altogether  a  stranger  to  subjects  of  taste, 
(almost  the  only  ones  on  which  persons  of  both  sexes  can 
converse  with  a  common  interest)  should  go  through  the 
world  without  at  times  feeling  dissatisfied  with  himself. 
The  best  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  marked  anxiety 
which  men,  who  have  succeeded  in  life  without  the  aid 
of  these  accomplishments,  shew  in  securing  them  to  their 
children.  A  young  man  of  ingenuous  mind  will  not  wilfully 
deprive  himself  of  any  species  of  respect.  He  will  wish 
to  feel  himself  on  a  level  with  the  average  of  the  society 
in  which  he  lives,  though  he  may  be  ambitious  of  dis- 
tinguishing himself  only  in  his  own  immediate  pursuit 
or  occupation. 

Under  this  conviction,  the  following  Course  of  Lectures 
was  planned.  The  several  titles  will  best  explain  the 
particular  subjects  and  purposes  of  each  :  but  the  main 
objects  proposed,  as  the  result  of  all,  are  the  two  following. 

I.  To  convey,  in  a  form  best  fitted  to  render  them  im- 
pressive at  the  time,  and  remembered  afterwards,  rules 
and  principles  of  sound  judgment,  with  a  kind  and  degree 
of   connected   information,   such   as   the   hearers   cannot 


214  Prospectus  of  a 

generally  be  supposed  likely  to  form,  collect,  and  arrange 
for  themselves,  by  their  own  unassisted  studies.  It  might 
be  presumption  to  say,  that  any  important  part  of  these 
Lectures  could  not  be  derived  from  books  ;  but  none,  I 
trust,  in  supposing,  that  the  same  information  could  not 
be  so  surely  or  conveniently  acquired  from  such  books  as 
are  of  commonest  occurrence,  or  with  that  quantity  of  time 
and  attention  which  can  be  reasonably  expected,  or  even 
wisely  desired,  of  men  engaged  in  business  and  the  active 
duties  of  the  world. 

2.  Under  a  strong  persuasion  that  Uttle  of  read  value 
is  derived  by  persons  in  general  from  a  wide  and  various 
reading  ;  but  still  more  deeply  convinced  as  to  the  actual 
mischief  of  unconnected  and  promiscuous  reading,  and 
that  it  is  sure,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  to  enervate  even 
where  it  does  not  likewise  inflate  ;  I  hope  to  satisfy  many 
an  ingenuous  mind,  seriously  interested  in  its  own  develop- 
ment and  cultivation,  how  moderate  a  number  of  volumes, 
if  only  they  be  judiciously  chosen,  will  suffice  for  the 
attainment  of  every  wise  and  desirable  purpose  ;  that  is, 
in  addition  to  those  which  he  studies  for  specific  and  pro- 
fessional purposes.  It  is  saying  less  than  the  truth  to 
affirm,  that  an  excellent  book,  (and  the  remark  holds 
almost  equally  good  of  a  Raphael  as  of  a  Milton)  is  like  a 
well  chosen  and  well  tended  fruit  tree.  Its  fruits  are  not 
of  one  season  only.  With  the  due  and  natural  intervals, 
we  may  recur  to  it  year  after  year,  and  it  wiU  supply  the 
same  nourishment  and  the  same  gratification,  if  only  we 
ourselves  return  to  it  with  the  same  healthful  appetite. 

The  subjects  of  the  Lectures  are  indeed  very  different, 
but  not,  (in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term)  diverse  ;  they 
are  various,  rather  than  miscellaneous.  There  is  this  bond 
of  connexion  common  to  them  all, — that  the  mental 
pleasure  which  they  are  calculated  to  excite,  is  not  de- 
pendent on  accidents  of  fashion,  place,  or  age,  or  the  events 
or  the  customs  of  the  day  ;  but  commensurate  with  the 
good  sense,  taste,  and  feeling,  to  the  cultivation  of  which 
they  themselves  so  largely  contribute,  as  being  all  in  kind, 
though  not  all  in  the  same  degree,  productions  of  genius. 

What  it  would  be  arrogant  to  promise,  I  may  yet  be 
pennitted  to  hope, — that  the  execution  will  prove  cor- 
respondent and  adequate  to  the  plan.  Assuredly,  my 
best  efiorts  have  not  been  wanting  so  to  select  and  prepare 


Course  of  Lectures  215 

the  materials,  that,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Lectures,  an 
attentive  auditor,  who  should  consent  to  aid  his  future 
recollection  by  a  few  notes  taken  either  during  each  Lecture, 
or  soon  after,  would  rarely  feel  himself,  for  the  time  to 
come,  excluded,  from  taking  an  intelligent  interest  in  any 
general  conversation  likely  to  occur  in  mixed  society. 

Syllabus  of  the  Course. 

L  January  27,  1818. — On  the  manners,  morals,  litera- 
ture, philosophy,  religion,  and  the  state  of  society  in 
general,  in  European  Christendom,  from  the  eighth  to  the 
fifteenth  century,  (that  is  from  a.d.  700,  to  a.d.  1400), 
more  particularly  in  reference  to  England,  France,  Italy, 
and  Germany  ;  in  other  words,  a  portrait  of  the  so-called 
dark  ages  of  Europe. 

IL  January  30. — On  the  tales  and  metrical  romances 
common,  for  the  most  part,  to  England,  Germany,  and 
the  north  of  France,  and  on  the  English  songs  and  ballads, 
continued  to  the  reign  of  Charles  L  A  few  selections  will  be 
made  from  the  Swedish,  Danish,  and  German  languages, 
translated  for  the  purpose  by  the  Lecturer. 

IIL  February  3. — Chaucer  and  Spenser  ;  of  Petrarch  ; 
of  Ariosto,  Pulci,  and  Boiardo. 

IV.  V.  VI.  February  6,  10,  13. — On  the  dramatic  works 
of  Shakspeare.  In  these  Lectures  will  be  comprised  the 
substance  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  former  courses  on  the  same 
subject,  enlarged  and  varied  by  subsequent  study  and 
reflection. 

VII.  February  17. — On  Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  Massinger  ;  with  the  probable  causes  of 
the  cessation  of  dramatic  poetry  in  England  \^ith  Shirley 
and  Otway,  soon  after  the  restoration  of  Charles  II. 

VIII.  February  20. — Of  the  hfe  and  all  the  works  of 
Cervantes,  but  chiefly  of  his  Don  Quixote.  The  ridicule 
of  knight  errantry  shewn  to  have  been  but  a  secondary 
object  in  the  mind  of  the  author,  and  not  the  principal 
cause  of  the  delight  which  the  work  continues  to  give  to  aU 
nations,  and  under  all  the  revolutions  of  manners  and 
opinions. 

IX.  February  24. — On  Rabelais,  Swift,  and  Sterne  : 
on  the  nature  and  constituents  of  genuine  Humour,  and 


2i6  Course  of  Lectures 

on  the  distinctions  of  the  Humorous  from  the  Witty,  the 
Fanciful,  the  Droll,  and  the  Odd. 

X.  February  27. — Of  Donne,  Dante,  and  Milton. 

XL  March  3. — On  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments, 
and  on  the  romantic  use  of  the  supernatural  in  poetry, 
and  in  works  of  fiction  not  poetical.  On  the  conditions 
and  regulations  under  which  such  books  may  be  employed 
advantageously  in  the  earlier  periods  of  education. 

XII.  March  6. — On  tales  of  witches,  apparitions,  &c. 
as  distinguished  from  the  magic  and  magicians  of  Asiatic 
origin.  The  probable  sources  of  the  former,  and  of  the 
belief  in  them  in  certain  ages  and  classes  of  men.  Criteria 
by  which  mistaken  and  exaggerated  facts  may  be  dis- 
tinguished from  absolute  falsehood  and  imposture.  Lastly, 
the  causes  of  the  terror  and  interest  which  stories  of  ghosts 
and  witches  inspire,  in  early  life  at  least,  whether  believed 
or  not. 

XIII.  March  10. — On  colour,  sound,  and  form  in  Nature, 
as  connected  with  poesy  :  the  word  "  Poesy  "  used  as  the 
generic  or  class  term,  including  poetry,  music,  painting, 
statuary,  and  ideal  architecture,  as  its  species.  The  re- 
ciprocal relations  of  poetry  and  philosophy  to  each  other  ; 
and  of  both  to  religion,  and  the  moral  sense. 

XIV.  March  13. — On  the  corruptions  of  the  English 
language  since  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  in  our  style  of 
writing  prose.  A  few  easy  rules  for  the  attainment  of  a 
manly,  unaffected,  and  pure  language,  in  our  genuine 
mother  tongue,  whether  for  the  purpose  of  writing,  oratory, 
or  conversation. 


LECTURE    U 

General  Character  of  the  Gothic  Mind  in 
the  Middle  Ages. 

Mr.  Coleridge  began  by  treating  of  the  races  of  mankind 
as  descended  from  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japheth,  and  therein 
of  the  early  condition  of  man  in  his  antique  form.  He 
then  dwelt  on  the  pre-eminence  of  the  Greeks  in  Art  and 
Philosophy,  and  noticed  the  suitableness  of  polytheism 
to  small  insulated  states,  in  which  patriotism  acted  as 

1  From  Mr.  Green's  note  taken  at  the  delivery.     Ed, 


Lecture  I.  217 

a  substitute  for  religion,  in  destroying  or  suspending  self. 
Afterwards,  in  consequence  of  the  extension  of  the  Roman 
empire,  some  universal  or  common  spirit  became  necessary 
for  the  conservation  of  the  vast  body,  and  this  common 
spirit  was,  in  fact,  produced  in  Christianity.  The  causes 
of  the  decline  of  the  Roman  empire  were  in  operation  long 
before  the  time  of  the  actual  overthrow  ;  that  overthrow 
had  been  foreseen  by  many  eminent  Romans,  especially 
by  Seneca.  In  fact,  there  was  under  the  empire  an  Italian 
and  a  German  party  in  Rome,  and  in  the  end  the  latter 
prevailed. 

He  then  proceeded  to  describe  the  generic  character  of 
the  Northern  nations,  and  defined  it  as  an  independence 
of  the  whole  in  the  freedom  of  the  individual,  noticing 
their  respect  for  women,  and  their  consequent  chivalrous 
spirit  in  war  ;  and  how  evidently  the  participation  in  the 
general  council  laid  the  foundation  of  the  representative 
form  of  government,  the  only  rational  mode  of  preserving 
individual  liberty  in  opposition  to  the  Ucentious  democracy 
of  the  ancient  republics. 

He  called  our  attention  to  the  peculiarity  of  their  art, 
and  showed  how  it  entirely  depended  on  a  symbolical 
expression  of  the  infinite, — which  is  not  vastness,  nor 
immensity,  nor  perfection,  but  whatever  cannot  be  cir- 
cumscribed within  the  Hmits  of  actual,  sensuous  being.  In 
the  ancient  art,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing  was  finite  and 
material.  Accordingly,  sculpture  was  not  attempted  by 
the  Gothic  races  till  the  ancient  specimens  were  discovered, 
whilst  painting  and  architecture  were  of  native  growth 
amongst  them.  In  the  earliest  specimens  of  the  paintings 
of  modern  ages,  as  in  those  of  Giotto  and  his  associates  in 
the  cemetery  at  Pisa,  this  complexity,  variety,  and  sym- 
bolical character  are  evident,  and  are  more  fully  developed 
in  the  mightier  works  of  Michel  Angelo  and  Raffael.  The 
contemplation  of  the  works  of  antique  art  excites  a  feeling 
of  elevated  beauty,  and  exalted  notions  of  the  human  self  ; 
but  the  Gothic  architecture  impresses  the  beholder  with 
a  sense  of  self-annihilation  ;  he  becomes,  as  it  were,  a  part 
of  the  work  contemplated.  An  endless  complexity  and 
variety  are  united  into  one  whole,  the  plan  of  which  is  not 
distinct  from  the  execution.  A  Gothic  cathedral  is  the 
petrefaction  of  our  religion.  The  only  work  of  truly 
modem  sculpture  is  the  Moses  of  Michel  Angelo. 


2i8  Course  of  Lectures 

The  Northern  nations  were  prepared  by  their  own 
previous  rehgion  for  Christianity  ;  they,  for  the  most  part 
received  it  gladly,  and  it  took  root  as  in  a  native  soil.  The 
deference  to  woman,  characteristic  of  the  Gothic  races, 
combined  itself  with  devotion  in  the  idea  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  and  gave  rise  to  many  beautiful  associations.  ^ 

Mr.  C.  remarked  how  Gothic  an  instrument  in  origin 
and  character  the  organ  was. 

He  also  enlarged  on  the  influence  of  female  character 
on  our  education,  the  first  impressions  of  our  childhood 
being  derived  from  women.  Am.ongst  oriental  nations, 
he  said,  the  only  distinction  was  between  lord  and  slave. 
With  the  antique  Greeks,  the  will  of  every  one  conflicting 
with  the  will  of  all,  produced  licentiousness  ;  with  the 
modem  descendants  from  the  northern  stocks,  both  these 
extremes  were  shut  out,  to  reappear  mixed  and  condensed 
into  this  principle  or  temper  ; — submission,  but  with  free 
choice,  illustrated  in  chivalrous  devotion  to  women  as  such, 
in  attachment  to  the  sovereign,  &c. 


LECTURE    II.2 

General  Character  of  the  Gothic  Literature 
and  Art. 

In  my  last  lecture  I  stated  that  the  descendants  of  Japhet 
and  Shem  peopled  Europe  and  Asia,  fulfilling  in  their 
distribution  the  prophecies  of  Scripture,  while  the  descen- 
dants of  Ham  passed  into  Africa,  there  also  actually 
verifying  the  interdiction  pronounced  against  them.  The 
Keltic  and  Teutonic  nations  occupied  that  part  of  Europe, 
which  is  now  France,  Britain,  Germany,  Sweden,  Denmark, 
&c.  They  were  in  general  a  hardy  race,  possessing  great 
fortitude,  and  capable  of  great  endurance.  The  Romans 
slowly  conquered  the  more  southerly  portion  of  their 
tribes,  and  succeeded  only  by  their  superior  arts,  their 
policy,  and  better  discipline.  After  a  time,  when  the 
Goths, — to  use  the  name  of  the  noblest  and  most  historical 

1  The  reader  may  compare  the  last  two  paragraphs  with  the  lirst  of  Schlegel's  Pre- 
lections on  Dramatic  Art  and  Literature — Vol.  i.  /»/  10-16,  2nd  edit. — and  with 
Schelling  Ueber  das  Verhdltniss  der  bildcnden  Kiinste,  p.  377  ;  though  the  resem- 
blance in  thought  is  but  general. 

3  From  Mr.  William  Hammond's  note  taken  at  th«  delivery.     Ed. 


Lecture  II.  219 

of  the  Teutonic  tribes, — had  acquired  some  knowledge  of 
these  arts  from  mixing  with  their  conquerors,  they  invaded 
the  Roman  territories.  The  hardy  habits,  the  steady 
perseverance,  the  better  faith  of  the  enduring  Goth  rendered 
him  too  formidable  an  enemy  for  the  corrupt  Roman,  who 
was  more  inclined  to  purchase  the  subjection  of  his  enemy, 
than  to  go  through  the  suffering  necessary  to  secure  it. 
The  conquest  of  the  Romans  gave  to  the  Goths  the  Christian 
religion  as  it  was  then  existing  in  Italy  ;  and  the  light  and 
graceful  building  of  Grecian,  or  Roman-Greek  order, 
became  singularly  combined  with  the  massy  architecture 
of  the  Goths,  as  wild  and  varied  as  the  forest  vegetation 
which  it  resembled.  The  Greek  art  is  beautiful.  When 
I  enter  a  Greek  Church,  my  eye  is  charmed,  and  my  mind 
elated  ;  I  feel  exalted,  and  proud  that  I  am  a  man.  But 
the  Gothic  art  is  sublime.  On  entering  a  cathedral,  I 
am  filled  with  devotion  and  with  awe  ;  I  am  lost  to  the 
actualities  that  surround  me,  and  my  whole  being  expands 
into  the  infinite  ;  earth  and  air,  nature  and  art,  all  swell 
up  into  eternity,  and  the  only  sensible  impression  left,  is 
'that  I  am  nothing  !  '  This  religion,  while  it  tended  to 
soften  the  manners  of  the  Northern  tribes,  was  at  the  same 
time  highly  congenial  to  their  nature.  The  Goths  are 
free  from  the  stain  of  hero  worship.  Gazing  on  their 
rugged  mountains,  surrounded  by  impassable  forests, 
accustomed  to  gloomy  seasons,  they  lived  in  the  bosom 
of  nature,  and  worshipped  an  invisible  and  unknown  deity. 
Firm  in  his  faith,  domestic  in  his  habits,  the  life  of  the  Goth 
was  simple  and  dignified,  yet  tender  and  affectionate. 

The  Greeks  were  remarkable  for  complacency  and  com- 
pletion ;  they  delighted  in  whatever  pleased  the  eye  ;  to 
them  it  was  not  enough  to  have  merely  the  idea  of  a 
divinity,  they  must  have  it  placed  before  them,  shaped 
in  the  most  perfect  symmetry,  and  presented  with  the 
nicest  judgment :  and  if  we  look  upon  any  Greek  produc- 
tion of  art,  the  beauty  of  its  parts,  and  the  harmony  of  their 
union,  the  complete  and  complacent  effect  of  the  whole, 
are  the  striking  characteristics.  It  is  the  same  in  their 
poetry.  In  Homer  you  have  a  poem  perfect  in  its  form, 
whether  originally  so,  or  from  the  labour  of  after  critics, 
I  know  not  ;  his  descriptions  are  pictures  brought  vividly 
before  570U,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  and  understanding  are 
concerned,  I  am  indeed  gratified.     But  if  I  wish  my  feelings 


220  Course  of  Lectures 

to  be  affected,  if  I  wish  my  heart  to  be  touched,  if  I  wish 
to  melt  into  sentiment  and  tenderness,  I  must  turn  to  the 
heroic  songs  of  the  Goths,  to  the  poetry  of  the  middle  ages. 
The  worship  of  statues  in  Greece  had,  in  a  civil  sense,  its 
advantage,  and  disadvantage;  advantage,  in  promoting 
statuary  and  the  arts  ;  disadvantage,  in  bringing  their 
gods  too  much  on  a  level  with  human  beings,  and  thence 
depriving  them  of  their  dignity,  and  gradually  giving 
rise  to  scepticism  and  ridicule.  But  no  statue,  no  artificial 
emblem,  could  satisfy  the  Northman's  mind  ;  the  dark 
wild  imagery  of  nature  which  surrounded  him,  and  the 
freedom  of  his  hfe,  gave  his  mind  a  tendency  to  the  infinite, 
so  that  he  found  rest  in  that  which  presented  no  end,  and 
derived  satisfaction  from  that  which  was  indistinct. 

We  have  few  and  uncertain  vestiges  of  Gothic  literature 
till  the  time  of  Theodoric,  who  encouraged  his  subjects 
to  write,  and  who  made  a  collection  of  their  poems.  These 
consisted  chiefly  of  heroic  songs,  sung  at  the  Court ;  for 
at  that  time  this  was  the  custom.  Charlemagne,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  ninth  century,  greatly  encouraged  letters, 
and  made  a  further  collection  of  the  poems  of  his  time, 
among  which  were  several  epic  poems  of  great  merit  ;  or 
rather  in  strictness  there  was  a  vast  cycle  of  heroic  poems, 
or  minstrelsies,  from  and  out  of  which  separate  poems 
were  composed.  The  form  of  poetry  was,  however,  for 
the  most  part,  the  metrical  romance  and  heroic  tale. 
Charlemagne's  army,  or  a  large  division  of  it,  was  utterly 
destroyed  in  the  Pyrenees,  when  returning  from  a  successful 
attack  on  the  Arabs  of  Navarre  and  Arragon  ;  yet  the 
name  of  Roncesvalles  became  famous  in  the  songs  of  the 
Gothic  poets.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  would  not  have 
done  this  ;  they  would  not  have  recorded  in  heroic  verse 
the  death  and  defeat  of  their  fellow-countrymen.  But 
the  Goths,  firm  in  their  faith,  with  a  constancy  not  to  be 
shaken,  celebrated  those  brave  men  who  died  for  their 
religion  and  their  country  !  What,  though  they  had  been 
defeated,  they  died  without  fear,  as  they  had  lived  without 
reproach  ;  they  left  no  stain  on  their  names,  for  they  fell 
fighting  for  their  God,  their  hberty,  and  their  rights  ;  and 
the  song  that  sang  that  day's  reverse  animated  them  to 
future  victory  and  certain  vengeance. 

I  must  now  turn  to  our  great  monarch,  Alfred,  one  of 
the  most  august  characters  that  any  age  has  ever  produced  ; 


Lecture  IL  221 

and  when  I  picture  him  after  the  toils  of  government  and 
the  dangers  of  battle,  seated  by  a  solitary  lamp,  translating 
the  holy  scriptures  into  the  Saxon  tongue, — when  I  reflect 
on  his  moderation  in  success,  on  his  fortitude  and  per- 
severance in  difficulty  and  defeat,  and  on  the  wisdom  and 
extensive  nature  of  his  legislation,  I  am  really  at  a  loss 
which  part  of  this  great  man's  character  most  to  admire. 
Yet  above  all,  I  see  the  grandeur,  the  freedom,  the  mildness, 
the  domestic  unity,  the  universal  character  of  the  middle 
ages  condensed  into  Alfred's  glorious  institution  of  the 
trial  by  jury.  I  gaze  upon  it  as  the  immortal  symbol  of 
that  age  ; — an  age  called  indeed  dark  ; — but  how  could 
that  age  be  considered  dark,  which  solved  the  difficult 
problem  of  universal  liberty,  freed  man  from  the  shackles 
of  tyranny,  and  subjected  his  actions  to  the  decision  of 
twelve  of  his  fellow-countrymen  ?  The  liberty  of  the 
Greeks  was  a  phenomenon,  a  meteor,  which  blazed  for  a 
short  time,  and  then  sank  into  eternal  darkness.  It  was 
a  combination  of  most  opposite  materials,  slavery  and 
liberty.  Such  can  neither  be  happy  nor  lasting.  The 
Goths  on  the  other  hand  said,  You  shall  be  our  Emperor  ; 
but  we  must  be  Princes  on  our  own  estates,  and  over  them 
you  shall  have  no  power  !  The  Vassals  said  to  their  Prince, 
We  will  serve  you  in  your  wars,  and  defend  your  castle  ; 
but  we  must  have  liberty  in  our  own  circle,  our  cottage, 
our  cattle,  our  proportion  of  land.  The  Cities  said.  We 
acknowledge  you  for  our  Emperor  ;  but  we  must  have 
our  walls  and  our  strong  holds,  and  be  governed  by  our 
own  laws.  Thus  all  combined,  yet  all  were  separate  ;  all 
served,  yet  all  were  free.  Such  a  government  could  not  exist 
in  a  dark  age.  Our  ancestors  may  not  indeed  have  been 
deep  in  the  metaphysics  of  the  schools  ;  they  may  not  have 
^one  in  the  fine  arts  ;  but  much  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  much  practical  wisdom  must  have  existed  amongst 
them,  when  this  admirable  constitution  was  formed  ;  and 
I  beUeve  it  is  a  decided  truth,  though  certainly  an  awful 
lesson,  that  nations  are  not  the  most  happy  at  the  time 
when  hterature  and  the  arts  flourish  the  most  among  them. 
The  translations  I  had  promised  in  my  syllabus  I  shall 
defer  to  the  end  of  the  course,  when  I  shall  give  a  single 
lecture  of  recitations  illustrative  of  the  different  ages  of 
poetry.  There  is  one  Northern  tale  I  will  relate,  as  it  is 
one  from  which  Shakspeare  derived  that  strongly  marked 


222  Course  of  Lectures 

and  extraordinary  scene  between  Richard  III.  and  the 
Lady  Anne.  It  may  not  be  equal  to  that  in  strength  and 
genius,  but  it  is,  undoubtedly,  superior  in  decorum  and 
delicacy. 

A  Knight  had  slain  a  Prince,  the  lord  of  a  strong  castle, 
in  combat.  He  afterAvards  contrived  to  get  into  the  castle, 
where  he  obtained  an  interveiw  with  the  Princess's  atten- 
dant, whose  life  he  had  saved  in  some  encounter  ;  he  told 
her  of  his  love  for  her  mistress,  and  won  her  to  his  interest. 
She  then  slowly  and  gradually  worked  on  her  mistress's 
mind,  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  his  person,  the  fire  of  his 
eyes,  the  sweetness  of  his  voice,  his  valour  in  the  field,  his 
gentleness  in  the  court  ;  in  short,  by  watching  her  oppor- 
tunities, she  at  last  fiUed  the  Princess's  soul  with  this  one 
image  ;  she  became  restless ;  sleep  forsook  her ;  her 
curiosity  to  see  this  Knight  became  strong  ;  but  her  maid 
still  deferred  the  interview,  tiU  at  length  she  confessed  she 
was  in  love  with  him  ; — the  Knight  is  then  introduced, 
and  the  nuptials  are  quickly  celebrated. 

In  this  age  there  was  a  tendency  in  writers  to  the  droll 
and  the  grotesque,  and  in  the  little  dramas  which  at  that 
time  existed,  there  were  singular  instances  of  these.  It 
was  the  disease  of  the  age.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that 
Luther  and  Melancthon,  the  great  religious  reformers  of 
that  day,  should  have  strongly  recommended,  for  the 
education  of  children,  dramas,  which  at  present  would 
be  considered  highly  indecorous,  if  not  bordering  on  a 
deeper  sin.  From  one  which  they  particularly  recom- 
mended, I  wiU  give  a  few  extracts  ;  more  I  should  not 
think  it  right  to  do.  The  play  opens  with  Adam  and  Eve 
washing  and  dressing  their  children  to  appear  before  the 
Lord,  who  is  coming  from  heaven  to  hear  them  repeat  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  Belief,  &c.  In  the  next  scene  the  Lord  ap- 
pears seated  like  a  schoolmaster,  with  the  children  stand- 
ing round,  when  Cain,  who  is  behindhand,  and  a  sad 
pickle,  comes  running  in  with  a  bloody  nose  and  his  hat 
on.  Adam  says,  "  What,  with  your  hat  on  !  "  Cain  then 
goes  up  to  shake  hands  with  the  Almighty,  when  Adam 
says  (giving  him  a  cuff),  "  Ah,  would  you  give  your  left 
hand  to  the  Lord  ?  "  At  length  Cain  takes  his  place  in 
the  class,  and  it  becomes  his  turn  to  say  the  Lord's  Prayer. 
At  this  time  the  Devil  (a  constant  attendant  at  that  time) 
makes  his  appearance,  and  getting  behind  Cain,  whispers 


Lecture  III.  223 

in  his  ear ;  instead  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  Cain  gives  it  so 
changed  by  the  transposition  of  the  words,  that  the  meaning 
is  reversed  ;  yet  this  is  so  artfully  done  by  the  author, 
that  it  is  exactly  as  an  obstinate  child  would  answer,  who 
knows  his  lesson,  yet  does  not  choose  to  say  it.  In  the  last 
scene,  horses  in  rich  trappings  and  carriages  covered  with 
gold  are  introduced,  and  the  good  children  are  to  ride  in 
them  and  be  Lord  Mayors,  Lords,  &c.  ;  Cain  and  the  bad 
ones  are  to  be  made  cobblers  and  tinkers,  and  only  to 
associate  with  such. 

This,  with  numberless  others,  was  written  by  Hans 
Sachs.  Our  simple  ancestors,  firm  in  their  faith,  and  pure 
in  their  morals,  were  only  amused  by  these  pleasantries, 
as  they  seemed  to  them,  and  neither  they  nor  the  reformers 
feared  their  having  any  influence  hostile  to  religion. 
When  I  was  many  years  back  in  the  north  of  Germany, 
there  were  several  innocent  superstitions  in  practice. 
Among  others  at  Christmas,  presents  used  to  be  given  to 
the  children  by  the  parents,  and  they  were  delivered  on 
Christmas  day  by  a  person  who  personated,  and  was 
supposed  by  the  children  to  be,  Christ  :  early  on  Christmas 
morning  he  called,  knocking  loudly  at  the  door,  and  (having 
received  his  instructions)  left  presents  for  the  good  and 
a  rod  for  the  bad.  Those  who  have  since  been  in  Germany 
have  found  this  custom  relinquished  ;  it  was  considered 
profane  and  irrational.  Yet  they  have  not  found  the 
children  better,  nor  the  mothers  more  careful  of  their 
offspring ;  they  have  not  found  their  devotion  more 
fervent,  their  faith  more  strong,  nor  their  m.orality  more 
pure.^ 

LECTURE    in. 

The  Troiihadours — Boccaccio — Petrarch— 
Pulci — Chaucer — Spenser. 

The  last  Lecture  was  allotted  to  an  investigation  into  the 
origin  and  character  of  a  species  of  poetry,  the  least  influenced 
of  any  by  the  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome, — that  in 
which  the  portion  contributed  by  the  Gothic  conquerors, 

1  See  this  custom  of  Kn«cht  Rupert  more  minutely  described  in  Mr.  Coleridge's  own 
letter  from  Germany,  published  in  the  2nd  vol.  of  the  Friend,  p.  320.     £d. 


224  Course  of  Lectures 

the  predilections  and  general  tone  or  habit  of  thought 
and  feeling,  brought  by  our  remote  ancestors  with  them 
from  the  forests  of  Germany,  or  the  deep  dells  and  rocky 
mountains  of  Norway,  are  the  most  prominent.  In  the 
present  Lecture  I  must  introduce  you  to  a  species  of  poetry, 
which  had  its  birth-place  near  the  centre  of  Roman  glory, 
and  in  which,  as  might  be  anticipated,  the  influences  of 
the  Greek  and  Roman  muse  are  far  more  conspicuous, — 
as,  great,  indeed,  as  the  efforts  of  intentional  imitation  on 
the  part  of  the  poets  themselves  could  render  them.  But 
happily  for  us  and  for  their  own  fame,  the  intention  of 
the  writers  as  men  is  often  at  complete  variance  with  the 
genius  of  the  same  men  as  poets.  To  the  force  of  their 
intention  we  owe  their  mythological  ornaments,  and  the 
greater  definiteness  of  their  imagery  ;  and  their  passion 
for  the  beautiful,  the  voluptuous,  and  the  artificial,  we 
must  in  part  attribute  to  the  same  intention,  but  in  part 
likewise  to  their  natural  dispositions  and  tastes.  For  the 
same  climate  and  many  of  the  same  circumstances  were 
acting  on  them,  which  had  acted  on  the  great  classics, 
whom  they  were  endeavouring  to  imitate.  But  the  love 
of  the  marvellous,  the  deeper  sensibility,  the  higher  rever- 
ence for  womanhood,  the  characteristic  spirit  of  sentiment 
and  courtesy, — these  were  the  heir-looms  of  nature,  which 
still  regained  the  ascendant,  whenever  the  use  of  the 
living  mother-language  enabled  the  inspired  poet  to  appear 
instead  of  the  toilsome  scholar. 

From  this  same  union,  in  which  the  soul  (if  I  may  dare 
so  express  myself)  was  Gothic,  while  the  outward  forms 
and  a  majority  of  the  words  themselves,  were  the  reUques 
of  the  Roman,  arose  the  Romance,  or  romantic  language, 
in  which  the  Troubadours  or  Love-singers  of  Provence 
sang  and  v^Tote,  and  the  different  dialects  of  which  have 
been  modified  into  the  modem  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
Portuguese  ;  while  the  language  of  the  Trouveurs,  Trou- 
veres,  or  Norman-French  poets,  forms  the  intermediate 
link  between  the  Romance  or  modified  Roman,  and  the 
Teutonic,  including  the  Dutch,  Danish,  Swedish,  and  the 
upper  and  lower  German,  as  being  the  modified  Gothic. 
And  as  the  northernmost  extreme  of  the  Norman-French, 
or  that  part  of  the  link  in  which  it  formed  on  the  Teutonic, 
we  must  take  the  Norman-English  minstrels  and  metrical 
romances,  from  the  greater  predominance  of  the  Anglo- 


Lecture  III.  225 

Saxon  Gothic  in  the  derivation  of  the  words.  I  mean, 
that  the  language  of  the  EngUsh  metrical  romance  is  less 
romanized,  and  has  fewer  words,  not  originally  of  a  northern 
origin,  than  the  same  romances  in  the  Norman-French  ; 
which  is  the  more  striking,  because  the  former  were  for 
the  most  part  translated  from  the  latter  ;  the  authors  of 
which  seem  to  have  eminently  merited  their  name  of 
Trouveres,  or  inventors.  Thus  then  we  have  a  chain  with 
two  rings  or  staples  : — at  the  southern  end  there  is  the 
Roman,  or  Latin  ;  at  the  northern  end  the  Keltic,  Teutonic, 
or  Gothic  ;  and  the  links  beginning  with  the  southern  end, 
are  the  Romance,  including  the  Provencal,  the  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese,  with  their  different  dialects, 
then  the  Norman-French,  and  lastly  the  English. 

My  object  in  adverting  to  the  Italian  poets,  is  not  so 
much  for  their  own  sakes,  in  which  point  of  view  Dante 
and  Ariosto  alone  would  have  required  separate  Lectures, 
but  for  the  elucidation  of  the  merits  of  our  countrymen, 
as  to  what  extent  we  must  consider  them  as  fortunate 
imitators  of  their  Italian  predecessors,  and  in  what  points 
they  have  the  higher  claims  of  original  genius.  Of  Dante, 
I  am  to  speak  elsewhere.  Of  Boccaccio,  who  has  little 
interest  as  a  metrical  poet  in  any  respect,  and  none  for 
my  present  purpose,  except,  perhaps,  as  the  reputed  in- 
ventor or  introducer  of  the  octave  stanza  in  his  Teseide, 
it  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  we  owe  to  him  the  subjects 
of  numerous  poems  taken  from  his  famous  tales,  the  happy 
art  of  narration,  and  the  still  greater  merit  of  a  depth  and 
fineness  in  the  workings  of  the  passions,  in  which  last 
excellence,  as  likewise  in  the  wild  and  imaginative  char- 
acter of  the  situations,  his  almost  neglected  romances 
appear  to  me  greatly  to  excel  his  far  famed  Decameron. 
To  him,  too,  we  owe  the  more  doubtful  merit  of  having 
introduced  into  the  Italian  prose,  and  by  the  authority 
of  his  name  and  the  influence  of  his  example,  more  or  less 
throughout  Europe,  the  long  interwoven  periods,  and 
architectural  structure  which  arose  from  the  very  nature 
of  their  language  in  the  Greek  writers,  but  which  already 
in  the  Latin  orators  and  historians,  had  betrayed  a  species 
of  effort,  a  foreign  something,  which  had  been  superinduced 
on  the  language,  instead  of  growing  out  of  it ;  and  which 
was  far  too  alien  from  that  individualizing  and  confederat- 
ing, yet  not  blending,  character  of  the  North,  to  become 
H 


226  Course  of  Lectures 

permanent,  although  its  magnificence  and  stateliness  were 
objects  of  admiration  and  occasional  imitation.  This  style 
diminished  the  control  of  the  writer  over  the  inner  feehngs 
of  men,  and  created  too  great  a  chasm  between  the  body 
and  the  life  ;  and  hence  especially  it  was  abandoned  by 
Luther. 

But  lastly,  to  Boccaccio's  sanction  we  must  trace  a  large 
portion  of  the  mythological  pedantry  and  incongruous 
paganisms,  which  for  so  long  a  period  deformed  the  poetry, 
even  of  the  truest  poets.  To  such  an  extravagance  did 
Boccaccio  himself  carry  this  folly,  that  in  a  romance  of 
chivalry  he  has  uniformly  styled  God  the  Father  Jupiter, 
our  Saviour  Apollo,  and  the  Evil  Being  Pluto.  But  for 
this  there  might  be  some  excuse  pleaded.  I  dare  make 
none  for  the  gross  and  disgusting  licentiousness,  the  daring 
profaneness,  which  rendered  the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio 
the  parent  of  a  hundred  worse  children,  fit  to  be  classed 
among  the  enemies  of  the  human  race  ;  which  poisons 
Ariosto — (for  that  I  may  not  speak  oftener  than  necessary 
of  so  odious  a  subject,  I  mention  it  here  once  for  all) — 
which  interposes  a  painful  mixture  in  the  humour  of 
Chaucer,  and  which  has  once  or  twice  seduced  even  our 
pure-minded  Spenser  into  a  grossness,  as  heterogeneous 
from  the  spirit  of  his  great  poem,  as  it  was  alien  to  the 
delicacy  of  his  morals. 


PETRARCH. 

Born  at  Arezzo,  1304. — Died  1374. 

Petrarch  was  the  final  blossom  and  perfection  of  the 
Troubadours.     See  Biog.  Lit.  vol.  ii.  p.  27,  &c. 

NOTES  ON  PETRARCH'S  ^  SONNETS,   CANZONES,   &c. 

VOL.    I. 

Good. 

Sonnet,   i.  Voi,  ch'  ascoltate,  &c. 
7.  La  gola,  e  '1  sonno,  &c. 

11.  Se  la  mia  vita,  &c. 

12.  Quando  fra  I'altre,  <&c. 

1  These  notes,  by  Mr.  C,   are  written  in  a  Petrarch  in  my  possession,  and  ar«  of 
Bome  date  before  1812.     It  is  hoped  that  they  will  not  seem  ill  placed  here.    Ed. 


Lecture  III.  227 

18.  Vergognando  talor,  &c. 

25.  Quanto  piu  m'  avvicino,  &c. 

28.  Solo  e  pensoso,  &c. 

29.  S'  io  credessi,  &c. 
Canz.     14.  Si  e  debile  il  filo,  &c. 

Pleasing. 

Ball.   i.  Lassare  il  velo,  &c. 
Canz.    i.  Nel  dolce  tempo,  &c. 

This  poem  was  imitated  by  our  old  Herbert ;  ^  it  is  ridicu- 
lous in  the  thoughts,  but  simple  and  sweet  in  diction. 

Dignified. 

Canz.  3.  O  aspettata  in  ciel,  &c. 
9.  Gentil  mia  Donna,  &c. 

The  first  half  of  this  ninth  canzone  is  exquisite  ;  and  in 
canzone  8,  the  nine  lines  beginning 

O  poggi,  o  valli,  &c. 

to  cura,  are  expressed  with  vigour  and  chastity. 

Canz.  9.  Daquel  dl  innanzi  a  me  medesmo  piacqui, 
Empiendo  d'un  pensier'  alto,  e  soave 
Quel  core,  ond"  hanno  i  begli  occhi  la  chiave. 

Note.  0  that  the  Pope  would  take  these  eternal  keys, 
which  so  for  ever  turn  the  bolts  on  the  finest  passages  of 
true  passion  ! 

VOL.    II. 

Canz.   i.  Che  debb'  io  far  ?    &c. 

Very  good  ;   but  not  equal,  I  think,  to  Canzone  2, 

Amor,  se  vuoi  ch'  i'  torni,  &c. 

though  less  faulty.  With  the  omission  of  half-a-dozen 
conceits  and  Petrarchisms  of  hooks,  baits,  flames,  and 
torches,  this  second  canzone  is  a  bold  and  impassioned 
lyric,  and  leaves  no  doubt  in  my  mind  of  Petrarch's  having 
possessed  a  true  poetic  genius.  Utinam  deleri  possint 
sequentia  : — 

L.   17 — 19.  e  la  soave  fiamma 

Ch'  ancor,  lasso  !  m'  infiamraa 

Essendo  spenta,  or  che  fea  dunque  ardendo  ? 

1  If  George  Herbert  is  meant,  I  can  find  nothing  like  an  imitation  of  this  canzone  ia 
his  poems.     £d. 


228  Course  of  Lectures 

L.  54 — 56.  ov'  erano  a  tutt'  ore 

Disposti  gli  ami  ov'  io  fui  preso,  e  1'  esca 
Ch'  i'  bramo  sempre. 

L.  76 — 79.  onde  1'  accese 

Saette  uscivan  d'  invisibil  foco, 

E  ragion  temean  poco  ; 

Che  contra  '1  ciel  non  val  difesa  umana. 

And  the  lines  86,  87. 

Poser'  in  dubbio,  a  cui 

Devesse  il  pregio  di  piu  laude  darsi — 

are  rather  flatly  worded. 


LUIGI    PULCI. 

Bom  at  Florence,  1431. — Died  about  1487. 

Pulci  was  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  Florence,  re- 
ported to  be  one  of  the  Frankish  stocks  which  remained 
in  that  city  after  the  departure  of  Charlemagne  : — 

Pulcia  Gallorum  soboles  descendit  in  urbem, 
Clara  quid  em  bello,  sacris  nee  inhospita  Musis. 

Verino  de  illustrat.     Cort.  Flor.  III.  v.  118. 

Members  of  this  family  were  five  times  elected  to  the 
Priorate,  one  of  the  highest  honours  of  the  republic.  Pulci 
had  two  brothers,  and  one  of  their  wives,  Antonia,  who 
were  all  poets  : — 

Carminibus  patriis  notissima  Pulcia  proles  ; 
Quis  non  hanc  urbem  Musarum  dicat  amicam, 
Si  tres  producat  fratres  domus  una  poetas  ? 

lb.  II.  V.  241. 

Luigi  married  Lucrezia  di  Uberto,  of  the  Albizzi  family, 
and  was  intimate  with  the  great  men  of  his  time,  but  more 
especially  with  Angelo  Politian,  and  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent. His  Morgante  has  been  attributed,  in  part  at  least, ^ 
to  the  assistance  of  Marsilius  Ficinus,  and  by  others  the 
whole  has  been  attributed  to  Pohtian.  The  first  conjecture 
is  utterly  improbable  ;  the  last  is  possible,  indeed,  on  ac- 
count of  the  licentiousness  of  the  poem  ;  but  there  are 
no  direct  grounds  for  believing  it.  The  Morgante  Maggiore 
is  the  first  proper  romance  ;  although,  perhaps,  Pulci  had 
the  Teseide  before  him.  The  story  is  taken  from  the 
fabulous  history  of  Turpin  ;    and  if  the  author  had  any 

1  Meaning  the  25th  canto.      Ed. 


Lecture  III.  229 

distinct  object,  it  seems  to  have  been  that  of  making  him- 
self merry  with  the  absurdities  of  the  old  romancers.  The 
Morgante  sometimes  makes  you  think  of  Rabelais.  It 
contains  the  most  remarkable  guess  or  allusion  upon  the 
subject  of  America  that  can  be  found  in  any  book  published 
before  the  discovery.  ^  The  well  known  passage  in  the 
tragic  Seneca  is  not  to  be  compared  with  it.  The  copia 
verhorum  of  the  mother  Florentine  tongue,  and  the  easiness 
of  his  style,  afterwards  brought  to  perfection  by  Berni,  are 
the  chief  merits  of  Pulci ;  his  chief  demerit  is  his  heartless 
spirit  of  jest  and  buffoonery,  by  which  sovereigns  and  their 
courtiers  were  flattered  by  the  degradation  of  nature,  and 
the  impossihilifxation  of  a  pretended  virtue. 

1  The  reference  is,  of  course,  to  the  following  stanzas  : — 

Disse  Astarotte :  nn  error  lungo  e  fioco 
Per  molti  secol  non  ben  conosciuto, 
Fa  che  si  dice  d'  Ercol  le  colonne, 
E  che  pill  la  molti  periti  sonne. 

Sappi  che  questa  opinione  e  vana ; 
Perche  piu  oltre  navicar  si  puote, 
Pero  che  1'  acqua  in  ogni  parte  e  plana, 
Benche  la  terra  abbi  forma  di  ruote  : 
Era  piu  grossa  allor  ia  gente  humana  ; 
Talche  potrebbe  arrosirne  le  gote 
Ercule  ancor  d'  aver  posti  que'  segni, 
Perche  piu  oitre  passeranno  i  legni. 

E  puossi  andar  giii  ne  1'  altro  emisperio, 
Pero  che  al  centro  ogni  cosa  reprime  ; 
Si  che  la  terra  per  divin  misterio 
Sospesa  sta  fra  le  stelle  sublime, 
E  Ik  giii  son  citta,  castella,  e  imperio  ; 
Ma  nol  cognobbon  quelle  genti  prime  ; 
Vedi  che  il  sol  di  camminar  s'  affretta. 
Dove  io  ti  dico  che  Ik  giu  s'  aspetta. 

E  come  un  segno  surge  in  Oriente, 
Un  altro  cade  con  mirabll  arte, 
Come  si  vede  qua  ne  1'  Occidente, 
Peri  che  il  ciel  giustamente  comparte  ; 
Antipodi  appellata  e  quella  gente; 
Adora  il  sole  e  Jupiterre  e  Marte, 
E  piante  e  animal  come  voi  hanno, 
E  spesso  insieme  gran  battaglie  fanno. 

C.  XXV.  St.  228,  &C. 
The  Morgante  was  printed  in  1488.     Ed.     Another  very  curious  anticipation,  said  to 
have  been  first  noticed  by  Amerigo  Vespucci,  occurs  in  Dante's  Furgatorio : 

I  mi  volsi  a  man  destra  e  posi  mente 
All  'altro  polo  :  e  vidi  quattro  stelle 
Non  viste  mai,  fuor  ch'  alia  prima  gente. 

C.  L.  I.  22-4. 


230  Course  of  Lectures 

CHAUCER. 

Born  in  London,  1328. — Died  1400.^ 

Chaucer  must  be  read  with  an  eye  to  the  Norman-French 
Trouveres,  of  whom  he  is  the  best  representative  in  Enghsh. 
He  had  great  powers  of  invention.  As  in  Shakspeare,  his 
cha,racters  represent  classes,  but  in  a  different  manner  ; 
Sliakspeare's  characters  are  the  representatives  of  the 
interior  nature  of  humanity,  in  which  some  element  has 
become  so  predominant  as  to  destroy  the  health  of  the 
mind  ;  whereas  Chaucer's  are  rather  representatives  of 
classes  of  manners.  He  is  therefore  more  led  to  indivi- 
dualize in  a  mere  personal  sense.  Obser^^e  Chaucer's  love 
of  nature  ;  and  how  happily  the  subject  of  his  main  work 
is  chosen.  When  you  reflect  that  the  company  in  the 
Decameron  have  retired  to  a  place  of  safety,  from  the 
raging  of  a  pestilence,  their  mirth  provokes  a  sense  of  their 
unfeelingness  ;  whereas  in  Chaucer  nothing  of  this  sort 
occurs,  and  the  scheme  of  a  party  on  a  pilgrimage,  with 
different  ends  and  occupations,  aptly  allows  of  the  greatest 
variety  of  expression  in  the  tales. 


SPENSER. 

Bom  in  London,  1553. — Died  1599. 

There  is  this  difference,  among  many  others,  between 
Shakspeare  and  Spenser  : — Shakspeare  is  never  coloured 
by  the  customs  of  his  age  ;  what  appears  of  contemporary 
character  in  him  is  merely  negative  ;  it  is  just  not  some- 
thing else.  He  has  none  of  the  fictitious  realities  of  the 
classics,  none  of  the  grotesquenesses  of  chivalry,  none  of  the 
allegory  of  the  middle  ages  ;  there  is  no  sectarianism  either 
of  politics  or  religion,  no  miser,  no  witch, — no  common 
witch, — no  astrology — nothing  impermanent  of  however 
long  duration  ;  but  he  stands  like  the  yew  tree  in  Lorton 
vale,  which  has  known  so  many  ages  that  it  belongs  to  none 
in  particular  ;  a  living  image  of  endless  self-reproduction, 
like  the  immortal  tree  of  Malabar.     In  Spenser  the  spirit  of 

1  From  Mr.  Green's  note.     Ed. 


Lecture  III.  231 

chivalry  is  entirely  predominant,  although  with  a  much 
greater  infusion  of  the  poet's  own  individual  self  into  it  than 
is  found  in  any  other  writer.  He  has  the  wit  of  the 
southern  with  the  deeper  inv/ardness  of  the  northern  genius. 

No  one  can  appreciate  Spenser  without  some  reflection  on 
the  nature  of  allegorical  writing.  The  mere  etymological 
meaning  of  the  word,  allegory, — to  talk  of  one  thing  and 
thereby  convey  another, — is  too  wide.  The  true  sense  is 
this, — the  employment  of  one  set  of  agents  and  images  to 
convey  in  disguise  a  moral  meaning,  with  a  likeness  to  the 
imagination,  but  with  a  difference  to  the  understanding, — 
those  agents  and  images  being  so  combined  as  to  form  a 
homogeneous  whole.  This  distinguishes  it  from  metaphor, 
which  is  part  of  an  allegory.  But  allegory  is  not  properly 
distinguishable  from  fable,  otherwise  than  as  the  first 
includes  the  second,  as  a  genus  its  species  ;  for  in  a  fable 
there  must  be  nothing  but  what  is  universally  known  and 
acknowledged,  but  in  an  allegory  there  may  be  that  which 
is  new  and  not  previously  admitted.  The  pictures  of  the 
great  masters,  especially  of  the  Italian  schools,  are  genuine 
allegories.  Amongst  the  classics,  the  multitude  of  their 
gods  either  precluded  allegory  altogether,  or  else  made 
every  thing  allegory,  as  in  the  Hesiodic  Theogonia  ;  for 
you  can  scarcely  distinguish  between  pov^^er  and  the  per- 
sonification of  power.  The  Cupid  and  Psyche  of,  or  found 
in,  Apuleius,  is  a  phsenomenon.  It  is  the  Platonic  mode 
of  accounting  for  the  fall  of  man.  The  Battle  of  the  Soul  ^ 
by  Prudentius  is  an  early  instance  of  Christian  allegory. 

Narrative  allegory  is  distinguished  from  mythology  as 
reality  from  symbol  ;  it  is,  in  short,  the  proper  inter- 
medium between  person  and  personification.  Where  it  is 
too  strongly  individuafized,  it  ceases  to  be  allegory  ;  this 
is  often  felt  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  where  the  characters 
are  real  persons  with  nicknames.  Perhaps  one  of  the  most 
curious  warnings  against  another  attempt  at  narrative 
aUegory  on  a  great  scale,  may  be  found  in  Tasso's  account 
of  what  he  himself  intended  in  and  by  his  Jerusalem 
Delivered. 

As  characteristic  of  Spenser,  I  would  call  your  particular 
attention  in  the  first  place  to  the  indescribable  sweetness 
and  fluent  projection  of  his  verse,  very  clearly  distinguish- 
able from  the  deeper  and  more  inwoven  harmonies  of 

1  Psychomachia.     jEJ. 


232  Course  of  Lectures 

Shakspeare  and  Milton.  This  stanza  is  a  good  instance  of 
what  I  mean  : — 

Yet  she,  most  faithfull  ladie,  all  this  while 

Forsaken,  wofull,  solitarie  mayd, 

Far  from  all  peoples  preace,  as  in  exile, 

In  wildernesse  and  wsLstfull  deserts  strayd 

To  seeke  her  knight  ;   who,  subtily  betrayd 

Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  enchaunter  wrought, 

Had  her  abandond  ;    she,  of  nought  affrayd. 

Through  woods  and  wastnes  wide  him  daily  sought. 

Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 

F.  Qu.  B.  I.  c.  3.  St.  3. 

2.  Combined  with  this  sweetness  and  fluency,  the 
scientific  construction  of  the  metre  of  the  Faery  Queene  is 
very  noticeable.  One  of  Spenser's  arts  is  that  of  allitera- 
tion, and  he  uses  it  with  great  effect  in  doubling  the  im- 
pression of  an  image  : — 

In  wildernesse  and  tyastful  deserts, — 

Through  ^^;oods  and  t»:-'a.stnes  z£^ilde, — 

They  pcisse  the  bitter  waves  of  Acheron, 

Where  many  soules  sit  wa.\lmg  zfoefully, 

And  come  to^ery  ;?ood  of  Phlegeton, 

Whereas  the  damned  ghosts  in  torments  fry, 

And  with  sharp  shrilling  shrieks  doth  bootlesse  cry, — Sec. 

He  is  particularly  given  to  an  alternate  alliteration,  which 
is,  perhaps,  when  well  used,  a  great  secret  in  melody  : — 

A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddenly, — 

And  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, — 

And  on  the  grasse  her  c^aintie  /imbes  did  lay, — &c. 

You  cannot  read  a  page  of  the  Faery  Queene,  if  you  read 
for  that  purpose,  without  perceiving  the  intentional 
alliterativeness  of  the  words  ;  and  yet  so  skilfully  is  this 
managed,  that  it  never  strikes  any  unwarned  ear  as  arti- 
ficial, or  other  than  the  result  of  the  necessary  movement  of 
the  verse. 

3.  Spenser  displays  great  skill  in  harmonizing  his  de- 
scriptions of  external  nature  and  actual  incidents  with  the 
allegorical  character  and  epic  activity  of  the  poem.  Take 
these  two  beautiful  passages  as  illustrations  of  what  I 
mean  : — 

By  this  the  northerne  wagoner  had  set 
His  sevenfol  teme  behind  the  stedfast  starre 
That  was  in  ocean  waves  yet  never  wet, 
But  firme  is  fixt,  and  sendeth  light  from  farre 


Lecture  III.  233 

To  all  that  in  the  wide  deepe  wandring  aire  ; 

And  chearefull  chaunticlere  with  his  note  shrill 

Had  warned  once,  that  Phoebus'  fiery  carre 

In  hast  was  climbing  up  the  easterne  hill, 

Full  envious  that  Night  so  long  his  roome  did  fill  ; 

When  those  accursed  messengers  of  hell, 

That  feigning  dreame,  and  that  f aire- forged  sprigbt 

Came,  &c.     B.  I.  c.  2.  st.  i. 

1):  *  « 

At  last,  the  golden  oriental!  gate 

Of  greatest  Heaven  gan  to  open  fayre  ; 

And  Phcebus,  fresh  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate, 

Came  dauncing  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  hayre  ; 

And  hurld  his  glistring  beams  through  gloomy  ayre. 

Which  when  the  wakeful  Elfe  perceiv'd,  streightway 

He  started  up,  and  did  him  selfe  prepayre 

In  sunbright  armes  and  battailous  array  ; 

For  with  that  Pagan  proud  he  combat  will  that  day. 

lb.  c.  5.  st.  2. 

Observe  also  the  exceeding  vividness  of  Spenser's  de- 
scriptions. They  are  not,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
picturesque  ;  but  are  composed  of  a  wondrous  series  of 
images,  as  in  our  dreams.  Compare  the  following  passage 
with  any  thing  you  may  remember  in  pari  materia  in  Milton 
or  Shakspeare  : — 

His  haughtie  helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold. 

Both  glorious  brightnesse  and  great  terrour  bredd  ; 

For  all  the  crest  a  dragon  did  enfold 

With  greedie  pawes,  and  over  all  did  spredd 

His  golden  winges  ;    his  dreadfull  hideous  hedd. 

Close  couched  on  the  bever,  seemd  to  throw 

From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparkles  fiery  redd, 

That  suddeine  horrour  to  faint  hartes  did  show  ; 

And  scaly  tayle  was  stretcht  adowne  his  back  full  low. 

Upon  the  top  of  all  his  loftie  crest 

A  bounch  of  haires  discolourd  diversly. 

With  sprinkled  pearle  and  gold  full  richly  drest, 

Did  shake,  and  seemd  to  daunce  for  jollitie  ; 

Like  to  an  almond  tree  ymounted  hye 

On  top  of  greene  Selinis  all  alone, 

With  blossoms  brave  bedecked  daintily. 

Whose  tender  locks  do  tremble  every  one 

At  everie  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blowne. 

lb.  c.  7.  st.  31-2. 

4.  You  will  take  especial  noce  of  the  marvellous  inde- 
pendence and  true  imaginative  absence  of  all  particular 
space  or  time  in  the  Faery  Queene.  It  is  in  the  domains 
neither  of  history  or  geography  ;  it  is  ignorant  of  all  arti- 
ficial boundary,  all  material  obstacles  ;  it  is  truly  in  land  of 


234  Course  of  Lectures 

Faery,  that  is,  of  mental  space.     The  poet  has  placed  you 
in  a  dream,  a  charmed  sleep,  and  you  neither  wish,  nor  have 
the  power,  to  inquire  where  you  are,  or  how  you  got  there. 
It  reminds  me  of  some  lines  of  my  own  : — 

Oh  !    would  to  Alia  ! 
The  raven  or  the  sea-mew  were  appointed 
To  bring  me  food  ! — or  rather  that  my  soul 
Might  draw  in  life  from  the  universal  air  ! 
It  were  a  lot  divine  in  some  small  skiff 
Along  some  ocean's  boundless  solitude 
To  float  for  ever  with  a  careless  course 
And  think  myself  the  only  being  alive  ! 

Remorse,  Act  iv.  sc.  3. 

Indeed  Spenser  himself,  in  the  conduct  of  his  great  poem, 
may  be  represented  under  the  same  image,  his  symbolizing 
purpose  being  his  mariner's  compass  : — 

As  pilot  well  expert  in  perilous  wave, 
That  to  a  stedfast  starre  his  course  hath  bent, 
When  foggy  mistes  or  cloudy  tempests  have 
The  faithfull  light  of  that  faire  lampe  yblent. 
And  coverd  Heaven  with  hideous  dreriment ; 
Upon  his  card  and  compas  firmes  his  eye, 
The  maysters  of  his  long  experiment, 
And  to  them  does  the  steddy  helme  apply, 
Bidding  his  winged  vessell  fairely  forward  fi}'-. 

B.  II.  c.  7.  St.  I. 

So  the  poet  through  the  realms  of  allegory. 

5.  You  should  note  the  quintessential  character  of 
Christian  chivalry  in  all  his  characters,  but  more  especially 
in  his  women.  The  Greeks,  except,  perhaps,  in  Homer, 
seem  to  have  had  no  way  of  making  their  women  interest- 
ing, but  by  unsexing  them,  as  in  the  instances  of  the  tragic 
Medea,  Electra,  &c.  Contrast  such  characters  with 
Spenser's  Una,  who  exhibits  no  prominent  feature,  has  no 
particularization,  but  produces  the  same  feeling  that  a 
statue  does,  when  contemplated  at  a  distance  : — 

From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 

And  layd  her  stole  aside  :   her  angels  face, 

As  the  great  eye  of  Heaven,  shyned  bright, 

And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 

Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

B.  1.  c.  3.  St.  4. 

6.  In  Spenser  we  see  the  brightest  and  purest  form  of 
that  nationality  which  was  so  common  a  characteristic  of 


Lecture  III.  235 

our  elder  poets.  There  is  nothing  unamiable,  nothing  con- 
temptuous of  others,  in  it.  To  glorify  their  country — to 
elevate  England  into  a  queen,  an  empress  of  the  heart — 
this  was  their  passion  and  object  ;  and  how  dear  and  im- 
portant an  object  it  was  or  may  be,  let  Spain,  in  the 
recollection  of  her  Cid,  declare  !  There  is  a  great  magic  in 
national  names.  What  a  damper  to  all  interest  is  a  list  of 
native  East  Indian  merchants  !  Unknown  names  are 
non-conductors  ;  they  stop  all  sympathy.  No  one  of  our 
poets  has  touched  this  string  more  exquisitely  than  Spenser; 
especially  in  his  chronicle  of  the  British  Kings  (B.  II.  c. 
10),  and  the  marriage  of  the  Thames  with  the  Medway 
(B.  IV.  c.  11),  in  both  which  passages  the  mere  names  con- 
stitute half  the  pleasure  we  receive.  To  the  same  feeling 
we  must  in  particular  attribute  Spenser's  sweet  reference 
to  Ireland  : — 

Ne  thence  the  Irishe  rivers  absent  were  ; 
Sith  no  lesse  famous  than  the  rest  they  be,  &c.      lb. 
*  *  *         ■  * 

And  jNIulla  mine,  whose  waves  I  whilom  taught  to  weep. 

lb. 

And  there  is  a  beautiful  passage  of  the  same  sort  in  the 
Colin  Clout's  Come  Home  Again  : — 

"  One  day,"  quoth  he,  "I  sat,  as  was  my  trade, 
Under  the  foot  of  Mole,"  &c. 

Lastly,  the  great  and  prevailing  character  of  Spenser's 
mind  is  fancy  under  the  conditions  of  imagination,  as  an 
ever  present  but  not  always  active  power.  He  has  an 
imaginative  fancy,  but  he  has  not  imagination,  in  kind  or 
degree,  as  Shakspeare  and  Milton  have  ;  the  boldest  effort 
of  his  powers  in  this  way  is  the  character  of  Talus. ^  Add 
to  this  a  feminine  tenderness  and  almost  maidenly  purity 
of  feeling,  and  above  aU,  a  deep  moral  earnestness  which 
produces  a  believing  sympathy  and  acquiescence  in  the 
reader,  and  you  have  a  tolerably  adequate  view  of  Spenser's 
intellectual  being. 

1 JB.  5.  Legend  of  Artegall.     Ea. 


236  Course  of  Lectures 

LECTURE   VII. 

Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
Massinger. 

A  CONTEMPORARY  is  rather  an  ambiguous  term,  when 
applied  to  authors.  It  may  simply  mean  that  one  man 
lived  and  wrote  while  another  was  yet  alive,  however 
deeply  the  former  may  have  been  indebted  to  the  latter  as 
his  model.  There  have  been  instances  in  the  hterary  world 
that  might  remind  a  botanist  of  a  singular  sort  of  parasite 
plant,  which  rises  above  ground,  independent  and  un- 
supported, an  apparent  original ;  but  trace  its  roots,  and 
you  wiU  find  the  fibres  all  terminating  in  the  root  of  another 
plant  at  an  unsuspected  distance,  which,  perhaps,  from 
want  of  sun  and  genial  soil,  and  the  loss  of  sap,  has  scarcely 
been  able  to  peep  above  the  ground. — Or  the  word  may 
mean  those  whose  compositions  were  contemporaneous  in 
such  a  sense  as  to  preclude  all  hkelihood  of  the  one  having 
borrowed  from  the  other.  In  the  latter  sense  I  should  call 
Ben  Jonson  a  contemporary  of  Shakspeare,  though  he  long 
survived  him  ;  while  I  should  prefer  the  phrase  of  im- 
mediate successors  for  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
Massinger,  though  they  too  were  Shakspeare' s  contem- 
poraries in  the  former  sense. 


BEN  JONSON.i 
Born,  1574. — Died,  1637. 

Ben  Jonson  is  original ;  he  is,  indeed,  the  only  one  of  the 
great  dramatists  of  that  day  who  was  not  either  directly 
produced,  or  very  greatly  modified,  by  Shakspeare.  In 
truth,  he  differs  from  our  great  master  in  every  thing — in 
form  and  in  substance — and  betrays  no  tokens  of  his 
proximity.  He  is  not  original  in  the  same  way  as  Shak- 
speare is  original ;  but  after  a  fashion  of  his  own,  Ben 
Jonson  is  most  truly  original. 

The  characters  in  his  plays  are,  in  the  strictest  sense  of 
the  term,  abstractions.     Some  very  prominent  feature  is 

1  From  Mr.  Green's  note.     Ed. 


Lecture  VII.  237 

taken  from  the  whole  man,  and  that  single  feature  or 
humour  is  made  the  basis  upon  which  the  entire  character 
is  built  up.  Ben  Jonson's  dramatis  personcB  are  almost  as 
fixed  as  the  masks  of  the  ancient  actors  ;  you  know  from 
the  first  scene — sometimes  from  the  list  of  names — exactly 
what  every  one  of  them  is  to  be.  He  was  a  very  accurately 
observing  man  ;  but  he  cared  only  to  observe  what  was 
external  or  open  to,  and  likely  to  impress,  the  senses.  He 
individualizes,  not  so  much,  if  at  all,  by  the  exhibition  of 
moral  or  intellectual  differences,  as  by  the  varieties  and  con- 
trasts of  manners,  modes  of  speech  and  tricks  of  temper  ; 
as  in  such  characters  as  Puntarvolo,  Bobadill,  &c. 

I  believe  there  is  not  one  whim  or  affectation  in  common 
life  noted  in  any  memoir  of  that  age  which  may  not  be 
found  drawn  and  framed  in  some  corner  or  other  of  Ben 
Jonson's  dramas  ;  and  they  have  this  merit,  in  common 
with  Hogarth's  prints,  that  not  a  single  circumstance  is 
introduced  in  them  which  does  not  play  upon,  and  help  to 
bring  out,  the  dominant  humour  or  humours  of  the  piece. 
Indeed  I  ought  very  particularly  to  call  your  attention  to 
the  extraordinary  skill  shown  by  Ben  Jonson  in  contriving 
situations  for  the  display  of  his  characters. ^  In  fact,  his 
care  and  anxiety  in  this  matter  led  him  to  do  what  scarcely 
any  of  the  dramatists  of  that  age  did — that  is,  invent  his 
plots.  It  is  not  a  first  perusal  that  suffices  for  the  full  per- 
ception of  the  elaborate  artifice  of  the  plots  of  the  Alchemist 
and  the  Silent  Woman  ; — that  of  the  former  is  absolute 
perfection  for  a  necessary  entanglement,  and  an  unexpected, 
yet  natural,  evolution. 

Ben  Jonson  exhibits  a  sterling  English  diction,  and  he 
has  with  great  skill  contrived  varieties  of  construction  ; 
but  his  style  is  rarely  sweet  or  harmonious,  in  consequence 
of  his  labour  at  point  and  strength  being  so  evident.  In 
aU  his  works,  in  verse  or  prose,  there  is  an  extraordinary 
opulence  of  thought ;  but  it  is  the  produce  of  an  amassing 
power  in  the  author,  and  not  of  a  growth  from  within. 
Indeed  a  large  proportion  of  Ben  Jonson's  thoughts  may  be 
traced  to  classic  or  obscure  modern  writers,  by  those  who 
are  learned  and  curious  enough  to  follow  the  steps  of  this 
robust,  surly,  and  observing  dramatist. 

1"  In  Jonson's  comic  inventious,"  says  Schlegel,  "a  spirit  of  observation  is  mani- 
fested more  than  fancy."     Vol.  4,  p.  93. 


238  Course  of  Lectures 

BEAUMONT.     Born,  1586.1— Died,  1615-16. 
FLETCHER.     Bom,  1579.— Died,  1625. 

Mr.  Weber,  to  whose  taste,  industry,  and  appropriate 
erudition,  we  owe,  I  will  not  say  the  best,  (for  that  would 
be  saying  little,)  but  a  good,  edition  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  has  complimented  the  Philaster,  which  he  him- 
self describes  as  inferior  to  the  Maid's  Tragedy  by  the 
same  writers,  as  but  little  below  the  noblest  of  Shak- 
speare's  plays,  Lear,  Macbeth,  Othello,  &c.  and  conse- 
quently implying  the  equaUty,  at  least,  of  the  Maid's 
Tragedy  ; — and  an  eminent  Living  critic,  —  who  in  the 
manly  wit,  strong  sterling  sense,  and  robust  style  of  his 
original  works,  had  presented  the  best  possible  credentials 
of  office,  as  charge  d'affaires  of  literature  in  general, — and 
who  by  his  edition  of  Massinger — a  work  in  which  there 
was  more  for  an  editor  to  do,  and  in  which  more  was 
actually  well  done,  than  in  any  similar  work  within  my 
knowledge — has  proved  an  especial  right  of  authority  in 
the  appreciation  of  dramatic  poetry,  and  hath  potenti- 
ally a  double  voice  with  the  public  in  his  own  right  and  in 
that  of  the  critical  synod,  where,  as  princeps  senatus,  he 
possesses  it  by  his  prerogative, — has  affirmed  that  Shak- 
speare's  superiority  to  his  contemporaries  rests  on  his 
superior  wit  alone,  while  in  all  the  other,  and,  as  I  should 
deem,  higher  excellencies  of  the  drama,  character,  pathos, 
depth  of  thought,  &c.  he  is  equalled  by  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and  Massinger  !  ^ 

Of  wit  I  am  engaged  to  treat  in  another  Lecture.  It  is 
a  genus  of  many  species  ;  and  at  present  I  shall  only  say, 
that  the  species  which  is  predominant  in  Shakspeare,  is  so 
completely  Shakspearian,  and  in  its  essence  so  interwoven 
with  all  his  other  characteristic  excellencies,  that  I  am 
equally  incapable  of  comprehending,  both  how  it  can  be 
detached  from  his  other  powers,  and  how,  being  disparate 
in  kind  from  the  wit  of  contemporary  dramatists,  it  can 
be    compared    with    theirs    in    degree.     And    again — the 

1  Mr.  Dyce  thinks  that  "  Beaumont's  birth  ought  to  be  fixed  at  a  somewhat  earlier 
date,"  because,  in  the  Funeral  Certificate  on  the  decease  of  his  father,  dated  22nd 
April,  1598,  he  is  said  to  be  0/  tkz  age  of  thirteen  years  or  more ;  and  because  "  at  the 
age  of  twelve.  4th  February,  1596-7,"  according  to  Woods  Ath.  Oxon,  "he  was 
admitted  a  gentle.-nan-comnionrr  of  Broadgates  Hall." 

2  See  Mr.^Gifford's  introduction  to  his  edition  of  Massinger.     Ed. 


Lecture  VII.  239 

detachment  and  the  practicabiHty  of  the  comparison 
being  granted — I  should,  I  confess,  be  rather  incUned  to 
concede  the  contrary  ; — and  in  the  most  common  species 
of  wit,  and  in  the  ordinary  apphcation  of  the  term,  to 
yield  this  particular  palm  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
whom  here  and  hereafter  I  take  as  one  poet  with  two 
names, — leaving  undivided  what  a  rare  love  and  still 
rarer  congeniality  have  united.  At  least,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  distinguish  the  presence  of  Fletcher  during 
the  life  of  Beaumont,  nor  the  absence  of  Beaumont  during 
the  survival  of  Fletcher. 

But  waiving,  or  rather  deferring  this  question,  I  protest 
against  the  remainder  of  the  position  m  toto.  And  indeed, 
whilst  I  can  never,  I  trust,  show  myself  blind  to  the  various 
merits  of  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger, 
or  insensible  to  the  greatness  of  the  merits  which  they 
possess  in  common,  or  to  the  specific  excellencies  which 
give  to  each  of  the  three  a  worth  of  his  own, — I  confess, 
that  one  main  object  of  this  Lecture  was  to  prove  that 
Shakspeare's  eminence  is  his  own,  and  not  that  of  his  age  ; 
— even  as  the  pine-apple,  the  melon,  and  the  gourd  may 
grow  on  the  same  bed  ; — yea,  the  same  circumstances  of 
warmth  and  soil  may  be  necessary  to  their  full  develop- 
ment, yet  do  not  account  for  the  golden  hue,  the  ambrosial 
flavour,  the  perfect  shape  of  the  pine-apple,  or  the  tufted 
crown  on  its  head.  Would  that  those,  who  seek  to  twist 
it  off,  could  but  promise  us  in  this  instance  to  make  it  the 
germ  of  an  equal  successor  ! 

What  had  a  grammatical  and  logical  consistency  for 
the  ear, — what  could  be  put  together  and  represented  to 
the  eye — these  poets  took  from  the  ear  and  eye,  unchecked 
by  any  intuition  of  an  inward  impossibility  ; — just  as  a 
man  might  put  together  a  quarter  of  an  orange,  a  quarter 
of  an  apple,  and  the  like  of  a  lemon  and  a  pomegranate, 
and  made  it  look  like  one  round  diverse-coloured  fruit. 
But  nature,  which  works  from  within  by  evolution  and 
assimilation  according  to  a  law,  cannot  do  so,  nor  could 
Shakspeare  ;  for  he  too  worked  in  the  spirit  of  nature,  by 
evolving  the  germ  from  within  by  the  imaginative  power 
according  to  an  idea.  For  as  the  power  of  seeing  is  to 
light,  so  is  an  idea  in  mind  to  a  law  in  nature.  They  are 
correlatives,  which  suppose  each  other. 

The  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  mere  aggrega- 


240  Course  of  Lectures 

tions  without  unity  ;  in  the  Shakspearian  drama  there  is  a 
vitality  which  grows  and  evolves  itself  from  within, — a 
key-note  which  guides  and  controls  the  harmonies  through- 
out. What  is  Lear  ? — It  is  storm  and  tempest — the 
thunder  at  first  grumbling  in  the  far  horizon,  then  gather- 
ing around  us,  and  at  length  bursting  in  fury  over  our 
heads, — succeeded  by  a  breaking  of  the  clouds  for  a  while, 
a  last  flash  of  lightning,  the  closing  in  of  night,  and  the 
single  hope  of  darkness  !  And  Romeo  and  Juliet  ? — It  is 
a  spring  day,  gusty  and  beautiful  in  the  morn,  and  closing 
like  an  April  evening  with  the  song  of  the  nightingale  ;  ^ 
— whilst  Macbeth  is  deep  and  earthy, — composed  to  the 
subterranean  music  of  a  troubled  conscience,  which  con- 
verts ever}^  thing  into  the  wild  and  fearful ! 

Doubtless  from  mere  observation,  or  from  the  occasional 
similarity  of  the  writer's  own  character,  more  or  less  in 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  other  such  writers,  will  happen 
to  be  in  correspondence  with  nature,  and  still  more  in 
apparent  compatibility  with  it.  But  yet  the  false  source 
is  always  discoverable,  first  by  the  gross  contradictions  to 
nature  in  so  many  other  parts,  and  secondly,  by  the  want 
of  the  impression  which  Shakspeare  makes,  that  the  thing 
said  not  only  might  have  been  said,  but  that  nothing  else 
could  be  substituted,  so  as  to  excite  the  same  sense  of  its 
exquisite  propriety.  I  have  always  thought  the  conduct 
and  expressions  of  Othello  and  I  ago  in  the  last  scene,  when 
lago  is  brought  in  prisoner,  a  wonderful  instance  of  Shak- 
speare's  consummate  judgment  : — 

0th.     I  look  down  towards  his  feet  ; — but  that's  a  fable. 

If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee. 
lago.   I  bleed,  Sir  ;    but  not  kill'd. 
0th.     I  am  not  sorry  neither. 

Think  what  a  volley  of  execrations  and  defiances  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  would  have  poured  forth  here  ! 

Indeed  Massinger  and  Ben  Jonson  are  both  more  perfect 
in  their  kind  than  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ;  the  former 
in  the  story  and  affecting  incidents  ;  the  latter  in  the 
exhibition  of  manners  and  peculiarities,  whims  in  language, 
and  vanities  of  appearance. 

There  is,  however,  a  diversity  of  the  most  dangerous 

1  Was  der  Duft  eines  siidlichen  Friihlings  berauschendes,  der  Gesang  der  Nachtigall 
sehasuchtiges,  das  erste  Auf  bluhung  der  Rose  wollustiges  hat,  das  athraet  aus  diesem 
Gedicht.     Schlegel's  Dram.  Vorlcsun^en,  Vol.  iii.  p    107. 


Lecture  VII.  241 

kind  here.  Shakspeare  shaped  his  characters  out  ol  the 
nature  within  ;  but  we  cannot  so  safely  say,  out  of  his  own 
nature  as  an  individual  person.  No  !  this  latter  is  itself 
but  a  natura  naturata, — an  effect,  a  product,  not  a  power. 
It  was  Shakspeare's  prerogative  to  have  the  universal, 
which  is  potentially  in  each  particular,  opened  out  to  him, 
the  homo  generalis,  not  as  an  abstraction  from  observation 
of  a  variety  of  men,  but  as  the  substance  capable  of  endless 
modifications,  of  which  his  own  personal  existence  was  but 
one,  and  to  use  this  one  as  the  eye  that  beheld  the  other, 
and  as  the  tongue  that  could  convey  the  discovery.  There 
is  no  greater  or  more  common  vice  in  dramatic  writers 
than  to  draw  out  of  themselves.  How  I — alone  and  in  the 
self  sufficiency  of  my  study,  as  all  men  are  apt  to  be  proud 
in  their  dreams — should  like  to  be  talking  king  !  Shak- 
speare, in  composing,  had  no  /,  but  the  /  representative. 
In  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  you  have  descriptions  of  char- 
acters by  the  poet  rather  than  the  characters  themselves  : 
we  are  told,  and  impressively  told,  of  their  being  ;  but  we 
rarely  or  never  feel  that  they  actually  are. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  the  most  lyrical  of  our 
dramatists,  I  think  their  comedies  the  best  part  of  their 
works,  although  there  are  scenes  of  very  deep  tragic 
interest  in  some  of  their  plays.  I  particularly  recommend 
Monsieur  Thomas  for  good  pure  comic  humour. 

There  is,  occasionally,  considerable  license  in  their 
dramas  ;  and  this  opens  a  subject  much  needing  vindica- 
tion and  sound  exposition,  but  which  is  beset  with  such 
difficulties  for  a  Lecturer,  that  I  must  pass  it  by.  Only  as 
far  as  Shakspeare  is  concerned,  I  own,  I  can  with  less  pain 
admit  a  fault  in  him  than  beg  an  excuse  for  it.  I  will  not, 
therefore,  attempt  to  palliate  the  grossness  that  actually 
exists  in  his  plays  by  the  customs  of  his  age,  or  by  the  far 
greater  coarseness  of  aU  his  contemporaries,  excepting 
Spenser,  who  is  himself  not  wholly  blameless,  though 
nearly  so  ; — for  I  place  Shakspeare's  merit  on  being  of  no 
age.  But  I  would  clear  away  what  is,  in  my  judgment, 
not  his,  as  that  scene  of  the  Porter  ^  in  Macbeth,  and  many 
other  such  passages,  and  abstract  what  is  coarse  in  manners 
only,  and  all  that  which  from  the  frequency  of  our  own 
vices,  we  associate  with  his  words.  If  this  were  truly  done, 
little  that  could  be  justly  reprehensible  would  remain. 

1  Act  ii.  sc.  3. 


242  Course  of  Lectures 

Compare  the  vile  comments,  offensive  and  defensive,  on 
Pope's 

Lust  thro'  some  gentle  strainers,  &c. 

With  the  worst  thing  in  Shakspeare,  or  even  in  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  ;  and  then  consider  how  unfair  the  attack  is 
on  our  old  dramatists  ;  especially  because  it  is  an  attack 
that  cannot  be  properly  answered  in  that  presence  in  which 
an  answer  would  be  most  desirable,  from  the  painful  nature 
of  one  part  of  the  position  ;  but  this  very  pain  is  almost  a 
demonstration  of  its  falsehood  ! 


MASSINGER. 
Born  at  Salisbury,  1584. — Died,  1640. 

With  regard  to  Massinger,  observe, 

1.  The  vein  of  satire  on  the  times  ;  but  this  is  not  as  in 
Shakspeare,  where  the  natures  evolve  themselves  accord- 
ing to  their  incidental  disproportions,  from  excess,  de- 
ficiency, or  mislocation,  of  one  or  more  of  the  component 
elements  ;  but  is  merely  satire  on  what  is  attributed  to 
them  by  others. 

2.  His  excellent  metre— a  better  model  for  dramatists  in 
general  to  imitate  than  Shakspeare's, — even  if  a  dramatic 
taste  existed  in  the  frequenters  of  the  stage,  and  could  be 
gratified  in  the  present  size  and  management,  or  rather 
mismanagement,  of  the  two  patent  theatres.  I  do  not 
mean  that  Massinger's  verse  is  superior  to  Shakspeare's  or 
equal  to  it.  Far  from  it  ;  but  it  is  much  more  easily  con- 
structed, and  may  be  more  successfully  adopted  by  writers 
in  the  present  day.  It  is  the  nearest  approach  to  the 
language  of  real  life  at  all  compatible  with  a  fixed  metre. 
In  Massinger,  as  in  all  our  poets  before  Dryden,  in  order  to 
make  harmonious  verse  in  the  reading,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  the  meaning  should  be  understood  ; — when 
the  meaning  is  once  seen,  then  the  harmony  is  perfect. 
Whereas  in  Pope,  and  in  most  of  the  writers  who  followed  in 
his  school,  it  is  the  mechanical  metre  which  determines  the 
sense. 

3.  The  impropriety,  and  indecorum  of  demeanour  in  his 
favourite  characters,  as  in  Bertoldo  in  the  Maid  of  Honour, 


Lecture  VII.  243 

who  is  a  swaggerer,  talking  to  his  sovereign  what  no 
sovereign  could  endure,  and  to  gentlemen  what  no  gentle- 
men would  answer  without  pulling  his  nose. 

4.  Shakspeare's  Ague-cheek,  Osric,  &c.  are  displayed 
through  others,  in  the  course  of  social  intercourse,  by  the 
mode  of  their  performing  some  office  in  which  they  are 
employed  ;  but  Massinger's  Sylli  come  forward  to  declare 
themselves  fools  ab  arbitrium  auctoris,  and  so  the  diction 
always  needs  the  subintelUgitur  {'the  man  looks  as  if  he 
thought  so  and  so,')  expressed  in  the  language  of  the 
satirist,  and  not  in  that  of  the  man  himself  : — 

Sylli.  You  may,  madam, 
Perhaps,  believe  that  I  in  this  use  art 
To  make  you  dote  upon  me,  by  exposing 
My  more  than  most  rare  features  to  your  view  ; 
But  I,  as  I  have  ever  done,  deal  simply, 
A  mark  of  sweet  simplicity,  ever  noted 
In  the  family  of  the  Syllis.     Therefore,  lady, 
Look  not  with  too  much  contemplation  on  me  ; 
If  you  do,  you  are  in  the  suds. 

Maid  of  Honour,  Act  i.  sc.  2. 

The  author  mixes  his  own  feelings  and  judgments  concern- 
ing the  presumed  fool  ;  but  the  man  himself,  till  mad,  fights 
up  against  them,  and  betrays,  by  his  attempts  to  modify 
them,  that  he  is  no  fool  at  all,  but  one  gifted  with  activity 
and  copiousness  of  thought,  image  and  expression,  which 
belong  not  to  a  fool,  but  to  a  man  of  wit  making  himself 
merry  with  his  own  character. 

5.  There  is  an  utter  want  of  preparation  in  the  decisive 
acts  of  Massinger's  characters,  as  in  Camiola  and  Aurelia 
in  the  Maid  of  Honour.  Why  ?  Because  the  dramatis 
personcB  were  all  planned  each  by  itself.  Whereas  in 
Shakspeare,  the  play  is  syngenesia  ;  each  character  has, 
indeed,  a  life  of  its  own,  and  is  an  individuum  of  itself,  but 
yet  an  organ  of  the  whole,  as  the  heart  in  the  human  body. 
Shakspeare  was  a  great  comparative  anatomist. 

Hence  Massinger  and  all,  indeed,  but  Shakspeare,  take 
a  dislike  to  their  own  characters,  and  spite  themselves  upon 
them  by  making  them  talk  like  fools  or  monsters  ;  as 
Fulgentio  in  his  visit  to  Camiola,  (Act  ii.  sc.  2.).  Hence  too, 
in  Massinger,  the  continued  flings  at  kings,  courtiers,  and 
all  the  favourites  of  fortune,  like  one  who  had  enough  of 
intellect  to  see  injustice  in  his  own  inferiority  in  the  share 
of  the  good  things  of  life,  but  not  genius  enough  to  rise 


244  Course  of  Lectures 

above  it,  and  forget  himself.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have 
the  same  vice  in  the  opposite  pole,  a  servility  of  sentiment 
and  a  spirit  of  partizanship  with  the  monarchical  faction. 

6.  From  the  want  of  a  guiding  point  in  Massinger's 
characters,  you  never  know  what  they  are  about.  In  fact 
they  have  no  character. 

7.  Note  the  faultiness  of  his  soliloquies,  with  connectives 
and  arrangements  that  have  no  other  motive  but  the  fear 
lest  the  audience  should  not  understand  him. 

8.  A  play  of  Massinger's  produces  no  one  single  effect, 
whether  arising  from  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  as  in  the  As 
You  Like  It ;  or  from  any  one  indisputably  prominent 
character,  as  Hamlet.  It  is  just  "  which  you  like  best, 
gentlemen  !  " 

9.  The  unnaturally  irrational  passions  and  strange  whims 
of  feeling  which  Massinger  delights  to  draw,  deprive  the 
reader  of  all  sound  interest  in  the  characters  ; — as  in 
Mathias  in  the  Picture,  and  in  other  instances. 

10.  The  comic  scenes  in  Massinger  not  only  do  not 
harmonize  with  the  tragic,  not  only  interrupt  the  feeling, 
but  degrade  the  characters  that  are  to  form  any  part  in  the 
action  of  the  piece,  so  as  to  render  them  unfit  for  any  tragic 
interest.  At  least,  they  do  not  concern,  or  act  upon,  or 
modify,  the  principal  characters.  As  when  a  gentleman 
is  insulted  by  a  mere  blackguard, — it  is  the  same  as  if  any 
other  accident  of  nature  had  occurred,  a  pig  run  under  his 
legs,  or  his  horse  thrown  him.  There  is  no  dramatic  interest 
in  it. 

I  like  Massinger's  comedies  better  than  his  tragedies, 
although  where  the  situation  requires  it,  he  often  rises  into 
the  truly  tragic  and  pathetic.  He  excels  in  narration,  and 
for  the  most  part  displays  his  mere  story  with  skill.  But 
he  is  not  a  poet  of  high  imagination  ;  he  is  like  a  Flemish 
painter,  in  whose  delineations  objects  appear  as  they  do  in 
nature,  have  the  same  force  and  truth,  and  produce  the 
same  effect  upon  the  spectator.  But  Shakspeare  is  beyond 
this  ;  he  always  by  metaphors  and  figures  involves  in  the 
thing  considered  a  universe  of  past  and  possible  experiences ; 
he  mingles  earth,  sea  and  air,  gives  a  soul  to  every  thing, 
and  at  the  same  time  that  he  inspires  human  feelings,  adds 
a  dignity  in  his  images  to  human  nature  itself  : — 

Full  raany  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye  ; 


Lecture  VII.  245 


Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy,  &c. 

33rd  Sonnet. 


Notes  on  Massinger. 

Have  I  not  over-rated  Gifford's  edition  of  Massinger  ? — • 
Not, — if  I  have,  as  but  just  is,  main  reference  to  the  re- 
stitution of  the  text ;  but  yes,  perhaps,  if  I  were  talking  of 
the  notes.  These  are  more  often  wrong  than  right.  In 
the  Maid  of  Honour,  Act  i.  sc.  5.  Astutio  describes  Fulgentio 
as  "  A  gentleman,  yet  no  lord."  Gifford  supposes  a  trans- 
position of  the  press  for  "  No  gentleman,  yet  a  lord."  But 
this  would  have  no  connection  with  what  follows  ;  and  we 
have  only  to  recollect  that  "  lord  "  means  a  lord  of  lands, 
to  see  that  the  after  hues  are  explanatory.  He  is  a  man  of 
high  birth,  but  no  landed  property  ; — as  to  the  former,  he 
is  a  distant  branch  of  the  blood  royal ; — as  to  the  latter,  his 
whole  rent  lies  in  a  narrow  compass,  the  king's  ear  !  In  the 
same  scene  the  text  stands  : 


Bert.  No  !    they  are  useful 
For  your  imitation  ; — I  remember 


you,  &c. 


and  Gifford  condemns  Mason's  conjecture  of  *  initiation*  as 
void  of  meaning  and  harmony.  Now  my  ear  deceives  me 
if  'initiation'  be  not  the  right  word.  In  fact,  'imitation'  is 
utterly  impertinent  to  aU  that  follows.  Bertoldo  tells 
Antonio  that  he  had  been  initiated  in  the  manners  suited  to 
the  court  by  two  or  three  sacred  beauties,  and  that  a 
similar  experience  would  be  equally  useful  for  his  initiation 
into  the  camp.  Not  a  word  of  his  imitation.  Besides,  I 
say  the  rhythm  requires  'initiation,'  and  is  lame  as  the 
verse  now  stands. 

1  Two  or  three  tales,  each  in  itself  independent  of  the 
others,  and  united  only  by  making  the  persons  that  are 
the  agents  in  the  story  the  relations  of  those  in  the  other, 
as  when  a  bind-weed  or  thread  is  twined  round  a  bunch  of 
flowers,  each  having  its  own  root — and  this  novel  narrative 
in  dialogue — such  is  the  character  of  Massinger' s  plays — 
That  the  juxta-position  and  the  tying  together  by  a 
common  thread,  which  goes  round  this  and  round  that, 

1  The  notes  on  Massinger  which  follow  were  transcribed  from  a  copy  of  that 
dramatist's  works,  belonging  to  Mr.  Gillman.  I  do  not  know  whence  the  first  was 
taken  by  the  original  editor. 


246  Course  of  Lectures 

and  then  round  them  all,  twine  and  intertwine,  are  con- 
trived ingeniously — that  the  component  tales  are  well 
chosen,  and  the  whole  well  and  conspicuously  told  ;  so  as 
to  excite  and  sustain  the  mind  by  kindling  and  keeping 
alive  the  curiosity  of  the  reader — that  the  language  is 
most  pure,  equally  free  from  bookishness  and  from  vulgar- 
ism, from  the  pecuharities  of  the  School,  and  the  tran- 
siencies of  fashion,  whether  fine  or  coarse ;  that  the 
rhythm  and  metre  are  incomparably  good,  and  form  the 
very  model  of  dramatic  versification,  flexible  and  seeming 
to  rise  out  of  the  passions,  so  that  whenever  a  line  sounds 
immetrical,  the  speaker  may  be  certain  he  has  recited  it 
amiss,  either  that  he  has  misplaced  or  misproportioned 
the  emphasis,  or  neglected  the  acceleration  or  retardation 
of  the  voice  in  the  pauses  (all  which  the  mood  or  passion 
would  have  produced  in  the  real  Agent,  and  therefore 
demand  from  the  Actor  or  {^muii^'toT})  and  that  read  aright 
the  blank  verse  is  not  less  smooth  than  varied,  a  rich 
harmony,  puzzling  the  fingers,  but  satisfying  the  ear — 
these  are  Massinger's  characteristic  merits. 

Among  the  varieties  of  blank  verse  Massinger  is  fond 
of  the  anapaest  in  the  first  and  third  foot,  as  : 

"  To  yoiir  more  |  than  ma  |  sciihne  rea  |  son 
that  I  commands  'em  ||  -"  ^ 

The  Guardian,  Act  i.  sc.  2. 

Likewise  of  the  second  Paeon  (u  -  uu)  in  the  first  foot 
followed  by  four  trochees  (-  u)  as  : 

"  So  greedily  |  long  for,  |  know  their  | 
titill  I  ations."         lb.  ib. 

The  emphasis  too  has  a  decided  influence  on  the  metre, 
and,  contrary  to  the  metres  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
classics,  at  lestst  to  all  their  more  common  sorts  of  verse, 
as  the  hexameter  and  hex  and  pentameter,  Alchaic, 
Sapphic,  &c.  hcLS  an  essential  agency  on  the  character  of 
the  feet  and  power  of  the  verse.  One  instance  only  of  this 
I  recollect  in  Theocritus  : 

TO  firi  KoXa  /fdXd  xiipavrdi, 

I  Giflford  divides  the  lines  in  question  thus  : 
"  Command  my  sensual  appetites. 

C.alip.  As  vassals  to 

Your  more  than  masculine  reason,  that  commands  them." 
But  it  is  obviously  better  to  make  the  first  line  end  with  "  vassals,"  so  as  to  give  it  only 
the  one  over-running  syllable,  which  is  so  common  in  the  last  foot. 


Lecture  VIII.  247 

unless  Homer's '  A-p^g,  "Apeg,  may  (as  I  believe)  be  deemed 
another  —  For  I  cannot  bring  my  ear  to  believe  that 
Homer    would    have    perpetrated   such   a   cacophony  as 

"flpsg,  'Apsg. 

"  In  fear  |  my  chaasteetee  |  may  be  |  sus- 
pected." I  lb.   ib. 

In  short,  musical  notes  are  required  to  explain  Massinger 
— metres  in  addition  to  prosody.  When  a  speech  is 
interrupted,  or  one  of  the  characters  speaks  aside,  the  last 
syllable  of  the  former  speech  and  first  of  the  succeeding 
Massinger  counts  but  for  one,  because  both  are  supposed 
to  be  spoken  at  the  same  moment. 

**  And  felt  the  sweetness  oft." 

"  How  her  mouth  runs  over." 
Ib.  ib. 

