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262
By
the
Bishop of Limerick.
[The ‘ Cattle Spoil of Dairt ’ is one of a cycle of stories which group
themselves round the 1 Tain Bo Chuailgne,’ or Cattle Spoil of Cuailgne,
a tale which held a leading place in the romantic literature of ancient
Ireland.
It may have been the good fortune of some of our readers to have
met with a book entitled ‘ The Irish before the Conquest,’ in which
Mrs. Ferguson has given an analysis of the ‘Tain,’ and of other tales,
and poems belonging to the heroic period of Irish history ; or they may
have read the spirited poem in which Samuel Ferguson embodies the
wild legend of the loss and recovery of the ‘Tain ’ in the time of Guaire,
the hospitable King of Connaught, in the sixth century. To these
sources, or to the fuller information to be found in Professor O’Curry’s
lectures, we may for the present refer those who are anxious to know
more than we have space now to relate of a narrative which in Irish
legend holds about the same position as the story of the Argonauts
does in Greek mythology. The ‘ Tain ’ and the tales connected with it
if printed would form a series of ancient Irish romance of considerably
greater extent than the Welsh Mabinogion ; and though an element of
fiction enters largely into their oom position they contain in them an
abundance of actual historical material.
Along with the supernatural agents who are introduced appear kings
and chieftains in whatever histories have been handed down to us, and
concerning whom these legendary tales bear a testimony so uniform as
to prove that the names which we encounter in them stand for real
persons, though we may still be allowed to entertain serious doubts as
to the alleged dates of their exploits.
But even supposing that these characters and events be regarded as
mythical, we may safely conclude that the general colouring and minor
details of the pictures set before us are true to nature.
Most of what relates to the usages of everyday life, dress, manners,
and institutions may be relied on as accurate. There is the more
reason to believe this as these historical tales of plunders, courtships,
battles, expeditions by sea and land, feasts, sieges, elopements, slaughters,
�THE CATTLE SPOIL OF DAIRT.
263
and tragical deaths, were carefully catalogued, and the recitation of
them on public occasions in the presence of kings and chiefs was one
of the qualifications of the higher grades of the literary order.
In point of antiquity they bear comparison with almost any of the
extant romances of the Western nations. The ‘ Tain ’ itself appears to
have been reduced to its present shape about the beginning of the
seventh century, and a copy of it exists in a manuscript written in the
middle of the twelfth.
Readers of the ‘ Dark Blue ’ with a fresh recollection of the Saga of
Erithiof, admirably translated from the ‘Icelandic by Mr. William
Morris, cannot fail to observe how unlike is the ancient Irish romance
to the Scandinavian Saga.
The difference is as great—and we ought to expect it to be as great
—as that which we recognise in the national characters of the Teuton
and the Celt.
If the Saga has more of homely truthfulness, of vigorous and con
tinuous action, of sturdy common sense, and exact delineation of the
various traits of human character, the ancient Irish romance displays
imagination and pathos to a degree remarkable in so rude an age.
The short tale which follows—or at least the original of it—might
have suggested some curious discussions concerning matters of archgeo
logy, topography, and philology, but I have thought it best for the
present to allow it to be regarded from a purely literary point of view.
It cannot lay claim to any peculiar merit of style.
The narrative is in part obscure, and its conclusion so abrupt as to
give rise to the conjecture that we are not in possession of the entire
tale. It may be regarded, however, as a fair sample of this class of
narrative.
It is also deserving of notice that its author has, with a few brief but
happy touches, succeeded in giving a dramatic individuality to the
characters introduced into his story.
In my translation from the Irish I have adhered as closely to the
original as the difference of idiom between our language and the Celtic
has permitted me.]
»
At this time, Eochaidh Beg, son of Cairpri King of Cliach, was
dwelling at Dun Cuilli, in the country of Hy Cuannach. He had forty
fostersons, of the sons of the kings and chieftains of Munster ; and
forty milch cows to feed his forty fostersons.
Now King Ailell and Queen Meavee sent messengers to him bidding
him come and speak with them. ‘ I will go,’ said he, ‘ in a week from
this day.’ So the messengers took back that answer.
And it came to pass, not long afterward, as Eochaidh was in his
bed-chamber, that a maiden and a young ohampion appeared to liijn
in a vision. ‘Ye are welcome,’ said Eochaidh.—‘We have come from
far for that greeting,’ said the twain.—‘ I would we were neigh-
�264
THE CATTLE SPOIL OF DAIR.T.
hours,’ said Eochaidh.—‘ Our dwellings are not far apart,’ said the
maiden, ‘though we do not see one another.’—‘Where do ye
dwell?’ said Eochaidh.—‘In Sidh1 Chuile,’ said she.—‘Wherefore
come ye to me?’ asked Eochaidh.—‘We come,’ said she, ‘to give
thee counsel.’—‘ What counsel ? ’ asked Eochaidh.—‘ As to what
befitteth thine honour and thy name,’ said the maiden, ‘ when thou
goest into far countries as thou hast occasion. Thou must take along
with thee a great company, and horses, goodly, wondrous, brought from
foreign lands. Eor the appointment thou art about to keep, we deem
that thy equipment should be better than ordinary.’—‘ What should
be the number of our company,’ said he.—‘ Thou must take fifty horse
men,’ said she, ‘ with costly bridles for the horses, and thou sb alt
receive all these things from me to-morrow at dawn in thy courtyard.
For thou shalt have fifty iron-gray horses with their bridles of gold
and fifty suits of princely apparel. And let all thy fostersons go with
thee. It is meet that we should help thee ; for thou dost well defend
our country and our land and our inheritance.’ And when they had
said this, the twain departed.
And when Eochaidh arose on the morrow, fifty iron-gray horses were
seen standing in a row at the door of the court; and fifty purple cloaks
braided with gold ; and fifty shirts embroidered with thread of gold :
and fifty golden rods with ferules of silver; and fifty white foals with
red ears, and rolling eyes, and blue hoofs, and silver bits and curbs of
brass.
Now all this was done by magic. And the people were amazed at
this thing. And Eochaidh told his vision unto them.
And when that company went forth on their way to Cruachain,
people were smothered in the press of those who thronged to see them ;
albeit the number of the company was not great; for they were a
wondrous and beautiful sight; fifty champions all equipped alike as
hath been already told.
‘ Who is this ? ’ asked Ailell as the company drew near..—‘ I will
tell thee,’ said his servant. ‘ It is Eochaidh Beg, son of the King of
Cliach.’ Then the company were let into the fort and into the
palace. They were made welcome, and abode there feasting three
days and three nights.
Then said Eochaidh ‘ Wherefore am I summoned hither ? ’—‘ That
I may ask a gift of thee,’ said Ailell. ‘ We have to bear a grievous
burden, the burden of feeding the men of Erin whilst they are
harrying the cattle of Cuailgne.’—‘ What gift dost thou desire ? ’
said Eochaidh.—‘ A gift to us of milch cows,’ said Ailell.—‘ The
cows that I have are not more than I need,’ said Eochaidh.—I have
forty fostersons with me of the sons of the kings and chieftains of
1 The reader will observe that she was a Banshee, i.e, a woman, bean, of the fairy
hills, sidhe.
�THE CATTLE SPOIL OF DAIRT.
265
Munster. There are forty cows to feed them, and I have seven score
milch cows besides for their maintenance, and fifty more following
these.’—‘ I ask,’ said Ailell, ‘ a cow from every householder who is subject
to thee. If it had chanced that the burden was on thee I would
cheerfully have given thee relief.’—‘ It is well,’ said Eochaidh, ‘ thou
shalt have the cattle thou requires!.’ Then they abode there three
days and three nights, and after that they took leave of the King, and
set forth for their own country.
And on the way Eochaidh was met by the three sons of CUaschu of
Irros Domnann; seven score champions was the number of their
company. They joined battle with him. It was at Insenacouchada
in Meath that they met; and Eochaidh Beg the son of Cairpri fell
there, and his forty fostersons along with him. When the tidings of
these things were spread through the land of Erin, three hundred of
the women of Munster died in mourning for the young men.
That night, as Ailell was asleep, he beheld a maiden and a young
champion approach, the fairest he had ever seen. ‘ Whence come ye? ’
said Ailell, ‘ and what are your names ? ’—‘ We are Victory and
Defeat,’ said they.—‘Victory is welcome and Defeat is unwelcome,’
said Ailell.—‘Thou shalt be victorious,’ said the maiden, ‘however it
Be. ‘ How near to us is that issue ? ’ said Ailell.—-‘ I will tell thee,’
said she.—‘ Send on the morrow for a prey of cows to be brought thee
from Dairt the daughter of Eochaidh. It is thine own son Orlam that
thou must send. And go thou to gather a company to attend him.’—
‘ With what number shall he go ? ’ said Ailell.—‘ Let him have fifty
horsemen,’ said she, ‘men of renown ; and fifty of the young men of
Connacht. Thou shalt have from me this day the same equipment as
was provided for the young men that were killed yesterday ; in horses,
and bridles, and cloaks, and brooches, and in the number of each.
Thou shalt receive all these things from me to-morrow at dawn in thy
courtyard. Let us return to our own country now,’ said she.
Then the twain went away immediately that same night to Corb
Cliach Mac Taisigh of Munster, who dwelt in his court on the north
bank of the Nemain, and they appeared unto him as he slept. ‘ Whence
come ye ? ’ said he, ‘ and what are your names ? ’•—‘ Attack and
Plunder,’ said they.—‘Attack is welcome and Plunder is unwelcome,’
said Corb Cliach.—‘ Thou shalt not be plundered,’ said the maiden,
‘but thou shalt be attacked.’—‘ How shall that befall us ? ’ said Corb
Cliach.—‘ I will tell thee,’ said the maiden. ‘ Thou shalt be attacked
by the sons of kings and princes and chieftains.’—‘ Who are they ? ’
said Corb Cliach.—‘We will tell thee,’ said the twain. ‘All the noble
youths that are in Connacht will come to carry off your cows after first
killing thy young men. They will come to-morrow at evening to
carry away from thee Dairt the daughter of Eochaidh. It is not in
great numbers that they will come.’—‘ They shall be hindered by the
protection of the men of Munster if they attempt the deed; and what
�266
THE .CATTLE SPOIL OF DAIRT.
is their number ? ’ asked Corb Cliach.—‘ Seven score champions,5
said she : ‘ and they are seven score men mighty in battle. Now let us
depart,’ said she, 1 that we may gather a host to meet them to-morrow
in the evening.’
And on the morrow at early dawn the Connacht men went forth out
of the court of Cruachain to the green, and there they beheld the
horses and the bridles and the apparel, all as had been promised, at
the door of the court, and the same as what they had seen with
Eochaidh and the princes on the day before. Then Ailell’s champions
were in great doubt whether they would go or not. ‘ ’Twere a pity,’
said he, ‘ to give up the chance of good fortune.’
Then Orlam went forth till he reached the house of Dairt the daughter
of Eochaidh, in Cliu Clasaigh in Munster, on the south shore of the
Shannon. There they unharnessed, and Dairt received him gladly.
Three beeves were sent to them. ‘ We shall not need to dress them,’
said Orlam. ‘ Let our men carry their food with them on horseback.’
This was because they were in fear of the enemy, being in the heart
of Munster. ‘ Wilt thou come away with me, O maiden ? ’ said Orlam.
—‘ I will go, indeed,’ said the maiden : ‘ and take thou the cattle
with thee.’ Then Orlam and his company surrounded the cattle and
carried them away, and the maiden with them.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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The cattle spoil of Dairt
Creator
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Graves, Charles (tr)
Description
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 262-266 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From The Dark Blue 2 (October 1871). Attribution of journal title, date and author: Virginia Clark catalogue. The Dark Blue was a London-based literary magazine published monthly from 1871 to 1873. "The 'Cattle Spoil of Dairt' is one of a cycle of stories which group round the 'Tain Bo Chuailgue', or Cattle Spoil of Cuailgne, a tale which held a leading place in romantic literature of ancient Ireland' [From introduction]. Introduction and translation by Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick.
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[s.n.]
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[1871]
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G5335
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Ireland
Literature
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Conway Tracts
Irish Literature
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1872.]
ELLE ET LUT.
“Shall we reach the New York pier at
the foot of Canal street by Saturday
noon?’’ If we do, there is for us all
long life, prosperity and happiness : if
we do not, it is desolation and misery.
For Monday is New Year’s Day. On
Sunday we may not be able to leave the
city: to be forced to stay in New York
over Sunday is a dreadful thought for
solitary contemplation. We study and
turn it over in our minds for hours as
we pace the deck. We live over and
over again the land-journey to our
hearthstones at Boston, Syracuse and
Cincinnati. We meet in thought our
long-expectant relatives, so that at last
our air-castles become stale and mo
notonous, and we fear that the reality
may be robbed of half its anticipated
pleasure from being so often lived over
in imagination.
Nine o’clock, Friday evening. The
excitement increases. Barnegat Light
is in sight. Half the cabin passengers
are up all night, indulging in unprofit
able talk and weariness, merely because
we are so near home. Four o’clock,
and the faithful engine stops, the cable
rattles overboard, and everything is still.
We are at anchor off Staten Island. By
the first laggard streak of winter’s dawn
I am on the hurricane-deck. I am curi
ous to see my native North. It comes
by degrees out of the cold blue fog on
either side of the bay. Miles of houses,
GJ
451
spotted with patches of bushy-looking
woodland—bushy in appearance to a
Californian, whose oaks grow large and
widely apart from each other, as in an
English park. There comes a shrieking
and groaning and bellowing of steam
whistles from the monster city nine miles
away. Soon we weigh anchor and move
up toward it. Tugs dart fiercely about,
or laboriously puff with heavily-laden
vessels in tow. Stately ocean steamers
surge past, outward bound. We become
a mere fragment of the mass of floating
life. We near the foot of Canal street.
There is a great deal of shouting and
bawling and counter-shouting and coun
ter-bawling, with expectant faces on the
wharf, and recognitions from shore to
steamer and from steamer to shore. The
young woman who flirted so ardently
with the young Californian turns out to
be married, and that business-looking,
middle-aged man on the pier is her hus
band. Well, I never! Why, you are
slow, my friend, says inward reflection.
You must recollect you have been nearly
out of the world these seventeen years.
At last the gangway plank is flung out.
We walk on shore. The little floating
world society, cemented by a month’s
association, scatters like the fragments
of an exploding bombshell, and Gotham
swallows us up for ever from each other’s
sight.
Prentice Mulford.
ELLE ET LUI.
ICTURE to yourself a salon of 1833,
P one of those famous gatherings of
the beauty, the fashion, the genius of
Paris that glorified the Sunday evenings
at the Arsenal. , Poets and painters chat
ted together in the quiet corners ; La
martine and Sainte-Beuve, Alfred de
Vigny and Victor Hugo, with the other
young journalists who had been setting
the Seine on fire with their revolutionary
notions in literature as well as politics,
might be seen like wandering comets
threading the mazes of the revolving
crowd: Chateaubriand and De Balzac
were there to represent sentimentalism
and realism, while M. Beyle (Stendhal)
was gathering materials for his caustic
critiques. His mission was to put down
vanity, and he seemed to be looking for
it in every one he met, that he might
�452
ELLE ET LUI.
immediately attack it. “But I do not
think he was malicious,” said one of his
lady friends : “he gave himself too much
trouble to appear so !”
Among all the brilliant crowd no one
attracted more attention than a young
man about twenty-three years of age,
slender, not very tall, and dressed with
extreme fastidiousness. His abundant
curls of light hair were most carefully
arranged to set off his well-shaped head,
and his dark whiskers and almost black
eyes gave vigor and force to his physiog
nomy. The Grecian outline of his nose
and the noble arch of his forehead in
creased his air of high-bred distinction,
still further heightened by the fire of ge
nius which lit up his expressive face. It
was the Byron of France, as his contem
poraries loved to call him; the poet of
youth, as he called himself, of whom
Heine said that at thirty he was a man
with a splendid past, and whom SainteBeuve painted with one of his delicately
felicitous touches as “Cherubino at a
masked ball, playing the part of Don
Giovannithe petted prodigal of Paris ;
the best-loved man in life, the best-loved
poet after death,—the brilliant Alfred de
Musset. Like Victor Hugo, he began
to write for the public at eighteen, and
found himself famous after the publica
tion of his Contes d'Espagne, when he
was but twenty. On first leaving col
lege the versatility that is often a cha
racteristic of genius led him, like a willo’-the-wisp, into many false ways. He
studied law, medicine, painting, and
even spent a short novitiate in a bank
ing-house. Then the writers of the
Globe got hold of him—Lamartine, Vic
tor Hugo, De Vigny, Sainte-Beuve—and
enlisted him in their eager and hot
headed ranks. It was under their stimu
lating influence that he wrote the Contes
d'Espagne, and from that moment his
fortune as a writer was assured. His
life was like that of some lush young
plant forced into premature luxuriance
and bloom in the torrid atmosphere of a
hot-house, wasting its sap in one splen
did burst of beauty, to wither before it
has time to keep the promise of its youth.
Taine compares him to a blood-horse
[Apr.
dashing across country, stimulated by
the odors of the flowers and the mag
nificent novelty of the vast sky to frantic
efforts which destroy everything before
him, and will soon destroy himself. “ He
asked too much of things,” says this
acute critic : “he wanted to drain life in
one fierce and eager draught; he would
not gather, would not taste its grapes,
but tore them away in one cluster,
bruised, pressed and wrenched them off,
and was left with stained hands and a
thirst as ardent as ever. Thence those
sobs, echoed by all hearts. What! so
young and already so weary ! So many
precious gifts—an intellect so fine, a tact
so delicate, a fancy so mobile and so rich,
a flame so precocious, so sudden a blos
soming of beauty and of genius, and at
the same instant anguish, disgust, cries
and tears ! What a medley ! With the
same gesture he adores and he curses.
The eternal illusion, the invincible expe
rience, are side by side in his soul to
struggle, and to rend it. He has grown
old, and he is still young: he is a poet,
and he is a skeptic. The Muse and her
tranquil beauty, Nature and her immor
tal freshness, Love and its happy smile,
—all the crowd of divine visions has
scarcely passed before his eyes when we
see hurrying up, amid sarcasms' and
curses, all the spectres of debauchery
and death. Like a man in the midst of
a feast who drinks from a chiseled gob
let, standing in the foremost place, amid
applause and the blare of trumpets,
with laughing eyes and joyful heart,
warmed and quickened by the generous
wine which courses through his veins,
and whom all at once we see turn pale:
there is poison in the bottom of the cup ;
he falls with the death-rattle in his throat;
his feet beat convulsively upon the silken
carpets, and all the feasters watch him
with terrified eyes. This is what we felt
the day when the best-loved, the most
brilliant among us, suddenly shivered at
an unseen blow, and sank down with a
death-groan among the lying gayety and
splendor of our banquet.
“Ah well! such as he was, we love
him always; we can listen to no other;
all beside him seem cold or false. . . ,
�1872.]
ELLE ET 'LUI.
He was not a simple dilettante, he was
not content to taste and to enjoy : he has
left his mark upon human thought. He
has suffered, but he has invented : he has
fainted by the way, but he has produced.”
To all the charms of this striking ge
nius and beauty were added the fascina
tions of his conversation, as full of mar
velous variety as his writings. He would
pass from some delicate fancy or some
profound thought into a mood of fierce
and bitter irony, to suddenly dispel the
gloom he had himself evoked by a burst
of childlike gayety. There was no resist
ing the impetuosity of his spirits—he
carried everything before him. “ He
had all the characteristics of the lover,”
says Madame Colet—‘‘an imagination
always on the alert; a child’s careless
ness of facts and of fleeting time; a
mockery of fame, an indifference to
opinion, and an absolute oblivion of
everything which was not the desire
of the moment.”
These last few words are peculiarly
significant. If the theory be true that
we carry always within us the latent,
germ of disease that will one day cause
our death, more especially was it true of
De Musset that he bore within his own
breast the elements of his destruction.
He seemed to be absolutely destitute of
principle—the slave of every impulse,
the victim of his ardent and headlong
temperament, the prey of every moment
ary passion that seized upon his inflam
mable heart. Add to this his utter inca
pacity for seeing anything but the desire
of the instant, and what a fatal tempera
ment we have to launch upon the treach
erous waters of Parisian life !
But with all his weakness he had the
soul of a great poet. He never lost the
consciousness of the ideal life, love,
poetry, that he was for ever betraying,
for ever defiling, and yet for ever seek
ing. It was as though that Ideal, an
attendant genius, walked ever by his
side, and when, in the midst of the riotous
revelry, the calm eyes met his, the wine
cup fell from his hand and the apples
of delight turned to bitter ashes upon his
lips. His life was a succession of
brilliant achievements, unbridled indul
453
gence, and sudden revulsions of self
contempt and disgust. “Suspended be
tween the heavens and the earth,” said
one who knew him well, “longing for the
one, curious about the other, disdaining
glory, appalled at the universal empti
ness, uncertain, tormented, changeable,
he lived alone in the midst of men, flee
ing from solitude, and yet finding it
everywhere. The power of his own
soul fatigued him. His thoughts were
too vast, his desires too immense : his
feeble shoulders bent beneath the burden
of his genius. He sought among the
imperfect pleasures of the earth the ob
livion of that unattainable good which
he had seen from afar.”
Among the brilliant crowd that our
poet met at the Arsenal that evening
was a woman of about twenty-nine,
chiefly noticeable among the brighter
and younger beauties for the splendor
of her dark eyes and the grace of her
perfect hand. Below the smooth bands
of thick black hair which swept across
her forehead and fell in two short curls
upon her neck, those eyes seemed to
burn with an inner fire which lit up all
the face. The rest was plain enough,
but such was the fascination of that face
that many were known to speak of it as
the most beautiful they had ever seen.
It was the face of Aurora, Madame
Dudevant, best known to that circle of
beaux esprits as George Sand, the auda
cious writer of Indiana and Lelia.
“ Happy are the women who have no
histories 1” some one says. But Aurora
had a history. She had spent a singular
childhood among the country scenes and
country children of Nohant, getting up
miniature battles which left the nursery
strewn with fragments of dismembered
dolls, organizing societies of little peas
ants to snare the birds in winter, erecting
flower-strewn altars in some mossy cave
to a strange and entirely original fetish,
weaving romances by the hour together
before she could even put pen to paper.
Always the busy brain, the sensitive
heart, the inflexible will. As she grew
older the continual bickerings between
mother and grandmother grew to be in
tolerable, their incessant jealousy made
�454
ELLE ET LUI.
her life miserable, and she was thankful
to take refuge from this persecuting af
fection in the Couvent des Anglaises at
Paris. Here she went through all the
phases common to the convent of the
period, from diable to devote. By the
time she was seventeen, domestic dis
sensions, severe study, physical and
mental weariness had so worn upon her
precociously-excited brain that she tried
to drown herself, but was happily un
successful. The mania for suicide that
possessed her at this time was in part
inherited, and though her attempt at the
ford had cured her of a desire for a wa
tery death, she found herself attracted
by an almost irresistible longing to pis
tols and to poisons. At last, with rest and
better health, the mania gradually pass
ed away. At eighteen she was married
to a man for whom she always professed
a tranquil esteem and friendship, but
whose temperament was entirely uncon
genial, and in a few years she was living
in Paris again with her two children,
supporting herself by painting portraits,
by ornamenting snuff-boxes with minia
ture groups of flowers, and by her pen,
going about in the costume of a young
student to save the numberless little ex
penses of a woman’s dress, and living
in a garret upon scanty means enough.
Whatever we may think of her theories
of life and of marriage, we cannot but ad
mire her sincerity and her heroism ; and
when we read the sad words which she
has set down in her Lettres d'ztn Voyagetir, we can better appreciate the hard
and dreary nature of that life which too
many of us have been apt to consider
one of reckless freedom.
“Launched upon a fatal career,” she
writes, “guilty neither of cupidity nor
of extravagant desires, but the prey of
unforeseen reverses, burdened with the
care of dear and precious existences, of
whom I was the only support, I have
never been an artist, although I have
felt all the fatigues, all the excitement,
all the ardor and all the sufferings be
longing to that sacred profession : true
glory has not crowned my labors, be
cause I have rarely been able to wait for
inspiration. Hurried, obliged to earn
[Apr.
money, I have driven my imagination
to work without troubling myself about
the co-operation of my reason ; I have
forced my Muse when she has refused
to yield; she has revenged herself by
cold caresses and sombre revelations.