Emphasis  itself  is  twofold,  the  rap  and  the  drawl,  or  the 
emphasis  by  quality  of  sound,  and  that  by  quantitj^ — the 
hammer,  and  the  spatula — the  latter  over  2,  3,  4  syllables 
or  even  a  whole  line.  It  is  in  this  that  the  actors  and 
speakers  are  generally  speaking  defective,  they  cannot 
equilibrate  an  emphasis,  or  spread  it  over  a  number  of 
syllables,  aU  emphasized,  sometimes  equally,  sometimes 
unequally. 


LECTURE    VIII. 

Don  Quixote. 

CERVANTES. 

Born  at  Madrid,  1547  ; — Shakspeare,  1564  ;  both  put  off 
mortality  on  the  same  day,  the  23rd  of  April,  1616, — the 
one  in  the  sixty-ninth,  the  other  in  the  fifty-second,  year 
of  his  life.  The  resemblance  in  their  physiognomies  is 
striking,  but  with  a  predominance  of  acuteness  in  Cervantes, 
and  of  reflection  in  Shakspeare,  which  is  the  specific 
difference  between  the  Spanish  and  English  characters  of 
mind. 

I.  The  nature  and  eminence  of  Symbolical  writing  ; — 

II.  Madness,  and  its  different  sorts,  (considered  with- 
out pretension  to  medical  science)  ; — 


248  Course  of  Lectures 

To  each  of  these,  or  at  least  to  my  own  notions  respecting 
them,  I  must  devote  a  few  words  of  explanation,  in  order 
to  render  the  after  critique  on  Don  Quixote,  the  master 
work  of  Cervantes'  and  his  country's  genius,  easily  and 
throughout  intelligible.  This  is  not  the  least  valuable, 
though  it  may  most  often  be  felt  by  us  both  as  the  heaviest 
and  least  entertaining  portion  of  these  critical  disquisi- 
tions :  for  without  it,  I  must  have  foregone  one  at  least 
of  the  two  appropriate  objects  of  a  Lecture,  that  of  interest- 
ing you  during  its  delivery,  and  of  leaving  behind  in  your 
minds  the  germs  of  after-thought,  and  the  materials  for 
future  enjoyment.  To  have  been  assured  by  several  of 
my  intelligent  auditors  that  they  have  reperused  Hamlet 
or  Othello  with  increased  satisfaction  in  consequence  of 
the  new  points  of  view  in  which  I  had  placed  those  char- 
acters— is  the  highest  compliment  I  could  receive  or 
desire  ;  and  should  the  address  of  this  evening  open  out 
a  new  source  of  pleasure,  or  enlarge  the  former  in  j^our 
perusal  of  Don  Quixote,  it  will  compensate  for  the  failure 
of  any  personal  or  temporary  object. 

L  The  Symbolical  cannot,  perhaps,  be  better  defined 
in  distinction  from  the  Allegorical,  than  that  it  is  always 
itself  a  part  of  that,  of  the  whole  of  which  it  is  the  repre- 
sentative.— "  Here  comes  a  sail," — (that  is,  a  ship)  is  a 
symbolical  expression.  "  Behold  our  lion  !  "  when  we 
speak  of  some  gallant  soldier,  is  allegorical.  Of  most  ^ 
importance  to  our  present  subject  is  this  point,  that  the 
latter  (the  allegory)  cannot  be  other  than  spoken  con- 
sciously ; — whereas  in  the  former  (the  symbol)  it  is  very 
possible  that  the  general  truth  represented  may  be  working 
unconsciously  in  the  writer's  mind  during  the  construction 
of  the  symbol ; — and  it  proves  itself  by  being  produced 
out  of  his  own  mind, — as  the  Don  Quixote  out  of  the 
perfectly  sane  mind  of  Cervantes  ;  and  not  by  outward 
observation,  or  historically.  The  advantage  of  symbohcal 
writing  over  allegory  is,  that  it  presumes  no  disjunction 
of  faculties,  but  simple  predominance. 

II.  Madness  may  be  divided  as — 

1.  hypochondriasis  ;  or,  the  man  is  out  of  his  senses. 

2.  derangement  of  the  understanding  ;    or,  the  man 

is  out  of  his  wits. 

3.  loss  of  reason. 

4.  frenzy,  or  derangement  of  the  sensations. 


Lecture  VIII.  249 

Cervantes's  own  preface  to  Don  Quixote  is  a  perfect 
model  of  the  gentle,  every  where  intelligible,  irony  in  the 
best  essays  of  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator.  Equally 
natural  and  easy,  Cervantes  is  more  spirited  than  Addison  ; 
whilst  he  blends  with  the  terseness  of  Swift,  an  exquisite 
flow  and  music  of  style,  and  above  all,  contrasts  with  the 
latter  by  the  sweet  temper  of  a  superior  mind,  which  saw 
the  follies  of  mankind,  and  was  even  at  the  moment 
suffering  severely  under  hard  mistreatment ;  ^  and  yet 
seems  every  where  to  have  but  one  thought  as  the  under- 
song— "  Brethren  !  with  all  your  faults  I  love  you  still !  " 
— or  as  a  mother  that  chides  the  child  she  loves,  with  one 
hand  holds  up  the  rod,  and  with  the  other  wipes  off  each 
tear  as  it  drops  ! 

Don  Quixote  was  neither  fettered  to  the  earth  by  want, 
nor  holden  in  its  embraces  by  wealth  ; — of  which,  with 
the  temperance  natural  to  his  country,  as  a  Spaniard,  he 
had  both  far  too  little,  and  somewhat  too  much,  to  be 
under  any  necessity  of  thinking  about  it.  His  age  too, 
fifty,  may  be  well  supposed  to  prevent  his  mind  from  being 
tempted  out  of  itself  by  any  of  the  lower  passions  ; — while 
his  habits,  as  a  very  early  riser  and  a  keen  sportsman, 
were  such  as  kept  his  spare  body  in  serviceable  subjection 
to  his  will,  and  yet  by  the  play  of  hope  that  accompanies 
pursuit,  not  only  permitted,  but  assisted,  his  fancy  in 
shaping  what  it  would.  Nor  must  we  omit  his  meagre- 
ness  and  entire  featureliness,  face  and  frame,  which 
Cervantes  gives  us  at  once  :  "  It  is  said  that  his  surname 
was  Quixada  or  Quesada,"  &c. — even  in  this  trifle  showing 
an  exquisite  judgment  ; — just  once  insinuating  the  associa- 
tion of  lantern-jaws  into  the  reader's  mind,  yet  not  retaining 
it  obtrusively  like  the  names  in  old  farces  and  in  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress, — but  taking  for  the  regular  appellative 
one  which  had  the  no  meaning  of  a  proper  name  in  real  life, 
and  which  yet  was  capable  of  recalling  a  number  of  very 
different,  but  all  pertinent,  recollections,  cLS  old  armour, 
the  precious  metals  hidden  in  the  ore,  &c.  Don  Quixote's 
leanness  and  featureliness  are  happy  exponents  of  the 
excess  of  the  formative  or  imaginative  in  him,  contrasted 

1  Bien  coitw  quicn  se  eng-cndrd  en  una  carcel,  cionde  toda  incomodidcul  tiene  su 
assicnto,  y  todo  triste  ntido  hace  su  hahitacion.  Like  one  you  may  suppose  born  in  a 
prison,  where  every  inconvenience  keeps  its  residence,  and  every  dismal  sound  its 
habitation.     Pref.  Jarvis's  Tr.     Ed. 


250  Course  of  Lectures 

with  Sancho's  plump  rotundity,  and  recipiency  of  external 
impression. 

He  has  no  knowledge  of  the  sciences  or  scientific  arts 
which  give  to  the  meanest  portions  of  matter  an  intel- 
lectual interest,  and  which  enable  the  mind  to  decypher  in 
the  world  of  the  senses  the  invisible  agency — that  alone,  of 
which  the  world's  phenomena  are  the  effects  and  mani- 
festations,— and  thus,  as  in  a  mirror,  to  contemplate  its 
own  reflex,  its  Hfe  in  the  powers,  its  imagination  in  the 
symbolic  forms,  its  moral  instincts  in  the  final  causes,  and 
its  reason  in  the  laws  of  material  nature  :  but — estranged 
from  all  the  motives  to  observation  from  self-interest — the 
persons  that  surround  him  too  few  and  too  familiar  to  enter 
into  any  connection  with  his  thoughts,  or  to  require  any 
adaptation  of  his  conduct  to  their  particular  characters  or 
relations  to  himself — his  judgment  lies  fallow,  with  nothing 
to  excite,  nothing  to  employ  it.  Yet, — and  here  is  the 
point,  where  genius  even  of  the  most  perfect  kind,  allotted 
but  to  few  in  the  course  of  many  ages,  does  not  preclude  the 
necessity  in  part,  and  in  part  counterbalance  the  craving  by 
sanity  of  judgment,  without  which  genius  either  cannot  be, 
or  cannot  at  least  manifest  itself, — the  dependency  of  our 
nature  asks  for  some  confirmation  from  without,  though  it 
be  only  from  the  shadows  of  other  men's  fictions. 

Too  uninformed,  and  with  too  narrow  a  sphere  of  pov/er 
and  opportunity  to  rise  into  the  scientific  artist,  or  to  be 
himself  a  patron  of  art,  and  with  too  deep  a  principle  and 
too  much  innocence  to  become  a  mere  projector,  Don 
Quixote  has  recourse  to  romances  : — 

His  curiosity  and  extravagant  fondness  herein  arrived  at  that 
pitch,  that  he  sold  many  acres  of  arable  land  to  purchase  books  of 
knis:ht-errantry,  and  carried  home  all  he  could  lay  hands  on  of  that 
kind  !     C.  I. 

The  more  remote  these  romances  were  from  the  language 
of  common  life,  the  more  akin  on  that  very  account  were 
they  to  the  shapeless  dreams  and  strivings  of  his  own  mind  ; 
— a  mind,  which  possessed  not  the  highest  order  of  genius 
which  lives  in  an  atmosphere  of  power  over  mankind,  but 
that  minor  kind  which,  in  its  restlessness,  seeks  for  a  vivid 
representative  of  its  own  wishes,  and  substitutes  the  move- 
ments of  that  objective  puppet  for  an  exercise  of  actual 
power  in  and  by  itself.     The  more  wild  and  improbable 


Lecture  VIII.  251 

these  romances  were,  the  more  were  they  akin  to  his  will, 
which  had  been  in  the  habit  of  acting  as  an  unlimited 
monarch  over  the  creations  of  his  fancy  !  Hence  observe 
how  the  startling  of  the  remaining  common  sense,  like  a 
glimmering  before  its  death,  in  the  notice  of  the  impossible- 
improbable  of  Don  Belianis,  is  dismissed  by  Don  Quixote 
as  impertinent — 

He  had  some  doubt  ^  as  to  the  dreadful  wounds  which  Don  Belianis 
gave  and  received  :  for  he  imagined,  that  notwithstanding  the 
most  expert  surgeons  had  cured  him,  his  face  and  whole  body  must 
still  be  full  of  seams  and  scars.  Nevertheless  ^  he  commended  in 
his  author  the  concluding  his  book  with  a  promise  of  that  un- 
finishable  adventure  !     C.  i. 

Hence  also  his  first  intention  to  turn  author  ;  but  who, 
with  such  a  restless  struggle  \vithin  him,  would  content 
himself  with  writing  in  a  remote  village  among  apathists 
and  ignorants  ?  During  his  colloquies  with  the  village 
priest  and  the  barber  surgeon,  in  which  the  fervour  of 
critical  controversy  feeds  the  passion  and  gives  reality  to 
its  object — what  more  natural  than  that  the  mental  striving 
should  become  an  eddy  ? — madness  may  perhaps  be  defined 
as  the  circling  in  a  stream  which  should  be  progressive  and 
adaptive  ;  Don  Quixote  grows  at  length  to  be  a  man  out 
of  his  wits  ;  his  understanding  is  deranged  ;  and  hence 
without  the  least  deviation  from  the  truth  of  nature,  with- 
out losing  the  least  trait  of  personal  individuality,  he 
becomes  a  substantial  hving  allegory,  or  personification  of 
the  reason  and  the  moral  sense,  divested  of  the  judgment 
and  the  understanding.  Sancho  is  the  converse.  He  is 
the  common  sense  without  reason  or  imagination  ;  and 
Cervantes  not  only  shows  the  excellence  and  power  of 
reason  in  Don  Quixote,  but  in  both  him  and  Sancho  the 
mischiefs  resulting  from  a  severance  of  the  two  main  con- 
stituents of  sound  intellectual  and  moral  action.  Put  him 
and  his  master  together,  and  they  form  a  perfect  intellect ; 
but  they  are  separated  and  without  cement ;  and  hence 
each  having  a  need  of  the  other  for  its  own  completeness, 
each  has  at  times  a  mastery  over  the  other.  For  the 
common  sense,  although  it  may  see  the  practical  in- 
applicability of  the  dictates  of  the  imagination  or  abstract 
reason,  yet  cannot  help  submitting  to  them.  These  two 
characters  possess  the  world,  alternately  and  interchange- 

1  No  estaha  muy  bien  con.     Ed.  2  Pero  con  todo.     Ed. 


252  Course  of  Lectures 

ably  the  cheater  and  the  cheated.  To  impersonate  them, 
and  to  combine  the  permanent  with  the  individual,  is  one 
of  the  highest  creations  of  genius,  and  has  been  achieved 
by  Cervantes  and  Shakspeare,  almost  alone. 


Observations  on  particular  passages: 

B.  I.  c.  I.  But  not  altogether  approving  of  his  having  broken  it 
to  pieces  with  so  much  ease,  to  secure  himself  from  the  like  danger 
for  the  future,  he  made  it  over  again,  fencing  it  with  small  bars  of 
iron  within,  in  such  a  manner,  that  he  rested  satisfied  of  its  strength  ; 
and  without  caring  to  make  a  fresh  experiment  on  it,  he  approved  and 
looked  upon  it  as  a  most  excellent  helmet. 

His  not  trying  his  improved  scull-cap  is  an  exquisite  trait 
of  human  character,  founded  on  the  oppugnancy  of  the 
soul  in  such  a  state  to  any  disturbance  by  doubt  of  its  own 
broodings.  Even  the  long  deliberation  about  his  horse's 
name  is  full  of  meaning  ; — for  in  these  day-dreams  the 
greater  part  of  the  history  passes  and  is  carried  on  in  words, 
which  look  forward  to  other  words  as  what  will  be  said  of 
them. 

lb.  Near  the  place  where  he  lived,  there  dwelt  a  very  comely 
country  lass,  with  whom  he  had  formerly  been  in  love ;  though,  as 
it  is  supposed,  she  never  knew  it,  nor  troubled  herself  about  it. 

The  nascent  love  for  the  country  lass,  but  without  any 
attempt  at  utterance,  or  an  opportunity  of  knowing  her, 
except  as  the  hint — the  on  Un — of  the  inward  imagination, 
is  happily  conceived  in  both  parts  ; — first,  as  confirmative 
of  the  shrinking  back  of  the  mind  on  itself,  and  its  dread  of 
having  a  cherished  image  destroyed  by  its  own  judgment ; 
and  secondly,  as  showing  how  necessarily  love  is  the  passion 
of  novels.  Novels  are  to  love  as  fairy  tales  to  dreams.  I 
never  knew  but  two  men  of  taste  and  feeling  who  could  not 
understand  why  I  was  delighted  with  the  Arabian  Nights' 
Tales,  and  they  were  likewise  the  only  persons  in  my  know- 
ledge who  scarcely  remembered  having  ever  dreamed. 
Magic  and  war — itself  a  magic — are  the  day-dreams  of 
childhood  ;  love  is  the  day-dream  of  youth,  and  early 
manhood. 

C.  2.  "  Scarcely  had  ruddy  Phoebus  spread  the  golden  tresses 
of  his  beauteous  hair  over  the  face  of  the  wide  and  spacious  eai-th  ; 
and  scarcely  had  the  little  painted  birds,  with  the  sweet  and  melli- 


Lecture  VIII.  253 

fluous  harmony  of  their  forked  tongues,  saluted  the  approach  of 
rosy  Aurora,  who,  quitting  the  soft  couch  of  her  jealous  husband, 
disclosed  herself  to  mortals  through  the  gates  of  the  Mauchegan 
horizon  ;   when  the  renowned  Don  Quixote,"  &c. 

How  happily  already  is  the  abstraction  from  the  senses, 
from  observation,  and  the  consequent  confusion  of  the 
judgment,  marked  in  this  description  !  The  knight  is 
describing  objects  immediate  to  his  senses  and  sensations 
without  borrowing  a  single  trait  from  either.  Would  it  be 
difficult  to  find  parallel  descriptions  in  Dry  den's  plays  and 
in  those  of  his  successors  ? 

C.  3.  The  host  is  here  happily  conceived  as  one  who  from 
his  past  life  as  a  sharper,  was  capable  of  entering  into  and 
humouring  the  knight,  and  so  perfectly  in  character,  that 
he  precludes  a  considerable  source  of  improbabihty  in  the 
future  narrative,  by  enforcing  upon  Don  Quixote  the 
necessity  of  taking  money  with  him. 

C.  3.  "  Ho,  there,  whoever  thou  art,  rash  knight,  that  ap- 
proachest  to  touch  the  arms  of  the  most  valorous  adventurer  that 
ever  girded  sword,"  &c. 

Don  Quixote's  high  eulogiums  on  himself — "  the  most 
valorous  adventurer  !  " — but  it  is  not  himself  that  he  has 
before  him,  but  the  idol  of  his  imagination,  the  imaginary 
being  whom  he  is  acting.  And  this,  that  it  is  entirely  a 
third  person,  excuses  his  heart  from  the  otherwise  inevit- 
able charge  of  selfish  vanity  ;  and  so  by  madness  itself  he 
preserves  our  esteem,  and  renders  those  actions  natural  by 
which  he,  the  first  person,  deserves  it. 

C.  4.  Andres  and  his  master. 

The  manner  in  which  Don  Quixote  redressed  this  wrong, 
is  a  picture  of  the  true  revolutionary  passion  in  its  first 
honest  state,  while  it  is  yet  only  a  bewilderment  of  the 
understanding.  You  have  a  benevolence  limitless  in  its 
prayers,  which  are  in  fact  aspirations  towards  omnipotence  ; 
but  between  it  and  beneficence,  the  bridge  of  judgment — 
that  is,  of  measurement  of  personal  power — intervenes, 
and  must  be  passed.  Otherwise  you  will  be  bruised  by  the 
leap  into  the  chasm,  or  be  drowned  in  the  revolutionary 
river,  and  drag  others  with  you  to  the  same  fate. 

C.  4.  Merchants  of  Toledo. 

When  they  were  come  so  near  as  to  be  seen  and  heard,  Don 
Quixote  raised  his  voice,  and  with  arrogant  air  cried  out :    "  Let 


254  Course  of  Lectures 

the  whole  world  stand  ;  if  the  whole  world  does  not  confess  that 
there  is  not  in  the  whole  world  a  damsel  more  beautiful  than,"  &c. 

Now  mark  the  presumption  which  follows  the  self-com- 
placency of  the  last  act  !  That  was  an  honest  attempt  to 
redress  a  real  wrong  ;  this  is  an  arbitrary  determination  to 
enforce  a  Brissotine  or  Rousseau's  idesd  on  all  his  fellow 
creatures. 

Let  the  whole  world  stand  ! 

*If  there  had  been  any  experience  in  proof  of  the  excellence 
of  our  code,  where  would  be  our  superiority  in  this  en- 
lightened age  ?' 

"  No  ?  the  business  is  that  without  seeing  her,  you  believe, 
confess,  affirm,  swear,  and  maintain  it ;    and  if  not,  I  challenge  you 

all  to  battle."  ^ 

Next  see  the  persecution  and  fury  excited  by  opposition 
however  moderate  !  The  only  words  hstened  to  are  those, 
that  without  their  context  and  their  conditionals,  and  trans- 
formed into  positive  assertions,  might  give  some  shadow  of 
excuse  for  the  violence  showm  !  This  rich  story  ends,  to 
the  compassion  of  the  men  in  their  senses,  in  a  sound  rib- 
roasting  of  the  idealist  by  the  muleteer,  the  mob.  And 
happy  for  thee,  poor  knight  !  that  the  mob  were  against 
thee  !  For  had  they  been  with  thee,  by  the  change  of  the 
moon  and  of  them,  thy  head  would  have  been  off. 

C.  5,  first  part.  The  idealist  recollects  the  causes  that 
had  been  necessary  to  the  reverse  and  attempts  to  remove 
them — too  late.     He  is  beaten  and  disgraced. 

C.  6.  This  chapter  on  Don  Quixote's  library  proves  that 
the  author  did  not  wish  to  destroy  the  romances,  but  to 
cause  them  to  be  read  as  romances — that  is,  for  their  merits 
as  poetry. 

C.  7.  Among  other  things,  Don  Quixote  told  him,  he  should 
dispose  himself  to  go  with  him  "wnllingly  ; — for  some  time  or  other 
such  an  adventure  might  present,  that  an  island  might  be  won,  in 
the  turn  of  a  hand,  and  he  be  left  governor  thereof. 

At  length  the  promises  of  the  imaginative  reason  begin  to 
act  on  the  plump,  sensual,  honest  common  sense  accomplice, 
— but  unhappily  not  in  the  same  person,  and  without  the 
copula  of  the  judgment, — in  hopes  of  the  substantial  good 

1  Donde  no,  Mnmigo  sois  en  battalia.,  gente  descomunal!     Ed. 


Lecture  VIII.  255 

things,  of  which  the  former  contemplated  only  the  glory  and 
the  colours. 

C.  7.  Sancho  Panza  went  riding  upon  his  ass,  like  any  patriarch, 
with  his  wallet  and  leathern  bottle,  and  with  a  vehement  desire  to 
find  himself  governor  of  the  island  which  his  master  had  promised 
him. 

The  first  relief  from  regular  labour  is  so  pleasant  to  poor 
Sancho  ! 

C.  8.  "  I  no  gentleman  !  I  swear  by  the  great  God.  thou  liest, 
as  I  am  a  Christian.  Biscainer  by  land,  gentleman  by  sea,  gentle- 
man for  the  devil,  and  thou  liest :  look  then  if  thou  hast  any  thing 
else  to  say." 

This  Biscainer  is  an  excellent  image  of  the  prejudices  and 
bigotry  provoked  by  the  idealism  of  a  speculator.  This 
story  happily  detects  the  trick  which  our  imagination  plays 
in  the  description  of  single  combats  :  only  change  the  pre- 
conception of  the  magnificence  of  the  combatants,  and  all 
is  gone. 

B.  II.  c.  2.  "  Be  pleased,  my  lord  Don  Quixote,  to  bestow  upon 
me  the  government  of  that  island,"  &c. 

Sancho' s  eagerness  for  his  government,  the  nascent  lust 
of  actual  democracy,  or  isocracy  ! 

C.  2.  "  But  tell  me,  on  your  life,  have  you  ever  seen  a  more 
valorous  knight  than  I,  upon  the  whole  face  of  the  known  earth  ? 
Have  you  read  in  story  of  any  other,  who  has,  or  ever  had,  more 
bravery  in  assailing,  more  breath  in  holding  out,  more  dexterity  in 
wounding,  or  more  address  in  giving  a  fall  ?  " — "  The  truth  is," 
answered  Sancho,  "  that  I  never  read  any  history  at  all  ;  for  I  can 
neither  read  nor  write  ;  but  what  I  dare  affirm  is,  that  I  never 
served  a  bolder  master,"  &c. 

This  appeal  to  Sancho,  and  Sancho's  answer  are  ex- 
quisitely humorous.  It  is  impossible  not  to  think  of  the 
French  bulletins  and  proclamations.  Remark  the  necessity 
under  which  we  are  of  being  sympathized  with,  fly  as  high 
into  abstraction  as  we  may,  and  how  constantly  the 
imagination  is  recalled  to  the  ground  of  our  common 
humanity  !  And  note  a  little  further  on,  the  knight's  easy 
vaunting  of  his  balsam,  and  his  quietly  deferring  the  mak- 
ing and  application  of  it. 

C.  3.  The  speech  before  the  goatherds : 

"  Happy  times  and  happy  ages,"  &c.* 

I  Dichosa  cdad y  siglos  dichoses  aquellos,  &'c.     Ed. 


256 


Course  of  Lectures 


Note  the  rhythm  of  this,  and  the  admirable  beauty  and 
wisdom  of  the  thoughts  in  themselves,  but  the  total  want 
of  judgment  in  Don  Quixote's  addressing  them  to  such  an 
audience. 

B.  III.  c.  3.  Don  Quixote's  balsam,  and  the  vomiting  and 
consequent  relief  ;  an  excellent  hit  at  panacea  nostrums, 
which  cure  the  patient  by  his  being  himself  cured  of  the 
medicine  by  revolting  nature. 

C.  4.  "  Peace  !  and  have  patience  ;  the  day  will  come,"  &c. 

The  perpetual  promises  of  the  imagination  ! 

lb.  "  Your  Worship,"  said  Sancho,  "  would  make  a  better 
preacher  than  knight  errant  !  " 

Exactly  so.     This  is  the  true  moral. 

C.  6.  The  uncommon  beauty  of  the  description  in  the 
commencement  of  this  chapter.  In  truth,  the  whole  of  it 
seems  to  put  all  nature  in  its  heights,  and  its  humiliations, 
before  us. 

lb.  Sancho's  story  of  the  goats  : 

"  Make  account,  he  carried  them  all  over,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
**  and  do  not  be  going  and  coming  in  this  manner  ;  for  at  this  rate, 
you  will  not  have  done  carrying  them  over  in  a  twelvemonth." 
*'  How  many  are  passed  already  ?  "  said  Sancho,  &c. 

Observe  the  happy  contrast  between  the  all-generalizing 
mind  of  the  mad  knight,  and  Sancho's  all-particularizing 
memory.  How  admirable  a  symbol  of  the  dependence  of 
all  copula  on  the  higher  powers  of  the  mind,  with  the  single 
exception  of  the  succession  in  time  and  the  accidental 
relations  of  space.  Men  of  mere  common  sense  have  no 
theory  or  means  of  making  one  fact  more  important  or 
prominent  than  the  rest ;  if  they  lose  one  link,  all  is 
lost.  Compare  Mrs.  Quickly  and  the  Tapster.^  And 
note  also  Sancho's  good  heart,  when  his  master  is  about 
to  leave  him.  Don  Quixote's  conduct  upon  discovering 
the  fulling-hammers,  proves  he  was  meant  to  be  in  his 
senses.  Nothing  can  be  better  conceived  than  his  fit  of 
passion  at  Sancho's  laughing,  and  his  sophism  of  self- 
justification  by  the  courage  he  had  shown. 

Sancho  is  by  this  time  cured,  through  experience,  as  far 
as  his  own  errors  are  concerned  ;  yet  still  is  he  lured  on  by 

1  See  the  Friend,  vol.  iii.  p.  138.     £<i. 


Lecture  VIII.  257 

the  unconquerable  awe  of  his  master's  superiority,  even 
when  he  is  cheating  him. 

C.  8.  The  adventure  of  the  Galley-slaves.  I  think  this 
is  the  only  passage  of  moment  in  which  Cervantes  slips  the 
mask  of  his  hero,  and  speaks  for  himself. 

C.  9.  Don  Quixote  desired  to  have  it,  and  bade  him  take  the 
money,  and  keep  it  for  himself.  Sancho  kissed  his  hands  for  the 
favour,  &c. 

Observe  Sancho' s  eagerness  to  avail  himself  of  the  per- 
mission of  his  master,  who,  in  the  war  sports  of  knight- 
errantry,  had,  without  any  selfish  dishonesty,  overlooked 
the  meiim  and  tumn.  Sancho's  selfishness  is  modified  by 
his  involuntary  goodness  of  heart,  and  Don  Quixote's 
flighty  goodness  is  debased  by  the  involuntary  or  un- 
conscious selfishness  of  his  vanity  and  self-applause. 

C.  10.  Cardenio  is  the  madman  of  passion,  who  meets 
and  easily  overthrows  for  the  moment  the  madman  of 
imagination.  And  note  the  contagion  of  madness  of  any 
kind,  upon  Don  Quixote's  interruption  of  Cardenio's  story. 

C.  II.  Perhaps  the  best  specimen  of  Sancho's  pro- 
verbializing  is  this  : 

"  And  I  (Don  Q.)  sa}''  again,  they  He,  and  will  lie  two  hundred 
times  more,  all  who  say,  or  think  her  so."  "  I  neither  say,  nor 
think  so,"  answered  Sancho  ;  "  let  those  who  say  it,  eat  the  lie, 
and  swallow  it  with  their  bread  :  whether  they  were  guilty  or  no, 
they  have  given  an  account  to  God  before  now  :  I  come  from  my 
vineyard,  I  know  nothing  ;  I  am  no  friend  to  inquiring  into  other 
men's  lives  ;  for  he  that  buys  and  lies  shall  find  the  lie  left  in  his 
purse  behind  ;  besides,  naked  was  I  born,  and  naked  I  remain  ;  I 
neither  win  nor  lose  ;  if  they  were  guilty,  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
Many  think  to  find  bacon,  where  there  is  not  so  much  as  a  pin  to 
hang  it  on  :  bul  who  can  hedge  in  the  cuckoo  ?  Especially,  do 
they  spare  God  himself  ?  " 

lb.  "  And  it  is  no  great  matter,  if  it  be  in  another  hand  ;  for 
by  what  I  remember,  Dulcinea  can  neither  write  nor  read,"  &c. 

The  wonderful  twilight  of  the  mind  !  and  mark  Cer- 
vantes's  courage  in  daring  to  present  it,  and  trust  to  a 
distant  posterity  for  an  appreciation  of  its  truth  to  nature. 

P.  II.  B.  III.  c.  9.  Sancho's  account  of  what  he  had  seen 
on  Clavileno  is  a  counterpart  in  his  style  to  Don  Quixote's 
adventures  in  the  cave  of  Montesinos.  This  last  is  the  only 
impeachment  of  the  knight's  moral  character  ;  Cervantes 
just  gives  one  instance  of  the  veracity  failing  before  the 
strong  cravings  of  the  imagination  for  something  real  and 
I 


258  Course  of  Lectures 

external ;  the  picture  would  not  have  been  complete  with- 
out  this  ;  and  yet  it  is  so  well  managed,  that  the  reader  has 
no  unpleasant  sense  of  Don  Quixote  having  told  a  lie.  It 
is  evident  that  he  hardly  knows  whether  it  was  a  dream  or 
not ;  and  goes  to  the  enchanter  to  inquire  the  real  nature  of 
the  adventure. 

Summary  of  Cervantes. 

A  Castilian  of  refined  manners  ;  a  gentleman,  true  to 
religion,  and  true  to  honour. 

A  scholar  and  a  soldier,  and  fought  under  the  banners  of 
Don  John  of  Austria,  at  Lepanto,  lost  his  arm  and  was 
captured. 

Endured  slavery  not  only  with  fortitude,  but  with  mirth  ; 
and  by  the  superiority  of  nature,  mastered  and  overawed 
his  barbarian  owner. 

Finally  ransomed,  he  resumed  his  native  destiny,  the 
awful  task  of  achieving  fame  ;  and  for  that  reason  died 
poor  and  a  prisoner,  while  nobles  and  kings  over  their 
goblets  of  gold  gave  relish  to  their  pleasures  by  the  charms 
of  his  divine  genius.  He  was  the  inventor  of  novels  for 
the  Spaniards,  and  in  his  Persilis  and  Sigismunda,  the 
English  may  find  the  germ  of  their  Robinson  Crusoe. 

The  world  was  a  drama  to  him.  His  own  thoughts,  in 
spite  of  poverty  and  sickness,  perpetuated  for  him  the 
feelings  of  youth.  He  painted  only  what  he  knew  and  had 
looked  into,  but  he  knew  and  had  looked  into  much  indeed  ; 
and  his  imagination  was  ever  at  hand  to  adapt  and  modify 
the  world  of  his  experience.  Of  delicious  love  he  fabled, 
yet  with  stainless  virtue. 


LECTURE    IX. 

On  the  Distinctions  of  the  Witty,  the  Droll,  the  Odd,  and  the 
Humourous  ;  the  Nature  and  Constituents  of  Humour  : 
— Rabelais — Swift — Sterne. 

I. 

Perhaps  the  most  important  of  our  intellectual  operations 
are  those  of  detecting  the  difference  in  similar,  and  the 
identity  in  dissimilar,  things.     Out  of  the  latter  operation 


Lecture  IX.  259 

it  is  that  wit  arises  ;  and  it,  generically  regarded,  consists 
in  presenting  thoughts  or  images  in  an  unusual  connection 
with  each  other,  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  pleasure  by 
the  surprise.  This  connection  may  be  real ;  and  there  is 
in  fact  a  scientific  wit ;  though  where  the  object,  con- 
sciously entertained,  is  truth,  and  not  amusement,  we 
commonly  give  it  some  higher  name.  But  in  wit  popularly 
understood,  the  connection  may  be,  and  for  the  most  part 
is,  apparent  only,  and  transitory  ;  and  this  connection 
may  be  by  thoughts,  or  by  words,  or  by  images.  The  first 
is  our  Butler's  especial  eminence  ;  the  second,  Voltaire's  ; 
the  third,  which  we  oftener  call  fancy,  constitutes  the 
larger  and  more  peculiar  part  of  the  wit  of  Shakspeare. 
You  can  scarcely  turn  to  a  single  speech  of  Falstaff's 
without  finding  instances  of  it.  Nor  does  wit  always 
cease  to  deserve  the  name  by  being  transient,  or  incapable 
of  analysis.  I  may  add  that  the  wit  of  thoughts  belongs 
eminently  to  the  Italians,  that  of  words  to  the  French, 
and  that  of  images  to  the  English. 

II.  Where  the  laughable  is  its  own  end,  and  neither 
inference,  nor  moral  is  intended,  or  where  at  least  the 
writer  would  wish  it  so  to  appear,  there  arises  what  we 
call  droUery.  The  pure,  unmixed,  ludicrous  or  laughable 
belongs  exclusively  to  the  understanding,  and  must  be 
presented  under  the  form  of  the  senses  ;  it  lies  within  the 
spheres  of  the  eye  and  the  ear,  and  hence  is  allied  to  the 
fancy.  It  does  not  appertain  to  the  reason  or  the  moral 
sense,  and  accordingly  is  alien  to  the  imagination.  I  think 
Aristotle  has  already  excellently  defined  ^  the  laughable, 
ro  yiXom,  as  consisting  of,  or  depending  on,  what  is  out 
of  its  proper  time  and  place,  yet  without  danger  or  pain. 
Here  the  impropriety — rh  aroirov — is  the  positive  qualifi- 
cation ;  the  danger lessness  —  rh  dx/vduvov  —  the  negative. 
Neither  the  understanding  without  an  object  of  the 
senses,  as  for  example,  a  mere  notional  error,  or  idiocy  ; 
— nor  any  external  object,  unless  attributed  to  the  under- 

1  He  elsewhere  commends  this  Def. :  "To  resolve  laughter  into  an  expression  of 
contempt  is  contrary  to  fact,  and  laughable  enough.  Laughter  is  a  convulsion  of  the 
nerves,  and  it  seems  as  if  nature  cut  short  the  rapid  thrill  of  pleasure  on  the  nerves  by 
a  sudden  convulsion  of  them  to  prevent  the  sensation  becoming  painful — ArnstotU's 
Def.  is  as  good  as  can  be.  Surprise  at  perceiving  anything  out  of  its  usual  place  when 
the  unusualness  is  not  accompanied  by  a  sense  of  serious  danger.  Such  surprise  is 
always  pleasurable,  and  it  is  observable  that  surprise  accompanied  with  circumstances 
of  danger  becomes  Tragic.  Hence  Farce  may  often  borcUr  on  Tragedy;  indeed 
Farce  is  nearer  Tragedy  in  its  Essence  than  Comedy  is. " 

Table  Talk. 


26o  Course  of  Lectures 

standing,  can  produce  the  poetically  laughable.  Nay, 
even  in  ridiculous  positions  of  the  body  laughed  at  by  the 
vulgar,  there  is  a  subtle  personification  always  going  on, 
which  acts  on  the,  perhaps,  unconscious  mind  of  the 
spectator  as  a  symbol  of  intellectual  character.  And  hence 
arises  the  imperfect  and  awkward  effect  of  comic  stories  of 
animals  ;  because  although  the  understanding  is  satisfied 
in  them,  the  senses  are  not.  Hence  too,  it  is,  that  the  true 
ludicrous  is  its  own  end.  When  serious  satire  commences, 
or  satire  that  is  felt  as  serious,  however  comically  drest, 
free  and  genuine  laughter  ceases  ;  it  becomes  sardonic. 
This  you  experience  in  reading  Young,  and  also  not  un- 
frequently  in  Butler.  The  true  comic  is  the  blossom  of 
the  nettle. 

III.  When  words  or  images  are  placed  in  unusual  juxta- 
position rather  than  connection,  and  are  so  placed  merely 
because  the  juxta-position  is  unusual — we  have  the  odd  or 
the  grotesque  ;  the  occasional  use  of  which  in  the  minor 
ornaments  of  architecture,  is  an  interesting  problem  for  a 
student  in  the  psychology  of  the  Fine  Arts. 

IV.  In  the  simply  laughable  there  is  a  mere  dispropor- 
tion between  a  definite  act  and  a  definite  purpose  or  end, 
or  a  disproportion  of  the  end  itself  to  the  rank  or  circum- 
stances of  the  definite  person  ;  but  humour  is  of  more 
difficult  description.  I  must  try  to  define  it  in  the  first 
place  by  its  points  of  diversity  from  the  former  species. 
Humour  does  not,  like  the  different  kinds  of  wit,  which  is 
impersonal,  consist  wholly  in  the  understanding  and  the 
senses.  No  combination  of  thoughts,  words,  or  images 
wiU  of  itself  constitute  humour,  unless  some  peculiarity  of 
individual  temperament  and  character  be  indicated  there- 
by, as  the  cause  of  the  same.  Compare  the  comedies  of 
Congreve  with  the  Falstaff  in  Henry  IV.  or  with  Sterne's 
Corporal  Trim,  Uncle  Toby,  and  Mr.  Shandy,  or  with 
some  of  Steele's  charming  papers  in  the  Tatler,  and  you 
will  feel  the  difference  better  than  I  can  express  it.  Thus 
again  (to  take  an  instance  from  the  different  works  of  the 
same  writer),  in  SmoUett's  Strap,  his  Lieutenant  Bowling, 
his  Morgan  the  honest  Welshman,  and  his  Matthew 
Bramble,  we  have  exquisite  humour, — while  in  his  Pere- 
grine Pickle  we  find  an  abundance  of  drollery,  which  too 
often  degenerates  into  mere  oddity  ;  in  short,  we  feel  that 
a  number  of  things  are  put  together  to  counterfeit  humour. 


Lecture  IX.  261 

but  that  there  is  no  growth  from  within.  And  this  indeed 
is  the  origin  of  the  word,  derived  from  the  humoral  patho- 
logy, and  excellently  described  by  Ben  Jonson  : 

So  in  every  human  body, 
The  choler,  melancholy,  phlegm,  and  blood, 
By  reason  that  they  flow  continually 
In  some  one  part,  and  are  not  continent, 
Receive  the  name  of  humours.     Now  thus  far 
It  may,  by  metaphor,  apply  itself 
Unto  the  general  disposition  : 
As  when  some  one  peculiar  quality 
Doth  so  possess  a  man,  that  it  doth  draw 
All  his  effects,  his  spirits,  and  his  powers. 
In  their  confluctions,  all  to  run  one  way. 
This  may  be  truly  said  to  be  a  humour.^ 

Hence  we  may  explain  the  congeniality  of  humour  with 
pathos,  so  exquisite  in  Sterne  and  Smollett,  and  hence  also 
the  tender  feeling  which  we  always  have  for,  and  associate 
with,  the  humours  or  hobby-horses  of  a  man.  First,  we 
respect  a  humourist,  because  absence  of  interested  motive  is 
the  groundwork  of  the  character,  although  the  imagination 
of  an  interest  may  exist  in  the  individual  himself,  as  if  a 
remarkably  simple-hearted  man  should  pride  himself  on  his 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  how  well  he  can  manage  it : 
— and  secondly,  there  always  is  in  a  genuine  humour  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  hoUowness  and  farce  of  the  world, 
and  its  disproportion  to  the  godlike  within  us.  And  it 
follows  immediately  from  this,  that  whenever  particular 
acts  have  reference  to  particular  selfish  motives,  the 
humourous  bursts  into  the  indignant  and  abhorring ; 
whilst  all  follies  not  selfish  are  pardoned  or  palliated. 
The  danger  of  this  habit,  in  respect  of  pure  morality,  is 
strongly  exemplified  in  Sterne. 

This  would  be  enough,  and  indeed  less  than  this  has 
passed,  for  a  sufficient  account  of  humour,  if  we  did  not 
recollect  that  not  every  predominance  of  character,  even 
where  not  precluded  by  the  moral  sense,  as  in  criminal 
dispositions,  constitutes  what  we  mean  by  a  humourist, 
or  the  presentation  of  its  produce,  humour.  What  then 
is  it  ?  Is  it  manifold  ?  Or  is  there  some  one  humorific 
point  common  to  all  that  can  be  called  humorous  ? — I 
am  not  prepared  to  answer  this  fully,  even  if  my  time 
permitted  ;   but  I  think  there  is  ; — and  that  it  consists  in 

1  Every  Man  Out  Of  His  Humour.     Prologue. 


262  Course  of  Lectures 

a  certain  reference  to  the  general  and  the  universal,  by 
which  the  finite  great  is  brought  into  identity  with  the 
little,  or  the  little  with  the  finite  great,  so  as  to  make  both 
nothing  in  comparison  with  the  infinite.  The  little  is 
made  great,  and  the  great  little,  in  order  to  destroy  both  ; 
because  all  is  equal  in  contrast  with  the  infinite.  "  It  is 
not  without  reason,  brother  Toby,  that  learned  men  write 
dialogues  on  long  noses."  ^  I  would  suggest,  therefore, 
that  whenever  a  finite  is  contemplated  in  reference  to  the 
infinite,  whether  consciously  or  unconsciously,  humour 
essentially  arises.  In  the  highest  humour,  at  least,  there 
is  always  a  reference  to,  and  a  connection  with,  some 
general  power  not  finite,  in  the  form  of  some  finite  ridicu- 
lously disproportionate  in  our  feelings  to  that  of  which  it 
is,  nevertheless,  the  representative,  or  by  which  it  is  to  be 
displayed.  Humorous  writers,  therefore,  as  Sterne  in 
particular,  dehght,  after  much  preparation,  to  end  in 
nothing,  or  in  a  direct  contradiction. 

That  there  is  some  truth  in  this  definition,  or  origina- 
tion of  humour,  is  evident ;  for  you  cannot  conceive  a 
humorous  man  who  does  not  give  some  disproportionate 
generahty,  or  even  a  universality  to  his  hobby-horse,  as  is 
the  case  with  Mr.  Shandy  ;  or  at  least  there  is  an  absence 
of  any  interest  but  what  arises  from  the  humour  itself,  as 
in  my  Uncle  Toby,  and  it  is  the  idea  of  the  soul,  of  its  un- 
defined capacity  and  dignity,  that  gives  the  sting  to  any 
absorption  of  it  by  any  one  pursuit,  and  this  not  in  respect 
of  the  humourist  as  a  mere  member  of  society  for  a  par- 
ticular, however  mistaken,  interest,  but  as  a  man. 

The  English  humour  is  the  most  thoughtful,  the  Spanish 
the  most  etherial — the  most  ideal — of  modern  literature. 
Amongst  the  classic  ancients  there  was  Httle  or  no  humour 
in  the  foregoing  sense  of  the  term.  Socrates,  or  Plato  under 
his  name,  gives  some  notion  of  humour  in  the  Banquet, 
when  he  argues  that  tragedy  and  comedy  rest  upon  the 
same  ground.  But  humour  properly  took  its  rise  in  the 
middle  ages  ;  and  the  Devil,  the  Vice  of  the  mysteries, 
incorporates  the  modem  humour  in  its  elements.  It  is 
a  spirit  measured  by  disproportionate  finites.  The  Devil 
is  not,  indeed,  perfectly  humorous  ;  but  that  is  only  be- 
cause he  is  the  extreme  of  all  humour, 

1  Trist.  Sh.  Vol.  iii.  c.  w. 


Lecture  IX.  263 

RABELAIS.i 

Bom  at  Chinon,  1483-4. — Died  1553. 

One  cannot  help  regretting  that  no  friend  of  Rabelais, 
(and  surely  friends  he  must  have  had),  has  left  an  authentic 
account  of  him.  His  buffoonery  was  not  merely  Brutus' 
rough  stick,  which  contained  a  rod  of  gold ;  it  was 
necessary  as  an  amulet  against  the  monks  and  bigots. 
Beyond  a  doubt,  he  was  among  the  deepest  as  well  as 
boldest  thinkers  of  his  age.  Never  was  a  more  plausible, 
and  seldom,  I  am  persuaded,  a  less  appropriate  line  than 
the  thousand  times  quoted, 

Rabelais  laughing  in  his  easy  chair — 

of  Mr.  Pope.  The  caricature  of  his  filth  and  zanyism 
proves  how  fully  he  both  knew  and  felt  the  danger  in  which 
he  stood.  I  could  write  a  treatise  in  proof  and  praise  of  the 
morality  and  moral  elevation  of  Rabelais*  work  which 
would  make  the  church  stare,  and  the  conventicle  groan, 
and  yet  should  be  the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  I 
class  Rabelais  with  the  creative  minds  of  the  world,  Shak- 
speare,  Dante,  Cervantes,  &c. 

All  Rabelais'  personages  are  phantasmagoric  allegories, 
but  Panurge  above  all.  He  is  throughout  the  -ravou^/Za, — 
the  wisdom,  that  is,  the  cunning  of  the  human  animal, — 
the  understanding,  cls  the  faculty  of  means  to  purposes 
without  ultimate  ends,  in  a  most  comprehensive  sense,  and 
including  art,  sensuous  fancy,  and  all  the  passions  of  the 
understanding.  It  is  impossible  to  read  Rabelais  without 
an  admiration  mixed  with  wonder  at  the  depth  and  extent 
of  his  learning,  his  multifarious  knowledge,  and  original 
observation  beyond  what  books  could  in  that  age  have 
supplied  him  with. 

B.  III.  c.  9.  How  Panurge  asketh  counsel  of  Pantagruel, 
whether  he  should  marry,  yea  or  no. 

Note  this  incomparable  chapter.  Pantagruel  stands  for 
the  reason  as  contradistinguished  from  the  understanding 

1  No  note  remains  of  that  part  of  this  Lecture  which  treated  of  Rabelais.  This 
seems,  therefore,  a  convenient  place  for  the  reception  of  some  remarks  written  by  Mr. 
C.  in  Mr.  Gillman's  copy  of  Rabelais,  about  the  year  1825.  See  Table  Talk,  vol.  i.  p. 
177.     Ed. 


264  Course  of  Lectures 

and  choice,  that  is,  from  Panurge  ;  and  the  humour  con- 
sists in  the  latter  asking  advice  of  the  former  on  a  subject 
in  which  the  reason  can  only  give  the  inevitable  conclusion, 
the  syllogistic  ergo,  from  the  premisses  pro\'ided  by  the 
understanding  itself,  which  puts  each  case  so  as  of  necessity 
to  predetermine  the  verdict  thereon.  This  chapter,  in- 
dependently of  the  allegory,  is  an  exquisite  satire  on  the 
spirit  in  which  people  commonly  ask  advice. 

SWIFT.i 

Bom  in  Dublin,  1667. — Died  1745. 

In  Swift's  writings  there  is  a  false  misanthropy  grounded 
upon  an  exclusive  contemplation  of  the  vices  and  follies  of 
mankind,  and  this  misanthropic  tone  is  also  disfigured  or 
brutalized  by  his  obtrusion  of  physical  dirt  and  coarseness. 
I  think  Gulliver's  Travels  the  great  work  of  Swift.  In  the 
voyages  to  Lilliput  and  Brobdingnag  he  displays  the  little- 
ness and  moral  contemptibility  of  human  nature  ;  in  that 
to  the  Houyhnhnms  he  represents  the  disgusting  spectacle 
of  man  with  the  understanding  only,  without  the  reason  or 
the  moral  feeling,  and  in  his  horse  he  gives  the  misanthropic 
ideal  of  man  — that  is,  a  being  virtuous  from  rule  and  duty, 
but  untouched  by  the  principle  of  love. 

STERNE. 

Born  at  Clonmel,  1713. — Died  1768. 

With  regard  to  Sterne,  and  the  charge  of  licentiousness 
which  presses  so  seriously  upon  his  character  as  a  writer, 
I  would  remark  that  there  is  a  sort  of  knowingness,  the  wit 
of  which  depends — ist,  on  the  modesty  it  gives  pain  to  ; 
or,  2dly,  on  the  innocence  and  innocent  ignorance  over 
which  it  triumphs  ;  or,  3dly,  on  a  certain  oscillation  in  the 
individual's  own  mind  between  the  remaining  good  and  the 
encroaching  evil  of  his  nature — a  sort  of  dallying  with  the 
devil — afiuxionaryact  of  combining  courage  and  cowardice, 
as  when  a  man  snuffs  a  candle  with  his  fingers  for  the  first 

1  From  Mr.  Green's  note.     Ed. 


Lecture  IX.  265 

time,  or  better  still,  perhaps,  like  that  trembling  daring 
with  which  a  child  touches  a  hot  tea  urn,  because  it  has 
been  forbidden  ;  so  that  the  mind  has  in  its  own  white  and 
black  angel  the  same  or  similar  amusement,  as  may  be 
supposed  to  take  place  between  an  old  debauchee  and  a 
prude, — she  feeling  resentment,  on  the  one  hand,  from 
a  prudential  anxiety  to  preserve  appearances  and  have  a 
character,  and,  on  the  other,  an  inward  sympathy  with  the 
enemy.  We  have  only  to  suppose  society  innocent,  and 
then  nine-tenths  of  this  sort  of  wit  would  be  like  a  stone 
that  falls  in  snow,  making  no  sound  because  exciting  no 
resistance  ;  the  remainder  rests  on  its  being  an  offence 
against  the  good  manners  of  human  nature  itself. 

This  source,  unworthy  as  it  is,  may  doubtless  be  com- 
bined with  wit,  drollery,  fancy,  and  even  humour,  and  we 
have  only  to  regret  the  misalliance  ;  but  that  the  latter  are 
quite  distinct  from  the  former,  may  be  made  evident  by 
abstracting  in  our  imagination  the  morality  of  the  char- 
acters of  Mr.  Shandy,  my  Uncle  Toby,  and  Trim,  which 
are  all  antagonists  to  this  spurious  sort  of  wit,  from  the 
rest  of  Tristram  Shandy.  And  by  supposing,  instead  of 
them,  the  presence  of  two  or  three  callous  debauchees. 
The  result  will  be  pure  disgust.  Sterne  cannot  be  too 
severely  censured  for  thus  using  the  best  dispositions  of 
our  nature  as  the  panders  and  condiments  for  the  basest. 

The  excellencies  of  Sterne  consist — 

I.  In  bringing  forward  into  distinct  consciousness  those 
minutiae  of  thought  and  feeling  which  appear  trifles,  yet 
have  an  importance  for  the  moment,  and  which  almost 
every  man  feels  in  one  way  or  other.  Thus  is  produced  the 
novelty  of  an  individual  peculiarity,  together  with  the 
interest  of  a  something  that  belongs  to  our  common  nature. 
In  short,  Sterne  seizes  happily  on  those  points,  in  which 
every  man  is  more  or  less  a  humourist.  And,  indeed,  to 
be  a  little  more  subtle,  the  propensity  to  notice  these  things 
does  itself  constitute  the  humourist,  and  the  superadded 
power  of  so  presenting  them  to  men  in  general  gives  us  the 
man  of  humour.  Hence  the  difference  of  the  man  of 
humour,  the  effect  of  whose  portraits  does  not  depend  on 
the  felt  presence  of  himself,  as  a  humourist,  as  in  the  in- 
stances of  Cervantes  and  Shakspeare — nay,  of  Rabelais  too  ; 
and  of  the  humourist,  the  effect  of  whose  works  does  very 
much  depend  on  the  sense  of  his  own  oddity,  as  in  Sterne's 


266  Course  of  Lectures 

case,   and  perhaps  Swift's  ;    though  Swift  again  would 
require  a  separate  classification. 

2.  In  the  traits  of  human  nature,  which  so  easily  assume 
a  particular  cast  and  colour  from  individual  character. 
Hence  this  excellence  and  the  pathos  connected  with  it 
quickly  pass  into  humour,  and  form  the  ground  of  it.  See 
particularly  the  beautiful  passage,  so  well  known,  of  Uncle 
Toby's  catching  and  liberating  the  fly  : 

"  Go," — says  he,  one  day  at  dinner,  to  an  overgrown  one  which 
had  buzzed  about  his  nose,  and  tormented  him  cruelly  all  dinner- 
time, and  which,  after  infinite  attempts,  he  had  caught  at  last,  as 
it  flew  by  him  ; — "  I'll  not  hurt  thee,"  says  my  Uncle  Toby,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  going  across  the  room,  with  the  fly  in  his  hand, 
— "  I'll  not  hurt  a  hair  of  thy  head  : — "  Go,"  says  he,  lifting  up  the 
sash,  and  opening  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  to  let  it  escape  ; — "  go, 
poor  devil,  get  thee  gone,  why  should  I  hurt  thee  ?  This  world  is 
surely  wide  enough  to  hold  both  thee  and  me."     Vol.  ii.  ch.  12. 

Observe  in  this  incident  how  individual  character  may  be 
given  by  the  mere  delicacy  of  presentation  and  elevation 
in  degree  of  a  common  good  quality,  humanity,  which  in 
itself  would  not  be  characteristic  at  all. 

3.  In  Mr.  Shandy's  character, — the  essence  of  which  is 
a  craving  for  sympathy  in  exact  proportion  to  the  oddity 
and  unsympathizability  of  what  he  proposes ; — this 
coupled  with  an  instinctive  desire  to  be  at  least  disputed 
with,  or  rather  both  in  one,  to  dispute  and  yet  to  agree — 
and  holding  as  worst  of  all — to  acquiesce  without  either 
resistance  or  sjmipathy.  This  is  charmingly,  indeed,  pro- 
foundly conceived,  and  is  psychologically  and  ethically 
true  of  all  Mr.  Shandies.  Note,  too,  how  the  contrasts  of 
character,  which  are  always  either  balanced  or  remedied, 
increase  the  love  between  the  brothers. 

4.  No  writer  is  so  happy  as  Sterne  in  the  unexaggerated 
and  truly  natural  representation  of  that  species  of  slander, 
which  consists  in  gossiping  about  our  neighbours,  as  whet- 
stones of  our  moral  discrimination ;  as  if  they  were 
conscience-blocks  which  we  used  in  our  apprenticeship, 
in  order  not  to  waste  such  precious  materials  as  our  own 
consciences  in  the  trimming  and  shaping  of  ourselves  by 
self-examination  : — 

Alas  o'day  ! — had  Mrs.  Shandy,  (poor  gentlewoman  !)  had  but 
her  wish  in  going  up  to  town  just  to  lie  in  and  come  down  again  ; 


Lecture  IX.  267 

which,  they  say,  she  begged  and  prayed  for  upon  her  bare  knees, 
and  which,  in  my  opinion,  considering  the  fortune  which  Mr. 
Shandy  got  with  her,  was  no  such  mighty  matter  to  have  complied 
with,  the  lady  and  her  babe  might  both  of  them  have  been  alive  at 
this  hour.     Vol.  i.  c.  i8. 

5.  When  you  have  secured  a  man's  Hkings  and  pre- 
judices in  your  favour,  you  may  then  safely  appeal  to  his 
impartial  judgment.  In  the  following  passage  not  only 
is  acute  sense  shrouded  in  wit,  but  a  life  and  a  character 
are  added  which  exalt  the  whole  into  the  dramatic  : — 

"  I  see  plainly.  Sir,  by  your  looks  "  (or  as  the  case  happened)  my 
father  would  say — "  that  you  do  not  heartily  subscribe  to  this 
opinion  of  mine — which,  to  those,"  he  would  add,  "  who  have  not 
carefully  sifted  it  to  the  bottom, — I  own  has  an  air  more  of  fancy 
than  of  solid  reasoning  in  it ;  and  yet,  my  dear  Sir,  if  I  may  pre- 
sume to  know  your  character,  I  am  morally  assured  I  should 
hazard  little  in  stating  a  case  to  you,  not  as  a  party  in  the  dispute, 
but  as  a  judge,  and  trusting  my  appeal  upon  it  to  your  good  sense 
and  candid  disquisition  in  this  matter  ;  you  are  a  persoA  free  from 
as  many  narrow  prejudices  of  education  as  most  men  ;  and,  if  I  may 
presume  to  penetrate  farther  into  you,  of  a  liberality  of  genius 
above  bearing  down  an  opinion,  merely  because  it  wants  friends. 
Your  son, — your  dear  son, — from  whose  sweet  and  open  temper 
you  have  so  much  to  expect, — your  Billy,  Sir  ! — would  you, 
for  the  world,  have  called  him  Judas  ?  Would  you,  my  dear 
Sir,"  he  would  say,  laying  his  hand  upon  your  breast,  with  the 
genteelest  address, — and  in  that  soft  and  irresistible  piano  of  voice, 
which  the  nature  of  the  argumentum  ad  hominem  absolutely  re- 
quires,— "  Would  you,  Sir,  if  a  Jew  of  a  godfather  had  proposed 
the  name  for  your  child,  and  offered  you  his  purse  along  with  it, 
would  you  have  consented  to  such  a  desecration  of  him  ?  O  my 
God  !  "  he  would  say,  looking  up,  "  if  I  know  your  temper  rightly. 
Sir,  you  are  incapable  of  it  ; — you  would  have  trampled  upon  the 
offer  ; — you  would  have  thrown  the  temptation  at  the  tempter's 
head  with  abhorrence.  Your  greatness  of  mind  in  this  action, 
which  I  admire,  with  that  generous  contempt  of  money,  which 
you  show  me  in  the  whole  transaction,  is  really  noble  ; — and  what 
renders  it  more  so,  is  the  principle  of  it ; — the  workings  of  a  parent's 
love  upon  the  truth  and  conviction  of  this  very  hypothesis,  namely, 
that  were  your  son  called  Judas, — the  sordid  and  treacherous  idea, 
so  inseparable  from  the  name,  would  have  accompanied  him  through 
life  like  his  shadow,  and  in  the  end  made  a  miser  and  a  rascal  of 
him,  in  spite.  Sir,  of  your  example."     Vol.  i.  c.  19. 

6.  There  is  great  physiognomic  tact  in  Sterne.  See  it 
particularly  displayed  in  his  description  of  Dr.  Slop, 
accompanied  with  all  that  happiest  use  of  drapery  and 
attitude,  which  at  once  give  reality  by  individualizing  and 
vividness  by  unusual,  yet  probable,  combinations  : — 

Imagine  to  yourself  a  little  squat  uncourtly  figure  of  a  Doctor 


268  Course  of  Lectures 

Slop,  of  about  four  feet  and  a  half  perpendicular  height,  with  a 
breadth  of  back,  and  a  sesquipedality  of  belly,  which  might  have 
done  honour  to  a  serjeant  in  the  horseguards. 

«  *  K  *  * 

Imagine  such  a  one  ; — for  such,  I  say,  were  the  outlines  of  Doctor 
Slop's  figure,  coming  slowly  along,  foot  by  foot,  waddling  through 
the  dirt  upon  the  vertebrce  of  a  little  diminutive  pony,  of  a  pretty 
colour — but  of  strength, — alack  !  scarce  able  to  have  made  an 
amble  of  it,  under  such  a  fardel,  had  the  roads  been  in  an  ambling 
condition  ; — they  were  not.  Imagine  to  yourself  Obadiah  mounted 
upon  a  strong  monster  of  a  coach-horse,  pricked  into  a  full  gallop, 
and  making  all  practicable  speed  the  adverse  way.     Vol.  ii.  c.  9. 

7.  I  think  there  is  more  humour  in  the  single  remark, 
which  I  have  quoted  before — "  Learned  men,  brother 
Toby,  don't  write  dialogues  upon  long  noses  for  nothing  !  " 
— than  in  the  whole  Slawkenburghian  tale  that  follows, 
which  is  mere  oddity  interspersed  with  drollery.  ^ 

8.  Note  Sterne's  assertion  of,  and  faith  in  a  moral  good 
in  the  characters  of  Trim,  Toby,  &c.  as  contrasted  with  the 
cold  scepticism  of  motives  which  is  the  stamp  of  the 
Jacobin  spirit.     Vol.  v.  c.  9. 

9.  You  must  bear  in  mind,  in  order  to  do  justice  to 
Rabelais  and  Sterne,  that  by  right  of  humoristic  univer- 
sality each  part  is  essentially  a  whole  in  itself.  Hence  the 
digressive  spirit  is  not  mere  wantonness,  but  in  fact  the 
very  form  and  vehicle  of  their  genius.  The  connection, 
such  as  was  needed,  is  given  by  the  continuity  of  the 
characters. 

Instances  of  different  forms  of  wit,  taken  largely  : 

1.  "  Why  are  you  reading  romances  at  your  age  ?  " — "  Why,  1 
used  to  be  fond  of  history,  but  I  have  given  it  up, — it  was  so  grossly 
improbable." 

2.  "  Pray,  sir,  do  it  ! — although  you  have  promised  me." 

3.  The  Spartan's  mother — 

"  Return  with,  or  on,  thy  shield." 

"  My  sword  is  too  short  !  " — "  Take  a  step  forwarder." 

4.  The  Gasconade  : — 

"  I  believe  you,  Sir  !  but  you  will  excuse  my  repeating  it  on 
account  of  my  provincial  accent." 

5.  Pasquil  on  Pope  Urban,  who  had  employed  a  com- 
mittee to  rip  up  the  old  errors  of  his  predecessors. 

Some  one  placed  a  pair  of  spurs  on  the  heels  of  the 


Lecture  X.  269 

statue  of  St.  Peter,  and  a  label  from  the  opposite  statue 
of  St.  Paul,  on  the  same  bridge  ; — 

St.  Paul.  "  Whither  then  are  you  bound  ?  " 

Si.  Peter.  "  I  apprehend  danger  here  ; — they'll  soon  call  me  in 
question  for  denying  my  Master." 

St.  Paul.  "  Nay,  then,  I  had  better  be  off  too  ;  for  they'll  question 
me  for  having  persecuted  the  Christians,  before  my  conversion." 

6.  Speaking  of  the  small  German  potentates,  I  dictated 
the  phrase, — officious  for  equivalents.  This  my  amanu- 
ensis wrote, — fishing  for  elephants  ; — which,  as  I  observed 
at  the  time,  was  a  sort  of  Noah's  angling,  that  could 
hardly  have  occurred,  except  at  the  commencement  of  the 
Deluge. 


LECTURE    X. 

Donne — Dante — Milton — Paradise  Lost. 

DONNE.i 
Born  in  London,  1573. — Died,  1631. 


With  Donne,  whose  muse  on  dromedary  trots, 
Wreathe  iron  pokers  into  true-love  knots  ; 
Rhyme's  sturdy  cripple,  fancy's  maze  and  clue, 
Wit's  forge  and  fire-blast,  meaning's  press  and  screw. 

II. 

See  lewdness  and  theology  combin'd, — 

A  cynic  and  a  sycophantic  mind  ; 

A  fancy  shar'd  party  per  pale  between 

Death's  heads  and  skeletons,  and  Aretine  ! — 

Not  his  peculiar  defect  or  crime, 

But  the  true  current  mintage  of  the  time. 

Such  were  the  establish'd  signs  and  tokens  given 

To  mark  a  loyal  churchman,  sound  and  even. 

Free  from  papistic  and  fanatic  leaven. 

The  wit  of  Donne,  the  wit  of  Butler,  the  wit  of  Pope,  the 
wit  of  Congreve,  the  wit  of  Sheridan — how  many  disparate 
things  are  here  expressed  by  one  and  the  same  word.  Wit ! 

1  Nothing  remains  of  what  was  said  on  Donne  in  this  Lecture.  Here,  therefore,  as 
in  previous  like  instances,  the  gap  is  filled  up  with  some  notes  written  by  Mr.  Coleridge 
in  a  volume  of  Chalmers'  Poets,  belonging  to  Mr.  Gillman.     The  verses  were  added  in 


270  Course  of  Lectures 

— Wonder-exciting  vigour,  intenseness  and  peculiarity  of 
thought,  using  at  will  the  almost  boundless  stores  of  a 
capacious  memory,  and  exercised  on  subjects,  where  we 
have  no  right  to  expect  it — this  is  the  wit  of  Donne  !  The 
four  others  I  am  just  in  the  mood  to  describe  and  inter- 
distinguish  ; — what  a  pity  that  the  marginal  space  will 
not  let  me  ! 

My  face  in  thine  eye,  thine  in  mine  appears, 
And  true  plain  hearts  do  in  the  faces  rest  ; 
Where  can  we  find  two  fitter  hemispheres 
Without  sharp  north,  without  decHning  west  ? 

Good -Morrow,  v.  15,  &c. 

The  sense  is  ; — Our  mutual  loves  may  in  many  respects 
be  fitly  compared  to  corresponding  hemispheres  ;  but  as 
no  simile  squares  [nihil  simile  est  idem),  so  here  the  simile 
fails,  for  there  is  nothing  in  our  loves  that  corresponds  to 
the  cold  north,  or  the  declining  west,  which  in  two  hemi- 
spheres must  necessarily  be  supposed.  But  an  ellipse  of 
such  length  will  scarcely  rescue  the  line  from  the  charge 
of  nonsense  or  a  bull.     January,  1829. 

Woman's  constancy. 

A  misnomer.     The  title  ought  to  be — 

Mutual  Inconstancy. 

WTiether  both  th'  Indias  of  spice  and  mine,  &c. 

Sun  Rising,  v.    17. 
And  see  at  night  thy  western  land  of  mine,  &c. 

Progress  of  the  Soul,  i  Song,  2.  st. 

This  use  of  the  word  mim  specifically  for  mines  of  gold, 
silver,  or  precious  stones,  is,  I  believe,  peculiar  to  Donne. 

DANTE. 

Bom  at  Florence,  1265. — Died,  1321. 

As  I  remarked  in  a  former  Lecture  on  a  different  subject 
(for  subjects  the  most  diverse  in  literature  have  still  their 
tangents),  the  Gothic  character,  and  its  good  and  evil 
fruits,  appeared  less  in  Italy  than  in  any  other  part  of 
European  Christendom.  There  was  accordingly  much  less 
romance,    as   that   word   is   commonly   understood ;     or, 

pencil  to  the  collection  of  commendatory  lines  ;  No.  I.  is  Mr.  C.'s ;  the  publication  of 
No.  II.  I  trust  the  all-accomplished  author  will,  under  the  circumstances,  pardon. 
Numerous  and  elaborate  notes  by  Mr.  Coleridge  on  Donne's  Sermons  are  in  exktence, 
and  will  be  published  hereafter.     EtJ. 


Lecture  X.  271 

perhaps,  more  truly  stated,  there  was  romance  instead  of 
chivalry.  In  Italy,  an  earlier  imitation  of,  and  a  more 
evident  and  intentional  blending  with,  the  Latin  hterature 
took  place  than  elsewhere.  The  operation  of  the  feudal 
system,  too,  was  incalculably  weaker,  of  that  singular 
chain  of  independent  interdependents,  the  principle  of 
which  was  a  confederacy  for  the  preservation  of  individual, 
consistently  with  general,  freedom.  In  short,  Italy,  in  the 
time  of  Dante,  was  an  after-birth  of  eldest  Greece,  a 
renewal  or  a  reflex  of  the  old  Italy  under  its  kings  and  first 
Roman  consuls,  a  net-work  of  free  little  republics,  with 
the  same  domestic  feuds,  civil  wars,  and  party  spirit, — 
the  same  vices  and  virtues  produced  on  a  similarly  narrow 
theatre, — the  existing  state  of  things  being,  as  in  all  small 
democracies,  under  the  working  and  direction  of  certain 
individuals,  to  whose  will  even  the  laws  were  swayed  ; — 
whilst  at  the  same  time  the  singular  spectacle  was  ex- 
hibited amidst  aU  this  confusion  of  the  flourishing  of 
commerce,  and  the  protection  and  encouragement  of 
letters  and  arts.  Never  was  the  commercial  spirit  so  well 
reconciled  to  the  nobler  principles  of  social  pohty  as  in 
Florence.  It  tended  there  to  union  and  permanence  and 
elevation, — not  as  the  overbalance  of  it  in  England  is  now 
doing,  to  dislocation,  change  and  moral  degradation. 
The  intensest  patriotism  reigned  in  these  communities, 
but  confined  and  attached  exclusively  to  the  small  locality 
of  the  patriot's  birth  and  residence  ;  whereas  in  the  true 
Gothic  feudalism,  country  was  nothing  but  the  preserva- 
tion of  personal  independence.  But  then,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  a  counterbalance  to  these  disuniting  elements, 
there  was  in  Dante's  Italy,  as  in  Greece,  a  much  greater 
uniformity  of  religion  common  to  all  than  amongst  the 
northern  nations. 

Upon  these  hints  the  history  of  the  repubhcan  seras  of 
ancient  Greece  and  modern  Italy  ought  to  be  written. 
There  are  three  kinds  or  stages  of  historic  narrative  ; — 
I.  that  of  the  annalist  or  chronicler,  who  deals  merely  in 
facts  and  events  arranged  in  order  of  time,  having  no  prin- 
ciple of  selection,  no  plan  of  arrangement,  and  whose  work 
properly  constitutes  a  supplement  to  the  poetical  writings 
of  romance  or  heroic  legends  : — 2.  that  of  the  writer  who 
takes  his  stand  on  some  moral  point,  and  selects  a  series  of 
events  for  the  express  purpose  of  illustrating  it,  and  in 


272  Course  of  Lectures 

whose  hands  the  narrative  of  the  selected  events  is  modified 
by  the  principle  of  selection  ; — as  Thucydides,  whose  object 
was  to  describe  the  evils  of  democratic  and  aristocratic 
partizanships  ; — or  Polybius,  whose  design  was  to  show  the 
social  benefits  resulting  from  the  triumph  and  grandeur  of 
Rome,  in  public  institutions  and  military  discipline  ; — or 
Tacitus,  whose  secret  aim  was  to  exhibit  the  pressure  and 
corruptions  of  despotism  ; — in  all  which  writers  and  others 
hke  them,  the  ground-object  of  the  historian  colours  with 
artificial  lights  the  facts  which  he  relates  : — 3.  and  which  in 
idea  is  the  grandest — the  most  truly  founded  in  philosophy 
— there  is  the  Herodotean  history,  which  is  not  composed 
with  reference  to  any  particular  causes,  but  attempts  to 
describe  human  nature  itself  on  a  great  scale  as  a  portion  of 
the  drama  of  providence,  the  free  will  of  man  resisting  the 
destiny  of  events, — for  the  individuals  often  succeeding 
against  it,  but  for  the  race  always  yielding  to  it,  and  in  the 
resistance  itself  invariably  affording  means  towards  the 
completion  of  the  ultimate  result.  Mitford's  history  is  a 
good  and  useful  work  ;  but  in  his  zeal  against  democratic 
government,  Mitford  forgot,  or  never  saw,  that  ancient 
Greece  was  not,  nor  ought  ever  to  be  considered,  a  per- 
manent thing,  but  that  it  existed,  in  the  disposition  of  pro- 
vidence, as  a  proclaimer  of  ideal  truths,  and  that  everlast- 
ing proclamation  being  made,  that  its  functions  were 
naturally  at  an  end. 

However,  in  the  height  of  such  a  state  of  society  in  Italy, 
Dante  was  born  and  flourished  ;  and  was  himself  eminently 
a  picture  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  But  of  more  im- 
portance even  than  this,  to  a  right  understanding  of  Dante, 
is  the  consideration  that  the  scholastic  philosophy  was 
then  at  its  acme  even  in  itself ;  but  more  especially  in  Italy, 
where  it  never  prevailed  so  exclusively  as  northward  of 
the  Alps.  It  is  impossible  to  understand  the  genius  of 
Dante,  and  difficult  to  understand  his  poem,  without  some 
knowledge  of  the  characters,  studies,  and  writings  of  the 
schoolmen  of  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth 
centuries.  For  Dante  was  the  living  link  between  religion 
and  philosophy  ;  he  philosophized  the  religion  and  chris- 
tianized the  philosophy  of  Italy  ;  and,  in  this  poetic  union 
of  religion  and  philosophy,  he  became  the  ground  of  tran- 
sition into  the  mixed  Platonism  and  Aristotelianism  of  the 
Schools,  under  which,  by  numerous  minute  articles  of  faith 


Lecture  X.  273 

and  ceremony,  Christianity  became  a  craft  of  hair-splitting, 
and  was  ultimately  degraded  into  a  complete  fetisch 
worship,  divorced  from  philosophy,  and  made  up  of  a  faith 
without  thought,  and  a  credulity  directed  by  passion. 
Afterwards,  indeed,  philosophy  revived  under  condition  of 
defending  this  very  superstition  ;  and,  in  so  doing,  it 
necessarily  led  the  way  to  its  subversion,  and  that  in  exact 
proportion  to  the  influence  of  the  philosophic  schools. 
Hence  it  did  its  work  most  completely  in  Germany,  then  in 
England,  next  in  France,  then  in  Spain,  least  of  all  in  Italy. 
We  must,  therefore,  take  the  poetry  of  Dante  as  chris- 
tianized, but  without  the  further  Gothic  accession  of  proper 
chivalry.  It  was  at  a  somewhat  later  period,  that  the 
importations  from  the  East,  through  the  Venetian  com- 
merce and  the  crusading  armaments,  exercised  a  pecu- 
liarly strong  influence  on  Italy. 

In  studying  Dante,  therefore,  we  must  consider  carefully 
the  differences  produced,  first,  by  allegory  being  sub- 
stituted for  polytheism  ;  and  secondly  and  mainly,  by  the 
opposition  of  Christianity  to  the  spirit  of  pagan  Greece, 
which  receiving  the  very  names  of  its  gods  from  Egypt, 
soon  deprived  them  of  all  that  was  universal.  The  Greeks 
changed  the  ideas  into  finites,  and  these  finites  into  anthro- 
pomorphi,  or  forms  of  men.  Hence  their  religion,  their 
poetry,  nay,  their  very  pictures,  became  statuesque.  With 
them  the  form  was  the  end.  The  reverse  of  this  was  the 
natural  effect  of  Christianity  ;  in  which  finites,  even  the 
human  form,  must,  in  order  to  satisfy  the  mind,  be  brought 
into  connexion  with,  and  be  in  fact  s3mibolical  of,  the 
infinite  ;  and  must  be  considered  in  some  enduring,  how- 
ever shadowy  and  indistinct,  point  of  view,  as  the  vehicle 
or  representative  of  moral  truth. 

Hence  resulted  two  great  effects  ;  a  combination  of 
poetry  with  doctrine,  and,  by  turning  the  mind  inward  on 
its  own  essence  instead  of  letting  it  act  only  on  its  outward 
circumstances  and  communities,  a  combination  of  poetry 
with  sentiment.  And  it  is  this  inwardness  or  subjectivity, 
which  principally  and  most  fundamentally  distinguishes  all 
the  classic  from  all  the  modern  poetry.  Compare  the 
passage  in  the  Iliad  (Z".  vi.  119 — 236)  in  which  Diomed  and 
Glaucus  change  arms, — 

Xe?pds  t'  aSXrjKtJiv  Xa^iTrjv  Kal  inaTwcavTO — 

They  took  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  pledged  friendship — 


274  Course  of  Lectures 

with  the  scene  in  Ariosto  (Orlando  Furioso,  c.  i.  st.  20-22), 
where  Rinaldo  and  Ferrauto  fight  and  afterwards  make  it 
up  : — 

Al  Pagan  la  proposta  non  dispiacque  : 
Cosl  fu  difierita  la  tenzone  ; 
E  tal  tregua  tra  lor  subito  nacque, 
81  r  odio  e  1'  ira  va  in  oblivione, 
Che  '1  Pagano  al  partir  dalle  fresche  acque 
Non  lascio  a  piede  il  buon  figliuol  d'  Amone  ; 
Con  preghi  invita,  e  al  tin  lo  toglie  in  groppa, 
E  per  r  orme  d'  Angelica  galoppa. 

Here  Homer  would  have  left  it.  But  the  Christian  poet 
has  his  own  feelings  to  express,  and  goes  on  : — 

Oh  gran  bonta  de'  cavalieri  antiqui  I 
Eran  rivali,  eran  di  fe  diversi, 
E  si  sentian  degli  aspri  colpi  iniqui 
Per  tutta  la  persona  anco  dolersi  ; 
E  pur  per  selve  oscure  e  calli  obbliqui 
Insieme  van  senza  sospetto  aversi  ! 

And  here  you  will  observe,  that  the  reaction  of  Ariosto's 
own  feelings  on  the  image  or  act  is  more  fore-grounded  (to 
use  a  painter's  phrase)  than  the  image  or  act  itself. 

The  two  different  modes  in  which  the  imagination  is 
acted  on  by  the  ancient  and  modern  poetry,  may  be  illus- 
trated by  the  parallel  effects  caused  by  the  contemplation 
of  the  Greek  or  Roman-Greek  architecture,  compared  with 
the  Gothic.  In  the  Pantheon,  the  whole  is  perceived  in  a 
perceived  harmony  with  the  parts  which  compose  it ;  and 
generally  you  will  remember  that  where  the  parts  preserve 
any  distinct  individuality,  there  simple  beauty,  or  beauty 
simply,  arises  ;  but  where  the  parts  melt  undistinguished 
into  the  whole,  there  majestic  beaut}^  or  majesty,  is  the 
result.  In  York  Minster,  the  parts,  the  grotesques,  are  in 
themselves  very  sharply  distinct  and  separate,  and  this 
distinction  and  separation  of  the  parts  is  counterbalanced 
only  by  the  multitude  and  variety  of  those  parts,  by  which 
the  attention  is  bewildered  ; — whilst  the  whole,  or  that 
there  is  a  whole  produced,  is  altogether  a  feeling  in  which 
the  several  thousand  distinct  impressions  lose  themselves 
as  in  a  universal  solvent.  Hence  in  a  Gothic  cathedral,  as 
in  a  prospect  from  a  mountain's  top,  there  is,  indeed,  a 
unity,  an  awful  oneness  ; — but  it  is,  because  all  distinction 


Lecture  X.  275 

evades  the  eye.  And  just  such  is  the  distinction  between, 
the  Antigone  of  Sophocles  and  the  Hamlet  of  Shakspeare.^ 

The  Divina  Commedia  is  a  system  of  moral,  political, 
and  theological  truths,  with  arbitrary  personal  exempli- 
fications, which  are  not,  in  my  opinion,  allegorical.  I  do  not 
even  feel  convinced  that  the  punishments  in  the  Inferno  are 
strictly  allegorical.  I  rather  take  them  to  have  been  in 
Dante's  mind  quasi-a.]le§oncal,  or  conceived  in  analogy  to 
pure  allegory. 

I  have  said,  that  a  combination  of  poetry  with  doctrines, 
is  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  Christian  muse  ;  but  I 
think  Dante  has  not  succeeded  in  effecting  this  combination 
nearly  so  well  as  Milton. 

This  comparative  failure  of  Dante,  as  also  some  other 
peculiarities  of  his  mind,  in  malam  partem,  must  be  im- 
mediately attributed  to  the  state  of  North  Italy  in  his  time, 
which  is  vividly  represented  in  Dante's  life;  a  state  of 
intense  democratical  partizanship,  in  which  an  exaggerated 
importance  was  attached  to  individuals,  and  which  whilst  it 
afforded  a  vast  field  for  the  intellect,  opened  also  a  bound- 
less arena  for  the  passions,  and  in  which  envy,  jealousy, 
hatred,  and  other  malignant  feelings  could  and  did  as- 
sume the  form  of  patriotism,  even  to  the  individual's 
own   conscience. 

All  this  common,  and,  as  it  were,  natural  partizanship, 
was  aggravated  and  coloured  by  the  Guelf  and  GhibeUine 
factions  ;  and,  in  part  explanation  of  Dante's  adherence 
to  the  latter,  you  must  particularly  remark,  that  the  Pope 
had  recently  territorialized  his  authority  to  a  great  extent, 
and  that  this  increase  of  territorial  power  in  the  church, 
was  by  no  means  the  same  beneficial  movement  for  the 
citizens  of  free  republics,  as  the  parallel  advance  in  other 
countries  was  for  those  who  groaned  as  vassals  under  the 
oppression  of  the  circumjacent  baronial  castles. ^ 

By  way  of  preparation  to  a  satisfactory  perusal  of  the 
Divina  Commedia,  I  will  now  proceed  to  state  what  I 
consider  to  be  Dante's  chief  excellences  as  a  poet.  And  I 
begin  with 

I.  Style — the  vividness,  logical  connexion,  strength 
and  energy  of  which  cannot  be  surpassed.     In  this  I  think 

1  See  Lect.  I.  p.  218,  and  note:   and  compere  with   Schlegel's   Dram.    VorUsung. 
Essay  on  Shakspeare,  p.  12. 

2  Mr.  Coleridge  here  notes  :  "  I  will,  If  I  can,  here  make  an  hbtorical  movement,  and 
pay  a  proper  compliment,  tu  Mr.  f^Iallam."     Ed. 


276  Course  of  Lectures 

Dante  superior  to  Milton  ;  and  his  style  is  accordingly 
more  imitable  than  Milton's,  and  does  to  this  day  exercise 
a  greater  influence  on  the  literature  of  his  count^3^  You 
cannot  read  Dante  without  feeling  a  gush  of  manliness  of 
thought  within  j^ou.  Dante  was  very  sensible  of  his  own 
excellence  in  this  particular,  and  speaks  of  poets  as 
guardians  of  the  vast  armory  of  language,  which  is  the 
intermediate  something  between  matter  and  spirit  : — 

Or  se'  tu  quel  Virgilio,  e  quella  fonte, 
Che  spande  di  parlar  si  largo  fiume  ? 
Risposi  lui  con  vergognosa  fronte. 

O  degli  altri  poeti  onore  e  lume, 
Vagliami  '1  lungo  studio  e  '1  grande  amore, 
Che  m'  han  fatto  cercar  lo  tuo  volume. 

Tu  se'  lo  mio  maestro,  e  '1  mio  autore  : 
Tu  se'  solo  colui,  da  cii'  to  tolsi 
Lo  hello  stile,  che  m'  ha  fatto  onore. 

Inf.  c.  I.  V.  79. 

"  And  art  thou  then  that  Virgil,  that  well-spring, 
From  which  such  copious  floods  of  eloquence 
Have  issued  ?  "      I,  with  front  abash'd,  replied  : 

"  Glory  and  light  of  all  the  tuneful  train  ! 
May  it  avail  me,  that  I  long  with  zeal 
Have  sought  thy  volume,  and  with  love  immense 
Have  conn'd  it  o'er.     My  master,  thou,  and  guide  I 
Thou  he  from  whom  I  have  alone  derived 
That  style,  ivhich  for  its  beauty  into  fame 
Exalts  me,"  Gary. 

Indeed  there  was  a  passion  and  a  miracle  of  words  in  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  after  the  long  slumber 
of  language  in  barbarism,  which  gave  an  almost  romantic 
character,  a  virtuous  quality  and  power,  to  what  was  read 
in  a  book,  independently  of  the  thoughts  or  images  con- 
tained in  it.  This  feeling  is  very  often  perceptible  in 
Dante. 

II.  The  Images  in  Dante  are  not  only  taken  from 
obvious  nature,  and  are  all  intelligible  to  all,  but  are  ever 
conjoined  with  the  universal  feeling  received  from  nature, 
and  therefore  affect  the  general  feelings  of  all  men.  And 
in  this  respect,  Dante's  excellence  is  very  great,  and  may 
be  contrasted  with  the  idiosyncracies  of  some  meritorious 
modern  poets,  who  attempt  an  eruditeness,  the  result  of 
particular  feelings.  Consider  the  simplicity,  I  may  say 
plainness,  of  the  following  simile,  and  how  differently  we 
should  in  all  probability  deal  with  it  at  the  present  day  : 


Lecture  X.  277 

Quale  i  fioretti  dal  notturno  gelo 
Chinati  e  chiusi,  poi  che  '1  sol  gl'  imbianca, 
Si  drizzan  tutti  aperti  in  loro  stelo, — 

Fal  mi  fee'  io  di  mia  virtute  stanca  : 

Inf.  c.  2.  V.  127. 

As  florets,  by  the  frosty  air  of  night 

Bent  down  and  clos'd,  when  day  has  blanch'd  their  leaves. 

Rise  all  unfolded  on  their  spiry  stems, — 

So  was  my  fainting  vigour  new  restor'd. 

Cary.^ 

III.  Consider  the  wonderful  profoundness  of  the  whole 
third  canto  of  the  Inferno  ;  and  especially  of  the  inscription 
over  Hell  gate  : 

Per  me  si  va,  &c. — 

which  can  only  be  explained  by  a  meditation  on  the  true 
nature  of  religion  ;  that  is, — reason  plus  the  understand- 
ing. I  say  profoundness  rather  than  sublimity ;  for 
Dante  does  not  so  much  elevate  your  thoughts  as  send 
them  down  deeper.  In  this  canto  all  the  images  are 
distinct,  and  even  vividly  distinct  ;  but  there  is  a  total 
impression  of  infinity  ;  the  wholeness  is  not  in  vision  or 
conception,  but  in  an  inner  feeling  of  totality,  and  absolute 
being. 

IV.  In  picturesqueness,  Dante  is  beyond  all  other  poets, 
modern,  or  ancient,  and  more  in  the  stern  style  of  Pindar, 
than  of  any  other.  Michael  Angelo  is  said  to  have  made 
a  design  for  every  page  of  the  Divina  Commedia.  As 
superexcellent  in  this  respect,  I  would  note  the  conclusion 
of  the  third  canto  of  the  Inferno  : 

Ed  ecco  verso  noi  venir  per  nave 
Un  vecchio  bianco  per  antico  pelo 
Gridaudo  :   guai  a  voi  anime  prave  :   &c. 

Ycx.  S2.  &c. 
****** 
And  lo  !    toward  us  in  a  bark 
Comes  on  an  old  man,  hoary  white  with  eld. 
Crying,  "  Woe  to  you,  wicked  spirits  !  " 

****** 

Cary. 

Caron  dimonio  con  occhi  di  bragia 
Loro  accennando,  tutte  le  raccoglie  : 
Batte  col  remo  qualunque  s'  adagia. 

Come  d'  autunno  si  levan  le  foglie 

1  Mr.  Coleridge  here  notes  :  "  Here  to  speak  of  Mr.  Gary's  translation.   —Ed, 


278  Course  of  Lectures 

L'  una  appresso  dell'  altra,  infin  che  '1  ramo 
Rende  alia  terra  tutte  le  sue  spoglie  ; 

Similemente  il  mal  seme  d'  Adamo, 
Gittansi  di  quel  lito  ad  una  ad  una 
Per  cenni,  com'  augel  per  suo  richiamo. 

Ver.  roo,  &c. 

Charon,  demoniac  form. 

With  eyes  of  burning  coal,  collects  them  all, 

Beck'ning,  and  each  that  lingers,  with  his  oar 

Strikes.     As  fall  off  the  light  autumnal  leaves, 

One  still  another  following,  till  the  bough 

Strews  all  its  honours  on  the  earth  beneath  ; — 

E'en  in  like  manner  Adam's  evil  brood 

Cast  themselves  one  by  one  down  from  the  shore 

Each  at  a  beck,  as  falcon  at  his  call.  Cary. 

And  this  passage,  which  I  think  admirably  picturesque 

Ma  poco  valse,  che  1'  ale  al  sospetto 
Non  potero  avanzar  :    quegli  ando  sotto. 
E  quei  drizzo,  volando,  suso  il  petto  : 

Non  altrimenti  1'  anitra  di  botto, 
Quando  '1  falcon  s'  appressa,  giu  s'  attuffa, 
Ed  ei  ritoma  su  crucciato  e  rotto. 

Irato  Calcabrina  della  buffa, 
Volando  dietro  gli  tenne,  invaghito, 
Che  quei  campasse,  per  aver  la  zuffa  : 

E  come  '1  barattier  fu  disparito, 
Cosi  volse  gli  artigli  al  suo  compagno, 
E  fu  con  lui  sovra  '1  fosso  ghermito. 

Ma  r  altro  fu  bene  sparvier  grifagno 
Ad  artigliar  ben  lui,  e  amedue 
Cadder  nel  mezzo  del  bollente  stagno. 

Lo  caldo  sghermidor  subito  fue  : 
Ma  pero  di  levarsi  era  niente. 
Si  aveano  inviscate  1'  ale  sue. 

Infer,  c.  xxii.  ver.  127,  &c. 

But  little  it  avail'd  :    terror  outstripp'd 
His  following  flight  :    the  other  plung'd  beneath. 
And  he  with  upward  pinion  rais'd  his  breast  : 
E'en  thus  the  water-fowl,  when  she  perceives 
The  falcon  near,  dives  instant  down,  while  he 
Enrag'd  and  spent  retires.     That  mockery 
In  Calcabrina  fury  stirr'd,  who  flew 
After  him,  with  desire  of  strife  inflam'd  ; 
And,  for  the  barterer  had  'scap'd,  so  tum'd 
His  talons  on  his  comrade.     O'er  the  dyke 
In  grapple  close  they  join'd  ;    but  th'  other  prov'd 
A  goshawk,  able  to  rend  well  his  foe  ; 
And  in  the  boiling  lake  both  fell.     The  heat 
Was  umpire  soon  between  them,  but  in  vain 
lo  lift  themselves  they  strove,  so  fast  were  glued 
Their  pennons.  Cary, 


Lecture  X.  279 

V.  Very  closely  connected  with  this  picturesqueness, 
is  the  topographic  reaUty  of  Dante's  journey  through  Hell. 
You  should  note  and  dwell  on  this  as  one  of  his  great 
charms,  and  which  gives  a  striking  peculiarity  to  his  poetic 
power.  He  thus  takes  the  thousand  delusive  forms  of  a 
nature  worse  than  chaos,  having  no  reality  but  from  the 
passions  which  they  excite,  and  compels  them  into  the 
service  of  the  permanent.  Observe  the  exceeding  truth 
of  these  lines  : 

Noi  ricidemmo  '1  cerchio  all'  altra  riva, 
Sovr'  una  fonte  che  bolle,  e  riversa, 
Per  un  fossato  che  da  lei  diriva. 

L'  acqua  era  buja  molto  piu  che  persa : 
E  noi  in  compagnia  dell'  onde  bige 
Entrammo  giu  per  una  via  diversa, 

Una  palude  fa,  ch'  ha  nome  Stige, 
Questo  tristo  ruscel,  quando  e  disceso 
Al  pie  delle  maligne  piagge  grige. 

Ed  io  che  di  mirar  mi  stava  inteso, — 
Vidi  genti  fangose  in  quel  pantano 
Ignude  tutte,  e  con  sembiante  offeso. 

Questi  si  percotean  non  pur  con  mano. 
Ma  con  la  testa,  e  col  petto,  e  co'  piedi, 
Troncandosi  co'  denti  a  brano  a  brano. 

»  *  *  «  *  « 

Cosl  girammo  della  lorda  pozza 
Grand'  arco  tra  la  ripa  secca  e  '1  mezzo, 
Con  gli  occhi  volti  a  chi  del  fango  ingozza  : 

Venimmo  appie  d'  una  torre  al  dassezzo. 

C.  vii.  ver.  lOO  and  127, 

We  the  circle  cross' d 

To  the  next  steep,  arriving  at  a  well. 

That  boiling  pours  itself  down  to  a  foss 

Sluic'd  from  its  source.     Far  murkier  was  the  wave 

Than  sablest  grain  :   and  we  in  company 

Of  th'  inky  waters,  journeying  by  their  side, 

Enter'd,  though  by  a  different  track,  beneath. 