It is the want of bread which has made
me morbid: it is the grief of having to
force myself to an intellectual suicide
which has made me bitter and skeptical.’ ’
There is but one thing that can add
to the sadness of this revelation: it is,
that this is the history not of one woman,
but of hundreds of women all over the
world.
It was while she was leading this toil
some and precarious life that she met
Alfred de Musset. At first attracted only
by the curiosity of a poet, he was soon
seized by one of those irresistible pas
sions that were perpetually swaying his
restless soul, and in a few days they
were inseparable. There is a special,
though involuntary, attraction to a poet
in a woman of genius, says Madame
Colet in her book called Lui. “ But
with such women the inevitable lovers’
quarrels are multiplied: they spring from
every contact of two beings of equal
worth, but whose sensations and aspira
tions may be nevertheless very diverse.
In such a union the joys are extreme,
but so are the sufferings.” It is all very
well in a moment of happiness to be
able to exalt the woman one loves as
wiser and stronger than any of her sex,
but when it comes to a dispute, to feel
that that superior intelligence is calm
ly reading your own, is analyzing your
character and taking stock of your weak
nesses, is a terrible contingency at which
masculine pride naturally shudders.
Such a case brings up one of the strong
est arguments for the theory of “ counter
parts ” in marriage. Some one declares
it to be fatal for a wife to excel in her
husband’s favorite pursuit. If he be a
musician, the less she knows about
music, except to have a sympathetic
love for it, the better. To be able to
criticise her husband’s performances
with a knowledge equal—nay, perhaps
superior—to his own, would be risking
their wedded happiness. And to place
�1872.]
ELLE ET LUI.
side by side in the harness of matrimony
two of the irritabile genus is indeed
rather a dangerous experiment. The
extreme sensitiveness to every impres
sion which causes the aeolian harp to
vibrate with a breath brings forth dis
cords as easily as harmonies, and the
heart of an artist (whether he be poet,
painter or musician) is but a human
harp.
Every touch sets the' strings
quivering — impossible but that they
should sometimes jangle. And when
we think of two of these susceptible
natures acting and reacting on each
other, with all the little circumstances of
our daily lives, which float by a phleg
matic temperament unheeded, the source
to them of immense delight or misery,
it is a wonder not that there are so many
unhappy marriages in the artistic world,
but that any are successful.
In the case we are considering at
present there were not only the ordinary
difficulties to be encountered, but there
were radical differences of character,
which could not fail, sooner or later, to
produce dissension. Alfred de Musset
was, as we have seen, a type of the
purely artistic organization intensified by
the French element of race. It was im
possible for him to conceive of existence
except in the present tense—to see any
thing beyond the now and here. The
idea of duty was wanting in his con
sciousness.
Like a man born color
blind, to whom red and black are the
same, he realized no difference between
I will and I ought. He was a perfect
embodiment of the old poetic represen
tation of Genius as an immortal child.
He writes of himself:
My first verses were a little child’s ;
My second still a youth’s ;
The last were scarcely to be called a man’s.
With this lack of moral strength he
united all the attractive qualities of child
hood— its irresistible gayety, its spon
taneous generosity, its unceasing verve
and enthusiasm, its rapid joys and sor
rows, its endless capacity for pleasure,
its insatiable appetite for novelty, its
helpless appeal to strength and wisdom,
its quick recognition of both. He was
like the children who go to seek the pot
455
of gold at the end of the rainbow, and
who find that the end of the rainbow
always overhangs some dangerous mo
rass. He was always seeking the ideal
at the other end of the rainbow of his
fancy, and much mire he traversed in
pursuit of it. No wonder that when he
met with a woman of genius, of great
talents and of lofty aspirations, with clean
hands and a pure heart, he should throw
himself headlong at her feet, and think
he had found rest for his soul at last.
But Aurora, in spite of her earnest and
devoted affection for him, in spite of her
thorough appreciation of his genius,
was not the counterpart he sought. She
was attuned to a different key. While
he was particularly individual, positive,
determined, she seemed an incarnation
of pure intellect, cold, judicial and gen
eral. Contrary to the usual feminine
type, her sympathies were more with the
race than with the individual, more
abstract than concrete. Universal Na
ture appealed to her profoundly : hence
the superb landscape painting we find in
her books, the fine sketches of storm and
sunshine. Her novels are usually the
embodiment of some abstract idea—her
dramatis personae are charged with the
duty of working it out in the course of
their conversations. The women in her
books are almost always the incarnation
of part of herself: they are made of a
portion of her own heart, as Eve was
taken from Adam’s side. They repre
sent not her complete personality, it is
true, but certain of her own attributes
or mental conditions, rarely a separate
idiosyncrasy. They are given to long
and sometimes rather prosy harangues,
even atpic-nics and on other inauspicious
occasions, to much moralizing, and to
lengthy discussions of the utopias of the
day. They have something too much
usually of “the reason firm, the temper
ate will,’’ and lack that gracious caprice
which goes a long way to make up the
fascination of the ewige weiblichkeit.
Their pride as reasonable beings forbids
them to act from mere impulse, and their
capitulation, however sudden it may
seem, is the result of a long siege of
silent argument. Like the goddesses
�456
ELLE ET LUL
of old, they envelop themselves in the
clouds before they descend to their
adorers.
In fact, the central point of Aurora’s
character was precisely that which was
wanting in De Musset—moral principle,
unflinching devotion to duty. It may
seem strange to assert this of a woman
who in many ways has overstepped the
boundary-lines which we should draw
to define right living, and whose books
have been so often regarded with holy
horror. But we venture to assert that
no one can study her character or read
her works with calm, unbiased judgment
without deciding that in all things she
has acted up to her highest idea of duty,
that in her life and in her books she
may have made mistakes—as who of us
has not ?—but that they have been errors
of judgment, not sins against conscience.
Duty was ever her first and last consid
eration.
To endeavor to unite two such cha
racters in a lasting attachment was like
trying to yoke together fire and water.
We can fancy the struggles of the wide
ly-differing organizations — the one, a
calm, clear intelligence, self-poised and
independent, seeing clearly the ante
cedents and the consequences of every
act, earnest, devoted, unflinching, reso
lute, but stern, unyielding, and devoid
of that exquisite sensibility to the moods
of another which alone could satisfy the
exactions of the singular organization
with which it was brought in contact;
the other eager, impetuous, ardent, un
disciplined, full of good impulses and
great ideas, but a weathercock swayed
by every wind of passion, the slave of
an untrained genius and an ungoverned
heart. The one weary of never-ceas
ing efforts to chasten and reform this
unruly spirit, her endless devotion met
with ingratitude and scorn, her kindness
misinterpreted, her affection rejected,
her instant submission to the whim of
the moment imperiously demanded;
the other, conscious of dashing like a
wave upon an unyielding rock, ever
running against that unflinching sense
of duty, ever repulsed by the cold upbraidings of the preacher when longing
[Apr.
for the tender sympathy of love. Par
don was to be had, indeed, for all sins,
but it was to be earned first. Love was
to be relegated to its appropriate place
among the pleasures of life, and to come
in after the labor of the day, like the
sugar-plums of a dessert. Work was
work, and not a sentiment, not an emo
tion was to be allowed to escape till it
was ovèr. Then the Loves and the
Graces were bidden to the banquet, and
then the Loves and the Graces very nat
urally would not always come. Affec
tion was not the golden thread upon
which all the hours of life were to be
strung, but the heart-shaped bead at one
end of the necklace. This measured
rule, this heart trained to beat in time to
the music of labor, was hardly to be un
derstood by our poet. Aurora’s was one
of those natures to whom great sacrifices
are .a delight, but petty ones a fetter and
an impossibility. She was capable of
watching by a poet’s sick-bed for three
sleepless weeks, but she could not see
the need of giving him an hour of sym
pathy and comfort out of the time she
had set aside for work. He, on the con
trary, was equal to anything that was
outside of the realm of law and order.
He reveled in the unexpected, and de
tested the preordained from the bottom
of his heart. It needed not only infinite
charity, but infinite tact, to guide this
rudderless nature through the perils of
its storm-tossed way. And that tact,
born only of keen perception and the
most delicate sympathy, Aurora seemed
to lack. Walking through life with her
eyes steadily fixed upon the pole-star
of her purpose, she trampled every ob
stacle beneath her feet, and she expect
ed the same fortitude and endurance
from all who accompanied her. If they
could not keep up with her, let them fall
behind : she could not alter her course to
save the bleeding feet or to comfort the
weary spirits. That she was sometimes
aware of this failure to make allowance
for others we see in an occasional pas
sage in her history of her life ; such as
this, for example: “The seal of true
greatness is never to exact from others
the hard things it imposes upon itself.’’
�1872.]
ELLE ET LUI.
And being the servant of her reason,
that reason, like all servants, sometimes
played her false. It led her to reduce
life top much to a set of philosophical
axioms, and to expect of human nature
the regularity of the heavenly bodies.
She made no allowance for perturba
tions, but expected the hearts of her
friends to revolve in their constant and
changeless orbits around their central
sun. That overruling reason, too, was
constantly tempting her to dissect what
she should have been content to enjoy,
to analyze what it was enough to feel.
She was in this akin to Margaret Fuller,
of whom Lowell writes :
And yet, O subtle analyst,
That canst each property detect
Of mood or grain, that canst untwist
Each tangled skein of intellect,
And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare
Each mental nerve more fine than air!
O brain exact, that in thy scales
Canst weigh the sun and never err !
For once thy patient science fails,
One problem still defies thy art:
Thou never canst compute for her
The distance and diameter
Of any simple human heart.
We can easily foresee the fate of such
a connection — contentions, struggles,
misery and final rupture. One shade
less of philosophy, one ray more of com
passionate love, one touch of that divine
sympathy which has been called the
genius of the heart, and the Aurora
which shone upon the poet’s waking
might have broadened for him into the
perfect day. But it was not to be.
It needs all the remembrance of that
sad confession we have already quoted to
enable us to pardon the sad ending of
the story. “ It is the want of bread which
has made me morbid,” she says : ‘‘it is
the grief of having to force myself to an
intellectual suicide which has made me
bitter and skeptical.” But we cannot
help feeling how far the head must have
got the better of the heart, how far the
peculiarly French fondness for morbid
study of emotion must have triumphed
over the delicacy of the woman, when
we find her anatomizing her old love in
her famous novel called Elie et Lui, dis
secting the character of the dead poet
457
who had thrown himself, heart and soul,
at her feet, for the amusement of a curi
ous world, eager to know the particulars
of their relations to each other. Paul
de Musset, outraged through all his fiery
nature by what he deemed an insult to
his brother’s memory, retaliated in a
fierce and bitter sketch called Lui et
Elie, and this again was followed by a
more impartial statement, though still in
defence of the poet, by Madame Colet,
called Lui. Any one of the books is
dreary in the extreme. To watch the
wrecking of a noble ship can never be
a cheering or a helpful spectacle, and to
see two great souls, the one drifting to
destruction, the other powerless to aid
what it so longed to save, but only has
tening the end, is the saddest sight that
can be seen by mortal eyes. Except in
the interests of mental anatomy, the
three books had better never have been
written, except perhaps it be Madame
Colet’s, for the sake of the charity it
inspires us with toward the Byron of
French poetry. It has much merit also
in the fine thoughts and keen reflections
that go far to justify its existence.
The impartial critic can hardly help
noting how impossible it is, with all the
help of special pleading on either side,
quite to disguise the truth as concerns
the history of these two natures. Their
characteristics were so salient, so un
mistakable, the differences in their or
ganization so patent, that no history of
infinite exaction on the one side, of in
finite sacrifice on the other, can quite
blind us to the real state of the case. We
shut the volumes with a sigh, and it is
Madame Colet, after all, who teaches us
the great lesson of charity. “To those
who have no visible superiority,” she
says, “are readily ascribed concealed
treasures, while even every-day virtues
are refused to those exceptional beings
endowed with rarer gifts. . . . Before
wondering at the deterioration of a no
ble soul, we should know by what blows
it has been struck and wounded, and
what it has suffered through its very
greatness.”
Kate Hillard.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Elle et lui
Creator
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Hillard, Kate
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Philadelphia]
Collation: 451-457 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From Lippincott's Monthly Magazine 9, April 1872. Attribution: Virginia Clark's catalogue. Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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[J.B. Lippincot & Co.]
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[1872]
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G5306
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France
Literature
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Alfred de Musset
Conway Tracts
France
George Sand
Literature
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Text
[
169
J
( ,
Of fife of Cl)nrlc5 Jickrns.
A
biography which represents the many-sidedness of an individual
with any character at all is a performance given to few men to achieve
—a monument seldom erected to any of the great and memorable.
The “ subject ” is to his biographer what he sees him, and there is no
help for the public to whom the biographer tells his tale. It is for
him to choose, among the facts of the subject’s life, which he will put
forward or suppress—which among the feasible impressions of the
subject’s character he will suggest and substantiate. In no branch of
literature are the total failures more numerous—is the average of
imperfection and unsatisfactoriness larger. In certain cases, where
the “ life ” cannot be supposed to possess a widely-extended public
interest—where it is a demand as well as a product of cliqueism—
narrow views and extravagant estimates, foolish exaggerations and
eccentric theories, may be allowed to pass with a smile. They do not
hurt the public, who do not think about them ; they do not injure
their judgment, lower their standard of criticism, or do violence to
their common-sense.
The transports of the Mutual Admiration
Society harm nobody but the persons of talent who have established
it, whether they indulged so as to lead the rational rest of the world
to laugh at the living, or pity the dead. But it is a very different
case when a biography is put forward with such claims to general
importance and public interest as that of Mr. Dickens, written by
his friend Mr. Forster. These claims are more readily and heartily
acknowledged than those of the biographies of many men who were
great in spheres of more elevated influence, work and weight, than
that of any novelist. The interest and curiosity felt about even
such lives are much magnified by their writers, and, at their keenest,
are of brief duration, the books passing rapidly into the category of
mémoires pour servir. But the story of the life of the humourist who
had afforded them so much pleasure by the fanciful creations of his
brain, was eagerly welcomed by the public, coming from the pen of the
friend to whom Mr. Dickens had entrusted the task ; for he had, at a
very early stage of his career, foreseen that he should need a bio
grapher, and had no shrinking from what Mr. Palgrave, pleading the
poet’s right to immunity from it, calls the intrusion of “ biography.”
Regarded from the point of view of that disinterested and impartial
public whose eyes are not shut by the promptings of cliqueism nor
their ears beguiled by its jargon—who know nothing of the fatuous
A
�170
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
flattery of “ sets,” but who hold literary men amenable to the same moral
and social laws as any other class of men who do their work in the
world and are paid for it—the book could hardly be more damaging
to the memory of its subject if it had been written by an enemy
instead of a friend. Without impeaching Mr. Forster’s sincerity in
any respect or degree—without imputing to him a particle of the
treacherous ingratitude and deadly damaging cunning which made
Leigh Hunt’s ‘ Life of Byron ’ notorious—it may be gravely doubted
whether the little poet dealt the great one’s memory a more cruel
blow than Mr. Forster, in the character of a mourning Mentor out of
work, has dealt the memory of Telemachus Dickens. To all un
prejudiced persons, with just notions of the relations of men with
their fellows, he presents the object of his preposterously inflated
praise in an aspect both painful and surprising. Who is to correct
this impression ? We are forced to believe that Mr. Forster, from his
long and close association with him, is the person who can best paint
Mr. Dickens as he was in reality; we are forced to accept the man
whose writings so charmed and delighted us on the evidence of a close
and long-sustained correspondence with Mr. Forster, to whom he
apparently assigned the foremost place in his literary and private life
as guide, friend, companion, and critic. Mr. Dickens might have had
no other intimate associate than his future biographer throughout the
long term of years during which he was constantly appealing to his
judgment, adopting his corrections, yielding to his advice, and gushing
about walks, rides, dinners, and drinks in his company. There are
no people in the book but these two; the rest are merely names, to
which casual reference is made in records of jovial dinners and meet
ings for purposes of unlimited flattery. Even Jeffrey is only occa
sionally permitted to offer a modest criticism in a foot-note. In one
instance Mr. Forster relates how Mr. Dickens pooh-pooh’d the criti
cism, and referred it to him, that he too might pooh-pooh as heartily
the idea of Jeffrey’s having presumed to pronounce an opinion on
Miss Fox and Major Bagstock while only three numbers of ‘ Dombey
and Son’ had yet been issued to the world. By every device of
omission, as well as by open assertion, Mr. Forster claims to represent
Mr. Dickens as he was—to be the only licensed interpreter of the
great novelist to the world. The world grants his claim, and, judging
his book by it, is surprised by the nature of the information which is
the outcome of so many years of close and unreserved intercourse.
Not only is the one-sidedness common to biographies conspicuous in this
one, but the two large volumes published up to the present time are as
scanty in one sense as they are diffuse in another. Did Mr. Dickens
correspond with no one but Mr. Forster ? Has no one preserved
letters from him to which his biographer might have procured access ?
Were there no side-lights to be had ? The most fantastic of his own
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
171
creations is hardly less like a living responsible man than the excited,
restless, hysterical, self-engrossed, quarrelsome, unreasonable egotist
shown to the world as the real Charles Dickens throughout at least
three-fourths of these two volumes; shown, it is true, upon the evi
dence of his own letters — perhaps the most wonderful records of
human vanity which have ever seen the light of print—but shown
also, through the fault of his biographer, in appalling nakedness, by
hisi strict limitation of Mr. Dickens’s “life” to the chronicle of his
relations with Mr. Forster.
It is a property of genius to raise up a high ideal of its possessors
in the minds of men who derive pleasure from its productions: it
seems to be too frequently the main business of its biographers to
pull this ideal down. That Mr. Forster has done so in the case of
Mr, Dickens every reader will admit who is not infected with the
arrogant ideas or carried away by the inflated jargon of the cliqueism
of light literature—an essentially insolent and narrow cliqueism
which, when contemplated from a philosophical or practical stand
point, seems to be the modern rendering of the satirical fable of the
fly upon the wheel. The members of this clique live in an atmosphere
of delusion, in which no sense is preserved of the true proportions
in which various employments of human intellect respectively aid
the development of human progress and social greatness. The people
who form the clique have no notion of the absurd effect they produce
on the big world outside it, which takes account of and puts its trust
in talent and energy of many kinds other than the literary; hence
it is generally a mistake that the life of a man of this kind of letters
should be written at all, and doubly so that it should be written by
one who has done it in the spirit of a clique inside a clique. The
reader’s notions of the life and character of a great humourist, who
was flattered, and who flattered himself, into the belief that he was
also a great moralist, are painfully disconcerted by Mr. Forster, who
leaves the most diverting of jesters, the most strained of sentimentalists,
no loophole of escape, by strongly insisting, in the before-mentioned
jargon, that he lived “ in ” his books and “ with ” his characters.
Thus the reader finds himself obliged to conclude that, if that state
ment be correct, Mr. Dickens was a foolish, and if it be not correct, he
was an affected person. His own letters confirm it; but then all the
letters he ever wrote to everybody were by no means so exclusively
occupied with himself and his sensations as those by which only he
is interpreted to the public, and which, instead of being quite repul
sive, would have been pardonable, and sometimes pleasing, if they had
been episodical—if the reader could believe that their writer had not
unconsciously sat for the portrait, drawn by his own pen, of the
individual who was “ so far down in the school of life, that he was
perpetually making figures of 1 in his copybook, and could not get
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THE LIFE OF CHAKLES DICKENS.
any further. A fair test of the effect of such a posthumous picture
of a man who deservedly gained a vast popularity is to imagine its
being drawn and exhibited in the case of any other man who had
achieved a similar reputation by similar means. Let us take, for
instance, the death of Colonel Newcome, the finest piece of pathos in
all Mr. Thackeray s writings, and try to imagine the author writing
to the closest of his friends, while the end was coming in the strain
of Mr. Dickens’s letters about the death of Nelly Trent: “ I went to
bed last night utterly dispirited and done up. All night I have been
pursued by the old man, and this morning I am unrefreshed and
miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself. I think the close
of the story will bo great. . . . The difficulty has been tremendous,
the anguish unspeakable. I think it will come favourably ; but I am
the wretchedest ol the wretched. It casts the most horrible shadow
upon me, and it is as much as I can do to keep moving at all.” In
the impossible case of Mr. Thackeray’s having written such effusive
rant, he would surely have cautioned his pre-ordained biographer
that it was not intended for publication. It is equally difficult to
imagine Mr. Trollope signing his letters, “ Yours truly, John Eames,”
or “ Ever yours, Phineas Finn.” But Mr. Forster prints letter after
letter in which Mr. Dickens calls himself “the inimitable” (a joke
which really does not bear so much repetition), quotes his own books
in illustration of all such incidents as, seeing that they concern him
self, he thinks worth mentioning, and signs himself “ Pickwick ” and
“Wilkins Micawber.” He is in “Dombeian spirits” or “Chuzzlewit
agonies,” or he is “ devilish sly,” or his wife is thrown from a carriage,
and laid on a sofa, “chock full of groans, like Squeers.” In short, he
is always quoting or suggesting quotations from himself, while his
voluminous letters are remarkable for their silence concerning any
other writer of the day. Then we have an overdone dedication of a
book to Mr. 1< orster, and a letter, accompanying a present of a claret
jug, which for pompousness might have been written in the Augustan
age. It is not wholly inconceivable that humour of this kind may
have had its charm for friends who conducted their relations on the
mutual admiration principle, but it is wholly inconceivable that Mr.
Forster should believe its details to be interesting to the public, and
surprising that he should fail to see that just in proportion as it is
*’ characteristic ” it is injurious to their ideal of Air. Dickens.
Was it also characteristic of Mr. Dickens to act, in all the grave
circumstances of life, with a hard self-assertion, an utter ignoring of
everybody’s rights, feelings, and interests except his own—an assump
tion of the holy and infallible supremacy of his own views’and his
own claims which are direct contradictions of all his finest and most
effusive sentimonts ? If not, then his biographer has to answer for
producing the impression upon the mind of the reader, who looks in
�THR LIFE OF CHABLES DICKENS.
173
vain throughout these volumes for any indication that Mr. Dickens’s
fine writing about human relations has any but a Pecksniffian sense.
In every reference to Mr. Dickens in his filial capacity there is
evident a repulsive hardness, a contemptuous want of feeling. His
parents were poor, in constant difficulties, and their son made capital
of the fact for some of his cleverest and some of his least pleasing
fictions; the Micawbers among the former, the Dorrits among the
latter. Every allusion to his father grates upon the reader’s feel
ings. A very amusing but exaggerated description of the difficulties of
stenography, and of the steam-engine-like strength and perseverance
with which Mr. Dickens worked at the art, is transferred from ‘ David
Copperfield’ to the biography, with such a flourish of trumpets
that readers unversed in the jargon of mutual admiration, might
suppose no man but Mr. Dickens had ever thoroughly mastered such
difficulties, and that he alone had invented and patented the “ golden
rules,” which he promulgates apropos of his becoming a shorthand
writer: “ Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all
my heart to do well. What I have devoted myself to, I have devoted
myself to completely. Never to put one hand to anything on which
I could not throw my whole self, and never to affect depreciation of my
work, whatever it was.” Of any inclination to depart from the second
of these “ golden rules,” no reader of Mr. Forster will suspect Mr.
Dickens; but of falling on the other side into an outrageous glorifi
cation of his work, whatever it was, he is convicted in countless
instances by his cruel biographer.
Voltaire’s cynical conceit of the chorus who sang incessant praises
of the poor prince until they made him laughable to all mankind
and loathsome to himself, is reflected in Mr. Forster. Pages are
devoted to the energy with which a young man of nineteen, with
a “ Dora ” in view to stimulate him, engaged in the acquisition of
an art which hundreds of quiet, industrious, well-educated gentle
men practised; but the fact that his father, who was not young,
and who had gone through much toil and care, had conquered
the same stubborn art, and was working hard at it, is mentioned
as “ his father having already taken to it, in those later years, in
aid of the family resourcesand again, as “ the elder Dickens having
gone into the gallery.” When Mr. Dickens writes to his friend that
he has been securing a house for his parents, the tone of the letter is
singularly unpleasant; and people who are not literary or gifted, but
merely simple folks, who hold that the God-formed ties of actual ¡life
should rank above the creations of even the brightest fancy, must
condemn the publication of the letter which Mr. Dickens wrote on the
31st of March, 1851, the very day of his fathers death, in which he
points out that he must not let himself be “ distracted by anything,”
though he has “ left a sad sight!”—(he was present when his father
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
expired)—from “ the scheme on which so much depends,” and “most
part of the proposed ^Iterations,” which he thinks “ good.” He is
going up to Highgate at two, and hopes Mr. Forster will go with him.