Into  a  lake,  the  Stygian  nam'd,  expands 

The  dismal  stream,  when  it  hath  reach'd  the  foot 

Of  the  grey  wither'd  cliffs.      Intent  I  stood 

To  gaze,  and  in  the  marsh  sunk,  descried 

A  miry  tribe,  all  naked,  and  with  looks 

Betok'ning  rage.     They  with  their  hands  alone 

Struck  not,  but  with  the  head,  the  breast,  the  feet, 

Cutting  each  other  piecemeal  with  their  fangs. 

Our  route 


Thus  compass'd,  we  a  segment  widely  stretch'd 
Between  the  dry  embankment  and  the  cove 


28o  Course  of  Lectures 

Of  the  loath' d  pool,  turning  meanwhile  our  eyes 
Downward  on  those  who  gulp'd  its  muddy  lees  ; 
Nor  stopp'd,  till  to  a  tower's  low  base  we  came. 

Gary. 

VI.  For  Dante's  power, — his  absolute  mastery  over, 
although  rare  exhibition  of,  the  pathetic,  I  can  do  no 
more  than  refer  to  the  passages  on  Francesca  di  Rimini 
(Infer.  C.  v.  ver.  73  to  the  end)  and  on  Ugolino,  (Infer.  C. 
xxxiii.  ver.  i  to  75.)  They  are  so  well  known,  and  rightly 
so  admired,  that  it  would  be  pedantry  to  analyze  their 
composition  ;  but  you  will  note  that  the  first  is  the  pathos 
of  passion,  the  second  that  of  affection  ;  and  yet  even  in 
the  first,  you  seem  to  perceive  that  the  lovers  have  sacrificed 
their  passion  to  the  cherishing  of  a  deep  and  rememberable 
impression. 

VII.  As  to  going  into  the  endless  subtle  beauties  of 
Dante,  that  is  impossible  ;  but  I  cannot  help  citing  the 
first  triplet  of  the  29th  canto  of  the  Inferno  : 

La  molta  gente  e  le  diverse  piaghe 
Avean  le  luci  mie  si  inebriate, 
Che  dello  stare  a  piangere  eran  vaghe. 

So  were  mine  eyes  inebriate  with  the  view 
Of  the  vast  multitude,  whom  various  wounds 
Disfigur'd,  that  they  long'd  to  stay  and  weep. 

Cary. 

Nor  have  I  now  room  for  any  specific  comparison  of  Dante 
with  Milton.  But  if  I  had,  I  would  institute  it  upon  the 
ground  of  the  last  canto  of  the  Inferno  from  the  ist  to  the 
69th  line,  and  from  the  io6th  to  the  end.  And  in  this 
comparison  I  should  notice  Dante's  occasional  fault  of 
becoming  grotesque  from  being  too  graphic  without 
imagination  ;  as  in  his  Lucifer  compared  with  Milton's 
Satan.  Indeed  he  is  sometimes  horrible  rather  than 
terrible,  —  falling  into  the  fiidrirbv  instead  of  the  dsmv  of 
Longinus  ;  ^  in  other  words,  many  of  his  images  excite 
bodily  disgust,  and  not  moral  fear.  But  here,  as  in  other 
cases,  you  may  perceive  that  the  faults  of  great  authors 
are  generally  excellencies  carried  to  an  excess. 

1  De  Subl.  I  ix. 


Lecture  X.  281 

MILTON. 
Born  in  London,  1608. — Died,  1674. 

If  we  divide  the  period  from  the  accession  of  Elizabeth 
to  the  Protectorate  of  Cromwell  into  two  unequal  portions, 
the  first  ending  with  the  death  of  James  I.  the  other  com- 
prehending the  reign  of  Charles  and  the  brief  glories  of  the 
Republic,  we  are  forcibly  struck  with  a  difference  in  the 
character  of  the  illustrious  actors,  by  whom  each  period  is 
rendered  severally  memorable.  Or  rather,  the  difference  in 
the  characters  of  the  great  men  in  each  period,  leads  us  to 
make  this  division.  Eminent  as  the  intellectual  powers 
were  that  were  displayed  in  both  ;  yet  in  the  number  of 
great  men,  in  the  various  sorts  of  excellence,  and  not  merely 
in  the  variety  but  almost  diversity  of  talents  united  in  the 
same  individual,  the  age  of  Charles  falls  short  of  its  pre- 
decessor ;  and  the  stars  of  the  ParUament,  keen  as  their 
radiance  was,  in  fulness  and  richness  of  lustre,  yield  to  the 
constellation  at  the  court  of  Elizabeth  ; — which  can  only  be 
paralleled  by  Greece  in  her  brightest  moment,  when  the 
titles  of  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  the  historian,  the  states- 
man and  the  general  not  seldom  formed  a  garland  round  the 
same  head,  as  in  the  instances  of  our  Sidneys  and  Raleighs. 
But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  vehemence  of 
will,  an  enthusiasm  of  principle,  a  depth  and  an  earnestness 
of  spirit,  which  the  charms  of  individual  fame  and  personal 
aggrandisement  could  not  pacify, — an  aspiration  after 
reality,  permanence,  and  general  good, — in  short,  a  moral 
grandeur  in  the  latter  period,  with  which  the  low  intrigues, 
Machiavellic  maxims,  and  selfish  and  servile  ambition  of 
the  former,  stand  in  painful  contrast. 

The  causes  of  this  it  belongs  not  to  the  present  occasion 
to  detail  at  length  ;  but  a  mere  allusion  to  the  quick 
succession  of  revolutions  in  religion,  breeding  a  political 
indifference  in  the  mass  of  men  to  religion  itself,  the 
enormous  increase  of  the  royal  power  in  consequence  of  the 
humiliation  of  the  nobility  and  the  clergy — the  transference 
of  the  papal  authority  to  the  crown, — the  unfixed  state  of 
Elizabeth's  own  opinions,  whose  inclinations  were  as 
popish  as  her  interests  were  protestant — the  controversial 
extravagance  and  practical  imbecility  of  her  successor — 


282  Course  of  Lectures 

will  help  to  explain  the  former  period ;  and  the  persecu- 
tions that  had  given  a  life-and-soul-interest  to  the  disputes 
so  imprudently  fostered  by  James, — the  ardour  of  a 
conscious  increase  of  power  in  the  Commons,  and  the 
greater  austerity  of  manners  and  maxims,  the  natural 
product  and  most  formidable  weapon  of  religious  dis- 
putation, not  merely  in  conjunction,  but  in  closest  com- 
bination, with  newly  awakened  political  and  republican 
zeal,  these  perhaps  account  for  the  character  of  the  latter 
sera. 

In  the  close  of  the  former  period,  and  during  the  bloom 
of  the  latter,  the  poet  Milton  was  educated  and  formed ; 
and  he  survived  the  latter,  and  all  the  fond  hopes  and 
aspirations  which  had  been  its  life  ;  and  so  in  evil  days, 
standing  as  the  representative  of  the  combined  excellence 
of  both  periods,  he  produced  the  Paradise  Lost  as  by  an 
after-throe  of  nature.  "  There  are  some  persons,"  (ob- 
serves a  divine,  a  contemporary  of  Milton's)  "  of  whom  the 
grace  of  God  takes  early  hold,  and  the  good  spirit  inhabiting 
them,  carries  them  on  in  an  even  constancy  through 
innocence  into  virtue,  their  Christianity  bearing  equal  date 
with  their  manhood,  and  reason  and  religion,  like  warp  and 
woof,  running  together,  make  up  one  web  of  a  wise  and 
exemplary  life.  This  (he  adds)  is  a  most  happy  case, 
wherever  it  happens  ;  for,  besides  that  there  is  no  sweeter 
or  more  lovely  thing  on  earth  than  the  early  buds  of  piety, 
which  drew  from  our  Saviour  signal  affection  to  the  beloved 
disciple,  it  is  better  to  have  no  wound  than  to  experience 
the  most  sovereign  balsam,  which,  if  it  work  a  cure,  yet 
usually  leaves  a  scar  behind."  Although  it  was  and  is  my 
intention  to  defer  the  consideration  of  Milton's  own 
character  to  the  conclusion  of  this  Lecture,  yet  I  could  not 
prevail  on  myself  to  approach  the  Paradise  Lost  without 
impressing  on  your  minds  the  conditions  under  which  such 
a  work  was  in  fact  producible  at  all,  the  original  genius 
having  been  assumed  as  the  immediate  agent  and  efficient 
cause  ;  and  these  conditions  I  find  in  the  character  of  the 
times  and  in  his  own  character.  The  age  in  which  the 
foundations  of  his  mind  were  laid,  was  congenial  to  it  as 
one  golden  aera  of  profound  erudition  and  individual  genius  ; 
— that  in  which  the  superstructure  was  carried  up,  was  no 
less  favourable  to  it  by  a  sternness  of  discipline  and  a  show 
of  self-control,  highly  flattering  to  the  imaginative  dignity 


Lecture  X.  283 

of  an  heir  of  fame,  and  which  won  Milton  over  from  the 
dear-loved  delights  of  academic  groves  and  cathedral 
aisles  to  the  anti-prelatic  party.  It  acted  on  him,  too,  no 
doubt,  and  modified  his  studies  by  a  characteristic  con- 
troversial spirit,  (his  presentation  of  God  is  tinted  with  it) — 
a  spirit  not  less  busy  indeed  in  political  than  in  theological 
and  ecclesiastical  dispute,  but  carrying  on  the  former 
almost  always,  more  or  less,  in  the  guise  of  the  latter.  And 
so  far  as  Pope's  censure  ^  of  our  poet, — that  he  makes  God 
the  Father  a  school  divine — is  just,  we  must  attribute  it  to 
the  character  of  his  age,  from  which  the  men  of  genius,  who 
escaped,  escaped  by  a  worse  disease,  the  licentious  in- 
difference of  a  Frenchified  court. 

Such  was  the  nidus  or  soil,  which  constituted,  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  word,  the  circumstances  of  Milton's  mind. 
In  his  mind  itself  there  were  purity  and  piety  absolute  ; 
an  imagination  to  which  neither  the  past  nor  the  present 
were  interesting,  except  as  far  as  they  called  forth  and 
enlivened  the  great  ideal,  in  which  and  for  which  he  hved  ; 
a  keen  love  of  truth,  which,  after  many  weary  pursuits, 
found  a  harbour  in  a  sublime  listening  to  the  still  voice  in 
his  own  spirit,  and  as  keen  a  love  of  his  country,  which, 
after  a  disappointment  still  more  depressive,  expanded  and 
soared  into  a  love  of  man  as  a  probationer  of  immortality. 
These  were,  these  alone  could  be,  the  conditions  under 
which  such  a  work  as  the  Paradise  Lost  could  be  con- 
ceived and  accomplished.  By  a  life-long  study  Milton  had 
known — 

What  was  of  use  to  know, 
What  best  to  say  could  say,  to  do  had  done. 
His  actions  to  his  words  agreed,  his  words 
To  his  large  heart  gave  utterance  due,  his  heart 
Contain'd  of  good,  wise,  fair,  the  perfect  shape  ; 

and  he  left  the  imperishable  total,  as  a  bequest  to  the  ages 
coming,  in  the  Paradise  Lost.^ 

Difficult  as  I  shall  find  it  to  turn  over  these  leaves  with- 
out catching  some  passage,  which  would  tempt  me  to  stop, 
I  propose  to  consider,  ist,  the  general  plan  and  arrangement 
of  the  work  ; — 2ndly,  the  subject  with  its  difficulties  and 

1  Table  Talk,  vol.  ii.  p.  264. 

2  Here  Mr.  C.  notes :  "Not  perhaps  here,  but  towards,  or  as,  the  conclusion,  to 
chastise  the  fashionable  notion  that  poetry  is  a  relaxation  or  amusement,  one  of  the 
superfluous  toys  and  luxuries  of  the  intellect !  To  contrast  the  permanence  of  poems 
with  the  transiency  and  fleeting  moral  effects  of  empires,  and  what  are  called,  rreat 
events  "     Ed. 


284  Course  of  Lectures 

advantages  ; — 3rdly,  the  poet's  object,  the  spirit  in  the 
letter,  the  Iv&xj/miov  h  ij.ii6(ji,  the  true  school-divinity ;  and 
lastly,  the  characteristic  excellencies  of  the  poem,  in  what 
they  consist,  and  by  what  means  they  were  produced. 

1.  As  to  the  plan  and  ordonnance  of  the  Poem. 
Compare  it  with  the  Iliad,  many  of  the  books  of  which 

might  change  places  without  any  injury  to  the  thread  of 
the  story.  Indeed,  I  doubt  the  original  existence  of  the 
Iliad  as  one  poem  ;  it  seems  more  probable  that  it  was  put 
together  about  the  time  of  the  Pisistratidae.  The  Iliad — 
and,  more  or  less,  all  epic  poems,  the  subjects  of  which  are 
taken  from  history — have  no  rounded  conclusion  ;  they 
remain,  after  all,  but  single  chapters  from  the  volume  of 
history,  although  they  are  ornamental  chapters.  Consider 
the  exquisite  simplicity  of  the  Paradise  Lost.  It  and  it 
alone  really  possesses  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end  ; 
it  has  the  totality  of  the  poem  as  distinguished  from  the 
ah  ovo  birth  and  parentage,  or  straight  line,  of  history. 

2.  As  to  the  subject. 

In  Homer,  the  supposed  importance  of  the  subject,  as 
the  first  effort  of  confederated  Greece,  is  an  after-thought 
of  the  critics  ;  and  the  interest,  such  as  it  is,  derived  from 
the  events  themselves,  as  distinguished  from  the  manner  of 
representing  them,  is  very  languid  to  aU  but  Greeks.  It  is 
a  Greek  poem.  The  superiority  of  the  Paradise  Lost  is 
obvious  in  this  respect,  that  the  interest  transcends  the 
limits  of  a  nation.  But  we  do  not  generally  dwell  on  this 
excellence  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  because  it  seems  attribut- 
able to  Christianity  itself  ; — yet  in  fact  the  interest  is 
wider  than  Christendom,  and  comprehends  the  Jewish  and 
Mohammedan  worlds  ; — nay,  still  further,  inasmuch  as  it 
represents  the  origin  of  evil,  and  the  combat  of  evil  and 
good,  it  contains  matter  of  deep  interest  to  all  mankind, 
as  forming  the  basis  of  aU  religion,  and  the  true  occasion 
of  all  philosophy  whatsoever. 

The  Fall  of  man  is  the  subject ;  Satan  is  the  cause  ; 
man's  blissful  state  the  immediate  object  of  his  enmity  and 
attack  ;  man  is  warned  by  an  angel  who  gives  him  an 
account  of  all  that  was  requisite  to  be  known,  to  make  the 
warning  at  once  intelligible  and  awful,  then  the  temptation 
ensues,  and  the  Fall  ;  then  the  immediate  sensible  con- 
sequence ;  then  the  consolation,  wherein  an  angel  presents 
a  vision  of  the  history  of  men  with  the  ultimate  triumph 


Lecture  X.  285 

of  the  Redeemer.  Nothing  is  touched  in  this  vision  but 
what  is  of  general  interest  in  rehgion  ;  any  thing  else 
would  have  been  improper. 

The  inferiority  of  Klopstock's  Messiah  is  inexpressible. 
I  admit  the  prerogative  of  poetic  feeling,  and  poetic  faith  ; 
but  I  cannot  suspend  the  judgment  even  for  a  moment. 
A  poem  may  in  one  sense  be  a  dream,  but  it  must  be  a 
waking  dream.  In  Milton  you  have  a  religious  faith 
combined  with  the  moral  nature  ;  it  is  an  efflux  ;  you  go 
along  with  it.  In  Klopstock  there  is  a  wilfulness  ;  he 
makes  things  so  and  so.  The  feigned  speeches  and  events 
in  the  Messiah  shock  us  like  falsehoods  ;  but  nothing  of 
that  sort  is  felt  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  in  which  no  parti- 
culars, at  least  very  few  indeed,  are  touched  which  can 
come  into  collision  or  juxta-position  with  recorded  matter. 

But  notwithstanding  the  advantages  in  Milton's  subject, 
there  were  concomitant  insuperable  difficulties,  and  Milton 
has  exhibited  marvellous  skill  in  keeping  most  of  them  out 
of  sight.  High  poetry  is  the  translation  of  reality  into  the 
ideal  under  the  predicament  of  succession  of  time  only. 
The  poet  is  an  historian,  upon  condition  of  moral  power 
being  the  only  force  in  the  universe.  The  very  grandeur 
of  his  subject  ministered  a  difficulty  to  Milton.  The 
statement  of  a  being  of  high  intellect,  warring  against  the 
supreme  Being,  seems  to  contradict  the  idea  of  a  supreme 
Being.  Milton  precludes  our  feeling  this,  as  much  as 
possible,  by  keeping  the  peculiar  attributes  of  divinity 
less  in  sight,  making  them  to  a  certain  extent  allegorical 
only.  Again  poetry  implies  the  language  of  excitement ; 
yet  how  to  reconcile  such  language  with  God  !  Hence 
Milton  confines  the  poetic  passion  in  God's  speeches  to  the 
language  of  scripture  ;  and  once  only  allows  the  passio 
vera,  or  quasi  humana  to  appear,  in  the  passage,  where  the 
Father  contemplates  his  own  likeness  in  the  Son  before  the 
battle  :— 

Go  then,  thou  Mightiest,  in  thy  Father's  might. 
Ascend  my  chariot,  guide  the  rapid  wheels 
That  shake  Heaven's  basis,  bring  forth  all  my  war, 
My  bow  and  thunder  ;    my  almighty  arms 
Gird  on,  and  sword  upon  thy  puissant  thigh  ; 
Pursue  these  sons  of  darkness,  drive  them  out 
From  all  Heaven's  bounds  into  the  utter  deep  : 
There  let  them  learn,  as  likes  them,  to  despise 
God  and  Messiah  his  anointed  king. 

B.  VI.  V.  710. 


286  Course  of  Lectures 

3.  As  to  Milton's  object : 

It  was  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man  !  The  con- 
troversial spirit  observable  in  many  parts  of  the  poem, 
especially  in  God's  speeches,  is  immediately  attributable 
to  the  great  controversy  of  that  age,  the  origination  of 
evil.  The  Arminians  considered  it  a  mere  calamity.  The 
Calvinists  took  away  all  human  will.  Milton  asserted  the 
will,  but  declared  for  the  enslavement  of  the  will  out  of  an 
act  of  the  will  itself.  There  are  three  powers  in  us,  which 
distinguish  us  from  the  beasts  that  perish ; — i,  reason  ; 
2,  the  power  of  viewing  universal  truth  ;  and  3,  the  power 
of  contracting  universal  truth  into  particulars.  Religion 
is  the  will  in  the  reason,  and  love  in  the  will. 

The  character  of  Satan  is  pride  and  sensual  indulgence, 
finding  in  self  the  sole  motive  of  action.  It  is  the  character 
so  often  seen  in  little  on  the  political  stage.  It  exhibits  all 
the  restlessness,  temerity,  and  cunning  which  have  marked 
the  mighty  hunters  of  mankind  from  Nimrod  to  Napoleon. 
The  common  fascination  of  men  is,  that  these  great  men, 
as  they  are  called,  must  act  from  some  great  motive. 
Milton  has  carefully  marked  in  his  Satan  the  intense 
selfishness,  the  alcohol  of  egotism,  which  would  rather 
reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven.  To  place  this  lust  of 
self  in  opposition  to  denial  of  self  or  duty,  and  to  show 
what  exertions  it  would  make,  and  what  pains  endure  to 
accomplish  its  end,  is  Milton's  particular  object  in  the 
character  of  Satan.  But  around  this  character  he  has 
thrown  a  singularity  of  daring,  a  grandeur  of  sufferance,  and 
a  ruined  splendour,  which  constitute  the  very  height  of 
poetic  sublimity. 

Lastly,  as  to  the  execution  : — 

The  language  and  versification  of  the  Paradise  Lost  are 
peculiar  in  being  so  much  more  necessarily  correspondent 
to  each  than  those  in  any  other  poem  or  poet.  The 
connexion  of  the  sentences  and  the  position  of  the  words 
are  exquisitely  artificial ;  but  the  position  is  rather 
according  to  the  logic  of  passion  or  universal  logic,  than 
to  the  logic  of  grammar.  Milton  attempted  to  make  the 
Enghsh  language  obey  the  logic  of  passion,  as  perfectly  as 
the  Greek  and  Latin.  Hence  the  occasional  harshness  in 
the  construction. 

Sublimity  is  the  pre-eminent  characteristic  of  the 
Paradise   Lost.     It   is   not   an   arithmetical  sublime  like 


Lecture  X.  287 

Klopstock's,  whose  rule  always  is  to  treat  what  we  might 
think  large  as  contemptibly  small.  Klopstock  mistakes 
bigness  for  greatness.  There  is  a  greatness  arising  from 
images  of  effort  and  daring,  and  also  from  those  of  moral 
endurance  ;  in  Milton  both  are  united.  The  fallen  angels 
are  human  passions,  invested  with  a  dramatic  reality. 

The  apostrophe  to  light  at  the  commencement  of  the 
third  book  is  particularly  beautiful  as  an  intermediate 
link  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ;  and  observe,  how  the 
second  and  third  book  support  the  subjective  character 
of  the  poem.  In  all  modern  poetry  in  Christendom  there 
is  an  under  consciousness  of  a  sinful  nature,  a  fleeting 
away  of  external  things,  the  mind  or  subject  greater  than 
the  object,  the  reflective  character  predominant.  In  the 
Paradise  Lost  the  sublimest  parts  are  the  revelations  of 
Milton's  own  mind,  producing  itself  and  evolving  its  own 
greatness  ;  and  this  is  so  truly  so,  that  when  that  which  is 
merely  entertaining  for  its  objective  beauty  is  introduced, 
it  at  first  seems  a  discord. 

In  the  description  of  Paradise  itself,  you  have  Milton's 
sunny  side  as  a  man  ;  here  his  descriptive  powers  are 
exercised  to  the  utmost,  and  he  draws  deep  upon  his 
Italian  resources.  In  the  description  of  Eve,  and  through- 
out this  part  of  the  poem,  the  poet  is  predominant  over  the 
theologian.  Dress  is  the  symbol  of  the  Fall,  but  the  mark 
of  intellect ;  and  the  metaphysics  of  dress  are,  the  hiding 
what  is  not  symbolic  and  displaying  by  discrimination 
what  is.  The  love  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise  is  of  the 
highest  merit — not  phantomatic,  and  yet  removed  from 
every  thing  degrading.  It  is  the  sentiment  of  one  rational 
being  towards  another  made  tender  by  a  specific  difference 
in  that  which  is  essentially  the  same  in  both  ;  it  is  a  union 
of  opposites,  a  giving  and  receiving  mutually  of  the 
permanent  in  either,  a  completion  of  each  in  the  other. 

Milton  is  not  a  picturesque,  but  a  musical,  poet  ;  al- 
though he  has  this  merit,  that  the  object  chosen  by  him 
for  any  particular  foreground  always  remains  prominent  to 
the  end,  enriched,  but  not  incumbered,  by  the  opulence  of 
descriptive  details  furnished  by  an  exhaustless  imagination. 
I  wish  the  Paradise  Lost  were  more  carefully  read  and 
studied  than  I  can  see  any  ground  for  believing  it  is, 
especially  those  parts  which,  from  the  habit  of  always 
looking  for  a  story  in  poetry,  are  scarcely  read  at  all, — as 


288  Course  of  Lectures 

for  example,  Adam's  vision  of  future  events  in  the  nth 
and  I2th  books.  No  one  can  rise  from  the  perusal  of  this 
immortal  poem  without  a  deep  sense  of  the  grandeur  and 
the  purity  of  Milton's  soul,  or  without  feeling  how  sus- 
ceptible of  domestic  enjoyments  he  really  was,  notwith- 
standing the  discomforts  which  actually  resulted  from  an 
apparently  unhappy  choice  in  marriage.  He  was,  as  every 
truly  great  poet  has  ever  been,  a  good  man  ;  but  finding 
it  impossible  to  realize  his  own  aspirations,  either  in 
religion  or  politics,  or  society,  he  gave  up  his  heart  to  the 
living  spirit  and  light  within  him,  and  avenged  himself  on 
the  world  by  enriching  it  with  this  record  of  his  own  tran- 
scendant  ideal. 

Notes  on  Milton.     1807.1 

(Hayley  quotes  the  following  passage  : — ) 

"  Time  serves  not  now,  and,  perhaps,  I  might  seem  too  profuse 
to  give  any  certain  account  of  what  the  mind  at  home,  in  the 
spacious  circuit  of  her  musing,  hath  liberty  to  propose  to  herself, 
though  of  highest  hope  and  hardest  attempting  ;  whether  that  epic 
form,  whereof  the  two  poems  of  Homer,  and  those  other  two  of 
Virgil  and  Tasso,  are  a  diffuse,  and  the  book  of  Job  a  brief,  model." 
p.  69. 

These  latter  words  deserve  particular  notice.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  Milton  intended  his  Paradise  Lost  as  an  epic  of 
the  first  class,  and  that  the  poetic  dialogue  of  the  Book  of 
Job  was  his  model  for  the  general  scheme  of  his  Paradise 
Regained.  Readers  would  not  be  disappointed  in  this 
latter  poem,  if  they  proceeded  to  a  perusal  of  it  with  a 
proper  preconception  of  the  kind  of  interest  intended  to  be 
excited  in  that  admirable  work.  In  its  kind  it  is  the  most 
perfect  poem  extant,  though  its  kind  may  be  inferior  in 
interest — being  in  its  essence  didactic — to  that  other  sort, 
in  which  instruction  is  conveyed  more  effectively,  because 
less  directly,  in  connection  with  stronger  and  more 
pleasurable  emotions,  and  thereby  in  a  closer  affinity  with 
action.  But  might  we  not  as  rationally  object  to  an  accom- 
plished woman's  conversing,  however  agreeably,  because 
it  has  happened  that  we  have  received  a  keener  pleasure 
from   her   singing   to   the  harp  ?     Si  genus  sit  proho  et 

1  These  notes  were  written  by  Mr.  Coleridge  in  a  copy  of  Hayley's  Life  of  Milton, 
<4to.  1796),  belonging  to  Mr.  Poole.  By  him  they  were  communicated,  and  this  seems 
the  fittest  place  for  their  publication.     Ed. 


Lecture  X.  289 

sapienti  viro  haud  indignum,  et  si  poeina  sit  in  suo  genera 
perfectum,  satis  est.  Quod  si  hoc  aiictor  idem  altioribus 
numeris  et  carmini  diviniori  ipsum  per  se  divinum  super- 
addiderit,  mehercule  satis  est,  et  plusquam  satis.  I  cannot, 
however,  but  wish  that  the  answer  of  Jesus  to  Satan  in  the 
4th  book  (v.  285) — 

Think  not  but  that  I  know  these  things  ;    or  think 
I  know  them  not,  not  therefore  am  I  short 
Of  knowing  what  I  ought,  &c. 

had  breathed  the  spirit  of  Hayley's  noble  quotation  rather 
than  the  narrow  bigotry  of  Gregory  the  Great.  The 
passage  is,  indeed,  excellent,  and  is  partially  true  ;  but 
partial  truth  is  the  worst  mode  of  conveying  falsehood. 

Hayley,  p.  75.  "The  sincerest  friends  of  Milton  may  here  agree 
with  Johnson,  who  speaks  of  his  controversial  ■merriment  as  dis- 
gusting." 

The  man  who  reads  a  work  meant  for  immediate  effect 
on  one  age  with  the  notions  and  feelings  of  another,  may  be 
a  refined  gentleman,  but  must  be  a  sorry  critic.  He  who 
possesses  imagination  enough  to  live  with  his  forefathers, 
and,  leaving  comparative  reflection  for  an  after  moment, 
to  give  himself  up  during  the  first  perusal  to  the  feelings  of 
a  contemporary,  if  not  a  partizan,  will,  I  dare  aver,  rarely 
find  any  part  of  Milton's  prose  works  disgusting. 

(Hayley,  p.  104.  Hayley  is  speaking  of  the  passage  in 
Milton's  Answer  to  Icon  Basilice,  in  which  he  accuses 
Charles  of  taking  his  Prayer  in  captivity  from  Pamela's 
prayer  in  the  3rd  book  of  Sidney's  Arcadia.  The  passage 
begins, — 

"  But  this  king,  not  content  with  that  which,  although  in  a  thing 
holy,  is  no  holy  theft,  to  attribute  to  his  own  making  other  men's 
whole  prayers,"  &c.     Symmons'  ed.  1806,  p.  407.) 

Assuredly,  I  regret  that  Milton  should  have  written  this 
passage  ;  and  yet  the  adoption  of  a  prayer  from  a  romance 
on  such  an  occasion  does  not  evince  a  delicate  or  deeply 
sincere  mind.  We  are  the  creatures  of  association.  There 
are  some  excellent  moral  and  even  serious  lines  in  Hudi- 
bras  ;  but  what  if  a  clergyman  should  adorn  his  sermon 
with  a  quotation  from  that  poem  !  Would  the  abstract 
propriety  of  the  verses  leave  him  "  honourably  acquitted  ?  " 
The  Christian  baptism  of  a  line  in  Virgil  is  so  far  from  being 

K 


^QO  Course  of  Lectures 

a  parallel,  that  it  is  ridiculously  inappropriate, — an 
absurdity  as  glaring  as  that  of  the  bigoted  Puritans,  who 
objected  to  some  of  the  noblest  and  most  scriptural  prayers 
ever  dictated  by  wisdom  and  piety,  simply  because  the 
Roman  Catholics  had  used  them. 

Hayley,  p.  107.     "  The  ambition  of  Milton,"  &c. 

I  do  not  approve  the  so  frequent  use  of  this  word  re- 
latively to  Milton.  Indeed  the  fondness  for  ingrafting  a 
good  sense  on  the  word  **  ambition,"  is  not  a  Christian 
impulse  in  general. 

Hayley,  p.  no.  "Milton  himself  seems  to  have  thought  it 
allowable  in  literary  contention  to  vilify,  &c.  the  character  of  an 
opponent ;    but  surely  this  doctrine  is  unworthy,"  &c. 

If  ever  it  were  allowable,  in  this  case  it  was  especially  so. 
But  these  general  observations,  without  meditation  on  the 
particular  times  and  the  genius  of  the  times,  are  most  often 
as  unjust  as  they  are  always  superficial. 

(Hayley,  p.  133.  Hayley  is  speaking  of  Milton's 
panegyric  on  Cromwell's  government : — ) 

Besides,  however  Milton  might  and  did  regret  the 
immediate  necessity,  yet  what  alternative  was  there  ? 
Was  it  not  better  that  Cromwell  should  usurp  power,  to 
protect  religious  freedom  at  least,  than  that  the  Pres- 
byterians should  usurp  it  to  introduce  a  religious  per- 
secution,— extending  the  notion  of  spiritual  concerns  so 
far  as  to  leave  no  freedom  even  to  a  man's  bedchamber  ? 

(Hayley,  p.  250.  Hayley's  conjectures  on  the  origin  of 
the  Paradise  Lost  : — ) 

If  Milton  borrowed  a  hint  from  any  writer,  it  was  more 
probably  from  Strada's  Prolusions,  in  which  the  Fall  of  the 
Angels  is  pointed  out  as  the  noblest  subject  for  a  Christian 
poet.i  The  more  dissimilar  the  detailed  images  are,  the 
more  likely  it  is  that  a  great  genius  should  catch  the 
general  idea. 

(Hayl.  p.  294.     Extracts  from  the  Adamo  of  Andreini :) 

"  Lucifero.  Che  dal  mio  centro  oscuro 

Mi  chiama  a  rimirar  cotanta  luce  ? 

1  The  reference  seems  generally  to  be  to  the  5th  Prolusion  of  the  ist  Book.  Hie 
arcui  hac  tela,  quibus  dim  in  niagno  illo  Superunt  tumUltu  princeps  artnorum 
Michael  confixit  auctoretn  proditionis ;  hie  fulmina  humana  mentis  terror. 
*  *  *  *.  In  nubibus  armatas  bcllo  legiones  instruatn,  atque  inde  pro  re  nata 
auxiliares  ad  terram  capias  evocabo.  *••*«.  Hie  mihi  Califes,  guos  essi 
ferunt  eletnentorum  tuteiares,  pritna  ilia  corpora  tnisiebunt.     Sect.  4,     Ed. 


Lecture  XI.  291 

Who  from  my  dark  abyss 

Calls  me  to  gaze  on  this  excess  of  light  ?  " 

The  words  in  italics  are  an  unfair  translation.  They 
ma}^  suggest  that  Milton  really  had  read  and  did  imitate 
this  drama.  The  original  is  'in  so  great  light.'  Indeed 
the  whole  version  is  affectedly  and  inaccurately  Miltonic. 

lb.  V.    II.  Che  di  fango  opre  festi — 

Forming  thy  works  of  dust  (no,  dirt. — ) 

lb.  V.   17.  Tessa  pur  stella  a  stella, 

V  aggiunga  e  luna,  e  sole. — 

Let  him  unite  above 
Star  upon  star,  moon,  sun. 

Let  him  weave  star  to  star, 
Then  join  both  moon  arid  sun  ! 

lb.  V.   21.  Ch 'al  fin  con  biasmo  e  scorno 

Vana  I'opra  sara,  vano  il  sudore  I 

Since  in  the  end  division 

Shall  prove  his  works  and  all  his  efforts  vain. 

Since  finally  with  censure  and  disdain 

Vain  shall  the  work  be,  and  his  toil  be  vain  ! 

1796.1 

The  reader  of  Milton  must  be  always  on  his  duty  :  he  is 
surrounded  with  sense  ;  it  rises  in  every  line  ;  every  word 
is  to  the  purpose.  There  are  no  lazy  intervals  ;  all  has 
been  considered,  and  demands  and  merits  observation.  If 
this  be  called  obscurity,  let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  such 
an  obscurity  as  is  a  compliment  to  the  reader  ;  not  that 
vicious  obscurity  v/hich  proceeds  from  a  muddled  head. 


LECTURE  XI.2 

Asiatic  and  Greek  Mythologies — Robinson  Crusoe — Use  of 
works  of  Imagination  in  Education. 

A  CONFOUNDING  of  God  with  Nature,  and  an  incapacity  of 
finding  unity  in  the  manifold  and  infinity  in  the  individual, 
— these  are  the  origin  of  polytheism.     The  most  perfect 

1  From  a  common-place  book  of  Mr.  C.'s,  communicated  by  Mr.  J.  M.  Gutch.     Ed, 

2  Partly  from  Mr.  Green's  note.     Ed. 


292  Course  of  Lectures 

instance  of  this  kind  of  theism  is  that  of  early  Greece  ; 
other  nations  seem  to  have  either  transcended,  or  come 
short  of,  the  old  Hellenic  standard, — a  mythology  in  itself 
fundamentally  allegorical,  and  typical  of  the  powers  and 
functions  of  nature,  but  subsequently  mixed  up  with  a 
deification  of  great  men  and  hero-worship, — so  that  finally 
the  original  idea  became  inextricably  combined  with  the 
form  and  attributes  of  some  legendary  individual.  In 
Asia,  probably  from  the  greater  unity  of  the  government 
and  the  still  surviving  influence  of  patriarchal  tradition, 
the  idea  of  the  unity  of  God,  in  a  distorted  reflection  of  the 
Mosaic  scheme,  was  much  more  generally  preserved  ;  and 
accordingly  all  other  super  or  ultra-human  beings  could 
only  be  represented  as  ministers  of,  or  rebels  against,  his 
will.  The  Asiatic  genii  and  fairies  are,  therefore,  always 
endowed  with  moral  qualities,  and  distinguishable  as 
malignant  or  benevolent  to  man.  It  is  this  uniform 
attribution  of  fixed  moral  qualities  to  the  supernatural 
agents  of  eastern  mythology  that  particularly  separates 
them  from  the  divinities  of  old  Greece. 

Yet  it  is  not  altogether  improbable  that  in  the  Samo- 
thracian  or  Cabeiric  mysteries  the  link  between  the  Asiatic 
and  Greek  popular  schemes  of  mythology  lay  concealed. 
Of  these  mysteries  there  are  conflicting  accounts,  and, 
perhaps,  there  were  variations  of  doctrine  in  the  lapse  of 
ages  and  intercourse  with  other  systems.  But,  upon  a 
review  of  all  that  is  left  to  us  on  this  subject  in  the  writings 
of  the  ancients,  we  may,  I  think,  make  out  thus  much  of  an 
interesting  fact, — that  Cabiri,  impliedly  at  least,  meant 
socii,  complices,  having  a  hypostatic  or  fundamental  union 
with,  or  relation  to,  each  other  ;  that  these  mysterious 
divinities  were,  ultimately  at  least,  divided  into  a  higher 
and  lower  triad  ;  that  the  lower  triad,  primi  qida  infimi, 
consisted  of  the  old  Titanic  deities  or  powers  of  nature, 
under  the  obscure  names  of  Axieros,  Axiokersos,  and 
Axiokersa,  representing  symbolically  different  modifica- 
tions of  animal  desire  or  material  action,  such  as  hunger, 
thirst,  and  fire,  without  consciousness  ;  that  the  higher 
triad,  uUimi  quia  superior es,  consisted  of  Jupiter  (Pallas, 
or  Apollo,  or  Bacchus,  or  Mercury,  mystically  cafled 
Cadmilos)  and  Venus,  representing,  as  before,  the  vovg  or 
reason,  the  Xoyoc  or  word  or  communicative  power,  and  the 
ipug  or  love  ; — that  the  Cadmilos  or  Mercury,  the  mani- 


Lecture  XI.  293 

fested,  communicated,  or  sent,  appeared  not  only  in  his 
proper  person  as  second  of  the  higher  triad,  but  also  as  a 
mediator  between  the  higher  and  lower  triad,  and  so  there 
were  seven  divinities  ;  and,  indeed,  according  to  some 
authorities,  it  might  seem  that  the  Cadmilos  acted  once 
as  a  mediator  of  the  higher,  and  once  of  the  lower,  triad, 
and  that  so  there  were  eight  Cabeiric  divinities.  The  lower 
or  Titanic  powers  being  subdued,  chaos  ceased,  and 
creation  began  in  the  reign  of  the  divinities  of  mind  and 
love  ;  but  the  chaotic  gods  still  existed  in  the  abyss,  and 
the  notion  of  evoking  them  was  the  origin,  the  idea,  of  the 
Greek  necromancy. 

These  mysteries,  like  all  the  others,  were  certainly  in 
connection  with  either  the  Phoenician  or  Egyptian  systems, 
perhaps  with  both.  Hence  the  old  Cabeiric  powers  were 
soon  made  to  answer  to  the  corresponding  popular 
divinities  ;  and  the  lower  triad  was  called  by  the  un- 
initiated, Ceres,  Vulcan  or  Pluto,  and  Proserpine,  and  the 
Cadmilos  became  Mercury.  It  is  not  without  ground  that 
I  direct  your  attention,  under  these  circumstances,  to  the 
probable  derivation  of  some  portion  of  this  most  remark- 
able system  from  patriarchal  tradition,  and  to  the  connec- 
tion of  the  Cabeiri  with  the  Kabbala. 

The  Samothracian  mysteries  continued  in  celebrity  till 
some  time  after  the  commencement  of  the  Christian  era.^ 
But  they  gradually  sank  with  the  rest  of  the  ancient 
system  of  mythology,  to  which,  in  fact,  they  did  not 
properly  belong.  The  peculiar  doctrines,  however,  were 
preserved  in  the  memories  of  the  initiated,  and  handed 
down  by  individuals.  No  doubt  they  were  propagated  in 
Europe,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  Paracelsus  received 
many  of  his  opinions  from  such  persons,  and  I  think  a 
connection  may  be  traced  between  him  and  Jacob  Behmen. 

The  Asiatic  supernatural  beings  are  all  produced  by 
imagining  an  excessive  magnitude,  or  an  excessive  small- 
ness  combined  with  great  power  ;  and  the  broken  associa- 
tions, which  must  have  given  rise  to  such  conceptions,  are 
the  sources  of  the  interest  which  they  inspire,  as  exhibiting, 
through  the  working  of  the  imagination,  the  idea  of  power 
in  the  will.     This  is  delightfully  exemplified  in  the  Arabian 

1  In  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  a.d.  i8,  Germanicns  attempted  to  visit  Samothrace ; — 
ilium  in  regressn  sacra  Samothracum  viscre  nitentejn  obvii  aquitoncs  depulere. 
Tacit.  Ann.  II.  c.  54.     Ed. 


294  Course  of  Lectures 

Nights'  Entertainments,  and  indeed,  more  or  less,  in  other 
works  of  the  same  kind.  In  all  these  there  is  the  same 
activity  of  mind  as  in  dreaming,  that  is — an  exertion  of  the 
fancy  in  the  combination  and  recombination  of  familiar 
objects  so  as  to  produce  novel  and  wonderful  imagery. 
To  this  must  be  added  that  these  tales  cause  no  deep 
feeling  of  a  moral  kind — whether  of  religion  or  love  ;  but 
an  impulse  of  motion  is  communicated  to  the  mind  without 
excitement,  and  this  is  the  reason  of  their  being  so  generally 
read  and  admired. 

I  think  it  not  unlikely  that  the  Milesian  Tales  contained 
the  germs  of  many  of  those  now  in  the  Arabian  Nights  ; 
indeed  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  doubt  that  the  Greek 
Empire  must  have  left  deep  impression  on  the  Persian 
intellect.  So  also  many  of  the  Roman  Catholic  legends 
are  taken  from  Apuleius.  In  that  exquisite  story  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  the  allegory  is  of  no  injury  to  the  dramatic 
vividness  of  the  tale.  It  is  evidently  a  philosophic 
attempt  to  parry  Christianity  with  a  qnasi-Fl3itonic 
account  of  the  fall  and  redemption  of  the  soul. 

The  charm  of  De  Foe's  works,  especially  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  is  founded  on  the  same  principle.  It  always 
interests,  never  agitates.  Crusoe  himself  is  merely  a 
representative  of  humanity  in  general ;  neither  his  intel- 
lectual nor  his  moral  qualities  set  him  above  the  middle 
degree  of  mankind ;  his  only  prominent  characteristic 
is  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  wandering,  which  is,  never- 
theless, a  very  common  disposition.  You  will  observe 
that  all  that  is  wonderful  in  this  tale  is  the  result  of  external 
circumstances — of  things  which  fortune  brings  to  Crusoe's 
hand. 

NOTES  ON  ROBINSON  CRUSOE.^ 

Vol.  L  p.  17.  But  my  ill  fate  pushed  me  on  now  with  an  obstinacy 
that  nothing  could  resist ;  and  though  I  had  several  times  loud  calls 
from  my  reason,  and  my  more  composed  judgment,  to  go  home,  yet 
I  had  no  power  to  do  it.  I  know  not  what  to  call  this,  nor  will  I 
urge  that  it  is  a  secret  over-ruling  decree  that  hurries  us  on  to  be 
the  instruments  of  our  own  destruction,  even  though  it  be  before  us, 
and  that  we  rush  upon  it  with  our  eyes  open. 

The  wise  only  possess  ideas  ;  the  greater  part  of  man- 
kind are  possessed  by  them.     Robinson  Crusoe  was  not 

1  These  notes  were  written  by  Mr.  C.  in  Mr.  Gillman's  copy  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  in 
the  summer  of  1830.     The  references  in  the  text  are  to  Major's  edition,  1831.     Ed. 


Lecture  XI.  295 

conscious  of  the  master  impulse,  even  because  it  was  his 
master,  and  had  taken,  as  he  says,  full  possession  of  him. 
When  once  the  mind,  in  despite  of  the  remonstrating 
conscience,  has  abandoned  its  free  power  to  a  haunting 
impulse  or  idea,  then  whatever  tends  to  give  depth  and 
vividness  to  this  idea  or  indefinite  imagination,  increases 
its  despotism,  and  in  the  same  proportion  renders  the 
reason  and  free  will  ineffectual.  Now,  fearful  calamities, 
sufferings,  horrors,  and  hair-breadth  escapes  will  have  this 
effect,  far  more  than  even  sensual  pleasure  and  prosperous 
incidents.  Hence  the  evil  consequences  of  sin  in  such 
cases,  instead  of  retracting  or  deterring  the  sinner,  goad 
him  on  to  his  destruction.  This  is  the  moral  of  Shak- 
speare's  Macbeth,  and  the  true  solution  of  this  paragraph, 
— not  any  overruling  decree  of  divine  wrath,  but  the 
tyranny  of  the  sinner's  own  evil  imagination,  which  he 
has  voluntarily  chosen  as  his  master. 

Compare  the  contemptuous  Swift  with  the  contemned 
De  Foe,  and  how  superior  will  the  latter  be  found  !  But 
by  what  test  ? — Even  by  this  ;  that  the  writer  who  makes 
me  sympathize  with  his  presentations  with  the  whole  of 
my  being,  is  more  estimable  than  he  who  calls  forth,  and 
appeals  but  to,  a  part  of  my  being — my  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  for  instance.  De  Foe's  excellence  it  is,  to  make 
me  forget  my  specific  class,  character,  and  circumstances, 
and  to  raise  me  while  I  read  him,  into  the  universal  man. 

P.  80.  I  smiled  to  myself  at  the  sight  of  this  money  :  "  O  drug  !  " 
said  I  aloud,  &c.  However  upon  second  thonohts,  I  took  it  away  ; 
and  wrapping  all  this  in  a  piece  of  canvas,  &c. 

Worthy  of  Shakspeare  ! — and  yet  the  simple  semicolon 
after  it,  the  instant  passing  on  without  the  least  pause  of 
reflex  consciousness,  is  more  exquisite  and  masterlike  than 
the  touch  itself.  A  meaner  writer,  a  Marmontel,  would 
have  put  an  (!)  after  'away,'  and  have  commenced  a  fresh 
paragraph.     30th  July,  1830. 

P.  III.  And  I  must  confess,  my  religious  thankfulness  to  God's 
providence  began  to  abate  too,  upon  the  discovering  that  all  this 
was  nothing  but  what  was  common  ;  though  I  ought  to  have  been 
as  thankful  for  so  strange  and  unforeseen  a  providence,  as  if  it  had 
been  miraculous. 

To  make  men  feel  the  truth  of  this  is  one  characteristic 
object  of  the  miracles  v/orked  by  Moses  ; — in  them  the 
providence  is  miraculous,  the  miracles  providential. 


296 


Course  of  Lectures 


p.  126.  The  growing  up  of  the  com,  as  is  hinted  in  my  Journal, 
had,  at  first,  some  httle  influence  upon  me,  and  began  to  affect  me 
with  seriousness,  as  long  as  I  thought  it  had  something  miraculous 
in  it,  &c. 

By  far  the  ablest  vindication  of  miracles  which  I  have 
met  with.  It  is  indeed  the  true  ground,  the  proper 
purpose  and  intention  of  a  miracle. 

P.  141.  To  think  that  this  was  all  my  own,  that  I  was  king  and 
lord  of  all  this  country  indefeasibly,  &c. 

By  the  by,  what  is  the  law  of  England  respecting  this  ? 
Suppose  I  had  discovered,  or  been  wrecked  on  an  un- 
inhabited island,  would  it  be  mine  or  the  king's  ? 

P.  223.  I  considered — that  as  I  could  not  foresee  what  the  ends 
of  divine  wisdom  might  be  in  all  this,  so  I  was  not  to  dispute  his 
sovereignty,  who,  as  I  was  his  creature,  had  an  undoubted  right, 
by  creation,  to  govern  and  dispose  of  me  absolutely  as  he  thought 
fit,  &c. 

I  could  never  understand  this  reasoning,  grounded  on  a 
complete  misapprehension  of  St.  Paul's  image  of  the  potter, 
Rom.  ix,,  or  rather  I  do  fully  understand  the  absurdit}^  of 
it.  The  susceptibility  of  pain  and  pleasure,  of  good  and 
evil,  constitutes  a  right  in  every  creature  endowed  there- 
with in  relation  to  every  rational  and  moral  being, — a 
fortiori  therefore,  to  the  Supreme  Reason,  to  the  absolutely 
good  Being.     Remember  Davenant's  verses  ; — 

Doth  it  our  reason's  mutinies  appease 

To  say,  the  potter  may  his  own  clay  mould 

To  every  use,  or  in  what  shape  he  please. 

At  first  not  counsell'd,  nor  at  last  controll'd  ? 

Power's  hand  can  neither  easy  be,  nor  strict 
To  lifeless  clay,  which  ease  nor  torment  knows, 
And  where  it  cannot  favour  or  afiflict. 
It  neither  justice  or  injustice  shows. 

But  souls  have  life,  and  life  eternal  too  : 
Therefore  if  doom'd  before  they  can  offend. 
It  seems  to  show  what  heavenly  power  can  do, 
But  does  not  in  that  deed  that  power  commend. 

Death  of  Astragon,  st.  88,  &c. 

P.  232-3.  And  this  I  must  observe  with  grief  too,  that  the  dis- 
composure of  my  mind  had  too  great  impressions  also  upon  the 
religious  parts  of  my  thoughts, — praying  to  God  being  properly  an 
act  of  the  mind,  not  of  the  body. 

As  justly  conceived  as  it  is  beautifully  expressed.     And 


Lecture  XL  297 

a  mighty  motive  for  habitual  prayer  ;  for  this  cannot  but 
greatly  facilitate  the  performance  of  rational  prayer  even 
in  moments  of  urgent  distress. 

P.  244.  That  this  would  justify  the  conduct  of  the  Spaniards  in. 
all  their  barbarities  practised  in  America. 

De  Foe  was  a  true  philanthropist,  who  had  risen  above 
the  antipathies  of  nationality ;  but  he  was  evidently 
partial  to  the  Spanish  character,  which,  however,  it  is  not, 
I  fear,  possible  to  acquit  of  cruelty.  Witness  the  Nether- 
lands, the  Inquisition,  the  late  Guerilla  warfare,  &c. 

P.  249.  That  I  shall  not  discuss,  and  perhaps  cannot  account 
for  ;  but  certainly  they  are  a  proof  of  the  converse  of  spirits,  &c. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  conversation  I  once  overheard. 
"  How  a  statement  so  injurious  to  Mr.  A.  and  so  contrary 
to  the  truth,  should  have  been  made  to  you  by  Mr.  B.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  account  for  ; — only  I  know  of  my  own 
knowledge  that  B.  is  an  inveterate  liar,  and  has  long 
borne  malice  against  Mr.  A.  ;  and  I  can  prove  that  he  has 
repeatedly  declared  that  in  some  way  or  other  he  would 
do  Mr.  A.  a  mischief." 

P.  254.  The  place  I  was  in  was  a  most  delightful  cavity  or 
grotto  of  its  kind,  as  could  be  expected,  though  perfectly  dark  ; 
the  floor  was  dry  and  level,  and  had  a  sort  of  small  loose  gravel  on 
it,  &c. 

How  accurate  an  observer  of  nature  De  Foe  was  !  The 
reader  will  at  once  recognise  Professor  Buckland's  caves 
and  the  diluvial  gravel. 

P.  308.  I  entered  into  a  long  discourse  with  him  about  the  devil, 
the  original  of  him,  his  rebellion  against  God,  his  enmity  to  man, 
the  reason  of  it,  his  setting  himself  up  in  the  dark  parts  of  the  world 
to  be  worshipped  instead  of  God,  &c. 

I  presume  that  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  must  have  been 
bound  up  with  one  of  Crusoe's  Bibles  ;  otherwise  I  should 
be  puzzled  to  know  where  he  found  all  this  history  of  the 
Old  Gentleman.  Not  a  word  of  it  in  the  Bible  itself,  I  am 
quite  sure.  But  to  be  serious.  De  Foe  did  not  reflect 
that  all  these  difficulties  are  attached  to  a  mere  fiction,  or, 
at  the  best,  an  allegory,  supported  by  a  few  popular 
phrases  and  figures  of  speech  used  incidentally  or  dramati- 
cally by  the  Evangelists. — and  that  the  existence  of  a 
personal,    intelligent,    evil    being,    the    counterpart    and 


298 


Course  of  Lectures 


antagonist  of  God,  is  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  most 
express  declarations  of  Holy  Writ.  "  Shall  there  he  evil 
in  a  city,  and  the  Lord  hath  not  done  it  ?  "  Amos  iii.  6. 
"  I  make  peace  and  create  evil."  Isa.  xlv.  7.  This  is  the 
deep  m37stery  of  the  abyss  of  God. 

Vol.  ii.  p.  3-  I  tiave  often  heard  persons  of  good  judgment  say, 
*  *  *  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  spirit  appearing,  a  ghost 
walking,  and  the  like,  &c. 

I  cannot  conceive  a  better  definition  of  Body  than 
"  spirit  appearing,"  or  of  a  flesh-and-blood  man  than  a 
rational  spirit  apparent.  But  a  spirit  per  se  appearing 
is  tantamount  to  a  spirit  appearing  without  its  appear- 
ances. And  as  for  ghosts,  it  is  enough  for  a  man  of 
common  sense  to  observe,  that  a  ghost  and  a  shadow  are 
concluded  in  the  same  definition,  that  is,  visibility  without 
tangibiUty. 

P,  9.  She  was,  in  a  few  words,  the  stay  of  all  my  affairs,  the 
centre  of  all  my  enterprises,  &c. 

The  stay  of  his  affairs,  the  centre  of  his  interests,  the 
regulator  of  his  schemes  and  movements,  whom  it  soothed 
his  pride  to  submit  to,  and  in  complying  with  whose 
wishes  the  conscious  sensation  of  his  acting  will  increased 
the  impulse,  while  it  disguised  the  coercion,  of  duty  ! — 
the  clinging  dependent,  yet  the  strong  supporter — the 
comforter,  the  comfort,  and  the  soul's  living  home  !  This 
is  De  Foe's  comprehensive  character  of  the  wife,  as  she 
should  be  ;  and,  to  the  honour  of  womanhood  be  it  spoken, 
there  are  few  neighbourhoods  in  which  one  name  at  least 
might  not  be  found  for  the  portrait. 

The  exquisite  paragraphs  in  this  and  the  next  page,  in 
addition  to  others  scattered,  though  with  a  sparing  hand, 
through  his  novels,  afford  sufficient  proof  that  De  Foe  was 
a  first-rate  master  of  periodic  style  ;  but  with  sound 
judgment,  and  the  fine  tact  of  genius,  he  has  avoided  it  as 
adverse  to,  nay,  incompatible  with,  the  every-day  mattei 
of  fact  realness,  which  forms  the  charm  and  the  character 
of  all  his  romances.  The  Robinson  Crusoe  is  like  the  \dsion 
of  a  happy  night-mair,  such  as  a  denizen  of  Elysium  might 
be  supposed  to  have  from  a  little  excess  in  his  nectar  and 
ambrosia  supper.  Our  imagination  is  kept  in  full  play, 
excited  to  the  highest ;  yet  all  the  while  we  are  touching, 
or  touched  by,  common  flesh  and  blood. 


Lecture  XI.  299 

p.  67.  The  ungrateful  creatures  began  to  be  as  insolent  and 
troublesome  as  before,  &c. 

How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  They  were  idle  ;  and 
when  we  will  not  sow  corn,  the  devil  will  be  sure  to  sow 
weeds,  night-shade,  henbane,  and  devil's  bit. 

P.  82.  That    hardened  villain  was    so  far  from  denying  it,  that 

he  said  it  was  true,  and him  they  would  do  it  still  before 

they  had  done  with  them. 

Observe  when  a  man  has  once  abandoned  himself  to 
wickedness,  he  cannot  stop,  and  does  not  join  the  devils 
till  he  has  become  a  devil  himself.  Rebelling  against  his 
conscience  he  becomes  the  slave  of  his  own  furious  will. 

One  excellence  of  De  Foe,  amongst  many,  is  his  sacrifice 
of  lesser  interest  to  the  greater  because  more  universal. 
Had  he  (as  without  any  improbability  he  might  have  done) 
given  his  Robinson  Crusoe  any  of  the  turn  for  natural 
history,  which  forms  so  striking  and  delightful  a  feature 
in  the  equally  uneducated  Dampier  ; — had  he  made  him 
lind  out  qualities  and  uses  in  the  before  (to  him)  unknown 
plants  of  the  island,  discover,  for  instance,  a  substitute 
for  hops,  or  describe  birds,  &c. — many  delightful  pages 
and  incidents  might  have  enriched  the  book  ; — but  then 
Crusoe  would  have  ceased  to  be  the  universal  representa- 
tive, the  person  for  whom  every  reader  could  substitute 
himself.  But  now  nothing  is  done,  thought,  suffered,  or 
desired,  but  what  every  man  can  imagine  himself  doing, 
thinking,  feeling,  or  wishing  for.  Even  so  very  easy  a 
problem  as  that  of  finding  a  substitute  for  ink,  is  with 
exquisite  judgment  made  to  baffle  Crusoe's  inventive 
faculties.  And  in  what  he  does,  he  arrives  at  no  excel- 
lence ;  he  does  not  make  basket  work  hke  Will  Atkins  ;  the 
carpentering,  tailoring,  pottery,  &c.  are  all  just  what  will 
answer  his  purposes,  and  those  are  confined  to  needs  that 
all  men  have,  and  comforts  that  all  men  desire.  Crusoe 
rises  only  to  the  point  to  which  all  men  may  be  made  to 
feel  that  they  might,  and  that  they  ought  to,  rise  in 
religion, — to  resignation,  dependence  on,  and  thankful 
acknowledgment  of,  the  divine  mercy  and  goodness. 


In  the  education  of  children,  love  is  first  to  be  instilled, 
and  out  of  love  obedience  is  to  be  educed.     Then  impulse 


300  Course  of  Lectures 

and  power  should  be  given  to  the  intellect,  and  the  ends 
of  a  moral  being  be  exhibited.  For  this  object  thus  much 
is  effected  by  works  of  imagination  ; — that  they  carry  the 
mind  out  of  self,  and  show  the  possible  of  the  good  and 
the  great  in  the  human  character.  The  height,  whatever 
it  may  be,  of  the  imaginative  standard  will  do  no  harm  ; 
we  are  commanded  to  imitate  one  who  is  inimitable. 
We  should  address  ourselves  to  those  faculties  in  a  child's 
mind,  which  are  first  awakened  by  nature,  and  conse- 
quently first  admit  of  cultivation,  that  is  to  say,  the 
memory  and  the  imagination.  ^  The  comparing  pov/er, 
the  judgment,  is  not  at  that  age  active,  and  ought  not  to 
be  forcibly  excited,  as  is  too  frequently  and  mistakenly 
done  in  the  modern  systems  of  education,  which  can  only 
lead  to  selfish  views,  debtor  and  creditor  principles  of 
virtue,  and  an  inflated  sense  of  merit.  In  the  imagination 
of  man  exist  the  seeds  of  all  moral  and  scientific  improve- 
ment ;  chemistry  was  first  alchemy,  and  out  of  astrology 
sprang  astronomy.  In  the  childhood  of  those  sciences 
the  imagination  opened  a  way,  and  furnished  materials, 
on  which  the  ratiocinative  powers  in  a  maturer  state 
operated  with  success.  The  imagination  is  the  distin- 
guishing characteristic  of  man  as  a  progressive  being  ; 
and  I  repeat  that  it  ought  to  be  carefully  guided  and 
strengthened  as  the  indispensable  means  and  instrument 
of  continued  amelioration  and  refinement.  Men  of  genius 
and  goodness  are  generally  restless  in  their  minds  in  the 
present,  and  this,  because  they  are  by  a  law  of  their  nature 
unremittingly  regarding  themselves  in  the  future,  and 
contemplating  the  possible  of  moral  and  intellectual 
advance  towards  perfection.  Thus  we  live  by  hope  and 
faith  ;  thus  we  are  for  the  most  part  able  to  realize  what 
we  win,  and  thus  we  accomplish  the  end  of  our  being. 
The  contemplation  of  futurity  inspires  humility  of  soul 
in  our  judgment  of  the  present. 

I  think  the  memory  of  children  cannot,  in  reason,  be  too 
much  stored  with  the  objects  and  facts  of  natural  history. 
God  opens  the  images  of  nature,  like  the  leaves  of  a  book, 
before  the  eyes  of  his  creature,  Man — and  teaches  him  all 

1  He  (Sir  W.  Scott)  "  detested  and  despised  the  whole  generation  of  modern 
children's  books  in  which  the  attempt  is  made  to  convey  accurate  notions  of  scientific 
minutiae,  delighting  cordially  on  the  other  hand  in  those  of  the  preceding  age.  which 
addressing  themselves  chiefly  to  the  imagination  obtain  through  it,  as  he  believed,  the 
best  chance  of  stirring  our  graver  faculties  also." — Li/e  of  Scott. 


Lecture  XII.  301 

that  is  grand  and  beautiful  in  the  foaming  cataract,  the 
glassy  lake,  and  the  floating  mist. 

The  common  modern  novel,  in  which  there  is  no  imagi- 
nation, but  a  miserable  struggle  to  excite  and  gratify  mere 
curiosity,  ought,  in  my  judgment,  to  be  wholly  forbidden  to 
children.  Novel-reading  of  this  sort  is  especially  injurious 
to  the  growth  of  the  imagination,  the  judgment,  and  the 
morals,  especially  to  the  latter,  because  it  excites  mere 
feelings  without  at  the  same  time  ministering  an  impulse 
to  action.  Women  are  good  novelists,  but  indifferent 
poets  ;  and  this  because  they  rarely  or  never  thoroughly 
distinguish  between  fact  and  fiction.  In  the  jumble  of  the 
two  lies  the  secret  of  the  modern  novel,  which  is  the  medium 
aliquid  between  them,  having  just  so  much  of  fiction  as  to 
obscure  the  fact,  and  so  much  of  fact  as  to  render  the 
fiction  insipid.  The  perusal  of  a  fashionable  lady's  novel, 
is  to  me  very  much  like  looking  at  the  scenery  and  decora- 
tions of  a  theatre  by  broad  daylight.  The  source  of  the 
common  fondness  for  novels  of  this  sort  rests  in  that  dislike 
of  vacancy,  and  that  love  of  sloth,  which  are  inherent  in 
the  human  mind  ;  they  afford  excitement  without  pro- 
ducing reaction.  By  reaction  I  mean  an  activity  of  the 
intellectual  faculties,  which  shows  itself  in  consequent 
reasoning  and  observation,  and  originates  action  and 
conduct  according  to  a  principle.  Thus,  the  act  of  thinking 
presents  two  sides  for  contemplation, — that  of  external 
causality,  in  which  the  train  of  thought  may  be  considered 
as  the  result  of  outward  impressions,  of  accidental  com- 
binations, of  fancy,  or  the  associations  of  the  memory, — 
and  on  the  other  hand,  that  of  internal  causality,  or  of  the 
energy  of  the  will  on  the  mind  itself.  Thought,  therefore, 
might  thus  be  regarded  as  passive  or  active  ;  and  the  same 
faculties  may  in  a  popular  sense  be  expressed  as  per- 
ception or  observation,  fancy  or  imagination,  memory  or 
recollection. 

LECTURE  XII. 

Dreams — Apparitions — Alchemists — Personality  of  the  Evil 
Being — Bodily  Identity. 

It  is  a  general,  but,  as  it  appears  to  me,  a  mistaken  opinion, 
that  in  our  ordinary  dreams  we  judge  the  objects  to  be  real. 
I  say  our  ordinary  dreams  ; — because  as  to  the  night-mair 


302  Course  of  Lectures 

the  opinion  is  to  a  considerable  extent  just.  But  the 
night-mair  is  not  a  mere  dream,  but  takes  place  when  the 
waking  state  of  the  brain  is  recommencing,  and  most  often 
during  a  rapid  alternation,  a  twinkling,  as  it  were,  of  sleeping 
and  waking  ; — while  either  from  pressure  on,  or  from  some 
derangement  in,  the  stomach  or  other  digestive  organs 
acting  on  the  external  skin  (which  is  still  in  sympathy  with 
the  stomach  and  bowels),  and  benumbing  it,  the  sensations 
sent  up  to  the  brain  by  double  touch  (that  is,  when  my  own 
hand  touches  my  side  or  breast)  are  so  faint  as  to  be 
merely  equivalent  to  the  sensation  given  by  single  touch, 
as  when  another  person's  hand  touches  me.  The  mind, 
therefore,  which  at  all  times,  with  and  without  our  distinct 
consciousness,  seeks  for,  and  assumes,  some  outward  cause 
for  every  impression  from  without,  and  which  in  sleep,  by 
aid  of  the  imaginative  faculty,  converts  its  judgments 
respecting  the  cause  into  a  personal  image  as  being  the 
cause, — the  mind,  I  say,  in  this  case,  deceived  by  past 
experience,  attributes  the  painful  sensation  received  to  a 
correspondent  agent, — an  assassin,  for  instance,  stabbing 
at  the  side,  or  a  goblin  sitting  on  the  breast.  Add  too  that 
the  impressions  of  the  bed,  curtains,  room,  &c.  received 
by  the  eyes  in  the  half-moments  of  their  opening,  blend 
with,  and  give  vividness  and  appropriate  distance  to,  the 
dream  image  which  returns  when  they  close  again  ;  and 
thus  we  unite  the  actual  perceptions,  or  their  immediate 
reliques,  with  the  phantoms  of  the  inward  sense  ;  and 
in  this  manner  so  confound  the  half-waking,  half-sleeping, 
reasoning  power,  that  we  actually  do  pass  a  positive  judg- 
ment on  the  reality  of  what  we  see  and  hear,  though  often 
accompanied  by  doubt  and  self-questioning,  which,  as  I 
have  myself  experienced,  will  at  times  become  strong 
enough,  even  before  we  awake,  to  convince  us  that  it  is 
what  it  is — namely,  the  night-mair. 

In  ordinary  dreams  we  do  not  judge  the  objects  to  be 
real  ; — we  simply  do  not  determine  that  they  are  unreal. 
The  sensations  which  they  seem  to  produce,  are  in  truth 
the  causes  and  occasions  of  the  images  ;  of  which  there 
are  two  obvious  proofs  :  first,  that  in  dreams  the  strangest 
and  most  sudden  metamorphoses  do  not  create  any  sensa- 
tion of  surprise  :  and  the  second,  that  as  to  the  most 
dreadful  images,  which  during  the  dream  were  accompanied 
with  agonies  of  terror,  we  merely  awake,  or  turn  round  on 


Lecture  XII.  303 

the  other  side,  and  off  fly  both  image  and  agony,  which 
would  be  impossible  if  the  sensations  were  produced  by  the 
images.  This  has  always  appeared  to  me  an  absolute 
demonstration  of  the  true  nature  of  ghosts  and  appari- 
tions— such  I  mean  of  the  tribe  as  were  not  pure  inven- 
tions. Fifty  years  ago,  (and  to  this  day  in  the  ruder 
parts  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  in  almost  every  kitchen 
and  in  too  many  parlours  it  is  nearly  the  same,)  you  might 
meet  persons  who  would  assure  you  in  the  most  solemn 
manner,  so  that  you  could  not  doubt  their  veracity  at 
least,  that  they  had  seen  an  apparition  of  such  and  such  a 
person, — in  many  cases,  that  the  apparition  had  spoken  to 
them  ;  and  they  would  describe  themselves  as  having  been 
in  an  agony  of  terror.  The}^  would  tell  you  the  story  in 
perfect  health.  Now  take  the  other  class  of  facts,  in  which 
real  ghosts  have  appeared  ; — I  mean,  where  figures  have 
been  dressed  up  for  the  purpose  of  passing  for  apparitions  : 
— in  every  instance  I  have  known  or  heard  of  (and  I  have 
collected  very  many)  the  consequence  has  been  either 
sudden  death,  or  fits,  or  idiocy,  or  mania,  or  a  brain  fever. 
Whence  comes  the  difference  ?  evidently  from  this, — that 
in  the  one  case  the  whole  of  the  nervous  system  has  been  by 
slight  internal  causes  gradually  and  all  together  brought 
into  a  certain  state,  the  sensation  of  which  is  extravagantly 
exaggerated  during  sleep,  and  of  which  the  images  are  the 
mere  effects  and  exponents,  as  the  motions  of  the  weather- 
cock are  of  the  wind  ; — while  in  the  other  case,  the  image 
rushing  through  the  senses  upon  a  nervous  system,  wholly 
unprepared,  actually  causes  the  sensation,  which  is  some- 
times powerful  enough  to  produce  a  total  check,  and  almost 
always  a  lesion  or  inflammation.  Who  has  not  witnessed 
the  difference  in  shock  when  we  have  leaped  down  half-a- 
dozen  steps  intentionally,  and  that  of  having  missed  a 
single  stair  ?  How  comparatively  severe  the  latter  is  !  The 
fact  really  is,  as  to  apparitions,  that  the  terror  produces 
the  image  instead  of  the  contrary  ;  for  in  omnem  actum 
perceptionis  influit  imaginatio,  as  says  Wolfe. 

O,  strange  is  the  self-power  of  the  imagination — when 
painful  sensations  have  made  it  their  interpreter,  or  return- 
ing gladsomeness  or  convalescence  has  made  its  chilled  and 
evanished  figures  and  landscape  bud,  blossom,  and  live  in 
scarlet,  green,  and  snowy  white  (like  the  fire-screen  in- 
scribed with  the  nitrate  and  muriate  of  cobalt,) — strange  is 


304  Course  of  Lectures 

the  power  to  represent  the  events  and  circumstances,  even 
to  the  anguish  or  the  triumph  of  the  quasi-credent  soul, 
while  the  necessary  conditions,  the  only  possible  causes  of 
such  contingencies,  are  known  to  be  in  fact  quite  hopeless  ; 
— yea,  when  the  pure  mind  would  recoil  from  the  eve- 
lengthened  shadow  of  an  approaching  hope,  as  from  a 
crime  : — and  yet  the  effect  shall  have  place,  and  substance, 
and  living  energy,  and,  on  a  blue  islet  of  ether,  in  a  whole 
sky  of  blackest  cloudage,  shine  like  a  firstling  of  creation  1 

To  return,  however,  to  apparitions,  and  by  way  of  an 
amusing  illustration  of  the  nature  and  value  of  even  con- 
temporary testimony  upon  such  subjects,  I  will  present 
you  with  a  passage,  literally  translated  by  my  friend,  Mr. 
Southey,  from  the  well  known  work  of  Bernal  Dias,  one  of 
the  companions  of  Cortez,  in  the  conquest  of  Mexico  : 

Here  it  is  that  Gomara  says,  that  Francisco  de  Morla  rode  forward 
on  a  dappled  grey  horse,  before  Cortes  and  the  cavalry  came  up, 
and  that  the  apostle  St.  lago,  or  St.  Peter,  was  there.  I  must  say 
that  all  our  works  and  victories  are  by  the  hand  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  that  in  this  battle  there  were  for  each  of  us  so  many 
Indians,  that  they  could  have  covered  us  with  handfuls  of  earth, 
if  it  had  not  been  that  the  great  mercy  of  God  helped  us  in  every 
thing.  And  it  may  be  that  he  of  whom  Gomara  speaks,  was  the 
glorious  Santiago  or  San  Pedro,  and  I,  as  a  sinner,  was  not  worthy 
to  see  him  ;  but  he  whom  I  saw  there  and  knew,  was  Francisco  de 
Morla  on  a  chesnut  horse,  who  came  up  with  Cortes.  And  it  seems 
to  me  that  now  while  I  am  writing  this,  the  whole  war  is  represented 
before  these  sinful  eyes,  just  in  the  manner  as  we  then  went  through 
it.  And  though  I,  as  an  unworthy  sinner,  might  not  deserve  to  see 
either  of  these  glorious  apostles,  there  were  in  our  company  above 
fovir  hundred  soldiers  and  Cortes,  and  many  other  knights  ;  and  it 
would  have  been  talked  of  and  testified,  and  they  would  have  made 
a  church  when  they  peopled  the  town,  which  would  have  been  called 
Santiago  de  la  Vittoria,  or  San  Pedro  de  la  Vittoria,  as  it  is  now 
called,  Santa  Maria  de  la  Vittoria.  And  if  it  was,  as  Gomara  says, 
bad  Christians  must  we  have  been  when  our  Lord  God  sent  us  his 
holy  apostles,  not  to  acknowledge  his  great  mercy,  and  venerate  his 
church  daily.  And  would  to  God,  it  had  been,  as  the  Chronicler 
says  ! — but  till  I  read  his  Chronicle,  I  never  heard  such  a  thing 
from  any  of  the  conquerors  who  were  there. 

Now,  what  if  the  odd  accident  of  such  a  man  as  Bernal 
Dias'  writing  a  history  had  not  taken  place  !  Gomara's 
account,  the  account  of  a  contemporary,  which  yet  must 
have  been  read  by  scores  who  were  present,  would  ha\'e 
remained  uncontradicted.  I  remember  the  story  of  a  man, 
whom  the  devil  met  and  talked  with,  but  left  at  a  particular 
lane  ; — the  man  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  when  the 


Lecture  XII.  305 

devil  got  to  the  turning  or  bend  of  the  lane,  he  vanished  ! 
The  devil  was  upon  this  occasion  drest  in  a  blue  coat,  plush 
waistcoat,  leather  breeches  and  boots,  and  talked  and 
looked  just  like  a  common  man,  except  as  to  a  particular 
lock  of  hair  which  he  had.  "  And  how  do  you  know  then 
that  it  was  the  devil  ?  "  "  How  do  I  know,"  replied  the 
fellow, — "  why,  if  it  had  not  been  the  devil,  being  drest  as 
he  was,  and  looking  as  he  did,  why  should  I  have  been  sore 
stricken  with  fright  when  I  first  saw  him  ?  and  why  should 
I  be  in  such  a  tremble  all  the  while  he  talked  ?  And,  more- 
over, he  had  a  particular  sort  of  a  kind  of  a  look,  and  when 
I  groaned  and  said,  upon  every  question  he  asked  me, 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  me  !  or,  Christ  have  mercy  upon 
me  !  it  was  plain  enough  that  he  did  not  like  it,  and  so  he 
left  me  !  " — The  man  was  quite  sober  when  he  related  this 
story ;  but  as  it  happened  to  him  on  his  return  from 
market,  it  is  probable  that  he  was  then  muddled.  As  for 
myself,  I  was  actually  seen  in  Newgate  in  the  winter  of 
1798  ; — the  person  who  saw  me  there,  said  he  had  asked  my 
name  of  Mr.  A.  B.  a  known  acquaintance  of  mine,  who 
told  him  that  it  was  young  Coleridge,  who  had  married  the 

eldest  Miss .     "  Will  you  go  to  Newgate,  Sir  ?  "   said 

my  friend  ;  for  I  assure  you  that  Mr.  C.  is  now  in  Germany." 
**  Very  willingly,"  replied  the  other,  and  away  they  went 
to  Newgate,  and  sent  for  A.  B.     "  Coleridge,"  cried  he,  "  in 

Newgate  !  God  forbid  !  "      I  said,  "  young  Col who 

married  the  eldest  Miss ."     The  names  were  something 

similar.  And  yet  this  person  had  himself  really  seen  me  at 
one  of  my  lectures. 

I  remember,  upon  the  occasion  of  my  inhaling  the 
nitrous  oxide  at  the  Royal  Institution,  about  five  minutes 
afterwards,  a  gentleman  came  from  the  other  side  of  the 
theatre  and  said  to  me, — "  Was  it  not  ravishingly  delight- 
ful, Sir  ?  " — "  It  was  highly  pleasurable,  no  doubt." — 
**  Was  it  not  very  like  sweet  music  ?  " — "  I  cannot  say  I 
perceived  any  analogy  to  it." — "  Did  you  not  say  it  was 
very  like  Mrs.  Billington  singing  by  your  ear  !  " — "  No, 
Sir,  I  said  that  while  I  was  breathing  the  gas,  there  was  a 
singing  in  my  ears." 

To  return,  however,  to  dreams,  I  not  only  believe,  for 
the  reasons  given,  but  have  more  than  once  actually 
experienced  that  the  most  fearful  forms,  when  produced 
simply  by  association,  instead  of  causing  fear,  operate  no 


3o6  Course  of  Lectures 

other  effect  than  the  same  would  do  if  they  had  passed 
through  my  mind  as  thoughts,  while  I  was  composing  a 
faery  tale  ;  the  whole  depending  on  the  wise  and  gracious 
law  in  our  nature,  that  the  actual  bodily  sensations,  called 
forth  according  to  the  law  of  association  by  thoughts  and 
images  of  the  mind,  never  greatly  transcend  the  limits  of 
pleasurable  feeling  in  a  tolerably  healthy  frame,  unless 
when  an  act  of  the  judgment  supervenes  and  interprets 
them  as  purporting  instant  danger  to  ourselves. 

1  There  have  been  very  strange  and  incredible  stories 
told  of  and  by  the  alchemists.  Perhaps  in  some  of  them 
there  may  have  been  a  specific  form  of  mania,  originating  in 
the  constant  intension  of  the  mind  on  an  imaginary  end, 
associated  with  an  immense  variety  of  means,  all  of  them 
substances  not  familiar  to  men  in  general,  and  in  forms 
strange  and  unlike  to  those  of  ordinary  nature.  Some- 
times, it  seems  as  if  the  alchemists  wrote  like  the  Pytha- 
goreans on  music,  imagining  a  metaphysical  and  inaudible 
music  as  the  basis  of  the  audible.  It  is  clear  that  by 
sulphur  they  meant  the  solar  rays  or  light,  and  by  mercury 
the  principle  of  ponderability,  so  that  their  theory  was  the 
same  with  that  of  the  Heraclitic  physics,  or  the  modern 
German  N atur-philosophie,  which  deduces  all  things  from 
light  and  gravitation,  each  being  bipolar ;  gravitation  = 
north  and  south,  or  attraction  and  repulsion ;  light  =  east 
and  west,  or  contraction  and  dilation  ;  and  gold  being  the 
tetrad,  or  interpenetration  of  both,  as  water  was  the  dyad 
of  light,  and  iron  the  dyad  of  gravitation. 

It  is,  probably,  unjust  to  accuse  the  alchemists  generally 
of  dabbling  with  attempts  at  magic  in  the  common  sense 
of  the  term.  The  supposed  exercise  of  magical  power 
always  involved  some  moral  guilt,  directly  or  indirectly, 
as  in  stealing  a  piece  of  meat  to  lay  on  warts,  touching 
humours  with  the  hand  of  an  executed  person,  &c.  Rites 
of  this  sort  and  other  practices  of  sorcery  have  always 
been  regarded  with  trembling  abhorrence  by  all  nations, 
even  the  most  ignorant,  as  by  the  Africans,  the  Hudson's 
Bay  people  and  others.  The  alchemists  were,  no  doubt, 
often  considered  as  dealers  in  art  magic,  and  many  of  them 
were  not  unwilling  that  such  a  belief  should  be  prevalent  ; 
and  the  more  earnest  among  them  evidently  looked  at  their 
association  of  substances,  fumigations,  and  other  chemical 

1  From  Mr.  Green's  note. 


Lecture  XII.  307 

operations  as  merely  ceremonial,  and  seem,  therefore,  to 
have  had  a  deeper  meaning,  that  of  evoking  a  latent  power. 
It  would  be  profitable  to  make  a  collection  of  all  the  cases  of 
cures  by  magical  charms  and  incantations  ;  much  useful 
information  might,  probably,  be  derived  from  it  ;  for  it  is 
to  be  observed  that  such  rites  are  the  form  in  which  medical 
knowledge  would  be  preserved  amongst  a  barbarous  and 
ignorant  people. 

Note.^     June,  1827. 

The  apocryphal  book  of  Tobit  consists  of  a  very  simple, 
but  beautiful  and  interesting,  family-memoir,  into  which 
some  later  Jewish  poet  or  fabulist  of  Alexandria  wove  the 
ridiculous  and  frigid  machinery,  borrowed  from  the  popular 
superstitions  of  the  Greeks  (though,  probably,  of  Egyptian 
origin),  and  accommodated,  clumsily  enough,  to  the  purer 
monotheism  of  the  Mosaic  law.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is 
another  instance  of  a  simple  tale  thus  enlarged  at  a  later 
period,  though  in  this  case  by  the  same  author,  and  with  a 
very  different  result.  Now  unless  Mr.  Hillhouse  is  Romanist 
enough  to  receive  this  nursery-tale  garnish  of  a  domestic 
incident  as  grave  history,  and  holy  writ,  (for  which,  even 
from  learned  Roman  Catholics,  he  would  gain  more  credit 
as  a  very  obedient  child  of  the  Church  than  as  a  biblical 
critic,)  he  will  find  it  no  easy  matter  to  support  this  asser- 
tion of  his  by  the  passages  of  Scripture  here  referred  to, 
consistently  with  any  sane  interpretation  of  their  import 
and  purpose. 

I.  The  Fallen  Spirits. 

This  is  the  mythological  form,  or,  if  you  will,  the  sym- 
bolical representation,  of  a  profound  idea  necessary  as  the 
prcB-suppositum  of  the  Christian  scheme,  or  a  postulate  of 
reason,  indispensable,  if  we  would  render  the  existence 
of  a  world  of  finites  compatible  with  the  assumption 
of  a  super-mundane  God,  not  one  with  the  world.  In 
short,  this  idea  is  the  condition  under  which  alone  the 
reason  of  man  can  retain  the  doctrine  of  an  infinite  and 
absolute  Being,  and  yet  keep  clear  of  pantheism  as  ex- 
hibited by  Benedict  Spinosa. 

II.  The  Egyptian  Magicians. 

This  whole  narrative  is  probably  a  relic  of  the   old 

1  Written  in  a  copy  of  Mr.  Hillhouse's  Hadad.     Ed. 


3o8 


Course  of  Lectures 


diplomatic  lingua-arcana,  or  state-symbolique — in  which 
the  prediction  of  events  is  expressed  as  the  immediate 
causing  of  them.  Thus  the  prophet  is  said  to  destroy  the 
city,  the  destruction  of  which  he  predicts.  The  word 
which  our  version  renders  by  "  enchantments  "  signifies 
"  flames  or  burnings,"  by  which  it  is  probable  that  the 
Egyptians  were  able  to  deceive  the  spectators,  and  sub- 
stitute serpents  for  staves.     See  Parkhurst  in  voce. 

And  with  regard  to  the  possessions  in  the  Gospels,  bear 
in  mind  first  of  all,  that  spirits  are  not  necessarily  souls  or 
Fs  (ich-keiten  or  self-consciousnesses),  and  that  the  most 
ludicrous  absurdities  would  follow  from  taking  them  as 
such  in  the  Gospel  instances  ;  and  secondly,  that  the 
Evangelist,  who  has  recorded  the  most  of  these  incidents, 
himself  speaks  of  one  of  these  possessed  persons  as  a 

lunatic  ; — (^as7^r,vid^srai — s^7JX6iv  octt   avrov  to  da,i/j.6viov.      Matt. 

xvii.  15,  18)  while  St.  John  names  them  not  at  all,  but 
seems  to  include  them  under  the  description  of  diseased  or 
deranged  persons.  That  madness  may  result  from 
spiritual  causes,  and  not  only  or  principally  from  physical 
ailments,  may  readily  be  admitted.  Is  not  our  will  itself 
a  spiritual  power  ?  Is  it  not  the  spirit  of  the  man  ?  The 
mind  of  a  rational  and  responsible  being  {that  is,  of  a  free- 
agent)  is  a  spirit,  though  it  does  not  follow  that  aU  spirits 
are  minds.  Who  shall  dare  determine  what  spiritual 
influences  may  not  arise  out  of  the  collective  evil  wills  of 
wicked  men  ?  Even  the  bestial  life,  sinless  in  animals  and 
their  nature,  may  when  awakened  in  the  man  and  by  his 
own  act  admitted  into  his  will,  become  a  spiritual  influence. 
He  receives  a  nature  into  his  will,  which  by  this  very  act 
becomes  a  corrupt  will ;  and  vice  versa,  this  will  becomes 
his  nature,  and  thus  a  corrupt  nature.  This  may  be  con- 
ceded ;  and  this  is  aU  that  the  recorded  words  of  our 
Saviour  absolutely  require  in  order  to  receive  an  appro- 
priate sense  ;  but  this  is  altogether  different  from  making 
spirits  to  be  devils,  and  devils  self-conscious  individuals. 


Lecture  XII.  309 

Notes. ^    March,  1824. 

A  Christian's  conflicts  and  conquests,  p,  459.  By  the  devil  we 
are  to  understand  that  apostate  spirit  which  fell  from  God,  and  is 
always  designing  to  hale  down  others  from  God  also.  The  Old 
Dragon  (mentioned  in  the  Revelation)  with  his  tail  drew  down  the 
third  part  of  the  stars  of  heaven  and  cast  them  to  the  earth. 

How  much  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  so  enlightened  and 
able  a  divine  as  Smith,  had  not  philosophically  and 
scripturally  enucleated  this  so  difficult  yet  important 
question, — respecting  the  personal  existence  of  the  evil 
principle  ;  that  is,  whether  as  ro  kTov  of  paganism  is  0  ^log 
in  Christianity,  so  the  t6  'rrovriphv  is  to  be  6  Tovripog, — and 
whether  this  is  an  express  doctrine  of  Christ,  and  not 
merely  a  Jewish  dogma  left  undisturbed  to  fade  away  under 
the  increasing  light  of  the  Gospel,  instead  of  assuming  the 
former,  and  confirming  the  position  by  a  verse  from  a 
poetic  tissue  of  visual  symbols, — a  verse  alien  from  the 
subject,  and  by  which  the  Apocalypt  enigmatized  the 
Neronian  persecutions  and  the  apostasy  through  fear 
occasioned  by  it  in  a  large  number  of  converts. 

lb.  p.  463.  When  we  say,  the  devil  is  continually  busy  with  us, 
I  mean  not  only  some  apostate  spirit  as  one  particular  being,  but 
that  spirit  of  apostasy  which  is  lodged  in  all  men's  natures  ;  and 
this  may  seem  particularly  to  be  aimed  at  in  this  place,  if  we  observe 
the  context  : — as  the  scripture  speaks  of  Christ  not  only  as  a  parti- 
cular person,  but  as  a  divine  principle  in  holy  souls. 

Indeed  the  devil  is  not  only  the  name  of  one  particular  thing, 
but  a  nature. 

May  I  not  venture  to  suspect  that  this  was  Smith's  own 
belief  and  judgment  ?  and  that  his  conversion  of  the 
Satan,  that  is,  circuitor,  or  minister  of  police  (what  our 
Sterne  calls  the  accusing  angel)  in  the  prologue  to  Job  into 
the  devil  was  a  mere  condescension  to  the  prevailing  pre- 
judice ?  Here,  however,  he  speaks  like  himself,  and  like 
a  true  religious  philosopher,  who  felt  that  the  personality 
of  evil  spirits  is  a  trifling  question,  compared  with  the 
personality  of  the  evil  principle.  This  is  indeed  most 
momentous. 

1  Written  in  a  copy  of  "  Select  Discourses  by  John  Smith,  of  Queen's  College, 
Cambridge,  1660,"  and  communicated  by  the  Rev.  Edward  Coleridge.     Ed, 


3IO  Course  of  Lectures 

Note  on  a  Passage  in  the  Life  of  Henry, 
Earl  of  Morland.     20th  June,  1827. 

The  defect  of  this  and  all  similar  theories  that  I  am 
acquainted  with,  or  rather,  let  me  say,  the  desideratum,  is 
the  neglect  of  a  previous  definition  of  the  term  "  body." 
What  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  The  immediate  grounds  of  a 
man's  size,  visibihty,  tangibihty,  &c.  ? — But  these  are  in 
a  continual  flux  even  as  a  column  of  smoke.  The  material 
particles  of  carbon,  nitrogen,  oxygen,  hydrogen,  lime, 
phosphorus,  sulphur,  soda,  iron,  that  constitute  the 
ponderable  organism  in  May,  1827,  at  the  moment  of 
Pollio's  death  in  his  70th  year,  have  no  better  claim  to  be 
called  his  "  body,"  than  the  numerical  particles  of  the 
same  names  that  constituted  the  ponderable  mass  in  May, 
1787,  in  Pollio's  prime  of  manhood  in  his  30th  year  ; — the 
latter  no  less  than  the  former  go  into  the  grave,  that  is, 
suffer  dissolution,  the  one  in  a  series,  the  other  simultan- 
eously. The  result  to  the  particles  is  precisely  the  same  in 
both,  and  of  both  therefore  we  must  say  with  holy  Paul, — 
"  Thou  fool !  that  which  thou  sow  est,  thou  sow  est  not  that 
body  that  shall  be,"  &c.  Neither  this  nor  that  is  the  body 
that  abideth.  Abideth,  I  say  ;  for  that  which  riseth  again 
must  have  remained,  though  perhaps  in  an  inert  state. — It 
is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  ; — that  is,  it  is  not  dissolved  any 
more  than  the  exterior  or  phenomenal  organism  appears  to 
us  dissolved  when  it  lieth  in  apparent  inactivity  during  our 
sleep. 

Sound  reasoning  this,  to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  as  far 
as  it  goes.  But  how  are  we  to  explain  the  reaction  of  this 
fluxional  body  on  the  animal  ?  In  each  moment  the 
particles  by  the  informing  force  of  the  living  principle  con- 
stitute an  organ  not  only  of  motion  and  sense,  but  of  con- 
sciousness. The  organ  plays  on  the  organist.  How  is 
this  conceivable  ?  The  solution  requires  a  depth,  stillness, 
and  subtlety  of  spirit  not  only  for  its  discovery,  but  even 
for  the  understanding  of  it  when  discovered,  and  in  the 
most  appropriate  words  enunciated.  I  can  merely  give  a 
hint.  The  particles  themselves  must  have  an  interior  and 
gravitate  being,  and  the  multeity  must  be  a  removable  or 
at  least  suspensible  accident. 


Lecture    XIII.  311 

LECTURE  XIII. 

On  Poesy  or  Art. 

Man  communicates  by  articulation  of  sounds,  and  para- 
mountly  by  the  memory  in  tne  ear ;  nature  by  the  im- 
pression of  bounds  and  surfaces  on  the  eye,  and  through 
the  eye  it  gives  significance  and  appropriation,  and  thus 
the  conditions  of  memory,  or  the  capabihty  of  being  re- 
membered, to  sounds,  smells,  &c.  Now,  Art,  used  col- 
lectively for  painting,  sculpture,  architecture  and  music,  is 
the  mediatress  between,  and  reconciler  of,  nature  and 
man.  It  is,  therefore,  the  power  of  humanizing  nature,  of 
infusing  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  man  into  every  thing 
which  is  the  object  of  his  contemplation  ;  colour,  form, 
motion  and  sound  are  the  elements  which  it  combines, 
and  it  stamps  them  into  unity  in  the  mould  of  a  moral 
idea. 

The  primary  art  is  writing  ; — primary,  if  we  regard  the 
purpose  abstracted  from  the  different  modes  of  realizing  it, 
those  steps  of  progression  of  which  the  instances  are  still 
visible  in  the  lower  degrees  of  civilization.  First,  there  is 
mere  gesticulation  ;  then  rosaries  or  wampun ;  then 
picture-language  ;  then  hieroglyphics,  and  finally  alpha- 
betic letters.  These  aU  consist  of  a  translation  of  man  into 
nature,  of  a  substitution  of  the  visible  for  the  audible. 

The  so  called  music  of  savage  tribes  as  little  deserves  the 
name  of  art  for  the  understanding  as  the  ear  warrants  it  for 
music.  Its  lowest  state  is  a  mere  expression  of  passion  by 
sounds  which  the  passion  itself  necessitates  ; — the  highest 
amounts  to  no  more  than  a  voluntary  reproduction  ol  these 
sounds  in  the  absence  of  the  occasioning  causes,  so  as  to 
give  the  pleasure  of  contrast, — for  example,  by  the  various 
outcries  of  battle  in  the  song  of  security  and  triumph. 
Poetry  also  is  purely  human  ;  for  aU  its  materials  are  from 
the  mind,  and  all  its  products  are  for  the  mind.  But  it  is 
the  apotheosis  of  the  former  state,  in  which  by  excitement 
of  the  associative  power  passion  itself  imitates  order,  and 
the  order  resulting  produces  a  pleasurable  passion,  and  thus 
it  elevates  the  mind  by  making  its  feelings  the  o!  ject  of  its 
reflexion.  So  likewise,  whilst  it  recalls  the  sights  and 
sounds  that  had  accompanied  the  occasions  of  the  original 


312  Course  of  Lectures 

passions,  poetry  impregnates  them  with  an  interest  not 
their  own  by  means  of  the  passions,  and  yet  tempers  the 
passion  by  the  calming  power  which  all  distinct  images 
exert  on  the  human  soul.  In  this  way  poetry  is  the  pre- 
paration for  art,  inasmuch  as  it  avails  itself  of  the  forms  of 
nature  to  recall,  to  express,  and  to  modify  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  the  mind.  Still,  however,  poetry  can  only  act 
through  the  intervention  of  articulate  speech,  which  is  so 
peculiarly  human,  that  in  all  languages  it  constitutes  the 
ordinary  phrase  by  which  man  and  nature  are  contra- 
distinguished. It  is  the  original  force  of  the  word  'brute'  ; 
and  even  'mute,'  and  'dumb'  do  not  convey  the  absence  of 
sound,  but  the  absence  of  articulated  sounds. 

As  soon  as  the  human  mind  is  intelligibly  addressed  by 
an  outward  image  exclusively  of  articulate  speech,  so  soon 
does  art  commence.  But  please  to  observe  that  I  have  laid 
particular  stress  on  the  words  '  human  mind, '  meaning  to 
exclude  thereby  aU  results  common  to  man  and  all  other 
sentient  creatures,  and  consequently  confining  myself  to 
the  effect  produced  by  the  congruity  of  the  animal  im- 
pression with  the  reflective  powers  of  the  mind  ;  so  that  not 
the  thing  presented,  but  that  which  is  represented  by  the 
thing  shall  be  the  source  of  the  pleasure.  In  this  sense 
nature  itself  is  to  a  religious  observer  the  art  of  God  ;  and 
for  the  same  cause  art  itself  might  be  defined  as  of  a  middle 
quality  between  a  thought  and  a  thmg  ;  or,  as  I  said  before, 
the  union  and  reconciliation  of  that  which  is  nature  with 
that  which  is  exclusively  human.  It  is  the  figured  lan- 
guage of  thought,  and  is  distinguished  from  nature  by  the 
unity  of  all  the  parts  in  one  thought  or  idea.  Hence  nature 
itself  would  give  us  the  impression  of  a  work  of  art  if  we 
could  see  the  thought  which  is  present  at  once  in  the  whole 
and  in  every  part ;  and  a  work  of  art  will  be  just  in  pro- 
portion as  it  adequately  conveys  the  thought,  and  rich 
in  proportion  to  the  variety  of  parts  which  it  holds  in 
unity. 

If,  therefore,  the  term  'mute'  be  taken  as  opposed  not 
to  sound  but  to  articulate  speech,  the  old  definition  of 
painting  will  in  fact  be  the  true  and  best  definition  of  the 
Fine  Arts  in  general,  that  is,  muta  poesis,  mute  poesy, 
and  so  of  course  poesy.  And,  as  all  languages  perfect 
themselves  by  a  gradual  process  of  desynonymizing  words 
originally  equivalent,  I  have  cherished  the  wish  to  use  the 


Lecture    XIII.  313 

word  'poesy'  as  the  generic  or  common  term,  and  to  dis- 
tinguish that  species  of  poesy  which  is  not  muta  poesis  by 
its  usual  name  'poetry  ;'  while  of  all  the  other  species 
which  collectively  form  the  Fine  Arts,  there  would  remain 
this  as  the  common  definition, — that  they  all,  like  poetry, 
are  to  express  intellectual  purposes,  thoughts,  conceptions, 
and  sentiments  which  have  their  origin  in  the  human  mind, 
not,  however,  as  poetry  does,  by  means  of  articulate  speech, 
but  as  nature  or  the  divine  art  does,  by  form,  co  our, 
magnitude,  proportion,  or  by  sound,  that  is,  silently  or 
musically. 

Well !  it  may  be  said — but  who  has  ever  thought  other- 
wise !  We  all  know  that  art  is  the  imitatress  of  nature. 
And,  doubtless,  the  truths  which  I  hope  to  convey,  would 
be  barren  truisms,  if  all  men  meant  the  same  by  the 
words  'imitate'  and  'nature.'  But  it  would  be  flattering 
mankind  at  large,  to  presume  that  such  is  the  fact.  First, 
to  imitate.  The  impression  on  the  wax  is  not  an  imita- 
tion, but  a  copy,  of  the  seal ;  the  seal  itself  is  an  imitation. 
But,  further,  in  order  to  form  a  philosophic  conception,  we 
must  seek  for  the  kind,  as  the  heat  in  ice,  invisible  light,  &c. 
whilst,  for  practical  purposes,  we  must  have  reference  to 
the  degree.  It  is  sufficient  that  philosophically  we  under- 
stand that  in  all  imitation  two  elements  must  coexist,  and 
not  only  coexist,  but  must  be  perceived  as  coexisting. 
These  two  constituent  elements  are  likeness  and  unlikeness, 
or  sameness  and  difference.  And  in  all  genuine  creations  of 
art  there  must  be  a  union  of  these  disparates.  The  artist 
may  take  his  point  of  viev/  where  he  pleases,  provided  that 
the  desired  effect  be  perceptibly  produced, — that  there  be 
likeness  in  the  difference,  difference  in  the  likeness,  and  a 
reconcilement  of  both  in  one.  If  there  be  likeness  to  nature 
without  any  check  of  difference,  the  result  is  disgusting, 
and  the  more  complete  the  delusion,  the  more  loathsome 
the  effect.  Why  are  such  simulations  of  nature,  as 
wax-work  figures  of  men  and  women,  so  disagreeable  ? 
Because,  not  finding  the  motion  and  the  life  which  we 
expected,  we  are  shocked  as  by  a  falsehood,  every  circum- 
stance of  detail,  which  before  induced  us  to  be  interested, 
making  the  distance  from  truth  more  palpable.  You  set 
out  with  a  supposed  reality  and  are  disappointed  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  deception  ;  whilst,  in  respect  to  a  work  of 
genuine  imitation,  you  begin  with  an  acknowledged  total 


314  Course  of  Lectures 

difference,  and  then  every  touch  of  nature  gives  you  the 
pleasure  of  an  approximation  to  truth.  The  fundamental 
principle  of  all  this  is  undoubtedly  the  horror  of  falsehood 
and  the  love  of  truth  inherent  in  the  human  breast.  The 
Greek  tragic  dance  rested  on  these  principles,  and  I  can 
deeply  sympathize  in  imagination  with  the  Greeks  in  this 
favourite  part  of  their  theatrical  exhibitions,  when  I  call  to 
mind  the  pleasure  I  felt  in  beholding  the  combat  of  the 
Horatii  and  Curiatii  most  exquisitely  danced  in  Italy  to  the 
music  of  Cimarosa. 

Secondly,  as  to  nature.  We  must  imitate  nature  !  yes, 
but  what  in  nature, — all  and  everything  ?  No,  the 
beautiful  in  nature.  And  what  then  is  the  beautiful  ? 
What  is  beauty  ?  It  is,  in  the  abstract,  the  unity  of 
the  manifold,  the  coalescence  of  the  diverse  ;  in  the  con- 
crete, it  is  the  unian  of  the  shapely  {formosum)  with  the 
vital.  In  the  dead  organic  it  depends  on  regularity  of 
form,  the  first  and  lowest  species  of  which  is  the  triangle 
with  all  its  modifications,  as  in  crystals,  architecture,  &c.  ; 
in  the  living  organic  it  is  not  mere  regularity  of  form,  which 
would  produce  a  sense  of  formalit}^  ;  neither  is  it  sub- 
servient to  any  thing  beside  itself.  It  may  be  present 
in  a  disagreeable  object,  in  which  the  proportion  of  the 
parts  constitutes  a  whole  ;  it  does  not  arise  from  associa- 
tion, as  the  agreeable  does,  but  sometimes  lies  in  the 
rupture  of  association  ;  it  is  not  different  to  different 
individuals  and  nations,  as  has  been  said,  nor  is  it  connected 
with  the  ideas  of  the  good,  or  the  fit,  or  the  useful.  The 
sense  of  beauty  is  intuitive,  and  beauty  itself  is  all  that 
inspires  pleasure  without,  and  aloof  from,  and  even  con- 
trarily  to,  interest. 

If  the  artist  copies  the  mere  nature,  the  natura  naturata, 
what  idle  rivalry  !  If  he  proceeds  only  from  a  given  form, 
which  is  supposed  to  answer  to  the  notion  of  beauty,  what 
an  emptiness,  what  an  unreality  there  always  is  in  his  pro- 
ductions, as  in  Cipriani's  pictures  !  Believe  me,  you  must 
master  the  essence,  the  natura  natiirans,  which  presupposes 
a  bond  between  nature  in  the  higher  sense  and  the  soul  of 
man. 

The  wisdom  in  nature  is  distinguished  from  that  in  man, 
by  the  co-instantaneit}^  of  the  plan  and  the  execution  ; 
the  thought  and  the  product  are  one,  or  are  given  at  once  ; 
but  there  is  no  reflex  act,  and  hence  there  is  no  moral 


Lecture    XIII.  315 

responsibility.  In  man  there  is  reflexion,  freedom,  and 
choice ;  he  is,  therefore,  the  head  of  the  visible  creation. 
In  the  objects  of  nature  are  presented,  as  in  a  mirror,  all 
the  possible  elements,  steps,  and  processes  of  intellect 
antecedent  to  consciousness,  and  therefore  to  the  full 
development  of  the  intelligential  act  ;  and  man's  mind  is 
the  very  focus  of  all  the  rays  of  intellect  which  are  scattered 
throughout  the  images  of  nature.  Now  so  to  place  these 
images,  totalized,  and  fitted  to  the  limits  of  the  human 
mind,  as  to  elicit  from,  and  to  superinduce  upon,  the  forms 
themselves  the  moral  reflexions  to  which  they  approximate, 
to  make  the  external  internal,  the  internal  external,  to 
make  nature  thought,  and  thought  nature, — this  is  the 
mystery  of  genius  in  the  Fine  Arts.  Dare  I  add  that  the 
genius  must  act  on  the  feeling,  that  body  is  but  a  striving 
to  become  mind,  that  it  is  mind  in  its  essence  ! 

In  every  work  of  art  there  is  a  reconcilement  of  the  ex- 
ternal with  the  internal ;  the  conscious  is  so  impressed  on 
the  unconscious  as  to  appear  in  it ;  as  compare  mere 
letters  inscribed  on  a  tomb  with  figures  themselves  con- 
stituting the  tomb.  He  who  combines  the  two  is  the  man 
of  genius  ;  and  for  that  reason  he  must  partake  of  both. 
Hence  there  is  in  genius  itself  an  unconscious  activity  ; 
nay,  that  is  the  genius  in  the  man  of  genius.  And  this  is 
the  true  exposition  of  the  rule  that  the  artist  must  first  eloign 
himself  from  nature  in  order  to  return  to  her  with  full  effect. 
Why  this  ?  Because  if  he  were  to  begin  by  mere  painful 
copying,  he  would  produce  masks  only,  not  forms  breathing 
life.  He  must  out  of  his  own  mind  create  forms  according 
to  the  severe  laws  of  the  intellect,  in  order  to  generate  in 
himself  that  co-ordination  of  freedom  and  law,  that  in- 
volution of  obedience  in  the  prescript,  and  of  the  prescript 
in  the  impulse  to  obey,  which  assimilates  him  to  nature,  and 
enables  him  to  understand  her.  He  merely  absents  him- 
self for  a  season  from  her,  that  his  own  spirit,  which  has 
the  same  ground  with  nature,  may  learn  her  unspoken 
language  in  its  main  radicals,  before  he  approaches  to  her 
endless  compositions  of  them.  Yes,  not  to  acquire  cold 
notions — lifeless  technical  rules — but  living  and  life- 
producing  ideas,  which  shall  contain  their  own  evidence,  the 
certainty  that  they  are  essentially  one  with  the  germinal 
causes  in  nature — his  consciousness  being  the  focus  and 
mirror  of  both, — for  this  does  the  artist  for  a  time  abandon 


3i6  Course  of  Lectures 

the  external  real  in  order  to  return  to  it  with  a  complete 
sympathy  with  its  internal  and  actual.  For  of  all  we  see, 
hear,  feel  and  touch  the  substance  is  and  must  be  in  our- 
selves ;  and  therefore  there  is  no  alternative  in  reason 
between  the  dreary  (and  thank  heaven  !  almost  impossible) 
belief  that  every  thing  around  us  is  but  a  phantom,  or  that 
the  life  which  is  in  us  is  in  them  likewise  ;  ^  and  that  to 
know  is  to  resemble,  when  we  speak  of  objects  out  of  our- 
selves, even  as  within  ourselves  to  learn  is,  according  to 
Plato,  only  to  recollect ; — the  only  effective  answer  to 
which,  that  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with,  is 
that  which  Pope  has  consecrated  for  future  use  in  the  line — 

And  coxcombs  vanquish  Berkeley  with  a  grin  ! 

The  artist  must  imitate  that  which  is  within  the  thing,  that 
which  is  active  through  form  and  figure,  and  discourses  to 
us  by  symbols — the  Natur-geist,  or  spirit  of  nature,  as  we 
unconsciously  imitate  those  whom  we  love  ;  for  so  only  can 
he  hope  to  produce  any  work  truly  natural  in  the  object 
and  truly  human  in  the  effect.  The  idea  which  puts  the 
form  together  cannot  itself  be  the  form.  It  is  above  form, 
and  is  its  essence,  the  universal  in  the  individual,  or  the 
individuality  itself, — the  glance  and  the  exponent  of  the 
indwelling  power. 

Each  thing  that  lives  has  its  moment  of  self-exposition, 
and  so  has  each  period  of  each  thing,  if  we  remove  the  dis- 
turbing forces  of  accident.  To  do  this  is  the  business  of 
ideal  art,  whether  in  images  of  childhood,  youth,  or  age, 
in  man  or  in  woman.  Hence  a  good  portrait  is  the 
abstract  of  the  personal ;  it  is  not  the  likeness  for  actual 
comparison,  but  for  recollection.  This  explains  why  the 
likeness  of  a  very  good  portrait  is  not  always  recognized  ; 
because  some  persons  never  abstract,  and  amongst  these 
are  especially  to  be  numbered  the  near  relations  and  friends 
of  the  subject,  in  consequence  of  the  constant  pressure  and 
check  exercised  on  their  minds  by  the  actual  presence  of 
the  original.  And  each  thing  that  only  appears  to  live  has 
also  its  possible  position  of  relation  to  life,  as  nature  herself 
testifies,  who,  where  she  cannot  be,  prophesies  her  being  in 
the  crystallized  metal,  or  the  inhaling  plant. 

The  charm,  the  indispensable  requisite,  of  sculpture  is 

1  See  the  Biographia  Literaria  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  chap,  xii.,  and  Schclllng's 
Transcendental  Idealism. 


Lecture    XIII.  317 

unity  of  effect.  But  painting  rests  in  a  material  remoter 
from  nature,  and  its  compass  is  therefore  greater.  Light 
and  shade  give  external,  as  well  as  internal,  being  even 
with  all  its  accidents,  whilst  sculpture  is  confined  to  the 
latter.  And  here  I  may  observe  that  the  subjects  chosen 
for  works  of  art,  whether  in  sculpture  or  painting,  should 
be  such  as  really  are  capable  of  being  expressed  and  con- 
veyed within  the  limits  of  those  arts.  Moreover  they  ought 
to  be  such  as  will  affect  the  spectator  by  their  truth,  their 
beauty,  or  their  sublimity,  and  therefore  they  may  be 
addressed  to  the  judgment,  the  senses,  or  the  reason.  The 
peculiarity  of  the  impression  which  they  may  make,  may 
be  derived  either  from  colour  and  form,  or  from  proportion 
and  fitness,  or  from  the  excitement  of  the  moral  feelings  ;  or 
all  these  may  be  combined.  Such  works  as  do  combine 
these  sources  of  effect  must  have  the  preference  in  dignity. 

Imitation  of  the  antique  may  be  too  exclusive,  and  may 
produce  an  injurious  effect  on  modern  sculpture  ; — ist, 
generally,  because  such  an  imitation  cannot  fail  to  have  a 
tendency  to  keep  the  attention  fixed  on  externals  rather 
than  on  the  thought  within  ; — 2ndly,  because,  accordingly, 
it  leads  the  artist  to  rest  satisfied  with  that  which  is  always 
imperfect,  namely,  bodily  form,  and  circumscribes  his 
views  of  mental  expression  to  the  ideas  of  power  and 
grandeur  only ;  —  Srdly,  because  it  induces  an  effort  to 
combine  together  two  incongruous  things,  that  is  to  say, 
modern  feelings  in  antique  forms ; — 4thly,  because  it 
speaks  in  a  language,  as  it  were,  learned  and  dead,  the  tones 
of  which,  being  unfamiliar,  leave  the  common  spectator 
cold  and  unimpressed  ; — and  lastly,  because  it  necessarily 
causes  a  neglect  of  thoughts,  emotions  and  images  of  pro- 
founder  interest  and  more  exalted  dignity,  as  motherly, 
sisterly,  and  brotherly  love,  piety,  devotion,  the  divine 
become  human, — the  Virgin,  the  Apostle,  the  Christ.  The 
artist's  principle  in  the  statue  of  a  great  man  should  be  the 
illustration  of  departed  merit ;  and  I  cannot  but  think 
that  a  skilful  adoption  of  modern  habiliments  would,  in 
many  instances,  give  a  variety  and  force  of  effect  which  a 
bigoted  adherence  to  Greek  or  Roman  costume  precludes. 
It  is,  I  believe,  from  artists  finding  Greek  models  unfit  for 
several  important  modern  purposes,  that  we  see  so  many 
allegorical  figures  on  monuments  and  elsewhere.  Painting 
was,  as  it  were,  a  new  art,  and  being  unshackled  by  old 


3i8  Course  of  Lectures 

models  it  chose  its  own  subjects,  and  took  an  eagle's 
flight.  And  a  new  field  seems  opened  for  modern  sculpture 
m  the  symbolical  expression  of  the  ends  of  life,  as  in 
Guy's  monument,  Chantrey's  children  in  Worcester  Cathe- 
dral, &c. 

Architecture  exhibits  the  greatest  extent  of  the  difference 
from  nature  which  may  exist  in  works  of  art.  It  involves 
all  the  powers  of  design,  and  is  sculpture  and  painting  in- 
clusively. It  shews  the  greatness  of  man,  and  should  at 
the  same  time  teach  him  humility. 

Music  is  the  most  entirely  human  of  the  fine  arts,  and 
has  the  fewest  analoga  in  nature.  Its  first  delightfulness  is 
simple  accordance  with  the  ear  ;  but  it  is  an  associated 
thing,  and  recaUs  the  deep  emotions  of  the  past  with  an 
intellectual  sense  of  proportion.  Every  human  feeling  is 
greater  and  larger  than  the  exciting  cause, — a  proof,  I 
think,  that  man  is  designed  for  a  higher  state  of  existence  ; 
and  this  is  deeply  implied  in  music,  in  which  there  is  always 
something  more  and  beyond  the  immediate  expression. 

With  regard  to  works  in  all  the  branches  of  the  fine  arts, 
I  may  remark  that  the  pleasure  arising  from  novelty 
must  of  course  be  allowed  its  due  place  and  weight.  This 
pleasure  consists  in  the  identity  of  two  opposite  elements, 
that  is  to  say — sameness  and  variety.  If  in  the  midst  of 
the  variety  there  be  not  some  fixed  object  for  the  attention, 
the  unceasing  succession  of  the  variety  will  prevent  the 
mind  from  observing  the  difference  of  the  individual 
objects  ;  and  the  only  thing  remaining  will  be  the  suc- 
cession, which  will  then  produce  precisely  the  same  effect 
as  sameness.  This  we  experience  when  we  let  the  trees  or 
hedges  pass  before  the  fixed  eye  during  a  rapid  movement 
in  a  carriage,  or  on  the  other  hand,  when  we  suffer  a  file  of 
soldiers  or  ranks  of  men  in  procession  to  go  on  before  us 
without  resting  the  eye  on  any  one  in  particular.  In  order 
to  derive  pleasure  from  the  occupation  of  the  mind,  the 
principle  of  unity  must  always  be  present,  so  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  multeity  the  centripetal  force  be  never  sus- 
pended, nor  the  sense  be  fatigued  by  the  predominance  of 
the  centrifugal  force.  This  unity  in  multeity  I  have  else- 
where stated  as  the  principle  of  beauty.  It  is  equally  the 
source  of  pleasure  in  variety,  and  in  fact  a  higher  term 
including  both.  What  is  the  seclusive  or  distinguishing 
term  between  them  ! 


Lecture   XIV.  319 

Remember  that  there  is  a  difference  between  form  as 
proceeding,  and  shape  as  superinduced  ; — the  latter  is 
either  the  death  or  the  imprisonment  of  the  thing  ; — the 
former  is  its  self-witnessing  and  self-effected  sphere  of 
agency.  Art  would  or  should  be  the  abridgment  of 
nature.  Now  the  fulness  of  nature  is  without  character, 
as  water  is  purest  when  without  taste,  smell,  or  colour  ; 
but  this  is  the  highest,  the  apex  only, — it  is  not  the  whole. 
The  object  of  art  is  to  give  the  whole  ad  hominem  ;  hence 
each  step  of  nature  hath  its  ideal,  and  hence  the  possibility 
of  a  climax  up  to  the  perfect  form  of  a  harmonized  chaos. 

To  the  idea  of  life  victory  or  strife  is  necessary  ;  as 
virtue  consists  not  simply  in  the  absence  of  vices,  but  in  the 
overcoming  of  them.  So  it  is  in  beauty.  The  sight  of 
what  is  subordinated  and  conquered  heightens  the  strength 
and  the  pleasure  ;  and  this  should  be  exhibited  by  the 
artist  either  inclusively  in  his  figure,  or  else  out  of  it  and 
beside  it  to  act  by  way  of  supplement  and  contrast.  And 
with  a  view  to  this,  remark  the  seeming  identity  of  body  and 
mind  in  infants,  and  thence  the  loveliness  of  the  former  ; 
the  commencing  separation  in  boyhood,  and  the  struggle  of 
equilibrium  in  youth  :  thence  onward  the  body  is  first 
simply  indifferent  ;  then  demanding  the  translucency  of 
the  mind  not  to  be  worse  than  indifferent ;  and  finally  all 
that  presents  the  body  as  body  becoming  almost  of  an 
excremental  nature. 


LECTURE    XIV. 

On  Style. 

I  HAVE,  I  believe,  formerly  observed  with  regard  to  the 
character  of  the  governments  of  the  East,  that  their 
tendency  was  despotic,  that  is,  towards  unity  ;  whilst  that 
of  the  Greek  governments,  on  the  other  hand,  leaned  to 
the  manifold  and  the  popular,  the  unity  in  them  being 
purely  ideal,  namely  of  all  as  an  identification  of  the  whole. 
In  the  northern  or  Gothic  nations  the  aim  and  purpose  of 
the  government  were  the  preservation  of  the  rights  and 
interests  of  the  individual  in  conjunction  with  those  of  the 
whole.  The  individual  interest  was  sacred.  In  the  char- 
acter and  tendency  of  the  Greek  and  Gothic  languages  there 


320  Course  of  Lectures 

is  precisely  the  same  relative  difference.  In  Greek  the 
sentences  are  long,  and  the  structure  architectural,  so  that 
each  part  or  clause  is  insignificant  when  compared  with 
the  whole.  The  result  is  every  thing,  the  steps  and  pro- 
cesses nothing.  But  in  the  Gothic  and,  generally,  in  what 
we  call  the  modern,  languages,  the  structure  is  short, 
simple,  and  complete  in  each  part,  and  the  connexion  of  the 
parts  with  the  sum  total  of  the  discourse  is  maintained  by 
the  sequency  of  the  logic,  or  the  community  of  feelings 
excited  between  the  writer  and  his  readers.  As  an  instance 
equally  delightful  and  complete,  of  what  may  be  called  the 
Gothic  structure  as  contradistinguished  from  that  of  the 
Greeks,  let  me  cite  a  part  of  our  famous  Chaucer's  char- 
acter of  a  parish  priest  as  he  should  be.  Can  it  ever  be 
quoted  too  often  ? 

A  good  man  ther  was  of  religioun 

That  was  a  poure  Parsone  of  a  toun, 

But  riche  he  WcLS  of  holy  thought  and  werk  ; 

He  w£LS  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche  ; 

His  parishens  ^  devoutly  wolde  he  teche  ; 

Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  ^  diligent, 

And  in  adversite  ful  patient, 

And  swiche  ^  he  was  ypreved  *  often  sithes  ^ ; 

Ful  loth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 

But  rather  wolde  he  yeven  ^  out  of  doute 

Unto  his  poure  parishens  aboute 

Of  his  offring,  and  eke  of  his  substance  ; 

He  coude  in  litel  thing  have  suffisance  : 

Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  fer  asonder. 

But  he  ne  '  left  nought  for  no  rain  ne  «  thonder. 

In  sikenesse  and  in  mischief  to  visite 

The  ferrest  ^  in  his  parish  moche  and  lite  ^° 

Upon  his  fete,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf  : 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  shepe  he  yaf,'^ 

That  first  he  wnrought,  and  afterward  he  taught, 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 

And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto, 

That  if  gold  ruste,  what  should  iren  do. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 
And  lette  ^^  his  shepe  accombred  ^^  in  the  mire. 
And  ran  unto  London  unto  Seint  Poules, 
To  seken  him  a  chanterie  for  soules. 
Or  with  a  brotherhede  to  be  withold, 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kepte  wel  his  fold, 

1  Parishioners.  "  Wondrous.  '  Such. 

*  Proved.  ^  Times.  ^  Give  or  have  given. 

7  Not.  8  Nor.  8  Farthest. 

10  Great  and  small.  "  Gave.  ^  Left.  13  Encumbered 


Lecture  XIV.  321 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarie  : 

He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenarie  ; 

And  though  he  holy  were  and  vertuous. 

He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispitous,^ 

Ne  of  his  speche  dangerous  ne  digne,'* 

But  in  his  teching  discrete  and  benigne, 

To  drawen  folk  to  heven  with  fairenesse, 

By  good  ensample  was  his  besinesse  ; 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat, 

What  so  he  were  of  high  or  low  estat, 

Him  wolde  he  snibben  ^  sharply  for  the  nones  : 

A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  no  wher  non  is  ; 

He  waited  after  no  pompe  ne  reverence, 

He  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 

But  Cristes  love  and  his  apostles'  twelve 

He  taught,  but  first  he  folwed  it  himselve.* 

Such  change  as  really  took  place  in  the  style  of  our 
literature  after  Chaucer's  time  is  with  difficulty  perceptible, 
on  account  of  the  death  of  writers,  during  the  civil  wars  of 
the  15th  century.  But  the  transition  was  not  very  great  ; 
and  accordingly  we  find  in  Latimer  and  our  other  venerable 
authors  about  the  time  of  Edward  VI.  as  in  Luther,  the 
general  characteristics  of  the  earliest  manner  ; — that  is, 
every  part  popular,  and  the  discourse  addressed  to  all 
degrees  of  intellect ; — the  sentences  short,  the  tone 
vehement,  and  the  connexion  of  the  whole  produced  by 
honesty  and  singleness  of  purpose,  intensity  of  passion,  and 
pervading  importance  of  the  subject. 

Another  and  a  very  different  species  of  style  is  that 
which  was  derived  from,  and  founded  on,  the  admiration 
and  cultivation  of  the  classical  writers,  and  which  was  more 
exclusively  addressed  to  the  learned  class  in  society.  I 
have  previously  mentioned  Boccaccio  as  the  original 
Italian  introducer  of  this  manner,  and  the  great  models  of  it 
in  English  are  Hooker,  Bacon,  Milton,  and  Taylor,  although 
it  may  be  traced  in  many  other  authors  of  that  age.  In  all 
these  the  language  is  dignified  but  plain,  genuine  English, 
although  elevated  and  brightened  by  superiority  of  in- 
tellect in  the  writer.  Individual  words  themselves  are 
always  used  by  them  in  their  precise  meaning,  without 
either  affectation  or  slipslop.  The  letters  and  state  papers 
of  Sir  Francis  Walsingham  are  remarkable  for  excellence 
in  style  of  this  description.  In  Jeremy  Taylor  the 
sentences  are  often  extremely  long,  and  yet  are  generally 

i  Despiteous.  -  Proud.  3  Reprove.  4  Proloeue  to  Canterbury  Tales. 

L 


322  Course  of  Lectures 

so  perspicuous  in  consequence  of  their  logical  structure, 
that  they  require  no  perusal  to  be  understood  ;  and  it  is  for 
the  most  part  the  same  in  Milton  and  Hooker. 

Take  the  following  sentence  as  a  specimen  of  the  sort  of 
style  to  which  I  have  been  alluding  : — 

Concerning  Faith,  the  principal  object  whereof  is  that  eternal 
verity  which  hath  discovered  the  treasures  of  hidden  wisdom  in 
Christ  ;  concerning  Hope,  the  highest  object  whereof  is  that  ever- 
lasting goodness  which  in  Christ  doth  quicken  the  dead  ;  concerning 
Charity,  the  final  object  whereof  is  that  incomprehensible  beauty 
which  shineth  in  the  countenance  of  Christ,  the  Son  of  the  living 
God  :  concerning  these  virtues,  the  first  of  which  beginning  here 
with  a  weak  apprehension  of  things  not  seen,  endeth  with  the 
intuitive  vision  of  God  in  the  world  to  come  ;  the  second  beginning 
here  with  a  trembling  expectation  of  things  far  removed,  and  as 
yet  but  only  heard  of,  endeth  with  real  and  actual  fruition  of  that 
which  no  tongue  can  express  ;  the  third  beginning  here  with  a 
weak  inclination  of  heart  towards  him  unto  whom  we  are  not  able 
to  approach,  endeth  with  endless  union,  the  mystery  whereof  is 
higher  than  the  reach  of  the  thoughts  of  men  ;  concerning  that 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  v.-ithout  which  there  can  be  no  salvation, 
was  there  ever  any  mention  made  saving  only  in  that  Law  which 
God  himself  hath  from  Heaven  revealed  ?  There  is  not  in  the 
world  a  syllable  muttered  with  certain  truth  concerning  any  of 
these  three,  more  than  hath  been  supernaturally  received  from  the 
mouth  of  the  eternal  God. 

Eccles.  Pol.  I.  s.  II. 

The  unity  in  these  writers  is  produced  by  the  unity  of 
the  subject,  and  the  perpetual  growth  and  evolution  of  the 
thoughts,  one  generating,  and  explaining,  and  justifying, 
the  place  of  another,  not,  as  it  is  in  Seneca,  where  the 
thoughts,  striking  as  they  are,  are  merely  strung  together 
like  beads,  without  any  causation  or  progression.  The 
words  are  selected  because  they  are  the  most  appropriate, 
regard  being  had  to  the  dignity  of  the  total  impression,  and 
no  merely  big  phrases  are  used  where  plain  ones  would  have 
sufficed,  even  in  the  most  learned  of  their  works. 

There  is  some  truth  in  a  remark,  which  I  believe  was 
made  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that  the  greatest  man  is  he 
who  forms  the  taste  of  a  nation,  and  that  the  next  greatest 
is  he  who  corrupts  it.  The  true  classical  style  of  Hooker  and 
his  fellows  was  easily  open  to  corruption  ;  and  Sir  Thomas 
Brown  it  was,  who,  though  a  writer  of  great  genius,  first 
effectually  injured  the  literary  taste  of  the  nation  by  his 
introduction  of  learned  words,  merely  because  they  were 
learned.     It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  Brown  ade- 


Lecture  XIV.  323 

quately  ;  exuberant  in  conception  and  conceit,  dignified, 
hyperlatinistic,  a  quiet  and  sublime  enthusiast  ;  yet  a 
fantast,  a  humourist,  a  brain  with  a  twist ;  egotistic  Uke 
Montaigne,  yet  with  a  feehng  heart  and  an  active  curiosity, 
which,  however,  too  often  degenerates  into  a  hunting  after 
oddities.  In  his  Hydriotaphia  and,  indeed,  almost  all  his 
"works  the  entireness  of  his  mental  action  is  very  observable  ; 
he  metamorphoses  every  thing,  be  it  what  it  may,  into  the 
subject  under  consideration.  But  Sir  Thomas  Brown 
with  all  his  faults  had  a  genuine  idiom  ;  and  it  is  the  exist- 
ence of  an  individual  idiom  in  each,  that  makes  the  prin- 
cipal writers  before  the  Restoration  the  great  patterns  or 
integers  of  English  style.  In  them  the  precise  intended 
meaning  of  a  word  can  never  be  mistaken  ;  whereas  in  the 
latter  writers,  as  especially  in  Pope,  the  use  of  words  is  for 
the  most  part  purely  arbitrary,  so  that  the  context  will 
rarely  show  the  true  specific  sense,  but  only  that  something 
of  the  sort  is  designed.  A  perusal  of  the  authorities  cited 
by  Johnson  in  his  dictionary  under  any  leading  word,  will 
give  you  a  lively  sense  of  this  declension  in  etymologi- 
cal truth  of  expression  in  the  writers  after  the  Restora- 
tion, or  perhaps,  strictly,  after  the  middle  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  II. 

The  general  characteristic  of  the  style  of  our  literature 
down  to  the  period  which  I  have  just  mentioned,  was 
gravity,  and  in  Milton  and  some  other  writers  of  his  day 
there  are  perceptible  traces  of  the  sternness  of  republican- 
ism. Soon  after  the  Restoration  a  material  change  took 
place,  and  the  cause  of  royalism  was  graced,  sometimes 
disgraced,  by  every  shade  of  lightness  of  manner.  A  free 
and  easy  style  was  considered  as  a  test  of  loyalty,  or  at 
all  events,  as  a  badge  of  the  cavalier  party  ;  you  may 
detect  it  occasionally  even  in  Barrow,  who  is,  however,  in 
general  remarkable  for  dignity  and  logical  sequency  of 
expression  ;  but  in  L' Estrange,  CoUyer,  and  the  writers 
of  that  class,  this  easy  manner  was  carried  out  to  the 
utmost  extreme  of  slang  and  ribaldry.  Yet  still  the  works, 
even  of  these  last  authors,  have  considerable  merit  in  one 
point  of  view  ;  their  language  is  level  to  the  understand- 
ings of  all  men  ;  it  is  an  actual  transcript  of  the  collo- 
quialism of  the  day,  and  is  accordingly  full  of  life  and 
reality.  Roger  North's  life  of  his  brother,  the  Lord 
Keeper,  is  the  most  valuable  specimen  of  this  class  of  our 


324  Course  of  Lectures 

literature  ;    it  is  delightful,  and  much  beyond  any  other 
of  the  writings  of  his  contemporaries. 

From  the  common  opinion  that  the  English  style 
attained  its  greatest  perfection  in  and  about  Queen  Ann's 
reign  I  altogether  dissent  ;  not  only  because  it  is  in  one 
species  alone  in  which  it  can  be  pretended  that  the  writers 
of  that  age  excelled  their  predecessors  ;  but  also  because 
the  specimens  themselves  are  not  equal,  upon  sound  prin- 
ciples of  judgment,  to  much  that  had  been  produced 
before.  The  classical  structure  of  Hooker — the  impetuous, 
thought-agglomerating  flood  of  Taylor — to  these  there  is 
no  pretence  of  a  parallel  ;  and  for  mere  ease  and  grace,  is 
Cowley  inferior  to  Addison,  being  as  he  is  so  much  more 
thoughtful  and  full  of  fancy  ?  Cowley,  with  the  omission 
of  a  quaintness  here  and  there,  is  probably  the  best  model 
of  style  for  modern  imitation  in  general.  Taylor's  periods 
have  been  frequently  attempted  by  his  admirers  ;  you 
may,  perhaps,  just  catch  the  turn  of  a  simile  or  single 
image,  but  to  write  in  the  real  manner  of  Jeremy  Taylor 
would  require  as  mighty  a  mind  as  his.  Many  parts  of 
Algernon  Sidney's  treatises  afford  excellent  exemplars  of 
a  good  modern  practical  style  ;  and  Dryden  in  his  prose 
works,  is  a  still  better  model,  if  you  add  a  stricter  and 
purer  grammar.  It  is,  indeed,  worthy  of  remark  that  all 
our  great  poets  have  been  good  prose  writers,  as  Chaucer, 
Spenser,  Milton ;  and  this  probably  arose  from  their  just 
sense  of  metre.  For  a  true  poet  will  never  confound  verse 
and  prose  ;  whereas  it  is  almost  characteristic  of  indifferent 
prose  writers  that  they  should  be  constantly  slipping  into 
scraps  of  metre.  Swift's  style  is,  in  its  line,  perfect ;  the 
manner  is  a  complete  expression  of  the  matter,  the  terms 
appropriate,  and  the  artifice  concealed.  It  is  simplicity 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word. 

After  the  Revolution,  the  spirit  of  the  nation  became 
much  more  commercial,  than  it  had  been  before ;  a 
learned  body,  or  clerisy,  as  such,  gradually  disappeared, 
and  literature  in  general  began  to  be  addressed  to  the 
common  miscellaneous  public.  That  public  had  become 
accustomed  to,  and  required,  a  strong  stimulus  ;  and  to 
meet  the  requisitions  of  the  public  taste,  a  style  was 
produced  which  by  combining  triteness  of  thought  with 
singularity  and  excess  of  manner  of  expression,  was  calcu- 
lated at  once  to  soothe  ignorance  and  to  flatter  vanity. 


Lecture  XIV.  325 

The  thought  was  carefully  kept  down  to  the  immediate 
apprehension  of  the  commonest  understanding,  and  the 
dress  was  as  anxiously  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  making 
the  thought  appear  something  very  profound.  The  essence 
of  this  style  consisted  in  a  mock  antithesis,  that  is,  an 
opposition  of  mere  sounds,  in  a  rage  for  personification, 
the  abstract  made  animate,  far-fetched  metaphors,  strange 
phrases,  metrical  scraps,  in  every  thing,  in  short,  but 
genuine  prose.  Style  is,  of  course,  nothing  else  but  the 
art  of  conveying  the  meaning  appropriately  and  with 
perspicuity,  whatever  that  meaning  may  be,  and  one 
criterion  of  style  is  that  it  shall  not  be  translateable  with- 
out injury  to  the  meaning.  Johnson's  style  has  pleased 
many  from  the  very  fault  of  being  perpetually  translate- 
able ;  he  creates  an  impression  of  cleverness  by  never 
saying  any  thing  in  a  common  way.  The  best  specimen 
of  this  manner  is  in  Junius,  because  his  antithesis  is  less 
merely  verbal  than  Johnson's.  Gibbon's  manner  is  the 
worst  of  all ;  it  has  every  fault  of  which  this  peculiar  style 
is  capable.  Tacitus  is  an  example  of  it  in  Latin  ;  in 
coming  from  Cicero  you  feel  the  falsetto  immediately. 

In  order  to  form  a  good  style,  the  primary  rule  and 
condition  is,  not  to  attempt  to  express  ourselves  in  language 
before  we  thoroughly  know  our  own  meaning  : — when  a 
man  perfectly  understands  himself,  appropriate  diction 
will  generally  be  at  his  command  either  in  writing  or 
speaking.  In  such  cases  the  thoughts  and  the  words  are 
associated.  In  the  next  place  preciseness  in  the  use  of 
terms  is  required,  and  the  test  is  whether  you  can  translate 
the  phrase  adequately  into  simpler  terms,  regard  being  had 
to  the  feeling  of  the  whole  passage.  Try  this  upon  Shak- 
speare,  or  Milton,  and  see  if  you  can  substitute  other 
simpler  words  in  any  given  passage  without  a  violation  of 
the  meaning  or  tone.  The  source  of  bad  writing  is  the 
desire  to  be  something  more  than  a  man  of  sense, — the 
straining  to  be  thought  a  genius  ;  and  it  is  just  the  same 
in  speech-making.  If  men  would  only  say  what  they 
ha\e  to  say  in  plain  terms,  how  much  more  eloquent  they 
would  be  !  Another  rule  is  to  avoid  converting  mere 
abstractions  into  persons.  I  believe  you  will  very  rarely 
find  in  any  great  writer  before  the  Revolution  the  possessive 
case  of  an  inanimate  noun  used  in  prose  instead  of  the 
dependent  case,  as  'the  watch's  hand,'  for  'the  hand  of 


326 


Idea  of  the 


the  watch. '  The  possessive  or  Saxon  genitive  was  confined 
to  persons,  or  at  least  to  animated  subjects.  And  I  cannot 
conclude  this  Lecture  without  insisting  on  the  importance 
of  accuracy  of  style  as  being  near  akin  to  veracity  and 
truthful  habits  of  mind  ;  he  who  thinks  loosely  will  write 
loosely,  and,  perhaps,  there  is  some  moral  inconvenience 
in  the  common  forms  of  our  grammars  which  give  children 
so  many  obscure  terms  for  material  distinctions.  Let  me 
also  exhort  you  to  careful  examination  of  what  you  read,  if 
it  be  worthy  any  perusal  at  all ;  such  examination  will  be 
a  safeguard  from  fanaticism,  the  universal  origin  of  which 
is  in  the  contemplation  of  phenomena  without  investigation 
into  their  causes. 


ON   THE 

PROMETHEUS    OF   ^SCHYLUS : 

An  Essay,  preparatory  to  a  series  of  disquisitions  respecting  the 
Egyptian,  in  connexion  with  the  sacerdotal,  theology,  and  in 
contrast  with  the  mysteries  of  ancient  Greece.  Read  at  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature,  May  i8,  1825. 

The  French  savans  who  went  to  Egypt  in  the  train  of 
Buonaparte,  Denon,  Fourrier,  and  Dupuis,  (it  has  been 
asserted,)  triumphantly  vindicated  the  chronology  of 
Herodotus,  on  the  authority  of  documents  that  cannot 
lie  ; — namely  the  inscriptions  and  sculptures  on  those 
enormous  masses  of  architecture,  that  might  seem  to  have 
been  built  in  the  wish  of  rivalling  the  mountains,  and  at 
some  unknown  future  to  answer  the  same  purpose,  that 
is,  to  stand  the  gigantic  tombstones  of  an  elder  world.  It 
is  decided,  say  the  critics,  whose  words  I  have  before  cited, 
that  the  present  division  of  the  zodiac  had  been  already 
arranged  by  the  Egyptians  fifteen  thousand  years  before 
the  Christian  era,  and  according  to  an  inscription  'which 
cannot  lie*  the  temple  of  Esne  is  of  eight  thousand  years 
standing. 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  among  a  people  who  had  placed 
their  national  pride  in  their  antiquity,  I  do  not  see  the 
impossibility  of  an  inscription  lying  ;  and,  secondly,  as 
little  can  I  see  the  improbability  of  a  modern  interpreter 
misunderstanding  it  ;    and  lastly,   the  incredibility  of  a 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         327 

French  infidel's  partaking  of  both  defects,  is  still  less 
evident  to  my  understanding.  The  inscriptions  may  be, 
and  in  some  instances,  very  probably  are,  of  later  date 
than  the  temples  themselves, — the  offspring  of  vanity  or 
priestly  rivalry,  or  of  certain  astrological  theories  ;  or  the 
temples  themselves  may  have  been  built  in  the  place  of 
former  and  ruder  structures,  of  an  earlier  and  ruder 
period,  and  not  impossibly  under  a  different  scheme  of 
hieroglyphic  or  significant  characters ;  and  these  may 
have  been  intentionally,  or  ignorantly,  miscopied  or  mis- 
translated. 

But  more  than  all  the  preceding, — I  cannot  but  persuade 
myself,  that  for  a  man  of  sound  judgment  and  enlightened 
common  sense — a  man  with  whom  the  demonstrable  laws 
of  the  human  mind,  and  the  rules  generahzed  from  the 
great  mass  of  facts  respecting  human  nature,  weigh  more 
than  any  two  or  three  detached  documents  or  narrations, 
of  whatever  authority  the  narrator  may  be,  and  however 
difficult  it  may  be  to  bring  positive  proofs  against  the 
antiquity  of  the  documents — I  cannot  but  persuade  myself, 
I  say,  that  for  such  a  man,  the  relation  preserved  in  the 
first  book  of  the  Pentateuch, — and  which,  in  perfect 
accordance  with  all  analogous  experience,  with  all  the 
facts  of  history,  and  all  that  the  principles  of  political 
economy  would  lead  us  to  anticipate,  conveys  to  us  the 
rapid  progress  in  civilization  and  splendour  from  Abraham 
and  Abimelech  to  Joseph  and  Pharaoh, — will  be  worth  a 
whole  library  of  such  inferences. 

I  am  aware  that  it  is  almost  universal  to  speak  of  the 
gross  idolatry  of  Egypt ;  nay,  that  arguments  have  been 
grounded  on  this  assumption  in  proof  of  the  divine  origin 
of  the  Mosaic  monotheism.  But  first,  if  by  this  we  are  to 
understand  that  the  great  doctrine  of  the  one  Supreme 
Being  was  first  revealed  to  the  Hebrew  legislator,  his  own 
inspired  writings  supply  abundant  and  direct  confutation 
of  the  position.  Of  certain  astrological  superstitions, — 
of  certain  talismans  connected  with  star-magic, — plates 
and  images  constructed  in  supposed  harmony  with  the 
movements  and  influences  of  celestial  bodies, — there 
doubtless  exist  hints,  if  not  direct  proofs,  both  in  the 
Mosaic  writings,  and  those  next  to  these  in  antiquity. 
But  of  plain  idolatry  in  Egypt,  or  the  existence  of  a 
polytheistic  religion,  represented  by  various  idols,  each 


328  Idea  of  the 

signif5dng  a  several  deity,  I  can  find  no  decisive  proof  in 
the  Pentateuch  ;  and  when  I  collate  these  with  the  books 
of  the  prophets,  and  the  other  inspired  writings  subse- 
quent to  the  Mosaic,  I  cannot  but  regard  the  absence  of 
any  such  proof  in  the  latter,  compared  with  the  numerous 
and  powerful  assertions,  or  evident  impHcations,  of 
Egyptian  idolatry  in  the  former,  both  as  an  argument  of 
incomparably  greater  value  in  support  of  the  age  and 
authenticity  of  the  Pentateuch  ;  and  as  a  strong  pre- 
sumption in  favour  of  the  hypothesis  on  which  I  shall  in 
part  ground  the  theory  which  will  pervade  this  series  of 
disquisitions  ; — namely,  that  the  sacerdotal  religion  of 
Egypt  had,  during  the  interval  from  Abimelech  to  Moses, 
degenerated  from  the  patriarchal  monotheism  into  a  pan- 
theism, cosmotheism,  or  worship  of  the  world  as  God. 

The  reason  or  pretext,  assigned  by  the  Hebrew  legislator 
to  Pharaoh  for  leading  his  countrymen  into  the  wilderness 
to  join  with  their  brethren,  the  tribes  who  still  sojourned 
in  the  nomadic  state,  namely,  that  their  sacrifices  would 
be  an  abomination  to  the  Egyptians,  may  be  urged  as 
inconsistent  with,  nay,  as  confuting  this  hypothesis.  But 
to  this  I  reply,  first,  that  the  worship  of  the  ox  and  cow  was 
not,  in  and  of  itself,  and  necessarily,  a  contravention  of  the 
first  commandment,  though  a  very  gross  breach  of  the 
second  ; — for  it  is  most  certain  that  the  ten  tribes  wor- 
shipped the  Jehovah,  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and 
Jacob,  under  the  same  or  similar  s3mibols  : — secondly 
that  the  cow,  or  Isis,  and  the  lo  of  the  Greeks,  truly  repre- 
sented, in  the  first  instance,  the  earth  or  productive  nature, 
and  afterwards  the  mundane  religion  grounded  on  the  wor- 
ship of  nature,  or  the  to  crai',  as  God.  In  after  times,  the  ox 
or  bull  was  added,  representing  the  sun,  or  generative 
force  of  nature,  according  to  the  habit  of  male  and  female 
deities,  which  spread  almost  over  the  whole  world, — the 
positive  and  negative  forces  in  the  science  of  superstition  ; 
— for  the  pantheism  of  the  sage  necessarily  engenders 
polytheism  as  the  popular  creed.  But  lastly,  a  very 
sufficient  reason  may,  I  think,  be  assigned  for  the  choice 
of  the  ox  or  cow,  as  representing  the  very  life  of  nature, 
by  the  first  legislators  of  Egypt,  and  for  the  similar  sacred 
character  in  the  Brahmanic  tribes  of  Hindostan.  The 
progress  from  savagery  to  civilization  is  evidently  first 
from  the  hunting  to  the  pastoral  state,  a  process  which 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         329 

even  now  is  going  on,  within  our  own  times,  among  the 
South  American  Indians  in  the  vast  tracts  between  Buenos 
Ayres  and  the  Andes  :  but  the  second  and  the  most  im- 
portant step,  is  from  the  pastoral,  or  wandering,  to  the 
agricultural,  or  fixed,  state.  Now,  if  even  for  men  born 
and  reared  under  European  civilization,  the  charms  of  a 
wandering  hfe  have  been  found  so  great  a  temptation, 
that  few  who  have  taken  to  it  have  been  induced  to  return 
(see  the  confession  in  the  preamble  to  the  statute  respecting 
the  gipsies)  ;  ^ — how  much  greater  must  have  been  the 
danger  of  relapse  in  the  first  formation  of  fixed  states  with 
a  condensed  population  ?  And  what  stronger  prevention 
could  the  ingenuity  of  the  priestly  kings — (for  the  priestly 
is  ever  the  first  form  of  government) — devise,  than  to 
have  made  the  ox  or  cow  the  representatives  of  the  divine 
principle  in  the  world,  and,  as  such,  an  object  of  adoration, 
the  wilful  destruction  of  which  was  sacrilege  ? — For  this 
rendered  a  return  to  the  pastoral  state  impossible  ;  in 
which  the  flesh  of  these  animals  and  the  milk  formed 
almost  the  exclusive  food  of  mankind  ;  while,  in  the 
meantime,  by  once  compelling  and  habituating  men  to  the 
use  of  a  vegetable  diet,  it  enforced  the  laborious  cultivation 
of  the  soil,  and  both  produced  and  permitted  a  vast  and 
condensed  population.  In  the  process  and  continued 
sub-divisions  of  polytheism,  this  great  sacred  Word, — 
for  so  the  consecrated  animals  were  called,  }spoi  Xoyoi, — 
became  multiplied,  tiU  almost  every  power  and  supposed 
attribute  of  nature  had  its  symbol  in  some  consecrated 
animal  from  the  beetle  to  the  hawk.  Wherever  the  powers 
of  nature  had  found  a  cycle  for  themselves,  in  which  the 
powers  still  produced  the  same  phenomenon  during  a  given 
period,  whether  in  the  motions  of  the  heavenly  orbs,  or  in 
the  smallest  living  organic  body,  there  the  Egyptian  sages 
predicated  life  and  mind.  Time,  cyclical  time,  was  their 
abstraction  of  the  deity,  and  their  holidays  were  their  gods. 
The  diversity  between  theism  and  pantheism  may  be 
most  simply  and  generally  expressed  in  the  following 
formula,  in  which  the  material  universe  is  expressed  by 
W,  and  the  deity  by  G. 

W-G=0; 

1  The  Act  meant  is  probably  the  5.  Eliz.  c.  20,  enforcing  the  two  previous  Acts  of 
Henry  VIII.  and  Philip  and  Mary,  and  reciting  that  natural  born  Englishmen  had 
'  become  of  the  fellowship  of  the  said  vagabonds,  by  transforming  or  disguising  them* 
selves  in  their  apparel,'  &c. — Ed. 


330  Idea  of  the 

or  the  World  without  God  is  an  impossible  conception. 
This  position  is  common  to  theist  and  pantheist.     But 
the  pantheist  adds  the  converse — 
G-\V  =  0; 
for  which  the  theist  substitutes — 

G-W  =  G; 
or  that — 

G  =  G,  anterior  and  irrelative  to  the  existence  of  the 
world,  is  equal  to  G  +  W.^ 

Before  the  mountains  were,  Thou  art. — I  am  not  about  to 
lead  the  society  beyond  the  bounds  of  my  subject  into 
divinity  or  theology  in  the  professional  sense.  But  with- 
out a  precise  definition  of  pantheism,  without  a  clear 
insight  into  the  essential  distinction  between  it  and  the 
theism  of  the  Scriptures,  it  appears  to  me  impossible  to 
understand  either  the  import  or  the  history  of  the  poly- 
theism of  the  great  historical  nations.  I  beg  leave,  there- 
fore, to  repeat,  and  to  carry  on  my  former  position,  that 
the  religion  of  Egypt,  at  the  time  of  the  Exodus  of  the 
Hebrews,  was  a  pantheism,  on  the  point  of  passing  into 
that  polytheism,  of  which  it  afterwards  afforded  a  specimen, 
gross  and  distasteful  even  to  polytheists  themselves  of 
other  nations. 

The  objects  which,  on  my  appointment  as  Royal 
Associate  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature,  I  proposed  to 
myself  were,  ist.  The  elucidation  of  the  purpose  of  the 
Greek  drama,  and  the  relations  in  which  it  stood  to  the 
mysteries  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  the  state  or  sacerdotal 
religion  on  the  other  : — 2nd.  The  connection  of  the  Greek 
tragic  poets  with  philosophy  as  the  peculiar  offspring  of 
Greek  genius  : — 3rd.  The  connection  of  the  Homeric  and 
cyclical  poets  with  the  popular  religion  of  the  Greeks  :  and, 
lastly  from  all  these, — namely,  the  mysteries,  the  sacer- 
dotal religion,  their  philosophy  before  and  after  Socrates, 
the  stage,  the  Homeric  poetry  and  the  legendary  belief  of 
the  people,  and  from  the  sources  and  productive  causes  in 
the  derivation  and  confluence  of  the  tribes  that  finally 
shaped  themselves  into  a  nation  of  Greeks — to  give  a  juster 

1  Mr.  Coleridge  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  expres>ing  himself  on  paper  by  the 
algebraic  symbols.  They  have  an  uncouth  look  in  the  text  of  an  ordinary  essay,  and  I 
have  sometimes  ventured  to  render  them  by  the  equivalent  words.  But  most  of  the 
readers  of  these  volumes  will  know  that  -  means  less  by,  or,  without;  +  nro^-e  by,  or.  ifi 
addition  to;  =  equal  to,  or,  the  same  as. — E,i. 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         331 

and  more  distinct  view  of  this  singular  people,  and  of  the 
place  which  they  occupied  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and 
the  great  scheme  of  divine  providence,  than  I  have  hitherto 
seen, — or  rather  let  me  say,  than  it  appears  to  me  possible 
to  give  by  any  other  process. 

The  present  Essay,  however,  I  devote  to  the  purpose  of 
removing,  or  at  least  invalidating,  one  objection  that  I  may 
reasonably  anticipate,  and  which  may  be  conveyed  in  the 
following  question  : — What  proof  have  you  of  the  fact  of 
any  connection  between  the  Greek  drama,  and  either  the 
mysteries,  or  the  philosophy,  of  Greece  ?  What  proof  that 
it  was  the  office  of  the  tragic  poet,  under  a  disguise  of  the 
sacerdotal  religion,  mixed  with  the  legendary  or  popular 
belief,  to  reveal  as  much  of  the  mysteries  interpreted  by 
philosophy,  as  would  counteract  the  demoralizing  effects 
of  the  state  religion,  without  compromising  the  tranquillity 
of  the  state  itself,  or  weakening  that  paramount  reverence, 
without  which  a  republic,  (such,  I  mean,  as  the  republics  of 
ancient  Greece  were)  could  not  exist  ? 

I  know  no  better  way  in  which  I  can  reply  to  this  objec- 
tion, than  by  giving,  as  my  proof  and  instance,  the  Pro- 
metheus of  iEschylus,  accompanied  with  an  exposition  of 
what  I  believe  to  be  the  intention  of  the  poet,  and  the 
mythic  import  of  the  work  ;  of  which  it  may  be  truly  said, 
that  it  is  more  properly  tragedy  itself  in  the  plenitude  of  the 
idea,  than  a  particular  tragic  poem  ;  and  as  a  preface  to 
this  exposition,  and  for  the  twin  purpose  of  rendering  it 
intelligible,  and  of  explaining  its  connection  with  the  whole 
scheme  of  my  Essays,  I  entreat  permission  to  insert  a 
quotation  from  a  work  of  my  own,  which  has  indeed  been  in 
print  for  many  years,  but  which  few  of  my  auditors  will 
probably  have  heard  of,  and  still  fewer,  if  any,  have  read. 

"  As  the  representative  of  the  youth  and  approaching 
manhood  of  the  human  intellect  we  have  ancient  Greece, 
from  Orpheus,  Linus,  Musaeus,  and  the  other  mythological 
bards,  or,  perhaps,  the  brotherhoods  impersonated  under 
those  names,  to  the  time  when  the  republics  lost  their 
independence,  and  their  learned  men  sank  into  copyists  of, 
and  commentators  on,  the  works  of  their  forefathers.  That 
we  include  these  as  educated  under  a  distinct  providential, 
though  not  miraculous,  dispensation,  will  surprise  no  one, 
who  reflects,  that  in  whatever  has  a  permanent  operation 
on  the  destinies  and  intellectual  condition  of  mankind  at 


332  Idea  of  the 

large, — that  in  all  which  has  been  manifestly  employed  as 
a  co-agent  in  the  mightiest  revolution  of  the  moral  world, 
the  propagation  of  the  Gospel,  and  in  the  intellectual  pro- 
gress of  mankind  in  the  restoration  of  philosophy,  science, 
and  the  ingenuous  arts — it  were  irreligion  not  to  acknow- 
ledge the  hand  of  divine  providence.  The  periods,  too, 
join  on  to  each  other.  The  earliest  Greeks  took  up  the 
religious  and  lyrical  poetry  of  the  Hebrews  ;  and  the 
schools  of  the  prophets  were,  however  partially  and  imper- 
fectly, represented  by  the  mysteries  derived  through  the 
corrupt  channel  of  the  Phoenicians  !  With  these  secret 
schools  of  physiological  theology,  the  mythical  poets  were 
doubtless  in  connexion,  and  it  was  these  schools  which  pre- 
vented polytheism  from  producing  all  its  natural  barbariz- 
ing effects.  The  mysteries  and  the  mythical  hymns  and 
paeans  shaped  themselves  gradually  into  epic  poetry  and 
history  on  the  one  hand,  and  into  the  ethical  tragedy  and 
philosophy  on  the  other.  Under  their  protection,  and  that 
of  a  youthful  liberty,  secretly  controlled  by  a  species  of 
internal  theocracy,  the  sciences,  and  the  sterner  kinds  of 
the  fine  arts,  that  is,  architecture  and  statuary,  grew  up 
together,  followed,  indeed,  by  painting,  but  a  statuesque, 
and  austerely  idealized,  painting,  which  did  not  degenerate 
into  mere  copies  of  the  sense,  till  the  process  for  which 
Greece  existed  had  been  completed."  ^ 

The  Greeks  alone  brought  forth  philosophy  in  the  proper 
and  contra-distinguishable  sense  of  the  term,  which  we  may 
compare  to  the  coronation  medal  with  its  symbolic  char- 
acters, as  contrasted  with  the  coins,  issued  under  the  same 
sovereign,  current  in  the  market.  In  the  primary  sense, 
philosophy  had  for  its  aim  and  proper  subject  the  rd 
mpi  cLpyZ^v,  de  originihus  rermn,  as  far  as  man  proposes  to 
discover  the  same  in  and  by  the  pure  reason  alone.  This, 
I  say,  was  the  offspring  of  Greece,  and  elsewhere  adopted 
only.     The  pre-disposition  appears  in  their  earliest  poetry. 

The  first  object  (or  subject  matter)  of  Greek  philosophiz- 
ing was  in  some  measure  philosophy  itself  ; — not,  indeed, 
as  a  product,  but  as  the  producing  power — the  produc- 
tivity. Great  minds  turned  inward  on  the  fact  of  the 
diversity  between  man  and  beast ;  a  superiority  of  kind  in 
addition  to  that  of  degree  ;  the  latter,  that  is,  the  difference 
in  degree  comprehending  the  more  enlarged  sphere  and  the 

1  Friend,  III.  Essay  9. 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus  333 

multifold  application  of  faculties  common  to  man  and 
brute  animals  ; — even  this  being  in  great  measure  a  trans- 
fusion from  the  former,  namely,  from  the  superiority  in 
kind  ; — for  only  by  its  co-existence  with  reason,  free-will, 
self-consciousness,  the  contra-distinguishing  attributes  of 
man,  does  the  instinctive  intelligence  manifested  in  the  ant, 
the  dog,  the  elephant,  &c.  become  human  understanding. 
It  is  a  truth  with  which  HeracUtus,  the  senior,  but  yet 
contemporary,  of  ^schylus,  appears,  from  the  few  genuine 
fragments  of  his  writings  that  are  yet  extant,  to  have  been 
deeply  impressed, — that  the  mere  understanding  in  man, 
considered  as  the  power  of  adapting  means  to  immediate 
purposes,  differs,  indeed,  from  the  intelligence  displayed  by 
other  animals,  and  not  in  degree  only  ;  but  yet  does  not 
differ  by  any  excellence  which  it  derives  from  itself,  or  by 
any  inherent  diversity,  but  solely  in  consequence  of  a 
combination  with  far  higher  powers  of  a  diverse  kind  in 
one  and  the  same  subject. 

Long  before  the  entire  separation  of  metaphysics  from 
poetry,  that  is,  while  yet  poesy,  in  all  its  several  species 
of  verse,  music,  statuary,  &c.  continued  mythic  ; — while 
yet  poetry  remained  the  union  of  the  sensuous  and  the 
philosophic  mind  ; — the  efficient  presence  of  the  latter  in 
the  synthesis  of  the  two,  had  manifested  itself  in  the 
sublime  mythus  'rrspi  ysvsfficug  Tou  i/eD  h  di'^poj'roTg,  concern- 
ing the  genesis,  or  birth  of  the  vou?  or  reason  in  man. 
This  the  most  venerable,  and  perhaps  the  most  ancient,  of 
Grecian  mythi,  is  a  philosopheme,  the  very  same  in  subject 
matter  with  the  earliest  record  of  the  Hebrews,  but  most 
characteristically  different  in  tone  and  conception  ; — for 
the  patriarchal  religion,  as  the  antithesis  of  pantheism, 
was  necessarily  personal ;  and  the  doctrines  of  a  faith, 
the  first  ground  of  which  and  the  primary  enunciation, 
is  the  eternal  I  am,  must  be  in  part  historic  and  must 
assume  the  historic  form.  Hence  the  Hebrew  record  is 
a  narrative,  and  the  first  instance  of  the  fact  is  given  as 
the  origin  of  the  fact. 

That  a  profound  truth — a  truth  that  is,  indeed,  the 
grand  and  indispensable  condition  of  all  moral  responsi- 
bility— is  involved  in  this  characteristic  of  the  sacred 
narrative,  I  am  not  alone  persuaded,  but  distinctly  aware. 
This,  however,  does  not  preclude  us  from  seeing,  nay,  as 
an  additional  mark  of  the  wisdom  that  inspired  the  sacred 


334  Idea  of  the 

historian,  it  rather  supplies  a  motive  to  us,  impels  and 
authorizes  us,  to  see,  in  the  form  of  the  vehicle  of  the  truth, 
an  accommodation  to  the  then  childhood  of  the  human 
race.  Under  this  impression  we  may,  I  trust,  safely  con- 
sider the  narration, — introduced,  as  it  is  here  introduced, 
for  the  purpose  of  explaining  a  mere  work  of  the  unaided 
mind  of  man  by  comparison, — as  an  sVog  'upoy'kvc^ixhv^ — 
and  as  such  (apparently,  I  mean,  not  actually)  a  synthesis 
of  poesy  and  philosophy,  characteristic  of  the  childhood 
of  nations. 

In  the  Greek  we  see  already  the  dawn  of  approaching 
manhood.  The  substance,  the  stuff,  is  philosophy  ;  the 
form  only  is  poetry.  The  Prometheus  is  a  philosophema 
ravrriycpixhv, — the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil, — 
an  allegory,  a  cr^cra/^gy.aa,  though  the  noblest  and  the 
most  pregnant  of  its  kind. 

The  generation  of  the  koD^,  or  pure  reason  in  man.  i. 
It  was  superadded  or  infused,  a  supra  to  mark  that  it 
was  no  mere  evolution  of  the  animal  basis  ; — that  it  could 
not  have  grown  out  of  the  other  faculties  of  man,  his  life, 
sense,  understanding,  as  the  flower  grows  out  of  the  stem, 
having  pre-existed  potentially  in  the  seed  :  2.  The  voZg, 
or  fire,  was  'stolen,' — to  mark  its  hetero — or  rather  its 
a/^-geneity,  that  is,  its  diversity,  its  difference  in  kind, 
from  the  faculties  which  are  common  to  man  with  the 
nobler  animals  :  3.  And  stolen  'from  Heaven,' — to  mark 
its  superiority  in  kind,  as  well  as  its  essential  diversity  : 
4.  And  it  was  a  'spark,' — to  mark  that  it  is  not  subject 
to  any  modifying  reaction  from  that  on  which  it  immedi- 
ately acts  ;  that  it  suffers  no  change,  and  receives  no 
accession,  from  the  inferior,  but  multiplies  itself  by  con- 
version, without  being  alloyed  by,  or  amalgamated  with, 
that  which  it  potentiates,  ennobles,  and  transmutes  :  5. 
And  lastly,  (in  order  to  imply  the  homogeneity  of  the 
donor  and  of  the  gift)  it  was  stolen  by  a  'god,'  and  a  god 
of  the  race  before  the  dynasty  of  Jove, — Jove  the  binder 
of  reluctant  powers,  the  coercer  and  entrancer  of  free 
spirits  under  the  fetters  of  shape,  and  mass,  and  passive 
mobility  ;  but  likewise  by  a  god  of  the  same  race  and 
essence  with  Jove,  and  linked  of  yore  in  closest  and 
friendhest  intimacy  with  him.  This,  to  mark  the  pre- 
existence,  in  order  of  thought,  of  the  nous,  as  spiritual, 
both  to  the  objects  of  sense,  and  to  their  products,  formed 


Prometheus  of  ^Eschylus         335 

as  it  were,  by  the  precipitation,  or,  if  I  may  dare  adopt 
the  bold  language  of  Leibnitz,  by  a  coagulation  of  spirit.^ 
In  other  words  this  derivation  of  the  spark  from  above, 
and  from  a  god  anterior  to  the  Jovial  dynasty — (that  is, 
to  the  submersion  of  spirits  in  material  forms), — was 
intended  to  mark  the  transcendency  of  the  nous,  the  con- 
tra-distinctive faculty  of  man,  as  timeless,  a-/^pov6v  n,  and, 
in  this  negative  sense,  eternal.  It  signified,  I  say,  its 
superiority  to,  and  its  diversity  from,  all  things  that 
subsist  in  space  and  time,  nay,  even  those  which,  though 
spaceless,  yet  partake  of  time,  namely,  souls  or  under- 
standings. For  the  soul,  or  understanding,  if  it  be  defined 
physiologically  as  the  principle  of  sensibility,  irritability, 
and  growth,  together  with  the  functions  of  the  organs, 
which  are  at  once  the  representatives  and  the  instruments 
of  these,  must  be  considered  in  genere,  though  not  in 
degree  or  dignity,  common  to  man  and  the  inferior  animals. 
It  was  the  spirit,  the  nous,  which  man  alone  possessed. 
And  I  must  be  permitted  to  suggest  that  this  notion 
deserves  some  respect,  were  it  only  that  it  can  shew  a 
semblance,  at  least,  of  sanction  from  a  far  higher  authority. 
The  Greeks  agreed  with  the  cosmogonies  of  the  East 
in  deriving  all  sensible  forms  from  the  indistinguishable. 
The  latter  we  find  designated  as  the  rb  aaopipov^  the 
vdup  Tpoxoa/MKov,  the  p(;ao5  as,  the  essentially  unintelligible, 
yet  necessarily  presumed,  basis  or  sub-position  of  all 
positions.  That  it  is,  scientifically  considered,  an  indis- 
pensable idea  for  the  human  mind,  just  as  the  mathe- 
matical point,  &c.  for  the  geometrician  ; — of  this  the 
various  systems  of  our  geologists  and  cosmogonists,  from 
Burnet  to  La  Place,  afford  strong  presumption.  As  an 
idea,  it  must  be  interpreted  as  a  striving  of  the  mind  to 
distinguish  being  from  existence, — or  potential  being,  the 
ground  of  being  containing  the  possibility  of  existence, 
from  being  actualized.  In  the  language  of  the  mysteries, 
it  was  the  esurience,  the  -ro^os  or  desideratum,  the  unfuelled 
fire,  the  Ceres,  the  ever-seeking  maternal  goddess,  the 
origin  and  interpretation  of  whose  name  is  found  in  the 
Hebrew  root  signifying  hunger,  and  thence  capacity.     It 

1  Schelling  ascribes  this  expression,  which  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  in  the  works 
of  Leibnitz,  to  Hemsterhuis:  "  When  Leibnitz,"  says  he,  "calls  matter  the  sleep-state 
of  the  Monads,  or  when  Hemsterhuis  calls  it  curdled  spirit,— den  g^gronnenen  Geist.— 
!n  fact,  matter  is  no  other  than  spirit  contemplated  in  the  equilibrium  of  its  activities." 
Transl.  Transfc.  Ideal,  p.  190.     S.  C. 


33^  Idea  of  the 

was,  in  short,  an  effort  to  represent  the  universal  ground 
of  all  differences  distinct  or  opposite,  but  in  relation  to 
which  all  antithesis  as  well  as  all  antitheta,  existed  only 
potentially.  This  was  the  container  and  withholder, 
(such  is  the  primitive  sense  of  the  Hebrew  word  rendered 
darkness  (Gen.  i.  2))  out  of  which  light,  that  is,  the  lux 
lucifica,  as  distinguished  from  hunen  seu  lux  phcanomenalis , 
was  produced  ; — say,  rather,  that  which,  producing  itself 
into  light  as  the  one  pole  or  antagonist  power,  remained 
in  the  other  pole  as  darkness,  that  is,  gravity,  or  the 
principle  of  mass,  or  wholeness  without  distinction  of 
parts. 

And  here  the  pecuHar,  the  philosophic,  genius  of  Greece 
began  its  foetal  throb.  Here  it  individualized  itself  in 
contra-distinction  from  the  Hebrew  archology,  on  the 
one  side,  and  from  the  Phoenician,  on  the  other.  The 
Phoenician  confounded  the  indistinguishable  with  the 
absolute,  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  the  ineffable  causa  sui. 
It  confounded,  I  say,  the  multeity  below  intellect,  that  is, 
unintelligible  from  defect  of  the  subject,  with  the  absolute 
identity  above  all  intellect,  that  is,  transcending  com- 
prehension by  the  plenitude  of  its  excellence.  With  the 
Phoenician  sages  the  cosmogony  was  their  theogony  and 
vice  ve-rsa.  Hence,  too,  flowed  their  theurgic  rites,  their 
magic,  their  worship  (cultus  et  apotheosis)  of  the  plastic 
forces,  chemical  and  vital,  and  these,  or  their  notions 
respecting  these,  formed  the  hidden  meaning,  the  soul,  as 
it  were,  of  which  the  popular  and  civil  worship  was  the 
body  with  its  drapery. 

The  Hebrew  wisdom  imperatively  asserts  an  unbeginning 
creative  One,  who  neither  became  the  world  ;  nor  is  the 
world  eternally  ;  nor  made  the  world  out  of  himself  by 
emanation,  or  evolution  ; — but  who  willed  it,  and  it  was  ! 
Ta  u9ia  lyUiro,  xa/  iyivsro  x6,oq, — and  this  chaos,  the 
eternal  will,  by  the  spirit  and  the  word,  or  express  fiat, — 
again  acting  as  the  impregnant,  distinctive,  and  ordonnant 
power,  —  enabled  to  become  a  world  —  xo<r,as7(rt5a/.  So 
must  it  be  when  a  religion,  that  shall  preclude  superstition 
on  the  one  hand,  and  brute  indifference  on  the  other,  is 
to  be  true  for  the  meditative  sage,  yet  intelligible,  or  at 
least  apprehensible,  for  all  but  the  fools  in  heart. 

The  Greek  philosopheme,  preser\^ed  for  us  in  the  iEschy- 
lean   Prometheus,   stands  midway   betwixt  both,   yet  is 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         337 

distinct  in  kind  from  either.  With  the  Hebrew  or  purer 
Semitic,  it  assumes  an  X  Y  Z, — (I  take  these  letters  in  their 
alegebraic  appHcation) — an  indeterminate  Elohim,  ante- 
cedent to  the  matter  of  the  world,  u>.>j  a-Koaixog — no  less 
than  to  the  oXrj  %ixoG[Mnfji,h7i.  In  this  point,  likewise,  the 
Greek  accorded  with  the  Semitic,  and  differed  from  the 
Phoenician — that  it  held  the  antecedent  X  Y  Z  to  be  super- 
sensuous  and  divine.  But  on  the  other  hand,  it  coincides 
with  the  Phoenician  in  considering  this  antecedent  ground 
of  corporeal  matter, — ruv  GMfMarov  xa/  reD  crw^ar/xoD, — not  so 
properly  the  cause  of  the  latter,  as  the  occasion  and  the 
still  continuing  substance.  Materia  suhstat  adhuc.  The 
corporeal  was  supposed  co-essential  with  the  antecedent  of 
its  corporeity.  Matter,  as  distinguished  from  body,  was  a 
non  ens,  a  simple  apparition,  id  quod  mere  videtiir  ;  but  to 
body  the  elder  physico-theology  of  the  Greeks  allowed  a 
participation  in  entity.  It  was  spiritus  ipse,  oppressus, 
dormiens,  et  diversis  modis  somnians.  In  short,  body  was 
the  productive  power  suspended,  and  as  it  were,  quenched 
in  the  product.  This  may  be  rendered  plainer  by  reflecting, 
that,  in  the  pure  Semitic  scheme  there  are  four  terms  intro- 
duced in  the  solution  of  the  problem,  i.  the  beginning,  self- 
sufficing,  and  immutable  Creator  ;  2.  the  antecedent  night 
as  the  identity,  or  including  germ,  of  the  light  and  dark- 
ness, that  is,  gravity  ;  3.  the  chaos  ;  and  4.  the  material 
world  resulting  from  the  powers  communicated  by  the 
divine  flat.  In  the  Phoenician  scheme  there  are  in 
fact  but  two — a  self-organizing  chaos,  and  the  omniform 
nature  as  the  result.  In  the  Greek  scheme  we  have  three 
terms,  i.  the  hyle  jXjj,  which  holds  the  place  of  the  chaos, 
or  the  waters,  in  the  true  system  ;  2.  ra  (Tw/^ara,  answering 
to  the  Mosaic  heaven  and  earth  ;  and  3.  the  Saturnian  ;<^/'o^o/ 
uTipyjo'jioi, — which  answer  to  the  antecedent  darkness  of 
the  Mosaic  scheme,  but  to  which  the  elder  physico-theo- 
logists  attributed  a  self-polarizing  power — a  natnra  gemina 
qucB  fit  et  facit,  agit  et  patitur.  In  other  words,  the  Elohim 
of  the  Greeks  were  still  but  a  natnra  deorum,  to  km,  in  which 
a  vague  plurality  adhered  ;  or  if  any  unity  was  imagined, 
it  was  not  personal — not  a  unity  of  excellence,  but  simply 
an  expression  of  the  negative — that  which  was  to  pass,  but 
whicli  had  not  yet  passed,  into  distinct  form. 

All  this  will  seem  strange  and  obscure  at  first  reading, — 
perhaps  fantastic.     But  it  will  only  seem  so.     Dry  and 


338  Idea  of  the 

prolix,  indeed,  it  is  to  me  in  the  writing,  full  as  much  as  it 
can  be  to  others  in  the  attempt  to  understand  it.  But  I 
know  that,  once  mastered,  the  idea  will  be  the  key  to  the 
whole  cypher  of  the  ^schylean  mythology.  The  sum 
stated  in  the  terms  of  philosophic  logic  is  this  :  First,  what 
Moses  appropriated  to  the  chaos  itself :  what  Moses  made 
passive  and  a  materia  subjecta  et  lucis  et  tenehrarum,  the 
containing  vpods/j.evov  of  the  thesis  and  antithesis  ; — this  the 
Greek  placed  anterior  to  the  chaos  ; — the  chaos  itself  being 
the  struggle  between  the  hyper chrojiia,  the  Idiat  'n-povo/j^oi,  as 
the  unevolved,  unproduced,  prothesis,  of  which  ihia  xa/  v6[j.og 
— (idea  and  law) — are  the  thesis  and  antithesis.  (I  use  the 
word  'produced'  in  the  mathematical  sense,  as  a  point 
elongating  itself  to  a  bi-polar  line.)  Secondly,  what  Moses 
establishes,  not  merely  as  a  transcendant  Monas,  but  as 
an  individual  'E^dg  likewise  ; — this  the  Greek  took  as  a 
harmony,  dsoi  d&dvaroi,  to  dim,  as  distinguished  from  o  khg 
— or,  to  adopt  the  more  expressive  language  of  the  Pytha- 
goreans and  cabalists  numen  numerantis  ;  and  these  are  to 
be  contemplated  as  the  identity. 

Now  according  to  the  Greek  philosopheme  or  mythiis,  in 
these,  or  in  this  identity,  there  arose  a  war,  schism,  or 
division,  that  is,  a  polarization  into  thesis  and  antithesis. 
In  consequence  of  this  schism  in  the  rh  dsTov,  the  thesis  be- 
comes nomos,  or  law,  and  the  antithesis  becomes  idea,  but 
so  that  the  nomos  is  nomos,  because,  and  only  because,  the 
idea  is  idea  :  the  nomos  is  not  idea,  only  because  the  idea 
has  not  become  nomos.  And  this  not  must  be  heedfully 
borne  in  mind  through  the  whole  interpretation  of  this 
most  profound  and  pregnant  philosopheme.  The  nomos 
is  essentially  idea,  but  existentially  it  is  idea,  suhstans,  that 
is,  id  quod  stat  subtus,  understanding  sensu  generalissimo. 
The  idea,  which  now  is  no  longer  idea,  has  substantiated 
itself,  become  real  as  opposed  to  idea,  and  is  henceforward, 
therefore,  substans  in  substantiate.  The  first  product  of  its 
energy  is  the  thing  itself  :  ipsa  se  posuit  et  jam  facta  est  ens 
positum.  Still,  however,  its  productive  energy  is  not 
exhausted  in  this  product,  but  overflows,  or  is  effluent,  as 
the  specific  forces,  properties,  faculties,  of  the  product.  It 
reappears,  in  short,  in  the  body,  as  the  function  of  the  body. 
As  a  sufficient  illustration,  though  it  cannot  be  offered  as  a 
perfect  instance,  take  the  followinp^. 

'In  the  world  we  see  every  where  evidences  of  a  unity. 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         339 

which  the  component  parts  are  so  far  from  explaining,  that 
they  necessarily  presuppose  it  as  the  cause  and  condition  of 
their  existing  as  those  parts,  or  even  of  their  existing  at  all. 
This  antecedent  unity,  or  cause  and  principle  of  each  union, 
it  has  since  the  time  of  Bacon  and  Kepler,  been  customary 
to  call  a  law.  This  crocus,  for  instance,  or  any  flower  the 
reader  may  have  in  sight  or  choose  to  bring  before  his 
fancy  ; — that  the  root,  stem,  leaves,  petals,  &c.  cohere  as 
one  plant,  is  owing  to  an  antecedent  power  or  principle  in 
the  seed,  which  existed  before  a  single  particle  of  the 
matters  that  constitute  the  size  and  visibility  of  the  crocus 
had  been  attracted  from  the  surrounding  soil,  air,  and 
moisture.  Shall  we  turn  to  the  seed  ?  Here  too  the  same 
necessity  meets  us,  an  antecedent  unity  (I  speak  not  of  the 
parent  plant,  but  of  an  agency  antecedent  in  order  of 
operance,  yet  remaining  present  as  the  conservative  and 
reproductive  power,)  must  here  too  be  supposed.  Analyze 
the  seed  with  the  finest  tools,  and  let  the  solar  microscope 
come  in  aid  of  your  senses, — what  do  you  find  ? — means 
and  instruments,  a  wondrous  fairy-tale  of  nature,  maga- 
zines of  food,  stores  of  various  sorts,  pipes,  spiracles,  de- 
fences,— a  house  of  many  chambers,  and  the  owner  and 
inhabitant  invisible.'  ^  Now,  compare  a  plant  thus  con- 
templated with  an  animal.  In  the  former,  the  productive 
energy  exhausts  itself,  and  as  it  were,  sleeps  in  the  product 
or  organismus — in  its  root,  stem,  foliage,  blossoms,  seed. 
Its  balsams,  gums,  resins,  aromata,  and  all  other  bases  of  its 
sensible  qualities,  are,  it  is  v/ell  known,  mere  excretions 
from  the  vegetable,  eliminated,  as  lifeless,  from  the  actual 
plant.  The  qualities  are  not  its  properties,  but  the  pro- 
perties, or  far  rather,  the  dispersion  and  volatilization  of 
these  extruded  and  rejected  bases.  But  in  the  animal  it  is 
otherwise.  Here  the  antecedent  unity — the  productive 
and  self-realizing  idea — strives,  with  partial  success  to  re- 
emancipate  itself  from  its  product,  and  seeks  once  again  to 
become  idea  :  vainly  indeed  :  for  in  order  to  this,  it  must 
be  retrogressive,  and  it  hath  subjected  itself  to  the  fates, 
the  evolvers  of  the  endless  thread — to  the  stern  necessity 
of  progression.  Idea  itself  it  cannot  become,  but  it  may  in 
long  and  graduated  process,  become  an  image,  an  ana- 
logon,  an  anti-type  of  idea.  And  this  s'/dcoXov  may  ap- 
proximate to  a  perfect  likeness.     Quod  est  simile,  nequit 

1  Aids  to  Reflection.     Moral  and  Religious  Aphorisms.     Aphorism  VI.     £d. 


340  Idea  of  the 

esse  idem.  Thus,  in  the  lower  animals,  we  see  this  process 
of  emancipation  commence  with  the  intermediate  link,  or 
that  which  forms  the  transition  from  properties  to  faculties, 
namely,  with  sensation.  Then  the  faculties  of  sense, 
locomotion,  construction,  as,  for  instance,  webs,  hives, 
nests,  &c.  Then  the  functions  ;  as  of  instinct,  memory, 
fancy,  instinctive  intelligence,  or  understanding,  as  it  exists 
in  the  most  intelligent  animals.  Thus  the  idea  (hence- 
forward no  more  idea,  but  irrecoverable  by  its  own  fatal 
act)  commences  the  process  of  its  own  transmutation,  as 
substans  in  suhstantiato ,  as  the  enteleche,  or  the  vis  for- 
matrix,  and  it  finishes  the  process  as  substans  e  suhstantiato, 
that  is,  as  the  understanding. 

If,  for  the  purpose  of  elucidating  this  process,  I  might  be 
allowed  to  imitate  the  symbolic  language  of  the  algebraists, 
and  thus  to  regard  the  successive  steps  of  the  process  as  so 
many  powers  and  dignities  of  the  nomos  or  law,  the  scheme 
would  be  represented  thus  : — 

Nomos^  =  Product  :    N^  =  Property  :    N^  =  Faculty  : 
N^  =  Function  :    N-'^  =  Understanding  ; — 

which  is,  indeed,  in  one  sense,  itself  a  nomos,  inasmuch  as  it 
is  the  index  of  the  nomos,  as  well  as  its  highest  function  ; 
but,  like  the  hand  of  a  watch,  it  is  likewise  a  nomizomenon. 
It  is  a  verb,  but  still  a  verb  passive. 

On  the  other  hand,  idea  is  so  far  co-essential  with  nomos, 
that  by  its  co-existence — (not  confluence) — with  the  nomos 
sv  vo,u.i^ofMsvoig  (with  the  organismus  and  its  faculties  and  func- 
tions in  the  man,)  it  becomes  itself  a  nomos.  But,  observe, 
a  nomos  auto  nomos,  or  containing  its  law  in  itself  likewise  ; 
— even  as  the  nomos  produces  for  its  hi'^^hest  product  the 
understanding,  so  the  idea,  in  its  opposition  and,  of  course, 
its  correspondence  to  the  nomos,  begets  in  itself  an  analogon 
to  product  ;  and  this  is  self-consciousness.  But  as  the 
product  can  never  become  idea,  so  neither  can  the  idea  (if 
it  is  to  remain  idea)  become  or  generate  a  distinct  product. 
This  analogon  of  product  is  to  be  itself  ;  but  were  it  indeed 
and  substantially  a  product,  it  would  cease  to  be  self.  It 
would  be  an  object  for  a  subject,  not  (as  it  is  and  must  be) 
an  object  that  is  its  own  subject,  and  vice  versa  ;  a  concep- 
tion which,  if  the  uncombining  and  infusile  genius  of  our 
language  allowed  it,  might  be  expressed  by  the  term  sub- 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         341 

ject-object.  Now,  idea,  taken  in  indissoluble  connection 
with  this  analogon  of  product  is  mind,  that  which  knows 
itself,  and  the  existence  of  which  may  be  inferred,  but 
cannot  appear  or  become  a  phenomenon. 

By  the  benignity  of  Providence,  the  truths  of  most  im- 
portance in  themselves,  and  which  it  most  concerns  us  to 
know,  are  familiar  to  us,  even  from  childhood.  Well  for  us 
if  we  do  not  abuse  this  privilege,  and  mistake  the  famili- 
arity of  words  which  convey  these  truths,  for  a  clear  under- 
standing of  the  truths  themselves  !  If  the  preceding  dis- 
quisition, with  all  its  subtlety  and  all  its  obscurity,  should 
answer  no  other  purpose,  it  will  still  have  been  neither 
purposeless,  nor  devoid  of  utility,  should  it  only  lead  us  to 
sympathize  with  the  strivings  of  the  human  intellect, 
awakened  to  the  infinite  importance  of  the  inward  oracle 
yvudi  ffsavro^ — and  almost  instinctively  shaping  its  course 
of  search  in  conformity  with  the  Platonic  intimation : — 
v^i/y^c  (pliffiv  d^icijg  Xoyov  y^aravorjGrn  o'in  dvvarov  fivai,  a\'fj 
TTjg  Tou  oXov  <pu6eu; ;  but  be  this  as  it  may,  the  ground- 
work of  the  iEschylean  mythus  is  laid  in  the  definition  of 
idea  and  law,  as  correlatives  that  mutually  interpret  each 
the  other  ; — an  idea,  with  the  adequate  power  of  realizing 
itself  being  a  law,  and  a  law  considered  abstractedly  from, 
or  in  the  absence  of,  the  power  of  manifesting  itself  in  its 
appropriate  product  being  an  idea.  Whether  this  be  true 
philosophy,  is  not  the  question.  The  school  of  Aristotle 
would,  of  course,  deny,  the  Platonic  affirm  it ;  for  in  this 
consists  the  difference  of  the  two  schools.  Both  acknow- 
ledge ideas  as  distinct  from  the  mere  generalizations  from 
objects  of  sense  :  both  would  define  an  idea  as  an  ens 
rationale,  to  which  there  can  be  no  adequate  correspondent 
in  sensible  experience.  But,  according  to  Aristotle,  ideas 
are  regulative  only,  and  exist  only  as  functions  of  the 
mind  : — according  to  Plato,  they  are  constitutive  likewise, 
and  one  in  essence  with  the  power  and  life  of  nature  ; — 
iv  y.oyu)  ^(H7i  i]v^  xai  i]  ^oiTi  rjv  to  (pojg  tuv  av&pojrruv.  And 
this  I  cLSsert,  was  the  philosophy  of  the  mythic  poets, 
who,  like  ^schylus,  adapted  the  secret  doctrines  of  the 
mysteries  as  the  (not  always  safely  disguised)  antidote  to 
the  debasing  influences  of  the  religion  of  the  state. 

But  to  return  and  conclude  this  preliminary  explanation. 
We  have  only  to  substitute  the  term  will,  and  the  term  con- 
stitutive power,  for  nomos  or  law,  and  the  process  is  the 


342  Idea  of  the 

same.     Permit  me  to  represent  the  identity  or  prothesis  by 
the  letter  Z  and  the  thesis  and  antithesis  by  X  and  Y  re- 
spectively.    Then  I  say  X  by  not  being  Y,  but  in  con-  i 
sequence  of  being  the  correlative  opposite  of  Y,  is  will ; 
and  Y,  by  not  being  X,  but  the  correlative  and  opposite  of  ! 
X,  is  nature, — natura  naturans,  vC/j^og  (p'jgixog.     Hence  we 
may  see  the  necessity  of  contemplating  the  idea  now  as 
identical  with  the  reason,  and  now  as  one  with  the  will,  and  ' 
now  as  both  in  one,  in  which  last  case  I  shall,  for  conveni- 
ence sake,  employ  the  term  Nous,  the  rational  will,  the 
practical  reason. 

We  are  now  out  of  the  holy  jungle  of  transcendental 
metaphysics  ;  if  indeed,  the  reader's  patience  shall  have 
had  strength  and  persistency  enough  to  allow  me  to 
exclaim — 

Ivimus  ambo 
Per  densas  umbras  :   at  tenet  umbra  Deum. 

Not  that  I  regard  the  foregoing  as  articles  of  faith,  or  as  all 
true  ; — I  have  implied  the  contrary  by  contrasting  it  with, 
at  least,  by  shewing  its  disparateness  from,  the  Mosaic, 
which,  bona  fide,  I  do  regard  as  the  truth.  But  I  believe 
there  is  much,  and  profound,  truth  in  it,  supra  captum 
'^t'koff6(puv,  qui  non  agnoscunt  divinum,  ideoque  nee  naturam, 
nisi  nomine,  agnoscunt;  sed  res  cunctas  ex  sensuali  cor- 
poreo  cogitant,  quibus  hac  ex  causa  interiora  clausa  manent, 
et  simul  cum  illis  exteriora  qucB  proxima  interioribus  sunt ! 
And  with  no  less  confidence  do  I  believe  that  the  positions 
above  given,  true  or  false,  are  contained  in  the  Promethean 
my  thus. 

In  this  my  thus,  Jove  is  the  impersonated  representation 
or  symbol  of  the  nomos — Jupiter  est  quodcunque  vides.  He 
is  the  mejts  agitans  molem,  but  at  the  same  time,  the  molem 
corpoream  ponens  et  constituens.  And  so  far  the  Greek 
philosopheme  does  not  differ  essentially  from  the  cosmo- 
theism,  or  identification  of  God  with  the  universe,  in  which 
consisted  the  first  apostacy  of  mankind  after  the  flood, 
when  they  combined  to  raise  a  temple  to  the  heavens,  and 
which  is  still  the  favored  religion  of  the  Chinese.  Pro- 
metheus, in  like  manner,  is  the  impersonated  representative 
of  Idea,  or  of  the  same  power  as  Jove,  but  contemplated  as 
independent  and  not  immersed  in  the  product, — as  law 
minus  the  productive  energy.     As  such  it  is  next  to  be 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         343 

seen  what  the  several  significances  of  each  must  or  may  be 
according  to  the  philosophic  conception  ;  and  of  which 
significances,  therefore,  should  we  find  in  the  philosopheme 
a  correspondent  to  each,  we  shall  be  entitled  to  assert  that 
such  are  the  meanings  of  the  fable.     And  first  of  Jove  : — 

Jove  represents  i.  Nomos  generally,  as  opposed  to  Idea  or 
Nous  :  2.  Nomos  archinomos,  now  as  the  father,  now  as  the 
sovereign,  and  now  as  the  includer  and  representative  of 
the  foV*/  o-jpduot  -/.oGiMiKoi,  or  dii  majores,  who,  had  joined  or 
come  over  to  Jove  in  the  first  schism  :  3.  Nomos  da/M^rjTrn — 
the  subjugator  of  the  spirits,  of  the  id's  at  •zpovtfj.oi^  who,  thus 
subjugated,  became  voi^oi  ■j-7:o\'6!J.tot  vTroff'xovdoi,  Titanes  pacati, 
dii  minores,  that  is,  the  elements  considered  as  powers  re- 
duced to  obedience  under  yet  higher  powers  than  them- 
selves :  4.  Nomos  croX/r/xog,  law  in  the  Pauline  sense,  vo/iog 
d/\.XoTf>i6vo/xog  in  antithesis  to  vo/u.og  avTovo/MOf. 