The scheme was the Guild of Literature and Art, and the chief matter
under discussion was Bulwer’s comedy, written in aid of it. Mr.
Forster was going to Knebworth, and the son, just come from the
father’s deathbed, and going to buy his father’s grave, would “ like to
have gone that way, if ‘ Bradshaw ’ gave him any hope of doing it.”
There are men of whom this might be published without conveying
the disappointing, disenchanting effect which it conveys in this instance,
though in itself it is hard and shocking; but in the case of Mr. Dickens
the terrible frankness of it is much to be regretted. Such testimony
as this to the practical want of feeling of the man who described him
self as utterly good for nothing, prostrated with anguish, pursued by
phantasmal misery when Little Nell and Paul Dombey were dying,
whose hysterical sensibility about every fancy of his imagination was
so keen, is overwhelming. Mr. Forster ought to have shown us
one side of the medal only—his friend in fantastic agonies over a
fiction—“ knocked over, utterly dejected,” for instance, by “ the Ham
and Steerforth chapter,” or his friend eminently business-like over one
of the most solemn events possible in a human life. When he exhibits
him in both characters to plain people, he, no doubt unintentionally,
paints the portrait of a charlatan.
In another instance the biographer shocks yet more profoundly the
moral sense of persons who believe that genius is not less, but more,
bound by the common law of duty in feeling and in action. There
is a vast amount of sentiment, there are numerous prettinesses about
mothers and babies, and about motherhood and sonhood in the abstract,
in Mr. Dickens’s works; and in this case also, he, for whom it is so
persistently claimed that he lived in and with his books that he must
needs incur the penalty of this praise, is made by Mr. Foster to
produce the effect of falseness and inconsistency. The slight mention
made of Mr. Dickens’s mother by the biographer is contemptuous,
and his own solitary direct allusion to her is unjust and unfilial.
Could not Mr. Forster recall anything, ever so slight, in all that long
intimacy, so close and constant that it seems to have left no room and
no time in the novelist’s life for any other, to counterbalance that
impression ? The temptation, which no doubt strongly beset the
litterateur, to colour as highly as possible the picture of the “ blacking
bottle period,” has been too strong for the biographer, who has failed
to perceive that in making the episode exceedingly interesting, very
alluring to public curiosity, he has made the subject of it con
temptible. The picture is a paintul one, not altogether and only
from the side on which alone it is contemplated by Mr. Dickens and
Mr, Forster ; it is pervaded by the characteristics of all the pictures
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175
of Mr. Dickens’s earlier years, and of all dealings with everybody on
occasions when they did not turn out to his entire satisfaction.
Neither Mr. Dickens nor his biographer regard this period of the
celebrated novelist’s life justly ; they both look at it from the stand
point of accomplished facts, of mature life, developed genius, and
achieved fame. The truth is, that the poor parents of a large and
helpless family were naturally glad to accept the proposal of a rela
tive who offered to give the means of existence to one of their
children, a boy of weak frame, indifferent health, and odd “ ways,” in
which they were too dull, too troubled, and too busy to suspect arid
look for genius. They were not clever, literary, or fanciful; they
were struggling and common-place. Mrs. Dickens was promised
that the child should be taught something, and given the precedence
of a relative of the master among the boys in the blacking ware
house. Both promises were kept for a time ; when they came to be
disregarded the family turmoil had subsided into the temporary
repose of imprisonment for debt. It is very sad that respectable
decent people should be reduced to being glad to have one child lodged
and fed, ever so meagrely, away from them ; but the man who was that
child, who laid claim afterwards to an exceptional and emotional sym
pathy with poverty, and comprehension of all its straits, could not
sympathise with his parents’ poverty. He could not comprehend that
to them to be spared the lodging and the feeding of one child was an
important boon, and he has been so unfortunate as to find a biographer
who records, as the only utterance of Mr. Dickens concerning his
mother, this, deliberately spoken in his full manhood, when he was
relating how his father and the relative who had given him his
wretched occupation had quarrelled about him : “ My mother set her
self to accommodate the quarrel, and did so next day. She brought
home a request for me to return next morning, and a high character
of me, which I am very sure I deserved. My father said I should go
to school, and should go back no more. I do not write resentfully
or angrily, for I know how all these things have worked together to
make me what I am; but I never afterwards forgot, I never shall
forget, I never can forget, that my mother was warm for my being
sent back. . . . From that hour until this my father and my mother
have been stricken dumb upon it.”
A great deal of public feeling upon this point has been taken for
granted in perfect good faith by a great many people, for want of plain
matter-of-fact comprehension of the case on its real merits. Mr. and
Mrs. Dickens were in deep poverty. “ All our friends were tired
out ”—these are their son’s own words. His sister Fanny, who was
gifted with musical talent, was a pupil in an academy of music,
as a preparation for earning her own livelihood; and when he was
sent to the employment which he so bitterly resented afterwards he
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
describes the family home thus : “ My mother and my brothers and
sisters (excepting Fanny) were still encamped with a young servant
girl from Chatham workhouse in two parlours of the house in Gower
Street. Everything had gone gradually; until at last there was
nothing left but a few chairs, a broken table, and some beds.” The
mother who sent her child to earn seven shillings a week in a
blacking warehouse from such a home—to be exchanged only for
her husband’s prison—was not, we think, quite a monster. What
became of the “brothers and sisters”? Did any one outrage the
family by offering help equally ignoble to another individual in whom
Sam Weller’s “ double million gas-magnifying glasses ” themselves
could hardly then have detected an embryo genius? When Mr. '
Dickens left the prison it was as a bankrupt, and though he imme
diately began the toil which was merely “ praiseworthy industry ” in
him, while it was magnified to heroism m his son, there is nothing
heinous, to our thinking, in the mother’s endeavour to keep those
seven weekly shillings wherewith one child might be fed, and in her
demur to a “ cheap school,” which, however cheap, must be paid for
out of nothing. Stripped of verbiage, this is the literal truth, and
Mr. Forster makes one of his gravest mistakes when he dwells with
would-be pathos upon the effect of this childish expression upon Mr,
Dickens’s mind and manners in after life. The picture, if true, is a
sorry one, for it is full of vanity, self-engrossment, and morbid feeling.
That a man who had achieved such renown, had done such work,
had so employed his God-given genius, should be awkward and ill at
ease in the society of well-bred unpretending people, should go about
under a kind of self-compelled cloud, because, being the child of poor
parents, he had, in his childhood, pursued, for a short time, a lowly
but honest occupation, is, to simple minds, an incomprehensibly foolish
and mean weakness.
If Mr. Dickens were represented as having been proud of the fact
that as a small and feeble child he had worked for his own living
with the approbation of his employers, and thus eased off her shoulders
some of the burthen his 4 mother had to carry, it would be con
sistent with the self-reliance of David Copperfield, the devotion of
Little Nell, the helpfulness of Jenny Wren, in short, with a number
of the virtues of the personages “ with ” and “ in ” whom we are told
his real life was to be found. Mr. Forster looks upon the childhood
and youth of Mr. Dickens with the eyes of his fame and maturity,
and cries out against the ignoring of a prodigy before there had been
anything prodigious about him, just as Mr. Dickens himself complains
of the publishers, to whom he owed the opportunity of making a
reputation, for ill-treating a famous author, and fattening on his
brains. Mr. Foster is emphatic in his blame of every one who was
concerned in the matter-—or indeed who was not, for “ friends ” are
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177
taken to task—that Charles Dickens was not given a good education,
and eloquent about the education which he afterwards gave himself.
Here, again, the besetting temptation of the biographer to invest his
subject with attributes which do not belong to him, as well as to
exaggerate those which do, assails Mr. Forster. There are no facts
in his narrative to prove that Mr. Dickens ever was an educated man,
and all the testimony of his works is against the supposition. No
trait of his genius is more salient than its entire self-dependence ; no
defects of it are more marked than his intolerance of subjects which
he did not understand, and his high-handed dogmatic treatment of
matters which he regarded with the facile contempt of ignorance.
This unfortunate tendency was fostered by the atmosphere of flattery
in which he lived ; a life which, in the truly educational sense, was
singularly narrow; and though he was not entirely to blame for the
extent, it affected his later works very much to their disadvantage.
As a novelist he is distinguished, as a humourist he is unrivalled in
this age; but when he deals with the larger spheres of morals, with
politics, and with the mechanism of state and official life, he is absurd.
He announces truisms and tritenesses with an air of discovery im
possible to a well-read man, and he propounds with an air of convic
tion, hardly provoking, it is so simply foolish, flourishing solutions of
problems, which have long perplexed the gravest and ablest minds in
the higher ranges of thought.
We hear of his extensive and varied reading. Where is the evidence
that he ever read anything beyond fiction, and some of the essayists ?
Certainly not in his books, which might be the only books in the
world, for any indication of study or book-knowledge in them. Not a
little of their charm, not a little of their wide-spread miscellaneous
popularity, is referable to that very thing. Every one can understand
them; they are not for educated people only ; they do not suggest com
parisons, or require explanations, or imply associations; they stand
alone, self-existent, delightful facts. A slight reference to Fielding
and Smollett, a fine rendering of one chapter in English history—
the Gordon riots—very finely done, and a clever adaptation of
Mr. Carlyle’s ‘ Scarecrows ’ to his own stage, in ‘ A Tale of Two
Cities,’ are positively the only traces of books to be found in the long
series of his works. His ‘ Pictures from Italy ’ is specially curious as
an illustration of the possibility of a man’s living so long in a country
with an old and famous history, without discovering that he might
possibly understand the country better if he knew something about
the history. He always caught the sentimental and humourous
elements in everything; the traditional, spiritual, philosophic, or
¿esthetic not at all. His prejudices were the prejudices, not of one
sided opinion and conviction, but of ignorance “ all round.” His mind
held no clue to the character of the peoples of foreign countries, and
vol. xxxviii.
N
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
their tastes, arts, and creed were ludicrous mysteries to him. His
vividness of mind, freshness and fun, constitute the chief charm of his
stories, and their entire originality is the ‘ note ’ which pleases most;
but when he writes “ pictures ” of a land of the great past of poetry,
art, and politics, with as much satisfied flippancy as when he describes
the common objects of the London streets (for which he yearned in
the midst of all the mediaeval glories of Italy), he makes it evident
that he had never been educated, and had not educated himself. If
we are to accept Mr. Forster’s version of his friend’s judgment and
intellectual culture, apart from his own art as a novelist, we get a sorry
notion of them from the following sentence, which has many fellows.
At page 82 of the first volume, Mr. Forster writes : “ His (Mr. Dickens’)
observations, during his career in the gallery, had not led him to form
any high opinion of the House of Commons or its heroes; and of the
Pickwickian sense, which so often takes the place of common sense,
in our legislature, he omitted no opportunity of declaring his contempt
at every part of his life.” This is unkind. We do not like to believe
that the famous novelist was so insolent and so arrogant as his
biographer makes him out to have been, and it is only fair to remark
that it is Mr. Forster who represents his ‘ subject’s ’ contempt for
men and matters entirely out of his social and intellectual sphere as
something serious for those men and those matters. That Mr. Dickens
was rather more than less unfortunate than other people when, like
them, he talked of things he did not understand, is abundantly
proved by his £ Hard Times,’ the silly Doodle business in ‘ Bleak
House,’ the ridiculous picture of an M.P. in ‘ Nickleby,’ and the in
variable association of rank with folly and power with incompetence
in all his works. He knew nothing of official life; he had no com
prehension of authority, of discipline, of any kind of hierarchical
system, and his very humour itself is dull, pointless, laboured, and
essentially vulgar, when directed against the larger order of politics;
it becomes mere flippant buzzing, hardly worth notice or rebuke.
It is not only in the education of books that we perceive Mr.
Dickens to have been defective. Mr. Forster’s account of him makes
it evident that he was deficient in that higher education of the mind, by
which men attain to an habitually nice adjustment of the rights of
others in all mutual dealings, and to that strictly-regulated considera
tion which is a large component of self-respect. If this biography is
true and trustworthy; if the public, to whom the author of books
which supplied them with a whole circle of personal friends was an
abstraction, are to accept this portrait of Mr. Dickens as a living
verity, then they are forced to believe that, though a spasmodically
generous, he was not a just man. According to the narrative before
the world, he had a most exacting, even a grinding estimate, of the
sacredness and inviolability of his own rights. To under-estimate his
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179
claims was the unpardonable stupidity ; to stand against liis interests
was the inexpiable sin. This deplorable tendency was lamentably
encouraged by Mr. Forster—who in 1837 made his appearance on the
scene which thenceforward he occupied so very conspicuously as a party
to Mr. Dickens’s second quarrel in the course of a literary career then
recently commenced. He had already quarrelled with Mr. Macrone,
the publisher of ‘ Sketches by Boz,’ and his subsequent kindness to
that gentleman’s widow by no means blinds a dispassionate observer
to the fact that the strict right—not the fine feeling, not the genius
recognising disinterestedness, but the mere honest right—was, not
with the author, but with the publisher. His second quarrel was
with Mr. Bentley, his second publisher ; his third quarrel was with
Messrs. Chapman and Hall, his third publishers. His fourth quarrel
is recorded in the second volume ; with the proprietors of the Daily
News, after a very brief endurance of the ineffable stupidity, the
intolerable exaction, and the general unbearableness of everybody con
cerned in the management of that journal—qualities which, by an
extraordinary harmony of accident, invariably distinguished all per
sons who came into collision with Mr. Dickens in any situation of
which he was not absolutely the master. We know that there is a
fifth quarrel—that with Messrs. Bradbury and Evans—yet to be re
corded ; and we submit, that to plain people, who do not accord ex
ceptional privileges to men of genius with regard to their dealings
with their fellows, those facts indicate radical injustice and bad temper.
The pages of Temple Bar are not the place in which the merits of
the indictment of Mr. Bentley at the bar of public opinion by Mr.
Forster ought to be discussed. They form matter for fuller dis
closure and more abundant proof ; but the editor must permit us an
allusion to this case so pompously stated by Mr. Forster, because it
differs in kind from the subsequent instances. In 1836 Mr. Dickens
was what his biographer calls “ self-sold into bondage,” i.e. he was
employed by Mr. Bentley to edit the ‘ Miscellany,’ to supply a serial
story, and to write two others, the first at a specified early date, “ the
expressed remuneration in each case being certainly quite inadequate
to the claims of a writer of any marked popularity.” We have only
to refer to the letter written by Mr. George Bentley, and published
in the Times on the 7th of December, 1871, to perceive the absurdity
of this statement, unless Mr. Forster’s estimate of the claims of rising
young littérateurs be of quite unprecedented liberality, in which case
it is to be hoped he may make numerous converts among the pub
lishers ; while the notion that a man so keenly alive to his own value
would have made a bad bargain, is à priori totally inconsistent with
his whole portrait of Mr. Dickens. But Mr. Dickens never seems to
have understood practically at any time of his life that there were two
sides to any contract to which he was a party. The terms of the first
n 2
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were as follows:
Mr. Dickens was to write two works of fiction, ‘ Oliver Twist,’ and
another, subsequently entitled ‘ Barnaby Budge,’ for £1000, and toedit the ‘ Miscellany’ for £20 a month; this sum of course not toinclude payment for any of his own contributions. No rational person
can entertain a doubt that these conditions were exceedingly advan
tageous to Mr. Dickens at the then stage of his career. The term»
of the second agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were,
that he should receive £30 a month as editor of the ‘ Miscellany?
The terms of the third agreement which he made, and did not carry
out, were, that he should receive £750 for each of the two novels and
£360 per annum as editor of the ‘ Miscellany.’ The story of the fourth
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, will be told elsewhere.
It suffices here to say that he had his own way in all. Throughout
the whole of this affair, as Mr. Forster relates it, Mr. Dickens was
childishly irritable and ridiculously self-laudatory; and it never seems
to have occurred to either of them that a writer of books, employed
by a publisher, is a man of business executing a commission, by
business rules and under business laws. If Mr. Dickens, writing
‘ Pickwick ’ for Messrs. Chapman and Hall and ‘ Oliver Twist ’ for
Mr. Bentley at the same time, “ was never even a week in advance
with the printer in either,” outsiders will think that neither Messrs?.
Chapman and Hall nor Mr. Bentley were to blame for the circum
stance, that it was no business whatever of theirs, and that it had
nothing to do with Mr. Dickens’s objection to furnish the works he
had contracted to write, at the price for which he had contracted to
write them. The truth is, that Mr. Dickens was not a famous author,,
on whose brains Mr. Bentley designed to fatten, when he made thefirst agreement of that “ network in which he was entangled ” (Mr.
Forster’s astounding description of a series of contracts, each made on
Mr. Dickens’s own terms, and each altered at his own request,) for
he had written nothing but the ‘ Sketches by Boz ’ (‘ Pickwick,’ had
not even been commenced) and he had never edited anything, or
given any indication of the kind of ability requisite in an editor,
while he was evidently not an educated man. In fact, the first bar
gain strikes impartial minds as a rather daring speculation on Mr.
Bentley’s part; and there can be only one opinion that, when the
whole matter was concluded, it was on extraordinarily advantageous
terms to Mr. Dickens. For £2250 Mr. Bentley ceded to him the
copyright of ‘Oliver Twist’ (with the Cruiksliank illustrations,
whose value and importance Mr. Forster vainly endeavours to decry,
but on which public opinion cannot be put down), the stock of an
addition of 1002 copies, and the cancelled agreement for ‘Barnaby
Budge.’ We have the progressive figures which tell us what Mr.
Dickens’ salary as editor of ‘ Bentley’s Miscellany ’ had been. We
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
181
have the records of his early experience, and of his exact position when
Mr. Bentley employed him in that capacity. Taking all these things
into account, the discretion of his biographer in recording his poor
joke when he relinquished the editorship, saying, “it has always
been literally Bentley’s miscellany, and never mine,” may be denied
without impertinence.
From a more general point of view than merely that of this bio
graphy and its subject, the story of Mr. Dickens’s frequent quarrels
with everybody with whom he made contracts is lamentable. Mr.
Forster seems seriously and genuinely to regard the persons who
expected Mr. Dickens to keep his engagements, merely because he
had made them, as heinous offenders. In vol. ii. page 42, we find
a story about Messrs. Chapman & Hall’s having ventured to hint
their expectation of his fulfilment of a contract by which, in the event
■of a certain falling off in a certain sale, which falling off actually did
take place, he was to refund a certain sum, and this conduct is de
scribed with a sort of “ bated breath ” condemnation, as though it were
a dreadful departure from honour and decency, which, having been
atoned for, is merely referred to, pityingly, under extreme pressure of
biographical obligation. And all this because one of the contracting
parties is a novelist, whose fame is built upon the very articles which
he has supplied by the contract! Why do publishers employ authors ?
Is it that they may write successful or unsuccessful books ? Fancy a
man undertaking to write a serial novel—which must be a venture for
his publisher, who purchases it unread, unwritten—for a certain sum of
money, writing it well, so that it succeeds, and that his publisher is a
gainer by it—the writer’s gain being of course, in the nature of things,
a foregone conclusion, and the transaction being described as “ an obli
gation incurred in ignorance of the sacrifices implied by it.” What an
absence of commercial morality and of a sense of fair dealing is implied
by the notion! If we could suppose this line of argument to be
transferred to the productions of other orders of genius than the
literary, its uncandidness would come out with startling distinctness.
Supposing an artist were to contract with a picture dealer to paint a
picture for him within a given time and for a stated sum, and that
during the painting of that picture the artist’s reputation were to rise
considerably, in consequence of his excellent execution of another task,
so that not only would the picture be of greater value to the purchaser
than he had had reason to believe it would be at the date of the com
mission, but the artist would be entitled to ask a larger sum for his
next work. What would be thought of the artist, if he denounced
the dealer as everything that was mean and dastardly, because he
proposed to pay him the price agreed upon, and not a larger price ?
What would be thought of the same artist if, an agreement to paint
a second picture on the same terms as the first having Leen changed
�182
THE LIFE OF CHALLES DICKENS.
at his request and to his advantage, he deliberately instructed a friend
to cancel that agreement also, and bemoaned himself in terms so un
manly and so unbusinesslike as the following: “The consciousness
that I have still the slavery and drudgery of another work on th©
same journeyman terms,” Azs own terms, “ the consciousness that my
work is enriching everybody connected with it but myself, and that i,
with such a popularity as 1 have acquired, am struggling in old toils,
and wasting my energies in the very height and freshness of my fame
in the best part of my life, to fill the pockets of others, while for those
who are nearest and dearest to me I can realise little more than a
genteel subsistence; all this puts me out of heart and spirits............
I do most solemnly declare that morally, before God and man, I hold
> myself released from such hard bargains as these, after I have done
so much for those who drove them.” It is impossible to conceive any
great man in the world of art or any other world, which involves
production and purchase, writing in such a style as this, and no
blame can be too severe for the indiscretion which has given to the
public such a picture of mingled vanity and lack of conscience. If
this view of the business relations of author and publisher were to be
accepted as the just view, the success of the author would be the
misfortune of the publisher, and the grand object of the trade would
be to supply Mr. Mudie with a placid flow of mediocrity, by which
they could count on a certain moderate profit without risk; but they
would shun rising geniuses like the plague. We protest against all
the unworthy, unbusinesslike, and untrue jargon in which this story,
and the others like it are set forth, not only because it gives an
impression of the character of Mr. Dickens extremely disappointing
to the admirers of his genius—of whom the present writer is one of the
most fervent—but also for a much more serious and far-reaching reason.
Everything of the kind which is believed and adopted by the public
as true of literary men, is degrading to their status and demoralising
to their class. Why should a business transaction to which a man of
letters is a party, be in any moral or actual sense different from any
other business transaction whatsoever ? The right divine of genius
is to be better, honester, higher minded, than mediocrity, because it
has truer insight, a nobler, loftier outlook and ideal, and greater aims.
At least this is the common notion of the great privileges of genius,
and to controvert or degrade it is to inflict on the public a misfortune
entailing a loss. No man can claim of himself or be held by his friends
to be outside, above, or released from any common moral law, without
a failure of true dignity, a violation of common sense, and an offence
to the great majority of respectable and reasoning people who make
up that public whose word is reputation. Seldom has a more un
fortunate phrase than “ the eccentricities of genius ” been invented.
It has to answer for many a moral declension, which, if the phrase
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
183
had not existed, would have been avoided, because toleration would not
have been expected—for many a social impertinence, which would have
been too promptly punished for repetition. The “eccentricities of
genius ” are always its blemishes, frequently its vices, and the suffer
ance of them by society is a mistake, the condonation of them is a
fault, the laudation of them is a treacherous sin.
Next to Mr. Dickens’s indignation that his publishers should
presume to make money by his work, Mr. Forster exposes most
mercilessly his disgust at the possibility of his illustrators getting any
credit in connection with his books. It would be unprofitable to reca
pitulate the controversy between Mr. Cruikshank and Mr. Forster
about the artist’s share in the production of ‘ Oliver Twist,’ but in
connection with the subject it may be observed, that if Mr. Cruikshank’s Bill Sykes and Nance did not realise Mr. Dickens’ wish, every
reader of ‘ Oliver Twist ’ thinks of the housebreaker and his victim as
Mr. Cruikshank drew them, and knows that, in the case of Nance, the
author’s was an impossible picture (a fact which no one, as Mr.
Thackeray ably pointed out, knew better than NIr. Dickens), while the
artist’s was the coarse, terrible truth. On which side the balance of
suggestion was most heavily weighted it is not easy or necessary to
determine, but nothing can be clearer than that Mr. Cruiksliank
followed no lead of Mr. Dickens, in his wonderful pictures, but
saw the villainous components of that partly powerful yet partly
feeble romance of crime with a vision entirely his own. Mr. Halbot
Browne is allowed a little credit; but, though Mr. Forster presides
over the production of each book in succession, and all he suggests
and says is received with effusive respect and gushing gratitude,
though he reads and amends sheets hardly dry, and makes alterations
which require separate foot notes to display their importance, and
italics to describe their acceptation, every hint of counsel from any one
else is treated with offensive disdain. To Mr. Forster the world is
indebted for the Marchioness’s saying about the orange-peel and water,
that it would “ bear more seasoning.” Mr. Dickens had made it
“ flavour,” but the censor considered that word out of place in the
“ little creature’s mouth,” though the little creature was a cook, and
so it was changed. What a pity he did not suggest that Dick
Swiveller might have been quite as delightful, and yet considerably
less drunken I To him the world owes Little Nell’s death, but Mr.