COROLLARY. 

It  is  in  this  sense  that  Jove's  jealous,  ever-quarrelsome, 
spouse  represents  the  political  sacerdotal  cultus,  the  church, 
in  short,  of  republican  paganism  ; — a  church  by  law  estab- 
lished for  the  mere  purposes  of  the  particular  state,  un- 
ennobled  by  the  consciousness  of  instrumentality  to  higher 
purposes  ; — at  once  unenlightened  and  unchecked  by 
revelation.  Most  gratefully  ought  we  to  acknowledge 
that  since  the  completion  of  our  constitution  in  1688, 
we  may,  with  unflattering  truth,  elucidate  the  spirit  and 
character  of  such  a  church  by  the  contrast  of  the  institution, 
to  which  England  owes  the  larger  portion  of  its  superiority 
in  that,  in  which  alone  superiority  is  an  unmixed  blessing, 
— the  diffused  cultivation  of  its  inhabitants.  But  pre- 
viously to  this  period,  I  shall  offend  no  enlightened  man 
if  I  say  without  distinction  of  parties — intra  muros  pec- 
catur  et  extra  ; — that  the  history  of  Christendom  presents 
us  with  too  many  illustrations  of  this  Junonian  jealousy, 
this  factious  harassing  of  the  sovereign  power  as  soon  as 
the  latter  betrayed  any  symptoms  of  a  disposition  to 
its  true  policy,  namely,  to  privilege  and  perpetuate  that 
which  is  best, — to  tolerate  the  tolerable, — and  to  restrain 
none  but  those  who  would  restrain  all,  and  subjugate  even 


344  Idea  of  the 

the  state  itself.  But  while  truth  extorts  this  confession, 
it,  at  the  same  time,  requires  that  it  should  be  accompanied 
by  an  avowal  of  the  fact,  that  the  spirit  is  a  rehc  of  Pagan- 
ism ;  and  with  a  bitter  smile  would  an  iEschylus  or  a 
Plato  in  the  shades,  listen  to  a  Gibbon  or  a  Hume  vaunting 
the  mild  and  tolerant  spirit  of  the  state  religions  of  ancient 
Greece  or  Rome.  Here  we  have  the  sense  of  Jove's  in- 
trigues with  Europa,  lo,  &c.  whom  the  god,  in  his  own 
nature  a  general  lover,  had  successively  taken  under  his 
protection.  And  here,  too,  see  the  full  appropriateness  of  Ij 
this  part  of  the  mythus,  in  which  symbol  fades  away  into 
allegory,  but  yet  in  reference  to  the  working  cause,  as 
grounded  in  humanity,  and  always  existing  either  actually 
or  potentially,  and  thus  never  ceases  wholly  to  be  a  symbol 
or  tautegory. 

Prometheus  represents,  i.  sensii  generali,  Idea  '7rp6'JO[j/)g^ 
and  in  this  sense  he  is  a  &io;  6/a,6f  i;Xog,  a  fellow-tribesman 
both  of  the  dii  ma j ores,  with  Jove  at  their  head,  and  of  the 
Titans  or  dii  pacati  :  2.  He  represents  Idea  (pi\miMi, 
yaiMhiUrr^g ;  and  in  this  sense  the  former  friend  and 
counsellor  of  Jove  or  ISlous  uranius  :  3.  Aoyog  ^iXdvdpctj'Troc, 
the  divine  humanity,  the  humane  God,  who  retained 
unseen,  kept  back,  or  (in  the  catachresis  characteristic 
of  the  Phoenicio-Grecian  mythology)  stole,  a  portion  or 
ignicida  from  the  living  spirit  of  law,  which  remained 
with  the  celestial  gods  unexpended  h  r^j  voiulicoai. 
He  gave  that  which,  according  to  the  whole  analogy  of 
things,  should  have  existed  either  as  pure  divinity,  the 
sole  property  and  birthright  of  the  Dii  Joviales,  the 
Uranions,  or  was  conceded  to  inferior  beings  as  a  suhstans 
in  substantiato.  This  spark  divine  Prometheus  gave  to 
an  elect,  a  favored  animal,  not  as  a  suhstans  or  understand- 
ing, commensurate  with,  and  confined  by,  the  constitution 
and  conditions  of  this  particular  organism,  but  as  aliquid 
superstans,  liberum,  non  suhactiim,  invictum,  iynpacatum, 
fhYi  vo!J.tl^6iMiv(iv.  This  gift,  by  which  we  are  to  understand 
reason  theoretical  and  practical,  was  therefore  a  vofiog 
ahrovoiMo-  —  unapproachable  and  unmodiiiable  by  the 
animal  basis — that  is,  by  the  pre-existing  suhstans  with 
its  products,  the  animal  organismus  with  its  faculties  and 
functions  ;  but  yet  endowed  with  the  power  of  potentiat- 
ing, ennobling,  and  prescribing  to,  the  substance  ;  and 
hence,  therefore,  a  vo/j^^g  vofMOTs/dvig,  lex  legisuada  :    4.  By 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         345 

a  transition,  ordinary  even  in  allegory,  and  appropriate 
to  mythic  symbol,  but  especially  significant  in  the  present 
case — the  transition,  I  mean,  from  the  giver  to  the  gift — 
the  giver,  in  very  truth,  being  the  gift,  'whence  the  soul 
receives  reason  ;  and  reason  is  her  being,'  says  our  Milton. 
Reason  is  from  God,  and  God  is  reason,  mens  ipsissima. 

5.  Prometheus  represents.  Nous  h  av^pdj-Trw  —  voO? 
aymi6Tric.  Thus  contemplated,  the  Nous  is  of  necessity, 
powerless  ;  for  aU  power,  that  is,  productivity,  or  pro- 
ductive energy,  is  in  Law,  that  is,  vofMog  aWorpiovoiJjog  :  ^ 
still,  however,  the  Idea  in  the  Law,  the  numerus  numerans 
become  vof/^og,  is  the  principle  of  the  Law  ;  and  if  with 
Law  dwells  power,  so  with  the  knowledge  or  the  Idea 
scientialis  of  the  Law,  dwells  prophecy  and  foresight.  A 
perfect  astronomical  time-piece  in  relation  to  the  motions 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  or  the  magnet  in  the  mariner's 
compass  in  relation  to  the  magnetism  of  the  earth,  is  a 
sufficient  illustration. 

6.  Both  voiMog  and  Idea  (or  Nous)  are  the  verbum  ;  but, 
as  in  the  former,  it  is  verbum  fiat  'the  Word  of  the  Lord,' 
— in  the  latter  it  must  be  the  verbum  fiet  or,  'the  Word 
of  the  Lord  in  the  mouth  of  the  prophet.'  Pari  argumento, 
as  the  knowledge  is  therefore  not  power,  the  power  is 
not  knowledge.  The  ^ofj^og,  the  ZsD^  Travroxpdrojp,  seeks 
to  learn,  and,  as  it  were,  to  wrest  the  secret,  the  hateful 
secret,  of  his  own  fate,  namely,  the  transitoriness  adherent 
to  all  antithesis  ;  for  the  identity  or  the  absolute  is  alone 
eternal.  This  secret  Jove  would  extort  from  the  Noiis, 
or  Prometheus,  which  is  the  sixth  representment  of 
Prometheus. 

7.  Introduce  but  the  least  of  real  as  opposed  to  ideal, 
the  least  speck  of  positive  existence,  even  though  it  were 
but  the  mote  in  a  sunbeam,  into  the  sciential  contemplamen 
or  theorem,  and  it  ceases  to  be  science.  Ratio  desinit  esse 
pura  ratio  et  fit  discursus,  stat  subter  et  fU  u'Trohrixov : — 
non  superstat.  The  Nous  is  bound  to  a  rock,  the  im- 
movable firmness  of  which  is  indissolubly  connected  with 
its  barrenness,  its  non-productivity.  Were  it  productive 
it  would  be  Nomos  ;  but  it  is  Nous,  because  it  is  not 
Nomos. 

1  I  scarcely  need  say,  that  I  use  the  word  &WoTpi6vo/xos  as  a  participle  active,  as 
exercising  law  on  another,  not  as  rectivLng  law  from  another,  though  the  latter  is  the 
classical  force  (I  suppose)  of  the  word. 


346  Idea  of  the 

8.  Solitary  d/3arw  iv  IpniJ^ia.  Now  I  say  that  the  Nous, 
notwithstanding  its  diversity  from  the  Nomizomeni,  is 
yet,  relatively  to  their  supposed  original  essence,  rraat 
roTg  voiMiZ^oixsMoig  ravroyiv^g,  of  the  same  race  or  radix : 
though  in  another  sense,  namely,  in  relation  to  the  -rav 
h?bv  —  the  pantheistic  Elohim,  it  is  conceived  anterior 
to  the  schism,  and  to  the  conquest  and  enthronization 
of  Jove  who  succeeded.  Hence  the  Prometheus  of  the 
great  tragedian  is  khg  6-jyyivr,g.  The  kindred  deities 
come  to  him,  some  to  soothe,  to  condole  ;  others  to  give 
weak,  yet  friendly,  counsels  of  submission  ;  others  to 
tempt,  or  insult.  The  most  prominent  of  the  latter,  and 
the  most  odious  to  the  imprisoned  and  insulated  Nous, 
is  Hermes,  the  impersonation  of  interest  with  the  entranc- 
ing and  serpentine  Caduceus,  and,  as  interest  or  motives 
intervening  between  the  reason  and  its  immediate  self- 
determinations,  with  the  antipathies  to  the  vo/j^og  avrovo^u^og. 
The  Hermxcs  impersonates  the  eloquence  of  cupidity,  the 
cajolement  of  power  regnant ;  and  in  a  larger  sense, 
custom,  the  irrational  in  language,  p^iMara  ra  priroptxa,  the 
fluent,  from  pzM — the  rhetorical  in  opposition  to  A070/,  ra 
vorird.  But,  primarily,  the  Hermes  is  the  symbol  of 
interest.  He  is  the  messenger,  the  inter-nuncio,  in  the 
low  but  expressive  phrase,  the  go-between,  to  beguile 
or  insult.  And  for  the  other  visitors  of  Prometheus,  the 
elementary  powers,  or  spirits  of  the  elements,  Titanes 
pacati,  hoi  -jriovoixioi,  vassal  potentates,  and  their  solicita- 
tions, the  noblest  interpretation  will  be  given,  if  I  repeat 
the  lines  of  our  great  contemporary  poet : — 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 
And  e'en  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came  : — 

Wordsworth. 

which  exquisite  language  is  prefigured  in  coarser  clay, 
indeed,  and  with  a  less  lofty  spirit,  but  yet  excellently 
in  their  kind,  and  even  more  fortunately  for  the  illustration 
and  ornament  of  the  present  commentary,  in  the  fifth, 
sixth,  and  seventh  stanzas  of  Dr.  Henry  More's  poem  on 
the  Pre-existence  of  the  Soul : — 


Prometheus  of  ^schylus         347 

Thus  groping  after  our  own  center's  near 
And  proper  substance,  we  grew  dark,  contract, 
Swallow' d  up  of  earthly  life  !     Ne  what  we  were 
Of  old,  thro'  ignorance  can  we  detect. 
Like  noble  babe,  by  fate  or  friends'  neglect 
Left  to  the  care  of  sorry  salvage  wight. 
Grown  up  to  manly  years  cannot  conject 
His  own  true  parentage,  nor  read  aright 
What  father  him  begot,  what  womb  him  brought  to  light. 

So  we,  as  stranger  infants  elsewhere  born. 
Cannot  divine  from  what  spring  we  did  flow  ; 
Ne  dare  these  base  alliances  to  scorn, 
Nor  lift  ourselves  a  whit  from  hence  below  ; 
Ne  strive  our  parentage  again  to  know, 
Ne  dream  we  once  of  any  other  stock. 
Since  foster' d  upon  Rhea's  ^  knees  we  grow, 
In  Satyrs'  arms  with  many  a  mow  and  mock 
Oft  danced  ;   and  hairy  Pan  our  cradle  oft  hath  rock'd  ! 

But  Pan  nor  Rhea  be  our  parentage  ! 

We  been  the  offspring  of  the  all  seeing  Nous,  &c. 

To  express  the  supersensual  character  of  the  reason,  its 
ibstraction  from  sensation,  we  find  the  Prometheus  arsp-ryi, 
—while  in  the  yearnings  accompanied  with  the  remorse 
ncident  to,  and  only  possible  in  consequence  of  the  Nous 
Deing,  the  rational,  self-conscious,  and  therefore  responsible 

iVill,  he  is  yvri  diaKvato/j^syog. 

If  to  these  contemplations  we  add  the  control  and  des- 
potism exercised  on  the  free  reason  by  Jupiter  in  his  syrn- 
Dolical  character,  as  v6,(/.og  croX/r/xog ; — by  custom  (Hermes)  ; 
Dy  necessity,  /5/a  jcai  xparhg  ; — by  the  mechanic  arts  and 
DOwers,  avyysvsTc  T'jj  ^ouj  though  they  are,  and  which  are 
;ymbolized  in  Hephaistos, — we  shall  see  at  once  the  pro- 
priety of  the  title,  Prometheus,  bia,'MU)Trig. 

9.  Nature,  or  Zeus  as  the  voiJ^og  h  i/o/x/^o/xbo/{,  knows  herself 
)nly,  can  only  come  to  a  knowledge  of  herself,  in  man  I 
\nd  even  in  man,  only  as  man  is  supernatural,  above  nature, 
loetic.  But  this  knowledge  man  refuses  to  communicate  ; 
;hat  is,  the  human  understanding  alone  is  at  once  self- 
conscious  and  conscious  of  nature.  And  this  high  pre- 
ogative  it  owes  exclusively  to  its  being  an  assessor  of  the 

1  Rhea  (from  pioiy/luo),  that  is,  the  earth  as  the  transitory,  the  ever-flowing  nature, 
he  flux  and  sum  oi phenomena,  or  objects  of  the  outward  sense,  in  contradistinction 
roiTi  the  earth  as  Vesta,  as  the  firmamcntal  law  that  sustains  and  disposes  the  apparent 
.rorld  !  The  Satyrs  represent  the  sports  and  appetences  of  the  sensuous  nature 
<Ppbvt)y.a  o-apK6s)—Pa.n,  or  the  total  life  of  the  earth,  the  presence  of  all  in  each,  the 
niversal  organistrtus  of  bodies  and  bodily  energy. 


1^ 

348    Idea  of  the  Prometheus  of  ^schylusji 

reason.     Yet  even  the  human  understanding  in  its  height|j| 
of  place  seeks  vainly  to  appropriate  the  ideas  of  the  pure:;? 
reason,  which  it  can  only  represent  by  idola.     Here,  then, ; 
the  Nous  stands  as  Prometheus  dvT/-TaXog,renuens — in  hostileb  i 
opposition  to  Jupiter  Inquisitor. 

ID.  Yet  finally,  against  the  obstacles  and  even  under  the 
fostering  influences  of  the  Nomos,  roZ  vo!J.ifj.ov,  a  son  of  Jove 
himself,  but  a  descendant  from  lo,  the  mundane  religion,  as 
contra-distinguished  from  the  sacerdotal  cultus,  or  religion 
of  the  state,  an  Alcides  Liberator  will  arise,  and  the  Nous 
or  divine  principle  in  man,  will  be  Prometheus  iXsvhpdj/xsvog. 

Did  my  limits  or  time  permit  me  to  trace  the  persecu- 
tions, wanderings,  and  migrations  of  the  lo,  the  mundane 
religion,  through  the  whole  map  marked  out  by  the  tragic 
poet,  the  coincidences  would  bring  the  truth,  the  unarbit- 
rariness,  of  the  preceding  exposition  as  near  to  demonstra- 
tion as  can  rationally  be  required  on  a  question  of  history, 
that  must,  for  the  greater  part,  be  answered  by  combination 
of  scattered  facts.  But  this  part  of  my  subject,  together 
with  a  particular  exemplification  of  the  light  which  my 
theory  throws  both  on  the  sense  and  the  beauty  of  numerous 
passages  of  this  stupendous  poem,  I  must  reserve  for  a 
future  communication. 


NOTES.i 

V.  15.  (pdpccyyi : — 'in  a  coomb,  or  combe.* 
V.  17. 

i^iopid^eip  yap  Trarpbs  \6yovs  ^api. 

svupjd^siv,  as  the  editor  confesses,  is  a  word  introduced  in- 
to the  text  against  the  authority  of  all  editions  and  manu- 
scripts. I  should  prefer  ggw^/a^g/t/,  notwithstanding  its  being 
a  d-TraE,  Xeyo/j.evov.  The  iv — seems  to  my  tact  too  free  and  easy 
a  word  ; — and  yet  our  *to  trifle  with'  appears  the  exact 
meaning. 

1  Written  in  Bp.  Blomfield's  editioD,  aad  communicated  by  Mr.  Gary.     £d. 


I 


Mysteries  in  Greek  Tragedy      349 


SUMMARY  OF  AN  ESSAY 

ON    THE    FUNDAMENTAL    POSITION    OF    THE    MYSTERIES    IN 
RELATION  TO  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

The  Position,  to  tlie  establishment  of  which  Mr.  Coleridge 
regards  his  essay  as  the  Prolegomena,  is  :    that  the  Greek 
Tragedy  stood  in  th«^  same  relation  to  the  Mysteries,  as 
the  Epic  Song,  and  the  Fine  Arts  to  the  Temple  Worship, 
or  the  Religion  of  the  State  ;    that  the  proper  function  of 
the  Tragic  Poet  was  under  the  disguise  of  popular  super- 
stitions, and  using  the  popular  Mythology  as  his  stuff  and 
drapery  to  communicate  so  much  and   no   more  of    the 
doctrines  preserved  in  the  Mysteries  as  should  counteract 
the  demoralizing  influence  of  the  state  religion,  without 
disturbing  the  public  tranquillity,  or  weakening  the  re- 
verence for  the  laws,  or  bringing  into  contempt  the  ancestral 
and  local  usages  and  traditions  on  which  the  patriotism  of 
the  citizens  mainly  rested,  or  that  nationality  in  its  in- 
tensest  form  which  was  little  less  than  essential  in  the  con- 
stitution of  a  Greek  republic.     To  establish  this  position 
it  was  necessary  to  explain  the  nature  of  these  secret 
doctrines,  or  at  least  the  fundamental   principles  of   the 
faith  and  philosophy  of  Elensis  and  Samothrace.     The 
Samothracian  M3/steries  Mr.  Coleridge  supposes  to  have 
been  of  Phoenician  origin,  and  both  these  and  the  Elensi- 
nian  to  have  retained  the  religious  belief  of  the  more 
ancient  inhabitants  of  the  Peloponnesus,  prior  to  their 
union  with  the  Hellenes  and  the  Egyptian  colonies  :    that 
it  comprised  sundry  relics  and  fragments  of  the  Patri- 
archal Faith,  the  traditions  historical  and  prophetic  of  the 
Noetic  Family,  though  corrupted  and  depraved  by  their 
combination  with  the  system  of  Pantheism,  or  the  Worship 
of  the  Universe  as  God  [Jupiter  est  quodcunque  vides)  which 
Mr.  Coleridge  contends  to  have  been  the  first  great  Apostacy 
of  the  Ancient  World.     But  a  religion  founded  on  Pan- 
theism, is  of  necessity  a  religion  founded  on  philosophy, 
i.e.  an  attempt  to  determine  the  origin  of  nature  by  the 
unaided  strength  of  the  human  intellect,  however  unsound 
and  false  that  philosophy  may  have  been.     And  of  this 
the  sacred  books  of  the  Indian  Priests  afford  at  once  proof 
and  instance.     Again  :    the  earlier  the  date  of  any  philo- 


350       Mysteries  in  Greek  Tragedy 

sophic  scheme,  the  more  subjective  will  it  be  found — in 
other  words  the  earliest  reasoners  sought  in  their  own 
minds  the  form,  measure  and  substance  of  all  other  power. 
Abstracting  from  whatever  was  individual  and  accidental, 
from  whatever  distinguished  one  human  mind  from 
another,  they  fixed  their  attention  exclusively  on  the  char- 
acters which  belong  to  all  rational  beings,  and  which  there- 
fore they  contemplated  as  mind  itself,  mind  in  its  essence. 
And  however  averse  a  scholar  of  the  present  day  may  be  to 
these  first-fruits  of  speculative  thought,  as  metaphysics,  a 
knowledge  of  their  contents  and  distinctive  tenets  is  indis- 
pensable as  history.  At  all  events  without  this  knov/ledge 
he  will  in  vain  attempt  to  understand  the  spirit  and  genius 
of  the  arts,  institutions  and  governing  minds  of  ancient 
Greece.  The  difficulty  of  comprehending  any  scheme  of 
opinion  is  proportionate  to  its  greater  or  lesser  unlikeness 
to  the  principles  and  modes  of  reasoning  in  which  our  own 
minds  have  been  formed.  Where  the  difference  is  so  great 
as  almost  to  amount  to  contrariety,  no  clearness  in  the 
exhibition  of  the  scheme  will  remove  the  sense,  or  rather, 
perhaps  the  sensation,  of  strangeness  from  the  hearer's 
mind.  Even  beyond  its  utmost  demerits  it  will  appear 
obscure,  unreal,  visionary.  This  difficulty  the  author  anti- 
cipates as  an  obstacle  to  the  ready  comprehension  of  the 
first  principles  of  the  eldest  philosophy,  and  the  esoteric 
doctrines  of  the  Mysteries ;  but  to  the  necessity  of  over- 
coming this  the  only  obstacle,  the  thoughtful  inquirer  must 
resign  himself,  as  the  condition  under  which  alone  he  may 
expect  to  solve  a  series  of  problems  the  most  interesting  of 
all  that  the  records  of  ancient  history  propose  or  suggest. 

The  fundamental  position  of  the  Mysteries,  Mr.  Coleridge 
contends,  consists  in  affirming  that  the  productive  powers 
or  laws  of  nature  are  essentially  the  same  with  the  active 
powers  of  the  mind — in  other  words  that  mind,  or  Nous, 
under  which  term  they  combine  the  universal  attributes  of 
reason  and  will,  is  a  principle  of  forms  or  patterns,  endued 
with  a  tendency  to  manifest  itself  as  such  ;  and  that  this 
mind  or  eternal  essence  exists  in  two  modes  of  being. 
Namely,  either  the  form  and  the  productive  power,  which 
gives  it  outward  and  phoenomenal  reality,  are  united  in 
equal  and  adequate  proportions,  in  which  case  it  is  what 
the  eldest  philosophers,  and  the  moderns  in  imitation  of 
them,  call  a  law  of  nature  :  or  the  form  remaining  the  same. 


Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Taste     351 

but  with  the  productive  power  in  unequal  or  inadequate 
proportions,  whether  the  diminution  be  effected  by  the 
mind's  own  act  or  original  determination  not  to  put  forth 
this  inherent  power,  or  whether  the  power  have  been  re- 
pressed, and  as  it  were  driven  inward  by  the  violence  of  a 
superior  force  from  without, — and  in  this  case  it  was  called 
by  the  most  Ancient  School  "  Intelligible  Number,"  by  a 
later  School  "  Idea,"  or  Mind — xar'  s^oy^Tiv.  To  this  position 
a  second  was  added,  namely,  that  the  form  could  not  put 
forth  its  productive  or  self -realizing  power  without  ceasing 
at  the  same  moment  to  exist  for  itself, — i.e.  to  exist,  and 
know  itself  as  existing.  The  formative  power  was  as  it 
were  alienated  from  itself  and  absorbed  in  the  product.  It 
existed  as  an  instinctive,  essentially  intelligential,  but  not 
self-knowing,  power.  It  was  law,  Jupiter,  or  (when  con- 
templated plurally)  the  Dii  Majores.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  possess  its  own  being  consciously,  the  form  must  remain 
single  and  only  inwardly  productive.  To  exist  for  itself, 
it  must  continue  to  exist  by  itself.  It  must  be  an  idea  ; 
but  an  idea  in  the  primary  sense  of  the  term,  the  sense 
attached  to  it  by  the  oldest  Italian  School  and  by  Plato, — 
not  as  a  synonyme  of,  but  in  contra-distinction  from, 
image,  conception  or  notion  :  as  a  true  entity  of  all  en- 
tities the  most  actual,  of  all  essences  the  most  essential. 

Now  on  this  Antithesis  of  idea  and  law,  that  is  of  mind 
as  an  unproductive  but  self-knowing  power,  and  of  mind 
as  a  productive  but  unconscious  power,  the  whole  religion 
of  pantheism  as  disclosed  in  the  Mysteries  turns,  as  on  its 
axis,  bi-polar. 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    ESSAY    ON 
TASTE.     1810. 

The  same  arguments  that  decide  the  question,  whether 
taste  has  any  fixed  principles,  may  probably  lead  to  a 
determination  of  what  those  principles  are.  First  then, 
what  is  taste  in  its  metaphorical  sense,  or,  which  will  be 
the  easiest  mode  of  arriving  at  the  same  solution,  what 
is  there  in  the  primary  sense  of  the  word,  which  may  give 
to  its  metaphorical  meaning  an  import  different  from  that 
of  sight  or  hearing,  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  touch  or 


352     Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Taste 

smell  on  the  other  ?  And  this  question  seems  the  more 
natural,  because  in  correct  language  we  confine  beauty, 
the  main  subject  of  taste,  to  objects  of  sight  and  combina- 
tions of  sounds,  and  never,  except  sportively  or  by  abuse 
'of  words,  speak  of  a  beautiful  flavour,  or  a  beautiful 
scent. 

Now  the  analysis  of  our  senses  in  the  commonest  books 
of  anthrof)ology  has  drawn  our  attention  to  the  distinction 
between  the  perfectly  organic,  and  the  mixed  senses  ; — 
the  first  presenting  objects,  as  distinct  from  the  perception  ; 
— the  last  as  blending  the  perception  with  the  sense  of  the 
object.  Our  eyes  and  ears — (I  am  not  now  considering 
what  is  or  is  not  the  case  really,  but  only  that  of  which  we 
are  regularly  conscious  as  appearances,)  our  eyes  most 
often  appear  to  us  perfect  organs  of  the  sentient  principle, 
and  wholly  in  action,  and  our  hearing  so  much  more  so 
than  the  three  other  senses,  and  in  all  the  ordinary  exer- 
tions of  that  sense,  perhaps,  equally  so  with  the  sight,  that 
all  languages  place  them  in  one  class,  and  express  their 
different  modifications  by  nearly  the  same  metaphors. 
The  three  remaining  senses  appear  in  part  passive,  and 
combine  with  the  perception  of  the  outward  object  a 
distinct  sense  of  our  own  life.  Taste,  therefore,  as  opposed 
to  vision  and  sound,  will  teach  us  to  expect  in  its  meta- 
phorical use  a  certain  reference  of  any  given  object  to  our 
own  being,  and  not  merely  a  distinct  notion  of  the  object 
as  in  itself,  or  in  its  independent  properties.  From  the 
sense  of  touch,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  distinguishable  by 
adding  to  this  reference  to  our  vital  being  some  degree  of 
enjoyment,  or  the  contrary, — some  perceptible  impulse 
from  pleasure  or  pain  to  complacency  or  dishke.  The 
sense  of  smell,  indeed,  might  perhaps  have  furnished  a 
metaphor  of  the  same  import  with  that  of  taste  ;  but  the 
latter  was  naturally  chosen  by  the  majority  of  civilized 
nations  on  account  of  the  greater  frequency,  importance, 
and  dignity  of  its  employment  or  exertion  in  human  nature. 

By  taste,  therefore,  as  applied  to  the  fine  arts,  we  must 
be  supposed  to  mean  an  intellectual  perception  of  any 
object  blended  with  a  distinct  reference  to  our  own  sensi- 
bility of  pain  or  pleasure,  or,  vice  versa,  a  sense  of  enjoy- 
ment or  dislike  co-instantaneously  combined  with,  and 
appearing  to  proceed  from,  some  intellectual  perception 
of  the  object ; — intellectual  perception,  I  say  ;    for  other- 


Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Taste     353 

wise  it  would  be  a  definition  of  taste  in  its  primary  rather 
than  in  its  metaphorical  sense.  Briefly,  taste  is  a  metaphor 
taken  from  one  of  our  mixed  senses,  and  applied  to  objects 
of  the  more  purely  organic  senses,  and  of  our  moral  sense, 
when  we  would  imply  the  co-existence  of  immediate  personal 
dislike  or  complacency.  In  this  definition  of  taste,  there- 
fore, is  involved  the  definition  of  fine  arts,  namely,  as 
being  such  the  chief  and  discriminative  purpose  of  which 
it  is  to  gratify  the  taste, — that  is,  not  merely  to  connect, 
but  to  combine  and  unite,  a  sense  of  immediate  pleasure 
in  ourselves,  with  the  perception  of  external  arrangement. 
The  great  question,  therefore,  whether  taste  in  any  one 
of  the  fine  arts  has  any  fixed  principle  or  ideal,  will  find 
its  solution  in  the  ascertainment  of  two  facts  : — first, 
whether  in  every  determination  of  the  taste  concerning 
any  work  of  the  fine  arts,  the  individual  does  not,  with 
or  even  against  the  approbation  of  his  general  judgment, 
involuntarily  claim  that  all  other  minds  ought  to  think 
and  feel  the  same  ;  whether  the  common  expressions,  *I 
dare  say  I  may  be  wrong,  but  that  is  my  particular  taste  ;' 
— are  uttered  as  an  oft'ering  of  courtesy,  as  a  sacrifice  to 
the  undoubted  fact  of  our  individual  fallibility,  or  are 
spoken  with  perfect  sincerity,  not  only  of  the  reason  but 
of  the  whole  feeling,  with  the  same  entireness  of  mind  and 
heart,  with  which  we  concede  a  right  to  every  person  to 
differ  from  another  in  his  preference  of  bodily  tastes  and 
flavours.  If  we  should  find  ourselves  compelled  to  deny 
this,  and  to  admit  that,  notwithstanding  the  consciousness 
of  our  liability  to  error,  and  in  spite  of  all  those  many 
individual  experiences  which  may  have  strengthened  the 
consciousness,  each  man  does  at  the  moment  so  far  legislate 
for  aU  men,  as  to  believe  of  necessity  that  he  is  either  right 
or  wrong,  and  that  if  it  be  right  for  him,  it  is  universally 
right, — we  must  then  proceed  to  ascertain  : — secondly, 
whether  the  source  of  these  phenomena  is  at  all  to  be 
found  in  those  parts  of  our  nature,  in  which  each  intellect 
is  representative  of  all, — and  whether  wholly,  or  partially. 
No  person  of  common  reflection  demands  even  in  feeling, 
that  what  tastes  pleasant  to  him  ought  to  produce  the 
same  effect  on  all  living  beings  ;  but  every  man  does  and 
must  expect  and  demand  the  universal  acquiescence  of  all 
intelligent  beings  in  every  conviction  of  his  understanding. 
*  ♦  *  ♦  ♦ 


354    Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Beauty 

FRAGMENT    OF    AN    ESSAY    ON 
BEAUTY.     1818. 

The  only  necessary,  but  this  the  absolutely  necessary, 
pre-requisite  to  a  full  insight  into  the  grounds  of  the 
beauty  in  the  objects  of  sight,  is — the  directing  of  the 
attention  to  the  action  of  those  thoughts  in  our  own  mind 
which  are  not  consciously  distinguished.  Every  man 
may  understand  this,  if  he  will  but  recall  the  state  of  his 
feelings  in  endeavouring  to  recollect  a  name,  which  he  is 
quite  sure  that  he  remembers,  though  he  cannot  force 
it  back  into  consciousness.  This  region  of  unconscious 
thoughts,  oftentimes  the  more  working  the  more  indistinct 
they  are,  may,  in  reference  to  this  subject,  be  conceived 
as  forming  an  ascending  scale  from  the  most  universal 
associations  of  motion  with  the  functions  and  passions  of 
hfe, — as  when,  on  passing  out  of  a  crowded  city  into  the 
fields  on  a  day  in  June,  we  describe  the  grass  and  king- 
cups as  nodding  their  heads  and  dancing  in  the  breeze, — 
up  to  the  half  perceived,  yet  not  fixable,  resemblance  of 
a  form  to  some  particular  object  of  a  diverse  class,  which 
resemblance  we  need  only  increase  but  a  little,  to  destroy, 
or  at  least  injure,  its  beauty-enhancing  effect,  and  to  make 
it  a  fantastic  intrusion  of  the  accidental  and  the  arbitrary, 
and  consequently  a  disturbance  of  the  beautiful.  This 
might  be  abundantly  exemplified  and  illustrated  from  the 
paintings  of  Salvator  Rosa. 

I  am  now  using  the  term  beauty  in  its  most  comprehen- 
sive sense,  as  including  expression  and  artistic  interest, — 
that  is,  I  consider  not  only  the  living  balance,  but  likewise 
all  the  accompaniments  that  even  by  disturbing  are  neces- 
sary to  the  renewal  and  continuance  of  the  balance.  And 
in  this  sense  I  proceed  to  show,  that  the  beautiful  in  the 
object  may  be  referred  to  two  elements, — lines  and  colours  ; 
the  first  belonging  to  the  shapely  [forma,  formalis,  for- 
mosus),  and  in  this,  to  the  law,  and  the  reason  ;  and  the 
second,  to  the  lively,  the  free,  the  spontaneous,  and  the 
self-justifying.  As  to  lines,  the  rectilineal  are  in  themselves 
the  lifeless,  the  determined  ab  extra,  but  still  in  immediate 
union  with  the  cycloidal.  which  are  expressive  of  function. 
The  curve  line  is  a  modification  of  the  force  from  without 


Fragment  of  an  Essay  on  Beauty  355 

by  the  force  from  within,  or  the  spontaneous.  These 
are  not  arbitrary  symbols,  but  the  language  of  nature, 
universal  and  intuitive,  by  virtue  of  the  law  by  which  man 
is  impelled  to  explain  visible  motions  by  imaginary  causa- 
tive powers  analogous  to  his  own  acts,  as  the  Dryads, 
Hamadryads,  Naiads,  &c. 

The  better  way  of  applying  these  principles  will  be  by  a 
brief  and  rapid  sketch  of  the  history  of  the  fine  arts, — in 
which  it  will  be  found,  that  the  beautiful  in  nature  has  been 
appropriated  to  the  works  of  man,  just  in  proportion  as  the 
state  of  the  mind  in  the  artists  themselves  approached  to 
the  subjective  beauty.  Determine  what  predominance  in 
the  minds  of  the  men  is  preventive  of  the  living  balance  of 
excited  faculties,  and  you  will  discover  the  exact  counter- 
part in  the  outward  products.  Egypt  is  an  illustration 
of  this.  Shapeliness  is  intellect  without  freedom  ;  but 
colours  are  significant.  The  introduction  of  the  arch  is  not 
less  an  epoch  in  the  fine  than  in  the  useful  arts. 

Order  is  beautiful  arrangement  without  any  purpose  ad 
extra  ; — therefore  there  is  a  beauty  of  order,  or  order  may 
be  contemplated  exclusively  as  beauty. 

The  form  given  in  every  empirical  intuition, — the  stuff, 
that  is,  the  quality  of  the  stuff,  determines  the  agreeable  : 
but  when  a  thing  excites  us  to  receive  it  in  such  and  such  a 
mould,  so  that  its  exact  correspondence  to  that  mould  is 
what  occupies  the  mind, — this  is  taste  or  the  sense  of  beauty. 
WTiether  dishes  full  of  painted  wood  or  exquisite  viands 
were  laid  out  on  a  table  in  the  same  arrangement,  would  be 
indifferent  to  the  taste,  as  in  ladies  patterns ;  but  surely  the 
one  is  far  more  agreeable  than  the  other.  Hence  observe 
the  disinterestedness  of  all  taste  ;  and  hence  also  a  sensual 
perfection  with  intellect  is  occasionally  possible  without 
moral  feeling.  So  it  may  be  in  music  and  painting,  but 
not  in  poetry.  How  far  it  is  a  real  preference  of  the  refined 
to  the  gross  pleasures,  is  another  question,  upon  the  sup- 
position that  pleasure,  in  some  form  or  other,  is  that  alone 
which  determines  men  to  the  objects  of  the  former  ; — 
whether  experience  does  not  show  that  if  the  latter  were 
equally  in  our  power,  occasioned  no  more  trouble  to  enjoy, 
and  caused  no  more  exhaustion  of  the  power  of  enjoying 
them  by  the  enjoyment  itself,  we  should  in  real  practice 
prefer  the  grosser  pleasure.  It  is  not,  therefore,  any  ex- 
cellence in  the  quality  of  the  refined  pleasures  themselves. 


356      Notes  on  Chapman's  Homer 

but  the  advantages  and  facilities  in  the  means  of  enjoying 
them,  that  give  them  the  pre-eminence. 

This  is,  of  course,  on  the  supposition  of  the  absence  of 
all  moral  feeling.  Suppose  its  presence,  and  then  there 
w'ill  accrue  an  excellence  even  to  the  quality  of  the  pleasures 
themselves  ;  not  only,  however,  of  the  refined,  but  also  of 
the  grosser  kinds, — inasmuch  as  a  larger  sweep  of  thoughts 
will  be  associated  with  each  enjoyment,  and  with  each 
thought  will  be  associated  a  number  of  sensations  ;  and 
so,  consequently,  each  pleasure  will  become  more  the 
pleasure  of  the  whole  being.  This  is  one  of  the  earthly 
rewards  of  our  being  what  we  ought  to  be,  but  which  would 
be  annihilated,  if  we  attempted  to  be  it  for  the  sake  of  this 
increased  enjoyment.  Indeed  it  is  a  contradiction  to 
suppose  it.  Yet  this  is  the  common  argumentum  in  circitlo, 
in  which  the  eudaemonists  flee  and  pursue. 


NOTES    ON    CHAPMAN'S    HOMER. 
Extract  of  a  Letter  sent  with  the  Volume}     1807. 

Chapman  I  have  sent  in  order  that  you  might  read  the 
Odyssey  ;  the  Iliad  is  fine,  but  less  equal  in  the  translation, 
as  weU  as  less  interesting  in  itself.  What  is  stupidly  said 
of  Shakspeare,  is  really  true  and  appropriate  of  Chapman  ; 
mighty  faults  counterpoised  by  mighty  beauties.  Except- 
ing his  quaint  epithets  which  he  affects  to  render  literally 
from  the  Greek,  a  language  above  all  others  blest  in  the 
"  happy  marriage  of  sweet  words,"  and  which  in  our  lan- 
guage are  mere  printer's  compound  epithets — such  as 
quaffed  divine  ]oy-in-the-heart-of -man-infusing  wine,  (the 
undermarked  is  to  be  one  word,  because  one  sweet  meUi- 
fiuous  word  expresses  it  in  Homer)  ; — excepting  this,  it 
has  no  look,  no  air,  of  a  translation.  It  is  as  truly  an 
original  poem  as  the  Faery  Queene  ; — it  will  give  you 
smaU  idea  of  Homer,  though  a  far  truer  one  than  Pope's 
epigrams,  or  Cowper's  cumbersome  most  anti-Homeric 
Miltonism.  For  Chapman  writes  and  feels  as  a  poet, — as 
Homer  might  have  written  had  he  Uved  in  England  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  In  short,  it  is  an  exquisite  poem, 
in  spite  of  its  frequent  and  perverse  quaintnesses  and  harsh- 

1  Coaununicated  through  Mr.  Wordsworth.    £d. 


Notes  on  Chapman's  Homer      357 

nesses,  which  are,  however,  amply  repaid  by  aknost  un- 
exampled sweetness  and  beauty  of  language,  all  over  spirit 
and  feeling.  In  the  main  it  is  an  English  heroic  poem,  the 
tale  of  which  is  borrowed  from  the  Greek.  The  dedication 
to  the  Iliad  is  a  noble  copy  of  verses,  especially  those 
sublime  lines  beginning, — 

O  !    'tis  wondrous  much 
(Through  nothing  prisde)  that  the  right  vertuous  touch 
Of  a  well  written  soule,  to  vertue  moves. 
Nor  haue  we  soules  to  purpose,  if  their  loves 
Of  fitting  objects  be  not  so  inflam'd. 

How  much  then,  were  this  kingdome's  maine  soul  maim'd. 
To  want  this  great  infiamer  of  all  powers 
That  move  in  humane  soules  !     All  realmes  but  yours, 
Are  honor' d  with  him  ;   and  hold  blest  that  state 
That  have  his  workes  to  reade  and  contemplate. 
In  which,  humanitie  to  her  height  is  raisde  ; 
Which  all  the  world  (yet,  none  enough)  hath  praisde. 
Seas,  earth,  and  heaven,  he  did  in  verse  comprize  ; 
Out  sung  the  Muses,  and  did  equalise 
Their  king  Apollo  ;   being  so  farre  from  cause 
Of  princes  light  thoughts,  that  their  gravest  lawes 
May  finde  stuffe  to  be  fashioned  by  his  lines. 
Through  all  the  pompe  of  kingdomes  still  he  shines 
And  graceth  all  his  gracers.     Then  let  lie 
Your  lutes,  and  viols,  and  more  loftily 
Make  the  heroiques  of  your  Homer  sung, 
To  drums  and  trumpets  set  his  Angels  tongue  : 
And  with  the  princely  sports  of  haukes  you  use. 
Behold  the  kingly  flight  of  his  high  Muse  : 
And  see  how  like  the  Phoenix  she  renues 
Her  age,  and  starrie  feathers  in  your  sunne  ; 
Thousands  of  yeares  attending  ;    everie  one 
Blowing  the  holy  fire,  and  throwing  in 
Their  seasons,  kingdomes,  nations  that  have  bin 
Subverted  in  them  ;   lawes,  religions,  all 
Ofierd  to  change,  and  greedie  funerall  ; 
Yet  still  your  Homer  lasting,  living,  raigning. — 

and  likewise  the  ist,  the  nth,  and  last  but  one,  of  the  pre- 
fatory sonnets  to  the  Odyssey.  Could  I  have  foreseen  any 
other  speedy  opportunity,  I  should  have  begged  your 
acceptance  of  the  volume  in  a  somewhat  handsomer  coat ; 
but  as  it  is,  it  will  better  represent  the  sender, — to  quote 
from  myself — 

A  man  disherited,  in  form  and  face. 

By  nature  and  mishap,  of  outward  grace. 

Chapman  in  his  moral  heroic  verse,  as  in  this  dedication 
and  the  prefatory  sonnets  to  his  Odyssey,  stands  above 


358      Notes  on  Chapman's  Homer 

Ben  Jonson  ;  there  is  more  dignity,  more  lustre,  and  equal 
Dedication  Strength  ;  but  not  midway  quite  between  him  and 
toVrince°"  the  sonnets  of  Milton.  I  do  not  know  whether  I 
Henry.  gj^.^  ]-^jj^  ^^le  higher  praise,  in  that  he  reminds  me 
of  Ben  Jonson  with  a  sense  of  his  superior  excellence,  or 
that  he  brings  Milton  to  memory  notwithstanding  his  in- 
feriority. His  moral  poems  are  not  quite  out  of  books  like 
Jonson's,  nor  yet  do  the  sentiments  so  wholly  grow  up  out 
of  his  own  natural  habit  and  grandeur  of  thought,  as  in 
Milton.  The  sentiments  have  been  attracted  to  him  by  a 
natural  afl&nity  of  his  intellect,  and  so  combined  ; — but 
Jonson  has  taken  them  by  individual  and  successive  acts 
of  choice. 

All  this  and  the  precedmg  is  well  felt  and  vigorously, 

though  harshly,  expressed,  respecting  sublime  poetry  in 

genere  ;   but  in  reading  Homer  I  look  about  me, 

D?Scatorie    ^ud  ask  how  does  all  this  apply  here.     For  surely 

Od  ^^-^e  •       never   was   there  plainer  writing  ,    there   are  a 

^^^^^'  thousand  charms  of  sun  and  moonbeam,  ripple, 
and  wave,  and  stormy  billow,  but  all  on  the  surface.  Had 
Chapman  read  Proclus  and  Porphjnry  ? — and  did  he  really 
believe  them, — or  even  that  they  believed  themselves  ? 
They  felt  the  immense  power  of  a  Bible,  a  Shaster,  a  Koran. 
There  was  none  in  Greece  or  Rome,  and  they  tried  therefore 
by  subtle  allegorical  accommodations  to  conjure  the  poem 
of  Homer  into  the  /SZ/SX/ov  hoTapddorov  of  Greek  faith. 

Chapman's  identification  of  his  fate  with  Homer's,  and 
his  complete  forgetfulness  of  the  distinction  between  Chris- 
tianity and  idolatry,  under  the  general  feeling  of 
DedStorie  ^omc  rcligiou,  is  very  interesting.  It  is  amusing 
to  the  to  observe,  how  familiar  Chapman's  fancy  has  be- 

omachia°"'^"  comc  with  Homcr,  his  life  and  its  circumstances, 
though  the  very  existence  of  any  such  individupJ, 
at  least  with  regard  to  the  Iliad  and  the  Hymns,  is  more 
than  problematic.  N.B.  The  rude  engraving  in  the  page 
was  designed  by  no  vulgar  hand.  It  is  full  of  spirit  and 
passion. 

I  am  so  dull,  that  neither  in  the  original  nor  in  any 
translation  could  I  ever  find  any  wit  or  wise  purpose  in 
^  ,  r  ^       this  poem.    The  whole  humour  seems  to  lie  in  the 

End  of  the  t^i       i-  i        •  j.  x 

Batrachomy-  uamcs.  Thc  frogs  aud  mice  are  not  frogs  or  mice, 
omachia.  ^^^  mcu,  and  yet  they  do  nothing  that  conveys 
any  satire.     In  the  Greek  there  is  much  beauty  of  language, 


Notes  on  Barclay's  Argenis        359 

but  the  joke  is  very  flat.  This  is  always  the  catse  in  rude 
ages  ; — their  serious  vein  is  inimitable, — their  comic  low 
and  low  indeed.  The  psychological  cause  is  easily  stated, 
and  copiously  exemplifiable. 

NOTE    IN    CASAUBON'S    PERSIUS. 
1807. 

There  are  six  hundred  and  sixteen  pages  in  this  volume, 
of  which  twenty-two  are  text ;  and  five  hundred  and 
ninety-four  commentary  and  introductory  matter.  Yet 
when  I  recollect,  that  I  have  the  whole  works  of  Cicero, 
Livy,  and  Ouinctilian,  with  many  others, — the  whole 
works  of  each  in  a  single  volume,  either  thick  quarto  with 
thin  paper  and  small  yet  distinct  print,  or  thick  octavo  or 
duodecimo  of  the  same  character,  and  that  they  cost  me 
in  the  proportion  of  a  shilling  to  a  guinea  for  the  same 
quantity  of  worse  matter  in  modern  books,  or  editions, — 
I  am  a  poor  man,  yet  one  whom  (SiS/Jojv  xT'/iszc^g  Ik 
'TTuidccpiov  diivog  s^pdryjas  -Trodog,  feel  the  liveliest  gratitude 
for  the  age,  which  produced  such  editions,  and  for  the 
education,  which  by  enabling  me  to  understand  and  taste 
the  Greek  and  Latin  writers,  has  thus  put  it  in  my  power 
to  collect  on  my  own  shelves,  for  my  actual  use,  almost  all 
the  best  books  in  spite  of  my  small  income.  Somewhat 
too  I  am  indebted  to  the  ostentation  of  expense  among 
the  rich,  which  has  occasioned  these  cheap  editions  to 
become  so  disproportionately  cheap. 

NOTES    ON    BARCLAY'S    ARGENIS. 

1803.^ 

Heaven  forbid  that  this  work  should  not  exist  in  its 
present  form  and  language  !  Yet  I  cannot  avoid  the  wish 
that  it  had,  during  the  reign  of  James  I.,  been  moulded 
into  an  heroic  poem  in  English  octave  stanza,  or  epic 
blank  verse  ; — which,  however,  at  that  time  had  not  been 
invented,  and  which,  alas  !  still  remains  the  sole  property 
of  the  inventor,  as  if  the  Muses  had  given  him  an  unevad- 
able  patent  for  it.    Of  dramatic  blank  verse  we  have  many 

1  Communicaujd  by  the  Rev.  Dcrwent  Coleridge. 


360       Notes  on  Barclay's  Argenis 

and  various  specimens  ; — for  example,  Shakspeare's  as 
compared  with  Massinger's,  both  excellent  in  their  kind  : — 
of  lyric,  and  of  what  may  be  called  Orphic,  or  philosophic, 
blank  verse,  perfect  models  may  be  found  in  Wordsworth  : 
of  colloquial  blank  verse  there  are  excellent,  though  not 
perfect,  examples  in  Cowper  ; — but  of  epic  blank  verse, 
since  Milton,  there  is  not  one. 

It  absolutely  distresses  me  when  I  reflect  that  this  work, 
admired  as  it  has  been  by  great  men  of  all  ages,  and  lately, 
I  hear,  by  the  poet  Cowper,  should  be  only  not  unknown 
to  general  readers.  It  has  been  translated  into  English 
two  or  three  times — how,  I  know  not,  wretchedly,  I  doubt 
not.  It  affords  matter  for  thought  that  the  last  transla- 
tion (or  rather,  in  all  probability,  miserable  and  faithless 
abridgment  of  some  former  one)  was  given  under  another 
name.  What  a  mournful  proof  of  the  incelebrity  of  this 
great  and  amazing  work  among  both  thepubhc  and  the 
people  !  For  as  Wordsworth,  the  greater  of  the  two  great 
men  of  this  age, — (at  least,  except  Davy  and  him,  I  have 
known,  read  of,  heard  of,  no  others) — for  as  Wordsworth 
did  me  the  honour  of  once  observing  to  me,  the  people 
and  the  public  are  two  distinct  claisses,  and,  as  things  go, 
the  former  is  Hkely  to  retain  a  better  taste,  the  less  it  is 
acted  on  by  the  latter.  Yet  Telemachus  is  in  every 
mouth,  in  every  schoolboy's  and  schoolgirl's  hand  !  It 
is  awful  to  say  of  a  work,  like  the  Argenis,  the  style 
and  Latinity  of  which,  judged  (not  according  to  classical 
pedantry,  which  pronounces  every  sentence  right  which 
can  be  found  in  any  book  prior  to  Boetius,  however 
vicious  the  age,  or  affected  the  author,  and  every 
sentence  wrong,  however  natural  and  beautiful,  which 
has  been  of  the  author's  own  combination,  —  but) 
according  to  the  universal  logic  of  thought  as  modified 
by  feeling,  is  equal  to  that  of  Tacitus  in  energy  and 
genuine  conciseness,  and  is  as  perspicuous  as  that  of 
Livy,  whilst  it  is  free  from  the  affectations,  obscurities, 
and  lust  to  surprise  of  the  former,  and  seems  a  sort  of 
antithesis  to  the  slowness  and  prolixity  of  the  latter  ; — 
(this  remark  does  not,  however,  impeach  even  the  classi- 
cality  of  the  language,  which,  when  the  freedom  and 
originality,  the  easy  motion  and  perfect  command  of  the 
thoughts,  are  considered,  is  truly  wonderful)  : — of  such 
a  work  it  is  awful  to  say,  that  it  would  have  been  well  if 


Bishop  Corbet  361 

it  had  been  written  in  English  or  Italian  verse  !  Yet  the 
event  seems  to  justify  the  notion.  Alas  !  it  is  now  too 
late.  What  modern  work,  even  of  the  size  of  the  Paradise 
Lost — much  less  of  the  Faery  Queene — would  be  read 
in  the  present  day,  or  even  bought  or  be  likely  to  be  bought, 
unless  it  were  an  instructive  work,  as  the  phrase  is,  like 
Roscoe's  quartos  of  Leo  X.,  or  entertaining  like  Boswell's 
three  of  Dr.  Johnson's  conversations  ?  It  may  be  fairly 
objected — what  work  of  surpassing  merit  has  given  the 
proof  ? — Certainly,  none.  Yet  still  there  are  ominous 
facts,  sufficient,  I  fear,  to  afford  a  certain  prophecy  of  its 
reception,  if  such  were  produced. 


NOTES    ON    CHALMERS'S    LIFE    OF 
SAMUEL    DANIEL. 

The  justice  of  these  remarks  cannot  be  disputed,  though  some  oi 
them  are  too  figurative  for  sober  criticism. 

Most  genuine  !  a  figurative  remark !  If  this  strange 
writer  had  any  meaning,  it  must  be  : — Headly's  criticism 
is  just  throughout,  but  conveyed  in  a  style  too  figurative 
for  prose  composition.  Chalmers's  own  remarks  are 
wholly  mistaken  ;  too  silly  for  any  criticism,  drunk  or 
sober,  and  in  language  too  flat  for  any  thing.  In  Daniel's 
Sonnets  there  is  scarcely  one  good  line  ;  while  his  Hymen's 
Triumph,  of  which  Chalmers  says  not  one  word,  exhibits 
a  continued  series  of  first-rate  beauties  in  thought,  passion, 
and  imagery,  and  in  language  and  metre  is  so  faultless, 
that  the  style  of  that  poem  may  without  extravagance 
be  declared  to  be  imperishable  English.       1820. 


BISHOP    CORBET. 

I  ALMOST  wonder  that  the  inimitable  humour,  and  the  rich 
sound  and  propulsive  movement  of  the  verse,  have  not 
rendered  Corbet  a  popular  poet.  I  am  convinced  that  a 
reprint  of  his  poems,  with  illustrative  and  chit-chat  bio- 
graphical notes,  and  cuts  by  Cruikshank,  would  take  with 
the  pubhc  uncommonly  weU.     September,  1823. 


362     Notes  on  Selden's  Table  Talk 


NOTES  ON  SELDEN'S  TABLE  TALK.i 

There  is  more  weighty  bullion  sense  in  this  book,  than 
I  ever  found  in  the  same  number  of  pages  of  any  uninspired 
writer. 

OPINION. 

Opinion  and  affection  extremely  differ.  I  may  affect  a  woman 
best,  but  it  does  not  follow  I  must  think  her  the  handsomest  woman 
in  the  world.  *  *  *  Opinion  is  something  wherein  I  go  about 
to  give  reason  why  all  the  world  should  think  as  I  think  Affection 
is  a  thing  wherein  I  look  after  the  pleasing  of  myself. 

Good  !  This  is  the  true  difference  betwixt  the  beautiful 
and  the  agreeable,  which  Knight  and  the  rest  of  that 
'TrXr^dog  akov  have  SO  beneficially  confounded,  meretricibus 
scilicet  et  Pliitoni. 

O  what  an  insight  the  whole  of  this  article  gives  into 
a  wise  man's  heart,  who  has  been  compelled  to  act  with 
the  many,  as  one  of  the  many  !  It  explains  Sir  Thomas 
More's  zealous  Romanism,  &c. 

PARLIAMENT. 

Excellent !  O  !  to  have  been  with  Selden  over  his  glass 
of  wine,  making  every  accident  an  outlet  and  a  vehicle 
of  wisdom ! 

POETRY. 

The  old  poets  had  no  other  reason  but  this,  their  verse  was  sung 
to  music  ;  otherwise  it  had  been  a  senseless  thing  to  have  fettered 
up  themselves. 

No  man  can  know  all  things  :  even  Selden  here  talks 
ignorantly.  Verse  is  in  itself  a  music,  and  the  natural 
symbol  of  that  union  of  passion  with  thought  and  pleasure, 
which  constitutes  the  essence  of  all  poetry,  as  contra- 
distinguished from  science,  and  distinguished  from  history 
civil  or  natural.  To  Pope's  Essay  on  Man, — in  short,  to 
whatever  is  mere  metrical  good  sense  and  wit,  the  remark 
applies. 

lb. 

Verse  proves  nothing  but  the  quantity  of  syllables ;  they  axe 
oot  meant  for  logic. 

1  These  remarks  on  Selden  were  communicated  by  Mr.  Ciry.     Ed. 


Notes  on  Tom  Jones  363 

True  ;  they,  that  is,  verses,  are  not  logic  ;  but  they 
are,  or  ought  to  be,  the  envoys  and  representatives  of 
that  vital  passion,  which  is  the  practical  cement  of  logic ; 
and  without  which  logic  must  remain  inert. 


NOTES    ON    TOM    JONES.* 

Manners  change  from  generation  to  generation,  and  with 
manners  morals  appear  to  change, — actually  change  with 
some,  but  appear  to  change  with  all  but  the  abandoned. 
A  young  man  of  the  present  day  who  should  act  as  Tom 
Jones  is  supposed  to  act  at  Upton,  with  Lady  Bellaston, 
&c.  would  not  be  a  Tom  Jones  ;  and  a  Tom  Jones  of  the 
present  day,  without  perhaps  being  in  the  ground  a  better 
man,  would  have  perished  rather  than  submit  to  be  kept 
by  a  harridan  of  fortune.  Therefore  this  novel  is,  and, 
indeed,  pretends  to  be,  no  exemplar  of  conduct.  But,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  I  do  loathe  the  cant  which  can 
recommend  Pamela  and  Clarissa  Harlowe  as  strictly  moral, 
though  they  poison  the  imagination  of  the  young  with  con- 
tinued doses  of  tinct.  lyttcB,  while  Tom  Jones  is  prohibited  as 
loose.  I  do  not  speak  of  young  women  ; — but  a  young  man 
whose  heart  or  feelings  can  be  injured,  or  even  his  passions 
excited,  by  aught  in  this  novel,  is  already  thoroughly 
corrupt.  There  is  a  cheerful,  sun-shiny,  breezy  spirit  that 
prevails  everywhere,  strongly  contrasted  with  the  close, 
hot,  day-dreamy  continuity  of  Richardson.  Every  indis- 
cretion, every  immoral  act,  of  Tom  Jones,  (and  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  is  in  every  one  taken  by  surprise — his 
inward  principles  remaining  firm — )  is  so  instantly  punished 
by  embarrassment  and  unanticipated  evil  consequences  of 
his  folly,  that  the  reader's  mind  is  not  left  for  a  moment  to 
dwell  or  run  riot  on  the  criminal  indulgence  itself.  In 
short,  let  the  requisite  allowance  be  made  for  the  increased 
refinement  of  our  manners, — and  then  I  dare  believe  that 
no  young  man  who  consulted  his  heart  and  conscience  only, 
without  adverting  to  what  the  world  would  say — could 
rise  from  the  perusal  of  Fielding's  Tom  Jones,  Joseph 
Andrews,  or  Amelia,  without  feeling  himself  a  better  man  ; 
— at  least,  without  an  intense  conviction  that  he  could  not 
be  guilty  of  a  base  act. 

1  Communicated  by  Mr.  Gillman.     Ed. 


364  Notes  on  Tom  Jones 

If  I  want  a  servant  or  mechanic,  I  wish  to  know  what  he 
does  : — but  of  a  friend,  I  must  know  what  he  is.  And  in 
no  writer  is  this  momentous  distinction  so  finely  brought 
forward  as  by  Fielding.  We  do  not  care  what  Blifil  does  ; — 
the  deed,  as  separate  from  the  agent,  may  be  good  or  ill ; 
but  Blifil  is  a  villain  ; — and  we  feel  him  to  be  so  from  the 
very  moment  he,  the  boy  Blifil,  restores  Sophia's  poor 
captive  bird  to  its  native  and  rightful  liberty. 

Book  xiv.  ch.  8. 

Notwithstanding  the  sentiment  of  the  Roman  satirist,  which 
denies  the  divinity  of  fortune  ;  and  the  opinion  of  Seneca  to  the 
same  purpose  ;  Cicero,  who  was,  I  believe,  a  wiser  man  than  either 
of  them,  expressly  holds  the  contrary  ;  and  certain  it  is  there  are 
some  incidents  in  life  so  very  strange  and  unaccountable,  that  it 
seems  to  require  more  than  human  skill  and  foresight  in  producing 
them. 

Surely  Juvenal,  Seneca,  and  Cicero,  all  meant  the  same 
thing,  namely,  that  there  was  no  chance,  but  instead  of  it 
providence,  either  human  or  divine. 

Book  XV.  ch.  9. 

The  rupture  with  Lady  Bellaston, 

Even  in  the  most  questionable  part  of  Tom  Jones,  I 
cannot  but  think,  after  frequent  reflection,  that  an  addi- 
tional paragraph,  more  fully  and  forcibly  unfolding  Tom 
Jones's  sense  of  self-degradation  on  the  discovery  of  the 
true  character  of  the  relation  in  which  he  had  stood  to  Lady 
Bellaston,  and  his  awakened  feeling  of  the  dignity  of  manly 
chastity,  would  have  removed  in  great  measure  any  just 
objections, — at  all  events  relatively  to  Fielding  himself, 
and  with  regard  to  the  state  of  manners  in  his  time. 

Book  xvi.  ch.  5. 

That  refined  degree  of  Platonic  affection  which  is  absolutely 
detached  from  the  flesh,  and  is  indeed  entirely  and  purely  spiritual, 
is  a  gift  confined  to  the  female  part  of  the  creation  ;  many  of  whom 
I  have  heard  declare  (and  doubtless  with  great  truth)  that  they 
would,  with  the  utmost  readiness,  resign  a  lover  to  a  rival,  when 
such  resignation  was  proved  to  be  necessary  for  the  temporal 
interest  of  such  lover. 

I  firmly  believe  that  there  are  men  capable  of  such  a 
sacrifice,  and  this,  without  pretending  to,  or  even  admiring 
or  seeing  any  virtue  in,  this  absolute  detachment  from  the 
flesh. 


Notes  on  Tom  Jones  365 


ANOTHER   SET   OF   NOTES   ON   TOM   JONES. 
Book  i.  ch.  4. 

**  Beyond  this  the  country  gradually  rose  into  a  ridge  of  wild 
mountains,  the  tops  of  which  were  above  the  clouds." 

As   this  is  laid  in  Somersetshire,  the   clouds   must   have 
been  unusually  low.     One  would  be  more  apt  to  think  of 
Skiddaw  or  Ben  Nevis,  than  of  Quantock  or  Mendip  Hills. 
Book  xi.  ch.  I. 

"  Nor  can  the  Devil  receive  a  guest  more  worthy  of  him,  nor 
possibly  more  welcome  to  him  than  a  slanderer." 

The  very  word  Devil,  Diabolus,  means  a  slanderer. 
Book  xii.  ch.  12. 

"  And  here  we  will  make  a  concession,  which  would  not  perhaps 
have  been  expected  from  us  ;  That  no  limited  form  of  government 
is  capable  of  rising  to  the  same  degree  of  perfection,  or  of  pro- 
ducing the  same  benefits  to  society  with  this.  Mankind  has  never 
been  so  happy,  as  when  the  greatest  part  of  the  then  known  world 
was  under  the  dominion  of  a  single  master  ;  and  this  state  of  their 
felicity  continued  under  the  reign  of  five  successive  Princes." 

Strange  that  such  a  lover  of  political  hberty  as  Fielding 
should  have  forgotten  that  the  glaring  infamy  of  the  Roman 
morals  and  manners  immediately  on  the  ascent  of  Corn- 
modus  prove,  that  even  five  excellent  despots  in  suc- 
cession were  but  a  mere  temporary  palliative  of  the  evils 
inherent  in  despotism  and  its  causes.  Think  you  that  all 
the  sub-despots  were  Trojans  and  Antonines  ?  No ! 
Rome  was  left  as  it  was  found  by  them,  incapable  of 
freedom. 

Book  xviii.  ch.  4. 

Plato  himself  concludes  his  Phaedon  with  declaring,  that  his  best 
argument  amounts  only  to  raise  a  probability  ;  and  Cicero  himself 
seems  rather  to  profess  an  inclination  to  believe,  than  any  actual 
belief,  in  the  doctrines  of  immortality. 

No  !  Plato  does  not  say  so,  but  speaks  as  a  philosophic 
Christian  would  do  of  the  best  arguments  of  the  scientific 
intellect.  The  assurance  is  derived  from  a  higher  principle. 
If   this  be  Methodism   Plato   and  Socrates  were  arrant 


366  Jonathan  Wild 

Methodists  and  New  Light  men  ;  but  I  would  ask  Fielding 
what  ratiocinations  do  more  than  raise  a  high  degree  of 
probability.  But  assuredly  an  historic  belief  is  far  different 
from  Christian  faith. 

No  greater  proof  can  be  conceived  of  the  strength  of  the 
instinctive  anticipation  of  a  future  state  than  that  it  was 
believed  at  all  by  the  Greek  Philosophers,  with  their  vague 
and  (Plato  excepted)  Pantheistic  conception  of  the  First 
Cause.     S.  T.  C. 


JONATHAN  WILD.i 

Jonathan  Wild  is  assuredly  the  best  of  all  the  fictions  in 
which  a  villain  is  throughout  the  prominent  character. 
But  how  impossible  it  is  by  any  force  of  genius  to  create  a 
sustained  attractive  interest  for  such  a  ground-work,  and 
how  the  mind  wearies  of,  and  shrinks  from,  the  more  than 
painful  interest,  the  //,/<r?jrof,  of  utter  depravity, — Fielding 
himself  felt  and  endeavoured  to  mitigate  and  remedy  by 
the  (on  all  other  principles)  far  too  large  a  proportion,  and 
too  quick  recurrence,  of  the  interposed  chapters  of  moral 
reflection,  like  the  chorus  in  the  Greek  tragedy, — admirable 
specimens  as  these  chapters  are  of  profound  irony  and 
philosophic  satire.  Chap.  VI.  Book  2,  on  Hats,^ — brief  as 
it  is,  exceeds  any  thing  even  in  Swift's  Lilliput,  or  Tale  of 
the  Tub.  How  forcibly  it  applies  to  the  WTiigs,  Tories, 
and  Radicals  of  our  own  times. 

Whether  the  transposition  of  Fielding's  scorching  wit 
(as  B.  HI.  c.  xiv.)  to  the  mouth  of  his  hero  be  objectionable 
on  the  ground  of  increduhcs  odi,  or  is  to  be  admired  as 
answering  the  author's  purpose  by  unrealizing  the  story, 
in  order  to  give  a  deeper  reality  to  the  truths  intended, — I 
must  leave  doubtful,  yet  myself  inclining  to  the  latter 
judgment.     27th  Feb.  1832 

1  Communicated  by  Mr.  Gillman.     Ed. 

2  '  In  which  our  hero  makes  a  speech  well  worthy  to  be  celebrated  ;  and  the  behaviour 
ctf  one  of  the  gang,  perhaps  more  unnatural  than  any  other  part  of  this  history.' 


Notes  on  Junius  367 


NOTES    ON    JUNIUS.     1807. 
Stat  nominis  umbra. 

As  he  never  dropped  the  mask,  so  he  too  often  used  the 
poisoned  dagger  of  an  assassin. 

Dedication  to  the  English  nation. 

The  whole  of  this  dedication  reads  hke  a  string  of  aphor- 
isms arranged  in  chapters,  and  classified  by  a  resemblance 
of  subject,  or  a  cento  of  points. 

lb.  If  an  honest,  and  I  may  truly  affirm  a  laborious,  zeal  for  the 
public  service  has  given  me  any  weight  in  your  esteem,  let  me 
exhort  and  conjure  you  never  to  suffer  an  invasion  of  your  political 
constitution,  however  minute  the  instance  may  appear,  to  pass  by, 
without  a  determined  persevering  resistance. 

A  longer  sentence  and  proportionately  inelegant. 

lb.  If  you  reflect  that  in  the  changes  of  administration  which 
have  marked  and  disgraced  the  present  reign,  although  your 
warmest  patriots  have,  in  their  turn,  been  invested  with  the  law- 
ful and  unlawful  authority  of  the  crown,  and  though  other  reliefs 
or  improvements  have  been  held  forth  to  the  people,  yet  that  no 
one  man  in  office  has  ever  promoted  or  encouraged  a  bill  for  shorten- 
ing the  duration  of  parliaments,  but  that  (whoever  was  minister) 
the  opposition  to  this  measure,  ever  since  the  septennial  act  passed, 
has  been  constant  and  uniform  on  the  part  of  government. 

Long,  and  as  usual,  inelegant.  Junius  cannot  manage  a 
long  sentence  ;  it  has  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  a  snappish 
figure-dance. 

Preface. 

An  excellent  preface,  and  the  sentences  not  so  snipt  as  in 
the  dedication.  The  paragraph  near  the  conclusion  begin- 
ning with  "  some  opinion  may  now  be  expected,"  &c.  and 
ending  with  "  relation  between  guilt  and  punishment," 
deserves  to  be  quoted  as  a  master-piece  of  rhetorical  ratio- 
cination in  a  series  of  questions  that  permit  no  answer  ;  or 
(as  Junius  says)  carry  their  own  answer  along  with  them. 
The  great  art  of  Junius  is  never  to  say  too  much,  and  to 
avoid  with  equal  anxiety  a  common-place  manner,  and 
matter  that  is  not  common-place.  If  ever  he  deviates  into 
any  originality  of  thought,  he  takes  care  that  it  shall  be 
such  as  excites  surprise  for  its  acuteness,  rather  than  admira- 


368  Notes  on  Junius 

tion  for  its  profundity.  He  takes  care  ?  say  rather  that 
nature  took  care  for  him.  It  is  impossible  to  detract  from 
the  merit  of  these  Letters  :  they  are  suited  to  their  purpose, 
and  perfect  in  their  kind.  They  impel  to  action,  not 
thought.  Had  they  been  profound  or  subtle  in  thought, 
or  majestic  and  sweeping  in  composition,  they  would  have 
been  adapted  for  the  closet  of  a  Sydney,  or  for  a  House 
of  Lords  such  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Lord  Bacon  ;  but 
they  are  plain  and  sensible  whenever  the  author  is  in  the 
right,  and  whether  right  or  wrong,  always  shrewd  and 
epigrammatic,  and  fitted  for  the  coffee-house,  the  exchange, 
the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  to  be  read  aloud 
at  a  public  meeting.  When  connected,  dropping  the  forms 
of  connexion,  desultory  without  abruptness  or  appearance 
of  disconnexion,  epigrammatic  and  antithetical  to  excess, 
sententious  and  personal,  regardless  of  right  or  wrong,  yet 
well-skilled  to  act  the  part  of  an  honest  warm-hearted  man, 
and  even  when  he  is  in  the  right,  saying  the  truth  but  never 
proving  it,  much  less  attempting  to  bottom  it, — this  is  the 
character  of  Junius  ; — and  on  this  character,  and  in  the 
mould  of  these  writings  must  every  man  cast  himself,  who 
would  wish  in  factious  times  to  be  the  important  and  long 
remembered  agent  of  a  faction.  I  believe  that  I  could  do 
all  that  Junius  has  done,  and  surpass  him  by  doing  many 
things  which  he  has  not  done  :  for  example, — by  an 
occasional  induction  of  starthng  facts,  in  the  manner  of 
Tom  Paine,  and  lively  illustrations  and  witty  applications 
of  good  stories  and  appropriate  anecdotes  in  the  manner  of 
Home  Tooke.  I  believe  I  could  do  it  if  it  were  in  my 
nature  to  aim  at  this  sort  of  excellence,  or  to  be  enamoured 
of  the  fame,  and  immediate  influence,  which  would  be  its 
consequence  and  reward.  But  it  is  not  in  my  nature.  I 
not  only  love  truth,  but  I  have  a  passion  for  the  legitimate 
investigation  of  truth.  The  love  of  truth  conjoined  with  a 
keen  delight  in  a  strict  and  skilful  yet  impassioned  argu- 
mentation, is  my  master-passion,  and  to  it  are  subordinated 
even  the  love  of  liberty  and  all  my  public  feelings — and  to 
it  whatever  I  labour  under  of  vanity,  ambition,  and  all  my 
inward  impulses. 

Letter  L  From  this  Letter  all  the  faults  and  excel- 
lencies of  Junius  may  be  exemplified.  The  moral  and 
pohtical  aphorisms  are  just  and  sensible,  the  irony  in  which 
his  personal  satire  is  conveyed  is  fine,  yet  always  intellig- 


Notes  on  Junius  369 

ible  ;  but  it  approaches  too  nearly  to  the  nature  of  a  sneer  ; 
the  sentences  are  cautiously  constructed  without  the  forms 
of  connection  ;  the  he  and  it  every  where  substituted  for 
the  who  and  which  ;  the  sentences  are  short,  laboriously 
balanced,  and  the  antitheses  stand  the  test  of  analysis  much 
better  than  Johnson's.  These  are  all  excellencies  in  their 
kind  ; — where  is  the  defect  ?  In  this  ; — there  is  too  much 
of  each,  and  there  is  a  defect  of  many  things,  the  presence 
of  which  would  have  been  not  only  valuable  for  their  own 
sakes,  but  for  the  relief  and  variety  which  they  would  have 
given.  It  is  observable  too  that  every  Letter  adds  to  the 
faults  of  these  Letters,  while  it  weakens  the  effect  of  their 
beauties. 

L.  III.  A  capital  letter,  addressed  to  a  private  person, 
and  intended  as  a  sharp  reproof  for  intrusion.  Its  short 
sentences,  its  witty  perversions  and  deductions,  its  ques- 
tions and  omissions  of  connectives,  all  in  their  proper  places 
are  dramatically  good. 

L.  V.  For  my  own  part,  I  willingly  leave  it  to  the  public  to 
determine  whether  your  vindication  of  your  friend  has  been  as  able 
and  judicious  as  it  was  certainly  well  intended  ;  and  you,  I  think, 
may  be  satisfied  with  the  warm  acknowledgments  he  already  owes 
you  for  making  him  the  principal  figure  in  a  piece  in  which,  but  for 
your  amicable  assistance,  he  might  have  passed  without  particular 
notice  or  distinction. 

A  long  sentence  and,  as  usual,  inelegant  and  cumbrous. 
This  Letter  is  a  faultless  composition  with  exception  of  the 
one  long  sentence. 

I,.  VII.  These  are  the  gloomy  companions  of  a  disturbed 
imagination ;  the  melancholy  madness  of  poetry,  without  the 
inspiraiion. 

The  rhyme  is  a  fault.  'Fancy'  had  been  better  ;  though 
but  for  the  rhyme,  imagination  is  the  fitter  word. 

lb.  Such  a  question  might  perhaps  discompose  the  gravity  of 
his  muscles,  but  I  believe  it  would  little  atiect  the  tranquillity  of  his 
conscience. 

A  false  antithesis,  a  mere  verbal  balance  ;  there  are  far, 
far  too  many  of  these.  However,  with  these  few  exceptions, 
this  Letter  is  a  blameless  composition.  Junius  may  be 
safely  studied  as  a  model  for  letters  where  he  truly  writes 
letters.  Those  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton  and  others,  are 
smaU  pamphlets  in  the  form  of  letters. 


370  Notes  on  Junius 

L.  VIII.  To  do  justice  to  your  Grace's  humanity,  you  felt  for 
Mac  Quick  as  you  ought  to  do  ;  and,  if  you  had  been  contented  to 
assist  him  indirectly,  without  a  notorious  denial  of  justice,  or  openly 
insulting  the  sense  of  the  nation,  you  might  have  satisfied  every 
duty  of  political  friendship,  without  committing  the  honour  of  your 
sovereign,  or  hazarding  the  reputation  of  his  government. 

An  inelegant  cluster  of  withouts.  Junius  asks  questions 
incomparably  well ; — but  ne  quid  nimis. 

L.  IX.  Perhaps  the  fair  way  of  considering  these 
Letters  would  be  as  a  kind  of  satirical  poems  ;  the  short, 
and  for  ever  balanced,  sentences  constitute  a  true  metre  ; 
and  the  connexion  is  that  of  satiric  poetry,  a  witty  logic,  an 
association  of  thoughts  by  amusing  semblances  of  cause 
and  effect,  the  sophistry  of  which  the  reader  has  an  interest 
in  not  stopping  to  detect,  for  it  flatters  his  love  of  mischief, 
and  makes  the  sport. 

L.  XII.  One  of  Junius's  arts,  and  which  gives  me  a  high 
notion  of  his  genius,  as  a  poet  and  satirist,  is  this  : — ^he 
takes  for  granted  the  existence  of  a  character  that  never  did 
and  never  can  exist,  and  then  employs  his  wit,  and  sur- 
prises and  amuses  his  readers  with  analyzing  its  incom- 
patibilities. 

L.  XIV.  Continual  sneer,  continual  irony,  aU  excellent, 
if  it  were  not  for  the  'all'  ; — but  a  countenance,  with  a 
malignant  smile  in  statuary  fixure  on  it,  becomes  at  length 
an  object  of  aversion,  however  beautiful  the  face,  and  how- 
ever beautiful  the  smile.  We  are  relieved,  in  some  measure, 
from  this  by  frequent  just  and  well  expressed  moral  aphor- 
isms ;  but  then  the  preceding  and  following  irony  gives 
them  the  appearance  of  proceeding  from  the  head,  not  from 
the  heart.  This  objection  would  be  less  felt,  when  the 
Letters  were  first  published  at  considerable  intervals  ;  but 
Junius  wrote  for  posterity. 

L.  XXIII.  Sneer  and  irony  continued  with  such  gross 
violation  of  good  sense,  as  to  be  perfectly  nonsense.  The 
man  who  can  address  another  on  his  most  detestable  vices 
in  a  strain  of  cold  continual  irony,  is  himself  a  wretch. 

L.  XXXV.  To  honour  them  with  a  determined  predilection 
and  confidence  in  exclusion  of  your  English  subjects,  who  placed 
your  family,  and,  in  spite  of  treachery  and  rebellion,  have  supported 
it  upon  the  throne,  is  a  mistake  too  gross  even  for  the  unsuspecting 
generosity  of  youth. 

The  words  'upon  the  throne,'  stand  unfortunately  for 


Wonderfulness  of  Prose  371 

the  harmonious   effect   of  the   balance   of   'placed*    and 
'supported. ' 

This  address  to  the  king  is  almost  faultless  in  composi- 
tion, and  has  been  evidently  tormented  with  the  file.  But 
it  has  fewer  beauties  than  any  other  long  letter  of  Junius  ; 
and  it  is  utterly  undramatic.  There  is  nothing  in  the  style, 
the  transitions,  or  the  sentiments,  which  represents  the 
passions  of  a  man  emboldening  himself  to  address  his 
sovereign  personally.  Like  a  Presbyterian's  prayer,  you 
may  substitute  almost  every  where  the  third  for  the  second 
I  person  without  injury.  The  newspaper,  his  closet,  and 
his  own  person  were  alone  present  to  the  author's  intention 
and  imagination.  This  makes  the  composition  vapid.  It 
possesses  an  Isocratic  correctness,  when  it  should  have  had 
the  force  and  drama  of  an  oration  of  Demosthenes.  From 
this,  however,  the  paragraph  beginning  with  the  words  'As 
to  the  Scotch,'  and  also  the  last  two  paragraphs  must  be 
honourably  excepted.  They  are,  perhaps,  the  finest 
passages  in  the  whole  collection. 


WONDERFULNESS    OF    PROSE. 

It  has  just  struck  my  feelings  that  the  Pherecydean  origin 
of  prose  being  granted,  prose  must  have  struck  men  with 
greater  admiration  than  poetry.  In  the  latter  it  was  the 
language  of  passion  and  emotion  :  it  is  what  they  them- 
selves spoke  and  heard  in  moments  of  exultation,  indigna- 
tion, &c.  But  to  hear  an  evolving  roll,  or  a  succession 
of  leaves,  talk  continually  the  language  of  deliberate 
reason  in  a  form  of  continued  preconception,  of  a  Z  already 
possessed  when  A  was  being  uttered, — this  must  have 
appeared  godlike.  I  feel  myself  in  the  same  state,  when 
in  the  perusal  of  a  sober,  yet  elevated  and  harmonious 
succession  of  sentences  and  periods,  I  abstract  my  mind 
from  the  particular  passage  and  sympathize  with  the 
wonder  of  the  common  people,  who  say  of  an  eloquent 
man  : — 'He  talks  like  a  book  ! ' 


372       Notes  on  Herbert's  Temple 

NOTES    ON    HERBERT'S    TEMPLE    AND 
HARVEY'S    SYNAGOGUE. 

G.  Herbert  is  a  true  poet,  but  a  poet  sui  generis,  the 
merits  of  whose  poems  will  never  be  felt  wdthout  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  mind  and  character  of  the  man.  To 
appreciate  this  volume,  it  is  not  enough  that  the  reader 
possesses  a  cultivated  judgment,  classical  taste,  or  even 
poetic  sensibility,  unless  he  be  likewise  a  Christian,  and 
both  a  zealous  and  an  orthodox,  both  a  devout  and  a 
devotional  Christian.  But  even  this  will  not  quite  suffice. 
He  must  be  an  affectionate  and  dutiful  child  of  the  Church, 
and  from  habit,  conviction,  and  a  constitutional  pre- 
disposition to  ceremoniousness,  in  piety  as  in  manners, 
find  her  forms  and  ordinances  aids  of  religion,  not  sources 
of  formality  ;  for  religion  is  the  element  in  which  he  lives, 
and  the  region  in  which  he  moves. 

The  Church,  say  rather  the  Churchmen  of  England,  under 
the  two  first  Stuarts,  has  been  charged  with  a  yearning 
after  the  Romish  fopperies,  and  even  the  papistic  usurpa- 
tions ;  but  we  shall  decide  more  correctly,  as  well  as  more 
charitably,  if  for  the  Romish  and  papistic  we  substitute 
the  patristic  leaven.  There  even  was  (natural  enough 
from  their  distinguished  learning,  and  knowledge  of  ecclesi- 
astical antiquities)  an  overrating  of  the  Church  and  of  the 
Fathers,  for  the  first  five  or  even  six  centuries  ;  these  lines 
on  the  Egyptian  monks,  "  Holy  Macarius  and  great 
Anthony  "  (p.  205)  supply  a  striking  instance  and  illustra- 
tion of  this. 

P.  10. 

If  thou  be  single,  all  thy  goods  and  ground 
Submit  to  love  ;    but  yet  not  more  than  all. 
Give  one  estate  as  one  life.     None  is  bound 
To  work  for  two,  who  brought  himself  to  thrall. 
God  made  me  one  man  ;    love  makes  me  no  more. 
Till  labour  come,  and  make  my  weakness  score. 

I  do  not  understand  this  stanza. 

p.  41. 

My  flesh  began  unto  my  soul  in  pain. 
Sicknesses  clave  my  bones,  &c. 

Either  a  misprint,  or  a  noticeable  idiom  of  the  word 


and  Harvey's  Synagogue         373 

**  began  ?  "     Yes  !    and  a  very  beautiful  idiom  it  is  :    the 
first  colloquy  or  address  of  the  flesh. 
P.  46. 

What  though  my  body  run  to  dust  ? 
Faith  cleaves  unto  it,  counting  every  grain, 
With  an  exact  and  most  particular  trust, 

Reserving  all  for  flesh  again. 

I  find  few  historical  facts  so  difficult  of  solution  as  the 
continuance,  in  Protestantism,  of  this  anti-scriptural 
superstition. 

P.  54.     Second  poem  on  The  Holy  Scriptures. 

This  verse  marks  that,  and  both  do  make  a  motion 
Unto  a  third  that  ten  leaves  off  doth  lie. 

The  spiritual  unity  of  the  Bible  =  the  order  and  connec- 
tion of  organic  forms  in  which  the  unity  of  life  is  shewn, 
though  as  widely  dispersed  in  the  world  of  sight  as  the 
text. 

lb. 

Then  as  dispersed  herbs  do  watch  a  potion, 
These  three  make  up  some  Christian's  destiny. 

Som.e  misprint. 
P.  87. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie. 

Nest. 

P.  92.     Man. 

Each  thing  is  full  of  duty : 
Waters  united  are  our  navigation  : 
Distinguished,  our  habitation  ; 

Below,  our  drink  ;    above,  our  meat  : 
Both  are  our  cleanliness.     Hath  one  such  beauty  ? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat  ! 

'Distinguished.'  I  understand  this  but  imperfectly. 
Did  they  form  an  island  ?  and  the  next  lines  refer  perhaps 
to  the  then  belief  that  all  fruits  grow  and  are  nourished 
by  water.  But  then  how  is  the  ascending  sap  "  our  clean- 
liness ?  "     Perhaps,  therefore,  the  rains. 

P.  140. 

But  he  doth  bid  us  take  his  blood  for  wine. 

Nay,  the  contrary  ;  take  wine  to  be  blood,  and  the 
blood  of  a  man  who  died  1800  years  ago.     This  is  the  faith 


374       Notes  on  Herbert's  Temple 

which  even  the  Church  of  England  demands  ;  ^  for  con- 
substantiation  only  adds  a  mystery  to  that  of  Transub- 
stantiation,  which  it  implies. 

P.  175.     The  Flower. 

A  delicious  poem. 

lb. 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clear 
Are  thy  returns  I    e'en  as  the  flowers  in  spring  ; 

To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
The  late  past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure  bring. 
Grief  melts  away. 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

"The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure  bring." 

u —  uu  —  u  — 

Epitritus  primus  +  Dactyl  +  Trochee  +  a  long  word 
— syllable,  which,  together  with  the  pause  intervening 
between  it  and  the  word — trochee,  equals  u  u  u  -  form  a 
pleasing  variety  in  the  Pentameter  Iambic  with  rhjnnes. 
Ex.  gr. 

The  late  past  frosts  |  tributes  of  |  pleasure  |  bring. 

N.B.  First,  the  difference  between  -u  |  — and  an 
amphimacer  -  u  -  |  and  this  not  always  or  necessarily 
arising  out  of  the  latter  being  one  word.  It  may  even 
consist  of  three  words,  yet  the  effect  be  the  same.  It  is 
the  pause  that  makes  the  difference.  Secondly,  the  expedi- 
ency, if  not  necessity,  that  the  iirst  syllable  both  of  the 
Dactyl  and  the  Trochee  should  be  short  by  quantity,  and 
only  =  -  by  force  of  accent  or  position — the  Epitrite  being 
true  lengths. — Whether  the  last  syllable  be  -  or  =  -  the 
force  of  the  rhymes  renders  indifferent.     Thus,  .... 

1  This  is  one  of  my  father's  marginalia,  which  I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  he  would 
have  re-written  just  as  it  stands.  Where  does  the  Church  of  England  affirm  that  the 
w'mt.  per  se  literally  is  the  blood  shed  1800  years  ago?  The  language  of  our  Church  is 
that  "  we  receiving  these  creatures  of  bread  and  wine,  &c.  may  be  partakers  of  His  most 
blessed  body  and  blood  :  "  that  "  to  such  as  rightly  receive  the  same  the  cup  of  blessing 
is  a  partaking  of  the  blood  of  Christ."  Does  not  this  language  intimate,  that  the  blood 
of  Christ  is  spiritually  produced  in  the  soul  through  a  faithful  reception  of  the  appointed 
symbols,  rather  than  that  the  wine  itself,  apart  from  the  soul,  has  become  the  blood? 
In  one  sense,  indeed,  it  is  the  blood  of  Christ  to  the  soul  :  it  may  be  metaphorically 
called  so,  if,  by  means  of  it,  the  blood  is  really,  though  spiritually,  partaken.  More 
than  this  is  surely  not  affirmed  in  our  formularies,  nor  taught  by  our  great  divines  in 
general.  I  do  not  write  these  words  by  way  of  arg-unient,  but  because  I  cannot  re-print 
such  a  note  of  my  father's,  which  has  excited  surprise  in  some  of  his  studious  readers, 
without  a  protest.     S.  C 


and  Harvey's  Synagogue         375 

"  As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing."     Had  been  no 
ch  thin^ 

P.  181. 


such  thing 


Thou  who  condemnest  Jewish  hate,  &c. 
Call  home  thine  eye,  (that  busy  wanderer,) 
That  choice  may  be  thy  story. 

Their  choice. 
P.  184. 

Nay,  thou  dost  make  me  sit  and  dine 
E'en  in  my  enemies'  sight. 
Foemen's. 
P.  201.     Judgment. 

Almighty  Judge,  how  shall  poor  wretches  brook 
Thy  dreadful  look,  &c. 

"What  others  mean  to  do,  I  know  not  well ; 

Yet  I  here  tell. 
That  some  will  turn  thee  to  some  leaves  therein 

So  void  of  sin. 
That  they  in  merit  shall  excel. 

I  should  not  have  expected  from  Herbert  so  open  an 
avowal  of  Romanism  in  the  article  of  merit.  In  the  same 
spirit  is  *'  Holy  Macarius,  and  great  Anthony,"  p.  205.^ 

P.  237.     The  Communion  Table. 

And  for  the  matter  whereof  it  is  made. 

The  matter  is  not  much. 

Although  it  be  of  tuch, 
Or  wood,  or  metal,  what  will  last,  or  fade  ; 

So  vanity 
And  superstition  avoided  be. 

i  Herbert  however  adds : 

'*  But  I  resolve,  when  thou  shalt  call  for  mine, 
That  to  decline, 
And  thrust  a  Testament  into  thy  hand  : 

Let  that  be  scann'd  ; 
There  thou  shalt  find  my  faults  are  thine." 

Martin  Luther  himself  might  have  penned  this  concluding  stanza. 

Since  I  wrote  the  above,  a  note  in  Mr.  Pickering's  edition  of  Herbert  has  been  pointed 
out  to  me. 

"  The  Rev.  Dr.  BHss  has  kindly  furnished  the  following  judicious  remark,  and  which 
is  proved  to  be  correct,  as  the  word  is  printed  *  heare  '  in  the  first  edition  {1630."  He 
says,  "  Let  mc  take  this  opportunity  of  mentioning  what  a  very  learned  and  able  friend 
pointed  out  on  this  note.  The  fact  is,  Coleridge  has  been  misled  by  an  error  of  the 
press. 

What  others  mean  to  do,  I  know  not  well, 
Yet  I  here  tell,  &c.  &c. 

should  be  hear  tell.  The  sense  is  then  obvious,  and  Herbert  is  not  made  to  do  that 
which  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  have  done,  namely,  to  avow  '  Romanism  in 
the  article  of  merit.'" 

This  suggestion  once  occurred  to  myself,  and  appears  to  be  right,  as  it  is  verified  by 
the  first  edition  :  but  at  the  time  it  seemed  to  me  so  obvious,  that  surely  the  correction 
would  have  been  made  before  if  there  had  not  been  some  rea.son  against  it.     S.  C. 


376       Notes  on  Herbert's  Temple 

Tuch  rhyming  to  much,  from  the  German  tuch,  cloth,  1 
never  met  with  before,  as  an  EngUsh  word.  So  I  find  platt 
for  foliage  in  Stanley's  Hist,  of  Philosophy,  p.  22. 

P.  252.     The  Synagogue,  by  Christopher  Harvey. 

The  Bishop. 

But  who  can  show  of  old  that  ever  any 
Presbyteries  without  their  bishops  were  : 
Though  bishops  without  presbyteries  many,  &c. 

An  instance  of  proving  too  much.       If  Bishop  without 
Presb.  B.  =  Presb.  i.e.  no  Bishop. 
P.  253.     The  Bishop. 

To  rule  and  to  be  ruled  are  distinct. 
And  several  duties,  severally  belong 
To  several  persons. 

Functions  of  times,  but  not  persons,  of  necessity  ?  Ex. 
Bishop  to  Archbishop. 

P.  255.     Church  Festivals. 

Who  loves  not  you,  doth  but  in  vain  profess 
That  he  loves  God,  or  heaven,  or  happiness. 

Equally  unthinking  and  uncharitable  ; — I  approve  of 
them  ; — but  yet  remember  Roman  Catholic  idolatry,  and 
that  it  originated  in  such  high-flown  metaphors  as  these. 

P.  255.     The  Sabbath,  or  Lord's  Day. 

Hail  Vail 

Holy  Wholly 

King  of  days,  &c.  To  thy  praise,  &c. 

Make  it  sense  and  lose  the  rhyme  ;  or  make  it  rhyme 
and  lose  the  sense. 

P.  258.     The  Nativity,  or  Christmas  Day. 

Unfold  thy  face,  unmask  thy  ray, 
Shine  forth,  bright  sun,  double  the  day. 
Let  no  malignant  misty  fume,  tic. 

The  only  poem  in  The  Synagogue  which  possesses  poetic 
merit  ;  with  a  few  changes  and  additions  this  would  be  a 
striking  poem. 

Substitute  the  following  for  the  fifth  to  the  eighth  line. 

To  sheath  or  blunt  one  happy  ray, 
That  wins  new  splendour  from  the  day. 
This  day  that  gives  thee  power  to  rise. 
And  shine  on  hearts  as  well  as  eyes  : 


Extract  from  a  Letter  377 

This  birth-day  of  all  souls,  when  first 
On  eyes  of  flesh  and  blood  did  burst 
That  primal  great  lucific  light, 
That  rays  to  thee,  to  us  gave  sight. 

P.  267.     Whit-Sunday. 

Nay,  startle  not  to  hear  that  rushing  wind, 
WTierewith  this  place  is  shaken,  &c. 

To  hear  at  once  so  great  variety 
Of  language  from  them  come,  &c. 

The  Spiritual  miracle  was  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost : 
the  outward  the  wind  and  the  tongues  :  and  so  St.  Peter 
himself  explains  it.  That  each  individual  obtained  the 
power  of  speaking  all  languages,  is  neither  contained  in, 
nor  fairly  deducible  from,  St.  Luke's  account. 

P.  269.     Trinity  Sunday. 

The  Trinity 
In  Unity, 
And  Unity 
In  Trinity, 
All  reason  doth  transcend. 

Most  true,  but  not  contradict.  Reason  is  to  faith,  as  the 
eye  to  the  telescope. 


EXTRACT    FROM    A    LETTER 

OF    S.    T.    COLERIDGE    TO    W.    COLLINS,    R.A. 

PRINTED    IN    THE    LIFE    OF   COLLINS 

BY    HIS    SON.      VOL.    I. 

December,  1818. 

To  feel  the  full  force  of  the  Christian  religion  it  is  perhaps 
necessary,  for  many  tempers,  that  they  should  first  be 
made  to  feel,  experimentally,  the  hollowness  of  human 
friendship,  the  presumptuous  emptiness  of  human  hopes. 
I  find  more  substantial  comfort  now  in  pious  George 
Herbert's  Temple,  which  I  used  to  read  to  amuse  myself 
with  his  quaintness,  in  short,  only  to  laugh  at,  than  in 
all  the  poetry  since  the  poems  of  Milton.  If  you  have 
not  read  Herbert  I  can  recommend  the  book  to  you  con- 
fidently.    The  poem  entitled  "  The  Flower  "  is  especiaDy 


378  Notes  on  Gray  j 

affecting,  and  to  me  such  a  phrase  as  "  and  relish  versing  " 
expresses  a  sincerity  and  reaUty,  which  I  would  unwiUingly 
exchange  for  the  more  dignified  "  and  once  more  love  the 
Muse,"  &c.  and  so  with  many  other  of  Herbert's  homely 
phrases. 


NOTES    ON    MATHIAS'    EDITION 
OF    GRAY. 

O71  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton  College. 

Vol.  i.  p.  9. 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way.  Gray 

We  want,  methinks,  a  little  treatise  from  some  man  of 
flexible  good  sense,  and  weU  versed  in  the  Greek  poets, 
especially  Homer,  the  choral,  and  other  lyrics,  containing 
first  a  history  of  compound  epithets,  and  then  the  laws 
and  licenses.  I  am  not  so  much  disposed  as  I  used  to  be 
to  quarrel  with  such  an  epithet  as  "  silver-winding  ;  "  un- 
grammatical  as  the  hyphen  is,  it  is  not  wholly  illogical, 
for  the  phrase  conveys  more  than  silvery  and  winding. 
It  gives,  namely,  the  unity  of  the  impression,  the  co- 
inherence  of  the  brightness,  the  motion,  and  the  hne  of 
motion. 

P.   ID. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace  ; 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave. 
With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave  ? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ?  Gray. 

This  is  the  only  stanza  that  appears  to  me  very  objection- 
able in  point  of  diction.  This,  I  must  confess,  is  not  only 
falsetto  throughout,  but  is  at  once  harsh  and  feeble,  and 
very  far  the  worst  ten  lines  in  all  the  works  of  Mr.  Gray, 
English  or  Latin,  prose  or  verse. 


Notes  on  Gray  379 


p.  12. 


And  envy  wan,  and  faded  care,^ 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  despair,^ 
And  sorrow's  piercing  dart.-^ 


^  Bad  in  the  first,  ^  in  the  second,  ^  in  the  last  degree. 

p.  15. 

The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain.     Gray. 

There  is  a  want  of  dignity — a  sort  of  irony  in  this  phrase 
to  my  feeling  that  would  be  more  proper  in  dramatic  than 
in  lyric  composition. 

On  Gray's  Platonica,  vol.  1.  p.  299. — 547. 

Whatever  might  be  expected  from  a  scholar,  a  gentle- 
man, a  man  of  exquisite  taste,  as  the  quintessence  of  sane 
and  sound  good  sense,  Mr.  Gray  appears  to  me  to  have  per- 
formed. The  poet  Plato,  the  orator  Plato,  Plato  the  ex- 
quisite dramatist  of  conversation,  the  seer  and  the  painter 
of  character,  Plato  the  high-bred,  highly-educated,  aristo- 
cratic republican,  the  man  and  the  gentleman  of  quality 
stands  full  before  us  from  behind  the  curtain  as  Gray  has 
drawn  it  back.  Even  so  does  Socrates,  the  social  wise 
old  man,  the  practical  moralist.  But  Plato  the  philosopher, 
but  the  divine  Plato,  was  not  to  be  comprehended  within 
the  field  of  vision,  or  be  commanded  by  the  fixed  immove- 
able telescope  of  Mr.  Locke's  human  understanding.  The 
whole  sweep  of  the  best  philosophic  reflections  of  French 
or  English  fabric  in  the  age  of  our  scholarly  bard,  was  not 
commensurate  with  the  mighty  orb.  The  little,  according 
to  my  convictions  at  least,  the  very  little  of  proper  Platon- 
ism  contained  in  the  written  books  of  Plato,  who  himself, 
in  an  epistle,  the  authenticity  of  which  there  is  no  tenable 
ground  for  doubting,  as  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  Mr.  Gray 
acknowledge,  has  declared  all  he  had  written  to  be  sub- 
stantially Socratic,  and  not  a  fair  exponent  of  his  own 
tenets,^  even  this  little,  Mr.  Gray  has  either  misconceived 
or  honestlyconfessed  that,as  he  was  not  one  of  the  initiated, 
it  was  utterly  beyond  his  comprehension.  Finally,  to 
repeat  the  explanation  with  which  I  closed  the  last  page 
of  these  notes  and  extracts, 

Volsimi e  vidi  Plato 

(ma  non  quel  Plato) 

1  See  Plato's  second  epistle  (ppaffTeof  87)  aot,  di  alPiy/xivv  k.  t.  X.  and  towards 
the  end  rk  dt  vvv  \ey6fieya  Sw/fparouj  iffrl,  k.  t.  X.  See  also  the  7th  Eptstle, 
p.  341. 


380  Notes  on  Gray 

Che'n  quella  schiera  ando  piu  presso  a!  segno, 
Al  qual'  aggiunge,  a  chi  dal  Cielo  e  dato.^ 

S.  T.  Coleridge,  18 19. 
P.  385.     Hippias  Major. 

We  learn  from  this  dialogue  in  how  poor  a  condition  the  art  of 
reasoning  on  moral  and  abstracted  subjects  was  before  the  time  of 
Socrates  :  for  it  is  impossible  that  Plato  should  introduce  a  sophist 
of  the  first  reputation  for  eloquence  and  knowledge  in  several 
kinds,  talking  in  a  manner  below  the  absurdity  and  weakness  of  a 
child  ;  unless  he  had  really  drawn  after  the  life.  No  less  than 
twenty-four  pages  are  here  spent  in  vain,  only  to  force  it  into  the 
head  of  Hippias  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  general  idea  ;  and 
that,  before  we  can  dispute  on  any  subject,  we  should  give  a  defini- 
tion of  it. 

Is  not  this,  its  improbability  out  of  the  question,  contra- 
dicted by  the  Protagoras  of  Plato's  own  drawing  ?  Are 
there  no  authors,  no  physicians  in  London  at  the  present 
moment,  of  "  the  first  reputation,"  i.e.  whom  a  certain  class 
cry  up  :  for  in  no  other  sense  is  the  phrase  historically 
applicable  to  Hippias,  whom  a  Sydenham  redivivus  or  a 
new  Stahl  might  not  exhibit  as  pompous  ignoramuses  ?  no 
one  Hippias  amongst  them  ?  But  we  need  not  flee  to  con- 
jectures. The  ratiocination  assigned  by  Aristotle  and 
Plato  himself  to  Gorgias  and  then  to  the  Eleatic  School,  are 
positive  proofs  that  Mr.  Gray  has  mistaken  the  satire  of  an 
individual  for  a  characteristic  of  an  age  or  class. 

May  I  dare  whisper  to  the  reeds  without  proclaiming  that 
I  am  in  the  state  of  Midas, — may  I  dare  to  hint  that  Mr. 
Gray  himself  had  not,  and  through  the  spectacles  of  Mr. 
Locke  and  his  followers,  could  not  have  seen  the  difficulties 
which  Hippias  found  in  a  general  idea,  secundum  Pla- 
tonem  ?     S.  T.  C. 

P.  386.     Notes  289.  Passages  of  Heraclitus. 

' KvdpC)Triav  6  <ro0wroTOS  irpbs  Qeov  iridTjKOS  (paueTrai. 

This  latter  passage  is  undoubtedly  the  original  of  that 
famous  thought  in  Pope's  Essaj^  on  xMan,  B.  2  : 

"  And  shewed  a  Newton  as  we  shew  an  ape." 

I  remember  to  have  met  nearly  the  same  words  in  one  of 
our  elder  Poets. 
P.  390—91- 
That  a  sophist  wais  a  kind  of  merchant,  or  rather  a  retailer  oi 

^  Petrarch's  'J'rioti/o  deUa  l<ama,  cap.  terz.  v.  4-6. 


Notes  on  Gray  381 

food  for  the  soul,  and,  like  other  shopkeepers,  would  exert  his 
eloquence  to  recommend  his  own  goods.  The  misfortune  was,  we 
could  not  carry  them  off,  like  corporeal  viands,  set  them  by  a 
while,  and  consider  them  at  leisure,  whether  they  were  wholesome 
or  not,  before  we  tasted  them  :  that  in  this  case  we  have  no  vessel 
but  the  soul  to  receive  them  in,  which  will  necessarily  retain  a 
tincture,  and  perhaps,  much  to  its  prejudice,  of  all  which  is  instilled 
into  it. 

Query,  if  Socrates,  himself  a  scholar  of  the  sophists,  is 
accurate,  did  not  the  change  of  6  co^pig  into  6  i.o(pi6r'!)g,  in  the 
single  case  of  Solon,  refer  to  the  wisdom-causing  influences 
of  his  legislation  ?  Mem  : — to  examine  whether  ^ptvTKS-rr.i 
was,  or  was  not,  more  generally  used  at  first  in  malum 
sensum,  or  rather  the  proper  force  originally  of  the  termina- 
tion /Vry;j,  dffTTjg — whether  (as  it  is  evidently  verbal)  it 
imply  a  reflex  or  a  transitive  act. 

P.  399.  'Or/  'A//tat)/a. 

This  is  the  true  key  and  great  moral  of  the  dialogue,  that  know- 
ledge alone  is  the  source  of  virtue,  and  ignorance  the  source  of  vice  ; 
it  was  Plato's  own  principle,  see  Plat.  Epist.  7.  p.  336.  'A/xadia,  i^^s 
iravTa  ko-ko,  vracnv  t^pi^wTat  /cai  ^Xaffrdvei  /cat  els  varepov  diroTeXel  Kapirov 
TOLS  yevwiqaacTL  TriKpdraToy.  See  also  Sophist,  p.  228  and  229,  and 
Euthydemus  from  p.  278  to  281,  and  De  Legib.  L.  3.  p.  688.)  and 
probably  it  was  also  the  principle  of  Socrates  :  the  consequence  of 
it  is,  that  virtue  may  be  taught,  and  may  be  acquired  :  and  that 
philosophy  alone  can  point  us  out  the  way  to  it. 

More  than  our  word.  Ignorance,  is  contained  in  the' A,aa^/a 
of  Plato.  I,  however,  freely  acknowledge,  that  this  was 
the  point  of  view,  from  which  Socrates  did  for  the  most  part 
contemplate  moral  good  and  evil.  Now  and  then  he  seems 
to  have  taken  a  higher  station,  but  soon  quitted  it  for  the 
lower,  more  generally  intelligible.  Hence  the  vacillation 
of  Socrates  himself :  hence,  too,  the  immediate  opposition 
of  his  disciples,  Antisthenes  and  Aristippus.  But  that  this 
was  Plato's  own  principle  I  exceedingly  doubt.  That  it 
was  not  the  principle  of  Platonism,  as  taught  by  the  first 
Academy  under  Speusippus,  I  do  not  doubt  at  all.  See  the 
xivth  Essay,  p.  129-39  of  The  Friend,  vol.  i.  In  the  sense 
in  which   d,aat)/a$  'rrdvra  xaxa  epp/^urai^  x.t.X.   is  maintained 

in  that  Essay,  so  and  no  otherwise  can  it  be  truly  asserted, 
and  so  and  no  otherwise  did  ug  t/^ot  yi  dozsT,  Plato  teach  it. 


382  Barry  Cornwall 


BARRY  CORNWALL.i 

Barry  Cornwall  is  a  poet,  me  saltern  judice :  and  in  that 
sense  of  the  term,  in  which  I  apply  it  to  C.  Lamb  and  W. 
Wordsworth.  There  are  poems  of  i^reat  merit,  the  authors 
of  which  I  should  yet  not  leei  impelled  so  to  designate. 

The  faults  of  these  poems  are  no  less  things  of  hope,  than 
the  beauties  ;  both  are  just  what  they  ought  to  be, — that 
is,  now. 

If  B.  C.  be  faithful  to  his  genius,  it  in  due  time  will  warn 
him,  that  as  poetry  is  the  identity  of  all  other  knowledges, 
so  a  poet  cannot  be  a  great  poet,  but  as  being  likewise 
inclusively  an  historian  and  naturalist,  in  the  light,  as  well 
as  the  life,  of  philosophy  :  all  other  men's  worlds  are  his 
chaos. 

Hints  obiter  are  : — not  to  permit  delicacy  and  exquisite- 
ness  to  seduce  into  effeminacy.  Not  to  permit  beauties  by 
repetition  to  become  mannerisms.  To  be  jealous  of  frag- 
mentary composition, — as  epicurism  of  genius,  and  apple- 
pie  made  all  of  quinces.  Item,  that  dramatic  poetry  must 
be  poetry  hid  in  thought  and  passion, — not  thought  or 
passion  disguised  in  the  dress  of  poetry.  Lastly,  to  be 
economic  and  withholding  in  similes,  figures,  &c.  They 
will  all  find  their  place,  sooner  or  later,  each  as  the  luminary 
of  a  sphere  of  its  own.  There  can  be  no  galaxy  in  poetry, 
because  it  is  language, — ergo  processive, — ergo  every  the 
smallest  star  must  be  seen  singly. 

There  are  not  five  metrists  in  the  kingdom,  whose  works 
are  known  by  me,  to  whom  I  could  have  held  myself  allowed 
to  have  spoken  so  plainly.  But  B.  C.  is  a  man  of  genius, 
and  it  depends  on  himself — (competence  protecting  him 
from  gnawing  or  distracting  cares) — to  become  a  rightful 
poet, — that  is,  a  great  man. 

Oh  !  for  such  a  man  worldly  prudence  is  transfigured 
into  the  highest  spiritual  duty  !  How  generous  is  self- 
interest  in  him,  whose  true  self  is  all  that  is  good  and  hope- 
ful in  all  ages,  as  far  as  the  language  of  Spenser,  Shakspeare, 
and  Milton  shall  become  the  mother-tongue  ! 

A  map  of  the  road  to  Paradise,  drawn  in  Purgatory,  on 
the  confines  of  Hell,  by  S.  T.  C.     July  30,  1819. 

1  Written  in  Mr.  Lamb's  copy  of  the  '  Dramatic  Scenes.'     Ed. 


On  the  Mode  of  Studying  Kant     383 

ON  THE  MODE  OF  STUDYING  KANT. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  OF  MR.  COLERIDGE  TO 
J.  GOODEN,  ESQ.l 

Accept  my  thanks  for  the  rules  of  the  harmony.  I  per- 
ceive that  the  members  are  chiefly  merchants  ;  but  yet  it 
were  to  be  wished,  that  such  an  enlargement  of  the  society 
could  be  brought  about  as,  retaining  all  its  present  purposes, 
might  add  to  them  the  groundwork  of  a  library  of  northern 
literature,  and  by  bringing  together  the  many  gentlemen 
who  are  attached  to  it  be  the  means  of  eventually  making 
both  countries  better  acquainted  with  the  valuable  part  of 
each  other  ;  especially,  the  English  with  the  German,  for 
our  most  sensible  men  look  at  the  German  Muses  through 
a  film  of  prejudice  and  utter  misconception. 

With  regard  to  philosophy,  there  are  half  a  dozen  things, 
good  and  bad,  that  in  this  country  are  so  nick-named,  but 
in  the  only  accurate  sense  of  the  term,  there  neither  are, 
have  been,  or  ever  will  be  but  two  essentially  different 
schools  of  philosophy,  the  Platonic,  and  the  Aristotelian. 
To  the  latter  but  with  a  somewhat  nearer  approach  to  the 
Platonic,  Emanuel  Kant  belonged  ;  to  the  former  Bacon 
and  Leibnitz,  and,  in  his  riper  and  better  years,  Berkeley. 
And  to  this  I  profess  myself  an  adherent — nihil  novum,  vel 
inauditum  audemus  ;  though,  as  every  man  has  a  face  of 
his  own,  without  being  more  or  less  than  a  man,  so  is  every 
true  philosopher  an  original,  without  ceasing  to  be  an 
inmate  of  Academus  or  of  the  Lyceum.  But  as  to  caution, 
I  will  just  tell  you  how  I  proceeded  myself  twenty  years  and 
more  ago,  when  I  first  felt  a  curiosity  about  Kant,  and  was 
fully  aware  that  to  master  his  meaning,  as  a  system,  would 
be  a  work  of  great  labour  and  long  time.  First,  I  asked 
myself,  have  I  the  labour  and  the  time  in  my  power  ? 
Secondly,  if  so,  and  if  it  would  be  of  adequate  importance 
to  me  if  true,  by  what  means  can  I  arrive  at  a  rational  pre- 
sumption for  or  against  ?  I  inquired  after  all  the  more 
popular  writings  of  Kant — read  them  with  delight.  I  then 
read  the  Prefaces  of  several  of  his  systematic  works,  as  the 
Prolegomena,  &c.     Here  too  every  part,  I  understood,  and 

1  This  letter  and  the  following  notes  on  Jean  Paul  were  communicated  by  Mr.  H.  C. 
Robinson.     S.  C 


384     On  the  Mode  of  Studying  Kant 

that  was  nearly  the  whole,  was  replete  with  sound  and 
plain,  though  bold  and  to  me  novel  truths  ;  and  I  followed 
Socrates'  adage  respecting  Heraclitus  :  all  I  understand  is 
excellent,  and  I  am  bound  to  presume  that  the  rest  is  at 
least  worth  the  trouble  of  trying  whether  it  be  not  equally 
so.  In  other  words,  until  I  understand  a  writer's  ignor- 
ance, I  presume  myself  ignorant  of  his  understanding. 
Permit  me  to  refer  you  to  a  chapter  on  this  subject  in  my 
Literary  Life.^ 

Yet  I  by  no  means  recommend  to  you  an  extension  of 
your  philosophic  researches  beyond  Kant.  In  him  is  con- 
tained all  that  can  be  learned,  and  as  to  the  results,  you  have 
a  firm  faith  in  God,  the  responsible  Will  of  Man  and  Im- 
mortahty  ;  and  Kant  will  demonstrate  to  you,  that  this 
faith  is  acquiesced  in,  indeed,  nay,  confirmed  by  the  Reason 
and  Understanding,  but  grounded  on  Postulates  authorized 
and  substantiated  solely  by  the  Moral  Being.  There  are 
likewise  mine  :  and  whether  the  Ideas  are  regulative  only, 
as  Aristotle  and  Kant  teach,  or  constitutive  and  actual,  as 
Pythagoras  and  Plato,  is  of  living  interest  to  the  philo- 
sopher by  profession  alone.  Both  systems  are  equally 
true,  if  only  the  former  abstain  from  denying  universally 
what  is  denied  indi\'idually.  He,  for  whom  Ideas  are  con- 
stitutive, win  in  effect  be  a  Platonist ;  and  in  those  for 
whom  they  are  regulative  only,  Platonism  is  but  a  hollow 
affectation.  Dryden  could  not  have  been  a  Platonist : 
Shakspeare,  Milton,  Dante,  Michael  Angelo  and  Rafael 
could  not  have  been  other  than  Platonists.  Lord  Bacon, 
who  never  read  Plato's  works,  taught  pure  Platonism  in 
his  great  work,  the  Novum  Organum,  and  abuses  his  divine 
predecessor  for  fantastic  nonsense,  which  he  had  been  the 
first  to  explode.     Accept  my  best  respects,  &c. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

14  Jan.  18 14.     Highgate. 

1  Biographia  Literarfa.  vol.  i.  chap   xii.  p.  ?.t2.     S.  C 


Notes  on  Jean  Paul  385 

NOTES   ON   THE   PALINGENESIEN   OF 
JEAN    PAUL. 

Written  in  the  blank  leaf  at  the  beginning. 

S  ist  zu  merken,  dass  die  Sprache  in  diesem  Buch  nicht 

sey  wie  in  gewohnlich  Bette,  darin  der  Gedankenstrom 
ordentlich  and  chrbar  hinstromt,   sondern  wie  cin  Ver- 
wiistung  in  Damm  and  Deichen.^ 
Preface,  p.  xxxi. 

Two  Revolutions,  the  Gallican,  which  sacrifices  the  individuals 
to  the  Idea  or  to  the  State,  and  in  time  of  need,  even  the  latter 
themselves  ; — and  the  Kantian-Moralist  (Kantisch-Moralische), 
which  abandons  the  affection  of  human  Love  altogether,  because  it 
can  so  little  be  described  as  merit  ;  these  draw  and  station  us 
forlorn  human  creatures  ever  further  and  more  lonesomely  one 
from  another,  each  on  a  frosty  uninhabited  island  :  nay  the  Gallican 
which  excites  and  arms  feelings  against  feelings,  does  it  less  than 
the  Critical,  which  teaches  us  to  disarm  and  to  dispense  with  them 
altogether  ;  and  which  neither  allows  Love  to  pass  for  the  spring  of 
virtiie,  nor  virtue  for  the  source  of  Love.^    Transl. 

But  surely  Kant's  aim  was  not  to  give  a  full  Sittenlehre, 
or  system  of  practical  material  morality,  but  the  a  priori 
form — Ethice  formalis  :  which  was  then  a  most  necessary 
work,  and  the  only  mode  of  quelling  at  once  both  Necessi- 
tarians and  Meritmongers,  and  the  idol  common  to  both, 
Eudcemonism.  If  his  followers  have  stood  still  in  lazy 
adoration,  instead  of  following  up  the  road  thus  opened  out 
to  them,  it  is  their  fault  not  Kant's. 

S.  T.  C. 

1  It  is  observable  that  the  language  in  this  book  is  not  as  in  an  ordinary  channel, 
wherein  the  stream  of  thought  flows  on  in  a  seemly  and  regular  manner,  but  like  a 
violent  flood  rushing  against  dyke  and  mole. 

2  Zwei  Revoluzionen,  die  gallische,  welche  der  Idee  oder  dem  Staate  die  Individtien, 
and  im  Nothsal  diesen  selber  opfert,  und  die  kantisch-moralische,  welche  den  Aflfekt 
der  Menschenliebe  liegen  lasset,  weil  er  so  wenig  wie  Verdienste  geboten  werden  kan, 
diese  ziehen  und  stellen  uus  verlas-ene  Menschen  immer  weiter  und  einsamer  aus 
cinander,  jeden  nur  auf  ein  fro^tiges  unbewohntes  Eiland  ;  ja  die  gallische,  die  nur 
Gefiihle  gegen  Gefiihle  bewafnet  und  aufhezt,  thut  es  weniger  als  die  kritische,  die  sie 
entwafnen  und  entbehren  lehrt,  und  die  weder  die  Liibe  als  Quelle  der  Tugend  noch 
diese  als  Quelle  von  jener  gelten  lassen  kan. 


L'ENVOY. 

He  was  one  who  with  long  and  large  arm  still  collected 
precious  armfuls  in  whatever  direction  he  pressed  forward, 
yet  still  took  up  so  much  more  than  he  could  keep  together, 
that  those  who  followed  him  gleaned  more  from  his 
continual  droppings  than  he  himself  brought  home  ; — 
nay,  made  stately  corn-ricks  therewith,  while  the  reaper 
himself  was  still  seen  only  with  a  strutting  armful  of 
newly-cut  sheaves.  But  I  should  misinform  you  grossly 
if  I  left  you  to  infer  that  his  collections  were  a  heap  of 
incoherent  miscellanea.  No  !  the  very  contrary.  Their 
variet}^  conjoined  with  the  too  great  coherency,  the  too 
great  both  desire  and  power  of  referring  them  in  systematic, 
nay,  genetic  subordination,  was  that  which  rendered  his 
schemes  gigantic  and  impracticable,  as  an  author,  and  his 
conversation  less  instructive  as  a  man.  Auditor  em  inopem 
ipsa  copia  fecit. — Too  much  was  given,  all  so  weighty  and 
brilliant  as  to  preclude  a  chance  of  its  being  all  received, — 
so  that  it  not  seldom  passed  over  the  hearer's  mind  like 
a  roar  of  many  waters. 


386 


I 


LECTURES 


ON 


SHAKSPEARE    AND    MILTON. 


THE    FIRST    LECTURE. 

I  CANNOT  avoid  the  acknowledgment  of  the  difficulty  of 
the  task  I  have  undertaken  ;  yet  I  have  undertaken  it 
voluntarily,  and  I  shall  discharge  it  to  the  best  of  my 
abilities,  requesting  those  who  hear  me  to  allow  for  de- 
ficiencies, -.md  to  bear  in  mind  the  wide  extent  of  my 
subject.  The  field  is  almost  boundless  as  the  sea,  yet 
full  of  beauty  and  variety  as  the  land  :  I  feel  in  some 
sort  oppressed  by  abundance  ;    inopem  me  copia  fecit. 

What  I  most  rely  upon  is  your  sympathy  ;  and,  as  I 
proceed,  I  trust  that  I  shall  interest  you  :  sympathy  and 
interest  are  to  a  lecturer  like  the  sun  and  the  showers  to 
nature — absolutely  necessary  to  the  production  of  blossoms 
and  fruit. 

May  I  venture  to  observe  that  my  own  life  has  been 
employed  more  in  reading  and  conversation — in  collecting 
and  reflecting,  than  in  printing  and  publishing  ;  for  I  never 
felt  the  desire,  so  often  experienced  by  others,  of  becoming 
an  author.  It  was  accident  made  me  an  author  in  the 
first  instance  :  I  was  caUed  a  poet  almost  before  I  knew 
I  could  write  poetry.  In  what  I  have  to  offer  I  shall 
speak  freely,  whether  of  myself  or  of  my  contemporaries, 
when  it  is  necessary  :  conscious  superiority,  if  indeed  it 
be  superior,  need  not  fear  to  have  its  self-love  or  its  pride 
wounded  ;  and  contempt,  the  most  absurd  and  debasing 
feeling  that  can  actuate  the  human  mind,  must  be  far 
below  the  sphere  in  which  lofty  intellects  live  and  move 
and  have  their  being. 

On  the  first  examination  of  a  work,  especially  a  work 
of  fiction  and  fancy,  it  is  right  to  inquire  to  what  feeling 
or  passion  it  addresses  itself — to  the  benevolent,  or  to 
the  vindictive  ?  whether  it  is  calculated  to  excite  emula- 
tion, or  to  produce  envy,  under  the  common  mask  of 
scorn  ?  and,  in  the  next  place,  whether  the  pleasure  we 
receive  from  it  has  a  tendency  to  keep  us  good,  to  make 
us  better,  or  to  reward  us  for  being  good. 

389 


390  The  First  Lecture 

It  will  be  expected  of  me,  as  my  prospectus  indicates, 
that  I  should  say  something  of  the  causes  of  false  criticism, 
particularly  as  regards  poetry,  though  I  do  not  mean 
to  confine  myself  to  that  only  :  in  doing  so,  it  will  be 
necessary  for  me  to  point  out  some  of  the  obstacles  which 
impede,  and  possibly  prevent,  the  formation  of  a  correct 
judgment.     These  are  either — 

1.  Accidental  causes,  arising  out  of  the  particular 
circumstances  of  the  age  in  which  we  live  ;   or — 

2.  Permanent  causes,  flowing  out  of  the  general  prin- 
ciples of  our  nature. 

Under  the  first  head,  accidental  causes,  may  be  classed 
— I.  The  events  that  have  occurred  in  our  ov/n  day,  which, 
from  their  importance  alone,  have  created  a  world  of 
readers.  2.  The  practice  of  public  speaking,  which 
encourages  a  too  great  desire  to  be  understood  at  once, 
and  at  the  first  blush.  3.  The  prevalence  of  reviews, 
magazines,  newspapers,  novels,  &c. 

Of  the  last,  and  of  the  perusal  of  them,  I  will  run  the 
risk  of  asserting,  that  where  the  reading  of  novels  prevails 
as  a  habit,  it  occasions  in  time  the  entire  destruction 
of  the  powers  of  the  mind  :  it  is  such  an  utter  loss  to  the 
reader,  that  it  is  not  so  much  to  be  called  pass-time  as 
kill-time.  It  conveys  no  trustworthy  information  as 
to  facts  ;  it  produces  no  improvement  of  the  intellect, 
but  fills  the  mind  with  a  mawkish  and  morbid  sensibility, 
which  is  directly  hostile  to  the  cultivation,  invigoration, 
and  enlargement  of  the  nobler  faculties  of  the  under- 
standing. 

Reviews  are  generally  pernicious,  because  the  writers 
determine  without  reference  to  fixed  principles — because 
reviews  are  usually  filled  with  personalities  ;  and,  above 
all,  because  they  teach  people  rather  to  judge  than  to 
consider,  to  decide  than  to  reflect :  thus  they  encourage 
superficiality,  and  induce  the  thoughtless  and  the  idle  to 
adopt  sentiments  conveyed  under  the  authoritative  We, 
and  not,  by  the  working  and  subsequent  clearing  of  their 
own  minds,  to  form  just  original  opinions.  In  older  times 
writers  were  looked  up  to  almost  as  intermediate  beings, 
between  angels  and  men ;  afterwards  they  were  regarded 
as  venerable  and,  perhaps,  inspired  teachers  ;  subsequently 
they  descended  to  the  level  of  learned  and  instructive 
friends  ;    but  in  modern  days  they  are  deemed  culprits 


The  First  Lecture  391 

more  than  benefactors  :  as  culprits  they  are  brought 
to  the  bar  of  self-erected  and  self-satisfied  tribunals.  If 
a  person  be  now  seen  reading  a  new  book,  the  most  usual 
question  is — "  What  trash  have  you  there  ?  "  I  admit 
that  there  is  some  reason  for  this  difference  in  the  estimate  ; 
for  in  these  times,  if  a  man  fail  as  a  tailor,  or  a  shoe- 
maker, and  can  read  and  write  correctly  (for  spelling  is 
still  of  some  consequence)  he  becomes  an  author.^ 

The  crying  sin  of  modern  criticism  is  that  it  is  over- 
loaded with  personality.  If  an  author  commit  an  error, 
there  is  no  wish  to  set  him  right  for  the  sake  of  truth, 
but  for  the  sake  of  triumph — that  the  reviewer  may  show 
how  much  wiser,  or  how  much  abler  he  is  than  the  writer. 
Reviewers  are  usually  people  who  would  have  been  poets, 
historians,  biographers,  &c.,  if  they  could  :  they  have 
tried  their  talents  at  one  or  at  the  other,  and  have 
failed  ;  therefore  they  turn  critics,  and,  like  the  Roman 
emperor,  a  critic  most  hates  those  who  excel  in  the  particu- 
lar department  in  which  he,  the  critic,  has  notoriously  been 
defeated.  This  is  an  age  of  personality  and  political 
gossip,  when  insects,  as  in  ancient  Egypt,  are  worshipped 
in  proportion  to  the  venom  of  their  stings — when  poems, 
and  especially  satires,  are  valued  according  to  the  number 
of  living  names  they  contain  ;  and  where  the  notes,  how- 
ever, have  this  comparative  excellence,  that  they  are 
generally  more  poetical  and  pointed  than  the  text.  This 
style  of  criticism  is  at  the  present  moment  one  of  the 
chief  pillars  of  the  Scotch  professorial  court ;  and,  as  to 
personality  in  poems,  I  remember  to  have  once  seen  an 
epic  advertised,  and  strongly  recommended,  because  it  con- 
tained more  than  a  hundred  names  of  living  characters. 

How  derogatory,  how  degrading,  this  is  to  true  poetry 
I  need  not  say.  A  very  wise  writer  has  maintained  that 
there  is  more  difference  between  one  man  and  another, 
than  between  man  and  a  beast :  I  can  conceive  of  no 
lower  state  of  human  existence  than  that  of  a  being  who, 
insensible  to  the  beauties  of  poetry  himself,  endeavours  to 
reduce  others  to  his  own  level.  What  Hooker  so  eloquently 
claims  for  law  I  say  of  poetry — "  Her  seat  is  the  bosom 
of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world  ;    all  things 

1  Here  my  shorthand  note  informs  me  that  Coleridge  made  a  quotation  from  Jeremy 
Taylor,  but  from  what  work,  or  of  what  import,  does  not  appear.  He  observed,  that 
"although  Jeremy  Taylor  wrote  only  in  prose,  according  to  some  definitions  of  poetry 
he  might  be  considered  one  of  our  noblest  poets." — J.  P.  C. 


392  The  First  Lecture 

in  heaven  and  on  earth  do  her  homage."  It  is  the  language 
of  heaven,  and  in  the  exquisite  dehght  we  derive  from 
poetry  we  have,  as  it  were,  a  type,  a  foretaste,  and  a 
prophecy  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

Another  cause  of  false  criticism  is  the  greater  purity 
of  morality  in  the  present  age,  compared  even  with  the 
last.  Our  notions  upon  this  subject  are  sometimes  carried 
to  excess,  particularly  among  those  who  in  print  affect  to 
enforce  the  value  of  a  high  standard.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  depreciate  that  value  ;  but  let  me  ask,  who  now  will 
venture  to  read  a  number  of  the  Spectator,  or  of  the 
Tatler,  to  his  wife  and  daughters,  without  first  examining 
it  to  make  sure  that  it  contains  no  word  which  might,  in 
our  day,  offend  the  delicacy  of  female  ears,  and  shock 
feminine  susceptibility  ?  Even  our  theatres,  the  repre- 
sentations at  which  usually  reflect  the  morals  of  the 
period,  have  taken  a  sort  of  domestic  turn,  and  while  the 
performances  at  them  may  be  said,  in  some  sense,  to 
improve  the  heart,  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  vitiate  the 
taste.     The  effect  is  bad,  however  good  the  cause. 

Attempts  have  been  made  to  compose  and  adapt  systems 
of  education  ;  but  it  appears  to  me  something  like  putting 
Greek  and  Latin  grammars  into  the  hands  of  boys,  before 
they  understand  a  word  of  Greek  or  Latin.  These  grammars 
contain  instructions  on  all  the  minutiae  and  refinements  of 
language,  but  of  what  use  are  they  to  persons  who  do  not 
comprehend  the  first  rudiments  ?  Why  are  you  to  furnish 
the  means  of  judging,  before  you  give  the  capacity  to  judge? 
These  seem  to  me  to  be  among  the  principal  accidental 
causes  of  false  criticism. 

Among  the  permanent  causes,  I  may  notice — 

First,  the  great  pleasure  we  feel  in  being  told  of  the  know- 
ledge we  possess,  rather  than  of  the  ignorance  we  suffer. 
Let  it  be  our  first  duty  to  teach  thinking,  and  then  what  to 
think  about.  You  cannot  expect  a  person  to  be  able  to  go 
through  the  arduous  process  of  thinking,  who  has  never 
exercised  his  faculties.  In  the  Alps  we  see  the  chamois 
hunter  ascend  the  most  perilous  precipices  without  danger, 
and  leap  from  crag  to  crag  over  vast  chasms  without  dread 
or  difficulty,  and  who  but  a  fool,  if  unpractised,  would 
attempt  to  follow  him  ?  it  is  not  intrepidity  alone  that  is 
necessary,  but  he  who  would  imitate  the  hunter  must  have 
gone   through   the   same   process   for   the   acquisition   of 


The  First  Lecture  393 

strength,  skill,  and  knowledge  :  he  must  exert,  and  be 
capable  of  exerting,  the  same  muscular  energies,  and  dis- 
play the  same  perseverance  and  courage,  or  all  his  efforts 
will  be  worse  than  fruitless  :  they  will  lead  not  only  to 
disappointment,  but  to  destruction.  Systems  have  been 
invented  with  the  avowed  object  of  teaching  people  how  to 
think  ;  but  in  my  opinion  the  proper  title  for  such  a  work 
ought  to  be  "  The  Art  of  teaching  how  to  think  without 
thinking."  Nobody  endeavours  to  instruct  a  man  how  to 
leap,  until  he  has  first  given  him  vigour  and  elasticity. 

Nothing  is  more  essential — nothing  can  be  more  im- 
portant, than  in  every  possible  way  to  cultivate  and  im- 
prove the  thinking  powers  :  the  mind  as  much  requires 
exercise  as  the  body,  and  no  man  can  fully  and  adequately 
discharge  the  duties  of  whatever  station  he  is  placed  in 
without  the  power  of  thought.  I  do  not,  of  course,  say 
that  a  man  may  not  get  through  life  without  much  thinking, 
or  much  power  of  thought ;  but  if  he  be  a  carpenter,  with- 
out thought  a  carpenter  he  must  remain  :  if  he  be  a  weaver, 
without  thought  a  weaver  he  must  remain. — On  man  God 
has  not  only  bestowed  gifts,  but  the  power  of  giving  :  he 
is  not  a  creature  born  but  to  live  and  die  :  he  has  had 
faculties  communicated  to  him,  which,  if  he  do  his  duty,  he 
is  bound  to  communicate  and  make  beneficial  to  others. 
Man,  in  a  secondary  sense,  may  be  looked  upon  in  part  as 
his  own  creator,  for  by  the  improvement  of  the  faculties 
bestowed  upon  him  by  God,  he  not  only  enlarges  them,  but 
may  be  said  to  bring  new  ones  into  existence.  The 
Almighty  has  thus  condescended  to  communicate  to  man, 
in  a  high  state  of  moral  cultivation,  a  portion  of  his  own 
great  attributes. 

A  second  permanent  cause  of  false  criticism  is  connected 
with  the  habit  of  not  taking  the  trouble  to  think  :  it  is  the 
custom  which  some  people  have  established  of  judging  of 
books  by  books. — Hence  to  such  the  use  and  value  of 
reviews.  Why  has  nature  given  limbs,  if  they  are  not  to  be 
applied  to  motion  and  action  ;  why  abilities,  if  they  are  to 
lie  asleep,  while  we  avail  ourselves  of  the  eyes,  ears,  and 
understandings  of  others  ?  As  men  often  employ  servants, 
to  spare  them  the  nuisance  of  rising  from  their  seats  and 
walking  across  a  room,  so  men  employ  reviews  in  order  to 
save  themselves  the  trouble  of  exercising  their  own  powers 
of  judging  :   it  is  only  mental  slothfulness  and  sluggishness 


394  The  First  Lecture 

that  induce  so  many  to  adopt,  and  take  for  granted  the 
opinions  of  others. 

I  may  illustrate  this  moral  imbecility  by  a  case  which 
came  within  my  own  knowledge.  A  friend  of  mine  had 
seen  it  stated  somewhere,  or  had  heard  it  said,  that  Shak- 
speare  had  not  made  Constance,  in  "  King  John,"  speak 
the  language  of  nature,  when  she  exclaims  on  the  loss  of 
Arthur, 

"  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child. 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form  : 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief." 

King  John,  Act  iii..  Scene  4. 

Within  three  months  after  he  had  repeated  the  opinion 
(not  thinking  for  himself)  that  these  lines  were  out  of 
nature,  my  friend  died.  I  called  upon  his  mother,  an 
affectionate,  but  ignorant  woman,  who  had  scarcely  heard 
the  name  of  Shakspeare,  much  less  read  any  of  his  plays. 
Like  Philip,  I  endeavoured  to  console  her,  and  among  other 
things  I  told  her,  in  the  anguish  of  her  sorrow,  that  she 
seemed  to  be  as  fond  of  grief  as  she  had  been  of  her  son. 
What  was  her  reply  ?  Almost  a  prose  parody  on  the 
very  language  of  Shakspeare — the  same  thoughts  in  nearly 
the  same  words,  but  with  a  different  arrangement.  An 
attestation  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  criticisms. 

As  a  third  permanent  cause  of  false  criticism  we  may 
notice  the  vague  use  of  terms.  And  here  I  may  take  the 
liberty  of  impressing  upon  my  hearers,  the  fitness,  if  not 
the  necessity,  of  employing  the  most  appropriate  words 
and  expressions,  even  in  common  conversation,  and  in  the 
ordinary  tra.nsactions  of  life.  If  you  want  a  substantive 
do  not  take  the  first  that  comes  into  your  head,  but  that 
which  most  distinctly  and  peculiarly  conveys  your  mean- 
ing :  if  an  adjective,  remember  the  grammatical  use  of 
that  part  of  speech,  and  be  careful  that  it  expresses  some 
quality  in  the  substantive  that  you  wish  to  impress  upon 
your  hearer.  Reflect  for  a  moment  on  the  vague  and 
uncertain  manner  in  which  the  word  "  taste  "  has  been 
often  employed  ;  and  how  such  epithets  as  "  sublime," 
"  majestic,"   "  grand,"    "  striking,"    "  picturesque,"    &c., 


The  First   Lecture  395 

have  been  misapplied,  and  how  they  have  been  used  on  the 
most  unworthy  and  inappropriate  occasions. 

I  was  one  day  admiring  one  of  the  falls  of  the  Clyde  ; 
and  ruminating  upon  what  descriptive  term  could  be  most 
fitly  applied  to  it,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  epithet 
"  majestic  "  was  the  most  appropriate.  While  I  was  still 
contemplating  the  scene  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  came  up, 
neither  of  whose  faces  bore  much  of  the  stamp  of  superior 
intelligence,  and  the  first  words  the  gentleman  uttered 
were  **  It  is  very  majestic."  I  was  pleased  to  find  such  a 
confirmation  of  my  opinion,  and  I  complimented  the 
spectator  upon  the  choice  of  his  epithet,  saying  that  he  had 
used  the  best  word  that  could  have  been  selected  from  our 
language  :  "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman,  "  I  say  it  is 
very  majestic  :  it  is  sublime,  it  is  beautiful,  it  is  grand,  it  is 
picturesque." — "  Ay  "  (added  the  lady),  "it  is  the  prettiest 
thing  I  ever  saw."  I  own  that  I  was  not  a  little  dis- 
concerted. 

You  will  see,  by  the  terms  of  my  prospectus,  that  I 
intend  my  lectures  to  be,  not  only  "  in  illustration  of  the 
principles  of  poetry,"  but  to  include  a  statement  of  the 
application  of  those  principles,  "  as  grounds  of  criticism 
on  the  most  popular  works  of  later  English  poets,  those 
of  the  living  included."  If  I  had  thought  this  task  pre- 
sumptuous on  my  part,  I  should  not  have  voluntarily 
undertaken  it ;  and  in  examining  the  merits,  whether 
positive  or  comparative,  of  my  contemporaries,  I  shall 
dismiss  aU  feelings  and  associations  which  might  lead  me 
from  the  formation  of  a  right  estimate.  I  shall  give  talent 
and  genius  its  due  praise,  and  only  bestow  censure  where, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  truth  and  justice  demand  it.  I  shall, 
of  course,  carefuUy  avoid  falling  into  that  system  of  false 
criticism,  which  I  condemn  in  others  ;  and,  above  all, 
whether  I  speak  of  those  whom  I  know,  or  of  those  whom 
I  do  not  know,  of  friends  or  of  enemies,  of  the  dead  or  of  the 
living,  my  great  aim  will  be  to  be  strictly  impartial.  No 
man  can  truly  apply  principles,  who  displays  the  slightest 
bias  in  the  application  of  them  ;  and  I  shall  have  much 
greater  pleasure  in  pointing  out  the  good,  than  in  exposing 
the  bad.  I  fear  no  accusation  of  arrogance  from  the 
amiable  and  the  wise  :  I  shall  pity  the  weak,  and  despise 
the  malevolent. 

END    OF   THE    FIRST   LECTURE. 


396 


The  Second  Lecture 


THE    SECOND    LECTURE. 


Readers  may  be  divided  into  four  classes  : 

1.  Sponges,  who  absorb  all  they  read,  and  return  it 
nearly  in  the  same  state,  only  a  little  dirtied. 

2.  Sand-glasses,  who  retain  nothing,  and  are  content  to 
get  through  a  book  for  the  sake  of  getting  through  the 
time. 

3.  Strain-bags,  who  retain  merely  the  dregs  of  what 
they  read. 

4.  Mogul  diamonds,  equally  rare  and  valuable,  who 
profit  by  what  they  read,  and  enable  others  to  profit  by 
it  also.i 

I  adverted  in  my  last  lecture  to  the  prevailing  laxity  in 
the  use  of  terms  :  this  is  the  principal  complaint  to  which 
the  moderns  are  exposed  ;  but  it  is  a  grievous  one,  inas- 
much as  it  inevitably  tends  to  the  misapplication  of  words, 
and  to  the  corruption  of  language.  I  mentioned  the  word 
"  taste,"  but  the  remark  applies  not  merely  to  substantives 
and  adjectives,  to  things  and  their  epithets,  but  to  verbs  : 
thus,  how  frequently  is  the  verb  "  indorsed  "  strained 
from  its  true  signification,  as  given  by  Milton  in  the  ex- 
pression— "  And  elephants  indorsed  with  towers."  Again 
"  virtue "  has  been  equally  perverted :  originally  it 
signified  merely  strength  ;  it  then  became  strength  of 
mind  and  valour,  and  it  has  now  been  changed  to  the 
class  term  for  moral  excellence  ^  in  all  its  various  species. 
I  only  introduce  these  as  instances  by  the  way,  and  nothing 
could  be  easier  than  to  multiply  them. 

1  In  "  Notes  and  Queries,"  July  22.  1854,  I  quoted  this  four-fold  division  of  readers  ; 
and  in  a  friendly  letter  to  me,  the  Rev.  S.  R.  Maitland  pointed  out  the  following 
passage  in  the  Mishna  {Cap.  Patrum,  v.  §  15),  which  Coleridge  clearly  had  in  his 
mind,  but  to  which  my  shorthand  note  does  not  state  that  he  referred.  It  is  very 
possible  that  I  did  not  catch  the  reference ;  but  more  probable  that  he  omitted  it, 
thinking  it  not  necessary,  in  an  extetnporaneous  lecture,  to  quote  chapter  and  verse  for 
whatever  he  delivered.  Had  Coleridge  previously  written,  or  subsequently  printed, 
his  Lectures,  he  would,  most  likel}',  not  have  omitted  the  information  : — 

"  Quadruplices  conditiones  (inveniunt)  in  his  qui  sedent  coram  sapientibus  (audiendi 
causa)  videlicet  conditio  spongiae,  clepsydrae,  sacci  lecinacei,  et  cribri.  Spongia 
sugendo  attrahit  omnia.  Clepsydra,  quod  ex  una  parte  attrahit,  ex  altera  rursum 
effundit.  Saccus  fecinaceus  effundit  vinum,  el  colligi:  feces.  Cribrum  emittit 
farinam,  et  colligit  similam." — J.  P.  C. 

2  My  shorthand  note  of  this  part  of  the  sentence  strongly  illustrates  the  point 
adverted  to  in  the  Preface,  viz. ,  how  easy  it  is  for  a  person,  somewhat  mechanically 
taking  down  words  uttered  vivd  voce,  to  mishear  what  is  said.  I  am  confident  that 
Coleridge's  words  were  'moral  excellence" — there  cannot  be  a  doubt  about  it — but 
in  my  note  it  stands  ^^  vtodern  excellence."  My  ear  deceived  me,  and  I  thought  he 
said  tnodcrn,  when  in  tact  he  said  "moral." — J.  P.  C. 


The  Second  Lecture  397 

At  the  same  time,  while  I  recommend  precision  both 
of  thought  and  expression,  I  am  far  from  advocating  a 
pedantic  niceness  in  the  choice  of  language  :  such  a  course 
would  only  render  conversation  stiff  and  stilted.  Dr. 
Johnson  used  to  say  that  in  the  most  unrestrained  dis- 
course he  always  sought  for  the  properest  word, — that 
which  best  and  most  exactly  conveyed  his  meaning  :  to  a 
certain  point  he  was  right,  but  because  he  carried  it  too 
far,  he  was  often  laborious  where  he  ought  to  have  been 
light,  and  formal  where  he  ought  to  have  been  familiar. 
Men  ought  to  endeavour  to  distinguish  subtilely,  that  they 
may  be  able  afterwards  to  assimilate  truly. 

I  have  often  heard  the  question  put  whether  Pope 
is  a  great  poet,  and  it  has  been  warmly  debated  on  both 
sides,  some  positively  maintaining  the  affirmative,  and 
others  dogmatically  insisting  upon  the  negative  ;  but  it 
never  occurred  to  either  party  to  make  the  necessary 
preliminary  inquiry — What  is  meant  by  the  words  "  poet  " 
and  "  poetry  ?  "  Poetry  is  not  merely  invention  :  if 
it  were,  Gulliver's  Travels  would  be  poetry  ;  and  before 
you  can  arrive  at  a  decision  of  the  question,  as  to  Pope's 
claim,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  ascertain  what  people 
intend  by  the  words  they  use.  Harmonious  versification 
no  more  makes  poetry  than  mere  invention  makes  a  poet ; 
and  to  both  these  requisites  there  is  much  besides  to  be 
added.  In  morals,  politics,  and  philosophy  no  useful 
discussion  can  be  entered  upon,  unless  we  begin  by  ex- 
plaining and  understanding  the  terms  we  employ.  It  is 
therefore  requisite  that  I  should  state  to  you  what  I  mean 
by  the  word  "  poetry,"  before  I  commence  any  considera- 
tion of  the  comparative  merits  of  those  who  are  popularly 
called  "  poets." 

Words  are  used  in  two  ways  : — 

1.  In  a  sense  that  comprises  everything  called  by  that 
name.  For  instance,  the  words  "  poetry  "  and  "  sense  " 
are  employed  in  this  manner,  when  we  say  that  such  a 
line  is  bad  poetry  or  bad  sense,  when  in  truth  it  is  neither 
poetry  nor  sense.  If  it  be  bad  poetry,  it  is  not  poetry  ;  if 
it  be  bad  sense,  it  is  not  sense.  The  same  of  "  metre  "  : 
bad  metre  is  not  metre. 

2.  In  a  philosophic  sense,  which  must  include  a  defini- 
tion of  what  is  essential  to  the  thing.  Nobody  means 
mere  metre  by  poetry  ;    so,  mere  rhyme  is  not  poetry. 


398  The  Second  Lecture 

Something  more  is  required,  and  what  is  that  something  ? 
It  is  not  wit,  because  we  may  have  wit  where  we  never 
dream  of  poetry.  Is  it  the  just  observation  of  human 
hfe  ?  Is  it  a  pecuUar  and  a  feUcitous  selection  of  words  ? 
This,  indeed,  would  come  nearer  to  the  taste  of  the  present 
age,  when  sound  is  preferred  to  sense  ;  but  I  am  happy 
to  think  that  this  taste  is  not  likely  to  last  long. 

The  Greeks  and  Romans,  in  the  best  period  of  their 
literature,  knew  nothing  of  any  such  taste.  High-flown 
epithets  and  violent  metaphors,  conveyed  in  inflated 
language,  is  not  poetry.  Simplicity  is  indispensable,  and 
in  Catullus  it  is  often  impossible  that  more  simple  language 
could  be  used  ;  there  is  scarcely  a  word  or  a  line,  which  a 
lamenting  mother  in  a  cottage  might  not  have  employed.^ 
That  I  may  be  clearly  understood,  I  will  venture  to  give 
the  following  definition  of  poetry. 

It  is  an  art  (or  whatever  better  term  our  language  may 
afford)  of  representing,  in  words,  external  nature  and 
human  thoughts  and  affections,  both  relatively  to  human 
affections,  by  the  production  of  as  much  immediate 
pleasure  in  parts,  as  is  compatible  with  the  largest  sum 
of  pleasure  in  the  whole. 

Or,  to  vary  the  words,  in  order  to  make  the  abstract 
idea  more  intelligible  : — 

It  is  the  art  of  communicating  whatever  we  wish  to 
communicate,  so  as  both  to  express  and  produce  excite- 
ment, but  for  the  purpose  of  immediate  pleasure ;  and 
each  part  is  fitted  to  afford  as  much  pleasure,  as  is  com- 
patible with  the  largest  sum  in  the  whole. 

You  will  naturally  ask  my  reasons  for  this  definition  of 
poetry,  and  they  are  these  : — 

"It  is  a  representation  of  nature  ;  "  but  that  is  not 
enough  :  the  anatomist  and  the  topographer  give  repre- 
sentations of  nature  ;    therefore  I  add  : 

"  And  of  the  human  thoughts  and  affections."  Here 
the  metaphysician  interferes :  here  our  best  novelists 
interfere  Ukewise, — excepting  that  the  latter  describe 
with  more  minuteness,  accuracy,  and  truth,  than  is  con- 
sistent with  poetry.     Consequently  I  subjoin  : 

"  It  must  be  relative  to  the  human  affections."     Here 

1  It  appears  by  my  shorthand  note  that  Coleridge  here  named  some  particular  poem 
by  Catullus ;  but  what  it  was  is  not  stated,  a  blank  having  been  left  for  the  title.  It 
would  not  be  difficult  to  fill  the  chasm  speculatively ;  but  I  prefer  to  give  my  memo- 
randum as  it  stands.— J.  P.  C. 


The  Second  Lecture  399 

my  chief  point  of  difference  is  with  the  novel-writer,  the 
historian,  and  all  those  who  describe  not  only  nature,  and 
the  human  affections,  but  relatively  to  the  human  affec- 
tions :    therefore  I  must  add  : 

"  And  it  must  be  done  for  the  purpose  of  immediate 
pleasure."  In  poetry  the  general  good  is  to  be  accom- 
plished through  the  pleasure,  and  if  the  poet  do  not  do 
that,  he  ceases  to  be  a  poet  to  him  to  whom  he  gives  it 
not.  Still,  it  is  not  enough,  because  we  may  point  out 
many  prose  writers  to  whom  the  whole  of  the  definition 
hitherto  furnished  would  apply.  I  add,  therefore,  that  it 
is  not  only  for  the  purpose  of  immediate  pleasure,  but — 

"  The  work  must  be  so  constructed  as  to  produce  in 
each  part  that  highest  quantity  of  pleasure,  or  a  high 
quantity  of  pleasure."  There  metre  introduces  its  claim, 
where  the  feeling  calls  for  it.  Our  language  gives  to 
expression  a  certain  measure,  and  will,  in  a  strong  state 
of  passion,  admit  of  scansion  from  the  very  mouth.  The 
very  assumption  that  we  are  reading  the  work  of  a  poet 
supposes  that  he  is  in  a  continuous  state  of  excitement ; 
and  thereby  arises  a  language  in  prose  unnatural,  but  in 
poetry  natural. 

There  is  one  error  which  ought  to  be  peculiarly  guarded 
against,  which  young  poets  are  apt  to  fall  into,  and  which 
old  poets  commit,  from  being  no  poets,  but  desirous  of  the 
end  which  true  poets  seek  to  attain.  No  :  I  revoke  the 
words  ;  they  are  not  desirous  of  that  of  which  their  little 
minds  can  have  no  just  conception.  They  have  no  desire 
of  fame — that  glorious  immortality  of  true  greatness — 

"  That  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all  judging  Jove  ;  " 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

but  they  struggle  for  reputation,  that  echo  of  an  echo,  in 
whose  very  etymon  its  signification  is  contained.  Into 
this  error  the  author  of  "  The  Botanic  Garden  "  has  fallen, 
through  the  whole  of  which  work,  I  will  venture  to  assert, 
there  are  not  twenty  images  described  as  a  man  vv^ould 
describe  them  in  a  state  of  excitement.  The  poem  is 
written  with  aU  the  tawdry  industry  of  a  milliner  anxious 
to  dress  up  a  doll  in  silks  and  satins.  Dr.  Darwin  laboured 
to  make  his  style  fine  and  gaudy,  by  accumulating  and 
applying  all  the  sonorous  and  handsome-looking  words 


400  The  Second  Lecture 

in  our  language.     This  is  not  poetry,  and  I  subjoin  to  my 
definition — 

That  a  true  poem  must  give  "  as  much  pleasure  in  each 
part  as  is  compatible  with  the  greatest  sum  of  pleasure  in 
the  whole."  We  must  not  look  to  parts  merely,  but  to  the 
whole,  and  to  the  effect  of  that  whole.  In  reading  Milton, 
for  instance,  scarcely  a  line  can  be  pointed  out  which, 
critically  examined,  could  be  called  in  itself  good  :  the 
poet  would  not  have  attempted  to  produce  merely  what 
is  in  general  understood  by  a  good  line  ;  he  sought  to  pro- 
duce glorious  paragraphs  and  systems  of  harmony,  or,  as 
he  himself  expresses  it, 

"  Many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 

L'A  llegro. 

Such,  therefore,  as  I  have  now  defined  it,  I  shall  consider 
the  sense  of  the  word  "  Poetry  "  :  pleasurable  excitement 
is  its  origin  and  object  ;  pleasure  is  the  magic  circle  out 
of  which  the  poet  must  not  dare  to  tread.  Part  of  my 
definition,  you  will  be  aware,  would  apply  equally  to  the 
arts  of  painting  and  music,  as  to  poetry  ;  but  to  the  last 
are  added  words  and  metre,  so  that  my  definition  is  strictly 
and  logically  applicable  to  poetry,  and  to  poetry  only, 
which  produces  delight,  the  parent  of  so  many  virtues. 
When  I  was  in  Italy,  a  friend  of  mine,  who  pursued  painting 
almost  with  the  enthusiasm  of  madness,  believing  it 
superior  to  every  other  art,  heard  the  definition  I  have 
given,  acknowledged  its  correctness,  and  admitted  the 
pre-eminence  of  poetry. 

I  never  shall  forget,  when  in  Rome,  the  acute  sensation 
of  pain  I  experienced  on  beholding  the  frescoes  of  Raphael 
and  Michael  Angelo,  and  on  reflecting  that  they  were  in- 
debted for  their  preservation  solely  to  the  durable  material 
upon  which  they  were  painted.  There  they  are,  the  per- 
manent monuments  (permanent  as  long  as  waUs  and 
plaster  last)  of  genius  and  skill,  while  many  others  of  their 
mighty  works  have  become  the  spoils  of  insatiate  avarice, 
or  the  victims  of  wanton  barbarism.  How  grateful  ought 
mankind  to  be,  that  so  many  of  the  great  hterary  produc- 
tions of  antiquity  have  come  down  to  us — that  the  works 
of  Homer,  Euclid,  and  Plato,  have  been  preserved — while 
we  possess  those  of  Bacon,  Newton,  Milton,  Shakspeare, 


The  Second  Lecture  401 

and  of  so  many  other  living-dead  men  of  our  own  island. 
These,  fortunately,  may  be  considered  indestructible : 
they  shall  remain  to  us  till  the  end  of  time  itself — till  time, 
in  the  words  of  a  great  poet  of  the  age  of  Shakspeare,  has 
thrown  his  last  dart  at  death,  and  shall  himself  submit  to 
the  final  and  inevitable  destruction  of  all  created  matter.^ 

A  second  irruption  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals  could  not 
now  endanger  their  existence,  secured  as  they  are  by  the 
wonders  of  modern  invention,  and  by  the  affectionate 
admiration  of  myriads  of  human  beings.  It  is  as  nearly 
two  centuries  as  possible  since  Shakspeare  ceased  to  write, 
but  when  shall  he  cease  to  be  read  ?  When  shall  he  cease 
to  give  light  and  delight  ?  Yet  even  at  this  moment  he  is 
only  receiving  the  first-fruits  of  that  glory,  which  must 
continue  to  augment  as  long  as  our  language  is  spoken. 
English  has  given  immortality  to  him,  and  he  has  given 
immortality  to  English.  Shakspeare  can  never  die,  and 
the  language  in  which  he  wrote  must  with  him  live  for  ever. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  some  prejudices  have  attached 
themselves  to  the  name  of  our  illustrious  countryman, 
which  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  first  to  endeavour  to  over- 
come. On  the  continent,  we  may  remark,  the  works  of 
Shakspeare  are  honoured  in  a  double  way — by  the  admira- 
tion of  the  Germans,  and  by  the  contempt  of  the  French. 

Among  other  points  of  objection  taken  by  the  French, 
perhaps,  the  most  noticeable  is,  that  he  has  not  observed 
the  sacred  unities,  so  hallowed  by  the  practice  of  their  own 
extolled  tragedians.  They  hold,  of  course  after  Corneille 
and  Racine,  that  Sophocles  is  the  most  perfect  model  for 
tragedy,  and  Aristotle  its  most  infallible  censor  ;  and  that 
as  Hamlet,  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  other  dramas  by  Shakspeare 
are  not  framed  upon  that  model,  and  consequently  not 
subject  to  the  same  laws,  they  maintain  (not  having  im- 
partiality enough  to  question  the  model,  or  to  deny  the 
rules  of  the  Stagirite)  that  Shakspeare  was  a  sort  of 
irregular  genius — that  he  is  now  and  then  tasteful  and 
touching,  but  generally  incorrect ;    and,  in  short,  that  he 

1  Alluding,  of  course,  to  Ben  Jonson's  epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke : 
'*  Underneath  this  sable  herse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death  1  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn 'd,  and  fair,  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee." 

Ben  /onsen's  IVorks ;  edit.  Gifford,  viii.  337.— J.  P.  C 


402  The  Second  Lecture 

was  a  mere  child  of  nature,  who  did  not  know  any  better 
than  to  write  as  he  has  written. 

It  is  an  old,  and  I  have  hitherto  esteemed  it  a  just,  Latin 
maxim,  Oportet  discentem  credere,  edoctum  judicare  ;  but 
modern  practice  has  inverted  it,  and  it  ought  now  rather 
to  stand,  Oportet  discentem  judicare,  edoctum  credere.  To 
remedy  this  mistake  there  is  but  one  course,  namely  the 
acquirement  of  knowledge.  I  have  often  run  the  risk  of 
applying  to  the  ignorant,  who  assumed  the  post  and  pro- 
vince of  judges,  a  ludicrous,  but  not  inapt  simile  :  they 
remind  me  of  a  congregation  of  frogs,  involved  in  darkness 
in  a  ditch,  who  keep  an  eternal  croaking,  until  a  lantern  is 
brought  near  the  scene  of  their  disputation,  when  they 
instantly  cease  their  discordant  harangues.  They  may  be 
more  politely  resembled  to  night-flies,  which  flutter  round 
the  glimmering  of  a  feeble  taper,  but  are  overpowered  by 
the  dazzling  splendour  of  noon-day.  Nor  can  it  be  other- 
wise, until  the  prevalent  notion  is  exploded,  that  know- 
ledge is  easily  taught,  and  until  the  conviction  is  general, 
that  the  hardest  thing  learned  is  that  people  are  ignorant. 
All  are  apt  enough  to  discover  and  expose  the  ignorance  of 
their  friends,  but  their  blind  faith  in  their  own  sufficiency 
is  something  more  than  marvellous. 

Some  persons  have  contended  that  mathematics  ought 
to  be  taught  by  making  the  illustrations  obvious  to  the 
senses.  Nothing  can  be  more  absurd  or  injurious  :  it  ought 
to  be  our  never-ceasing  effort  to  make  people  think,  not 
feel  ;  and  it  is  very  much  owing  to  this  mistake  that,  to 
those  who  do  not  think,  and  have  not  been  made  to  think, 
Shakspeare  has  been  found  so  difficult  of  comprehension. 
The  condition  of  the  stage,  and  the  character  of  the  times 
in  which  our  great  poet  flourished,  must  first  of  all  be  taken 
into  account,  in  considering  the  question  as  to  his  judgment. 
If  it  were  possible  to  say  which  of  his  great  powers  and 
qualifications  is  more  admirable  than  the  rest,  it  unques- 
tionably appears  to  me  that  his  judgment  is  the  most 
Vv'onderful  ;  and  at  this  conviction  I  have  arrived  after  a 
careful  comparison  of  his  productions  with  those  of  his  best 
and  greatest  contemporaries. 

If  indeed  "  King  Lear  "  were  to  be  tried  by  the  laws 
which  Aristotle  established,  and  Sophocles  obeyed,  it  must 
be  at  once  admitted  to  be  outrageously  irregular  ;  and 
supposing  the  rules  regarding  the  unities  to  be  founded  on 


The  Second  Lecture  403 

man  and  nature,  Shakspeare  must  be  condemned  for  array- 
ing his  works  in  charms  with  which  they  ought  never  to 
have  been  decorated.  I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  both 
were  right  in  their  divergent  courses,  and  that  they  arrived 
at  the  same  conclusion  by  a  different  process. 

Without  entering  into  matters  which  must  be  generally 
known  to  persons  of  education,  respecting  the  origin  of 
tragedy  and  comedy  among  the  Greeks,  it  may  be  observed, 
that  the  unities  grew  mainly  out  of  the  size  and  construc- 
tion of  the  ancient  theatres  :  the  plays  represented  were 
made  to  include  within  a  short  space  of  time  events  which 
it  is  impossible  should  have  occurred  in  that  short  space. 
This  fact  alone  establishes,  that  all  dramatic  performances 
were  then  looked  upon  merely  as  ideal.  It  is  the  same 
with  us  :  nobody  supposes  that  a  tragedian  suffers  real 
pain  when  he  is  stabbed  or  tortured  ;  or  that  a  comedian  is 
in  fact  transported  with  delight  when  successful  in  pre- 
tended love. 

If  we  want  to  witness  mere  pain,  we  can  visit  the 
hospitals  :  if  we  seek  the  exhibition  of  mere  pleasure,  we 
can  find  it  in  ball-rooms.  It  is  the  representation  of  it, 
not  the  reality,  that  we  require,  the  imitation,  and  not  the 
thing  itself ;  and  we  pronounce  it  good  or  bad  in  pro- 
portion as  the  representation  is  an  incorrect,  or  a  correct 
imitation.  The  true  pleasure  we  derive  from  theatrical 
performances  arises  from  the  fact  that  they  are  unreal  and 
fictitious.  If  djring  agonies  were  unfeigned,  who,  in  these 
days  of  civilisation,  could  derive  gratification  from  behold- 
ing them  ? 

Performances  in  a  large  theatre  made  it  necessary  that 
the  human  voice  should  be  unnaturally  and  unmusically 
stretched  ;  and  hence  the  introduction  of  recitative,  for 
the  purpose  of  rendering  pleasantly  artificial  the  distortion 
of  the  face,  and  straining  of  the  voice,  occasioned  by  the 
magnitude  of  the  building.  The  fact  that  the  ancient 
choruses  were  always  on  the  stage  made  it  impossible 
that  any  change  of  place  should  be  represented,  or  even 
supposed. 

The  origin  of  the  English  stage  is  less  boastful  than  that 
of  the  Greek  stage  :  like  the  constitution  under  which  we 
live,  though  more  barbarous  in  its  derivation,  it  gives  more 
genuine  and  more  diffused  liberty,  than  Athens  in  the 
zenith  of  her  political  glory  ever  possessed.     Our  earUest 


404  The  Second  Lecture 

dramatic  performances  were  religious,  founded  chiefly 
upon  Scripture  history  ;  and,  although  countenanced  by 
the  clergy,  they  were  filled  with  blasphemies  and  ribaldry, 
such  as  the  most  hardened  and  desperate  of  the  present 
day  would  not  dare  to  utter.  In  these  representations 
vice  and  the  principle  of  evil  were  personified  ;  and  hence 
the  introduction  of  fools  and  clowns  in  dramas  of  a  m^ore 
advanced  period. 

While  Shakspeare  accommodated  himself  to  the  taste 
and  spirit  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  his  genius  and  his 
judgment  taught  him  to  use  these  characters  with  terrible 
effect,  in  aggravating  the  misery  and  agony  of  some  of  his 
most  distressing  scenes.  This  result  is  especially  obvious 
in  "  King  Lear  "  :  the  contrast  of  the  Fool  wonderfully 
heightens  the  colouring  of  some  of  the  most  painful  situa- 
tions, where  the  old  monarch  in  the  depth  and  fury  of  his 
despair,  complains  to  the  warring  elements  of  the  ingrati- 
tude of  his  daughters. 

Spit,  fire  !    spout,  rain  ! 


Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters  : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children  ; 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  :    then,  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure  ;    here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despis'd  old  man." 

King  Lear,  Act  iii..  Scene  2. 

Just  aftenvards,  the  Fool  interposes,  to  heighten  and 
inflame  the  passion  of  the  scene. 

In  other  dramas,  though  perhaps  in  a  less  degree,  our 
great  poet  has  evinced  the  same  skill  and  felicity  of  treat- 
ment ;  and  in  no  instance  can  it  be  justly  alleged  of  him, 
as  it  may  be  of  some  of  the  ablest  of  his  contemporaries, 
that  he  introduced  his  fool,  or  his  clown,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  exciting  the  laughter  of  his  audiences.  Shakspeare 
had  a  loftier  and  a  better  purpose,  and  in  this  respect 
availed  himself  of  resources,  which,  it  would  almost  seem, 
he  alone  possessed.^ 

1  I  most  deeply  regret,  that  I  have  not  recovered  any  of  my  notes  of  the  third,  fourth^ 
and  fifth  Lectures.— J.  P.  C. 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  LECTURE. 


The  Sixth  Lecture  405 

THE  SIXTH  LECTURE. 

The  recollection  of  what  has  been  said  by  some  of  his 
biographers,  on  the  supposed  fact  that  Milton  received 
corporal  punishment  at  college,  induces  me  to  express  my 
entire  dissent  from  the  notion,  that  flogging  or  caning  has 
a  tendency  to  degrade  and  debase  the  minds  of  boys  at 
school.  In  my  opinion  it  is  an  entire  mistake  ;  since  this 
species  of  castigation  has  not  only  been  inflicted  time  out 
of  mind,  but  those  who  are  subjected  to  it  are  well  aware 
that  the  very  highest  persons  in  the  realm,  and  those  to 
whom  people  are  accustomed  to  look  up  with  most  respect 
and  reverence,  such  as  the  judges  of  the  land,  have  quietly 
submitted  to  it  in  their  pupilage. 

I  well  remember,  about  twenty  years  ago,  an  advertise- 
ment from  a  schoolmaster,  in  which  he  assured  tender- 
hearted and  foolish  parents,  that  corporal  punishment  was 
never  inflicted,  excepting  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity  ; 
and  that  even  then  the  rod  was  composed  of  lilies  and 
roses,  the  latter,  I  conclude,  stripped  of  their  thorns. 
What,  let  me  ask,  has  been  the  consequence,  in  many  cases, 
of  the  abolition  of  flogging  in  schools  ?  Reluctance  to 
remove  a  pimple  has  not  unfrequently  transferred  the 
disease  to  the  vitals  :  sparing  the  rod,  for  the  correction  of 
minor  faults,  has  ended  in  the  commission  of  the  highest 
crimes.  A  man  of  great  reputation  (I  should  rather  say 
of  great  notoriety)  sometimes  punished  the  pupils  under  his 
care  by  suspending  them  from  the  ceiling  in  baskets, 
exposed  to  the  derision  of  their  school-fellows  ;  at  other 
times  he  pinned  upon  the  clothes  of  the  offender  a  number 
of  last  dying  speeches  and  confessions,  and  employed 
another  boy  to  walk  before  the  culprit,  making  the  usual 
monotonous  lamentation  and  outcry. 

On  one  occasion  this  absurd,  and  really  degrading 
punishment  was  inflicted  because  a  boy  read  with  a  tone, 
although,  I  may  observe  in  passing,  that  reading  with 
intonation  is  strictly  natural,  and  therefore  truly  proper, 
excepting  in  the  excess. ^ 

1  This  was  the  Lecturer's  own  mode  of  reading  verse,  and  even  in  prose  there  was 
an  approach  to  intonation.  I  have  heard  him  read  Spenser  with  such  an  excess  (to  use 
his  own  word)  in  this  respect,  that  it  almost  amounted  to  a  song.  In  blank  verse  it  was 
less,  but  still  apparent.  Milton's  "Liberty  of  unlicensed  Printing"  was  a  favourite 
piece  of  rhetorical  writing,  and  portions  of  it  I  have  heard  Coleridge  recite,  never  with- 
out a  sort  of  habitual  rise  and  fall  of  the  voice. — J.  P.  C. 


4o6  The  Sixth  Lecture 

Then,  as  to  the  character  and  effect  of  the  punishment 
just  noticed,  what  must  a  parent  of  well  regulated  and 
instructed  mind  think  of  the  exhibition  of  his  son  in  the 
manner  I  have  described  ?  Here,  indeed,  was  debasement 
of  the  worst  and  lowest  kind  ;  for  the  feelings  of  a  child 
were  outraged,  and  made  to  associate  and  connect  them- 
selves with  the  sentence  on  an  abandoned  and  shameless 
criminal.  Who  would  not  prefer  the  momentary,  but 
useful,  impression  of  flogging  to  this  gross  attack  upon  the 
moral  feelings  and  self-respect  of  a  boy  ?  Again,  as  to  the 
proper  mode  of  reading  :  why  is  a  tone  in  reading  to  be 
visited  as  a  criminal  offence,  especially  when  the  estimate 
of  that  offence  arises  out  of  the  ignorance  and  incom- 
petence of  the  master  ?  Every  man  who  reads  with  true 
sensibility,  especially  poetry,  must  read  with  a  tone,  since 
it  conveys,  with  additional  effect,  the  harmony  and  rhythm 
of  the  verse,  without  in  the  slightest  degree  obscuring  the 
meaning.  That  is  the  highest  point  of  excellence  in  reading 
which  gives  to  every  thing,  whether  of  thought  or  language, 
its  most  just  expression.  There  may  be  a  wrong  tone,  as 
a  right,  and  a  wrong  tone  is  of  course  to  be  avoided  ;  but 
a  poet  writes  in  measure,  and  measure  is  best  made  ap- 
parent by  reading  with  a  tone,  which  heightens  the  verse, 
and  does  not  in  any  respect  lower  the  sense.  I  defy  any 
man,  who  has  a  true  relish  of  the  beauty  of  versification, 
to  read  a  canto  of  "  the  Fairy  Queen,"  or  a  book  of 
**  Paradise  Lost,"  without  some  species  of  intonation. 

In  various  instances  we  are  hardly  sensible  of  its  exist- 
ence, but  it  does  exist,  and  persons  have  not  scrupled  to 
say,  and  I  believe  it,  that  the  tone  of  a  good  reader  may  be 
set  to  musical  notation.  If  in  these,  and  in  other  remarks 
that  fall  from  me,  I  appear  dogmatical,  or  dictatorial,  it  is 
to  be  borne  in  mind,  that  every  man  who  takes  upon  him- 
self to  lecture,  requires  that  he  should  be  considered  by  his 
hearers  capable  of  teaching  something  that  is  valuable,  or 
of  saying  something  that  is  worth  hearing.  In  a  mixed 
audience  not  a  few  are  desirous  of  instruction,  and  some 
require  it ;  but  placed  in  my  present  situation  I  consider 
myself,  not  as  a  man  who  carries  moveables  into  an  empty 
house,  but  as  a  man  who  entering  a  generally  well  furnished 
dwelling,  exhibits  a  light  which  enables  the  owner  to  see 
what  is  still  wanting.  I  endeavour  to  introduce  the  means 
of  ascertaining  what  is,  and  is  not,  in  a  man's  own  mind. 


The  Sixth  Lecture  407 

Not  long  since,  when  I  lectured  at  the  Royal  Institution, 
I  had  the  honour  of  sitting  at  the  desk  so  ably  occupied  by 
Sir  Humphry  Davy,  who  may  be  said  to  have  elevated  the 
art  of  chemistry  to  the  dignity  of  a  science  ;  who  has  dis- 
covered that  one  common  law  is  applicable  to  the  mind 
and  to  the  body,  and  who  has  enabled  us  to  give  a  full  and 
perfect  Amen  to  the  great  axiom  of  Lord  Bacon,  that 
knowledge  is  power.  In  the  delivery  of  that  course  I 
carefully  prepared  my  first  essay,  and  received  for  it  a  cold 
suffrage  of  approbation  :  from  accidental  causes  I  was 
unable  to  study  the  exact  form  and  language  of  my  second 
lecture,  and  when  it  was  at  an  end,  I  obtained  universal 
and  heart-felt  applause.  What  a  lesson  was  this  to  me  not 
to  elaborate  my  materials,  nor  to  consider  too  nicely  the 
expressions  I  should  employ,  but  to  trust  mainly  to  the 
extemporaneous  ebullition  of  my  thoughts.  In  this  con- 
viction I  have  ventured  to  come  before  you  here  ;  and  may 
I  add  a  hope,  that  what  I  offer  will  be  received  in  a  similar 
spirit  ?  It  is  true  that  my  matter  may  not  be  so  accurately 
arranged  :  it  may  not  dovetail  and  fit  at  all  times  as  nicely 
as  could  be  wished  ;  but  you  shall  have  my  thoughts  warm 
from  my  heart,  and  fresh  from  my  understanding  :  you 
shall  have  the  whole  skeleton,  although  the  bones  may  not 
be  put  together  with  the  utmost  anatomical  skill. 

The  immense  advantage  possessed  by  men  of  genius 
over  men  of  talents  can  be  illustrated  in  no  stronger 
manner,  than  by  a  comparison  of  the  benefits  resulting  to 
mankind  from  the  works  of  Homer  and  of  Thucydides. 
The  merits  and  claims  of  Thucydides,  as  a  historian,  are 
at  once  admitted  ;  but  what  care  we  for  the  incidents  of 
the  Peloponnesian  War  ?  An  individual  may  be  ignorant 
of  them,  as  far  as  regards  the  particular  narrative  of 
Thucydides  ;  but  woe  to  that  statesman,  or,  I  may  say, 
woe  to  that  man,  who  has  not  availed  himself  of  the  wisdom 
contained  in  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  !  " 

Lord  Bacon  has  beautifully  expressed  this  idea,  where  he 
talks  of  the  instability  and  destruction  of  the  monuments 
of  the  greatest  heroes,  and  compares  them  with  the  ever- 
lasting writings  of  Homer,  one  word  of  which  has  never 
been  lost  since  the  days  of  Pisistratus.  Like  a  mighty  ship, 
they  have  passed  over  the  sea  of  time,  not  leaving  a  mere 
ideal  track,  which  soon  altogether  disappears,  but  leaving  a 
train  of  glory  in  its  wake,  present  and  enduring,  daily  acting 


4o8 


The  Sixth  Lecture 


upon  our  minds,  and  ennobling  us  by  grand  thoughts  and 
images  :  to  this  work,  perhaps,  the  bravest  of  our  soldiery 
may  trace  and  attribute  some  of  their  heroic  achievements. 
Just  as  the  body  is  to  the  immortal  mind,  so  are  the  actions 
of  our  bodily  powers  in  proportion  to  those  by  which, 
independent  of  individual  continuity,^  we  are  governed 
for  ever  and  ever  ;  by  which  we  call,  not  only  the  narrow 
circle  of  mankind  (narrow  comparatively)  as  they  now 
exist,  our  brethren,  but  by  which  we  carry  our  being  into 
future  ages,  and  call  all  who  shall  succeed  us  our  brethren, 
until  at  length  we  arrive  at  that  exalted  state,  when  we 
shall  welcome  into  Heaven  thousands  and  thousands,  who 
will  exclaim — "  To  you  I  owe  the  first  development  of  my 
imagination  ;  to  you  I  owe  the  withdrawing  of  my  mind 
from  the  low  brutal  part  of  my  nature,  to  the  lofty,  the 
pure,  and  the  perpetual." 

Adverting  to  the  subject  more  immediately  before  us, 
I  may  observe  that  I  have  looked  at  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
interesting  on  many  accounts,  with  peculiar  pleasure  and 
satisfaction,  because  it  furnished  circumstances  so  favour- 
able to  the  existence,  and  to  the  full  development  of  the 
powers  of  Shakespeare.  The  Reformation,  just  completed, 
had  occasioned  unusual  activity  of  mind,  a  passion,  as  it 
were,  for  thinking,  and  for  the  discovery  and  use  of  words 
capable  of  expressing  the  objects  of  thought  and  invention. 
It  was,  consequently,  the  age  of  many  conceits,  and  an  age 
when,  for  a  time,  the  intellect  stood  superior  to  the  moral 
sense. 

The  difference  between  the  state  of  mind  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  and  in  that  of  Charles  I.  is  astonishing.  In 
the  former  period  there  was  an  amazing  development  of 
power,  but  all  connected  with  prudential  purposes — an 
attempt  to  reconcile  the  moral  feeling  with  the  full  exercise 
of  the  powers  of  the  mind,  and  the  accomplishment  of 
certain  practical  ends.  Then  lived  Bacon,  Burghley,  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  a  galaxy  of  great 
men,  statesmen,  lawyers,  politicians,  philosophers,  and 
poets  ;  and  it  is  lamentable  that  they  should  have  degraded 

1  I  give  this  passage  exactly  as  I  find  it  in  my  notes  ;  but  it  strikes  me  that  something 
explanatory  must  have  been  accidentally  omitted,  and  perhaps  that  the  word  I  have 
written  "  continuity  "  ought  to  be  contiguity.  I  might  have  left  out  the  whole  from 
"Just  as  the  body  "  down  to  '*  the  pure  and  the  perpetual,"  but  1  preferred  showing 
my  own  imperfectness  to  omitting  what  may  be  clear  to  others,  though,  at  this  distance 
of  time,  not  so  evident  to  me.  The  general  point  and  bearing  of  what  Coleridge  said 
will  be  easily  understood. — J.  P.  C. 


The  Sixth  Lecture  409 

their  mighty  powers  to  such  base  designs  and  purposes, 
dissolving  the  rich  pearls  of  their  great  faculties  in  a 
worthless  acid,  to  be  drunken  by  a  harlot.  What  was 
seeking  the  favour  of  the  Queen,  to  a  man  like  Bacon,  but 
the  mere  courtship  of  harlotry  ? 

Compare  this  age  with  that  of  the  republicans  :  that 
indeed  was  an  awful  age,  as  compared  with  our  own. 
England  may  be  said  to  have  then  overflowed  from  the 
fulness  of  grand  principle — from  the  greatness  which  men 
felt  in  themselves,  abstracted  from  the  prudence  with  which 
they  ought  to  have  considered,  whether  their  principles 
were,  or  were  not,  adapted  to  the  condition  of  mankind  at 
large.  Compare  the  revolution  then  effected  with  that  of 
a  day  not  long  past,  when  the  bubbling-up  and  overflowing 
was  occasioned  by  the  elevation  of  the  dregs — when  there 
was  a  total  absence  of  all  principle,  when  the  dregs  had 
risen  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  and  thus  converted  into 
scum,  founded  a  monarchy  to  be  the  poisonous  bane  and 
misery  of  the  rest  of  mankind. 

It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  recollect,  that  the  age  in 
which  Shakspeare  hved  was  one  of  great  abilities  applied 
to  individual  and  prudential  purposes,  and  not  an  age  of 
high  moral  feeling  and  lofty  principle,  which  gives  a  man 
of  genius  the  power  of  thinking  of  all  things  in  reference 
to  all.  If,  then,  we  should  find  that  Shakspeare  took 
these  materials  as  they  were  presented  to  him,  and  yet  to 
aU  effectual  purposes  produced  the  same  grand  result  as 
others  attempted  to  produce  in  an  age  so  much  more 
favourable,  shall  we  not  feel  and  acknowledge  the  purity 
and  holiness  of  genius — a  light,  which,  however  it  might 
shine  on  a  dunghill,  was  as  pure  as  the  divine  effluence 
which  created  all  the  beauty  of  nature  ? 

One  of  the  consequences  of  the  idea  prevalent  at  the 
period  when  Shakspeare  flourished,  viz.,  that  persons  must 
be  men  of  talents  in  proportion  as  they  were  gentlemen, 
renders  certain  characters  in  his  dramas  natural  with 
reference  to  the  date  when  they  were  drawn  :  when  we 
read  them  we  are  aware  that  they  are  not  of  our  age,  and 
in  one  sense  they  may  be  said  to  be  of  no  age.  A  friend 
of  mine  well  remarked  of  Spenser,  that  he  is  out  of  space  : 
the  reader  never  knows  where  he  is,  but  still  he  knows, 
from  the  consciousness  within  him,  that  all  is  as  natural 
and  proper,  as  if  the  country  where  the  action  is  laid  were 


4IO  The  Sixth  Lecture 

distinctly  pointed  out,  and  marked  down  in  a  map.  Shak- 
speare  is  as  much  out  of  time,  as  Spenser  is  out  of  space  ; 
yet  we  feel  conscious,  though  we  never  knew  that  such 
characters  existed,  that  they  might  exist,  and  are  satisfied 
with  the  belief  in  their  existence. 

This  circumstance  enabled  Shakspeare  to  paint  truly, 
and  according  to  the  colouring  of  nature,  a  vast  number 
of  personages  by  the  simple  force  of  meditation  :  he  had 
only  to  imitate  certain  parts  of  his  own  character,  or  to 
exaggerate  such  as  existed  in  possibility,  and  they  were 
at  once  true  to  nature,  and  fragments  of  the  divine  mind 
that  drew  them.  Men  who  see  the  great  luminary  of  our 
system  through  various  optical  instruments  declare  that  it 
seems  either  square,  triangular,  or  round,  when  in  truth 
it  is  still  the  sun,  unchanged  in  shape  and  proportion.  So 
with  the  characters  of  our  great  poet  :  some  may  think 
them  of  one  form,  and  some  of  another  ;  but  they  are  still 
nature,  still  Shakspeare,  and  the  creatures  of  his  meditation. 

When  I  use  the  term  meditation,  I  do  not  mean  that 
our  great  dramatist  was  without  observation  of  external 
circumstances  :  quite  the  reverse  ;  but  mere  observation 
may  be  able  to  produce  an  accurate  copy,  and  even  to 
furnish  to  other  men's  minds  more  than  the  copyist  pro- 
fessed ;  but  what  is  produced  can  only  consist  of  parts  and 
fragments,  according  to  the  means  and  extent  of  observa- 
tion. Meditation  looks  at  every  character  with  inte'rest, 
only  as  it  contains  something  generally  true,  and  such  as 
might  be  expressed  in  a  philosophical  problem. 

Shakspeare's  characters  may  be  reduced  to  a  few — that 
is  to  say,  to  a  few  classes  of  characters.  If  you  take  his 
gentlemen,  for  instance,  Biron  is  seen  again  in  Mercutio,  in 
Benedick,  and  in  several  others.  They  are  men  who  com- 
bine the  politeness  of  the  courtier  with  the  faculties  of  high 
intellect — those  powers  of  combination  and  severance 
which  only  belong  to  an  intellectual  mind.  The  wonder  is 
how  Shakspeare  can  thus  disguise  himself,  and  possess  such 
miraculous  powers  of  conveying  what  he  means  without 
betraying  the  poet,  and  without  even  producing  the  con- 
sciousness of  him. 

In  the  address  of  Mercutio  regarding  Queen  Mab,  which 
is  so  well  known  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  repeat  it,  is  to  be 
noted  all  the  fancy  of  the  poet ;  and  the  language  in  which 
it  is  conveyed  possesses  such  facility  and  felicity,  that  one 


The  Sixth  Lecture  411 

would  almost  say  that  it  was  impossible  for  it  to  be  thought, 
unless  it  were  thought  as  naturally,  and  without  effort, 
as  Mercutio  repeats  it.  This  is  the  great  art  by  which 
Shakspeare  combines  the  poet  and  the  gentleman  through- 
out, borrowing  from  his  most  amiable  nature  that  which 
alone  could  combine  them,  a  perfect  simplicity  of  mind,  a 
delight  in  all  that  is  excellent  for  its  own  sake,  without 
reference  to  himself  as  causing  it,  and  by  that  which  dis- 
tinguishes him  from  all  other  poets,  alluded  to  by  one  of 
his  admirers  in  a  short  poem,  where  he  tells  us  that  while 
Shakspeare  possessed  all  the  powers  of  a  man,  and  more 
than  a  man,  yet  he  had  all  the  feelings,  the  sensibilit}^  the 
purity,  innocence,  and  delicacy  of  an  affectionate  girl  of 
eighteen. 

Before  I  enter  upon  the  merits  of  the  tragedy  of  '*  Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  say  something  of 
the  language  of  our  country.  And  here  I  beg  leave  to 
observe,  that  although  I  have  announced  these  as  lectures 
upon  Milton  and  Shakspeare,  they  are  in  reality,  as  also 
stated  in  the  prospectus,  intended  to  illustrate  the  prin- 
ciples of  poetry  :  therefore,  all  must  not  be  regarded  as 
mere  digression  which  does  not  immediately  and  ex- 
clusively refer  to  those  writers.  I  have  chosen  them,  in 
order  to  bring  under  the  notice  of  my  hearers  great  general 
truths  ;  in  fact,  whatever  may  aid  myself,  as  well  as  others, 
in  deciding  upon  the  claims  of  all  writers  of  all  countries. 

The  language,  that  is  to  say  the  particular  tongue,  in 
which  Shakspeare  wrote,  cannot  be  left  out  of  considera- 
tion. It  will  not  be  disputed,  that  one  language  may  pos- 
sess advantages  which  another  does  not  enjoy  ;  and  we 
may  state  with  confidence,  that  English  excels  all  other  lan- 
guages in  the  number  of  its  practical  words.  The  French 
may  bear  the  palm  in  the  names  of  trades,  and  in  military 
and  diplomatic  terms.  Of  the  German  it  may  be  said, 
that,  exclusive  of  many  mineralogical  words,  it  is  incom- 
parable in  its  metaphysical  and  psychological  force  :  in 
another  respect  it  nearly  rivals  the  Greek, 

"  The  learned  Greek,  rich  in  fit  epithets, 
Blest  in  the  lovely  marriage  of  pure  words  ;  "  * 

I  mean  in  its  capability  of  composition — of  forming  com- 

1  From  Act  I.,  Scene  i,  of  "Lingua,  or  the  Combat  of  the  Tongue  and  the  Five 
Senses."  This  drama  is  reprinted  in  Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  vol.  v.  (last  edition),  and 
\he  lines  may  be  found  on  p.  107  of  that  volume. 


412  The  Sixth  Lecture 

pound  words.  Italian  is  the  sweetest  and  softest  language  ; 
Spanish  the  most  majestic.  All  these  have  their  peculiar 
faults  ;  but  I  never  can  agree  that  any  language  is  unfit  for 
poetry,  although  different  languages,  from  the  condition 
and  circumstances  of  the  people,  may  certainly  be  adapted 
to  one  species  of  poetry  more  than  to  another. 

Take  the  French  as  an  example.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
perspicuous  and  pointed  language  in  the  world,  and  there- 
fore best  fitted  for  conversation,  for  the  expression  of  light 
and  airy  passion,  attaining  its  object  by  peculiar  and 
felicitous  turns  of  phrase,  which  are  evanescent,  and,  like 
the  beautifully  coloured  dust  on  the  wings  of  a  butterfly, 
must  not  be  judged  by  the  test  of  touch.  It  appears  as  if 
it  were  all  surface  and  had  no  substratum,  and  it  constantly 
most  dangerously  tampers  with  morals,  without  positively 
offending  decency.  As  the  language  for  what  is  called 
modern  genteel  comedy  all  others  must  yield  to  French. 