Dickens would probably have acknowledged the obligation on his own
part less warmly if he had foreseen the publication of the absurd
rhapsody in which he announced the event as imminent; declaring
that he trembles “ to approach the place more than Kit; a great deal
more than Mr. Garland; a great deal more than the Single Gentle
man.” Then with ingenuous vanity, and forgetting grammar in
gush, he protests: “ Nobody will miss her like I shall. What the
�184
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
actual doing it will be, God knows. I can’t preach to myself the
schoolmaster’s consolation, though I try.” Only the pachydermatous
insensibility which comes of mutual admiration could have prevented
a biographer’s perception of the inappropriateness of such reve
lations, and of scores of similar ones; only such insensibility can
account for his complacent sacrifice of every one else to the glorifica
tion of that leviathan in whose jaws he could always put a hook.
That Mr. Dickens may be made to praise Mr. Mark Lemon patronisingly, Mr. Forster prints a statement concerning Mrs. Lemon, which
that lady has contradicted in the press; and that Mr. Dickens’s gene
rosity and delicacy may be duly appreciated, Mr. Forster tells how he
deputed Mr. Wills to make Mr. Sala a present of £20. It is neces
sary to keep constantly before one’s mind that it is Mr. Forster who
is speaking for Mr. Dickens, if one would escape from an overwhelm
ing conviction that the great novelist was a very poor creature, and
that it would have been far better for his fame had he been made
known to the public only by his novels. It is especially necessary to
remember this when we find a school of morals imputed to him, when
he is represented as a great teacher who adopted the method of
apologue, and we are gravely assured that “ many an over-suspicious
person will find advantage in remembering what a too liberal applica
tion of Foxey’s principle of suspecting everybody brought Mr. Sampson
Brass to; and many an over-hasty judgment of poor human nature
will unconsciously be checked, when it is remembered that Mr. Chris
topher Nubbles did come back to work out that shilling.”
When we read scores of similar passages, we ask ourselves, Can this
be in earnest ? Can it be possible that this is intended to be serious ?
Or is Mr. Forster, getting occasionally tired of the perpetual swing of
the censor of praise before the image of the friend who, in his lifetime,
never wearied of sniffing the enervating perfume, and swung lustily
for himself, poking ponderous fun at the public ? Even the humour of
the great humourist suffers by the handling of his ardent but undis
criminating worshipper. The rubbish by which the tradition of Mrs.
Gamp is continued, the silly letters in dubious French, which exhibit
Mr. Dickens’s absolute incapacity to comprehend any foreign country,
and the unpardonable nonsense, in which he was encouraged by wiser
men, of his pretended admiration for the Queen, are flagrant examples
of injudiciousness, which heavily punishes the folly it parades. Mr.
Dickens’s letter about her Majesty, written thirty years’ ago, was a
sorry jest. Mr. Forster’s publication of it now is supreme bad taste.
Mr. Dickens’s sentimentalism, always exaggerated and frequently
false, suffers at the hands of his biographer even more severely than
his humour. Mr. Forster as confidant, and Mr. Dickens as Tilburina, in intercommunicated hysterics over the ‘ Christmas Stories,’
‘ Dombey and Son,’ and ‘ David Copperfield,’ become so very weari
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
185
some, especially when Mr. Forster solemnly declares his belief that the
* Christmas Carol ’ “ for some may have realised the philosopher’s
famous experience, and by a single fortunate thought revised the whole
manner of a life,” that it is a positive relief when they are parted.
Mr. Dickens’s ‘ Letters from America ’ form the least disappointing
portion of this work ; in them his egotism is less persistently offensive
and his humour is displayed to great advantage. The reverse of this
is the case in his ‘ Letters from Italy.’ In them he is in a perpetual
state of ebullition, fussiness, impatience, effervescent vanity, and self
engrossment. It is amusing to observe that the great humourist was
so little accustomed to recognise humour in others, that it never oc
curred to him he could be quizzed. When a witty consul warned him
not to let his children out of doors, because the Jesuits would be on
the watch to lead their innocent feet into popish places, he swallowed
the warning with the docile credulity of a Vansittart.
It must be acknowledged that Mr. Forster’s advice was very sound
and valuable in many instances. Perhaps his consciousness of that
fact has blinded him to the extent to which his exposure of his friend’s
weaknesses has gone. Was it, for instance, worth while, in order to
record that he rejected the proposition, to let the public know that
Mr. Dickens ever proposed as a title for his projected weekly mis
cellany, “ Charles Dickens : A Weekly Journal, designed for the
instruction and amusement of all classes of readers. Conducted by
Himself ” ?
In one more volume this warmly-welcomed, eagerly-read biography
is to be completed. That volume must necessarily be a more difficult
and responsible task than its predecessors. It is to be hoped that it
will fulfil the expectations of the public more satisfactorily, and that
it will do more justice to Mr. Dickens by doing less injustice to all
with whom he was concerned. It is to be hoped that it will put before
the world a more substantial representation of the great novelist who
was so variously gifted; that it will leave its readers able in some
measure to respect and esteem its subject as a man, for real qualities,
while ceasing to urge an imaginary claim to misplaced consideration,
and especially that it will be free from the faint suggestion which
pervades the present volumes, that, essentially, “ Codlin was the friend,
not Short.”
�[
186
]
£ lluire from tlje pusl),
O ! milii prseteritos ....
High noon, and not a cloud in the sky to break this blinding sun!
Well, I’ve half the day before me still, and most of my journey
done.
There’s little enough of shade to be got, but I’ll take what I can get,
For I’m not as hearty as once I was, although I’m a young man yet.
Young ? Well, yes, I suppose so, as far as the seasons go,
Though there’s many a man far older than I down there in the town
below,—
Older, but men to whom, in the pride of their manhood strong,
The hardest work is never too hard, nor the longest day too long.
But I’ve cut my cake, so I can’t complain; and I’ve only myself to
blame.
Ah ! that was always their tale at home, and here it’s just the same.
Of the seed I’ve sown in pleasure, the harvest I’m reaping in pain.
Could I put my life a few years back would I live that life again ?
Would I? Of course I would ! What glorious days they were !
It sometimes seems but the dream of a dream that life could have been
so fair,
So sweet, but a short time back, while now, if one can call
This life, I almost doubt at times if it’s worth the living at all.
One of these poets—which is it ?—somewhere or another sings
That the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow is the remembering happier
things ;
What the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow may be I know not, but this I
know,
It lightens the years that are now, sometimes to think of the years
ago.
Where are they now, I wonder, with whom those years were passed ?
The pace was a little too good, I fear, for many of them to last;
And there’s always plenty to take their place when the leaders begin
to decline.
Still I wish them well, wherever they are, for the sake of ’auld lang
syne!
�A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
187
L I Jack Villiers—Galloping Jack—what a beggar he was to ride!—
f I Was shot in a gambling row last year on the Californian side;
LI And Byng, the best of the lot, who was broke in the Derby of fifty
eight,
I ’ Is keeping sheep with Harry Lepell, somewhere on the Biver Plate.
Do they ever think of me at all, and the fun we used to share ?
It gives me a pleasant hour or so—and I’ve none too many to spare.
This dull blood runs as it used to run, and the spent flame flickers up,
As I think on the cheers that rung in my ears when I won the
Garrison Cup!
!
■
'
I. And how the regiment roared to a man, while the voice of the fielders
shook,
! As I swung in my stride, six lengths to the good, hard held over
Brixworth Brook;
Instead of the parrots’ screech, I seem to hear the twang of the horn,
As once again from Barkby Holt I set the pick of the Quorn.
Well, those were harmless pleasures enough; for I hold him worse than
an ass
Who shakes his head at a ‘ neck on the post,’ or a quick thing over
the grass.
Go for yourself, and go to win, and you can’t very well go wrong;—
Gad, if I’d only stuck to that I’d be singing a different song!
7
,
As to the one I’m singing, it’s pretty well known to all;
We knew too much, but not quite enough, and so we went to the wall;
While those who cared not, if their work was done, how dirty their
hands might be,
Went up on our shoulders, and kicked us down, when they got to the
top of the tree.
«
But though it relieves one’s mind at times, there’s little good in a
curse.
) I One comfort is, though it’s not very well, it might be a great deal worse.
A id A roof to my head, and a bite to my mouth, and no one likely
to know
In ‘ Bill the Bushman ’ the dandy who went to the dogs long years
ago-
I
Out there on the station, among the lads, I get along pretty well;
It’s only when I get down into town that I feel this life such a hell.
Booted, and bearded, and burned to a brick, I loaf along the street;
, I watch the ladies tripping by and I bless their dainty feet;
�188
A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
I watch them here and there, with a bitter feeling of pain.
Ah! what wouldn’t I give to feel a lady’s hand again!
They used to be glad to see me once, they might have been so to-day;
But we never know the worth of a thing until we have thrown it away.
I watch them, but from afar, and I pull my old cap over my eyes,
Partly to hide the tears, that, rude and rough as I am, will rise,
And partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see
The man that I am, when I know, though they don’t, the man that I
ought to be.
Puff! With the last whiff of my pipe I blow these fancies away,
For I must be jogging along if I want to get down into town to-day.
As I know I shall reach my journey’s end though I travel not over
fast,
So the end to my longer journey will come in its own good time at
last.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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The life of Charles Dickens
Creator
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Hoey, Frances Sarah Johnston
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 169-188 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article from Temple Bar magazine, May 1873; attribution from Virginia Clark catalogue. A review of vol. 1-2 of John Forster's biography of Dickens.
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[Bentley]
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[1873]
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G5571
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Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The life of Charles Dickens), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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Book Reviews
Charles Dickens
Conway Tracts
English Literature
Fiction in English
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Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
repairing the idols.
Mrs. Humphrey Ward’s Robert Elsmere is no less
eagerly read in America than in England.
The press
teems with criticisms, and the pulpits are discussing
the novel as though it were a theological treatise by
an eminent divine.
In view of this widespread interest,
the New York World sent a reporter to wait on
Colonel Ingersoll, whose views on religion are con
sidered of the highest importance. He commands an
immense audience in America. His lectures are listened
to by thousands wherever he goes, his pamphlets are
circulated wholesale, and his brilliant defence of Freethought against Mr. Gladstone and Cardinal Manning
has, if possible, placed him still higher m the public
esteem. Colonel Ingersoll received the World reporter
with his usual affability, and launched forth as follows
in answer to leading questions.
“ Why do people read a book like Robert Elsmere,
and why do they take any interest in if!” Simply
because they are not satisfied with the rehgion of our
day. The civilised world has outgrown the greater
�4
Repairing the Idols.
part of the Christian creed. Civilised people have lost
their belief in the reforming power of punishment.
They find that whips and imprisonment have but little
influence for good. The truth has dawned upon their
minds that eternal punishment is infinite cruelty—that
it can serve no good purpose, and that the eternity of
hell makes heaven impossible. That there can be in
this universe no perfectly happy place while there is a •
perfectly miserable place—that no infinite being can
be good who knowingly and, as one may say, wilfully
created myriads of human beings, knowing that they
would be eternally miserable. In other words, the
civilised man is greater, tenderer, nobler, nearer just
than the old idea of God. The ideal of a few thou
sand years ago is far below the real of to-day. No
good man now would do what Jehovah is said to have
done four thousand years ago, and no civilised human
being would now do what, according to the Christian
religion, Christ threatens to do at the day of judgment.
Has the Christian religion changed in theory of late
years, Colonel Ingersoll ?
A few years ago the Deists denied the inspiration of
the Bible on account of its cruelty. At the same time
they worshipped what they were pleased to call the God
of Nature. Now we are convinced that nature is as
cruel as the Bible, so that, if the’ God of Nature did
not write the Bible, this god at least has caused earth
quakes and pestilence and famine, and this god has
allowed millions of his children to destroy one another.
So that now we have arrived at the question—not as to
whether the Bible is inspired, and not as to whether
Jehovah is the real God, but whether there is a God or
�Hep airing the Idols.
5
not. The intelligence of Christendom to-day does not
believe in an inspired religion any more than it
believes in an inspired art or an inspired literature. If
there be an infinite God, inspiration in some particular
regard would be a patch—it would be the puttying of
a crack, the hiding of a defect—in other words, it
would show that the general plan was defective.
Do you consider any religion adequate ?
A good man, living in England, drawing a certain
salary for reading certain prayers on stated occasions,
for making a few remarks on the subject of religion,
putting on clothes of a certain cut, wearing a gown
with certain frills and flounces starched in an orthodox
manner, and then looking about him at the suffering
and agony of the world, would not feel satisfied that
he was doing anything of value to the human race.
In the first place, he would deplore his own weakness,
his own poverty, his inability to help his fellow men.
He would long every moment for wealth, that he
might feed the hungry and clothe the naked—for
knowledge, for miraculous power, that he might heal
the sick and the lame, and that he might give to the
deformed the beauty of proportion. He would begin
to wonder how a being of infinite goodness and infinite
power could allow his children to die, to suffer, to be
deformed by necessity, by poverty, to be tempted
beyond resistance ; how he could allow the few to live
in luxury and the many in poverty and want, and the
more he wondered the more useless and ironical would
seem to himself his sermons and his prayers.
Such a
man is driven to the conclusion that religion accom
plishes but little; that it creates as much want as it
�6
Repairing the Idols.
alleviates, and that it burdens the world with parasites.
Such a man would be forced to think of the millions
wasted in superstition. In other words, the inadequacy,
the uselessness, of religion would be forced upon his
mind. He would ask himself the question : “ Is it
possible that this is a divine institution ? Is this all
that man can do with the assistance of God ? Is this
the best ?”
That is a perfectly reasonable question, is it not,
Colonel Ingersoll?
The moment a man reaches the point where he asks
himself this question he has ceased to be an orthodox
Christian.
It will not do to say that in some other
world justice will be done. If God allows injustice to
triumph here, why not there ?
Robert Elsmere stands in the dawn of philosophy.
There is hardly light enough for him to see clearly; but
there is so much light that the stars in the night of
superstition are obscured.
You do not deny that a religious belief is a great
comfort ?
There is one thing that it is impossible for me to
comprehend. Why should anyone, when convinced
that Christianity is a superstition, have or feel a sense
of loss ? Certainly a man acquainted with England,
with London, having at the same time something like
a heart, must feel overwhelmed by the failure of what
is knjown as- Christianity. Hundreds of thousands
exist there without decent food, dwelling in tenements,
clothed with rags, familiar with every form of vulgar
vice, where the honest poor eat the crust that the
�Repairing the Idols.
i
7
vicious throw away. When, this man of intelligence,
of heart, visits the courts ; when he finds human liberty
a thing treated as of no value, and when he hears the
judge sentencing girls and boys to the penitentiary—
knowing that a stain is being put upon them that all
the tears of all the coming years can never wash away
—knowing, too, and feeling that this is done without
the slightest regret, without the slightest sympathy, as
a mere matter of form, and that the jndge puts this
brand of infamy upon the forehead of the convict just
as cheerfully as a Mexican brands his cattle ; and when
this man of intelligence and heart knows that these
poor people are simply the victims of society, the
unfortunates who stumble and over whose body rolls
the Juggernaut—he knows that there is, or at least
appears to be, no power above or below working for
righteousness—that from the heavens is stretched no
protecting hand. And when a man of intelligence and
heart in England visits the workhouse, the last resting
place of honest labor ; when he thinks that the young
man, without any great intelligence but with a good
constitution, starts in the morning of, his life for the
workhouse, and that it is impossible for the laboring
man, one who simply has his muscle, to save anything ;
that health is not able to lay anything by for the days
of disease—when the man of intelligence and heart
sees all this, he is compelled to say that the civilisation
of to-day, the religion of to-day, the charity of to-day
—no matter how much of good there may be behind
them or in them—are failures.
A few years ago people were satisfied when the
minister said : “ All this will be made even in another
�8
Tiepairing the Idols.
world; a crust-eater here will sit at the head of the
banquet there, and the king here will beg for the
crumbs that fall from the table there.” When this
was said the poor man hoped and the king laughed.
A few years ago the Church said to the slave : “ You
will be free in another world and your freedom will be
made glorious by the perpetual spectacle of your master
in hell.” But the people—that is, many of the people
—are no longer deceived by what once were considered
fine phrases. They have suffered so much that they no
longer wish to see others suffer, and no longer think of
the suffering of others as a source of joy to themselves.
The poor see that the eternal starvation of kings and
queens in another world will be no compensation for
what they have suffered here. The old religions appear
vulgar, and the ideas of rewards and punishments are
only such as would satisfy a cannibal chief or one of
his favorites.
Do you think the Christian religion has
xvorld better1
?
made the
For many centuries there has been preached and
taught in an almost infinite number of ways a super
natural religion. During all this time the world has
been in the care of the infinite, and yet every
imaginable vice has flourished, every imaginable pang
has been suffered, and every injustice has been done.
During all these years the priests have enslaved the
minds and the kings the bodies of men. The priests
did what they did in the name of God, and the kings
appealed to the same source of authority. Man suffered
as long as he could.
Revolution, reformation, was
simply a reaction, a cry from the poor wretch that was
�Repairing the Idols.
9
between the upper and the nether millstone. The liberty
of man has increased just in the proportion that the
authority of the gods has decreased. In other words
the wants of man, instead of the wishes of God, have,
inaugurated what we call progress, and there is this
difference : Theology is based upon the narrowest and
intensest form of selfishness. Of course, the theologian
knows, the Christian knows, that he can do nothing for
God; consequently all that he does must be and is for
himself, his object being to win the approbation of this
God, to the end that he may become a favorite. On the
other side, men touched not only by theii’ owfl misf ortunes
but by the misfortunes of others are moved not simply
by selfishness but by a splendid sympathy with their
fellow men.
“ Christianity certainly fosters charity’’ the reporter
suggested.
Nothing is more cruel than orthodox theology, nothing
more heartless than a charitable institution. For
instance, in England, think for a moment of the manner
in which charities are distributed, the way in which the
crust is flung at Lazarus. If that parable could be now
retold, the dogs would bite him. The same is true in
this country. The institution has nothing but contempt
for the one it relieves. The people in charge regard
the pauper as one who has wrecked himself. They feel
very much as a man would feel rescuing from the water
some hare-brained wretch who had endeavored to s wim
the rapids of Niagara—the moment they reach him
they begin to upbraid him for being such a fool. This
course makes charity a hypocrite, with every pauper for
its enemy.
�10
Repairing the Idols.
Mrs. Ward compelled Robert Elsmere to perceive,
in some slight degree, the failure of Christianity to do
away with vice and suffering, with poverty and crime.
We know that the rich care but little for the poor.
No matter how religious the rich may be, the sufferings
of their fellows have but little effect upon them. We
are also beginning to see that what is called charity
will never redeem this world. The poor man willing
to work, eager to maintain his independence, knows
that there is something higher than charity—that is to
say, justice.
He finds that many years before he was
born his coufltry was divided out between certain suc
cessful robbers, flatterers, cringers, and crawlers, and
that in consequence of such division not only himself
but a large majority of his fellow men are tenants,
renters, occupying the surface of the earth only at the
pleasure of others. He finds, too, that these people
who have done nothing and who do nothing have every
thing, and that those who do everything have but little.
He finds that idleness has the money and that the
toilers are compelled to bow to the idlers. He finds
also that the young men of genius are bribed by social
distinctions—unconsciously it may be, but still bribed
in a thousand ways. He finds that the church is a
kind of waste-basket into which are thrown the younger
sons of titled idleness.
Do you consider that society in general has been
made better by religious influence ?
Society is corrupted because the laurels, the titles,
are in the keeping and within the gift of the corrupters.
Christianity is not an enemy of this system it is in
�Repairing the Idols.
11
harmony with it. Christianity reveals to us a universe
presided over by an infinite autocrat—a universe with
out republicanism, without democracy—a universe
where all power comes from one and the same
source, and where everyone using authority is account
able, not to the people, but to this supposed source of
authority. Kings reign by divine right. Priests are
ordained in a divinely-appointed way—they do not get
their office from man. Man is their servant, not their
master.
'
In the story of Robert Elsmere all there is of Chris
tianity is left after an excision of the miraculous«
Theism remains, and the idea of a protecting provi
dence is left, together with a belief in the immeasurable
superiority of Jesus Christ.
That is to say, the
miracles are discarded for lack of evidence; not on the
ground that they are impossible, not on the ground
that they impeach and deny the integrity of cause and
effect, not on the ground that they contradict the selfevident proposition that an effect must have an efficient
cause, but like the Scotch verdict: 44 Not proven.’
It is an effort to save and keep in repair the dungeons
of the Inquisition for the sake of the beauty of the
vines that have overrun them. Many people imagine
that falsehoods may become respectable on account of
age, that a certain reverence goes with antiquity, and
that if a mistake is covered with the moss of senti
ment, it is altogether more credible than a parvenu
fact. They endeavor to introduce the idea of aris
tocracy into the world of thought, believing, and
honestly believing that a falsehood long believed is far
superior to a truth that is generally denied.
�12
Repairing the Idols.
If Robert Elsmere's views were commonly adopted,
what would be the effect ?
The new religion of Elsmere is, after all, only a
system of outdoor relief, an effort to get successful
piracy to give up^larger percentage for the relief of its
victims. The aoolition of the system is not dreamed
of. A civilised minority could not by any possibility
be happy while a majority of the world were miserable;
a civilised majority could not be happy while a minority
were miserable. As a matter of fact, a civilised world
could not be happy while one man was really miserable.
At the foundation of civilisation is justice—that is to
say, the giving of an equal opportunity to all the chil
dren of men.
Secondly, there can be no civilisation in the highest
sense until sympathy becomes universal. We must
have a new definition for success. We must have
new ideals.
The man who succeeds in amassing
wealth, who gathers money for himself, is not a success.
It is an exceedingly low ambition to be rich, to excite
the envy of others, or for the sake of the vulgar power
it gives to triumph over others. Such men are failures.
So the man who wins fame, position, power, and wins
these for the sake of himself, and wields this power not
for the elevation of his fellow men, but simply to con
trol, is a miserable failure: He may dispense thousands
or millions in charity, and his charity may he prompted
by the meanest part of his nature—using it simply as
a bait to catch more fish, and to prevent the rising tide
of indignation that might overwhelm him. Men who
steal millions and then give a small percentage to the
Lord to gain the praise of the clergy, and to bring the
�Repairing the Idols.
13
salvation of their souls within the possibilities of im
agination, are all failures.
Robert Elsemere gains our affection and our applause
to the extent that he gives up what are known as
orthodox views, and his wife Catharine retains our
respect in the proportion that she lives the doctrine
that Elsmere preaches. By doing what she believes to
be right, she gains our forgiveness for her creed. One
is astonished that she can be as good as she is, believing
as she does. The utmost stretch of her intellectual
charity is to allow the old wine to be put in a new
bottle, and yet she regrets the absence of the old bottle
—she really believes that the bottle is the important
thing -that the wine is but a secondary consideration.
She misses the label, and not having perfect confidence
in her own taste, she does not feel quite sure that the
wine is genuine.
What, on the whole, is your judgment of the hook ?
I think the book conservative. It is an effort to save
something—a few shreds and patches and raveilings—
from the wreck. Theism is difficult to maintain. Why
should we expect an infinite being to do better in an
other world than he has done and is doing in this ? If
he allows the innocent to suffer here, why not there ?
If he allows rascality to succeed in this world, why not
in the next?
To believe in God and to deny his
personality is an exceedingly vague foundation for a
consolation. If you insist on his personality and power,
then it is impossible to account for what happens.
Why should an infinite God allow some of his children
to enslave others ? Why should he allow a child of
�14
Repairing the Idols.
his to burn another child of his, under the impression
that such a sacrifice was pleasing to him ?
Unitarianism lacks, the motive power.
Orthodox
people who insist that nearly everybody is going, ty .hell,
and that it is their duty to do what little, they, can-to
save their souls, have what you might call a spur to
action. We can imagine a philanthropic man engaged
in the business of throwing ropes to persons about to
go over the falls of Niagara, but we can hardly think
of his carrying on the business after becoming con
vinced that there are no falls, or that people go oyer
them in perfect safety. In this country the question
has come up whether all the heathen are bound to be
damned unless they believe in the Gospel. Many
admit that the heathen will be saved if they are good
people, and that they will not be damned for not
believing something that they never heard. The really
orthodox people—that is to say, the missionaries—
instantly see that this doctrine destroys their business.
They take the ground that there is but one way to be
saved—you must believe on the Lord Jesus Christ—
and they are willing to admit—and to cheerfully admit,
that the heathen for many generations have gone in an
unbroken column down to eternal wrath.
�
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Repairing the idols
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Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: [3]-14 p. ; 19 cm.
Notes: Date of publication and imprint from Stein (Item 61a). New York World interview with Ingersoll, reprinted. Mrs Humphrey Ward's (Mary Augusta Ward) novel 'Robert Elsmere' which inspired Ingersoll's lecture, tells of an Oxford clergyman who begins to doubt the doctrines of the Anglican Church after encountering the writings of the German rationalists including Schelling and David Strauss. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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[1888]
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N388
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Literature
Rationalism
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Literature
Mrs Humphry Ward
NSS
Robert Elsmere
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Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
SHAKESPEARE
A LECTURE
ROBERT G.
INGERSOLL
$
Shakespeare.—An intellectual ocean, whose waves touched all the shores
of thought.
‘ i
London :
R. FORDER, 28 STONECUTTER STREET, E.C.
��SHAKESPEARE.
I.
William Shakespeare was the greatest genius of our
world. He left to us the richest legacy of all the dead__
the treasures of the rarest soul that ever lived and loved
and wrought of words the statues, pictures, robes, and gems
of thought. He was the greatest man that ever touched
this grain of sand and tear we call the world.
It is hard to overstate the debt we owe to the men and
women of genius. Take from our world what they have
given, and all the niches would be empty, all the walls naked
—meaning and connection would fall from words of poetry
and fiction, music would go back to common air, and all
the forms of subtle and enchanting Art would lose pro
portion, and become the unmeaning waste and shattered
spoil of thoughtless Chance.
Shakespeare is too great a theme. I feel as though
endeavoring to grasp a globe so large that the hand obtains
no hold. He who would worthily speak of the great
dramatist should be inspired by “a muse of fire that should
ascend the brightest heaven of invention
he should have
“ a kingdom for a stage, and monarchs to behold the
swelling scene.”
More than three centuries ago the most intellectual of
the human race was born. He was not of supernatural
origin. At his birth there^ were no celestial pyrotechnics.
�4
SHAKESPEARE.
His father and mother were both English, and both had the
cheerful habit of living in this world. The cradle in which
he was rocked was canopied by neither myth nor miracle,
and in his veins there was no drop of royal blood.
This babe became the wonder of mankind. Neither of
his parents could read or write. He grew up in a small
and ignorant village on the banks of the Avon, in the midst
of the common people of three hundred years ago. There
was nothing in the peaceful, quiet landscape on which he
looked, nothing in the low hills, the cultivated and un*
dulating fields, and nothing in the murmuring stream, to
excite the imagination—nothing, so far as we can see, cal
culated to sow the seeds of the subtlest and sublimest
thought.
So there is nothing connected with his education, or his
lack of education, that in any way accounts for what he did.
It is supposed that he attended school in his native town ;
but of this we are not certain. Many have tried to show
that he was, after all, of gentle blood; but the fact seems
to be the other way. Some of his biographers have sought
to do him honor by showing that he was patronized by
Queen Elizabeth ; but of this there is not the slightest
proof.
As a matter of fact, there never sat on any throne a king,
queen, or emperor who could have honored William Shake
speare.
Ignorant people are apt to over-rate the value of what is
called education. The sons of the poor, having suffered
the privations of poverty, think of wealth as the mother of
joy. On the other hand, the children of the rich, finding
that gold does not produce happiness, are apt to under-rate
the value of wealth. So the children of the educated often
care but little for books, and hold all culture in contempt.
The children of great authors do not, as a rule, become
writers.
Nature is filled with tendencies and obstructions. Ex-
�SHAKESPEARE.
. 5
tremes beget limitations, even as a river by its own swiftness
creates obstructions for itself.
Possibly many generations of culture breed a desire for
the rude joys of savagery, and possibly generations of igno
rance breed such a longing for knowledge that of this desire,
of this hunger of the brain, Genius is born. It may be that
the mind, by lying fallow, by remaining idle for generations,
gathers strength.
Shakespeare's father seems to have been an ordinary man
of his time and class. About the only thing we know of
him is that he was officially reported for not coming monthly
to church. This is good as far as it goes. We can hardly
blame him, because at that time Richard Bifield was the
minister at Stratford, and an extreme Puritan, one who read
the Psalter by Sternhold and Hopkins.
The church was at one time Catholic, but in John Shake
speare’s day it was Puritan, and in 15645 the year of
Shakespeare’s birth, they had the images defaced. It is
greatly to the honor of John Shakespeare that he refused to
listen to the “ tidings of great joy ” as delivered by the
Puritan Bifield.
Nothing is known of his mother except her beautiful
name—Mary Arden. In those days but little attention was
given to the biographies of women. They were born,
married, had children, and died. No matter how celebrated
their sons became, the mothers were forgotten. In old
times, when a man achieved distinction, great pains were
taken to find out about the father and grandfather—the
idea being that genius is inherited from the father’s side.
The truth is, that all great men have had great mothers.
Great women have had, as a rule, great fathers.
The mother of Shakespeare was, without doubt, one of
the greatest of women. She dowered her son with passion
and imagination and the higher qualities of the soul, beyond
all other men. It has been said that a man of genius
should select his ancestors with great care; and yet there
�6
SHAKESPEARE.
does not seem to be as much in heredity as most people think.
The children of the great are' often small. Pigmies are
born in palaces, while over the children of genius is the
roof of straw. Most of the great are like mountains, with
the valley of ancestors on one side and the depression of
posterity on the other.
In his day Shakespeare was of no particular importance.
It may be that his mother had some marvellous and pro
phetic dreams, but Stratford was unconscious of the immortal
child. He was never engaged in a reputable business.
Socially he occupied a position below servants. The law
described him as “ a sturdy vagabond.” He was neither a
noble, a soldier, nor a priest. Among the half-civilized
people of England, he who amused and instructed them
was regarded as a menial. Kings had their clowns, the
people their actors and musicians. Shakespeare was
scheduled as a servant. It is thus that successful stupidity
has always treated genius. Mozart was patronized by an
archbishop—lived in the palace—but was compelled to eat
with the scullions.
The composer of divine melodies was not fit to sit by the
side of the theologian, who long ago would have been for
gotten but for the fame of the composer.
We know but little of the personal peculiarities, of the
daily life, or of what may be called the outward Shakespeare ;
and it may be fortunate that so little is known. He might
have been belittled by friendly fools. What silly stories,
what idiotic personal reminiscences, would have been
remembered by those who scarcely saw him 1 We have his
best—his sublimest—and we have probably lost only the
trivial and the worthless. All that is known can be written
on a page.
We are tolerably certain of the date of his birth, of his
marriage, and of his death. We think he went to London
in 1586, when he was twenty-two years old. We think that
three years afterwards he was part owner of Blackfriars’'
�SHAKESPEARE.
7,
Theatre. We have a few signatures, some of which are
supposed to be genuine. We know that he bought some
land; that he had two or three law-suits. We know the
names of his children. We also know that this incomparable
man—soapart from, and so familiar with, all the world—
lived during his literary life in London ; that he was an
actor, dramatist, and manager ; that he returned to Stratford,
the place of his birth; that he gave his writings to negli
gence, deserted the children of his brain ; that he died on
the anniversary of his birth at the age of fifty-two, and that
he was buried in the church where the images had been
defaced, and that on his tomb was chiselled a rude, absurd,
and ignorant epitaph.
No letter of his to any human being has been found, and
no line written by him can be shown.
And -here let me give my explanation of the epitaph.
Shakespeare was an actor—a disreputable business ; but he
made money—always reputable. He came back from
London a rich man. He bought land, and built houses.
Some of the supposed great probably treated him with
deference. When he died he was buried in the church.
Then came a reaction. The pious thought the church had
been profaned. They did not feel that the ashes of an actor
were fit to lie in holy ground. The people began to say the
body ought to be removed. Then it was, as I believe, that
Dr. John Hall, Shakespeare’s son-in-law, had this epitaph cut
on the tomb:
Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbeare
To digg the dust enclosed heare :
Blese be ye man yt spares these stones,
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
Certainly Shakespeare could have had no fear that his
tomb would be violated. How could it have entered his
mind to have put a warning, a threat, and a blessing upon
his grave ? But the ignorant people of that day were no
doubt convinced that the epitaph was the voice of the dead,
�8
SHAKESPEARE.
and, so feeling, they feared to invade the tomb. In this way
the dust was left in peace.
This epitaph gave me great trouble for years. It puzzled
me to explain why he, who erected the intellectual pyramids
—great ranges of mountains—should put such a pebble at
his tomb. But when I stood beside the grave .and read the
ignorant words, the explanation I have given flashed
upon me.
II.
It has been said that Shakespeare was hardly mentioned
by his contemporaries, and that he was substantially un
known. This is a mistake. In 1600 a book was published
called England's Parnassus, and it contained ninety extracts
from Shakespeare. In the same year was published The
Garden of the Muses, containing several pieces from Shake
speare, Chapman, Marston, and Ben Jonson. England's
Helicon was printed in the same year, and contained poems
from Spenser, Greene, Harvey, and Shakespeare.
In 1600 a play was acted at Cambridge, in which Shake
speare was alluded to as follows : “ Why, here’s our fellow
Shakespeare, who puts them all down.” John Weaver
published a book of poems in 1595 in which there was a
sonnet to Shakespeare. In 1598 Richard Bamfield wrote
a poem to Shakespeare. Francis Meres, “ clergyman,
master of arts in both universities, compiler of school books,”
was the author of The Wits Treasury. In this he compares
the ancient and modern tragic poets, and mentions
Marlowe, Peel, Kyd, and Shakespeare. So he compares
the writers of comedies, and mentions Lilly, Lodge,
Greene, and Shakespeare. He speaks of elegaic poets,
�SHAKESPEARE.
9
and names Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh, and Shakespeare.
He compares the lyric poets, and names Spenser, Drayton,
Shakespeare, and others. This same writer, speaking of
Horace, says that England has Sidney, Shakespeare, and
others, and that “ as the soul of Euphorbus was thought to
live in Pythagoras, so the sweet-wittie soul of Ovid lives in
the mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare.” He also
says : “If the Muses could speak English, they would speak
in Shakespeare’s phrase.” This was in 1598. In 1607 John
Davies alludes in a poem to Shakespeare.
Of course we are all familiar with what rare Ben Jonson
wrote. Henry Chettle took Shakespeare to task because he
wrote nothing on the death of Queen Elizabeth.
It may be wonderful that he was not better known. But
is it not wonderful that he gained the reputation that he did
in so short a time, and that, twelve years after he began to
write, he stood at least with the first ?
III.
But there is a wonderful fact connected with the writings
of Shakespeare. In the plays there is no direct mention of
any of his contemporaries. We do not know of any poet,
author, soldier, sailor, statesman, priest, nobleman, king, or
queen that Shakespeare directly mentioned.
Is it not marvellous that he, living in an age of great deeds,
of adventures in far-off lands and unknown seas, in a time of
religious wars, in the days of the Armada, the massacre of
St. Bartholomew, the Edict of Nantes, the assassination of
Henry III., the victory of Lepanto, the execution of Marie
Stuart, did not mention the name of any man or woman
�IO
SHAKESPEARE.
of his time? Some have insisted that the paragraph ending
with the line,
The imperial votress passed on in maiden meditation fancy free,
referred to Queen Elizabeth; but it is impossible for me to
believe that the daubed and wrinkled face, the small black
eyes, the cruel nose, the thin lips, the bad teeth, and the
red wig of Queen Elizabeth could by any possibility have
inspired these marvellous lines.
It is perfectly apparent from Shakespeare’s writings that
he knew but little of the nobility, little of kings and queens.
He gives to these supposed great people great thoughts, and
puts great words in their mouths and makes them speak—
not as they really did—but as Shakespeare thought such
people should. This demonstrates that he did not know
them personally.
Some have insisted that Shakespeare mentions Queen
Elizabeth in the last scene of “ Henry VIII.” The answer
to this is that Shakespeare did not write the last scene
in that play. The probability is that Fletcher was the
author.
Shakespeare lived during the great awakening of the world,
when Europe emerged from the darkness of the Middle
Ages, when the discovery of America had made England,
that blossom of the Gulf Stream, the centre of commerce,
and during a period when some of the greatest writers,
thinkers, soldiers, and discoverers were produced.
Cervantes was born in 1547, dying on the same day that
Shakespeare died. He was undoubtedly the greatest writer
that Spain has produced. Rubens was born in 1577,
Camoens, the Portuguese, the author of the Lusiad, died in
1597. Giordano Bruno—greatest of martyrs—was born in
1548, visited London in Shakespeare’s time, delivered
lectures at Oxford, and called that institution “ the widow
of learning.” Drake circled the globe in 1580. Galileo
was born in 1564—the same year with Shakespeare. Michael
Angelo died in 1563. Kepler—he of the Three Laws—
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born in 1571. Calderon, the Spanish dramatist, born in
1601. Corneille, the French poet, in 1606. Rembrandt,
greatest of painters, 1607. Shakespeare was born in 1564.
In that year John Calvin died. What a glorious exchange !
Seventy-two years after the discovery of America Shake
speare was born, and England was filled with the voyages
and discoveries written by Hakluyt, and the wonders that
had been seen by Raleigh, by Drake, by Frobisher, and
Hawkins. London had become the centre of the world,
and representatives from all known countries were in the
new metropolis. The world had been doubled. The
imagination had been touched and kindled by discovery.
In the far horizon were unknown lands, strange shores
beyond untraversed seas. Towards every part of the world
were turned the prows of adventure. All these things fanned
the imagination into flame, and this had its effect upon the
literary and dramatic world. And yet Shakespeare—the
master spirit of mankind—in the midst of these discoveries,
of these adventures, mentioned no navigator, no general, no
discoverer, no philosopher.
Galileo was reading the open volume of the sky, but
Shakespeare did not mention him. This, to me, is the most
marvellous thing connected with this most marvellous man.
At that time England was prosperous—was then laying
the foundation of her future greatness and power.
When men are prosperous they are in love with life.
Nature grows beautiful, the arts begin to flourish, there is
work for painter and sculptor, the poet is born, the stage is
erected, and this life with which men are in love is repre
sented in a thousand forms.
Nature, or Fate, or Chance prepared a stage for Shake
speare, and Shakespeare prepared a stage for Nature.
Famine and faith go together. In disaster and want the
gaze of man is fixed upon another world. He that eats a
crust has a creed. Hunger falls upon its knees, and heaven,
looked for through tears, is the mirage of misery. But
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prosperity brings joy and wealth and leisure, and the beautiful
is born.
One of the effects of the world’s awakening was Shake
speare. We account for this man as we do for the highest
mountain, the greatest river, the most perfect gem. We can
only say : He was.
It hath been taught us from the primal state
That he which is was wished until he were.
IV.
In Shakespeare’s time the actor was a vagabond, the
dramatist a disreputable person—and yet the greatest
dramas were then written. In spite of law and social
ostracism, Shakespeare reared the many-colored dome that
fills and glorifies the intellectual heavens.
Now the whole civilized world believes in the theatre,
asks for some great dramatist, is hungry for a play worthy
of the century, is anxious to give gold and fame to anyone
who can worthily put our age upon the stage ; and yet no
great play has been written since Shakespeare died.
Shakespeare pursued the highway of the right. He did
not seek to put his characters in a position where it was
right to do wrong. He was sound and healthy to the centre.
It never occurred to him to write a play in which a wife’s
lover should be jealous of her husband.
There was in his blood the courage of his thought. He
was true to himself, and enjoyed the perfect freedom of the
highest art. He did not write according to rules, but
smaller men make rules from what he wrote.
How fortunate that Shakespeare was not educated at
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Oxford—that the winged god within him never knelt to the
professor, flow fortunate that this giant was not captured,
tied, and tethered by the literary Liliputians of his time.
He was an idealist. He did not, like most writers of
our time, take refuge in the real, hiding a lack of genius
behind a pretended love of truth. All realities are not
poetic, or dramatic, or even worth knowing. The real
sustains the same relation to the ideal that a stone does to
a statue, or that paint does to a painting. Realism degrades
and impoverishes. In no event can a realist be more than
an imitator and copyist. According to the realist’s philo
sophy, the wax that receives and retains an image is an artist.
Shakespeare did not rely on the stage carpenter or the
scenic painter. He put his scenery in bis lines. There you
will find mountains and rivers and seas, valleys and cliffs,
violets and clouds, and over all “ the firmament fretted with
gold and fire.” He cared little for plot, little for surprise.
He did not rely on stage effects or red fire. The plays
grow before your eyes, and they come as the morning
comes. Plot surprises but once. There must be something
in a play beside surprise. Plot in an author is a kind of
strategy—that is to say, a sort of cunning; and cunning does
not belong to the highest natures.
There is in Shakespeare such a wealth of thought that
the plot becomes almost immaterial ; and such is this wealth
that you can hardly know the play—there is too much.
After you have heard it again and again, it seems as pathless
as an untrodden forest.
He belonged to all lands. “Timon of Athens” is as
Greek as any tragedy of Eschylus. “ Julius Caesar and
“Coriolanus” are perfect Roman, and as you read the
mighty ruins rise and the Eternal City once again becomes
the mistress of the world. No play is more Egyptian than
“Antony and Cleopatra’’—the Nile runs through it, the
shadows of the pyramids fall upon it, and from its scenes
the Sphinx gazes forever on the outstretched sands.
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In “ Lear ” is the true pagan spirit. “ Romeo and Juliet ”
is Italian everything is sudden, love bursts into immediate
flower, and in every scene is the climate of the land of
poetry and passion.
The reason of this is that Shakespeare dealt with elemental
things, with universal man. He knew that locality colors
without changing, and that in all surroundings the human
heart is substantially the same.
Not all the poetry written before his time would make
his sum not all that has been written since, added to all
that was written before, would equal his.
There was nothing within the range of human thought,
within the horizon of intellectual effort, that he did not
touch. He knew the brain and heart of man—the theories,
customs, superstitions, hopes, fears, hatreds, vices, and virtues
of the human race.
He knew the thrills and ecstasies of love, the savage joys
of hatred and revenge. He heard the hiss of envy’s snakes,
and watched the eagles of ambition soar. There was no
hope that did not put its star above his head, no fear he
had not felt, no joy that had not shed its sunshine on his
face. He experienced the emotions of mankind. He was
the intellectual spendthrift of the world. He gave with the
generosity, the extravagance, of madness.
Read one play, and you are impressed with the idea that
the wealth of the brain of a god has been exhausted—that
there are no more comparisons, no more passions to be
expressed, no more definitions, no more philosophy, beauty,
or sublimity to be put in words—and yet the next play opens
as fresh as the dewy gates of another day.
The outstretched wings of his imagination filled the sky.
He was the intellectual crown o’ the earth.
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V.
The plays of Shakespeare show so much knowledge, thought,
and learning that many people—those who imagine that
universities furnish capacity—contend that Bacon must
have been the author.
We know Bacon. We know that he was a scheming
politician, a courtier, a time-server of church and king, and
a corrupt judge. We know that he never admitted the
truth of the Copernican system, that he was doubtful whether
instruments were of any advantage in scientific investigation,
that he was ignorant of the higher branches of mathe
matics, and that, as a matter of fact, he added but little to
the knowledge of the world. When he was more than sixty
years of age he turned his attention to poetry, and dedicated
his verses to George Herbert.
If you will read these verses, you will say that the author
of “ Lear” and “ Hamlet ” did not write them.
Bacon dedicated his work on The Advancement of Learning,
Divine and Human, to James I., and in his dedication he
stated that there had not been, since the time of Christ, any
king or monarch so learned in all erudition, divine or
human. He placed James I. before Marcus Aurelius and
all other kings and emperors since Christ, and concluded
by saying that James I. had “the power and fortune of a
king, the illumination of a priest, the learning and univer
sality of a philosopher.” This was written of James I.,
described by Macaulay as a “ stammering, slobbering,
trembling coward, whose writings were deformed by the
grossest and vilest superstitions—-witches being the special
objects of his fear, his hatred, and his persecution.”
It seems to have been taken for granted that, if Shake
speare was not the author of the great dramas, Lord Bacon
must have been.
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It has been claimed that Bacon was the greatest philo
sopher of his time. And yet in reading his works we find
that there was in his mind a strange mingling of foolishness
and philosophy. He takes pains to tell us, and to write it
down for the benefit of posterity, that “ snow is colder than
water, because it hath more spirit in it, and that quick
silver is the coldest of all metals, because it is the fullest of
spirit.”
He stated that he hardly believed that you could contract
air by putting opium on top of the weather-glass, and gave
the following reason :
“ I conceive that opium and the like make spirits fly
rather by malignity than by cold.”
This great philosopher gave the following recipe for
staunching blood :
“ Thrust the part that bleedeth into the body of a capon,
new ripped and bleeding. This will staunch the blood.
The blood, as it seemeth, sucking and drawing up by
similitude of substance the blood it meeteth with, and so
itself going back.”
The philosopher also records this important fact:
“ Divers witches among heathen and Christians have fed
upon man’s flesh to aid, as it seemeth, their imagination
with high and foul vapors.”
Lord Bacon was not only a philosopher, but he was a
biologist, as appears from the following :
“ As for living creatures, it is certain that their vital spirits
are a substance compounded of an airy and flamy matter;
and although air and flame, being free, will not mingle, yet
bound in by a body that hath some fixing, will.”
Now and then the inventor of deduction reasons by
analogy. He says :
“As snow and ice holpen, and their cold, activated by
nitre or salt, will turn water into ice, so it may be it will turn
wood or stiff clay into stone.”
Bacon seems to have been a believer in the transmutation
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of metals, and solemnly gives a formula for changing silver
or copper into gold. He also believed in the transmutation
of plants, and had arrived at such a height in entomology
that he informed the world that “ insects have no blood.”
It is claimed that he was a great observer, and as evidence
of this he recorded the wonderful fact that “ tobacco cut
and dried by the fire loses weight ”; that “ bears in the
winter wax fat in sleep, though they eat nothing”; that
“ tortoises have no bones that “ there is a kind of stone,
if ground and put in water where cattle drink, the cows will
give more milk”; that “it is hard to cure a hurt in a
Frenchman’s head, but easy in his leg; that it is hard to
cure a hurt in an Englishman’s leg, but easy in his head ”;
that “ wounds made with brass weapons are easier to cure
than those made with iron ”; that “ lead will multiply and
increase, as in statues buried in the ground”; and that “the
rainbow touching anything causeth a sweet smell.”
Bacon seems also to have turned his attention to orni
thology, and says that “ eggs laid in the full of the moon
breed better birds,” and that “ you can make swallows
white by putting ointment on the eggs before they are
hatched.”
He also informs us “ that witches cannot hurt kings as
easily as they can common people ”; that “ perfumes dry
and strengthen the brain ”; that “ anyone in the moment of
triumph can be injured by another who casts an envious
eye, and the injury is greatest when the injury comes from
the oblique eye.”
Lord Bacon also turned his attention to medicine, and he
states that “ bracelets made of snakes are good for curing
cramps ”; that “ the skin of a wolf might cure the colic,
because a wolf has great digestion ”; that “ eating the
roasted brains of hens and hares strengthens the memory
that “ if a woman about to become a mother eats a good
many quinces and considerable coriander seed, the child
will be ingenious,” and that “ the moss which groweth on
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the skull of an unburied dead man is good for staunching
blood.”
He expresses doubt, however, “ as to whether you can
cure a wound by putting ointment on the weapon that
caused the wound, instead of on the wound itself.”