Italian  can  only  be  deemed  second  to  Spanish,  and 
Spanish  to  Greek,  which  contains  all  the  excellences  of 
all  languages.  Italian,  though  sweet  and  soft,  is  not 
deficient  in  force  and  dignity  ;  and  I  may  appeal  to  Ariosto, 
as  a  poet  who  displays  to  the  utmost  advantage  the  use 
of  his  native  tongue  for  all  purposes,  whether  of  passion, 
sentiment,  humour,  or  description. 

But  in  English  I  find  that  which  is  possessed  by  no  other 
modern  language,  and  which,  as  it  were,  appropriates  it  to 
the  drama.  It  is  a  language  made  out  of  many,  and  it  has 
consequently  many  words,  which  originally  had  the  same 
meaning  ;  but  in  the  progress  of  society  those  words  have 
gradually  assumed  different  shades  of  meaning.  Take 
any  homogeneous  language,  such  as  German,  and  try  to 
translate  into  it  the  following  lines  : — 

"  But  not  to  one,  in  this  benighted  age, 
Is  that  diviner  inspiration  given. 
That  burns  in  Shakspeare's  or  in  Milton's  page. 
The  pomp  and  prodigality  of  heaven." 

Gray's  Stanzas  to  Bentley. 

In  German  it  would  be  necessary  to  say  "  the  pomp 
and  spendthriftness  of  heaven,"  because  the  German  has 
not,  as  we  have,  one  word  with  two  such  distinct  meanings, 
one  expressing  the  nobler,  the  other  the  baser  idea  of  the 
same  action. 

The    monosyllabic    character    of    English    enables    us, 


The  Sixth  Lecture  413 

besides,  to  express  more  meaning  in  a  shorter  compass  than 
can  be  done  in  any  other  language.  In  truth,  EngUsh 
may  be  called  the  harvest  of  the  unconscious  wisdom  of 
various  nations,  and  was  not  the  formation  of  any  particu- 
lar time,  or  assemblage  of  individuals.  Hence  the  number 
of  its  passionate  phrases — its  metaphorical  terms,  not 
borrowed  from  poets,  but  adopted  by  them.  Our  com- 
monest people,  when  excited  by  passion,  constantly  employ 
them  :  if  a  mother  lose  her  child  she  is  full  of  the  wildest 
fancies,  and  the  words  she  uses  assume  a  tone  of  dignity  ; 
for  the  constant  hearing  and  reading  of  the  Bible  and 
Liturgy  clothes  her  thoughts  not  only  in  the  most  natural, 
but  in  the  most  beautiful  forms  of  language. 

I  have  been  induced  to  offer  these  remarks,  in  order  to 
obviate  an  objection  often  made  against  Shakspeare  on 
the  ground  of  the  multitude  of  his  conceits.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  justify  every  conceit,  and  a  vast  number  have 
been  most  unfairly  imputed  to  him  ;  for  I  am  satisfied  that 
many  portions  of  scenes  attributed  to  Shakspeare  were 
never  written  by  him.  I  admit,  however,  that  even  in 
those  which  bear  the  strongest  characteristics  of  his  mind, 
there  are  some  conceits  not  strictly  to  be  vindicated. 
The  notion  against  which  I  declare  war  is,  that  whenever 
a  conceit  is  met  with  it  is  unnatural.  People  who  enter- 
tain this  opinion  forget,  that  had  they  lived  in  the  age 
of  Shakspeare,  they  would  have  deemed  them  natural. 
Dry  den  in  his  translation  of  Juvenal  has  used  the  words 
"  Look  round  the  world,"  which  are  a  literal  version  of 
the  original ;  but  Dr.  Johnson  has  swelled  and  expanded 
this  expression  into  the  following  couplet  : — 

"  Let  observation,  Avith  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru  ;  ** 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 

mere  bombast  and  tautology  ;  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Let 
observation  with  extensive  observation  observe  mankind 
extensively." 

Had  Dr.  Johnson  lived  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  or 
even  of  Dry  den,  he  would  never  have  been  guilty  of  such 
an  outrage  upon  common  sense  and  common  language  ; 
and  if  people  would,  in  idea,  throw  themselves  back  a 
couple  of  centuries,  they  would  find  that  conceits,  and  even 
puns,  were  very  allowable,  because  very  natural.     Puns 


414  The  Sixth  Lecture 

often  arise  out  of  a  mingled  sense  of  injury,  and  contempt 
of  the  person  inflicting  it,  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  it  is  a 
natural  way  of  expressing  that  mixed  feeling.  I  could 
point  out  puns  in  Shakspeare,  where  they  appear  almost 
as  if  the  first  openings  of  the  mouth  of  nature — where 
nothing  else  could  so  properly  be  said.  This  is  not  peculiar 
to  puns,  but  is  of  much  wider  application  :  read  any  part 
of  the  works  of  our  great  dramatist,  and  the  conviction 
comes  upon  you  irresistibly,  not  only  that  what  he  puts 
into  the  mouths  of  his  personages  might  have  been  said, 
but  that  it  must  have  been  said,  because  nothing  so  proper 
could  have  been  said. 

In  a  future  lecture  I  will  enter  somewhat  into  the  history 
of  conceits,  and  shew  the  wise  use  that  has  heretofore  been 
made  of  them.  I  will  now  (and  I  hope  it  will  be  received 
with  favour)  attempt  a  defence  of  conceits  and  puns, 
taking  my  examples  mainly  from  the  poet  under  considera- 
tion. I  admit,  of  course,  that  they  may  be  misapplied  ; 
but  throughout  life,  I  may  say,  I  never  have  discovered 
the  wrong  use  of  a  thing,  without  having  previously  dis- 
covered the  right  use  of  it.  To  the  young  I  would  remark, 
that  it  is  always  unwise  to  judge  of  anything  by  its  defects  : 
the  first  attempt  ought  to  be  to  discover  its  excellences. 
If  a  man  come  into  my  company  and  abuse  a  book,  his 
invectives  coming  down  like  water  from  a  shower  bath,  I 
never  feel  obliged  to  him  :  he  probably  tells  me  no  news, 
for  all  works,  even  the  best,  have  defects,  and  they  are 
easily  seen  ;  but  if  a  man  show  me  beauties,  I  thank  him 
for  his  information,  because,  in  my  time,  I  have  unfortu- 
nately gone  through  so  many  volumes  that  have  had  little 
or  nothing  to  recommend  them.  Always  begin  with  the 
good — a  Jove  principium — and  the  bad  will  make  itself 
evident  enough,  quite  as  soon  as  is  desirable. 

I  will  proceed  to  speak  of  Shakspeare's  wit,  in  connexion 
with  his  much  abused  puns  and  conceits  ;  because  an 
excellent  writer,  who  has  done  good  service  to  the  public 
taste  by  driving  out  the  nonsense  of  the  Italian  school,  has 
expressed  his  surprise,  that  aU  the  other  excellences  of 
Shakspeare  were,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  possessed  by 
his  contemporaries  :  thus,  Ben  Jonson  had  one  qualifica- 
tion, Massinger  another,  while  he  declares  that  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  had  equal  knowledge  of  human  nature,  with 
more  variety.     The  point  in  which  none  of  them  had 


The  Sixth  Lecture  415 

approached  Shakspeare,  according  to  this  writer,  was  his 
wit.  I  own,  I  was  somewhat  shocked  to  see  it  gravely  said 
in  print,  that  the  quahty  by  which  Shakspeare  was  to  be 
individualised  from  all  others  was,  what  is  ordinarily  called, 
wit.  I  had  read  his  plays  over  and  over,  and  it  did  not 
strike  me  that  wit  was  his  great  and  characteristic  superi- 
ority. In  reading  Voltaire,  or  (to  take  a  standard  and  most 
witty  comedy  cls  an  example)  in  reading  **  The  School  for 
Scandal,"  I  never  experienced  the  same  sort  of  feeling  as 
in  reading  Shakspeare. 

That  Shakspeare  has  wit  is  indisputable,  but  it  is  not 
the  same  kind  of  wit  as  in  other  writers  :  his  wit  is  blended 
with  the  other  qualities  of  his  works,  and  is,  by  its  nature, 
capable  of  being  so  blended.  It  appears  in  all  parts  of  his 
productions,  in  his  tragedies,  comedies,  and  histories :  it  is 
not  like  the  wit  of  Voltaire,  and  of  many  modern  writers, 
to  whom  the  epithet  "  witty  "  has  been  properly  apphed, 
whose  wit  consists  in  a  mere  combination  of  words  ;  but 
in  at  least  nine  times  out  of  ten  in  Shakspeare,  the  wit  is 
produced  not  by  a  combination  of  words,  but  by  a  com- 
bination of  images. 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  distinguish  between  wit  and 
fancy.  When  the  whole  pleasure  received  is  derived  from 
surprise  at  an  unexpected  turn  of  expression,  then  I  call 
it  wit ;  but  when  the  pleasure  is  produced  not  only  by 
surprise,  but  also  by  an  image  which  remains  with  us  and 
gratifies  for  its  own  sake,  then  I  call  it  fancy.  I  know  of 
no  mode  so  satisfactory  of  distinguishing  between  wit  and 
fancy.  I  appeal  to  the  recollection  of  those  who  hear  me, 
whether  the  greater  part  of  what  passes  for  wit  in  Shak- 
speare, is  not  most  exquisite  humour,  heightened  by  a 
figure,  and  attributed  to  a  particular  character  ?  Take 
the  instance  of  the  flea  on  Bardolph's  nose,  which  Falstaff 
compares  to  a  soul  suft'ering  in  purgatory.  The  images 
themselves,  in  cases  like  this,  afford  a  great  part  of  the 
pleasure. 

These  remarks  are  not  without  importance  in  forming 
a  judgment  of  poets  and  writers  in  general :  there  is  a  wide 
difference  between  the  talent  which  gives  a  sort  of  electric 
surprise  by  a  mere  turn  of  phrase,  and  that  higher  ability 
which  produces  surprise  by  a  permanent  medium,  and 
always  leaves  something  behind  it,  which  satisfies  the 
mind  as  well  as  tickles  the  hearing.     The  first  belongs  to 


4i6  The  Sixth  Lecture 

men  of  cleverness,  who,  having  been  long  in  the  world, 
have  observed  the  turns  of  phrase  which  please  in  company, 
and  which,  passing  away  the  moment,  are  passed  in  a 
moment,  being  no  longer  recollected  than  the  time  they 
take  in  utterance.  We  must  all  have  seen  and  known 
such  people  ;  and  I  remember  saying  of  one  of  them  that 
he  was  like  a  man  who  squandered  his  estate  in  farthings  : 
he  gave  away  so  many,  that  he  must  needs  have  been 
wealthy.  This  sort  of  talent  by  no  means  constitutes 
genius,  although  it  has  some  affinity  to  it. 

The  wit  of  Shakspeare  is,  as  it  were,  like  the  flourishing 
of  a  man's  stick,  when  he  is  walking,  in  the  full  flow  of 
animal  spirits  :  it  is  a  sort  of  exuberance  of  hilarity  which 
disburdens,  and  it  resembles  a  conductor,  to  distribute  a 
portion  of  our  gladness  to  the  surrounding  air.  While, 
however,  it  disburdens,  it  leaves  behind  what  is  weightiest 
and  most  important,  and  what  most  contributes  to  some 
direct  aim  and  purpose. 

I  will  now  touch  upon  a  very  serious  charge  against 
Shakspeare — that  of  indecency  and  immorality.  Many 
have  been  those  who  have  endeavoured  to  exculpate  him 
by  saying,  that  it  was  the  vice  of  his  age  ;  but  he  was 
too  great  to  require  exculpation  from  the  accidents  of  any 
age.  These  persons  have  appealed  to  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  to  Massinger,  and  to  other  less  eminent  drama- 
tists, to  prove  that  what  is  complained  of  was  common  to 
them  all.  Oh  !  shame  and  sorrow,  if  it  were  so  :  there  is 
nothing  common  to  Shakspeare  and  to  other  writers  of  his 
day — not  even  the  language  they  employed. 

In  order  to  form  a  proper  judgment  upon  this  point,  it 
is  necessary  to  make  a  distinction  between  manners  and 
morals  ;  and  that  distinction  being  once  established,  and 
clearly  comprehended,  Shakspeare  will  appear  as  pure  a 
writer,  in  reference  to  all  that  we  ought  to  be,  and  to  all 
that  we  ought  to  feel,  as  he  is  wonderful  in  reference  to 
his  intellectual  faculties. 

By  manners  I  mean  what  is  dependent  on  the  par- 
cular  customs  and  fashions  of  the  age.  Even  in  a  state 
of  comparative  barbarism  as  to  manners,  there  may  be, 
and  there  is,  morality.  But  give  me  leave  to  say  that 
we  have  seen  much  worse  times  than  those — times  when 
the  mind  was  so  enervated  and  degraded,  that  the  most 
distant  associations,  that  could  possibly  connect  our  ideas 


The  Sixth  Lecture  417 

with  the  basest  feeUngs,  immediately  brought  forward 
those  base  feeUngs,  without  reference  to  the  nobler  im- 
pulses ;  thus  destroying  the  little  remnant  of  humanity, 
excluding  from  the  mind  what  is  good,  and  introducing 
what  is  bad  to  keep  the  bestial  nature  company. 

On  looking  through  Shakspeare,  offences  against 
decency  and  manners  may  certainly  be  pointed  out ; 
but  let  us  examine  history  minutely,  and  we  shall  find 
that  this  was  the  ordinary  language  of  the  time,  and  then 
let  us  ask,  where  is  the  offence  ?  The  offence,  so  to  call 
it,  was  not  committed  wantonly,  and  for  the  sake  of 
offending,  but  for  the  sake  of  merriment ;  for  what  is 
most  observable  in  Shakspeare,  in  reference  to  this  topic, 
is  that  what  he  says  is  always  calculated  to  raise  a  gust 
of  laughter,  that  would,  as  it  were,  blow  a.way  all  impure 
ideas,  if  it  did  not  excite  abhorrence  of  them. 

Above  all,  let  us  compare  him  with  some  modern  writers, 
the  servile  imitators  of  the  French,  and  we  shall  receive 
a  most  instructive  lesson.  I  may  take  the  liberty  of 
reading  the  following  note,  written  by  me  after  witnessing 
the  performance  of  a  modern  play  at  Malta,  about  nine 
years  ago  : — "I  went  to  the  theatre,  and  came  away 
without  waiting  for  the  entertainment.  The  longer  I  live, 
the  more  I  am  impressed  with  the  exceeding  immorality 
of  modern  plays  :  I  can  scarcely  refrain  from  anger  and 
laughter  at  the  shamelessness,  and  the  absurdity  of  the 
presumption  which  presents  itself,  when  I  think  of  their 
pretences  to  superior  morality,  compared  with  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare." 

Here  let  me  pause  for  one  moment ;  for  while  reading 
my  note  I  call  to  mind  a  novel,  on  the  sofa  or  toilet  of 
nearly  every  woman  of  quality,  in  which  the  author 
gravely  warns  parents  against  the  indiscreet  communica- 
tion to  their  children  of  the  contents  of  some  parts  of 
the  Bible,  as  calculated  to  injure  their  morals.  Another 
modern  author,  who  has  done  his  utmost  to  undermine 
the  innocence  of  the  young  of  both  sexes,  has  the  effrontery 
to  protest  against  the  exhibition  of  the  bare  leg  of  a 
Corinthian  female.     My  note  thus  pursues  the  subject : — 

"  In  Shakspeare  there  are  a  few  gross  speeches,  but  it 

is  doubtful  to  me  if  they  would  produce  any  ill  effect  on 

an  unsullied  mind  ;  while  in  some  modern  plays,  as  well  as 

in  some  modern  novels,  there  is  a  systematic  undermining 

o 


4i8  The  Sixth  Lecture 

of  all  morality :  they  are  written  in  the  true  cant  ol 
humanity,  that  has  no  object  but  to  impose ;  where 
virtue  is  not  placed  in  action,  or  in  the  habits  that  lead  to 
action,  but,  like  the  title  of  a  book  I  have  heard  of,  they 
are  '  a  hot  huddle  of  indefinite  sensations.'  In  these  the 
lowest  incitements  to  piety  are  obtruded  upon  us  ;  like 
an  impudent  rascal  at  a  masquerade,  who  is  well  known 
in  spite  of  his  vizor,  or  known  by  it,  and  yet  is  allowed  to 
be  impudent  in  virtue  of  his  disguise.  In  short,  I  appeal 
to  the  whole  of  Shakspeare's  writings,  whether  his  gross- 
ness  is  not  the  mere  sport  of  fancy,  dissipating  low  feelings 
by  exciting  the  intellect,  and  only  injuring  while  it  offends  ? 
Modern  dramas  injure  in  consequence  of  not  offending. 
Shakspeare's  worst  passages  are  grossnesses  against  the 
degradations  of  our  nature  :  those  of  our  modern  plays 
are  too  often  delicacies  directly  in  favour  of  them." 

Such  was  my  note,  made  nine  years  ago,  and  I  have 
since  seen  every  reason  to  adhere  firmly  to  the  opinions 
it  expresses. 

In  my  next  lecture  I  will  proceed  to  an  examination  of 
"  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  "  and  I  take  that  tragedy,  because 
in  it  are  to  be  found  aU  the  crude  materials  of  future 
excellence.  The  poet,  the  great  dramatic  poet,  is  through- 
out seen,  but  the  various  parts  of  the  composition  are 
not  blended  with  such  harmony  as  in  some  of  his  after 
writings.  I  am  directed  to  it,  more  than  all,  for  this 
reason, — because  it  affords  me  the  best  opportunity  of 
introducing  Shakspeare  as  a  delineator  of  female  char- 
acter, and  of  love  in  all  its  forms,  and  with  all  the  emotions 
which  deserve  that  sweet  and  man-elevating  name. 

It  has  been  remarked,  I  believe  by  Dryden,  that  Shak- 
speare wrote  for  men  only,  but  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
(or  rather  "  the  gentle  Fletcher  ")  for  women.  I  wish  to 
begin  by  shewing,  not  only  that  this  is  not  true,  but  that, 
of  all  .writers  for  the  stage,  he  only  has  drawn  the  female 
character  with  that  mixture  of  the  real  and  of  the  ideal 
which  belongs  to  it ;  and  that  there  is  no  one  female 
personage  in  the  plays  of  all  his  contemporaries,  of  whom 
a  man,  seriously  examining  his  heart  and  his  good  sense, 
can  say  "  Let  that  woman  be  my  companion  through 
hfe  :  let  her  be  the  subject  of  my  suit,  and  the  reward  of 
my  success." 

END   OF   THE    SIXTH    LECTURE. 


The  Seventh  Lecture  419 

THE    SEVENTH    LECTURE. 

In  a  former  lecture  I  endeavoured  to  point  out  the  union 
of  the  Poet  and  the  Philosopher,  or  rather  the  warm  embrace 
between  them,  in  the  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  and  "  Lucrece  " 
of  Shakspeare.  From  thence  I  passed  on  to  "  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,"  as  the  link  between  his  character  as  a  Poet, 
and  his  art  as  a  Dramatist ;  and  I  shewed  that,  although  in 
that  work  the  former  was  still  predominant,  yet  that  the 
germs  of  his  subsequent  dramatic  power  were  easily 
discernible. 

I  will  now,  as  I  promised  in  my  last,  proceed  to  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  not  because  it  is  the  earliest,  or  among  the 
earliest  of  Shakspeare's  works  of  that  kind,  but  because 
in  it  are  to  be  found  specimens,  in  degree,  of  all  the  ex- 
cellences which  he  afterwards  displayed  in  his  more 
perfect  dramas,  but  differing  from  them  in  being  less 
forcibly  evidenced,  and  less  happily  combined  :  all  the 
parts  are  more  or  less  present,  but  they  are  not  united 
with  the  same  harmony. 

There  are,  however,  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  passages 
where  the  poet's  whole  excellence  is  evinced,  so  that 
nothing  superior  to  them  can  be  met  with  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  his  after  years.  The  main  distinction  between 
this  play  and  others  is,  as  I  said,  that  the  parts  are  less 
happily  combined,  or  to  borrow  a  phrase  from  the  painter, 
the  whole  work  is  less  in  keeping.  Grand  portions  are 
produced :  we  have  limbs  of  giant  growth ;  but  the 
production,  as  a  whole,  in  which  each  part  gives  delight 
for  itself,  and  the  whole,  consisting  of  these  delightful 
parts,  communicates  the  highest  intellectual  pleasure  and 
satisfaction,  is  the  result  of  the  application  of  judgment 
and  taste.  These  are  not  to  be  attained  but  by  painful 
study,  and  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  stronger  pleasures  derived 
from  the  dazzling  light  which  a  man  of  genius  throws  over 
every  circumstance,  and  where  we  are  chiefly  struck 
by  vivid  and  distinct  images.  Taste  is  an  attainment 
after  a  poet  has  been  discipHned  by  experience,  and  has 
added  to  genius  that  talent  by  which  he  knows  what  part 
of  his  genius  he  can  make  acceptable,  and  intelligible  to 
the  portion  of  mankind  for  which  he  writes. 

In  my  mind  it  would  be  a  hopeless  symptom,  as  regards 


420  The  Seventh  Lecture 

genius,  if  I  found  a  young  man  with  anything  Uke  perfect 
taste.  In  the  earUer  works  of  Shakspeare  we  have  a  pro- 
fusion of  double  epithets,  and  sometimes  even  the  coarsest 
terms  are  employed,  if  they  convey  a  more  vivid  image  ; 
but  by  degrees  the  associations  are  connected  with  the 
image  they  are  designed  to  impress,  and  the  poet  descends 
from  the  ideal  into  the  real  world  so  far  as  to  conjoin  both — 
to  give  a  sphere  of  active  operations  to  the  ideal,  and  to 
elevate  and  refine  the  real. 

In  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  the  principal  characters  may 
be  divided  into  two  classes  :  in  one  class  passion — the 
passion  of  love — is  drawn  and  drawn  truly,  as  weU  as 
beautifully  ;  but  the  persons  are  not  individualised  farther 
than  as  the  actor  appears  on  the  stage.  It  is  a  very  just 
description  and  development  of  love,  without  giving,  if  I 
may  so  express  myself,  the  philosophical  history  of  it — 
without  shewing  how  the  man  became  acted  upon  by  that 
particular  passion,  but  leading  it  through  all  the  incidents 
of  the  drama,  and  rendering  it  predominant. 

Tybalt  is,  in  himself,  a  commonplace  personage.  And 
here  allow  me  to  remark  upon  a  great  distinction  between 
Shakspeare,  and  all  who  have  written  in  imitation  of  him. 
I  know  no  character  in  his  plays  (unless  indeed  Pistol  be 
an  exception)  which  can  be  called  the  mere  portrait  of  an 
individual :  while  the  reader  feels  all  the  satisfaction 
arising  from  individuality,  yet  that  very  individual  is  a 
sort  of  class  character,  and  this  circumstance  renders 
Shakspeare  the  poet  of  all  ages. 

Tybalt  is  a  man  abandoned  to  his  passions — with  all  the 
pride  of  family,  only  because  he  thought  it  belonged  to 
him  as  a  member  of  that  family,  and  valuing  himself 
highly,  simply  because  he  does  not  care  for  death.  This 
indifference  to  death  is  perhaps  more  common  than  any 
other  feeling  :  men  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves  extra- 
vagantly, merely  because  they  possess  a  quality  which  it 
is  a  disgrace  not  to  have,  but  which  a  wise  man  never  puts 
forward,  but  when  it  is  necessary. 

Jeremy  Taylor  in  one  part  of  his  voluminous  works, 
speaking  of  a  great  man,  says  that  he  was  naturally  a 
coward,  as  indeed  most  men  are,  knowing  the  value  of  life, 
but  the  power  of  his  reason  enabled  him,  when  required, 
to  conduct  himself  with  uniform  courage  and  hardihood. 
The  good  bishop,  perhaps,  had  in  his  mind  a  story,  told  by 


The  Seventh  Lecture  421 

one  of  the  ancients,  of  a  Philosopher  and  a  Coxcomb,  on 
board  the  same  ship  during  a  storm  :  the  Coxcomb  reviled 
the  Philosopher  for  betraying  marks  of  fear  :  "  Why  are 
you  so  frightened  ?  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  drowned  : 
I  do  not  care  a  farthing  for  my  life." — "  You  are  perfectly 
right,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  for  your  life  is  not  worth  a 
farthing." 

Shakspeare  never  takes  pains  to  make  his  characters 
win  your  esteem,  but  leaves  it  to  the  general  command  of 
the  passions,  and  to  poetic  justice.  It  is  most  beautiful 
to  observe,  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  that  the  characters 
principally  engaged  in  the  incidents  are  preserved  innocent 
from  all  that  could  lower  them  in  our  opinion,  while  the 
rest  of  the  personages,  deserving  little  interest  in  them- 
selves, derive  it  from  being  instrumental  in  those  situations 
in  which  the  more  important  personages  develope  their 
thoughts  and  passions. 

Look  at  Capulet — a  worthy,  noble-minded  old  man  of 
high  rank,  with  all  the  impatience  that  is  likely  to  accom- 
pany it.  It  is  delightful  to  see  all  the  sensibilities  of  our 
nature  so  exquisitely  called  forth  ;  as  if  the  poet  had  the 
hundred  arms  of  the  polypus,  and  had  thrown  them  out 
in  aU  directions  to  catch  the  predominant  feeling.  We  may 
see  in  Capulet  the  manner  in  which  anger  seizes  hold  of 
everything  that  comes  in  its  way,  in  order  to  express  itself, 
as  in  the  lines  where  he  reproves  Tybalt  for  his  fierceness  of 
behaviour,  which  led  him  to  wish  to  insult  a  Montague,  and 
disturb  the  merriment. — 

"  Go  to,  go  to  ; 
You  are  a  saucy  boy.     Is't  so,  indeed  ? 
This  trick  may  chance  to  scath  you  ; — I  know  what. 
You  must  contrary  me  !  marry,  'tis  time. — 
Well  said,  my  hearts  ! — You  are  a  princox  :    go  : 
Be  quiet  or — More  light,  more  light  ! — For  shame  ! 
I'll  make  you  quiet. — What  !    cheerly,  my  hearts  !  " 

Act  I.,  Scene  $. 

The  line 

"  This  trick  may  chance  to  scath  you  ; — I  know  what," 

was  an  allusion  to  the  legac}/  Tybalt  might  expect ;  and 
then,  seeing  the  lights  burn  dimly,  Capulet  turns  his  anger 
against  the  servants.  Thus  we  see  that  no  one  passion 
Is  so  predominant,  but  that  it  includes  all  the  parts  of  the 
character,  and  the  reader  never  has  a  mere  abstract  of  a 


422  The  Seventh  Lecture 

passion,  as  of  wrath  or  ambition,  but  the  whole  man  is 
presented  to  him — the  one  predominant  passion  acting,  if 
I  may  so  say,  as  the  leader  of  the  band  to  the  rest. 

It  could  not  be  expected  that  the  poet  should  introduce 
such  a  character  as  Hamlet  into  every  play  ;  but  even 
in  those  personages,  which  are  subordinate  to  a  hero  so 
eminently  philosophical,  the  passion  is  at  least  rendered 
instructive,  and  induces  the  reader  to  look  with  a  keener 
eye,  and  a  finer  judgment  into  human  nature. 

Shakspeare  has  this  advantage  over  all  other  dramatists 
— that  he  has  availed  himself  of  his  psychological  genius 
to  develope  all  the  minutiae  of  the  human  heart :  shewing 
us  the  thing  that,  to  common  observers,  he  seems  solely 
intent  upon,  he  makes  visible  what  we  should  not  other- 
wise have  seen  :  just  as,  after  looking  at  distant  objects 
through  a  telescope,  when  we  behold  them  subsequently 
with  the  naked  eye,  we  see  them  with  greater  distinctness, 
and  in  more  detail,  than  we  should  otherwise  have  done. 

Mercutio  is  one  of  our  poet's  truly  Shakspearean  char- 
acters ;  for  throughout  his  plays,  but  especially  in  those 
of  the  highest  order,  it  is  plain  that  the  personages  were 
drawn  rather  from  meditation  than  from  observation,  or 
to  speak  correctly,  more  from  observation,  the  child  of 
meditation.  It  is  comparatively  easy  for  a  man  to  go 
about  the  world,  as  if  with  a  pocket-book  in  his  hand, 
carefully  noting  down  what  he  sees  and  hears  :  by  practice 
he  acquires  considerable  facility  in  representing  what  he 
has  observed,  himself  frequently  unconscious  of  its  worth, 
or  its  bearings.  This  is  entirely  different  from  the  observa- 
tion of  a  mind,  v/hich,  having  formed  a  theory  and  a 
system  upon  its  own  nature,  remarks  all  things  that  are 
examples  of  its  tmth,  confirming  it  in  that  truth,  and, 
above  all,  enabling  it  to  convey  the  truths  of  philosophy, 
as  mere  effects  derived  from,  what  we  may  call,  the  outward 
watchings  of  life. 

Hence  it  is  that  Shakspeare's  favourite  characters  are 
full  of  such  lively  intellect.  Mercutio  is  a  man  possessing 
all  the  elements  of  a  poet :  the  whole  world  was,  as  it  were, 
subject  to  his  law  of  association.  Whenever  he  wishes  to 
impress  anything,  all  things  become  his  servants  for  the 
purpose  :  all  things  tell  the  same  tale,  and  sound  in  unison. 
This  faculty,  moreover,  is  combined  with  the  manners 
and  feelings  of  a  perfect  gentleman,  himself  utterly  un- 


The  Seventh  Lecture  423 

conscious  of  his  powers.  By  his  loss  it  was  contrived  that 
the  whole  catastrophe  of  the  tragedy  should  be  brought 
about :  it  endears  him  to  Romeo,  and  gives  to  the  death  of 
Mercutio  an  importance  which  it  could  not  otherwise  have 
acquired. 

I  say  this  in  answer  to  an  observation,  I  think  by  Dry  den 
(to  which  indeed  Dr.  Johnson  has  fully  replied),  that  Shak- 
speare  having  carried  the  part  of  Mercutio  as  far  as  he 
could,  till  his  genius  was  exhausted,  had  killed  him  in  the 
third  Act,  to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  What  shallow 
nonsense !  As  I  have  remarked,  upon  the  death  of 
Mercutio  the  whole  catastrophe  depends  ;  it  is  produced 
by  it.  The  scene  in  which  it  occurs  serves  to  show  how 
indifference  to  any  subject  but  one,  and  aversion  to  activity 
on  the  part  of  Romeo,  may  be  overcome  and  roused  to  the 
most  resolute  and  determined  conduct.  Had  not  Mercutio 
been  rendered  so  amiable  and  so  interesting,  we  could  not 
have  felt  so  strongly  the  necessity  for  Romeo's  interference, 
connecting  it  immediately,  and  passionately,  with  the 
future  fortunes  of  the  lover  and  his  mistress. 

But  what  am  I  to  say  of  the  Nurse  ?  We  have  been 
told  that  her  character  is  the  mere  fruit  of  observation — 
that  it  is  like  Swift's  "  Polite  Conversation,"  certainly  the 
most  stupendous  work  of  human  memory,  and  of  un- 
ceasingly active  attention  to  what  passes  around  us,  upon 
record.  The  Nurse  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  has  some- 
times been  compared  to  a  portrait  by  Gerard  Dow,  in 
which  every  hair  was  so  exquisitely  painted,  that  it  would 
bear  the  test  of  the  microscope.  Now,  I  appeal  confidently 
to  my  hearers  whether  the  closest  observation  of  the 
manners  of  one  or  two  old  nurses  would  have  enabled 
Shakspeare  to  draw  this  character  of  admirable  generalisa- 
tion ?  Surely  not.  Let  any  man  conjure  up  in  his  mind 
all  the  quahties  and  peculiarities  that  can  possibly  belong 
to  a  nurse,  and  he  will  find  them  in  Shakspeare's  picture 
of  the  old  woman  :  nothing  is  omitted.  This  effect  is  not 
produced  by  mere  observation.  The  great  prerogative 
of  genius  (and  Shakspeare  felt  and  availed  himself  of  it) 
is  now  to  swell  itself  to  the  dignity  of  a  god,  and  now  to 
subdue  and  keep  dormant  some  part  of  that  lofty  nature, 
and  to  descend  even  to  the  lowest  character — to  become 
everything,  in  fact,  but  the  vicious. 

Thus,  in  the  Nurse  you  have  all  the  garrulity  of  old- 


424  The  Seventh  Lecture 

age,  and  all  its  fondness  ;  for  the  affection  of  old-age  is  one 
of  the  greatest  consolations  of  humanity.  I  have  often 
thought  what  a  melancholy  world  this  would  be  without 
children,  and  what  an  inhuman  world  without  the  aged. 

You  have  also  in  the  Nurse  the  arrogance  of  ignorance, 
with  the  pride  of  meanness  at  being  connected  with  a 
great  family.  You  have  the  grossness,  too,  which  that 
situation  never  removes,  though  it  sometimes  suspends  it ; 
and,  arising  from  that  grossness,  the  little  low  vices 
attendant  upon  it,  which,  indeed,  in  such  minds  are 
scarcely  vices. — Romeo  at  one  time  was  the  most  delight- 
ful and  excellent  young  man,  and  the  Nurse  all  willingness 
to  assist  him  ;  but  her  disposition  soon  turns  in  favour 
of  Paris,  for  whom  she  professes  precisely  the  same  admira- 
tion. How  wonderfully  are  these  low  peculiarities  con- 
trasted with  a  young  and  pure  mind,  educated  under 
different  circumstances  ! 

Another  point  ought  to  be  mentioned  as  characteristic 
of  the  ignorance  of  the  Nurse  : — it  is,  that  in  all  her  re- 
collections, she  assists  herself  by  the  remembrance  of 
visual  circumstances.  The  great  difference,  in  this  respect, 
between  the  cultivated  and  the  uncultivated  mind  is 
this — that  the  cultivated  mind  will  be  found  to  recal 
the  past  by  certain  regular  trains  of  cause  and  effect ; 
whereas,  with  the  uncultivated  mind,  the  past  is  recalled 
wholly  by  coincident  images,  or  facts  which  happened 
at  the  same  time.  This  position  is  fully  exemplified  in 
the  following  passages  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  Nurse  : — 

*'  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come  Lammas  eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen. 
Susan  and  she — God  rest  all  Christian  souls  ! — 
Were  of  an  age. — Well,  Susan  is  with  God  ; 
She  was  too  good  for  me.     But,  as  I  said, 
On  Lammas  eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen  ; 
That  shall  she,  marry  :    I  remember  it  well. 
'Tis  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years  ; 
And  she  was  wean'd, — I  never  shall  forget  it, — 
Of  all  the  days  of  the  year,  upon  that  day ; 
For  I  had  then  laid  wormwood  to  my  dug. 
Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall : 
My  lord  and  you  were  then  at  Mantua. — 
Nay,  I  do  bear  a  brain  : — but,  as  I  said. 
When  it  did  taste  the  wormwood  on  the  nipple 
Of  my  dug,  and  felt  it  bitter,  pretty  fool. 
To  see  it  tetchy,  and  fall  out  with  the  dug  ! 
Shake,  quoth  the  dove-house  :    'twas  no  need,  I  trow, 


The  Seventh  Lecture  425 

To  bid  me  trudge. 

And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years  ; 

For  then  she  could  stand  alone." 

Act  I.,  Scene  3. 

She  afterwards  goes  on  with  similar  visual  impressions, 
so  true  to  the  character. — More  is  here  brought  into  one 
portrait  than  could  have  been  ascertained  by  one  man's 
mere  observation,  and  without  the  introduction  of  a  single 
incongruous  point. 

I  honour,  I  love,  the  works  of  Fielding  as  much,  or 
perhaps  more,  than  those  of  any  other  writer  of  fiction 
of  that  kind  :  take  Fielding  in  his  characters  of  postillions, 
landlords,  and  landladies,  waiters,  or  indeed,  of  anybody 
who  had  come  before  his  eye,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
true,  more  happy,  or  more  humorous  ;  but  in  all  his  chief 
personages,  Tom  Jones  for  instance,  where  Fielding  was 
not  directed  by  observation,  where  he  could  not  assist 
himself  by  the  close  copying  of  what  he  saw,  where  it  is 
necessary  that  something  should  take  place,  some  words 
be  spoken,  or  some  object  described,  which  he  could  not 
have  witnessed  (his  soliloquies  for  example,  or  the  inter- 
view between  the  hero  and  Sophia  Western  before  the 
reconciliation)  and  I  will  venture  to  say,  loving  and  honour- 
ing the  man  and  his  productions  as  I  do,  that  nothing  can 
be  more  forced  and  unnatural :  the  language  is  without 
vivacity  or  spirit,  the  whole  matter  is  incongruous,  and 
totally  destitute  of  psychological  truth. 

On  the  other  hand,  look  at  Shakspeare  :  where  can 
any  character  be  produced  that  does  not  speak  the  language 
of  nature  ?  where  does  he  not  put  into  the  mouths 
of  his  dramatis  personcB,  be  they  high  or  low.  Kings  or 
Constables,  precisely  what  they  must  have  said  ?  Where, 
from  observation,  could  he  learn  the  language  proper 
to  Sovereigns,  Queens,  Noblemen  or  Generals  ?  yet  he 
invariably  uses  it. — Where,  from  observation,  could  he 
have  learned  such  lines  as  these,  which  are  put  into  the 
mouth  of  Othello,  when  he  is  talking  to  lago  of  Brabantio  ? 

"  Let  him  do  his  spite  : 
My  services,  which  I  have  done  the  signiory, 
Shall  out-tongue  his  complaints.     'Tis  yet  to  know, 
Which,  when  I  know  that  boasting  is  an  honour, 
I  shall  promulgate,  I  fetch  my  life  and  being 
From  men  of  royal  siege  ;    and  my  demerits 
May  speak,  unbonneted,  to  as  proud  a  fortune 


426  The  Seventh  Lecture 

As  this  that  I  have  reach'd  :    for  know,  lago. 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Desdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  free  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine 
For  the  sea's  worth." 

Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

I  ask  where  was  Shakspeare  to  observe  such  language 
as  this  ?  If  he  did  observe  it,  it  was  with  the  inward  eye 
of  meditation  upon  his  own  nature  :  for  the  time,  he 
became  Othello,  and  spoke  as  Othello,  in  such  circum- 
stances, must  have  spoken. 

Another  remark  I  may  make  upon  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  " 
is,  that  in  this  tragedy  the  poet  is  not,  as  I  have  hinted, 
entirely  blended  with  the  dramatist, — at  least,  not  in  the 
degree  to  be  afterwards  noticed  in  "  Lear,"  "  Hamlet," 
"  Othello,"  or  "  Macbeth."  Capulet  and  Montague  not 
unfrequently  talk  a  language  only  belonging  to  the  poet, 
and  not  so  characteristic  of,  and  peculiar  to,  the  passions 
of  persons  in  the  situations  in  which  they  are  placed — a 
mistake,  or  rather  an  indistinctness,  which  many  of  our 
later  dramatists  have  carried  through  the  whole  of  their 
productions. 

When  I  read  the  song  of  Deborah,  I  never  think  that 
she  is  a  poet,  although  I  think  the  song  itself  a  sublime 
poem  :  it  is  as  simple  a  dithyrambic  production  as  exists 
in  any  language  ;  but  it  is  the  proper  and  characteristic 
effusion  of  a  woman  highly  elevated  by  triumph,  by  the 
natural  hatred  of  oppressors,  and  resulting  from  a  bitter 
sense  of  wrong  :  it  is  a  song  of  exultation  on  deliverance 
from  these  evils,  a  deliverance  accomplished  by  herself. 
When  she  exclaims,  "  The  inhabitants  of  the  villages 
ceased,  they  ceased  in  Israel,  until  that  I,  Deborah,  arose, 
that  I  arose  a  mother  in  Israel,"  it  is  poetry  in  the  highest 
sense  :  we  have  no  reason,  however,  to  suppose  that  if  she 
had  not  been  agitated  by  passion,  and  animated  by  victory, 
she  would  have  been  able  so  to  express  herself  ;  or  that 
if  she  had  been  placed  in  different  circumstances,  she 
would  have  used  such  language  of  truth  and  passion.  We 
are  to  remember  that  Shakspeare,  not  placed  under  cir- 
cumstances of  excitement,  and  only  wrought  upon  by 
his  own  vivid  and  vigorous  imagination,  writes  a  language 
that  invariably,  and  intuitively  becomes  the  condition  and 
position  of  each  character. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  language  not  descriptive 


The  Seventh  Lecture  427 

of  passion,  nor  uttered  under  the  influence  of  it,  which  is 
at  the  same  time  poetic,  and  shows  a  high  and  active 
fancy,  as  when  Capulet  says  to  Paris, — 

"  Such  comfort  as  do  lusty  young  men  feel, 
When  well-apparell'd  April  on  the  heel 
Of  limping  winter  treads,  even  such  delight 
Among  fresh  female  buds,  shall  you  this  night 
Inherit  at  my  house." 

Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

Here  the  poet  may  be  said  to  speak,  rather  than  the 
dramatist  ;  and  it  would  be  easy  to  adduce  other  passages 
from  this  play,  where  Shakspeare,  for  a  moment  forgetting 
the  character,  utters  his  own  words  in  his  own  person. 

In  my  mind,  what  have  often  been  censured  as  Shak- 
speare's  conceits  are  completely  justifiable,  as  belonging 
to  the  state,  age,  or  feeling  of  the  individual.  Some- 
times, when  they  cannot  be  vindicated  on  these  grounds, 
they  may  well  be  excused  by  the  taste  of  his  own  and  of 
the  preceding  age  ;   as  for  instance,  in  Romeo's  speech, 

"  Here's  much  to  do  with  hate,  but  more  with  love  : — 
Why  then,  O  brawling  love  !  O  loving  hate  I 
O  anything,  of  nothing  first  created  ! 
O  heavy  lightness  !    serious  vanity  ! 
Misshapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms  ! 
Feather  of  lead,  bright  smoke,  cold  fire,  sick  health  ! 
Still-waking  sleep,  that  is  not  what  it  is  !  " 

Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

I  dare  not  pronounce  such  passages  as  these  to  be 
absolutely  unnatural,  not  merely  because  I  consider  the 
author  a  much  better  judge  than  I  can  be,  but  because  I 
can  understand  and  allow  for  an  effort  of  the  mind,  when 
it  would  describe  what  it  cannot  satisfy  itself  with  the 
description  of,  to  reconcile  opposites  and  qualify  contra- 
dictions, leaving  a  middle  state  of  mind  more  strictly 
appropriate  to  the  imagination  than  any  other,  when  it 
is,  as  it  were,  hovering  between  images.  As  soon  as  it  is 
fixed  on  one  image,  it  becomes  understanding  ;  but  while 
it  is  unfixed  and  wavering  between  them,  attaching  itself 
permanently  to  none,  it  is  imagination.  Such  is  the  fine 
description  of  Death  in  Milton  : — 

"  The  other  shape, 
If  shape  it  might  be  call'd,  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb. 
Or  substance  might  be  call'd,  that  shadow  seem'd. 


428  The  Seventh  Lecture 

For  each  seem'd  either  :    black  it  stood  as  night ; 

Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell, 

And  shook  a  dreadful  dart  :   what  seem'd  his  head 

The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on." 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  II. 
The  grandest  efforts  of  poetry  are  where  the  imagination 
is  called  forth,  not  to  produce  a  distinct  form,  but  a  strong 
working  of  the  mind,  still  offering  what  is  still  repelled, 
and  again  creating  what  is  again  rejected  ;  the  result  being 
what  the  poet  wishes  to  impress,  namely,  the  substitution 
of  a  sublime  feeling  of  the  unimaginable  for  a  mere  image. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  passage  just  read  might 
be  quoted  as  exhibiting  the  narrow  limit  of  painting,  as 
compared  with  the  boundless  power  of  poetry  :  painting 
cannot  go  beyond  a  certain  point ;  poetry  rejects  all  control, 
all  confinement.  Yet  we  know  that  sundry  painters  have 
attempted  pictures  of  the  meeting  between  Satan  and 
Death  at  the  gates  of  Hell ;  and  how  was  Death  repre- 
sented ?  Not  as  Milton  has  described  him,  but  by  the 
most  defined  thing  that  can  be  imagined — a  skeleton,  the 
dryest  and  hardest  image  that  it  is  possible  to  discover  ; 
which,  instead  of  keeping  the  mind  in  a  state  of  activit}^ 
reduces  it  to  the  merest  passivity, — an  image,  compared 
with  which  a  square,  a  triangle,  or  any  other  mathematical 
figure,  is  a  luxuriant  fancy. 

It  is  a  general  but  mistaken  notion  that,  because  some 
forms  of  writing,  and  some  combinations  of  thought,  are 
not  usual,  they  are  not  natural ;  but  we  are  to  recollect 
that  the  dramatist  represents  his  characters  in  every  situa- 
tion of  life  and  in  every  state  of  mind,  and  there  is  no  form 
of  language  that  may  not  be  introduced  with  effect  by  a 
great  and  judicious  poet,  and  yet  be  most  strictly  according 
to  nature.  Take  punning,  for  instance,  which  may  be  the 
lowest,  but  at  all  events  is  the  most  harmless,  kind  of  wit, 
because  it  never  excites  envy.  A  pun  may  be  a  necessary 
consequence  of  association  :  one  man,  attempting  to  prove 
something  that  was  resisted  by  another,  might,  when 
agitated  by  strong  feeling,  employ  a  term  used  by  his 
adversary  with  a  directly  contrary  meaning  to  that  for 
which  that  adversary  had  resorted  to  it  :  it  might  come 
into  his  mind  as  one  way,  and  sometimes  the  best,  of  reply- 
ing to  that  adversary.  This  form  of  speech  is  generally 
produced  by  a  mixture  of  anger  and  contempt,  and  punning 
is  a  natural  mode  of  expressing  them. 


The  Seventh  Lecture  429 

It  is  my  intention  to  pass  over  none  of  the  important 
so-called  conceits  of  Shakspeare,  not  a  few  of  which  are 
introduced  into  his  later  productions  with  great  propriety 
and  effect.  We  are  not  to  forget,  that  at  the  time  he  lived 
there  was  an  attempt  at,  and  an  affectation  of,  quaintness 
and  adornment,  which  emanated  from  the  Court,  and 
against  which  satire  was  directed  by  Shakspeare  in  the 
character  of  Osrick  in  Hamlet.  Among  the  schoolmen  of 
that  age,  and  earlier,  nothing  was  more  common  than  the 
use  of  conceits  :  it  began  with  the  revival  of  letters,  and 
the  bias  thus  given  was  very  generally  felt  and  acknow- 
ledged. 

I  have  in  my  possession  a  dictionary  of  phrases,  in  which 
the  epithets  applied  to  love,  hate,  jealousy,  and  such 
abstract  terms,  are  arranged  ;  and  they  consist  almost 
entirely  of  words  taken  from  Seneca  and  his  imitators,  or 
from  the  schoolmen,  showing  perpetual  antithesis,  and 
describing  the  passions  by  the  conjunction  and  combination 
of  things  absolutely  irreconcileable.  In  treating  the  matter 
thus,  I  am  aware  that  I  am  only  palliating  the  practice  in 
Shakspeare  :  he  ought  to  have  had  nothing  to  do  with 
merely  temporary  peculiarities  :  he  wrote  not  for  his  own 
only,  but  for  aU  ages,  and  so  far  I  admit  the  use  of  some  of 
his  conceits  to  be  a  defect.  They  detract  sometimes  from 
his  universality  as  to  time,  person,  and  situation. 

If  we  were  able  to  discover,  and  to  point  out  the  peculiar 
faults,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  beauties  of  Shakspeare,  it 
would  materially  assist  us  in  deciding  what  authority  ought 
to  be  attached  to  certain  portions  of  what  are  generally 
called  his  works.  If  we  met  with  a  play,  or  certain  scenes 
of  a  play,  in  which  we  could  trace  neither  his  defects  nor 
his  excellences,  we  should  have  the  strongest  reason  for 
believing  that  he  had  had  no  hand  in  it.  In  the  case  of 
scenes  so  circumstanced  we  might  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  were  taken  from  the  older  plays,  which,  in  some 
instances,  he  reformed  or  altered,  or  that  they  were  inserted 
afterwards  by  some  under-hand,  in  order  to  please  the  mob. 
If  a  drama  by  Shakspeare  turned  out  to  be  too  heavy  for 
popular  audiences,  the  clown  might  be  caUed  in  to  lighten 
the  representation  ;  and  if  it  appeared  that  what  was 
added  was  not  in  Shakspeare' s  manner,  the  conclusion 
would  be  inevitable,  that  it  was  not  from  Shakspeare's 
pen. 


430  The  Seventh  Lecture 

It  remains  for  me  to  speak  of  the  hero  and  heroine,  of 
Romeo  and  JuUet  themselves  ;  and  I  shall  do  so  with  un- 
affected diffidence,  not  merely  on  account  of  the  delicacy, 
bat  of  the  great  importance  of  the  subject.  I  feel  that  it 
is  impossible  to  defend  Shakspeare  from  the  most  cruel  of 
all  charges, — that  he  is  an  immoral  writer — without  enter- 
ing fully  into  his  mode  of  pourtraying  female  characters, 
and  of  displaying  the  passion  of  love.  It  seems  to  me,  that 
he  has  done  both  with  greater  perfection  than  any  other 
writer  of  the  known  world,  perhaps  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  Milton  in  his  delineation  of  Eve. 

When  I  have  heard  it  said,  or  seen  it  stated,  that  Shak- 
speare wrote  for  man,  but  the  gentle  Fletcher  for  woman, 
it  has  always  given  me  something  like  acute  pain,  because 
to  me  it  seems  to  do  the  greatest  injustice  to  Shakspeare  : 
when,  too,  I  remember  how  much  character  is  formed  by 
what  we  read,  I  cannot  look  upon  it  as  a  light  question,  to 
be  passed  over  as  a  mere  amusement,  like  a  game  of  cards  or 
chess.  I  never  have  been  able  to  tame  down  my  mind  to 
think  poetry  a  sport,  or  an  occupation  for  idle  hours. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  sure  criterion  of  refinement  in 
moral  character,  of  the  purity  of  intellectual  intention, 
and  of  the  deep  conviction  and  perfect  sense  of  what  our 
own  nature  really  is  in  all  its  combinations,  than  the 
different  definitions  different  men  would  give  of  love.  I 
I  will  not  detain  you  by  stating  the  various  known  defini- 
tions, some  of  which  it  may  be  better  not  to  repeat  :  I  will 
rather  give  you  one  of  my  own,  which,  I  apprehend,  is 
equally  free  from  the  extravagance  of  pretended  Platonism 
(which,  like  other  things  which  super-moralise,  is  sure  to 
demoralise)  and  from  its  grosser  opposite. 

Considering  myself  and  my  fellow-men  as  a  sort  of  link 
between  heaven  and  earth,  being  composed  of  body  and 
soul,  with  power  to  reason  and  to  will,  and  with  that 
perpetual  aspiration  which  tells  us  that  this  is  ours  for 
a  while,  but  it  is  not  ourselves  ;  considering  man,  I  say, 
in  this  two-fold  character,  yet  united  in  one  person,  I  con- 
ceive that  there  can  be  no  correct  definition  of  love  which 
does  not  correspond  with  our  being,  and  with  that  sub- 
ordination of  one  part  to  another  which  constitutes  our 
perfection.     I  would  say  therefore  that — 

"  Love  is  a  desire  of  the  whole  being  to  be  united  to 
some  thing,  or  some  being,  felt  necessary  to  its  complete- 


The  Seventh  Lecture  431 

ness,  by  the  most  perfect  means  that  nature  permits, 
and  reason  dictates." 

It  is  inevitable  to  every  noble  mind,  whether  man  or 
woman,  to  feel  itself,  of  itself,  imperfect  and  insufficient, 
not  as  an  animal  only,  but  as  a  moral  being.  How  wonder- 
fully, then,  has  Providence  contrived  for  us,  by  making 
that  which  is  necessary  to  us  a  step  in  our  exaltation  to 
a  higher  and  nobler  state  !  The  Creator  has  ordained 
that  one  should  possess  qualities  which  the  other  has  not, 
and  the  union  of  both  is  the  most  complete  ideal  of  human 
character.  In  everything  the  blending  of  the  similar 
with  the  dissimilar  is  the  secret  of  all  pure  delight.  Who 
shall  dare  to  stand  alone,  and  vaunt  himself,  in  himself, 
sufficient  ?  In  poetry  it  is  the  blending  of  passion  with 
order  that  constitutes  perfection :  this  is  still  more 
the  case  in  morals,  and  more  than  all  in  the  exclusive 
attachment  of  the  sexes. 

True  it  is,  that  the  world  and  its  business  may  be 
carried  on  without  marriage  ;  but  it  is  so  evident  that 
Providence  intended  man  (the  only  animal  of  all  climates, 
and  whose  reason  is  pre-eminent  over  instinct)  to  be  the 
master  of  the  world,  that  marriage,  or  the  knitting  to- 
gether of  society  by  the  tenderest,  yet  firmest  ties,  seems 
ordained  to  render  him  capable  of  maintaining  his  superi- 
ority over  the  brute  creation.  Man  alone  has  been  privi- 
leged to  clothe  himself,  and  to  do  all  things  so  as  to  make 
him,  as  it  were,  a  secondary  creator  of  himself,  and  of 
his  own  happiness  or  misery :  in  this,  as  in  all,  the  image 
of  the  Deity  is  impressed  upon  him. 

Providence,  then,  has  not  left  us  to  prudence  only  ;  for 
the  power  of  calculation,  which  prudence  implies,  cannot 
have  existed,  but  in  a  state  which  pre-supposes  marriage. 
If  God  has  done  this,  shall  we  suppose  that  he  has  given 
us  no  moral  sense,  no  yearning,  which  is  something  more 
than  animal,  to  secure  that,  without  which  man  might 
form  a  herd,  but  could  not  be  a  society  ?  The  very  idea 
seems  to  breathe  absurdity. 

From  this  union  arise  the  paternal,  filial,  brotherly  and 
sisterly  relations  of  life  ;  and  every  state  is  but  a  family 
magnified.  All  the  operations  of  mind,  in  short,  all  that 
distinguishes  us  from  brutes,  originate  in  the  more  perfect 
state  of  domestic  life. — One  infallible  criterion  in  forming 
an  opinion  of  a  man  is  the  reverence  in  which  he  holds 


432  The  Seventh  Lecture 

women.  Plato  has  said,  that  in  this  way  we  rise  from 
sensuahty  to  affection,  from  affection  to  love,  and  from 
love  to  the  pure  intellectual  delight  by  which  we  become 
worthy  to  conceive  that  infinite  in  ourselves,  without 
which  it  is  impossible  for  man  to  believe  in  a  God.  In  a 
word,  the  grandest  and  most  delightful  of  all  promises 
has  been  expressed  to  us  by  this  practical  state — our 
marriage  with  the  Redeemer  of  mankind. 

I  might  safely  appeal  to  every  man  who  hears  me,  who 
in  youth  has  been  accustomed  to  abandon  himself  to  his 
animal  passions,  whether  when  he  first  really  fell  in  love, 
the  earliest  symptom  was  not  a  complete  change  in  his 
manners,  a  contempt  and  a  hatred  of  himself  for  having 
excused  his  conduct  by  asserting,  that  he  acted  according 
to  the  dictates  of  nature,  that  his  vices  were  the  inevit- 
able consequences  of  youth,  and  that  his  passions  at  that 
period  of  life  could  not  be  conquered  ?  The  surest  friend 
of  chastity  is  love  :  it  leads  us,  not  to  sink  the  mind  in 
the  body,  but  to  draw  up  the  body  to  the  mind — the 
immortal  part  of  our  nature.  See  how  contrasted  in  this 
respect  are  some  portions  of  the  works  of  writers,  whom  I 
need  not  name,  with  other  portions  of  the  same  works  : 
the  ebullitions  of  comic  humour  have  at  times,  by  a 
lamentable  confusion,  been  made  the  means  of  debasing 
our  nature,  while  at  other  times,  even  in  the  same  volume, 
we  are  happy  to  notice  the  utmost  purity,  such  as  the 
purity  of  love,  which  above  all  other  qualities  renders  us 
most  pure  and  lovely. 

Love  is  not,  like  hunger,  a  mere  selfish  appetite  :  it  is 
an  associative  quality.  The  hungry  savage  is  nothing  but 
an  animal,  thinking  only  of  the  satisfaction  of  his  stomach  : 
what  is  the  first  effect  of  love,  but  to  associate  the  feeling 
with  every  object  in  nature  ?  the  trees  whisper,  the  roses 
exhale  their  perfumes,  the  nightingales  sing,  nay  the  very 
skies  smile  in  unison  with  the  feeling  of  true  and  pure 
love.  It  gives  to  every  object  in  nature  a  power  of  the 
heart,  without  which  it  would  indeed  be  spiritless. 

Shakspeare  has  described  this  passion  in  various  states 
and  stages,  beginning,  as  was  most  natural,  with  love  in 
the  young.  Does  he  open  his  play  by  making  Romeo 
and  Juliet  in  love  at  first  sight — at  the  first  glimpse,  as 
any  ordinary  thinker  would  do  ?  Certainly  not :  he  knew 
what  he  was  about,  and  how  he  was  to  accomplish  what 


The  Seventh  Lecture  433 

he  was  about :  he  was  to  develope  the  whole  passion,  and 
he  commences  with  the  first  elements — that  sense  of 
imperfection,  that  yearning  to  combine  itself  with  some- 
thing lovely.  Romeo  became  enamoured  of  the  idea  he 
had  formed  in  his  own  mind,  and  then,  as  it  were,  christened 
the  first  real  being  of  the  contrary  sex  as  endowed  with 
the  perfections  he  desired.  He  appears  to  be  in  love  with 
Rosaline  ;  but,  in  truth,  he  is  in  love  only  with  his  own 
idea.  He  felt  that  necessity  of  being  beloved  which  no 
noble  mind  can  be  without.  Then  our  poet,  our  poet 
who  so  well  knew  human  nature,  introduces  Romeo  to 
Juhet,  and  makes  it  not  only  a  violent,  but  a  permanent 
love — a  point  for  which  Shakspeare  has  been  ridiculed  by 
the  ignorant  and  unthinking.  Romeo  is  first  represented 
in  a  state  most  susceptible  of  love,  and  then,  seeing  Juliet, 
he  took  and  retained  the  infection. 

This  brings  me  to  observe  upon  a  characteristic  of 
Shakspeare,  which  belongs  to  a  man  of  profound  thought 
and  high  genius.  It  has  been  too  much  the  custom, 
when  anything  that  happened  in  his  dramas  could  not 
easily  be  explained  by  the  few  words  the  poet  has  em- 
ployed, to  pass  it  idly  over,  and  to  say  that  it  is  beyond 
our  reach,  and  beyond  the  power  of  philosophy — a  sort 
of  terra  incognita  for  discoverers — a  great  ocean  to  be 
hereafter  explored.  Others  have  treated  such  passages 
as  hints  and  glimpses  of  something  now  non-existent, 
as  the  sacred  fragments  of  an  ancient  and  ruined  temple^ 
all  the  portions  of  which  are  beautiful,  although  their 
particular  relation  to  each  other  is  unknown.  Shak- 
speare knew  the  human  mind,  and  its  most  minute  and 
intimate  workings,  and  he  never  introduces  a  word,  or  a 
thought,  in  vain  or  out  of  place  :  if  we  do  not  understand 
him,  it  is  our  own  fault  or  the  fault  of  copyists  and  typo- 
graphers ;  but  study,  and  the  possession  of  some  small 
stock  of  the  knowledge  by  which  he  worked,  will  enable 
us  often  to  detect  and  explain  his  meaning.  He  never 
wrote  at  random,  or  hit  upon  points  of  character  and 
conduct  by  chance  ;  and  the  smallest  fragment  of  his 
mind  not  unfrequently  gives  a  clue  to  a  most  perfect, 
regular,  and  consistent  whole. 

As  I  may  not  have  another  opportunity,  the  introduc- 
tion of  Friar  Laurence  into  this  tragedy  enables  me  to 
remark  upon  the  different  manner  in  which  Shakspeare 


434  The  Seventh  Lecture 

has  treated  the  priestly  character,  as  compared  with  other 
writers.  In  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  priests  are  repre- 
sented as  a  vulgar  mockery  ;  and,  as  in  others  of  their 
dramatic  personages,  the  errors  of  a  few  are  mistaken 
for  the  demeanour  of  the  many  :  but  in  Shakspeare  they 
always  carry  with  them  our  love  and  respect.  He  made 
no  injurious  abstracts  :  he  took  no  copies  from  the  worst 
parts  of  our  nature  ;  and,  like  the  rest,  his  characters  of 
priests  are  truly  drawn  from  the  general  body. 

It  may  strike  some  as  singular,  that  throughout  all  his 
productions  he  hsis  never  introduced  the  passion  of  avarice. 
The  truth  is,  that  it  belongs  only  to  particular  parts  of  our 
nature,  and  is  prevalent  only  in  particular  states  of  society  ; 
hence  it  could  not,  and  cannot,  be  permanent.  The  Miser 
of  Moliere  and  Plautus  is  now  looked  upon  as  a  species  of 
madman,  and  avarice  as  a  species  of  madness.  Elwes,  of 
whom  everybody  has  heard,  was  an  individual  influenced 
by  an  insane  condition  of  mind  ;  but,  as  a  passion,  avarice 
has  disappeared.  How  admirably,  then,  did  Shakspeare 
foresee,  that  if  he  drew  such  a  character  it  could  not  be 
permanent !  he  drew  characters  which  would  always  be 
natural,  and  therefore  permanent,  inasmuch  as  they  were 
not  dependent  upon  accidental  circumstances. 

There  is  not  one  of  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  that  is  built 
upon  anything  but  the  best  and  surest  foundation  ;  the 
characters  must  be  permanent — permanent  while  men 
continue  men, — because  they  stand  upon  what  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  our  existence.  This  cannot  be  said  even  of 
some  of  the  most  famous  authors  of  antiquity.  Take  the 
capital  tragedies  of  Orestes,  or  of  the  husband  of  Jocasta  : 
great  as  was  the  genius  of  the  writers,  these  dramas  have 
an  obvious  fault,  and  the  fault  lies  at  the  very  root  of  the 
action.  In  (Edipus  a  man  is  represented  oppressed  by  fate 
for  a  crime  of  which  he  was  not  morally  guilty  ;  and  while 
we  read  we  are  obliged  to  say  to  ourselves,  that  in  those 
days  they  considered  actions  without  reference  to  the  real 
guilt  of  the  persons. 

There  is  no  character  in  Shakspeare  in  which  envy  is 
pourtrayed,  with  one  solitary  exception — Cassius,  in 
"  Julius  Caesar  "  ;  yet  even  there  the  vice  is  not  hateful, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  counterbalanced  by  a  number  of  excellent 
qualities  and  virtues.  The  poet  leads  the  reader  to  suppose 
that    it    is    rather    something    constitutional,    something 


The  Eighth  Lecture  435 

derived  from  his  parents,  something  that  he  cannot  avoid, 
and  not  something  that  he  has  himself  acquired  ;  thus 
throwing  the  blame  from  the  will  of  man  to  some  inevitable 
circumstance,  and  leading  us  to  suppose  that  it  is  hardly 
to  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  those  passions  that  actually 
debase  the  mind. 

Whenever  love  is  described  as  of  a  serious  nature,  and 
much  more  when  it  is  to  lead  to  a  tragical  result,  it  depends 
upon  a  law  of  the  mind,  which,  I  believe,  I  shall  hereafter 
be  able  to  make  intelligible,  and  which  would  not  only 
justify  Shakspeare,  but  show  an  analogy  to  all  his  other 
characters. 

END  OF  THE  SEVENTH  LECTURE. 


THE  EIGHTH  LECTURE. 

It  is  impossible  to  pay  a  higher  compliment  to  poetry, 
than  to  consider  the  effects  it  produces  in  common  with 
rehgion,  yet  distinct  (as  far  as  distinction  can  be,  where 
there  is  no  division)  in  those  qualities  which  religion 
exercises  and  diffuses  over  all  mankind,  as  far  as  they  are 
subject  to  its  influence. 

I  have  often  thought  that  religion  (speaking  of  it  only 
as  it  accords  with  poetry,  without  reference  to  its  more 
serious  impressions)  is  the  poetry  of  mankind,  both  having 
for  their  objects  : — 

1.  To  generalise  our  notions  ;  to  prevent  men  from 
confining  their  attention  solely,  or  chiefly,  to  their  own 
narrow  sphere  of  action,  and  to  their  own  individual 
circumstances.  By  placing  them  in  certain  awful  relations 
it  merges  the  individual  man  in  the  whole  species,  and 
makes  it  impossible  for  any  one  man  to  think  of  his  future 
lot,  or  indeed  of  his  present  condition,  without  at  the  same 
time  comprising  in  his  view  his  fellow-creatures. 

2.  That  both  poetry  and  religion  throw  the  object  of 
deepest  interest  to  a  distance  from  us,  and  thereby  not 
only  aid  our  imagination,  but  in  a  most  important  manner 
subserve  the  interest  of  our  virtues  ;  for  that  man  is  indeed 
a  slave,  who  is  a  slave  to  his  own  senses,  and  whose  mind 
and  imagination  cannot  carry  him  beyond  the  distance 
which  his  hand  can  touch,  or  even  his  eye  can  reach. 


436  The  Eighth  Lecture 

3.  The  grandest  point  of  resemblance  between  them  is, 
that  both  have  for  their  object  (I  hardly  know  whether 
the  English  language  supplies  an  appropriate  word)  the 
perfecting,  and  the  pointing  out  to  us  the  indefinite  im- 
provement of  our  nature,  and  fixing  our  attention  upon 
that.  They  bid  us,  while  we  are  sitting  in  the  dark  at  our 
little  fire,  look  at  the  mountain-tops,  struggling  with  dark- 
ness, and  announcing  that  light  which  shall  be  common  to 
all,  in  which  individual  interests  shall  resolve  into  one 
common  good,  and  every  man  shall  find  in  his  fellow  man 
more  than  a  brother. 

Such  being  the  case,  we  need  not  wonder  that  it  has 
pleased  Providence,  that  the  divine  truths  of  religion 
should  have  been  revealed  to  us  in  the  form  of  poetry ; 
and  that  at  all  times  poets,  not  the  slaves  of  any  particular 
sectarian  opinions,  should  have  joined  to  support  all  those 
delicate  sentiments  of  the  heart  (often  when  they  were 
most  opposed  to  the  reigning  philosophy  of  the  day)  which 
may  be  called  the  feeding  streams  of  religion. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  an  undevout  astronomer  is  mad. 
In  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  every  being  capable  of  under- 
standing must  be  mad,  who  remains,  as  it  were,  fixed  in 
the  ground  on  which  he  treads — who,  gifted  with  the 
divine  faculties  of  indefinite  hope  and  fear,  born  with  them, 
yet  settles  his  faith  upon  that,  in  which  neither  hope  nor 
fear  has  any  proper  field  for  display.  Much  more  truly, 
however,  might  it  be  said  that,  an  undevout  poet  is  mad  : 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  an  undevout  poet  is  an 
impossibility.  I  have  heard  of  verse-makers  (poets  they 
are  not,  and  never  can  be)  who  introduced  into  their  works 
such  questions  as  these  : — Whether  the  world  was  made  of 
atoms  ? — Whether  there  is  a  universe  ? — Whether  there  is 
a  governing  mind  that  supports  it  ?  As  I  have  said,  verse- 
makers  are  not  poets  :  the  poet  is  one  who  carries  the  sim- 
plicity of  childhood  into  the  powers  of  manhood  ;  who, 
with  a  soul  unsubdued  by  habit,  unshackled  by  custom, 
contemplates  all  things  with  the  freshness  and  the  wonder 
of  a  child  ;  and,  connecting  with  it  the  inquisitive  powers 
of  riper  years,  adds,  as  far  as  he  can  find  knowledge,  admira- 
tion ;  and,  where  knowledge  no  longer  permits  admiration, 
gladly  sinks  back  again  into  the  childlike  feeling  of  devout 
wonder. 

The  poet  is  not  only  the  man  made  to  solve  the  riddle 


The  Eighth  Lecture  437 

of  the  universe,  but  he  is  also  the  man  who  feels  where  it 
is  not  solved.  What  is  old  and  worn-out,  not  in  itself,  but 
from  the  dimness  of  the  intellectual  eye,  produced  by 
worldly  passions  and  pursuits,  he  makes  new  :  he  pours 
upon  it  the  dew  that  glistens,  and  blows  round  it  the  breeze 
that  cooled  us  in  our  infancy.  I  hope,  therefore,  that  if 
in  this  single  lecture  I  make  some  demand  on  the  attention 
of  my  hearers  to  a  most  important  subject,  upon  which 
depends  all  sense  of  the  worthiness  or  unworthiness  of  our 
nature,  I  shall  obtain  their  pardon.  If  I  afford  them  less 
amusement,  I  trust  that  their  own  reflections  upon  a  few 
thoughts  will  be  found  to  repay  them. 

I  have  been  led  to  these  observations  by  the  tragedy 
of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  and  by  some,  perhaps,  indiscreet 
expressions,  certainly  not  well  chosen,  concerning  falling 
in  love  at  first  sight.  I  have  taken  one  of  Shakspeare's 
earliest  works,  as  I  consider  it,  in  order  to  show  that  he, 
of  all  his  contemporaries  (Sir  Philip  Sidney  alone  excepted), 
entertained  a  just  conception  of  the  female  character. 
Unquestionably,  that  gentleman  of  Europe — that  all- 
accomplished  man,  and  our  beloved  Shakspeare,  were  the 
only  writers  of  that  age,  who  pitched  their  ideas  of  female 
perfection  according  to  the  best  researches  of  philosophy  : 
compared  with  all  who  followed  them,  they  stand  as  mighty 
mountains,  the  islands  of  a  deluge,  which  has  swallowed  all 
the  rest  in  the  flood  of  oblivion.  ^ 

I  certainly  do  not  mean,  as  a  general  maxim,  to  justify  so 
foolish  a  thing  as  what  goes  by  the  name  of  love  at  first 
sight ;  but,  to  express  myself  more  accurately,  I  should 
say  that  there  is,  and  has  always  existed,  a  deep  emotion 
of  the  mind,  which  might  be  called  love  momentaneous — 
not  love  at  first  sight,  nor  known  by  the  subject  of  it  to  be 
or  to  have  been  such,  but  after  many  years  of  experience. ^ 

I  have  to  defend  the  existence  of  love,  as  a  passion  in 

1 1  remember,  in  conversing  on  this  very  point  at  a  subsequent  period, — I  cannot  fix 
the  date, — Coleridge  made  a  willing  exception  in  favour  of  Spenser  ;  but  he  added  that 
the  notions  of  the  author  of  the  ' '  Faery  Queen  "  were  often  so  romantic  and  heightened 
by  fancy,  thai  he  could  not  look  upon  Spenser's  females  as  creatures  of  our  world  ; 
whereas  the  ladies  of  Shakspeare  and  Sidney  were  flesh  and  blood,  with  their  very 
defects  and  qualifications  giving  evidence  of  their  humanity  :  hence  the  lively  interest 
taken  regarding  them. — J.  P.  C. 

2  Coleridge  here  made  a  reference  to,  and  cited  a  passage  from,  Hooker's  "Ecclesi- 
astical Polity  ;  "  but  my  note  contains  only  a  hint  regarding  it ;  and  the  probability  is, 
that  I  did  not  insert  more  of  it,  because  I  thought  I  should  be  able,  at  some  future 
time,  to  procure  the  exact  words,  or  a  reference  to  them,  from  the  Lecturer. 
Whether  I  did  so  or  not  I  cannot  remember,  but  I  fiud  no  trace  of  anything  of  the 
kind.— J.  P.  C. 


438  The  Eighth  Lecture 

itself  fit  and  appropriate  to  human  nature  ; — I  say  fit  for 
human  nature,  and  not  only  so,  but  peculiar  to  it,  unshared 
either  in  degree  or  kind  by  any  of  our  fellow  creatures  :  it 
is  a  passion  which  it  is  impossible  for  any  creature  to  feel, 
but  a  being  endowed  with  reason,  with  the  moral  sense, 
and  with  the  strong  yearnings,  which,  like  all  other  power- 
ful effects  in  nature,  prophesy  some  future  effect. 

If  I  were  to  address  myself  to  the  materialist,  with 
reference  to  the  human  kind,  and  (admitting  the  three 
great  laws  common  to  all  beings, — i,  the  law  of  self -pre- 
servation ;  2,  that  of  continuing  the  race  ;  and  3,  the  care 
of  the  offspring  till  protection  is  no  longer  needed), — were 
to  ask  him,  whether  he  thought  any  motives  of  prudence  or 
duty  enforced  the  simple  necessity  of  preserving  the  race  ? 
or  whether,  after  a  course  of  serious  reflection,  he  came  to 
the  conclusion,  that  it  would  be  better  to  have  a  posterity, 
from  a  sense  of  duty  impelling  us  to  seek  that  as  our  object  ? 
— if,  I  say,  I  were  to  ask  a  materialist,  whether  such  was  the 
real  cause  of  the  preservation  of  the  species,  he  would  laugh 
me  to  scorn  ;  he  would  say  that  nature  was  too  wise  to 
trust  any  of  her  great  designs  to  the  mere  cold  calculations 
of  fallible  mortality. 

Then  the  question  comes  to  a  short  crisis  : — Is,  or  is  not, 
our  moral  nature  a  part  of  the  end  of  Providence  ?  or  are 
we,  or  are  we  not,  beings  meant  for  society  ?  Is  that 
society,  or  is  it  not,  meant  to  be  progressive  ?  I  trust  that 
none  of  my  auditors  would  endure  the  putting  of  the 
question — Whether,  independently  of  the  progression  of 
the  race,  every  individual  has  it  not  in  his  power  to  be  in- 
definitely progressive  ? — for,  without  marriage,  without 
exclusive  attachment,  there  could  be  no  human  society  ; 
herds,  as  I  said,  there  might  be,  but  society  there  could  not 
be  :  there  could  be  none  of  that  delightful  intercourse 
between  father  and  child  ;  none  of  the  sacred  affections  ; 
none  of  the  charities  of  humanity  ;  none  of  all  those  many 
and  complex  causes,  which  have  raised  us  to  the  state  we 
have  already  reached,  could  possibly  have  existence.  All 
these  effects  are  not  found  among  the  brutes  ;  neither  are 
they  found  among  savages,  whom  strange  accidents  have 
sunk  below  the  class  of  human  beings,  insomuch  that  a  stop 
seems  actually  to  have  been  put  to  their  progressiveness. 

We  may,  therefore,  safely  conclude  that  there  is  placed 
within  us  some  element,  if  I  may  so  say,  of  our  nature—- 


The  Eighth  Lecture  439 

something  which  is  as  pecuHar  to  our  moral  nature,  as  any 
other  part  can  be  conceived  to  be,  name  it  what  you  will, — 
name  it,  I  will  say  for  illustration,  devotion, — name  it 
friendship,  or  a  sense  of  duty  ;  but  something  there  is, 
peculiar  to  our  nature,  which  answers  the  moral  end  ;  as 
we  find  everywhere  in  the  ends  of  the  moral  world,  that 
there  are  proportionate  material  and  bodily  means  of 
accomplishing  them. 

We  are  born,  and  it  is  our  nature  and  lot  to  be  composed 
of  body  and  mind  ;  but  when  our  heart  leaps  up  on  hearing 
of  the  victories  of  our  country,  or  of  the  rescue  of  the 
virtuous,  but  unhappy,  from  the  hands  of  an  oppressor  ; 
when  a  parent  is  transported  at  the  restoration  of  a  beloved 
child  from  deadly  sickness  ;  when  the  pulse  is  quickened, 
from  any  of  these  or  other  causes,  do  we  therefore  say, 
because  the  body  interprets  the  emotions  of  the  mind  and 
sympathises  with  them,  asserting  its  claim  to  participation, 
that  joy  is  not  mental,  or  that  it  is  not  moral  ?  Do  we 
assert,  that  it  was  owing  merely  to  fulness  of  blood  that  the 
heart  throbbed,  and  the  pulse  played  ?  Do  we  not  rather 
say,  that  the  regent,  the  mind,  being  glad,  its  slave,  its 
willing  slave,  the  body,  responded  to  it,  and  obeyed  the 
impulse  ?  If  we  are  possessed  with  a  feeling  of  having 
done  a  wrong,  or  of  having  had  a  wrong  done  to  us,  and  it 
excites  the  blush  of  shame  or  the  glow  of  anger,  do  we  pre- 
tend to  say  that,  by  some  accident,  the  blood  suffused  itself 
into  veins  unusually  small,  and  therefore  that  the  guilty 
seemed  to  evince  shame,  or  the  injured  indignation  ?  In 
these  things  we  scorn  such  instruction  ;  and  shall  it  be 
deemed  a  sufficient  excuse  for  the  materialist  to  degrade 
that  passion,  on  which  not  only  many  of  our  virtues  depend, 
but  upon  which  the  whole  frame,  the  whole  structure  of 
human  society  rests  ?  Shall  we  pardon  him  this  debase- 
ment of  love,  because  our  body  has  been  united  to  mind  by 
Providence,  in  order,  not  to  reduce  the  high  to  the  level  of 
the  low,  but  to  elevate  the  low  to  the  level  of  the  high  ?  We 
should  be  guilty  of  nothing  less  than  an  act  of  moral 
suicide,  if  we  consented  to  degrade  that  which  on  every 
account  is  most  noble,  by  merging  it  in  what  is  most  de- 
rogatory :  as  if  an  angel  were  to  hold  out  to  us  the  welcom- 
ing hand  of  brotherhood,  and  we  turned  away  from  it,  to 
wallow,  as  it  were,  with  the  hog  in  the  mire. 

One  of  the  most  lofty  and  intellectual  of  the  poets 


440  The  Eighth  Lecture 

of  the  time  of  Shakspeare  has  described  this  degradation 
most  wonderfully,  where  he  speaks  of  a  man,  who,  having 
been  converted  by  the  witchery  of  worldly  pleasure  and 
passion,  into  a  hog,  on  being  restored  to  his  human  shape 
still  preferred  his  bestial  condition  : — 

"  But  one,  above  the  rest  in  special, 
That  had  a  hog  been  late,  hight  Grill  by  name. 
Repined  greatly,  and  did  him  miscall. 


"  Said  Guyon,  See  the  mind  of  beastly  man  ! 
That  hath  so  soon  forgot  the  excellence 
Of  his  creation,  when  he  life  began, 
That  now  he  chooseth,  with  vile  difference, 
To  be  a  beast  and  lack  intelligence. 
To  whom  the  Palmer  thus  : — The  dunghill  kind 
Delights  in  filth  and  foul  incontinence  : 
Let  Grill  be  Grill,  and  have  his  hoggish  mind  ; 
But  let  us  hence  depart,  whilst  weather  serves  and  wind." 

Faiyy  Queen,  Book  ii.,  c.  12. 

The  first  feeling  that  would  strike  a  reflecting  mind, 
wishing  to  see  mankind  not  only  in  an  amiable  but  in  a 
just  hght,  would  be  that  beautiful  feeling  in  the  moral 
world,  the  brotherly  and  sisterly  affections, — the  existence 
of  strong  affection  greatly  modified  by  the  difference  of 
sex  ;  made  more  tender,  more  graceful,  more  soothing 
and  conciliatory  by  the  circumstance  of  difference,  yet 
still  remaining  perfectly  pure,  perfectly  spiritual.  How 
glorious,  we  may  say,  would  be  the  effect,  if  the  instances 
were  rare  ;  but  how  much  more  glorious,  when  they  are 
so  frequent  as  to  be  only  not  universal.  This  species  of 
affection  is  the  object  of  religious  veneration  with  all 
those  who  love  their  fellow  men,  or  who  know  themselves. 

The  power  of  education  over  the  human  mind  is  herein 
exemplified,  and  data  for  hope  are  afforded  of  yet  un- 
realised excellences,  perhaps  dormant  in  our  nature. 
When  we  see  so  divine  a  moral  effect  spread  through  all 
classes,  what  may  we  not  hope  of  other  excellences,  of 
unknown  quahty,  still  to  be  developed  ? 

By  dividing  the  sisterly  and  fraternal  affections  from 
the  conjugal,  we  have,  in  truth,  two  loves,  each  of  them  as 
strong  as  any  affection  can  be,  or  ought  to  be,  consistently 
with  the  performance  of  our  duty,  and  the  love  we  should 
bear  to  our  neighbour.     Then,  by  the  former  preceding 


The  Eighth  Lecture  441 

the  latter,  the  latter  is  rendered  more  pure,  more  even, 
and  more  constant :  the  wife  has  already  learned  the 
discipline  of  pure  love  in  the  character  of  a  sister.  By 
the  discipline  of  private  life  she  has  already  learned  how 
to  yield,  how  to  influence,  how  to  command.  To  all 
this  are  to  be  added  the  beautiful  gradations  of  attachment 
which  distinguish  human  nature  ; — from  sister  to  wife, 
from  wife  to  child,  to  uncle,  to  cousin,  to  one  of  our  kin, 
to  one  of  our  blood,  to  our  near  neighbour,  to  our  county- 
man,  and  to  our  countryman. 

The  bad  results  of  a  want  of  this  variety  of  orders,  of 
this  graceful  subordination  in  the  character  of  attachment, 
I  have  often  observed  in  Italy  in  particular,  as  well  as  in 
other  countries,  where  the  young  are  kept  secluded,  not 
only  from  their  neighbours,  but  from  their  own  families — 
all  closely  imprisoned,  until  the  hour  when  they  are 
necessarily  let  out  of  their  cages,  without  having  had 
the  opportunity  of  learning  to  fly — without  experience, 
restrained  by  no  kindly  feeling,  and  detesting  the  control 
which  so  long  kept  them  from  enjoying  the  full  hubbub 
of  licence. 

The  question  is.  How  have  nature  and  Providence 
secured  these  blessings  to  us  ?  In  this  way  : — that  in 
general  the  affections  become  those  which  urge  us  to  leave 
the  paternal  nest.  We  arrive  at  a  definite  time  of  Ufe, 
and  feel  passions  that  invite  us  to  enter  into  the  world  ; 
and  this  new  feeling  assuredly  coalesces  with  a  new  object. 
Suppose  we  are  under  the  influence  of  a  vivid  feeling  that 
is  new  to  us  :  that  feeling  will  more  firmly  combine  with 
an  external  object,  which  is  likewise  vivid  from  novelty, 
than  with  one  that  is  familiar. 

To  this  may  be  added  the  aversion,  which  seems  to 
have  acted  very  strongly  in  rude  ages,  concerning  anything 
common  to  us  and  to  the  animal  creation.  That  which 
is  done  by  beasts  man  feels  a  natural  repugnance  to 
imitate.  The  desire  to  extend  the  bond  of  relationship, 
in  families  which  had  emigrated  from  the  patriarchal  seed, 
would  likewise  have  its  influence. 

All  these  circumstances  would  render  the  marriage  of 
brother  and  sister  unfrequent,  and  in  simple  ages  an 
ominous  feeling  to  the  contrary  might  easily  prevail. 
Some  tradition  might  aid  the  objections  to  such  a  union  ; 
and,  for  aught  we  know,  some  law  might  be  preserved 


442  The  Eighth  Lecture 

in  the  Temple  of  Isis,  and  from  thence  obtained  by  the 
patriarchs,  which  would  augment  the  horror  attached  to 
such  connexions.  This  horror  once  felt,  and  soon  propa- 
gated, the  present  state  of  feeling  on  the  subject  can 
easily  be  explained. 

Children  begin  as  early  to  talk  of  marriage  as  of  death, 
from  attending  a  wedding,  or  following  a  funeral :  a  new 
young  visitor  is  introduced  into  the  family,  and  from 
association  they  soon  think  of  the  conjugal  bond.  If  a 
boy  tell  his  parent  that  he  wishes  to  marry  his  sister,  he 
is  instantly  checked  by  a  stern  look,  and  he  is  shewn  the 
impossibility  of  such  a  union.  The  controlling  glance  of 
the  parental  eye  is  often  more  effectual,  than  any  form  of 
words  that  could  be  employed  ;  and  in  mature  years 
a  mere  look  often  prevails  where  exhortation  would  have 
failed.  As  to  infants,  they  are  told,  without  any  reason 
assigned,  that  it  could  not  be  so  ;  and  perhaps  the  best 
security  for  moral  rectitude  arises  from  a  supposed 
necessity.  Ignorant  persons  recoil  from  the  thought 
of  doing  anything  that  has  not  been  done,  and  because 
they  have  always  been  informed  that  it  must  not  be 
done. 

The  individual  has  by  this  time  learned  the  greatest  and 
best  lesson  of  the  human  mind — that  in  ourselves  we  are 
imperfect  ;  and  another  truth,  of  the  next,  if  not  of  equal, 
importance — that  there  exists  a  possibility  of  uniting  two 
beings,  each  identified  in  their  nature,  but  distinguished 
in  their  separate  qualities,  so  that  each  should  retain  what 
distinguishes  them,  and  at  the  same  time  each  acquire  the 
qualities  of  that  being  which  is  contradistinguished.  This 
is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  part  of  our  nature  :  the  man 
loses  not  his  manly  character  :  he  does  not  become  less 
brave  or  less  resolved  to  go  through  fire  and  water,  if 
necessary,  for  the  object  of  his  affections  :  rather  say, 
that  he  becomes  far  more  brave  and  resolute.  He  then 
feels  the  beginnings  of  his  moral  nature  :  he  then  is 
sensible  of  its  imperfection,  and  of  its  perfectibility.  All 
the  grand  and  sublime  thoughts  of  an  improved  state  of 
being  then  dawn  upon  him  :  he  can  acquire  the  patience 
of  woman,  which  in  him  is  fortitude  :  the  beauty  and 
susceptibility  of  the  female  character  in  him  becomes  a 
desire  to  display  all  that  is  noble  and  dignified.  In  short, 
the  only  true  resemblance  to  a  couple  thus  united  is  the 


The  Eighth  Lecture  443 

pure  sky  blue  of  heaven  :  the  female  unites  the  beautiful 
with  the  sublime,  and  the  male  the  sublime  with  the 
beautiful. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  his  plays  Shakspeare  has 
evidently  looked  at  the  subject  of  love  in  this  dignified 
light :  he  has  conceived  it  not  only  with  moral  grandeur, 
but  with  philosophical  penetration.  The  mind  of  man 
searches  for  something  which  shall  add  to  his  perfection 
— which  shall  assist  him,  ;  and  he  also  yearns  to  lend  his 
aid  in  completing  the  moral  nature  of  another.  Thoughts 
like  these  will  occupy  many  of  his  serious  moments  : 
imagination  will  accumulate  on  imagination,  until  at  last 
some  object  attracts  his  attention,  and  to  this  object 
the  whole  weight  and  impulse  of  his  feelings  will  be 
directed. 

Who  shall  say  this  is  not  love  ?  Here  is  system,  but  it 
is  founded  upon  nature  :  here  are  associations  ;  here  are 
strong  feelings,  natural  to  us  as  men,  and  they  are  directed 
and  finally  attached  to  one  object : — who  shall  say  this 
is  not  love  ?  Assuredly  not  the  being  who  is  the  subject 
of  these  sensations. — If  it  be  not  love,  it  is  only  known 
that  it  is  not  by  Him  who  knows  all  things.  Shakspeare 
has  therefore  described  Romeo  as  in  love  in  the  first 
instance  with  Rosaline,  and  so  completely  does  he  fancy 
himself  in  love  that  he  declares,  before  he  has  seen  Juliet, 

"  When  the  devout  religion  of  mine  eye 
Maintains  such  falsehood,  then  turn  tears  to  fires  ; 

And  these,  who,  often  drown'd,  could  never  die. 
Transparent  heretics,  be  burnt  for  liars. 

One  fairer  than  my  love  ?   the  all-seeing  sun 

Ne'er  saw  her  match  since  first  the  world  begun." 

Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

This  is  in  answer  to  Benvolio,  who  has  asked  Romeo  to 
compare  the  supposed  beauty  of  Rosaline  with  the  actual 
beauty  of  other  ladies  ;  and  in  this  full  feeling  of  confidence 
Romeo  is  brought  to  Capulet's,  as  it  were  by  accident :  he 
sees  Juliet,  instantly  becomes  the  heretic  he  has  just  before 
declared  impossible,  and  then  commences  that  complete- 
ness of  attachment  which  forms  the  whole  subject  of  the 
tragedy. 

Surely  Shakspeare,  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  who  com- 
bined truth  with  beauty  and  beauty  with  truth,  never 
dreamed  that  he  could  interest  his  auditory  in  favour 


444  The  Eighth   Lecture 

of  Romeo,  by  representing  him  as  a  mere  weather-cock, 
blown  round  by  every  woman's  breath  ;  who,  having 
seen  one,  became  the  victim  of  melancholy,  eating  his 
own  heart,  concentrating  all  his  hopes  and  fears  in  her, 
and  yet,  in  an  instant,  changing,  and  falling  madly  in  love 
with  another.  Shakspeare  must  have  meant  something 
more  than  this,  for  this  was  the  way  to  make  people 
despise,  instead  of  admiring  his  hero.  Romeo  tells  us 
what  was  Shakspeare's  purpose  :  he  shows  us  that  he 
had  looked  at  Rosaline  with  a  different  feeling  from  that 
with  which  he  had  looked  at  Juliet.  Rosaline  was  the 
object  to  which  his  over-full  heart  had  attached  itself  in 
the  first  instance  :  our  imperfect  nature,  in  proportion  as 
our  ideas  are  vivid,  seeks  after  something  in  which  those 
ideas  may  be  realised. 

So  with  the  indiscreet  friendships  sometimes  formed  by 
men  of  genius  :  they  are  conscious  of  their  own  weakness, 
and  are  ready  to  believe  others  stronger  than  themselves, 
when,  in  truth,  they  are  weaker  :  they  have  formed  an 
ideal  in  their  own  minds,  and  they  want  to  see  it  realised  ; 
they  require  more  than  shadowy  thought.  Their  own 
sense  of  imperfection  makes  it  impossible  for  them  to 
fasten  their  attachment  upon  themselves,  and  hence  the 
humility  of  men  of  true  genius  :  in,  perhaps,  the  first 
man  they  meet,  they  only  see  what  is  good  ;  they  have 
no  sense  of  his  deficiencies,  and  their  friendship  becomes 
.so  strong,  that  they  almost  fall  down  and  worship  one  in 
every  respect  greatly  their  inferior. 

What  is  true  of  friendship  is  true  of  love,  with  a  person 
of  ardent  feelings  and  warm  imagination.  What  took 
place  in  the  mind  of  Romeo  was  merely  natural ;  it  is 
accordant  with  every  day's  experience.  Amid  such 
various  events,  such  shifting  scenes,  such  changing  person- 
ages, we  are  often  mistaken,  and  discover  that  he  or  she 
was  not  what  we  hoped  and  expected  ;  we  find  that  the 
individual  first  chosen  will  not  complete  our  imperfection  ; 
we  may  have  suffered  unnecessary  pangs,  and  have  indulged 
idly-directed  hopes,  and  then  a  being  may  arise  before 
us,  who  has  more  resemblance  to  the  ideal  we  have  formed. 
We  know  that  we  loved  the  earlier  object  with  ardour 
and  purity,  but  it  was  not  what  we  feel  for  the  later  object. 
Our  own  mind  tells  us,  that  in  the  first  instance  we  merely 
yearned  after  an  object,  but  in  the  last  instance  we  know 


The  Ninth  Lecture  445 

that  we  have  found  that  object,  and  that  it  corresponds 
with  the  idea  we  had  previously  formed. 

[Here  my  original  notes  abruptly  break  off:  the  brochure  in  which  I  had  inserted 
them  was  full,  and  I  took  another  for  the  conclusion  of  the  Lecture,  which  is 
unfortunately  lost.] 


THE    NINTH    LECTURE. 