It is claimed by the advocates of the Baconian theory
that their hero stood at the top of science; and yet “ it is
absolutely certain that he was ignorant of the law of the
acceleration of falling bodies, although the law had been
made known and printed by Galileo thirty years before
Bacon wrote upon the subject. Neither did this great man
understand the principle of the lever. He was not
acquainted with the precession of the equinoxes, and, as a
matter of fact, was ill-read in those branches of learning in
which, in his time, the most rapid progress had been made.”
After Kepler discovered his third law, which was on the
15th of May, 1618, Bacon was more than ever opposed to
the Copernican system. This great man was far behind
his own time, not only in astronomy, but in mathematics.
In the preface to the Descriptio Globi Intellectuals it
is admitted either that Bacon had never heard of the correc
tion of the parallax, or was unable to understand it. He
complained on account of the want of some method for
shortening mathematical calculations; and yet “Napier’s
Logarithms ” had been printed nine years before the date
of his complaint.
He attempted to form a table of specific gravities by a
rude process of his own—a process that no one has ever
followed; and he did this in spite of the fact that a far
better method existed.
We have the right to compare what Bacon wrote with
what it is claimed Shakespeare produced. I call attention
to one thing—to Bacon’s opinion of human love. It is
this:
“The stage is more beholding to love than the life of
man. As to the stage, love is ever matter of comedies, and
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nowand then of tragedies; but in life it doth much mischief
—sometimes like a siren, sometimes like a fury. Among
all the great and worthy persons there is not one that hath
been transported to the. mad degree: of love, which shows,
that great spirits and great business do keep out this weak
passion.”
. The author of Romeo and Juliet never wrote that.
•. It seems certain that the author of the wondrous Plays
was one of the noblest of men.
Let us see what sense of honor Bacon had.
In writing commentaries on certain passages of Scripture,
Lord Bacon tells a courtier, who has committed some
offence, how to get back into the graces of his prince or
king. Among other things he tells him not to appear too
cheerful, but to assume a very grave and modest face; not
to bring the matter up himself; to be extremely industrious,
so that the prince will see that it is hard to getalong without
him; also to get his friends to tell the prince or king how
badly he, the courtier, feels; and then he says, all these
failing, “let him contrive to transfer the fault to others.”
It is true that we know but little of Shakespeare, and
consequently do not positively know that he did not have
the ability to write the Plays; but we do know Bacon, and
we know that he could not have written these Plays; con
sequently, they must have been written by a comparatively
unknown man—that is to say, by a man who was known by
no other writings. The fact that we do not know Shakespeare,
except through the Plays and Sonnets, makes it possible for
us to believe that he was the author.
Some people have imagined that the Plays were written
by several; but this only increases the wonder, and adds a
useless burden to credulity.
Bacon published in his time all the writings that he
claimed. Naturally, he would have claimed his best. Is
it possible that Bacon left the wondrous children of his
brain on the door-step of Shakespeare, and kept the
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deformed ones at home? Is it possible that he fathered
the failures and deserted the perfect ?
Of course, it is wonderful that so little has been found
touching Shakespeare; but is it not equally wonderful, if
Bacon was the author, that not a line has been found, in all
his papers, containing a suggestion, or a hint, that he was
the writer of these Plays? Is it not wonderful that no
fragment of any scene—no line—no word—has been found ?
Some have insisted that Bacon kept the authorship secret,
because it was disgraceful to write Plays. This argument
does not cover the Sonnets—and, besides, one who had
been stripped of the robes of office, for receiving bribes as
as a judge, could have borne the additional disgrace of
having written “Hamlet.” The fact that Bacon did not
claim to be the author demonstrates that he was not.
Shakespeare claimed to be the author, and no one in his
time or day denied the claim. This demonstrates that he
was.
Bacon published his works, and said to the world : This
is what I have done.
Suppose you found in a cemetery a monument erected to
John Smith, inventor of the Smith-churn, and suppose you
were told that Mr. Smith provided for the monument in his
will, and dictated the inscription—would it be possible to
convince you that Mr. Smith was also the inventor of the
locomotive and telegraph ?
, Bacon’s best can be compared with Shakespeare’s
common; but Shakespeare’s best rises above Bacon’s best,
like a domed temple above a beggar’s hut.
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VI.
Of course it is admitted that there were many dramatists
before and during the time of Shakespeare; but they were
only the foot hills of that mighty peak the top of which the
clouds and mists still hide. Chapman and Marlowe,
Heywood and Jonson, Webster, Beaumont and Fletcher,
wrote some great lines, and in the monotony of declamation
now and then is found a strain of genuine music; but all
of them together constituted only a herald of Shakespeare.
In all these plays there is but a hint, a prophecy, of the
great drama destined to revolutionize the poetic thought of
the world.
Shakespeare was the greatest of poets. What Greece
and Rome produced was great until his time. “ Lions
make leopards tame.”
The great poet is a great artist. He is painter and
sculptor. The greatest pictures and statues have been
painted and chiseled with words. They outlast all others
All the galleries of the world are poor and cheap compared
with the statues and pictures in Shakespeare’s book.
Language is made of pictures represented by sounds.
The outer world is a dictionary of the mind, and the artist
called the soul uses this dictionary of things to express what
happens in the noiseless and invisible world of thought.
First a sound represents something in the outer world, and
afterwards something in the inner; and this sound at last is
represented by a mark, and this mark stands for a picture,
and every brain is a gallery, and the artists—that is to say,
the souls—exchange pictures and statues.
All art is of the same parentage. The poet uses words—
makes pictures and statues of sounds. The sculptor
expresses harmony, proportion, passion, in marble; the
composer, in music; the painter, in form and color. The
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dramatist expresses himself not only in words, not only
paints these pictures, but he expresses his thought in action.
Shakespeare was not only a poet, but a dramatist, and
expressed the ideal, the poetic, not only in words, but in
action. There are the wit, the humor, the pathos, the
tragedy of situation, of relation. The dramatist speaks and
acts through others—his personality is lost. The poet lives
in the world of thought and feeling, and to this the
dramatist adds the world of action. He creates characters
that seem to act in accordance with their own natures and
independently of him. He compresses lives into hours,
tells us the secrets of the heart, shows us the springs of
action—how desire bribes the judgment and corrupts the
will—how weak the reason is when passion pleads, and how
grand it is to stand for right against the world.
It is not enough to say fine things; great things,
dramatic things, must be done.
Let me give you an illustration of dramatic incident
accompanying the highest form of poetic expression :
Macbeth, having returned from the murder of Duncan,
says to his wife :
Methought I heard a voice cry : Sleep no more,
Macbeth does murder sleep ; the innocent sleep ;
Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.......
Still it cried : Sleep no more, to all the house,
Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more—Macbeth shall sleep no more.
She exclaims :
Who was it that thus cried ?—
Why, worthy Thane, you do unbend your noble strength
To think so brain-sickly of things ; get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring the daggers from the place ?
L Macbeth was so overcome with horror at his own deed
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that he not only mistook his thoughts for the words of
others, but was so carried away and beyond himself that he
brought with him the daggers—the evidence of his guilt—
the dagger that he should have left with the dead. This is
dramatic.
In the same play, the difference of feeling before and
after the commission of a crime is illustrated to perfection.
When Macbeth is on his way to assassinate the king, the
bell strikes, and he says, or whispers :
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell.
Afterwards, when the deed has been committed, and a
knocking is heard at the gate, he cries :
Wake Duncan with thy knocking.
I would thou couldst.
Let me give one more instance of dramatic action.
Antony speaks above the body of Caesar he says:
When
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on—
’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii:
Look ! In this place ran Cassius’ dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made !
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed,
And as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it.
VII.
There are men, and many of them, who are always trying
to show that somebody else chiselled the statue or painted
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the picture, that the poem is attributed to the wrong man;
and that the battle was really won by a subordinate.
Of course, Shakespeare made use of the work of others—
and, we might almost say, of all others. Every writer must
use the work of others. The only question is, how the
accomplishments of other minds are used, whether as a
foundation to build higher, or whether stolen to the end
that the thief may make a reputation for himself, without
adding to the great structure of literature.
Thousands of people have stolen stones from the Coliseum
to make huts for themselves. So thousands of writers have
taken the thoughts of others with which to adorn themselves.
These are plagiarists. But the man who takes the thought
of another adds to it, gives it intensity and poetic form,
throb and life, is in the highest sense original.
Shakespeare found nearly all of his facts in the writings of
others, and was indebted to others for most of the stories of
his plays. The question is not who furnished the stone, or
who owned the quarry, but who chiseled the statue ?
We now know all' the books that Shakespeare could have
read, and consequently know many of the sources of his
information. We find in Pliny's Natural History, published
in 1601, the following: “The sea Pontis evermore floweth
and runneth out into the Propontis ; but the sea never
retireth back again with the Impontis.” This was the raw
material, and out of it Shakespeare made the following :
Like to the Pontic Sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont;
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er turn back, ne’er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up.
Perhaps we can give an idea of the difference between
Shakespeare and other poets, by a passage from Lear.
When Cordelia places her hand upon her father’s head and
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speaks of the night and of the storm, an ordinary poet
might have said:
On such a night, a dog
Should have stood against my fire.
A very great poet might have gone a step further and
exclaimed :
On' such a night, mine enemy s dog
Should have stood against my fire.
But Shakespeare said :—
Mine enemy’s dog, though he had bit me,
Should have stood, that night, against my fire.
Of all the poets, of all the writers, Shakespeare is the
most original. He is as original as Nature.
It may truthfully be said that “ Nature wants stuff to vie
strange forms with fancy, to make another.”
VIII.
There is in the greatest poetry a kind of extravagance that
touches the infinite, and in this Shakespeare exceeds all
others.
You will remember the description given of the voyage
of Paris in search of Helen :
The seas and winds, old wranglers, made a truce,
And did him service ; he touched the ports desired,
And for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,
He brought a Grecian queen whose youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo, and makes stale the morning.
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So, in Pericles, when the father finds his daughter, he
cries out:
O Helicanus 1 strike me, honored sir;
Give me a gash, put me to present pain,
Lest this great sea of joys, rushing upon me,
O’erbear the shores of my mortality.
^The greatest compliment that man has ever paid to the
woman he adores is in this line :
Eyes that do mislead the morn.
Nothing can be conceived more perfectly poetic.
In that marvellous play, the Midsummer Night's Dream,
is one of the most extravagant things in literature:
Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.
This is so mavellously told that it almost seems probable.
So the description of Mark Antony:
For his bounty
There was no winter in’t—an autumn ’twas
That grew the more by reaping. His delights
Were dolphin-like—they showed his back above
The element they lived in.
Think of the astronomical scope and amplitude of this :
Her bed is India—there she lies a pearl.
Is there anything more intense than these words of
Cleopatra ?
Rather on Nilus mud lay me stark naked,
And let the water-flies blow me into abhorring.
Or this of Isabella ?
The impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,
And strip myself to death as to a bed
That longing I’ve been sick for, ere I yield
My body up to shame.
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Is there an intellectual man in the world who will not
agree with this ?
Let me not live
After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits.
Can anything exceed the words of Troilus when parting
with Cressida?
-
We two, that with so many thousand sighs .
Did buy each other, most poorly sell ourselves ■ .
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
Injurious time now with a robber s haste
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how ;
As many farewells as be stars in heaven,
With distinct breath and consigned kisses to them,
He fumbles up into a loose adieu,
And scants us with a single famished kiss
Distasted with the salt of broken tears.
Take this example, where pathos almost touches the
grotesque:
‘
"
t - -
O dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair ?
Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean, abhorred monster keeps thee here
I’ the dark, to be his paramor ?
Often, when reading the marvellous lines of Shakespeare,
I feel that his thoughts are “too subtle potent, tuned.too
sharp in sweetness, for the capacity of my ruder powers.
Sonietimes I cry out, “ O churl! write all, and leave no
thoughts for those who follow after.”
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IX.
Shakespeare was an innovator, an iconoclast. He cared
nothing for the authority of men or of schools. He violated
the “unities,” and cared nothing for the models of the
ancient world.
The Greeks insisted that nothing should be in a play that
did not tend to the catastrophe. They did not believe in
the episode—in the sudden contrasts of light and shade—in
mingling the comic and the tragic. The sunlight never fell
upon their tears, and darkness did not overtake their
laughter. They believed that nature sympathized, or was in
harmony, with the events of the play. When crime was
about to be committed—some horror to be perpetrated—
the light grew dim, the wind sighed, the trees shivered, and
upon all was the shadow of the coming event.
Shakespeare knew that the play had little to do with the
tides and currents of universal life j that Nature cares
neither for smiles nor tears, for life nor death; and that the
sun shines as gladly on coffins as on cradles.
The first time I visited the Place de la Concorde, where
during the French Revolution stood the guillotine, and
where now stands an Egyptian obelisk—a bird, sitting on
the top, was singing with all its might.—Nature forgets.
One of the most notable instances of the violation by
Shakespeare of the classic model is found in the 6th Scene
of the ist Act of Macbeth.
When the King and Banquo approached the castle in
which the King is to be murdered that night, no shadow
falls athwart the threshold. So beautiful is the scene that
the King says :
This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
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And Banquo adds:
.
This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionary that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here ; no jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle.
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.
Another notable instance is the porter scene immediately
following the murder. So, too, the dialogue with the clown
who brings the asp to Cleopatra just before the suicide,
illustrates my meaning.
I know of one paragraph in the Greek drama worthy of
Shakespeare. This is in “Medea.” When Medea kills
her children she curses Jason, using the ordinary Billingsgate
and papal curse, but at the conclusion says : “ I pray the
gods to make him virtuous, that he may the more deeply
feel the pang that I inflict.”
Shakespeare dealt in lights and shadows. He was intense.
He put noons and midnights side by side. No other
dramatist would have dreamed of adding to the pathos—of
increasing our appreciation of Lear’s agony, by supplement
ing the wail of the mad king with the mocking laughter of a
loving clown.
X.
The ordinary dramatists—the men of talent (and there is
the same difference between talent and genius that there is
between a stone-mason and a sculptor), create characters
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that become types. Types are of necessity caricatures—
actual men and women are to some extent contradictory in
their actions. Types are blown in the one direction by the
one wind—characters have pilots.
In real people, good and evil mingle. Types are all one
way, or all the other—all good, or all bad, all wise or all
foolish.
Pecksniff was a perfect type, a perfect hypocrite—and will
remain a type as long as language lives—a hypocrite that
even drunkenness could not change. Everybody under
stands Pecksniff, and compared with him Tartuffe was an
honest man.
Hamlet is an individual, a person, an actual being—and
for that reason there is a difference of opinion as to his
motives and as to his character. We differ about Hamlet
as we do about Ceesar, or about Shakespeare himself.
Hamlet saw the ghost of his father, and heard again his
father’s voice; and yet, afterwards, he speaks of “ the
undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller
returns.”
In this there is no contradiction. The reason outweighs
the senses. If we should see a dead man rise from his
grave., we would not, the next day, believe that we did.
No one can credit a miracle until it becomes so common
that it ceases to be miraculous.
Types are puppets, controlled from without; characters
act from within. There is the same difference between
characters and types that there is between springs and
water-works, between canals and rivers, between wooden
soldiers and heroes.
In most plays and in most novels the characters are so
shadowy that we have to piece them out with the imagi
nation.
One waking in the morning sometimes sees at the foot of
his bed a strange figure—it may be of an ancient lady with
cap and ruffles, and with the expression of garrulous and
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fussy old age; but when the light gets stronger the figure
gradually changes, and he sees a few clothes on a chair.
The dramatist lives the lives of others, and in order to
delineate character must not only have imagination, but
sympathy with the character delineated. The great,
dramatist thinks of a character as an entirety, as an indi
vidual.
I once had a dream, and in this dream I was discussing
a subject with another man. It occurred to me that I was
dreaming, and I then said to myself: If this is a dream, I
am doing the talking for both sides ; consequently, I ought
to know in advance what the other man is going to say.. In
my dream I tried the experiment. I then asked the other
man a question, and, before he answered, made up my
tnmd what the answer was to be. To my surprise, the
man did not say what I expected he would, and so great
was my astonishment that I awoke.
It then occurred to me that I had discovered the secret
of Shakespeare. He did, when awake, what I did when
• asleep—that is, he threw off a character so perfect that it
acted independently of him.
In the delineation of character Shakespeare has no rivals.
He creates no monsters. His characters do not act without
reason, without motive.
Iago had his reasons. In Caliban nature was not des
troyed ; and Lady Macbeth certifies that the woman still
was in her heart, by saying :
Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done it.
Shakespeare’s characters act from within. They are,
centres of energy. They are not pushed by unseen hands,
or pulled by unseen strings. They have objects, desires.
They are persons—real, living beings.
Few dramatists succeed in getting their characters loose
from the canvas; their backs stick to the wall; they do not
have free and independent action ; they have no back
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ground, no unexpressed motives ; no untold desires. They
lack the complexity of the real.
Shakespeare makes the character true to itself. Christopher
Sly, surrounded by the luxuries of a lord, true to his station,
calls for a pot of the smallest ale.
Take one expression by Lady Macbeth. You remember
that after the murder is discovered—after the alarm bell
is rung—she appears upon the scene, wanting to know what
has happened. Macduff refuses to tell her, saying that the
slightest word would murder as it fell. At this moment
Banquo comes upon the scene, and Macduff cries out to
him:
Our royal master’s murdered.
What does Lady Macbeth then say ? She, in fact, makes a
confession of guilt. The weak point in the terrible tragedy
is that Duncan was murdered in Macbeth’s castle. So,
when Lady Macbeth hears what they suppose is news to
her, she cries :
What! In our house !
Had she been innocent, her horror of the crime would
have made her forget the place—the venue. Banquo sees
through this, and sees through her. Her expression was
a light by which he saw her guilt, and he answers :—
Too cruel anywhere.
No matter whether Shakespeare delineated clown or
king, warrior or maiden—no matter whether his characters
are taken from the gutter or the throne—each is a work of
consummate art, and when he is unnatural he is so splendid
that the defect is forgotten.
. When Romeo is told of the death of Juliet, and there
upon makes up his mind to die upon her grave, he gives a
description of the shop where poison could be purchased.
He goes into particulars, and tells of the alligators stuffed ;
of the skins of ill-shaped fishes ; of the beggarly account of
empty boxes ; of the remnants of pack-thread, and old cakes
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of roses ; and while it is hardly .possible to believe that,
under such circumstances, a man would take the trouble
to make an inventory of a strange kind of drug-store, yet
the inventory is so perfect, the picture is so marvellously
drawn, that we forget to think whether it is natural or not.
In making the frame of a great picture—of a great
scene—Shakespeare was often careless, but the picture is
perfect. In making the sides of the arch he was negligent,
but when he placed the keystone it burst into blossom.
Of course, there are many lines in Shakespeare that never
Should have been written. In other words, there are im
perfections in his plays. But we must remember that
Shakespeare furnished the torch that enables us to see these
imperfections.
Shakespeare speaks through his characters, and we must
not mistake what the characters say for the opinion of
Shakespeare.
No one can believe that Shakespeare
regarded life as “ a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and
fury, signifying nothing.” That was the opinion of a
murderer, surrounded by avengers, and whose wife—partner
in bis crimes—troubled with thick-coming fancies—bad
gone down to her death.
Most actors and writers seem to suppose that the lines
called “ The Seven Ages ” contain Shakespeare’s view of
human life. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The
lines were uttered by a cynic, in contempt and scorn of
the human race.
Shakespeare did not put his characters in the livery and
uniform of some weakness, peculiarity, or passion. He did
not use names as tags or brands. He did not write under
the picture, “ This is a villain.” His characters need no
suggestive names to tell us what they are—-we see them,
and we know them for ourselves.
It may be that in the greatest utterances of the greatest
characters in the supreme moments we have the real
thoughts, opinions, and convictions of Shakespeare.
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SHAKESPEARE.
Of all writers Shakespeare is the most impersonal. He
speaks through others, and the others seem to speak for
themselves. The didactic is lost in the dramatic. He does
not use the stage as a pulpit to enforce some maxim. He is
as reticent as Nature.
He idealizes the common, and transfigures all he
touches—but he does not preach. He was interested in
men and things as they were. He did not seek to change
them—but to portray. He was Nature’s mirror—and in that
Nature saw herself.
When I stood amid the great trees of California that lift
their spreading capitals against the clouds, looking like
Nature’s columns to support the sky, I thought of the
poetry of Shakespeare.
XI.
What a procession of men and women—statesmen and
warriors—kings and clowns—issued from Shakespeare’s
brain. What women !
Isabella—in whose spotless life love and reason blended
into perfect truth.
Juliet—within whose heart passion and purity met like
white and red within the bosom of a rose.
Cordelia—who chose to suffer loss rather than show
her wealth of love with those who gilded lies in hope of
gain.
Hermione—“ tender as infancy and grace ”—who bore
with perfect hope and faith the cross of shame, and who at
last forgave with all her heart.
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Desdemona—so innocent, so perfect, her love so pure,
that she was incapable of suspecting that another could
suspect, and who with dying words sought to hide her
lover’s crime—and with her last faint breath uttered a
loving lie that burst into a perfumed lily between her pallid
lips.
Perdita—A violet dim, and sweeter than the lids of Juno’s
eyes—“ The sweetest low-born lass that ever ran on the
green sward.” And
Helena—who said :
I know I love in vain, strive against hope—
Yet in this captious and intenable sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still.
Thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more.
Miranda—who told her love as gladly as a flower gives its
bosom to the kisses of the sun.
And Cordelia, whose kisses cured, and whose tears
restored. And stainless Imogen, who cried : “ What is it to
be false ?”
And here is the description of the perfect woman :
To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love ;
To keep her constancy in plight and youth —
Outliving beauty’s outward with a mind
That doth renew swifter than blood decays.
Shakespeare has done more for woman than all the other
dramatists of the world.
For my part, I love the Clowns. I love Launce and his
dog Crabb; and Gobbo, whose conscience threw its arms
around the neck of his heart; and Touchstone, with his lie
seven times removed; and dear old Dogberry a pretty
piece of flesh, tedious as a king. And Tottom, the very
paramor for a sweet voice, longing to take the part to tear
a cat in ; and Autolycus, the snapper-up of unconsidered
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trifles, sleeping out the thought for the life to come. And
great Sir John, without conscience, and for that reason un
blamed and enjoyed—and who at the end babbles of green
fields, and is almost loved. And ancient Pistol, the world
his oyster. And Bardolph, with the flea on his blazing
nos^, putting beholders in mind of a damned soul in hell.
And the poor Fool, who followed the mad king, and went
“ to bed at noon.” And the clown who carried the worm
of Nilus, whose “ biting was immortal.” And Corin, the
shepherd—who described the perfect man : “ I am a true
laborer : I earn that I eat—get that I wear—owe no man
aught—envy no man’s happiness—glad of other men’s
good—content.”
And mingling in this motley throng, Lear, within whose
brain a tempest raged until the depths were stirred, and the
intellectual wealth of a life was given back to memory—and
then by madness thrown to storm and night; and when I
read the living lines I feel as though I looked upon the sea
and saw it wrought by frenzied whirlwinds, until the buried
treasures and the sunken wrecks of all the years were cast
upon the shores.
And Othello—who, like the base Indian, threw a pearl
away richer than all his tribe.
And Hamlet—thought-entangled—hesitating between
two worlds.
And Macbeth—strange mingling of cruelty and con
science, reaping the sure harvest of successful crime—
“ Curses not loud, but deep—mouth-honor—breath.”
And Brutus, falling on his sword that Csesar might be still.
And Romeo, dreaming of the white wonder of Juliet’s
hand. And Ferdinand, the patient log-man for Miranda’s
sake. And Florizel, who, “ for all the sun sees, or the close
earth wombs, or the profound seas hide,” would not be
faithless to the low-born lass. And Constance, weeping for
her son, while grief “ stuff’s out his vacant garments with his
form.”
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And in the midst of tragedies and tears, of love and
laughter and crime, we hear the voice of the good friar, who
declares that in every human heart, as in the smallest
flower, there are encamped the opposed hosts of good and
evil—and our philosophy is interrupted by the garrulous old
nurse, whose talk is as busily useless as the babble of a
stream that hurries by a ruined mill.
/
From every side the characters crowd upon us—the men
and women born of Shakespeare’s brain. They utter with
a thousand voices the thoughts of the “ myriad-minded ’
man, and impress themselves upon us as deeply and vividly
as though they really lived with us.