It  is  a  known  but  unexplained  phenomenon,  that  among 
the  ancients  statuary  rose  to  such  a  degree  of  perfection, 
as  almost  to  baffle  the  hope  of  imitating  it,  and  to  render 
the  chance  of  excelling  it  absolutely  impossible  ;  yet 
painting,  at  the  same  period,  notwithstanding  the  admira- 
tion bestowed  upon  it  by  Pliny  and  others,  has  been  proved 
to  be  an  art  of  much  later  growth,  as  it  was  also  of  far 
inferior  quality.  I  remember  a  man  of  high  rank,  equally 
admirable  for  his  talents  and  his  taste,  pointing  to  a 
common  sign-post,  and  saying  that  had  Titian  never  lived, 
the  richness  of  representation  by  colour,  even  there,  would 
never  have  been  attained.  In  that  mechanical  branch  of 
painting,  perspective,  it  has  been  shown  that  the  Romans 
were  very  deficient.  The  excavations  and  consequent 
discoveries,  at  Herculaneum  and  elsewhere,  prove  the 
Roman  artists  to  have  been  guilty  of  such  blunders,  as 
to  give  plausibility  to  the  assertions  of  those  who  maintain 
that  the  ancients  were  whoUy  ignorant  of  perspective. 
However,  that  they  knew  something  of  it  is  established  by 
Vitruvius  in  the  introduction  to  his  second  book. 

Something  of  the  same  kind,  as  I  endeavoured  to  explain 
in  a  previous  lecture,  was  the  cause  with  the  drama  of  the 
ancients,  which  has  been  imitated  by  the  French,  Italians, 
and  by  various  writers  in  England  since  the  Restoration. 
AU  that  is  there  represented  seems  to  be,  as  it  were,  upon 
one  fiat  surface  :  the  theme,^  if  we  may  so  call  it  in  refer- 
ence to  music,  admits  of  nothing  more  than  the  change  of  a 
single  note,  and  excludes  that  which  is  the  true  principle 
of  life — the  attaining  of  the  same  result  by  an  infinite 
variety  of  means. 

The  plays  of  Shakspeare  are  in  no  respect  imitations 

1  Here  occurs  another  evident  mistake  of  mine,  in  my  original  short-hand  note,  in 
consequence  of  mishearing :  I  hastily  wrote  scheme,  instead  of  "  theme,"  which  last 
must  have  been  the  word  of  the  Lecturer. 


446  The  Ninth  Lecture 

of  the  Greeks  :  they  may  be  called  analogies,  because  by 
very  different  means  they  arrive  at  the  same  end  ;  whereas 
the  French  and  Italian  tragedies  I  have  read,  and  the 
English  ones  on  the  same  model,  are  mere  copies,  though 
they  cannot  be  called  likenesses,  seeking  the  same  effect 
by  adopting  the  same  means,  but  under  most  inappro- 
priate and  adverse  circumstances. 

I  have  thus  been  led  to  consider,  that  the  ancient  drama 
(meaning  the  works  of  iEschylus,  Euripides,  and  Sophocles, 
for  the  rhetorical  productions  of  the  same  class  by  the 
Romans  are  scarcely  to  be  treated  as  original  theatrical 
poems)  might  be  contrasted  with  the  Shakspearean  drama. 
— I  call  it  the  Shakspearean  drama  to  distinguish  it, 
because  I  know  of  no  other  writer  who  has  realised  the  same 
idea,  although  I  am  told  by  some,  that  the  Spanish  poets, 
Lopez  de  Vega  and  Calderon,  have  been  equally  successful. 
The  Shakspearean  drama  and  the  Greek  drama  may  be 
compared  to  statuary  and  painting.  In  statuary,  as  in  the 
Greek  drama,  the  characters  must  be  few,  because  the  very 
essence  of  statuary  is  a  high  degree  of  abstraction,  which 
prevents  a  great  many  figures  being  combined  in  the  same 
effect.  In  a  grand  group  of  Niobe,  or  in  any  other  ancient 
heroic  subject,  how  disgusting  even  it  would  appear,  if  an 
old  nurse  were  introduced.  Not  only  the  number  of  figures 
must  be  circumscribed,  but  nothing  undignified  must  be 
placed  in  company  with  what  is  dignified :  no  one 
personage  must  be  brought  in  that  is  not  an  abstraction  : 
all  the  actors  in  the  scene  must  not  be  presented  at  once 
to  the  eye  ;  and  the  effect  of  multitude,  if  required,  must 
be  produced  without  the  intermingling  of  anything 
discordant. 

Compare  this  smaU  group  with  a  picture  by  Raphael  or 
Titian,  in  which  an  immense  number  of  figures  may  be 
introduced,  a  beggar,  a  cripple,  a  dog,  or  a  cat ;  and  by  a 
less  degree  of  labour,  and  a  less  degree  of  abstraction,  an 
effect  is  produced  equally  harmonious  to  the  mind,  more 
true  to  nature  with  its  varied  colours,  and,  in  all  respects 
but  one,  superior  to  statuary.  The  man  of  taste  feels 
satisfied,  and  to  that  which  the  reason  conceives  possible, 
a  momentary  reahty  is  given  by  the  aid  of  imagination. 

I  need  not  here  repeat  what  I  have  said  before,  regard- 
ing the  circumstances  which  permitted  Shakspeare  to  make 
an  alteration,  not  merely  so  suitable  to  the  age  in  which  he 


The  Ninth  Lecture  447 

lived,  but,  in  fact,  so  necessitated  by  the  condition  of  that 
age.  I  need  not  again  remind  you  of  the  difference  I 
pointed  out  between  imitation  and  Ukeness,  in  reference  to 
the  attempt  to  give  reahty  to  representations  on  the  stage. 
The  distinction  between  imitation  and  Ukeness  depends 
upon  the  admixture  of  circumstances  of  dissimilarity  ; 
an  imitation  is  not  a  copy,  precisely  as  likeness  is  not  same- 
ness, in  that  sense  of  the  word  "  likeness  "  which  implies 
difference  conjoined  with  sameness.  Shakspeare  reflected 
manners  in  his  plays,  not  by  a  cold  formal  copy,  but  by  an 
imitation  ;  that  is  to  say,  by  an  admixture  of  circum- 
stances, not  absolutely  true  in  themselves,  but  true  to  the 
character  and  to  the  time  represented. 

It  is  fair  to  own  that  he  had  many  advantages.  The 
great  of  that  day,  instead  of  surrounding  themselves  by 
the  chevaux  de  frise  of  what  is  now  called  high  breeding, 
endeavoured  to  distinguish  themselves  by  attainments,  by 
energy  of  thought,  and  consequent  powers  of  mind.  The 
stage,  indeed,  had  nothing  but  curtains  for  its  scenes,  but 
this  fact  compelled  the  actor,  as  well  as  the  author,  to 
appeal  to  the  imaginations,  and  not  to  the  senses  of  the 
audience  :  thus  was  obtained  a  power  over  space  and  time, 
which  in  an  ancient  theatre  would  have  been  absurd, 
because  it  would  have  been  contradictory.  The  advantage 
is  vastly  in  favour  of  our  own  early  stage  :  the  dramatic 
poet  there  relies  upon  the  imagination,  upon  the  reason, 
and  upon  the  noblest  powers  of  the  human  heart ;  he 
shakes  off  the  iron  bondage  of  space  and  time  ;  he  appeals 
to  that  which  we  most  wish  to  be,  when  we  are  most  worthy 
of  being,  while  the  ancient  dramatist  binds  us  down  to  the 
meanest  part  of  our  nature,  and  the  chief  compensation  is 
a  simple  acquiescence  of  the  mind  in  the  position,  that  what 
is  represented  might  possibly  have  occurred  in  the  time  and 
place  required  by  the  unities.  It  is  a  poor  compliment  to 
a  poet  to  tell  him,  that  he  has  only  the  qualifications  of  a 
historian. 

In  dramatic  composition  the  observation  of  the  unities 
of  time  and  place  so  narrows  the  period  of  action,  so 
impoverishes  the  sources  of  pleasure,  that  of  all  the 
Athenian  dramas  there  is  scarcely  one  in  which  the  ab- 
surdity is  not  glaring,  of  aiming  at  an  object,  and  utterly 
failing  in  the  attainment  of  it ;  events  are  sometimes 
brought  into  a  space  in  which  it  is  impossible  for  them  to 


448  The  Ninth  Lecture 

have  occurred,  and  in  this  way  the  grandest  effort  of  the 
dramatist,  that  of  making  his  play  the  mirror  of  hfe,  is 
entirely  defeated. 

The  limit  allowed  by  the  rules  of  the  Greek  stage  was 
twenty-four  hours  ;  but,  inasmuch  as,  even  in  this  case, 
time  must  have  become  a  subject  of  imagination,  it  was 
just  as  reasonable  to  allow  twenty-four  months,  or  even 
years.  The  mind  is  acted  upon  by  such  strong  stimulants, 
that  the  period  is  indifferent ;  and  when  once  the  boundary 
of  possibility  is  passed,  no  restriction  can  be  assigned.  In 
reading  Shakspeare,  we  should  first  consider  in  which  of 
his  plays  he  means  to  appeal  to  the  reason,  and  in  which 
to  the  imagination,  faculties  which  have  no  relation  to 
time  and  place,  excepting  as  in  the  one  case  they  imply  a 
succession  of  cause  and  effect,  and  in  the  other  form  a 
harmonious  picture,  so  that  the  impulse  given  by  the 
reason  is  carried  on  by  the  imagination. 

We  have  often  heard  Shakspeare  spoken  of  as  a  child  of 
nature,  and  some  of  his  modern  imitators,  without  the 
genius  to  copy  nature,  by  resorting  to  real  incidents,  and 
treating  them  in  a  certain  way,  have  produced  that  stage- 
phenomenon  which  is  neither  tragic  nor  comic,  nor  tragi- 
comic, nor  comi-tragic,  but  sentimental.  This  sort  of 
writing  depends  upon  some  very  affecting  circumstances, 
and  in  its  greatest  excellence  aspires  no  higher  than  the 
genius  of  an  onion, — the  power  of  drawing  tears  ;  while  the 
author,  acting  the  part  of  a  ventriloquist,  distributes  his 
own  insipidity  among  the  characters,  if  characters  they  can 
be  called,  which  have  no  marked  and  distinguishing 
features.  I  have  seen  dramas  of  this  sort,  some  translated 
and  some  the  growth  of  our  own  soil,  so  well  acted,  and  so 
ill  written,  that  if  I  could  have  been  made  for  the  time 
artificially  deaf,  I  should  have  been  pleased  with  that 
performance  as  a  pantomime,  which  was  intolerable  as  a 
play. 

Shakspeare's  characters,  from  Othello  and  Macbeth 
down  to  Dogberry  and  the  Grave-digger,  may  be  termed 
ideal  realities.  They  are  not  the  things  themselves,  so 
much  as  abstracts  of  the  things,  which  a  great  mind  takes 
into  itself,  and  there  naturalises  them  to  its  own  conception. 
Take  Dogberry  :  are  no  important  truths  there  conveyed, 
no  admirable  lessons  taught,  and  no  valuable  allusions 
made  to  reigning  follies,  which  the  poet  saw  must  for  ever 


The  Ninth  Lecture  449 

reign  ?  He  is  not  the  creature  of  the  day,  to  disappear 
with  the  day,  but  the  representative  and  abstract  of  truth 
which  must  ever  be  true,  and  of  humour  which  must  ever 
be  humorous. 

The  readers  of  Shakspeare  may  be  divided  into  two 
clcLsses  : — 

1.  Those  who  read  his  works  with  feehng  and  under- 
standing ; 

2.  Those  who,  without  affecting  to  criticise,  merely 
feel,  and  may  be  said  to  be  the  recipients  of  the  poet's 
power. 

Between  the  two  no  medium  can  be  endured.  The 
ordinary  reader,  who  does  not  pretend  to  bring  his  under- 
standing to  bear  upon  the  subject,  often  feels  that  some 
real  trait  of  his  own  has  been  caught,  that  some  nerve  has 
been  touched  ;  and  he  knows  that  it  has  been  touched  by 
the  vibration  he  experiences — a  thrill,  which  tells  us  that, 
by  becoming  better  acquainted  with  the  poet,  we  have 
become  better  acquainted  with  ourselves. 

In  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  every  man  sees  himself,  with- 
out knowing  that  he  does  so  :  as  in  some  of  the  phenomena 
of  nature,  in  the  mist  of  the  mountain,  the  traveller  beholds 
his  own  figure,  but  the  glory  round  the  head  distinguishes 
it  from  a  mere  vulgar  copy.  In  traversing  the  Brocken,  in 
the  north  of  Germany,  at  sunrise,  the  brilliant  beams  are 
shot  askance,  and  you  see  before  you  a  being  of  gigantic 
proportions,  and  of  such  elevated  dignity,  that  you  only 
know  it  to  be  yourself  by  similarity  of  action.  In  the  same 
way,  near  Messina,  natural  forms,  at  determined  distances, 
are  represented  on  an  invisible  mist,  not  as  they  really  exist, 
but  dressed  in  all  the  prismatic  colours  of  the  imagination. 
So  in  Shakspeare  :  every  form  is  true,  everything  has 
reality  for  its  foundation  ;  we  can  aU  recognise  the  truth, 
but  we  see  it  decorated  with  such  hues  of  beauty,  and 
magnified  to  such  proportions  of  grandeur,  that,  while  we 
know  the  figure,  we  know  also  how  much  it  has  been  refined 
and  exalted  by  the  poet. 

It  is  humiliating  to  reflect  that,  as  it  were,  because 
heaven  has  given  us  the  greatest  poet,  it  has  inflicted  upon 
that  poet  the  most  incompetent  critics  :  none  of  them 
seem  to  understand  even  his  language,  much  less  the  prin- 
ciples upon  which  he  wrote,  and  the  peculiarities  which 
distinguish  him  from  all  rivals.     I  will  not  now  dwell  upon 


450  The  Ninth  Lecture 

this  point,  because  it  is  my  intention  to  devote  a  lecture 
more  immediately  to  the  prefaces  of  Pope  and  Johnson. 
Some  of  Shakspeare's  contemporaries  appear  to  have  under- 
stood him,  and  imitated  him  in  a  way  that  does  the 
original  no  small  honour  ;  but  modern  preface-writers  and 
commentators,  while  they  praise  him  as  a  great  genius, 
when  they  come  to  publish  notes  upon  his  plays,  treat  him 
like  a  schoolboy  ;  as  if  this  great  genius  did  not  understand 
himself,  was  not  aware  of  his  own  powers,  and  wrote  with- 
out design  or  purpose.  Nearly  all  they  can  do  is  to  express 
the  most  vulgar  of  all  feelings,  wonderment — wondering  at 
what  they  term  the  irregularity  of  his  genius,  sometimes 
above  all  praise,  and  at  other  times,  if  they  are  to  be  trusted, 
below  all  contempt.  They  endeavour  to  reconcile  the  two 
opinions  by  asserting  that  he  wrote  for  the  mob  ;  as  if  a 
man  of  real  genius  ever  wrote  for  the  mob.  Shakspeare 
never  consciously  wrote  what  was  below  himself :  careless 
he  might  be,  and  his  better  genius  may  not  always  have 
attended  him  ;  but  I  fearlessly  say,  that  he  never  penned 
a  line  that  he  knew  would  degrade  him.  No  man  does 
anything  equally  well  at  all  times  ;  but  because  Shakspeare 
could  not  always  be  the  greatest  of  poets,  was  he  therefore 
to  condescend  to  make  himself  the  least  ?  ^ 

Yesterday  afternoon  a  friend  left  a  book  for  me  by  a 
German  critic,  of  which  I  have  only  had  time  to  read  a 
small  part ;  but  what  I  did  read  I  approved,  and  I  should 
be  disposed  to  applaud  the  work  much  more  highly,  were 
it  not  that  in  so  doing  I  should,  in  a  manner,  applaud  my- 
self. The  sentiments  and  opinions  are  coincident  with 
those  to  which  I  gave  utterance  in  my  lectures  at  the 
Royal  Institution.  It  is  not  a  little  wonderful,  that  so 
many  ages  have  elapsed  since  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  and 
that  it  should  remain  for  foreigners  first  to  feel  truly,  and 
to  appreciate  justly,  his  mighty  genius.  The  solution  of 
this  circumstance  must  be  sought  in  the  history  of  our 
nation  :  the  English  have  become  a  busy  commercial 
people,  and  they  have  unquestionably  derived  from  this 
propensity  many  social  and  physical  advantages  :  they 
have  grown  to  be  a  mighty  empire — one  of  the  great 

^  It  is  certain  that  my  shorthand  note  in  this  place  affords  another  instance  of  mis- 
hearing: it  runs  literally  thus — "but  because  Shakspeare  could  not  always  be  the 
greatest  of  poets,  was.  he  therefore  to  condescend  to  make  himself  a  beast  ?  "  For  "  a 
beast,"  we  must  read  the  leasts  the  antithesis  being  between  "  greatest  "  and  "  least," 
and  not  between  "  poet  "  and  "  beast."  Yet  "  beast  "  may  be  reconciled  with  sense 
as  in  Macbeth  :  "  Notes  and  Emend."     420. 


The  Ninth  Lecture  451 

nations  of  the  world,  whose  moral  superiority  enables  it  to 
struggle  successfully  against  him,  who  may  be  deemed  the 
evil  genius  of  our  planet. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Germans,  unable  to  distinguish 
themselves  in  action,  have  been  driven  to  speculation  : 
all  their  feelings  have  been  forced  back  into  the  thinking 
and  reasoning  mind.  To  do,  with  them  is  impossible,  but 
in  determining  what  ought  to  be  done,  they  perhaps  exceed 
every  people  of  the  globe.  Incapable  of  acting  outwardly, 
they  have  acted  internally  :  they  first  rationally  recalled 
the  ancient  philosophy,  and  set  their  spirits  to  work  with 
an  energy  of  which  England  produces  no  parallel,  since 
those  truly  heroic  times,  heroic  in  body  and  soul,  the  days 
of  Elizabeth. 

If  all  that  has  been  written  upon  Shakspeare  by  English- 
men were  burned,  in  the  want  of  candles,  merely  to  enable 
us  to  read  one  half  of  what  our  dramatist  produced,  we 
should  be  great  gainers.  Providence  has  given  England 
the  greatest  man  that  ever  put  on  and  put  off  mortality, 
and  has  thrown  a  sop  to  the  envy  of  other  nations,  by  in- 
flicting upon  his  native  country  the  most  incompetent 
critics.  I  say  nothing  here  of  the  state  in  which  his  text 
has  come  down  to  us,  farther  than  that  it  is  evidently  very 
imperfect  :  in  many  places  his  sense  has  been  perverted,  in 
others,  if  not  entirely  obscured,  so  blunderingly  repre- 
sented, as  to  afford  us  only  a  glimpse  of  what  he  meant, 
without  the  power  of  restoring  his  own  expressions.  But 
whether  his  dramas  have  been  perfectly  or  imperfectly 
printed,  it  is  quite  clear  that  modern  inquiry  and  specu- 
lative ingenuity  in  this  kingdom  have  done  nothing  ;  or  I 
might  say,  without  a  solecism,  less  than  nothing  (for  some 
editors  have  multiplied  corruptions)  to  retrieve  the  genuine 
language  of  the  poet.  His  critics  among  us,  during  the 
whole  of  the  last  century,  have  neither  understood  nor 
appreciated  him  ;  for  how  could  they  appreciate  what  they 
could  not  understand  ? 

His  contemporaries,  and  those  who  immediately  fol- 
lowed him,  were  not  so  insensible  of  his  merits,  or  so  incap- 
able of  explaining  them  ;  and  one  of  them,  who  might  be 
Milton  when  a  young  man  of  four  and  twenty,  printed,  in 
the  second  folio  of  Shakspeare's  works,  a  laudatory  poem, 
which,  in  its  kind,  has  no  equal  for  justness  and  distinct- 
ness of  description,  in  reference  to  the  powers  and  qualities 


452  The  Ninth  Lecture 

of  lofty  genius.  It  runs  thus,  and  I  hope  that,  when  I  have 
finished,  I  shall  stand  in  need  of  no  excuse  for  reading  the 
whole  of  it. 

**  A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  whose  clear 
And  equal  surface  can  make  things  appear, 
Distant  a  thousand  years,  and  represent 
Them  in  their  lively  colours,  just  extent 
To  outrun  hasty  time,  retrieve  the  fates. 
Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 
Of  death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 
Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortality  : 
In  that  deep  dusky  dungeon  to  discern 
A  royal  ghost  from  churls  ;   by  art  to  learn 
The  physiognomy  of  shades,  and  give 
Them  sudden  birth,  wondering  how  oft  they  live  ; 
What  story  coldly  tells,  what  poets  feign 
At  second  hand,  and  picture  without  brain, 
Senseless  and  soul-less  shows  :   to  give  a  stage 
(Ample  and  true  with  life)  voice,  action,  age, 
As  Plato's  year,  and  new  scene  of  the  world, 
Them  unto  us,  or  us  to  them  had  hurl'd  : 
To  raise  our  ancient  sovereigns  from  their  herse. 
Make  kings  his  subjects  ;    by  exchanging  verse, 
Enlive  their  pale  trunks  ;    that  the  present  age 
Joys  at  their  joy,  and  trembles  at  their  rage  : 
Yet  so  to  temper  passion,  that  our  ears 
Take  pleasure  in  their  pain,  and  eyes  in  tears 
Both  weep  and  smile ;    fearful  at  plot  so  sad. 
Then  laughing  at  our  fear  ;   abus'd,  and  glad 
To  be  abus'd  ;   afifected  with  that  truth 
Which  we  perceive  is  false,  pleas'd  in  that  ruth 
At  which  we  start,  and,  by  elaborate  play, 
Tortur'd  and  tickl'd  ;   by  a  crab-like  way 
Time  past  made  pastime,  and  in  ugly  sort 
Disgorging  up  his  ravin  for  our  sport  : — 
— While  the  plebeian  imp,  from  lofty  throne. 
Creates  and  rules  a  world,  and  works  upon 
Mankind  by  secret  engines  ;    now  to  move 
A  chilling  pity,  then  a  rigorous  love  ; 
To  strike  up  and  stroke  down,  both  joy  and  ire 
To  steer  th'  affections  ;   and  by  heavenly  fire 
Mold  us  anew,  stol'n  from  ourselves  : — 

This,  and  much  more,  which  cannot  be  express'd 
But  by  himself,  his  tongue,  and  his  own  breast. 
Was  Shakspeare's  freehold  ;    which  his  cunning  brain 
Improv'd  by  favour  of  the  nine-fold  train  ; 
The  buskin'd  muse,  the  comick  queen,  the  grand 
And  louder  tone  of  Clio,  nimble  hand 
And  nimbler  foot  of  the  melodious  pair. 
The  silver-voiced  lady,  the  most  fair 
Calliope,  whose  speaking  silence  daunts. 
And  she  whose  praise  the  heavenly  body  chants  ; 


The  Ninth  Lecture  453 

These  jointly  woo'd  him,  envying  one  another  ; 
(Obey'd  by  all  as  spouse,  but  lov'd  as  brother) 
And  wrought  a  curious  robe,  of  sable  grave, 
Fresh  green,  and  pleasant  yellow,  red  most  brave, 
And  constant  blue,  rich  purple,  guiltless  white, 
The  lowly  russet,  and  the  scarlet  bright  ; 
Branch'd  and  embroider'd  like  the  painted  spring  ; 
Each  leaf  match'd  with  a  flower,  and  each  string 
Of  golden  wire,  each  line  of  silk  :    there  run 
Italian  works,  whose  thread  the  sisters  spun  ; 
And  these  did  sing,  or  seem  to  sing,  the  choice 
Birds  of  a  foreign  note  and  various  voice  : 
Here  hangs  a  mossy  rock  ;   there  plays  a  fair 
But  chiding  fountain,  purled  :    not  the  air, 
Nor  clouds,  nor  thunder,  but  were  living  drawn  ; 
Not  out  of  common  tiffany  or  lawn. 
But  fine  materials,  which  the  Muses  know. 
And  only  know  the  countries  where  they  grow. 
Now,  when  they  could  no  longer  him  enjoy. 
In  mortal  garments  pent, — death  may  destroy, 
They  say,  his  body  ;   but  his  verse  shall  live. 
And  more  than  nature  takes  our  hands  shall  give  : 
In  a  less  volume,  but  more  strongly  bound, 
Shakspeare  shall  breathe  and  speak  ;    with  laurel  crown'd, 
Which  never  fades  ;   fed  with  ambrosian  meat, 
In  a  well-lined  vesture,  rich,  and  neat. 
So  with  this  robe  they  clothe  him,  bid  him  wear  it  ; 
For  time  shall  never  stain,  nor  envy  tear  it." 

This  poem  is  subscribed  J.  M.  S.,  meaning,  as  some  have 
explained  the  initials,  "  John  Milton,  Student  ":  the 
internal  evidence  seems  to  me  decisive,  for  there  was,  I 
think,  no  other  man,  of  that  particular  day,  capable  of 
writing  anything  so  characteristic  of  Shakspeare,  so  justly 
thought,  and  so  happily  expressed. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  any  of  Shakspeare's  char- 
acters strike  us  as  portraits  :  they  have  the  union  of 
reason  perceiving,  of  judgment  recording,  and  of  imagina- 
tion diffusing  over  all  a  magic  glory.  While  the  poet 
registers  what  is  past,  he  projects  the  future  in  a  wonder- 
ful degree,  and  makes  us  feel,  however  slightly,  and  see, 
however  dimly,  that  state  of  being  in  which  there  is 
neither  past  nor  future,  but  all  is  permanent  in  the  very 
energy  of  nature. 

Although  I  have  affirmed  that  all  Shakspeare's  char- 
acters are  ideal,  and  the  result  of  his  own  meditation, 
yet  a  just  separation  may  be  made  of  those  in  which  the 
ideal  is  most  prominent — where  it  is  put  forward  more 
intensely — where   we   are   made   more   conscious   of   the 


454  The  Ninth  Lecture 

ideal,  though  in  truth  they  possess  no  more  nor  less 
ideality  :  and  of  those  which,  though  equally  ideaUsed, 
the  delusion  upon  the  mind  is  of  their  being  real.  The 
characters  in  the  various  plays  may  be  separated  into 
those  where  the  real  is  disguised  in  the  ideal,  and  those 
where  the  ideal  is  concealed  from  us  by  the  real.  The 
difference  is  made  by  the  different  powers  of  mind  em- 
ployed by  the  poet  in  the  representation. 

At  present  I  shall  only  speak  of  dramas  where  the 
ideal  is  predominant ;  and  chiefly  for  this  reason — that 
those  plays  have  been  attacked  with  the  greatest  violence. 
The  objections  to  them  are  not  the  growth  of  our  own 
country,  but  of  France, — the  judgment  of  monkeys,  by 
some  wonderful  phenomenon,  put  into  the  mouths  of 
people  shaped  like  men.  These  creatures  have  informed 
us  that  Shakspeare  is  a  miraculous  monster,  in  whom  many 
heterogeneous  components  were  thrown  together,  pro- 
ducing a  discordant  mass  of  genius — an  irregular  and  ill- 
assorted  structure  of  gigantic  proportions. 

Among  the  ideal  plays,  I  will  take  "  The  Tempest," 
by  way  of  example.  Various  others  might  be  mentioned, 
but  it  is  impossible  to  go  through  every  drama,  and  what 
I  remark  on  "  The  Tempest  "  will  apply  to  all  Shakspeare's 
productions  of  the  same  class. 

In  this  play  Shakspeare  has  especially  appealed  to  the 
imagination,  and  he  has  constructed  a  plot  well  adapted  to 
the  purpose.  According  to  his  scheme,  he  did  not  appeal 
to  any  sensuous  impression  (the  word  "  sensuous "  is 
authorised  by  Milton)  of  time  and  place,  but  to  the  im- 
agination, and  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind,  that  of  old,  and 
as  regards  mere  scenery,  his  works  may  be  said  to  have 
been  recited  rather  than  acted — that  is  to  say,  description 
and  narration  supplied  the  place  of  visual  exhibition  : 
the  audience  was  told  to  fancy  that  they  saw  what  they 
only  heard  described  ;  the  painting  was  not  in  colours,  but 
in  words. 

This  is  particularly  to  be  noted  in  the  first  scene — a 
storm  and  its  confusion  on  board  the  king's  ship.  The 
highest  and  the  lowest  characters  are  brought  together, 
and  with  what  excellence  !  Much  of  the  genius  of  Shak- 
speare is  displayed  in  these  happy  combinations — the 
highest  and  the  lowest,  the  gayest  and  the  saddest ;  he  is 
not  droll  in  one  scene  and  melancholy  in  another,  but  often 


The  Ninth  Lecture  455 

both  the  one  and  the  other  in  the  same  scene.  Laughter 
is  made  to  swell  the  tear  of  sorrow,  and  to  throw,  as  it  were, 
a  poetic  light  upon  it,  while  the  tear  mingles  tenderness 
with  the  laughter.  Shakspeare  has  evinced  the  power, 
which  above  all  other  men  he  possessed,  that  of  intro- 
ducing the  profoundest  sentiments  of  wisdom,  where  they 
would  be  least  expected,  yet  where  they  are  most  truly 
natural.  One  admirable  secret  of  his  art  is,  that  separate 
speeches  frequently  do  not  appear  to  have  been  occasioned 
by  those  which  preceded,  and  which  are  consequent  upon 
each  other,  but  to  have  arisen  out  of  the  peculiar  character 
of  the  speaker. 

Before  I  go  further,  I  may  take  the  opportunity  of 
explaining  what  is  meant  by  mechanic  and  organic  regul- 
arity. In  the  former  the  copy  must  appear  as  if  it  had 
come  out  of  the  same  mould  with  the  original ;  in  the 
latter  there  is  a  law  which  all  the  parts  obey,  conform- 
ing themselves  to  the  outward  symbols  and  manifestations 
of  the  essential  principle.  If  we  look  to  the  growth  of 
trees,  for  instance,  we  shall  observe  that  trees  of  the  same 
kind  vary  considerably,  according  to  the  circumstances 
of  soil,  air,  or  position  ;  yet  we  are  able  to  decide  at  once 
whether  they  are  oaks,  elms,  or  poplars. 

So  with  Shakspeare's  characters  :  he  shows  us  the  life 
and  principle  of  each  being  with  organic  regularity.  The 
Boatswain,  in  the  first  scene  of  "  The  Tempest,"  when  the 
bonds  of  reverence  are  thrown  off  as  a  sense  of  danger 
impresses  all,  gives  a  loose  to  his  feelings,  and  thus  pours 
forth  his  vulgar  mind  to  the  old  Counsellor  : — 

"  Hence  !  What  care  these  roarers  for  the  name  of 
King  ?     To  cabin  :   silence  !    trouble  us  not." 

Gonzalo  replies — "  Good  ;  yet  remember  whom  thou 
hast  aboard."  To  which  the  Boatswain  answers — "  None 
that  I  more  love  than  myself.  You  are  a  counsellor  :  if 
you  can  command  these  elements  to  silence,  and  work  the 
peace  of  the  present,  we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more  ;  use 
your  authority  :  if  you  cannot,  give  thanks  that  you  have 
lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself  ready  in  your  cabin  for 
the  mischance  of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap. — Cheerly,  good 
hearts  ! — Out  of  our  way,  I  say." 

An  ordinary  dramatist  would,  after  this  speech,  have 
represented  Gonzalo  as  moralising,  or  saying  something 
connected  with  the  Boatswain's  language  ;    for  ordinary 


456  The  Ninth  Lecture 

dramatists  are  not  men  of  genius  :  they  combine  their 
ideas  by  association,  or  by  logical  affinity  ;  but  the  vital 
writer,  who  makes  men  on  the  stage  what  they  are  in 
nature,  in  a  moment  transports  himself  into  the  very 
being  of  each  personage,  and,  instead  of  cutting  out 
artificial  puppets,  he  brings  before  us  the  men  themselves. 
Therefore,  Gonzalo  soliloquises, — "  I  have  great  comfort 
from  this  fellow  :  methinks,  he  hath  no  drowning  mark 
upon  him ;  his  complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand 
fast,  good  fate,  to  his  hanging  !  make  the  rope  of  his 
destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth  little  advantage.  II 
he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged,  our  case  is  miserable." 

In  this  part  of  the  scene  we  see  the  true  sailor  with 
his  contempt  of  danger,  and  the  old  counsellor  with  his 
high  feeling,  who,  instead  of  condescending  to  notice  the 
words  just  addressed  to  him,  turns  off,  meditating  with 
himself,  and  drawing  some  comfort  to  his  own  mind,  by 
trifling  with  the  ill  expression  of  the  boatswain's  face, 
founding  upon  it  a  hope  of  safety. 

Shakspeare  had  pre-determined  to  make  the  plot  of 
this  play  such  as  to  involve  a  certain  number  of  low  char- 
acters, and  at  the  beginning  he  pitched  the  note  of  the 
whole.  The  first  scene  was  meant  as  a  lively  commence- 
ment of  the  story  ;  the  reader  is  prepared  for  something 
that  is  to  be  developed,  and  in  the  next  scene  he  brings 
forward  Prospero  and  Miranda.  How  is  this  done  ?  By 
giving  to  his  favourite  character,  Miranda,  a  sentence 
which  at  once  expresses  the  violence  and  fury  of  the 
storm,  such  as  it  might  appear  to  a  witness  on  the  land, 
and  at  the  same  time  displays  the  tenderness  of  her 
feelings — the  exquisite  feelings  of  a  female  brought  up  in 
a  desert,  but  with  all  the  advantages  of  education,  all  that 
could  be  communicated  by  a  wise  and  affectionate  father. 
She  possesses  all  the  delicacy  of  innocence,  yet  with  all 
the  powers  of  her  mind  unweakened  by  the  combats  of 
life.     Miranda  exclaims  : — 

"  O  1    I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer  :   a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces." 

The  doubt  here  intimated  could  have  occurred  to  no 
mind  but  to  that  of  Miranda,  who  had  been  bred  up  in  the 


The  Ninth  Lecture  457 

island  with  her  father  and  a  monster  only  :  she  did  not 
know,  as  others  do,  what  sort  of  creatures  were  in  a  ship  ; 
others  never  would  have  introduced  it  as  a  conjecture. 
This  shows,  that  while  Shakspeare  is  displaying  his  vast 
excellence,  he  never  fails  to  insert  some  touch  or  other, 
which  is  not  merely  characteristic  of  the  particular  person, 
but  combines  two  things — the  person,  and  the  circum- 
stances acting  upon  the  person.     She  proceeds  : — 

"  O  !    the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls  !    they  perish' d. 
Had  1  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallow' d,  and 
The  fraughting  souls  within  her." 

She  still  dwells  upon  that  which  was  most  wanting  to  the 
completeness  of  her  nature — these  fellow  creatures  from 
whom  she  appeared  banished,  with  only  one  relict  to  keep 
them  alive,  not  in  her  memory,  but  in  her  imagination. 

Another  proof  of  excellent  judgment  in  the  poet,  for  I 
am  now  principally  adverting  to  that  point,  is  to  be  found 
in  the  preparation  of  the  reader  for  what  is  to  follow. 
Prospero  is  introduced,  first  in  his  magic  robe,  which,  with 
the  assistance  of  his  daughter,  he  lays  aside,  and  we  then 
know  him  to  be  a  being  possessed  of  supernatural  powers. 
He  then  instructs  Miranda  in  the  story  of  their  arrival  in  the 
island,  and  this  is  conducted  in  such  a  manner,  that  the 
reader  never  conjectures  the  technical  use  the  poet  has 
made  of  the  relation,  by  informing  the  auditor  of  what  it  is 
necessary  for  him  to  know. 

The  next  step  is  the  warning  by  Prospero,  that  he  means, 
for  particular  purposes,  to  lull  his  daughter  to  sleep  ;  and 
here  he  exhibits  the  earliest  and  mildest  proof  of  magical 
power.  In  ordinary  and  vulgar  plays  we  should  have  had 
some  person  brought  upon  the  stage,  whom  nobody  knows 
or  cares  anything  about,  to  let  the  audience  into  the  secret. 
Prospero  having  cast  a  sleep  upon  his  daughter,  by  that 
sleep  stops  the  narrative  at  the  very  moment  when  it  was 
necessary  to  break  it  off,  in  order  to  excite  curiosity,  and  yet 
to  give  the  memory  and  understanding  sufficient  to  carry 
on  the  progress  of  the  history  uninterruptedly. 

Here  I  cannot  help  noticing  a  fine  touch  of  Shakspeare's 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  generally  of  the  great 


458  The  Ninth  Lecture 

laws  of  the  human  mind  :    I  mean  Miranda's  infant  re- 
membrance.    Prospero  asks  her — 

"  Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out  three  years  old. 

Miranda  answers, 

"  Certainly,  sir,  I  can." 

Prospero  inquires, 

"  By  what  ?   by  any  other  house  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance." 

To  which  Miranda  returns, 

"  'Tis  far  off  ; 
And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants.     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  ?  " 

Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

This  is  exquisite  !  In  general,  our  remembrances  of 
early  life  arise  from  vivid  colours,  especially  if  we  have  seen 
them  in  motion  :  for  instance,  persons  when  grown  up  will 
remember  a  bright  green  door,  seen  when  they  were  quite 
young  ;  but  Miranda,  who  was  somewhat  older,  recollected 
four  or  five  women  who  tended  her.  She  might  know  men 
from  her  father,  and  her  remembrance  of  the  past  might 
be  worn  out  by  the  present  object,  but  women  she  only 
knew  by  herself,  by  the  contemplation  of  her  own  figure  in 
the  fountain,  and  she  recalled  to  her  mind  what  had  been. 
It  was  not,  that  she  had  seen  such  and  such  grandees,  or 
such  and  such  peeresses,  but  she  remembered  to  have  seen 
something  Uke  the  reflection  of  herself :  it  was  not  herself, 
and  it  brought  back  to  her  mind  what  she  had  seen  most 
like  herself. 

In  my  opinion  the  picturesque  power  displayed  by  Shak- 
speare,  of  all  the  poets  that  ever  lived,  is  only  equalled,  if 
equalled,  by  Milton  and  Dante.  The  presence  of  genius  is 
not  shown  in  elaborating  a  picture  :  we  have  had  many 
specimens  of  this  sort  of  work  in  modern  poems,  where  all 
is  so  dutchified,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  by  the  most  minute 
touches,  that  the  reader  naturally  asks  why  words,  and  not 
painting,  are  used  ?  I  know  a  young  lady  of  much  taste, 
who  observed,  that  in  reading  recent  versified  accounts  of 


The  Ninth  Lecture  459 

voyages  and  travels,  she,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  cast  her  eyes 
on  the  opposite  page,  for  coloured  prints  of  what  was  so 
patiently  and  punctually  described. 

The  power  of  poetry  is,  by  a  single  word  perhaps,  to 
instil  that  energy  into  the  mind,  which  compels  the  imagina- 
tion to  produce  the  picture.     Prospero  tells  Miranda, 

"  One  midnight, 
Fated  to  the  purpose,^  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan  ;    and  i'  the  dead  of  darkness. 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self." 

Here,  by  introducing  a  single  happy  epithet,  "  crying," 
in  the  last  line,  a  complete  picture  is  presented  to  the  mind, 
and  in  the  production  of  such  pictures  the  power  of  genius 
consists. 

In  reference  to  preparation,  it  will  be  observed  that  the 
storm,  and  all  that  precedes  the  tale,  as  well  as  the  tale 
itself,  serve  to  develope  completely  the  main  character  of 
the  drama,  as  well  as  the  design  of  Prospero.  The  manner 
in  which  the  heroine  is  charmed  asleep  fits  us  for  what 
follows^  goes  beyond  our  ordinary  belief,  and  gradually 
leads  us  to  the  appearance  and  disclosure  of  a  being  of  the 
most  fanciful  and  delicate  texture,  like  Prospero,  preter- 
naturally  gifted. 

In  this  way  the  entrance  of  Ariel,  if  not  absolutely  fore- 
thought by  the  reader,  was  foreshewn  by  the  writer  :  in 
addition,  we  may  remark,  that  the  moral  feeling  called 
forth  by  the  sweet  words  of  Miranda, 

"  Alack,  what  trouble 
Was  I  then  to  you  !  " 

in  which  she  considered  only  the  sufferings  and  sorrows  of 
her  father,  puts  the  reader  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  exert  his 
imagination  in  favour  of  an  object  so  innocent  and  interest- 
ing. The  poet  makes  him  wish  that,  if  supernatural  agency 
were  to  be  employed,  it  should  be  used  for  a  being  so  young 
and  lovely.     "  The  wish  is  father  to  the  thought,"  and 

1  Coleridge,  of  course,  could  only  use  the  text  of  the  day  when  he  lectured  ;  but, 
since  that  period,  many  plausible,  and  some  indisputable,  changes  have  been  into- 
duced  into  it:  one  of  them  occurs  in  reference  to  the  word  "purpose,"  for  wlii^h 
practice  has  been  proposed  as  the  true  reading  :  the  change  is  not  absolutely  necessary, 
but  still  we  can  entertain  little  doubt  that  "  purpose  "  is  a  corruption,  arising  perhaps 
out  of  the  similarity  of  the  appearance  of  the  words  "purpose"  a.nd.  practice  in 
hastily-written  manuscript.  The  word  "  purpose  "  recurs  in  the  very  uext  line  but 
one.— J.  P.  C. 


460  The  Ninth  Lecture 

Ariel  is  introduced.  Here,  what  is  called  poetic  faith  is 
required  and  created,  and  our  common  notions  of  philo- 
sophy give  way  before  it :  this  feeling  may  be  said  to  be 
much  stronger  than  historic  faith,  since  for  the  exercise  of 
poetic  faith  the  mind  is  previously  prepared.  I  make  this 
remark,  though  somewhat  digressive,  in  order  to  lead  to  a 
future  subject  of  these  lectures — the  poems  of  Milton. 
When  adverting  to  those,  I  shall  have  to  explain  farther  the 
distinction  between  the  two. 

Many  Scriptural  poems  have  been  written  with  so  much 
of  Scripture  in  them,  that  what  is  not  Scripture  appears  to 
be  not  true,  and  like  mingling  lies  with  the  most  sacred 
revelations.  Now  Milton,  on  the  other  hand,  has  taken  for 
his  subject  that  one  point  of  Scripture  of  which  we  have 
the  mere  fact  recorded,  and  upon  this  he  has  most  judici- 
ously constructed  his  whole  fable.  So  of  Shakspeare's 
"  King  Lear  "  :  we  have  little  historic  evidence  to  guide 
or  confine  us,  and  the  few  facts  handed  down  to  us,  and 
admirably  employed  by  the  poet,  are  sufficient,  while  we 
read,  to  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  as  to  the  credibility  of  the 
story.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  this  or  that  incident  is  im- 
probable, because  history,  as  far  as  it  goes,  tells  us  that  the 
fact  was  so  and  so.  Four  or  five  lines  in  the  Bible  include 
the  whole  that  is  said  of  Milton's  story,  and  the  Poet  has 
called  up  that  poetic  faith,  that  conviction  of  the  mind, 
which  is  necessary  to  make  that  seem  true,  which  otherwise 
might  have  been  deemed  almost  fabulous. 

But  to  return  to  "  The  Tempest,"  and  to  the  wondrous 
creation  of  Ariel.  If  a  doubt  could  ever  be  entertained 
whether  Shakspeare  was  a  great  poet,  acting  upon  laws 
arising  out  of  his  own  nature,  and  not  without  law,  as  has 
sometimes  been  idly  asserted,  that  doubt  must  be  removed 
by  the  character  of  Ariel.  The  very  first  words  uttered 
by  this  being  introduce  the  spirit,  not  as  an  angel,  above 
man  ;  not  a  gnome,  or  a  fiend,  below  man  ;  but  while  the 
poet  gives  him  the  faculties  and  the  advantages  of  reason, 
he  divests  him  of  aU  moral  character,  not  positively,  it  is 
true,  but  negatively.  In  air  he  lives,  from  air  he  derives 
his  being,  in  air  he  acts  ;  and  aU  his  colours  and  properties 
seem  to  have  been  obtained  from  the  rainbow  and  the 
skies.  There  is  nothing  about  Ariel  that  cannot  be  con- 
ceived to  exist  either  at  sun-rise  or  at  sun-set :  hence 
aU  that  belongs  to  Ariel  belongs  to  the  delight  the  mind 


The  Ninth  Lecture  461 

is  capable  of  receiving  from  the  most  lovely  external 
appearances.  His  answers  to  Prospero  are  directly  to  the 
question,  and  nothing  beyond  ;  or  where  he  expatiates, 
which  is  not  unfrequently,  it  is  to  himself  and  upon  his 
own  delights,  or  upon  the  unnatural  situation  in  which  he 
is  placed,  though  under  a  kindly  power  and  to  good  ends. 
Shakspeare  has  properly  made  Ariel's  very  first  speech 
characteristic  of  him.  After  he  has  described  the  manner 
in  which  he  had  raised  the  storm  and  produced  its  harm- 
less consequences,  we  find  that  Ariel  is  discontented — 
that  he  has  been  freed,  it  is  true,  from  a  cruel  confinement, 
but  still  that  he  is  bound  to  obey  Prospero,  and  to  execute 
any  commands  imposed  upon  him.  We  feel  that  such  a 
state  of  bondage  is  almost  unnatural  to  him,  yet  we  see 
that  it  is  delightful  for  him  to  be  so  employed. — It  is  as 
if  we  were  to  command  one  of  the  winds  in  a  different 
direction  to  that  which  nature  dictates,  or  one  of  the 
waves,  now  rising  and  now  sinking,  to  recede  before  it 
bursts  upon  the  shore  :  such  is  the  feeling  we  experience, 
when  we  learn  that  a  being  like  Ariel  is  commanded 
to  fulfil  any  mortal  behest. 

When,  however,  Shakspeare  contrasts  the  treatment 
of  Ariel  by  Prospero  with  that  of  Sycorax,  we  are  sensible 
that  the  liberated  spirit  ought  to  be  grateful,  and  Ariel 
does  feel  and  acknowledge  the  obligation  ;  he  immediately 
assumes  the  airy  being,  with  a  mind  so  elastically  cor- 
respondent, that  when  once  a  feeling  has  passed  from  it, 
not  a  trace  is  left  behind. 

Is  there  anything  in  nature  from  which  Shakspeare 
caught  the  idea  of  this  delicate  and  delightful  being,  with 
such  child-like  simplicity,  yet  with  such  preternatural 
powers  ?  He  is  neither  born  of  heaven,  nor  of  earth  ;  but, 
as  it  were,  between  both,  live  a  May-blossom  kept  sus- 
pended in  air  by  the  fanning  breeze,  which  prevents  it 
from  falling  to  the  ground,  and  only  finally,  and  by  com- 
pulsion, touching  earth.  This  reluctance  of  the  Sylph  to 
be  under  the  command  even  of  Prospero  is  kept  up  through 
the  whole  play,  and  in  the  exercise  of  his  admirable  judg- 
ment Shakspeare  has  availed  himself  of  it,  in  order  to  give 
Ariel  an  interest  in  the  event,  looking  forward  to  that 
moment  when  he  was  to  gain  his  last  and  only  reward — 
simple  and  eternal  liberty. 

Another  instance  of  admirable  judgment  and  excellent 


462 


The  Ninth  Lecture 


preparation  is  to  be  found  in  the  creature  contrasted  with 
Ariel — Caliban  ;  who  is  described  in  such  a  manner  by 
Prospero,  as  to  lead  us  to  expect  the  appearance  of  a 
foul,  unnatural  monster.  He  is  not  seen  at  once  :  his 
voice  is  heard  ;  this  is  the  preparation  ;  he  was  too  offen- 
sive to  be  seen  first  in  all  his  deformity,  and  in  nature 
we  do  not  receive  so  much  disgust  from  sound  as  from 
sight.  After  we  have  heard  Caliban's  voice  he  does  not 
enter,  until  Ariel  has  entered  like  a  water-nymph.  All 
the  strength  of  contrast  is  thus  acquired  without  any  of 
the  shock  of  abruptness,  or  of  that  unpleasant  sensation, 
which  we  experience  when  the  object  presented  is  in  any 
way  hateful  to  our  vision. 

The  character  of  Caliban  is  wonderfully  conceived : 
he  is  a  sort  of  creature  of  the  earth,  as  Ariel  is  a  sort 
of  creature  of  the  air.  He  partakes  of  the  qualities  of 
the  brute,  but  is  distinguished  from  brutes  in  two  ways  : 
— by  having  mere  understanding  without  moral  reason  ; 
and  by  not  possessing  the  instincts  which  pertain  to 
absolute  animals.  Still,  Caliban  is  in  some  respects  a 
noble  being  :  the  poet  has  raised  him  far  above  contempt : 
he  is  a  man  in  the  sense  of  the  imagination  :  all  the  images 
he  uses  are  drawn  from  nature,  and  are  highly  poetical ; 
they  fit  in  with  the  images  of  Ariel.  Caliban  gives  us 
images  from  the  earth,  Ariel  images  from  the  air.  Caliban 
talks  of  the  difficulty  of  finding  fresh  water,  of  the  situation 
of  morasses,  and  of  other  circumstances  which  even  brute 
instinct,  without  reason,  could  comprehend.  No  mean 
figure  is  employed,  no  mean  passion  displayed,  beyond 
animal  passion,  and  repugnance  to  command. 

The  manner  in  which  the  lovers  are  introduced  is 
equally  wonderful,  and  it  is  the  last  point  I  shall  now 
mention  in  reference  to  this,  almost  miraculous,  drama. 
The  same  judgment  is  observable  in  every  scene,  still 
preparing,  still  inviting,  and  still  gratifying,  like  a  finished 
piece  of  music.  I  have  omitted  to  notice  one  thing,  and 
you  must  give  me  leave  to  advert  to  it  before  I  proceed  : 
I  mean  the  conspiracy  against  the  life  of  Alonzo.  I  want 
to  shew  you  how  well  the  poet  prepares  the  feelings  of 
the  reader  for  this  plot,  which  was  to  execute  the  most 
detestable  of  all  crimes,  and  which,  in  another  play, 
Shakspeare  has  called  "  the  murder  of  sleep." 

Antonio  and  Sebastian  at  first  had  no  such  intention  : 


The  Ninth  Lecture  463 

it  was  suggested  by  the  magical  sleep  cast  on  Alonzo 
and  Gonzalo  ;  but  they  are  previously  introduced  scoffing 
and  scorning  at  what  was  said  by  others,  without  regard 
to  age  or  situation — without  any  sense  of  admiration  for 
the  excellent  truths  they  heard  delivered,  but  giving 
themselves  up  entirely  to  the  malignant  and  unsocial 
feeling,  which  induced  them  to  listen  to  everything  that 
was  said,  not  for  the  sake  of  profiting  by  the  learning 
and  experience  of  others,  but  of  hearing  something  that 
might  gratify  vanity  and  self-love,  by  making  them  believe 
that  the  person  speaking  was  inferior  to  themselves. 

This,  let  me  remark,  is  one  of  the  grand  characteristics 
of  a  villain  ;  and  it  would  not  be  so  much  a  presentiment, 
as  an  anticipation  of  hell,  for  men  to  suppose  that  all 
mankind  were  as  wicked  as  themselves,  or  might  be  so, 
if  they  were  not  too  great  fools.  Pope,  you  are  perhaps 
aware,  objected  to  this  conspiracy  ;  but  in  my  mind,  if 
it  could  be  omitted,  the  play  would  lose  a  charm  which 
nothing  could  supply. 

Many,  indeed  innumerable,  beautiful  passages  might 
be  quoted  from  this  play,  independently  of  the  astonishing 
scheme  of  its  construction.  Every  body  will  call  to  mind 
the  grandeur  of  the  language  of  Prospero  in  that  divine 
speech,  where  he  takes  leave  of  his  magic  art ;  and  were 
I  to  indulge  myself  by  repetitions  of  the  kind,  I  should 
descend  from  the  character  of  a  lecturer  to  that  of  a  mere 
reciter.  Before  I  terminate,  I  may  particularly  recall  one 
short  passage,  which  has  fallen  under  the  very  severe,  but 
inconsiderate,  censure  of  Pope  and  Arbuthnot,  who  pro- 
nounce it  a  piece  of  the  grossest  bombast.  Prospero 
thus  addresses  his  daughter,  directing  her  attention  to 
Ferdinand  : 

"  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
And  say  what  thou  seest  yond." 

Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

Taking  these  words  as  a  periphrase  of — "  Look  what  is 
coming  yonder,"  it  certainly  may  to  some  appear  to  border 
on  the  ridiculous,  and  to  fall  under  the  rule  I  formerly  laid 
down, — that  whatever,  without  injury,  can  be  translated 
into  a  foreign  language  in  simple  terms,  ought  to  be  in 
simple  terms  in  the  original  language  ;  but  it  is  to  be  borne 
in  mind,  that  different  modes  of  expression  frequently  arise 


464  The  Ninth  Lecture 

from  difference  of  situation  and  education  :  a  blackguard 
would  use  very  different  words,  to  express  the  same  thing, 
to  those  a  gentleman  would  employ,  yet  both  would  be 
natural  and  proper  ;  difference  of  feeling  gives  rise  to 
difference  of  language  :  a  gentleman  speaks  in  polished 
terms,  with  due  regard  to  his  own  rank  and  position,  while 
a  blackguard,  a  person  little  better  than  half  a  brute, 
speaks  like  half  a  brute,  showing  no  respect  for  himself,  nor 
for  others. 

But  I  am  content  to  try  the  lines  I  have  just  quoted  by 
the  introduction  to  them  ;  and  then,  I  think,  you  will 
admit,  that  nothing  could  be  more  fit  and  appropriate  than 
such  language.  How  does  Prospero  introduce  them  ?  He 
has  just  told  Miranda  a  wonderful  story,  which  deeply 
affected  her,  and  filled  her  with  surprise  and  astonishment, 
and  for  his  own  purposes  he  afterwards  lulls  her  to  sleep. 
When  she  awakes,  Shakspeare  has  made  her  wholly  in- 
attentive to  the  present,  but  wrapped  up  in  the  past.  An 
actress,  who  understands  the  character  of  Miranda,  would 
have  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  her  eyelids  almost  covering 
them,  while  she  was,  as  it  were,  living  in  her  dream.  At 
this  moment  Prospero  sees  Ferdinand,  and  wishes  to  point 
him  out  to  his  daughter,  not  only  with  great,  but  with 
scenic  solemnity,  he  standing  before  her,  and  before  the 
spectator,  in  the  dignified  character  of  a  great  magician. 
Something  was  to  appear  to  Miranda  on  the  sudden,  and  as 
unexpectedly  as  if  the  hero  of  a  drama  were  to  be  on  the 
stage  at  the  instant  when  the  curtain  is  elevated.  It  is 
under  such  circumstances  that  Prospero  says,  in  a  tone 
calculated  at  once  to  arouse  his  daughter's  attention, 

"  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
And  say  what  thou  seest  yond." 

Turning  from  the  sight  of  Ferdinand  to  his  thoughtful 
daughter,  his  attention  was  first  struck  by  the  downcast 
appearance  of  her  eyes  and  eyelids  ;  and,  in  my  humble 
opinion,  the  solemnity  of  the  phraseology  assigned  to 
Prospero  is  completely  in  character,  recollecting  his 
preternatural  capacity,  in  which  the  most  familiar  objects 
in  nature  present  themselves  in  a  mysterious  point  of  view. 
It  is  much  easier  to  find  fault  with  a  writer  by  reference  to 
former  notions  and  experience,  than  to  sit  down  and  read 
him,  recollecting  his  purpose,  connecting  one  feeling  with 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  465 

another,  and  judging  of  his  words  and  phrases,  in  pro- 
portion as  they  convey  the  sentiments  of  the  persons 
represented. 

Of  Miranda  we  may  say,  that  she  possesses  in  herself  all 
the  ideal  beauties  that  could  be  imagined  by  the  greatest 
poet  of  any  age  or  country  ;  but  it  is  not  my  purpose  now, 
so  much  to  point  out  the  high  poetic  powers  of  Shakspeare, 
as  to  illustrate  his  exquisite  judgment,  and  it  is  solely  with 
this  design  that  I  have  noticed  a  passage  with  which,  it 
seems  to  me,  some  critics,  and  those  among  the  best,  have 
been  unreasonably  dissatisfied.  If  Shakspeare  be  the 
wonder  of  the  ignorant,  he  is,  and  ought  to  be,  much  more 
the  wonder  of  the  learned  :  not  only  from  profundity  of 
thought,  but  from  his  astonishing  and  intuitive  knowledge 
of  what  man  must  be  at  all  times,  and  under  all  circum- 
stances, he  is  rather  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prophet  than  as 
a  poet.  Yet,  with  all  these  unbounded  powers,  with  all 
this  might  and  majesty  of  genius,  he  makes  us  feel  as  if 
he  were  unconscious  of  himself,  and  of  his  high  destiny, 
disguising  the  half  god  in  the  simplicity  of  a  child. 

END   OF    THE    NINTH    LECTURE. 


THE  TWELFTH  LECTURE. 

In  the  last  lecture  I  endeavoured  to  point  out  in  Shak- 
speare those  characters  in  which  pride  of  intellect,  without 
moral  feeling,  is  supposed  to  be  the  ruling  impulse,  such  as 
lago,  Richard  III.,  and  even  Falstaff.  In  Richard  III., 
ambition  is,  as  it  were,  the  channel  in  which  this  impulse 
directs  itself  ;  the  character  is  drawn  with  the  greatest 
fulness  and  perfection  ;  and  the  poet  has  not  only  given  us 
that  character,  grown  up  and  completed,  but  he  has  shown 
us  its  very  source  and  generation.  The  inferiority  of  his 
person  made  the  hero  seek  consolation  and  compensation 
in  the  superiority  of  his  intellect ;  he  thus  endeavoured  to 
counterbalance  his  deficiency.  This  striking  feature  is 
pourtrayed  most  admirably  by  Shakspeare,  who  represents 
Richard  bringing  forward  his  very  defects  and  deformities 
as  matters  of  boast.  It  was  the  same  pride  of  intellect,  or 
the  assumption  of  it,  that  made  John  Wilkes  vaunt  that, 
although  he  was  so  ugly,  he  only  wanted,  with  any  lady, 


466 


The  Twelfth  Lecture 


ten  minutes'  start  of  the  handsomest  man  in  England. 
This  certainly  was  a  high  compliment  to  himself  ;  but  a 
higher  to  the  female  sex,  on  the  supposition  that  Wilkes 
possessed  this  superiority  of  intellect,  and  relied  upon  it 
for  making  a  favourable  impression,  because  ladies  would 
know  how  to  estimate  his  advantages. 

I  will  now  proceed  to  offer  some  remarks  upon  the 
tragedy  of  "  Richard  II.,"  on  account  of  its  not  very 
apparent,  but  still  intimate,  connection  with  "  Richard 
III."  As,  in  the  last,  Shakspeare  has  painted  a  man  where 
ambition  is  the  channel  in  which  the  ruling  impulse  runs, 
so,  in  the  first,  he  has  given  us  a  character,  under  the  name 
of  Bolingbroke,  or  Henry  IV.,  where  ambition  itself,  con- 
joined unquestionably  with  great  talents,  is  the  ruling 
impulse.  In  Richard  III.  the  pride  of  intellect  makes  use 
of  ambition  as  its  means  ;  in  Bolingbroke  the  gratification 
of  ambition  is  the  end,  and  talents  are  the  means. 

One  main  object  of  these  lectures  is  to  point  out  the 
superiority  of  Shakspeare  to  other  dramatists,  and  no 
superiority  can  be  more  striking,  than  that  this  wonderful 
poet  could  take  two  characters,  which  at  first  sight  seem 
so  much  ahke,  and  yet,  when  carefuUy  and  minutely 
examined,  are  so  totally  distinct. 

The  popularity  of  "  Richard  II."  is  owing,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  the  masterly  delineation  of  the  principal 
character  ;  but  were  there  no  other  ground  for  admiring 
it,  it  would  deserve  the  highest  applause,  from  the  fact 
that  it  contains  the  most  magnificent,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  truest  eulogium  of  our  native  countrj^  that  the 
English  language  can  boast,  or  which  can  be  produced  from 
any  other  tongue,  not  excepting  the  proud  claims  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  When  I  feel,  that  upon  the  morality  of 
Britain  depends  the  safety  of  Britain,  and  that  her  morality 
is  supported  and  illustrated  by  our  national  feeling,  I 
cannot  read  these  grand  lines  without  joy  and  triumph. 
Let  it  be  remembered,  that  while  this  country  is  proudly 
pre-eminent  in  morals,  her  enemy  has  only  maintained  his 
station  by  superiority  in  mechanical  appliances.  Many  of 
those  who  hear  me  will,  no  doubt,  anticipate  the  passage 
I  refer  to,  and  it  runs  as  follows  : — 

"  This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle, 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 


'  The  Twelfth  Lecture  467 

This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself 

Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world, 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

WTiich  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house. 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands  ; 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England,  ' 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 

Feared  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth, 

Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 

For  Christian  service  and  true  chivalry. 

As  is  the  Sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry 

Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  son  : 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land, 

Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world, 

Is  now  leas'd  out,  I  die  pronouncing  it. 

Like  to  a  tenement,  or  pelting  farm. 

England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea, 

Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 

Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame, 

With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds." 

Act  II.,  Scene  i. 

Every  motive  to  patriotism,  every  cause  producing  it,  is 
here  collected,  without  one  of  those  cold  abstractions  so 
frequently  substituted  by  modern  poets.  If  this  passage 
were  recited  in  a  theatre  with  due  energy  and  under- 
standing, with  a  proper  knowledge  of  the  words,  and  a 
fit  expression  of  their  meaning,  every  man  would  retire 
from  it  secure  in  his  country's  freedom,  if  secure  in  his 
own  constant  virtue. 

The  principal  personages  in  this  tragedy  are  Richard  II., 
Boiingbroke,  and  York.  I  wiU  speak  of  the  last  first, 
although  it  is  the  least  important ;  but  the  keeping  of  aU 
is  most  admirable.  York  is  a  man  of  no  strong  powers 
of  mind,  but  of  earnest  wishes  to  do  right,  contented 
in  himself  alone,  if  he  have  acted  well :  he  points  out  to 
Richard  the  effects  of  his  thoughtless  extravagance,  and 
the  dangers  by  which  he  is  encompassed,  but  having  done 
so,  he  is  satisfied  ;  there  is  no  after  action  on  his  part ;  he 
does  nothing  ;  he  remains  passive.  When  old  Gaunt  is 
dying,  York  takes  care  to  give  his  own  opinion  to  the  King, 
and  that  done  he  retires,  as  it  were,  into  himself. 

It  has  been  stated,  from  the  first,  that  one  of  my  purposes 
in  these  lectures  is,  to  meet  and  refute  popular  objections 
to  particular  points  in  the  works  of  our  great  dramatic 
poet ;   and  I  cannot  help  observing  here  upon  the  beauty, 


468 


The  Twelfth  Lecture 


and  true  force  of  nature,  with  which  conceits,  as  they 
are  called,  and  sometimes  even  puns,  are  introduced. 
What  has  been  the  reigning  fault  of  an  age  must,  at  one 
time  or  another,  have  referred  to  something  beautiful 
in  the  human  mind  ;  and,  however  conceits  may  have  been 
misapplied,  however  they  may  have  been  disadvantage- 
ously  multiplied,  we  should  recollect  that  there  never  was 
an  abuse  of  anything,  but  it  previously  has  had  its  use. 
Gaunt,  on  his  death-bed,  sends  for  the  young  King,  and 
Richard,  entering,  insolently  and  unfeelingly  says  to  him  : 

"  What,  comfort,  man  !    how  is't  with  aged  Gaunt  ?  " 

Act  II.,  Scene  i. 

and  Gaunt  replies  : 

"  O,  how  that  name  befits  my  composition  ! 
Old  Gaunt,  indeed  ;   and  gaunt  in  being  old  : 
Within  me  grief  hath  kept  a  tedious  fast. 
And  who  abstains  from  meat,  that  is  not  gaunt  ? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watched  ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leanness  is  all  gaunt : 
The  pleasure  that  some  fathers  feed  upon 
Is  my  strict  fast,  I  mean  my  children's  looks  ; 
And  therein  fasting,  thou  hast  made  me  gaunt, 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave. 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  nought  but  bones." 

Richard  inquires, 

"  Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their  names  ?  " 

To  which  Gaunt  answers,  giving  the  true  justification 
of  conceits  : 

"  No  ;  misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself  : 
Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee." 

He  that  knows  the  state  of  the  human  mind  in  deep 
passion  must  know,  that  it  approaches  to  that  condition 
of  madness,  which  is  not  absolute  frenzy  or  delirium, 
but  which  models  all  things  to  one  reigning  idea  ;  still 
it  strays  from  the  main  subject  of  complaint,  and  still 
it  returns  to  it,  by  a  sort  of  irresistible  impulse.  Abrupt- 
ness of  thought,  under  such  circumstances,  is  true  to  nature, 
and  no  man  was  more  sensible  of  it  than  Shakspeare. 
In  a  modern  poem  a  mad  mother  thus  complains : 

"  The  breeze  I  see  is  in  yon  tree  : 
It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me." 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  469 

This  is  an  instance  of  the  abruptness  of  thought,  so  natural 
to  the  excitement  and  agony  of  grief ;  and  if  it  be  admired 
in  images,  can  we  say  that  it  is  unnatural  in  words,  which 
are,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  our  life,  of  our  very  existence  ? 
In  the  Scriptures  themselves  these  plays  upon  words  are 
to  be  found,  as  well  as  in  the  best  works  of  the  ancients, 
and  in  the  most  delightful  parts  of  Shakspeare  ;  and 
because  this  additional  grace,  not  well  understood,  has 
in  some  instances  been  converted  into  a  deformity — 
because  it  has  been  forced  into  places  where  it  is  evidently 
improper  and  unnatural,  are  we  therefore  to  include  the 
whole  application  of  it  in  one  general  condemnation  ? 
When  it  seems  objectionable,  when  it  excites  a  feeling 
contrary  to  the  situation,  when  it  perhaps  disgusts,  it  is  our 
business  to  enquire  whether  the  conceit  has  been  rightly  or 
wrongly  used — whether  it  is  in  a  right  or  in  a  wrong  place  ? 

In  order  to  decide  this  point,  it  is  obviously  necessary  to 
consider  the  state  of  mind,  and  the  degree  of  passion,  of  the 
person  using  this  play  upon  words.  Resort  to  this  grace 
may,  in  some  cases,  deserve  censure,  not  because  it  is  a  play 
upon  words,  but  because  it  is  a  play  upon  words  in  a  wrong 
place,  and  at  a  wrong  time.  What  is  right  in  one  state  of 
mind  is  wrong  in  another,  and  much  more  depends  upon 
that,  than  upon  the  conceit  (so  to  caU  it)  itself.  I  feel  the 
importance  of  these  remarks  strongly,  because  the  greater 
part  of  the  abuse,  I  might  say  filth,  thrown  out  and  heaped 
upon  Shakspeare,  has  originated  in  want  of  consideration. 
Dr.  Johnson  asserts  that  Shakspeare  loses  the  world  for  a 
toy,  and  can  no  more  withstand  a  pun,  or  a  play  upon  words, 
than  his  Antony  could  resist  Cleopatra.  Certain  it  is, 
that  Shakspeare  gained  more  admiration  in  his  day,  and 
long  afterwards,  by  the  use  of  speech  in  this  way,  than 
modem  writers  have  acquired  by  the  abandonment  of  the 
practice :  the  latter,  in  adhering  to,  what  they  have  been 
pleased  to  caU,  the  rules  of  art,  have  sacrificed  nature. 

Having  said  thus  much  on  the,  often  falsely  supposed, 
blemishes  of  our  poet — blemishes  which  are  said  to  prevail 
in  "  Richard  II  "  especially, — I  will  now  advert  to  the 
character  of  the  King.  He  is  represented  as  a  man  not 
deficient  in  immediate  courage,  which  displays  itself  at  his 
assassination  ;  or  in  powers  of  mind,  as  appears  by  the 
foresight  he  exhibits  throughout  the  play  ;  still,  he  is  weak, 
variable,   and  womanish,   and  possesses  feelings,   which. 


470  The  Twelfth  Lecture 

amiable  in  a  female,  are  misplaced  in  a  man,  and  altogether 
unfit  for  a  king.  In  prosperity  he  is  insolent  and  pre- 
sumptuous, and  in  adversity,  if  we  are  to  believe  Dr. 
Johnson,  he  is  humane  and  pious.  I  cannot  admit  the 
latter  epithet,  because  I  perceive  the  utmost  consistency 
of  character  in  Richard  :  what  he  was  at  first,  he  is  at  last, 
excepting  as  far  as  he  yields  to  circumstances  :  what  he 
shewed  himself  at  the  commencement  of  the  play,  he  shews 
hmiself  at  the  end  of  it.  Dr.  Johnson  assigns  to  him 
rather  the  virtue  of  a  confessor  than  that  of  a  king. 

True  it  is,  that  he  may  be  said  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the 
earliest  misfortune  that  befalls  him  ;  but,  so  far  from  his 
feelings  or  disposition  being  changed  or  subdued,  the  very 
first  glimpse  of  the  returning  sunshine  of  hope  reanimates 
his  spirits,  and  exalts  him  to  as  strange  and  unbecoming  a 
degree  of  elevation,  as  he  was  before  sunk  in  mental  de- 
pression :  the  mention  of  those  in  his  misfortunes,  who  had 
contributed  to  his  downfall,  but  who  had  before  been  his 
nearest  friends  and  favourites,  calls  forth  from  him  ex- 
pressions of  the  bitterest  hatred  and  revenge.  Thus, 
where  Richard  asks  : 

"  Where  is  the  Earl  of  Wiltshire  ?     Where  is  Bagot  ? 
What  is  become  of  Bushy  ?     Where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps  ? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it, 
I  warrant  they  have  made  peace  with  Bolingbroke." 

Act  III.,  Scene  2, 
Scroop  answers  : 

"  Peace  have  they  made  with  him,  indeed,  my  lord." 

Upon  which  Richard,  without  hearing  more,  breaks 
out : 

"  O  villains  !    vipers,  damn'd  without  redemption  ! 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man  ! 
Snakes,  in  my  heart-blood  warm'd,  that  sting  my  heart  I 
Three  Judases,  each  one  thrice  worse  than  Judas  ! 
Would  they  make  peace  ?    terrible  hell  make  war 
Upon  their  spotted  souls  for  this  offence  !  " 

Scroop  observes  upon  this  change,  and  tells  the  King  how 
they  had  made  their  peace  : 

"  Sweet  love,  I  see,  changing  his  property 
Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate. 
Again  uncurse  their  souls  :    their  peace  is  made 
With  heads  and  not  with  hands  :    those  whom  you  curse 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  471 

Have  felt  the  worst  of  death's  destroying  wound, 
And  lie  full  low,  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground." 

Richard  receiving  at  first  an  equivocal  answer, — "  Peace 
have  they  made  with  him,  indeed,  my  lord," — takes  it  in 
the  worst  sense  :  his  promptness  to  suspect  those  who 
had  been  his  friends  turns  his  love  to  hate,  and  calls  forth 
the  most  tremendous  execrations. 

From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  play  he  pours  out 
all  the  peculiarities  and  powers  of  his  mind  :  he  catches  at 
new  hope,  and  seeks  new  friends,  is  disappointed,  despairs, 
and  at  length  makes  a  merit  of  his  resignation.  He 
scatters  himself  into  a  multitude  of  images,  and  in  con- 
clusion endeavours  to  shelter  himself  from  that  which  is 
around  him  by  a  cloud  of  his  own  thoughts.  Throughout 
his  whole  career  may  be  noticed  the  most  rapid  transitions 
— from  the  highest  insolence  to  the  lowest  humility — from 
hope  to  despair,  from  the  extravagance  of  love  to  the 
agonies  of  resentment,  and  from  pretended  resignation  to 
the  bitterest  reproaches.  The  whole  is  joined  with  the 
utmost  richness  and  copiousness  of  thought,  and  were  there 
an  actor  capable  of  representing  Richard,  the  part  would 
delight  us  more  than  any  other  of  Shakspeare's  master- 
pieces,— with,  perhaps,  the  single  exception  of  King  Lear. 
I  know  of  no  character  drawn  by  our  great  poet  with  such 
unequalled  skill  as  that  of  Richard  II. 

Next  we  come  to  Henry  Bolingbroke,  the  rival  of 
Richard  II.  He  appears  as  a  man  of  dauntless  courage, 
and  of  ambition  equal  to  that  of  Richard  III.  ;  but,  as  I 
have  stated,  the  difference  between  the  two  is  most  admir- 
ably conceived  and  preserved.  In  Richard  III.  all  that 
surrounds  him  is  only  dear  as  it  feeds  his  inward  sense  of 
superiority  :  he  is  no  vulgar  tyrant — no  Nero  or  Caligula  : 
he  has  always  an  end  in  view,  and  vast  fertility  of  means 
to  accomplish  that  end.  On  the  other  hand,  in  Boling- 
broke we  find  a  man  who  in  the  outset  has  been  sorely 
injured  :  then,  we  see  him  encouraged  by  the  grievances 
of  his  country,  and  by  the  strange  mismanagement  of  the 
government,  yet  at  the  same  time  scarcely  daring  to  look 
at  his  own  views,  or  to  acknowledge  them  as  designs.  He 
comes  home  under  the  pretence  of  claiming  his  dukedom, 
and  he  professes  that  to  be  his  object  almost  to  the  last ; 
but,  at  the  last,  he  avows  his  purpose  to  its  fuU  extent,  of 
which  he  was  himself  unconscious  in  the  earlier  stages. 


472  The  Twelfth  Lecture 

This  is  proved  by  so  many  passages,  that  I  will  only 
select  one  of  them  ;  and  I  take  it  the  rather,  because  out 
of  the  many  octavo  volumes  of  text  and  notes,  the  page  on 
which  it  occurs  is,  I  believe,  the  only  one  left  naked  by  the 
commentators.  It  is  where  Bolingbroke  approaches  the 
castle  in  which  the  unfortunate  king  has  taken  shelter  : 
York  is  in  Bolingbroke's  company — the  same  York  who  is 
still  contented  with  speaking  the  truth,  but  doing  nothing 
for  the  sake  of  the  truth, — drawing  back  after  he  has  spoken 
and  becoming  merely  passive  when  he  ought  to  display 
activity.     Northumberland  says, 

"  The  news  is  very  fair  and  good,  my  lord  : 
Richard  not  far  from  hence  hath  hid  his  head." 

Act  III..  Scene  3. 
York  rebukes  him  thus  : 

"  It  would  beseem  the  Lord  Northumberland 
To  say  King  Richard  : — Alack,  the  heavy  day. 
When  such  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head  1  '* 

Northumberland  replies  : 

"  Your  grace  mistakes  me  :   only  to  be  brief 
Left  I  his  title  out."  ^ 

To  which  York  rejoins  : 

"  The  time  hath  been, 
Would  you  have  been  so  brief  with  him,  he  would 
Have  been  so  brief  with  you,  to  shorten  you, 
For  taking  so  the  head,  your  whole  head's  length." 

Bolingbroke  observes, 

"  Mistake  not,  uncle,  farther  than  you  should  " 

And  York  answers,  with  a  play  upon  the  words  "  take  " 
and  "  mistake  "  : 

"  Take  not,  good  cousin,  farther  than  you  should. 
Lest  you  mistake.     The  heavens  are  o'er  our  heads." 

Here,  give  me  leave  to  remark  in  passing,  that  the  play 
upon  words  is  perfectly  natural,  and  quite  in  character  : 
the  answer  is  in  unison  with  the  tone  of  passion,  and  seems 
connected  with  some  phrase  then  in  popular  use.^  BoHng- 
broke  tells  York  : 

1  So  Coleridge  read  the  passage,  his  ear  requiring  the  insertion  of  mg,  which  is  one 
of  the  emendations  in  the  corrected  folio,  1652,  discovered  many  years  al  terwards. — 
J.  P.  C. 

2  Nicholas  Breton  wrote  a  "  Dialogue  between  the  Taker  and  Mistaker,"  but  the 
earliest  known  edition  is  dated  1603. — J.  P.  C. 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  473 

"  I  know  it,  uncle,  and  oppose  not  myself 
Against  their  will." 

Just  afterwards,  Bolingbroke  thus  addresses  himself  to 
Northumberland  : 

"  Noble  lord, 
Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle  ; 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver." 

Here,  in  the  phrase  "  into  his  ruin'd  ears,"  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Shakspeare  purposely  used  the  personal  pro- 
noun, "  his,"  to  shew,  that  although  Bolingbroke  was  only 
speaking  of  the  castle,  his  thoughts  dwelt  on  the  king.  In 
Milton  the  pronoun  "  her  "  is  employed,  in  relation  to 
"  form,"  in  a  manner  somewhat  similar.  Bolingbroke  had 
an  equivocation  in  his  mind,  and  was  thinking  of  the  king, 
while  speaking  of  the  castle.  He  goes  on  to  tell  North- 
umberland what  to  say,  beginning, 

"  Henry  Bolingbroke," 

which  is  almost  the  only  instance  in  which  a  name  forms 
the  whole  line  ;  Shakspeare  meant  it  to  convey  Boling- 
broke's  opinion  of  his  own  importance  : — 

"  Henry  Bolingbroke 
On  both  his  knees  doth  kiss  King  Richard's  hand. 
And  sends  allegiance  and  true  faith  of  heart 
To  his  most  royal  person  ;   hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  my  arms  and  power, 
Provided  that,  my  banishment  repealed, 
And  lands  restor'd  again,  be  freely  granted. 
If  not,  I'll  use  th'  advantage  of  my  power, 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood. 
Rain'd  from  the  wounds  of  slaughter'd  Englishmen." 

At  this  point  Bolingbroke  seems  to  have  been  checked 
by  the  eye  of  York,  and  thus  proceeds  in  consequence  : 

"  The  which,  how  far  off  from  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke 
It  is,  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  King  Richard's  land, 
My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show." 

He  passes  suddenly  from  insolence  to  humihty,  owing  to 
the  silent  reproof  he  received  from  his  uncle.  This  change 
of  tone  would  not  have  taken  place,  had  Bolingbroke  been 
allowed  to  proceed  according  to  the  natural  bent  of  his 
own  mind,  and  the  flow  of  the  subject.     Let  me  direct 


474  The  Twelfth  Lecture 

attention  to  the  subsequent  lines,  for  the  same  reason  ; 
they  are  part  of  the  same  speech  : 

"  Let's  march  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning  drum. 
That  from  the  castle's  tatter'd  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perused. 
Methinks,  King  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thundering  shock 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven." 

Having  proceeded  thus  far  with  the  exaggeration  of  his 
own  importance,  York  again  checks  him,  and  Bohngbroke 
adds,  in  a  very  different  strain, 

"  He  be  the  fire,  I'll  be  the  yielding  water  : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters  ;   on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him." 

I  have  thus  adverted  to  the  three  great  personages  in 
this  drama,  Richard,  Bohngbroke,  and  York  ;  and  of  the 
whole  play  it  may  be  asserted,  that  with  the  exception  of 
some  of  the  last  scenes  (though  they  have  exquisite  beauty) 
Shakspeare  seems  to  have  risen  to  the  summit  of  excel- 
lence in  the  delineation  and  preserv^ation  of  character. 

We  will  now  pass  to  "  Hamlet,"  in  order  to  obviate  some 
of  the  general  prejudices  against  the  author,  in  reference 
to  the  character  of  the  hero.  Much  has  been  objected  to, 
which  ought  to  have  been  praised,  and  many  beauties  of 
the  highest  kind  have  been  neglected,  because  they  are 
somewhat  hidden. 

The  first  question  we  should  ask  ourselves  is — What  did 
Shakspeare  mean  when  he  drew  the  character  of  Hamlet  ? 
He  never  wrote  any  thing  without  design,  and  what  was 
his  design  when  he  sat  down  to  produce  this  tragedy  ? 
My  belief  is,  that  he  always  regarded  his  story,  before  he 
began  to  write,  much  in  the  same  light  as  a  painter  regards 
his  canvas,  before  he  begins  to  paint — as  a  mere  vehicle  for 
his  thoughts — as  the  ground  upon  which  he  was  to  work. 
What  then  was  the  point  to  which  Shakspeare  directed 
himself  in  Hamlet  ?  He  intended  to  pourtray  a  person, 
in  whose  view  the  external  world,  and  all  its  incidents  and 
objects,  were  comparatively  dim,  and  of  no  interest  in 
themselves,  and  which  began  to  interest  only,  when  they 
were  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  his  mind.  Hamlet  beheld 
external  things  in  the  same  way  that  a  man  of  vivid 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  475 

imagination,  who  shuts  his  eyes,  sees  what  has  previously 
made  an  impression  on  his  organs. 

The  poet  places  him  in  the  most  stimulating  circum- 
stances that  a  human  being  can  be  placed  in.  He  is  the 
heir  apparent  of  a  throne  ;  his  father  dies  suspiciously  ; 
his  mother  excludes  her  son  from  his  throne  by  marrying 
his  uncle.  This  is  not  enough  ;  but  the  Ghost  of  the 
murdered  father  is  introduced,  to  assure  the  son  that  he 
was  put  to  death  by  his  own  brother.  What  is  the  effect 
upon  the  son  ? — instant  action  and  pursuit  of  revenge  ? 
No  :  endless  reasoning  and  hesitating — constant  urging 
and  solicitation  of  the  mind  to  act,  and  as  constant  an 
escape  from  action  ;  ceaseless  reproaches  of  himself  for 
sloth  and  negligence,  while  the  whole  energy  of  his  resolu- 
tion evaporates  in  these  reproaches.  This,  too,  not  from 
cowardice,  for  he  is  drawn  as  one  of  the  bravest  of  his  time 
— not  from  want  of  forethought  or  slowness  of  appre- 
hension, for  he  sees  through  the  very  souJs  of  all  who 
surround  him,  but  merely  from  that  aversion  to  action, 
which  prevails  among  such  as  have  a  world  in  themselves. 

How  admirable,  too,  is  the  judgment  of  the  poet  ! 
Hamlet's  own  disordered  fancy  has  not  conjured  up  the 
spirit  of  his  father  ;  it  has  been  seen  by  others  :  he  is  pre- 
pared by  them  to  witness  its  re-appearance,  and  when  he 
does  see  it,  Hamlet  is  not  brought  forward  as  having  long 
brooded  on  the  subject.  The  moment  before  the  Ghost 
enters,  Hamlet  speaks  of  other  matters  :  he  mentions  the 
coldness  of  the  night,  and  observes  that  he  has  not  heard 
the  clock  strike,  adding,  in  reference  to  the  custom  of 
drinking,  that  it  is 

"  More  honour'd  in  the  breach  than  the  observance." 

Act  I.,  Scene  4. 

Owing  to  the  tranquil  state  of  his  mind,  he  indulges  in 
some  moral  reflections.  Afterwards,  the  Ghost  suddenly 
enters. 

"  Hor.  Look,  my  lord  !    it  comes. 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  !  " 

The  same  thing  occurs  in  "  Macbeth  "  :  in  the  dagger- 
scene,  the  moment  before  the  hero  sees  it,  he  has  his  mind 
applied  to  some  indifferent  matters ;  "  Go,  tell  thy 
mistress,"  etc.  Thus,  in  both  cases,  the  preternatural 
appearance  has  all  the  effect  of  abruptness,  and  the  reader 


476  The  Twelfth  Lecture 

is  totally  divested  of  the  notion,  that  the  figure  is  a  vision 
of  a  highly  wrought  imagination. 

Here  Shakspeare  adapts  himself  so  admirably  to  the 
situation — in  other  words,  so  puts  himself  into  it — that, 
though  poetry,  his  language  is  the  very  language  of  nature. 
No  terms,  associated  with  such  feelings,  can  occur  to  us  so 
proper  as  those  which  he  has  employed,  especially  on  the 
highest,  the  most  august,  and  the  most  awful  subjects  that 
can  interest  a  human  being  in  this  sentient  world.  That 
this  is  no  mere  fancy,  I  can  undertake  to  establish  from 
hundreds,  I  might  say  thousands,  of  passages.  No  char- 
acter he  has  drawn,  in  the  whole  list  of  his  plays,  could  so 
well  and  fitly  express  himself,  as  in  the  language  Shak- 
speare has  put  into  his  mouth. 

There  is  no  indecision  about  Hamlet,  as  far  as  his  own 
sense  of  duty  is  concerned  ;  he  knows  well  what  he  ought 
to  do,  and  over  and  over  again  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  do 
it.  The  moment  the  players,  and  the  two  spies  set  upon 
him,  have  withdrawn,  of  whom  he  takes  leave  with  a  line 
so  expressive  of  his  contempt, 

"  Ay  so  ;   good  bye  you. — Now  I  am  alone," 

he  breaks  out  into  a  delirium  of  rage  against  himself  for 
neglecting  to  perform  the  solemn  duty  he  had  undertaken, 
and  contrasts  the  factitious  and  artificial  display  of  feeling 
by  the  player  with  his  own  apparent  indifference  ; 

"  What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?  " 

Yet  the  player  did  weep  for  her,  and  was  in  an  agony  of 
grief  at  her  sufferings,  while  Hamlet  is  unable  to  rouse 
himself  to  action,  in  order  that  he  may  perform  the  com- 
mand of  his  father,  who  had  come  from  the  grave  to  incite 
him  to  revenge  : — 

"  This  is  most  brave  ! 
That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father  murder'd, 
Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell. 
Must,  like  a  whore,  unpack  my  heart  with  words, 
And  fall  a  cursing  like  a  very  drab, 
A  scullion."  Act  II.,  Scene  2. 

It  is  the  same  feeling,  the  same  conviction  of  what  is  his 
duty,  that  makes  Hamlet  exclaim  in  a  subsequent  part  of 
the  tragedy  : 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  477 

"  How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge  !     What  is  a  man, 
If  his  chief  good,  and  market  of  his  time, 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?     A  beast,  no  more.     *     ♦     » 

I  do  not  know 

Why  yet  I  live  to  say — 'this  thing's  to  do,' 

Sith  I  have  cause  and  will  and  strength  and  means 

To  do't."  Act  IV.,  Scene  4. 

Yet  with  all  this  strong  conviction  of  duty,  and  with  all 
this  resolution  arising  out  jf  strong  conviction,  nothing  is 
done.  This  admirable  and  consistent  character,  deeply 
acquainted  with  his  own  feelings,  painting  them  with  such 
wonderful  power  and  accuracy,  and  firmly  persuaded  that 
a  moment  ought  not  to  be  lost  in  executing  the  solemn 
charge  committed  to  him,  still  yields  to  the  same  retiring 
from  reality,  which  is  the  result  of  having,  what  we  express 
by  the  terms,  a  world  within  himself. 

Such  a  mind  as  Hamlet's  is  near  akin  to  madness. 
Dryden  has  somewhere  said, 

"  Great  wit  to  madness  nearly  is  allied," 

and  he  was  right  ;  for  he  means  by  "  wit  "  that  greatness 
of  genius,  which  led  Hamlet  to  a  perfect  knowledge  of  his 
own  character,  which,  with  all  strength  of  motive,  was  so 
weak  as  to  be  unable  to  carry  into  act  his  own  most  obvious 
duty. 

With  all  this  he  has  a  sense  of  imperfectness,  which 
becomes  apparent  when  he  is  moralising  on  the  skull  in  the 
churchyard.  Something  is  wanting  to  his  completeness — 
something  is  deficient  which  remains  to  be  supplied,  and 
he  is  therefore  described  as  attached  to  Ophelia.  His 
madness  is  assumed,  when  he  finds  that  witnesses  have  been 
placed  behind  the  arras  to  listen  to  what  passes,  and  when 
the  heroine  has  been  thrown  in  his  way  as  a  decoy. 

Another  objection  has  been  taken  by  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
Shakspeare  has  been  taxed  very  severely.  I  refer  to  the 
scene  where  Hamlet  enters  and  finds  his  uncle  praying,  and 
refuses  to  take  his  life,  excepting  when  he  is  in  the  height 
of  his  iniquity.  To  assail  him  at  such  a  moment  of  con- 
fession and  repentance,  Hamlet  declares, 

"  Why,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge." 

Act  III.,  Scene  4. 

He  therefore  forbears,  and  postpones  his  uncle's  death, 
until  he  can  catch  him  in  some  act 


478  The  Twelfth  Lecture 

"  That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in't." 
This  conduct,  and  this  sentiment,  Dr.  Johnson  has  pro- 
nounced to  be  so  atrocious  and  horrible,  as  to  be  unfit  to 
be  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  human  being.  ^  The  fact,  how- 
ever, is  that  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  understand  the  character 
of  Hamlet,  and  censured  accordingly  :  the  determination 
to  allow  the  guilty  King  to  escape  at  such  a  moment  is  only 
part  of  the  indecision  and  irresoluteness  of  the  hero. 
Hamlet  seizes  hold  of  a  pretext  for  not  acting,  when  he 
might  have  acted  so  instantly  and  effectually  :  therefore, 
he  again  defers  the  revenge  he  was  bound  to  seek,  and 
declares  his  determination  to  accomplish  it  at  some  time, 

"  When  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage, 
Or  in  th'  incestuous  pleasures  of  his  bed." 

This,  allow  me  to  impress  upon  you  most  emphatically, 
was  merely  the  excuse  Hamlet  made  to  himself  for  not 
taking  advantage  of  this  particular  and  favourable  moment 
for  doing  justice  upon  his  guilty  uncle,  at  the  urgent 
instance  of  the  spirit  of  his  father. 

Dr.  Johnson  farther  states,  that  in  the  voyage  to  Eng- 
land, Shakspeare  merely  follows  the  novel  as  he  found  it, 
as  if  the  poet  had  no  other  reason  for  adhering  to  his 
original ;  but  Shakspeare  never  followed  a  novel,  because 
he  found  such  and  such  an  incident  in  it,  but  because  he  sav/ 
that  the  story,  as  he  read  it,  contributed  to  enforce,  or  to 
explain  some  great  truth  inherent  in  human  nature.  He 
never  could  lack  invention  to  alter  or  improve  a  popular 
narrative  ;  but  he  did  not  wantonly  vary  from  it,  when  he 
knew  that,  as  it  was  related,  it  would  so  well  apply  to  his 
own  great  purpose.  He  saw  at  once  how  consistent  it  was 
with  the  character  of  Hamlet,  that  after  still  resolving,  and 
still  deferring,  still  determining  to  execute,  and  still  post- 
poning execution,  he  should  finally,  in  the  infirmity  of  his 
disposition,  give  himself  up  to  his  destiny,  and  hopelessly 
place  himself  in  the  power,  and  at  the  mercy  of  his  enemies. 

Even  after  the  scene  with  Osrick,  we  see  Hamlet  still 
indulging  in  reflection,  and  hardly  thinking  of  the  task  he 
has  just  undertaken  :  he  is  all  dispatch  and  resolution,  as 
far  as  words  and  present  intentions  are  concerned,  but  all 
hesitation  and  irresolution,  when  called  upon  to  carry  his 

1  See  Malone's  Shakspeare  by  Boswell,  vii.,  382,  for  Johnson's  note  upon  this  part  of 
the  scene. —J.  P.  C. 


The  Twelfth  Lecture  479 

words  and  intentions  into  effect  ;  so  that,  resolving  to  do 
everything,  he  does  nothing.  He  is  full  of  purpose,  but 
void  of  that  quality  of  mmd  which  accomplishes  purpose. 

Anything  finer  than  this  conception,  and  working  out 
of  a  great  character,  is  merely  impossible.  Shakspeare 
wished  to  impress  upon  us  the  truth,  that  action  is  the 
chief  end  of  existence — that  no  faculties  of  intellect,  how- 
ever brilliant,  can  be  considered  valuable,  or  indeed  other- 
wise than  as  misfortunes,  if  they  withdraw  us  from,  or 
render  us  repugnant  to  action,  and  lead  us  to  think  and 
think  of  doing,  until  the  time  has  elapsed  when  we  can 
do  anything  effectually.  In  enforcing  this  moral  truth, 
Shakspeare  has  shown  the  fulness  and  force  of  his  powers  : 
all  that  is  amiable  and  excellent  in  nature  is  combined  in 
Hamlet,  with  the  exception  of  one  quality.  He  is  a  man 
living  in  meditation,  called  upon  to  act  by  every  motive 
human  and  divine,  but  the  great  object  of  his  life  is  de- 
feated by  continually  resolving  to  do,  yet  doing  nothing 
but  resolve. 


END    OF   THE   TWELFTH    LECTURE. 


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