Shakespeare alone has delineated love in every possible
phase—has ascended to the very top, and actually reached
heights that no other has imagined. I do not believe the
human mind will ever produce, or be in a position to appre
ciate, a greater love-play than Romeo and Juliet. It is a
symphony in which all music seems to blend. The heart
bursts into blossom, and he who reads feels the swooning
intoxication of a divine perfume.
In the alembic of Shakespeare’s brain the baser metals
were turned to gold, passions became virtues, weeds became
exotics from some diviner land, and common mortals made
of ordinary clay outranked the Olympian Gods. In his
brain there was the touch of chaos that suggests the infinite
—that belongs to genius. Talent is measured and mathe
matical, dominated by prudence and the thought of use.
Genius is tropical. The creative instinct runs riot, delights
in extravagance and waste, and overwhelms the mental
beggars of the world with uncounted gold and unnumbered
gems.
Some things are immortal—the plays of Shakespeare, the
marbles of the Greeks, and the music of Wagner.
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SHAKESPEARE.
XII.
Shakespeare was the greatest of philosophers. He knew
the conditions of success—of happiness—the relations that
men sustain to each other, and the duties of all. He knew
the tides and currents of the heart—the cliffs and caverns
of the brain. He knew the weakness of the will, the
sophistry of desire—and
That pleasure and revenge have ears more deaf than adders to the
voice of any true decision.
He knew that the soul lives in an invisible world—that
flesh is but a mask, and that
There is no art to find the mind’s construction
In the face.
He knew that courage should be the servant of judgment,
and that
When valor preys on reason it eats the sword
It fights with.
He knew that man is never master of the event, that he
is, to some extent, the sport or prey of the blind forces of
the world, and that
In the reproof of chance lies the true proof of men.
Feeling that the past is unchangeable, and that that
which must happen is as much beyond control as though it
had happened, he says :
Let determined things to destiny
Hold unbewailed their way.
Shakespeare was great enough to know that every human
being prefers happiness to misery, and that crimes are but
mistakes. Looking in pity upon the human race, upon the
pain and poverty, the crimes and cruelties, the limping
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travellers on the thorny paths, he was great and good
enough to say :
There is no darkness but ignorance.
In all the philosophies there is no greater line. This
great truth fills the heart with pity.
He knew that place and power do not give happiness—
that the crowned are subject as the lowest to fate and
chance.
Within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps death his Court, and there the antic sits
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a brief and little scene
To monarchize by fear and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit—
As if this flesh that walls about our life
Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall—and farewell king !
So, too, he knew that gold could not bring joy—that
death and misfortune come alike to rich and poor, because :
If thou art rich, thou art poor ;
For like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee.
In some of his philosophy there was a kind of scorn—a
hidden meaning that could not in his day and time have
safely been expressed. You will remember that Laertes
was about to kill the king, and this king was the murderer
of his own brother, and sat upon the throne by reason of
his crime—and in the mouth of such a king Shakespeare
puts these words :
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king.
So, in Macbeth :
How he solicits Heaven himself best knows ; but
strangely visited people,
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SHAKESPEARE,
All swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despairs of surgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks.
Put on with holy prayers ; and ’tis spoken
To the succeeding royalty—he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,
And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.
Shakespeare was the master of the human heart—knew
all the hopes, fears, ambitions, and passions that sway the
mind of man ; and, thus knowing, he declared that
Love is not love that alters
When it alteration finds.
This is the sublimest declaration in the literature of the
world.
Shakespeare seems to give the generalization, the result,
without the process of thought. He seems always to be at
the conclusion—standing where all truths meet.
In one of the Sonnets is this fragment of a line that
contains the highest possible truth :
Conscience is born of love.
If man were incapable of suffering, the words “right”
and “ wrong ” never could have been spoken. If man were
destitute of imagination, the flower of pity never could have
blossomed in his heart.
We suffer ; we cause others to suffer ; those that we love ;
and of this fact conscience is born.
Love is the many-colored flame that makes the fireside of
the heart. It is the mingled spring and autumn—the
perfect climate of the soul.
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XIII.
In the realm of comparison Shakespeare seems to have
exhausted the relations, parallels, and similitudes of things.
He only could have said :
Tedious as a twice-told tale
Vexing the ears of a drowsy man.
Duller than a great thaw.
Dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.
In the words of Ulysses, spoken to Achilles, we find the
most wonderful collection of pictures and comparisons ever
compressed within the same number of lines :
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion—
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes
Those scraps are good deeds passed ; which are devoure
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done ; perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honor bright: to have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
For honor travels in a strait so narrow
Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path ;
For emulation hath a thousand sons
That one by one pursue ; if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an entered tide, they all rush by
And leave you hindmost:
Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O’errun and trampled on : then what they do in present,
Tho’ less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours ;
For time is like a fashionable host
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles,
And Farewell goes out sighing.
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SHAKESPEARE.
So the words of Cleopatra, when Charmain speaks :
Peace, peace :
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
That sucks the nurse asleep ?
XIV.
Nothing is more difficult than a definition—a crystalliza
tion of thought so perfect that it emits light. Shakespeare
says of suicide :—
It is great to do that thing
That ends all other deeds,
Which shackles accident, and bolts up change.
He defines drama to be :
Turning the accomplishments of many years
Into an hour glass.
Of death:
This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod,
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot.
Of memory:
The warder of the brain.
Of the body:
This muddy vesture of decay.
And he declares that
Our little life is rounded with a sleep.
He speaks of Echo as :
The babbling gossip of the air—.
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Romeo, addressing the poison that he is about to take,
says :
Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavory guide,
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick, weary bark.
He describes the world as
This bank and shoal of time.
He says of rumor—
That it doubles, like the voice and echo.
It would take days to call attention to the perfect
definitions, comparisons, and generalizations of Shakespeare.
He gave us the deeper meanings of our words—taught us
the art of speech. He was the lord of language—master of
expression and compression.
He put the greatest thoughts into the shortest words—
made the poor rich and the common royal.
Production enriched his brain. Nothing exhausted him.
The moment his .attention was called to any subject—
comparisons, definitions, metaphors, and generalizations
filled his mind and begged for utterance. His thoughts
like bees robbed every blossom in the world, and then with
“ merry march ” brought the rich booty home “ to the tent
royal of their emperor.”
Shakespeare was the confidant of Nature. To him she
opened her “infinite book of secrecy,” and in his brain were
“ the hatch and brood of time.”
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SHAKESPEARE.
XV.
There is in Shakespeare the mingling of laughter and
tears, humor and pathos. Humor is the rose, wit the
thorn. Wit is a crystallization, humor an efflorescence.
Wit comes from the brain, humor from the heart. Wit is
the lightning of the soul.
In Shakespeare’s nature was the climate of humor. He
saw and felt the sunny side even of the saddest things
“You have seen sunshine and rain at once.” So Shake
speare’s tears fell oft upon his smiles. In moments of peril
—on the very darkness of death—there comes a touch of
humor that falls like a fleck of sunshine.
Gonzalo, when the ship is about to sink, having seen the
boatswain, exclaims :
I have great comfort from this fellow ;
Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him ;
His complexion is perfect gallows.
Shakespeare is filled with the strange contrasts of grief
and laughter. While poor Hero is supposed to be dead
—wrapped in the shroud of dishonor—Dogberry and
Verges unconsciously put again the wedding wreath upon
her pure brow.
The soliloquy of Launcelot—great as Hamlet’s—offsets
the bitter and burning words of Shylock.
There is only time to speak of Maria in Twelfth Night,
of Autolycus in the Winter’s Tale, of the parallel drawn by
Fluellen between Alexander of Macedon and Harry of
Monmouth, or of the marvellous humor of Falstaff, who
never had the faintest thought of right or wrong—or of
Mercutio, that embodiment of wit and humor—or of the
gravediggers who lamented that “ great folk should have
countenance in this world to drown and hang themselves
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more than their even Christian,” and who reached the
generalization that “ the gallows does well because it does
well to those who do ill.”
There is also an example of grim humor an example
without a parallel in literature, so far as I know. Hamlet,
having killed Polonius, is asked :
Where’s Polonius ?
At supper.
At supper ! where ?
Not where he eats, but where he is eaten.
Above all others, Shakespeare appreciated the pathos of
situation.
Nothing is more pathetic than the last scene in Lear. No
one has ever bent above his dead who did not feel the
words uttered by the mad king—words born of a despair
deeper than tears :
Oh, that a horse, a dog, a rat hath life,
And thou no breath !
So Iago, after he has been wounded, says :
I bleed, sir ; but not killed.
And Othello answers from the wreck and shattered
remnant of his life :
I would have thee live ;
For in my sense it is happiness to die.
When Troilus finds Cressida has been false, he cries :
Let it not be believed for womanhood ;
Think 1 we had mothers.
Ophelia, in her madness, “ the sweet bells jangled out o’
tune,” says softly:
I would give you some violets ;
But they withered all when my father died.
When Macbeth has reaped the harvest, the seeds of
which were sown by his murderous hand, he exclaims—
and what could be more pitiful ?
I ’gin to be aweary of the sun.
-
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SHAKESPEARE.
Richard the Second feels how small a thing it is to be, or
to have been, a king, or to receive honors before or after
power is lost j and so, of those who stood uncovered before
him, he asks this piteous question :
I live with bread, like you ; feel want,
Taste grief, need friends ; subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king ?
Think of the salutation of Antony to the dead Csesar :
Pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth.
When Pisanio informs Imogen that he had been ordered
by Posth umus to murder her, she bares her neck, and cries :
The lamb entreats the butcher :
Where is thy knife ? Thou art too slow
To do thy master’s bidding when I desire it.
Antony, as the last drops are falling from his self-inflicted
wound, utters with his dying breath to Cleopatra, this :
I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.
To me the last words of Hamlet are full of pathos :
I die, Horatio.
The potent poison quite o’er crows my spirit.......
The rest is silence.
XVI.
Some have insisted that Shakespeare must have been a
physician, for the reason that he shows such knowledge of
medicine—of the symptoms of disease and death—was so
familiar with the brain, and with insanity in all its forms.
I do not think he was a physician. He knew too much
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47
—his generalizations were too splendid. He had none of
the prejudices of that profession in his time. We might as
well say that he was a musician, a composer, because wTe
find in The Two Gentlemen of Verona nearly every musical
term known in Shakespeare’s time.
Others maintain that he was a lawyer, perfectly acquainted
with the forms, with the expressions familiar to that pro
fession ; yetethere is nothing to show that he was a lawyer,
or that he knew more about law than any intelligent man
should know.
He was not a lawyer. His sense of justice was never
dulled by reading English law.
Some think that he was a botanist, because he named
nearly all known plants. Others, that he was an astronomer,
a naturalist, because he gave hints and suggestions of nearly
all discoveries.
Some have thought that he must have been a sailor, for
the reason that the orders given in the opening of The
Tempest were the best that could, under the circumstances,
have been given to save the ship.
For my part, I think there is nothing in the plays to show
that he was a lawyer, doctor, botanist, or scientist. He had
the observant eyes that really see, the ears that really hear,
the brain that retains all pictures, all thoughts, logic as
unerring as light, the imagination that supplies defects and
builds the perfect from a fragment. And these faculties,
these aptitudes, working together, account for what he did.
He exceeded all the sons of men in the splendor of his.
imagination. To him the whole world- paid tribute, and
nature poured her treasures at his feet. In him all races
lived again', and even those to be were pictured in his brain.
He was a man of imagination—that is to say, of genius,
and having seen a leaf, and a drop of water, he could
construct the forests, the rivers, and the seas; and in his
presence all the cataracts would fall and foam, the mists
rise, the clouds form and float.
�48
SHAKESPEARE.
If Shakespeare knew one fact, he knew its kindred and
its neighbors.
Looking at a coat of mail, he instantly
imagined the society, the conditions, that produced it, and
what it, in turn, produced. He saw the castle, the moat,
the draw-bridge, the lady in the tower, and the knightly
lover spurring across the plain. He saw the bold baron and
the rude retainer, the trampled serf, and all the glory and
the grief of feudal life.
He lived the life of all.
He was a citizen of Athens in the days of Pericles. He
listened to the eager eloquence of the great orators, and sat
upon the cliffs, and with the tragic poet heard 11 the multi
tudinous laughter of the sea.” He saw Socrates thrust the
spear of question through the shield and heart of falsehood.
He was present when the great man drank hemlock, and
met the night of death, tranquil as a star meets morning.
He listened to the peripatetic philosophers, and was un
puzzled by the sophists. He watched Phidias as he chiselled
shapeless stone to forms of love and awe.
He lived by the mysterious Nile, amid the vast and
monstrous. He knew the very thought that wrought the
form and features of the Sphinx. He heard great Memnon’s
morning song when marble lips were smitten by the sun.
He laid him down with the embalmed and waiting dead,
and felt within their dust the expectation of another life,
mingled with cold and suffocating doubts—the children
born of long delay.
He walked the ways of mighty Rome, and saw great
Caesar with his legions in the field. He stood with vast
and motley throngs, and watched the triumphs given to
victorious men, followed by uncrowned kings, the captured
hosts, and all the spoils of ruthless war. He heard the
shout that shook the Coliseum’s roofless walls, when from
the reeling gladiator’s hand the short sword fell, while from
his bosom gushed the stream of wasted life.
He lived the life of savage men. He trod the forests’
�SHAKESPEARE.
49
silent depths, and in the desperate game of life or death he
matched his thought against the instinct of the beast.
He knew all crimes and all regrets, all virtues and their
rich rewards. He was victim and victor, pursuer and pursued,
outcast and king. He heard the applause and curses of the
world, and on his heart had fallen all the nights and noons
of failure and success.
He knew the unspoken thought, the dumb desires, the
wants and ways of beasts. He felt the crouching tiger s
thrill, the terror of the ambushed prey, and with the eagles
he had shared the ecstasy of flight and poise and swoop, and
he had lain with sluggish serpents on the barren rocks
uncoiling slowly in the heat of noon.
He sat beneath the bo-tree’s contemplative shade,
wrapped in Buddha’s mighty thought, and dreamed all
dreams that light, the alchemist, has wrought from dust and
dew, and stored within the slumbrous poppy’s subtle blood.
He knelt with awe and dread at every shrine—he offered
every sacrifice, and every prayer—felt the consolation and
the shuddering fear—mocked and worshipped all the gods
—enjoyed all heavens, and felt the pangs of every hell.
He lived all lives, and through his blood and brain there
crept the shadow and the chill of every death; and his soul,
like Mazeppa, was lashed naked to the wild horse of every
fear and love and hate.
The Imagination had a stage in Shakespeare’s brain,
whereon were set all scenes that lie between the morn of
laughter and the night of tears, and where his players bodied
forth the false and true, the joys and griefs, the careless
shallows and the tragic deeps of universal life.
From Shakespeare’s brain there poured a Niagara of gems
spanned by Fancy’s seven-hued arch. He was as manysided as clouds are many-formed. To him giving was
hoarding—sowing was harvest—and waste itself the source
of wealth. Within his marvellous mind were the fruits of
all thought past, the seed of all to be. As a drop of dew
�5°
SHAKESPEARE.
contains the image of the earth and sky, so all there is of
life was mirrored forth in Shakespeare’s brain.
Shakespeare was an intellectual ocean, whose waves
touched all the shores of thought; within which were all the
tides and waves of destiny and will■ over which swept all
the storms of fate, ambition, and revenge; upon which fell
the gloom and darkness of despair and death, and all the
sunlight of content and love, and within which was the
inverted sky lit with the eternal stars—an intellectual ocean
—towards which all rivers ran, and from which now the isles
and continents of thought receive their dew and rain.
�WORKS BY G. W. FOOTE
Flowers Of Freethought. First Series, 221pp., bound in cloth,
2s. 6d. Second Series, 302 pp., bound in cloth, 2s. 6d,
Bible Handbook for Freethinkers and Inquiring Christians.
[Edited in conjunction with W. P. Ball.] Superior edition,
on superfine paper, bound in cloth, 2s.
The Sign of the Cross. A Candid Criticism of Wilson Barrett’s
Play. 48 pp., beautifully printed and elegantly bound, 6d.
Bible and , Beer. 4d.
Was Jesus Insane? a Searching Inquiry into the Mental
Condition of the Prophet of Nazareth. Id.
Boyal Paupers. Showing what Royalty does for the People
and what the People do for Royalty. 2d.
Philosophy of Secularism. 3d.
Atheism and Morality. 2d.
The Bible God. 2d.
Interview with the Devil. 2d.
The Dying Atheist. A Story. Id.
Bible Bomances- New Edition. Revised and largely re-written.
(1) Creation Story, 2d.; (2) Eve and the Apple, Id.; (3) Cain
and Abel, Id.; (4) Noah’s Flood, Id.; (5) The Tower of Babel, Id.;
(6) Lot’s Wife, Id.; (7) The Ten Plagues, Id.; (8) The Wandering
Jews, Id.; (9) Balaam’s Ass, Id.; (10) God in a Box, Id.; (11)
Jonah and the Whale, Id.; (12) Bible Animals, Id.; (13) A Virgin
Mother, Id.; (14) The Resurrection, 2d.; (15) The Crucifixion,
Id.; (16) John’s Nightmare, Id.
Borne or Atheism—the Great Alternative. 3d.
Letters to Jesus Christ. 4d.
What was Christ ? A Reply to J. S. Mill. 2d.
Christianity and Progress. A Reply to Mr. Gladstone. 2d.
The Bev. Hugh Price Hughes’s Converted Atheist. A Lie
in Five Chapters.
Id.
Salvation Syrup; or, Light on Darkest England. A Reply
to General Booth. 2d.
The Impossible Creed. An Open Letter to Bishop Magee on
the Sermon on the Mount. 2d.
Ingersollism Defended against Archdeacon Farrar. 2d.
Mrs. Besant’s Theosophy. A Candid Criticism. 2d.
Secularism and Theosophy. A Rejoinder to Mrs. Besant. 2d.
London : R. Forder, 28 Stonecutter-street, E.C.
�WORKS BY G. W. FOOTE.
The Grand Old Book. A Reply to the Gand Old Man. An
exhaustive answer to the Right Hon. W.E. Gladstone’s “Im
pregnable Rock of Holy Scripture.” Is.; bound in cloth, Is. 6d.
Bible Heroes. Cloth, 2s. 6d.
Letters to the Clergy. First Series, 128 pp., Is.
Christianity and Secularism. Four Nights’ Public Debate
with the Rev. Dr. James McCann. Is.; superior edition, in
cloth, Is. 6d.
Infidel Death-Beds. Second edition, much enlarged, 8d. On
superfine paper, in cloth, Is. 3d.
Darwin on God. 6d.; superior edition, in cloth, Is.
Comic Sermons and Other Fantasias. 8d.
Will Christ Save Us ? A Thorough Examination of the Claims
of Jesus Christ to he considered the Savior of the World. 6d.
Reminiscences of Charles Bradlaugh. 6d.
Crimes Of Christianity. Vol. I. [Written in conjunction with
J. M. Wheeler.] Hundreds of exact references to Standard
Authorities. No pains spared to make it a complete, trust
worthy, final, unanswerable Indictment of Christianity. Cloth,
gilt, 216 pp., 2s. 6d.
Freethought Publications.
The Jewish Life Of Christ. Being the Sepher Toldoth Jeshu, or
Book of the Generation of Jesus. With an Historical Preface
and Voluminous Notes by G. W. Foote and J. M. Wheeler.
Paper covers, 6d.; superior edition, superfine paper, cloth, Is.
Bible Studies. Essays on Phallic Worship and other CuriouB
Rites and Customs. By J. M. Wheeler. Illustrated, superior
paper, 2s. 6d.
Biographical Dictionary of Freethinkers of All Ages and
Nations. By J. M. Wheeler. Handsomely bound in cloth,
5s.
Bssays in Rationalism. By Charles Robert Newman (Atheist
Brother of the late Cardinal Newman). With a Preface by George
Jacob Holyoake, and a Biographical sketch by J. M. Wheeler.
Is. 6d.
READ
THE FREETHINKER.
Edited by G. W. FOOTE.
Published every Thursday. Price Twopence.
London: R. Forder, 28 Stonecutter-street, E.C.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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Shakespeare : a lecture
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Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 50, [2] p. ; 18 p.
Notes: Publisher's advertisements on unnumbered pages at the end. No. 66d in Stein checklist. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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R. Forder
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[189?]
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N394
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Religion
Literature
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English
NSS
Religious Beliefs
Shakespeare
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Text
DE L’UNITE LITTERAIRE
AU XVIIe SlfiCLE
PAR M. CH. LOUANDRE
Dans la plupart des jugements portes de notre temps sur le dixseptieme siecle y c’est toujours la question de forme et d’art qui
domine. Certes, nous nous plaisons a reconnaitre, en litterature, la
puissance de la forme et l’influence qu’elle exerce sur le jugement; mais il est certain que l’admiration persistante qui s’attache
aux maitres du grand siecle, a une cause encore plus elevee9 et
qu’ici, le style, si parfait qu’il soit, ne vient cependant qu’en seconde ligne. En effet, dans les ouvrages de l’esprit, au-dessus de la
phrase, il y a l’idee, la vefite, 1’application pratique, la portee morale,
et c’est la surtout ce qui fait la force de nos classiques. Ils s’attachent
tous a quelque grand principe; ils combattent tous pour la meme
cause, et ce qui caracterise l’ensemble de leurs oeuvres, c’est Runite
d’inspiration, Runite de but, et la ressemblance dans la variete. Ces
grands esprits ont ete, dans ces dernieres annees, l’objet de nombreuses et fortes etudes; ils ont attire a eux, par une sorte de sympathie
mysterieuse, les ecrivains qui sont 1’honneur de notre temps, et si
nous venons en parler apres tant d’autres, ce n’est pas que nous ayons
la pretention de les mieux apprecier, de les faire mieux connaitre, ou
de rectifier les jugements que nos conlemporains en ont portes. Nous
voulons seulement les rapprocher les uns des autres pour chercher
le lien qui les rattache entre eux, indiquer le but qu’ils ont a leur
insu poursuivi d’un commun accord, et montrer dans cette unite un
des plus curieux caracteres du dix-septieme siecle. Dans un sujet
aussi vaste nous ne pouvons qu’indiquer quelques traits generaux, et
parmi ces morts glorieux choisir les plus glorieux et les plus grands. I
Commencons par Bossuet.
�DE L’IjNITE LITTERAIRE AU XVII® si&CLE.
12£
I
A part 1’Imitation de Jesus-Christy tous les livres catholiques du
moyen age, composes par des pretres ou par des moines, s’adressent
particulierement au clerge, et restent enfermes dans le cloitre ou
dans l’ecole. Latheologie, dedaigneuse de la forme et de Fart, estcompletement separee de la litterature. Au dix-septieme siecle, au contraire, la litterature et la theologie se confondent, et celle-ci, Vivante
et pratique, emprunte a l’eloquence sa force et son eclat pour agir sur
la societe laique,. C’est par Bossuet que s’accomplit cette alliance.
Controversiste, historien, predicateur, philosophe, Bossuet s’attache
sans cesse a la meme pensee, qui est de montrer partout Faction
incessante de Dieu dans les affaires humaines; Le plus beau de seslivres, le Discours sur Ihistoire universelie n’est rien autre chose,
il n’est pas besoin de le rappeler, que la theorie du gouvernement
temporel de la Providence, l’explication de la politique divine dans
l’histoire. Pour rendre cette theorie, plus saisissante, Bossuet la
transporte au sein meme du paganisme, Foppose au dogme antique
de’la fatalite et detrone le hasard. Dieu regne «et tient les fils dans
ses mains... » Or, depuis la Venue du Christ; le gouvernement de
Dieu a pris, par l’Eglise catholique, une forme sensible sur la terre.
Ce sera done a la defense de l’figlise que Bossuet consacrera toute
Fardeur de sa controverse. Il traitera d’abord de sa doctrine; puis
il la montrera toujours immuable, toujours inflexible, perpetuant
cette doctrine a travers les ages, ne changeant jamais, parce qu’elle
s’appuie sur celui qui ne change pas : de la le magnifique sermon sur
Wunite de I’Eglise; et comme tout s’enchaine, dans ce systeme, avec
une logique irresistible, Bossuet part de cette unite, pour jeler au
protestantisme le deli superbe qu’on appelle VHistolre des varia
tions.
Apres avoir fait la part de Dieu et de l’liiglise dans lestrois ouvrages
dontnous venons de parler, l’eveque de Meaux redescend vers l’homme,
et lui trace ses devoirs a l’egard du Createur et de ses semblables. Il
lui demande, avec la phifosophie antique, de s’etudier soi-meme, avec
la philosophic chretienne, de s’elever par la raison jusqu’a son auteur.
De la, le Traite de la connaissance de Dieu et de soi-meme, science
supreme, de laquelle decoulent toutes les notions du juste et de l’injuste, du mal et du bien, et par cela meme le dogme de la responsa-
�126
.
DE L’UNITE LITTERAIRE
bilite; maispourque Fhommesoitresponsable,il fautqu’il soil libre*
Bossuet etablira done cette liberte dans un traits nouveau, qu’on peut
considerer comme l’un des livres les plus profonds qui aient ete ecrits
pour concilierla toute-puissance divine etl’ in de pen dance de lavolonte
humaine. Comme saint Thomas, l’eveque de Meaux a donne, en
touchant a ces mysteres, une veritable somme de la doctrine catholique, et ses autres oeuvres ne sont que le developpement de cette
doctrine dans ses rapports avec la vie de chaque jour et les classes les
plus diverses de la societe. C’est par F&criture sainte qu’il enseigne,
aux rois l’artde regner; c’est par le catechisme du diocese de Meaux,
qui deviendra apres un siecle le catechisme de la France, qu’il apprend aux pauvres a bien vivre« Ses sermons, trop peu conaus, sont
comme une lutta obstinee et incessante contre les instincts pervers
de notre nature, et suivant le mot heureux de madame de Sevigne,
il se bat a outrance avec son auditor?e^ pour l’attendrir, l’effrayer
et le convaincre. L’oraison funebre est pour lui comme le dernier
mot de cet enseignemeni de la chaire, etquand il a epuise la theologie
et l’eloquence y il s’adresse a la mort qui repond : Dieu seal est
grand.
On pourrait croire qu’en proclamant ainsile neant de l’homme, le
neant de sa gloire et de sa puissance, en face des cercueils de Conde
et de madame Henriette, Bossuet va. perdre de vue les interets, les
preoccupations, les soins du monde et de la vie de chaque jour. Ces
interets, au contraire, lui sont toujours presents et familiers; la disci-'
pline interieure d’une abbaye, la direction de conscience de quelques
humbles religieuses,. les details de Fadministration de son diocese,.
Foccupent a l’egal de la theodicee. Il regie tout, il definit tout aven
la meme'rigueur de raison, la meme clarte, la meme eloquence, et
son oeuvre,, dans ses diverses parties^ n’est en definitive qu’un enseignement continue! qui embrasse 1’ensemble des verites divines et
humaines. C’est la ce qui en fait la force et la duree, car s’il regne.
par l’autorite de la doctrine sur la conscience de ceux qui croient,
il regne aussi sur Fame de ceux qui doutent par l’autorite de la,
morale,.
Theologien, philosophe, moraliste comme Bossuet, Fenelon suit
une route exactement semblable. Le Traite de I’existence de Dieu
est le pendant du Traite de la connaissance de Dieu et de soi-meme.
IdExamen de conscience d’un roi est la contre-partie de la Politique'
tiree de I'Ecriture sainte. hs Telemaque est destine a l’education
�AU XVIIe SI&CLE.
127
dn due de Bourgogne, comme le Discours sur Ihistoire universelle
a l’education du Dauphin. Mais tout en s’occupant des princes, l’archeveque de Cambrai, comme l’eveque de Meaux, se souvient de ceux
qui vivent de la vie simple et commune; il sait que, dans les families, ?
c’est rhonneur de la mere qui fait, l’honneur de l’enfant, la joie do
l’epoux, qui est le soutien du travail; et pour preparer la femme au
I role sacre de la materriite, il ecrit son. admirable Traite de I education
des piles. C’est toujours une pensee essentiellement pratique, uno
pensee d’enseignement qui domine. Sa theorie de- l’education contient
le programme de la maison de Saint-Cy®. Compose pour les enfants des
rbis, le Telemaque, predication chMetienne encadree dans uii roman
pai'en, est devenu le livre de nos ecoles. Pension poursuit, le meme
hut que Bossuet: le perfeetionnement moral de 1’homme. Un seul
» point separe ces-grands esprits : Bossuet maintient dans. sa. rigueur
l’inflexible autorite de la traditionc’est I’homme du passe, le der
nier des Peres. Fenelon, c’est l’homme de Tavenir, I’apdtre de la
tolerance moderne; il a te vague pressentiment des grandes reformes
qui doivent bientot s’accomplir dans la societe francaise, et Louis XIV
le traite presqu’en ennemi,. en brulant les manuscrits qu’il avait laisses entre les mains du due de Bourgogne, comme si le grand roi
avait devine, dans i’utopie de Salente, un indice precurseur de cette
revolution qui devait renverser sa. race.
Par les Provinciates et les Pensees, Pascal se rattache directement
a la meme tradition. Dans le premier de ces livres, la dispute sur
cette tenebreuse question de la Grace qui remonte a Pelage,, n’est
qu’uh incident du combat engage entre les disciples de Jansenius et
les disciples de Molina; mais ce qui domine, ce qui fait la force et
l’imperissable autorite du livre, c’est la polemique contre les relachements de la morale. Quelle que soit Fopinion qu’on ait sur un ordre
celebre,il n’en est pas moinsvrai que les maximes des casuistes
sur les restrictions menta-lcs-, les banqueroutes JThomicide , le pro-?
babilisme, installaient, suivant l’heureuse expression de M... Sainte, Beuve, le machiavelisme a 1’ombre de la croix. Ces maximes met|taient en peril la morale divine et la morale sociale, et le danger
etait d’autant plus grand qu’elles partaient d’un ordre qua avait
ete le plus ferme soutien de Dunite catholique. Pascal decouvrit
d’un coup d’ceil toute la profondeur du mal. Entrains par son indi
gnation. d’honnete homme, il defendit les droits de. la consciencecontre les sophismes d’une theologie corrompue; et en refutant
�128
DE L’UNITfi LITT&RAIRE
Escobar, Vasquez et Caramuel, il a ramene la morale a la source
divine.
Dans les Pensees, Pascal s’eleve a une hauteur qui trouble et qui
confond. L’eloquence et la poesie debordent comme des torrents a
chaque page de ce livre, ruine immortelle d’un monument a peine
ebauche; mais ici encore le but est essentiellement pratique:
l’homme ne sait ni d’ou il vient, ni ou il va; il est dans un doute ter-l
rible de toutes choses; il sait qu’il doit mourir, mais ce qu’il ignore
le plus, c’est cette mort meme qu’il ne saurait eviter. Peut-il rester
dans cette ignorance? non, car du moment ou il s’est considere soimenie, il n’a plus de repos qu’il n’ait trouve le secret de son etre.
— Eh bien! lui dit Pascal, cherchons ensemble; etudions cet etat
plein de misere, de souffrance, de tenebres qu’on appelle la vie. —
Quelle etude et quel tableau! toutes les grandeurs, toutes les fai-l
blesses sont mises a nu dans une incomparable analyse; et quand
1’homme effraye de lui-meme, et perdu dans sa propre pensee, se
demande quel est le mot de ce mystere, Pascal lui repond : — Qui
demelera cet embrouillement? sera-ce la raison? non, car elle flotte,
depuis que le monde dure, entre le pyrrhonisme et le dogmatisme,
et l’on ne peut etre pyrrhonien sans etouffer la nature, ni dogmatiste
sans etouffer la raison. Sera-ce la philosophie? non, car elle voit
chacune de ses affirmations detruite par une affirmation contraired
— Quelques pas encore, et l’homme est englouti dans les abimes du
scepticisme. Mais Pascal s’arrete, car il ne l’a conduit jusque-la que
pour lui reveler l’enigme de sa destinee par le tableau de sa faiblesse
et de sa grandeur et les etonnantes contradictions de sa nature. Cette
enigme, la religion peut seule en donner le mot. Mais quelle reli
gion choisir entre celles qui se partagent le monde? Celle qui portera
dans son histoire le temoignage d’une revelation divine; ce temoignage, Pascal le decouvre dans le christianisme, a travers les obscurites du dogme, les propheties et les miracles, et, la Bible et
l’Evangile a la main, il nous conduit jusqu’au pied du Calvaire, ou
l’homme apprend a connaitre Dieu par le Christ, et par le Christ a se
connaitre soi-meme.
Pascal, on le voit, touche d’un cote a Fenelon et a Bossuet, et de
l’autre a Descartes, a Malebranche, a Nicole; il cherche avec les philosophes, il croit avec les theologiens; et comme tous les penseurs de
son siecle, il marche en s’eclairant des lumieres de la raison et des
lumieres de la foi.
�AU XVII* SIfiCLE.
H
129
II
La Bruyere et La Rochefoucauld completent, comme observateurs
et comme moralistes, Fecole philosophique du dix-septieme siecle.
Homme du monde et homme de cour, La Rochefoucauld semble prefer
main-forte aux theologiens en comhattant plus particulierement les
vices que ceux-ci attaquent avec le plus: de force et de vivacite. On a
pu, avec raison, accuser La Rochefoucauld d’avbir calomnie la nature
humaine en ramenant a l’egoisme le mobile de toutes nos actions;
mais il faut tenir compte de la- sphere dans laquelle il a vecu, et qui.
est justement celle ou la personnalite se developpe avec le plus de
force. Mele aux troubles de la Fronde, il avait vu Finteret general
constamment sacrifie a Finteret particulier^le devoir a l’ambition. Il
etait done naturel qu’il fit passer dans son’ oeuvre■•les observations
qu’il avait puisees dans le spectacle des evenements. Sans doute, il a
trop generalise, en le presentant comme exclusif; un sentiment ou
,plutdt un vice qui, pour We fort commtm', admet ceperiWmt encore
de nombreuses exceptions'; mais il n’en a pas moiiis rendu un grand
service a la philosophic morale; car il'a mis a nu'les plus secretes
manoeuvres de l’egoisme, et Fon peut en quelques points le comparer
a Machiavel, qui, en tracant dans le livre du Prince la theorie exageree du succes a tout prix et le code de F Ambition, a dechire tous
les voiles de l’imposture politique. Enfin, il nous semb'le que les
Maximes de La Rochefoucauld et
Traite de la concupiscences
Bossuet se touchent par une infinite de cotes, etqueces livres ne sont
tous deux qu’une sorte de casuistique, Tune; mOndaine, l’autre religieuse, ou l’homme apprend a se defendre* centre' cet amour du moi
qui trouble sa raison, endurcit son coeur et l’egare eiU le flattant.
Moins profond peut-etre que La Rochefoucauld, mais moins exclu
sif, La Bruyere est sans cOntredit l’un de nos ecrivains dont les
oeuvres sont le plus lues et le plus goutees. Contemplateur comme
Moliere, il a porte, comme lui, l’eloquence dans la raillerie, et par
le meme sentiment d’honnetete, il a fait de la satire une ecole de sagesse. Sa critique morale est essentiellement - classique, e’est-a-dire
qu’elle est basee sur cette raison conforme a la verite qui survit a
toqtes les variations de l’opinion. Observateur plein de finesse, il saisit
les nuances les plus fugitives; il ne generalise pas les exceptions, il
individualise au contraire les generalites, et c’est la ce qui donne a
Tome III. — 9e Livraison.
9
�no
DE L’UNITfi LITT&RAIRE
ses portraits une realite si saisissante. Les types qu’il a crees sont si
vivants, qu’au moment ou son livre parut, le public mit un nom audessous de chaque portrait, car chacun croyait reconnaitre les hommes
que le grand peintre avail fait poser devant lui; mais. quand ces
hommes eurent disparu, les portraits recurent des noms. nouveaux,, et
la ressemblance resta tout aussi frappante, O-n vit aloes, qu’il s’agis—
sail, non pas de quelques hommes, mais de tons les hommes, non
pas de Versailles ou de Paris ,; mais. du monde. Les aeteurs etaient
changes,mais ceux qui. les remplacaientjouaient toujours les memes*
roles*
Quand on pareourt.ee livre des G3z,«^m,;quipromene le lecteur
avec un. apparent desordre a teavers le monde et la vie, on ne saisit
pas toujpurs ridee generalc quirelie ces fragments entre. eux; rnais
le lien et le but definitif ne sauraient echapper a. une lecture atten
tive. La Bruyere,d’ailleurs, dans la Preface du discours a Acade
mic francaise,a pris soind’indiquer l’ensemble de* son plan. Il dresse
d’abord I’inventaire de nos ridicules et de nos vices; et, quand il a
montre le pen que nous sommes,, le? peu. que valent les bieus de la
fortune, les illusions de la grandeur et eelle&de 1’amour-propre, combien nos jugements sont incertains, nos passions mesquines, nos agi
tations sterilespour le bonheur,il se detourne tout a coup de nos.
Tniq^yeg joAMy
comme; il le dit< jusqudDieu d tracers le del
et les «^m,et couronner son etincelante. satire par la belle con
clusion. qui a pour titre Les. esprits forts* G’est dans ce chapitre
qu’estle secret de son livre * etce secret qui en fait l’unite se revels.dans cette phrase » Lieu se decouvre et I ordre est retab-li^
Nous nous trompons peut-etre, mais il. nous semble qu’entre les*
Pense.es. de Pascal et les, Caraeteres il existe. une analogie incontes—•
table. Pour donner un sens aux aspirations de notre aine, pour exp-11quer. la vie et conclure a la necessity du dogme chretien, Pascal met
rhomme en presence du mystere de sa grandeur et du mystere de
son neant. Pour demontrer lanecessite de la morale chretienne,, La
Bruyere.met rhomme en presence de ses vices et de ses faiblesses, et
tandis que Pascal nous ramene a Dieu par I’enignae. de notre desti—
nee r Bossuet par I’histoire,. Fenelon par le miracle permanent, du.
mondeLa Bruyere nous- y ramene a son tour par le tableau de nos
moeurs.
-i.:.... t! ,
�AEFXVIF* SIEGLE.
’
13i
in
Ce ne sont pas settlement les theologiens, les philosophes, les moralistesqui prennent, an. dix-septieme siecle, ee pole pratique d’educateurs que nous venons de signaler; les poetes marchent dans la
meme voie, et le lien qui les unit aux prosateurs les reunit encore
entre eux, soit qu’ik embrassent, comme Corneille, Racine etBoileau, les fortes croyances de leur temps, soil qu’ils s’en separent;
comme Moliere ei La Fontaine, pour parler uniquement au nom de la
raison, et remonter par les fibres penseurs, de la reforme et la veine
railleuse et sceptique du moyen age, jusqu’a la philosophie antique.
Ce qui frappe (Tabard quand on eompiare Corneille et Racine, c’est
la conformite de leur foi ehretienne, de cette foi sincere et profonde
qui s humilie et ne discute pas, Corneille lit.' chaque jour le Breviaire
romain, comme Racine en traduit les hymnes. Il met en vers, par
esprit de penitence, Vlimtation de Jesus—Christ> et par esprit de
■penitence Racine renonce au theatre. De la les chefs-d’oeuvre Chre
tiens t. Polyeucte, Athalie, Esther; de la aussi ee grand sentiment
du devoir, qui eleve et ennoblit la peinture des passions.
On a dit que letheatre de Corneille etaitune ecole de grandeur; le
mot est juste, mais c’est aussi Tecole du sacrifice et du dqvouement.
Voyez le Cid I Le poete, dans Texamen de cette piece, donne d’un
seul mot toute sa theorie ; —- Chimene et Rodrigue suivent le devoir,
sans rien relacher de la passion, — voila le ressort dramatique; —
le devoir triomphe, — voila la sanction morale.
Le caractere du vieil Horace nous offre une donnee semblahle. A
Rome, la patrie est divinisee; T amour du pays s’eleve a la hauteur
d’une foi religieuse, et demine par cela mdme tons lea autres senti
ments. Horace sacrifiera done sa tendresse de pere. a sa foi de Ro
main, et Corneille choisira ce sujet, pour montrer T abnegation dans
toute son energie sauvage. Le meme ressort. dramatique se retrouve
dans Pulyeucte. Lapassiondans.ee qu’elle a de plus noble et de plus
pur est aux prises avec l’amour divin, et Polyeucte s’immole aDieux
comme le pere des Horaces s’immolait a Rome.
Tous les nobles sentiments, tous ceux qui touchent a l’heroisme
qu le provoquent, sont tour a tour evoques par Corneille. Dans
Cinnaz Auguste personnifie la clemence, et ce vers'celebre :
Je suis maitre de moi comme de 1’univers,
�132
DE I/UNITfi LITTfiRAIRE
nous montre que, si haut que nous eleve notre destinee, les plus belles
victoires sont celles que nous remportons sur nous-memes. Dans la
Mort de Pompee, Cesar punit par la colere et le mepris l’assassinat
qui sert sa fortune, et Cornelie, faisant taire une haine aussi profonde
que ses regrets, se jette au-devant du coup qui menace le vainqueur
de Pharsale. Les enseignements les plus genereux de l’histoire semblent se resumer dans les tragedies de Corneille, et jamais la poesie
n’a propose l’exemple des grandes choses dans un plus magnifique
langage.
Plus tempera que Fauteur de Polyeucte^ et toujours plus pres des
realites de la vie commune, Racine nous attendrit et nous eclaire sur
nous-memes par la peinture fidele et charmante de nos troubles interieurs. Nous entendons dans ses vers comme un echo des orages qui
grondent en nous; mais le devoir est toujours en lutte avec la pas
sion, et quand la passion triomphe, le poete ne manque jamais de
l’humilier par le remords. Ses tragedies, comme celles de Corneille,
ne sont en definitive que l’eloquente apologie de tous les nobles in
stincts. Monime, Iphigenie, ne sont-elles pas les soeurs paiennes de
Pauline? Alexandre, vainqueur de Porus, lui rendant son royaume,
n’est-il pas, en fait de generosite, le rival d’Auguste pardonnant a
Cinna, le rival de Cesar pleurant Pompee? Esther ne representet-elle pas le patriotisme juif, comme Horace le patriotisme romain?
Andromaque, Clytemnestre ne sont-elles pas le plus parfait modele
de l’amour maternel, l’ideal de la tendresse antique complete par la
tendresse chretienne, comme Britannicus est le type acheve des vertus
et des graces de F adolescence? Le culte de la beaute morale a meme
ete porte si loin par Racine qu’il brise quelquefois entre ses mains
l’instrument tragique; et c’est ainsi que ce grand poete a ete accuse
d’avoir affaibli, dans Andromaque et dans Britannicus, l’un des ressorts les plus puissants du drame, la terreur, en attenuant la ferocite
de Pyrrhus, et l’ambitieuse et lascive cruaute d’Agrippine. La cri
tique est juste, mais ces infidelites faites a l’histoire ne sont qu’un
hommage rendu par le poete a l’ideal qu’il poursuivait sans cesse;
et s’il adoucit ces personnages sombres et terribles qui se debattent
contre la fatalite, c’est qu’il regarde toujours le monde antique des
hauteurs du christianisme.
Moins grand que Corneille et Racine, moins grand que La Fontaine
et Moliere, Boileau occupe cependant encore a cote d’eux un rang
eminent, et jamais ecrivain n’a rendu aux lettres de plus signales ser-
�.A
AU XVIIe SIECLE.
z
133
vices. Il a defendu le veritable talent contre la mediocrite vaniteuse;
et c’est la pour lui un eternel honneur, car il faut une grande generosite d’esprit, quand soi-meme on poursuit la gloire, pour s’elever
au-dessus du denigrement et rendre justice a des rivaux et a des maitres. Il a montre par le precepte et par l’exemple que la verite est la
source des belles inspirations, et que pour bien ecrire, il faut bien penser. Il a porte dans la litterature la fierte de l’honnetete et la fierte du
bon sens. Il s’est declare l’adversaire impitoyable du mauvais gout et
des sentiments faux, et par cela meme il a sauvegarde la morale publique, car les sentiments faux, en egarant les esprits, degradent les
caracteres et entrainent la ruine des societes. Boileau est de la famille
de La Bruyere; il a sonde comme lui la profondeur de la sottise humaine, et ses satires sont comme un echo fidele des sarcasmes et des
lecons que les railleurs de tous les ages ont adresses a la triste posterity
d’Adam. On a pu quelquefois contester sa verve; on n’a jamais conteste sa raison, et il ne se rencontre pas dans toutes ses oeuvres un
seul precepte que l’on puisse dementir au nom de l’experience, une
seule maxime litteraire que l’ori puisse recuser au nom du gout.
IV
Par son caractere exclusivement philosophiquev Moliere occupe,
ainsi que La Fontaine, une place distincte parmi les ecrivains de son
temps, mais tout en suivant une route differente, il tend encore au
meme but et marche toujours aupres d’eux. Seulement, tandis que
Bossuet, Pascal et Fenelon, cherchent dans la foi catholique la regie
absolue de la vie, tandis que La Bruyere s’efforce de nous ramener a
Dieu par le tableau de nos moeurs, Moliere reste sur la terre, n’invoque que la raison, et demande l’art de vivre avec sagesse et droiture, selon le monde et. selon la sagesse humaine, au monde luimeme, a l’experience, a l’observation de ce qui se passe chaque jour
sous nos yeux. Les personnages qu’il fait agir et parler ne sont que
l’incarnation vivante de nos defauts, de nos ridicules, de nos passions,
et meme de nos qUalites, car Moliere ne se borne pas, comme la
plupart des auteurs comiques, a representer L’homme sous ses aspects
affligeants : il sait qu’entre les fripons et les dupes, entre les me
diants et les sots, il y a les honnetes gens, qui nq sont apres tout
que les gens senses, et pour que le tableau soit complet, il met
aussi les honnetes gens sur la scene.
�134
DE L’UNIT-E LITTERAIRE
Nous l’avons dit dans une autre etude : quand on analyse ses personnages, on trouve dans la somme totale des caracteres qu’il a crees,
le miroir exact et fidele du monde. D’un cote les defauts et les ridi
cules : — l’avarice, dans Harpagon; la sottise et la vanite du parvenu.,
dans M. Jourdain; la vanite de la naissance, dans M. de Sottenviiie;
la vanite litteraire, dans Trissotin; regoisme profond, dans Arnolphe; legoisme et la pusillaaaimite,dans Argan.; les pretentions de
l’ignorance et Fexaltation des sentiments faux, dans Belise, Armande
et Philaminte; la faihlesse et 1’irresolutian, dans -Georges Dandin;
la jalousie, dans Sganarelle ; la secheresse du coeur et la coquetterie,
dans Celimene; la sceleraiesse doublee d’hypocrisie, dans lartufe;
1’audacieuse forfanteriedu vice, dans don Juan.—De l’autre cote, les
qualites* — dans Alceste, la douloureuse susceptibilite de 1’ bonne or;
dans Henriette , la grace de la maison et lasamplicite charmante; dans
Elin ire, i’honnetete;; dans Philinte, la probite indulgente etsereine;
dans Chrysale, Eesprit de conduife et la fermete du bon sens.
Pris dans son ensemble, le theatre de Moliere est done une ecole
de verite, ou chacun apprend a cormaitrc lesautres et a se reconnaitre
soi-meme; car en tracant le portrait de ses contemporains, ce contemplateur, ainsi que l’appelait Boileau, a peint comme La Bruyere les
hommes de tous les ages. Il enseigne le bon sens, comme Corneille
enseigne le devouement et Pheroisme; 11 attaque, dans lartufe, l’hy-i
pocrisie de lapiete, comme Pascal, dans les -P^ovindales, attaque
I’hypocrisie de la morale. LesEemmes savantes sont le commentaire
anticipe, profane .et mondam, du Traite deldiducation des files et des
Lettres de madame de Maintenon sur le meme sujet , comme VEcole
des femmes est la mise en scene de la satire de Boileau et des raille
ries de La Bruyere. Moliere resume, dans les types qu’il cree et qn’H
fait vivre, l’observation morale de tous les siedes, la profonde casuistique de .Bossuet et les pemtures ienergiques de Saint-Simon , et
quand Louis XIV demandait a -Boileau quel etait le plus grand des
ecrivains de son re gne, .Boileau pouvaii repondre, sans crainte d'etre
dementi par la posterite: <« Sire, c’est Moliere,.» parce que Moliare
c’est ■ la verite <et la vie elle-meme. ’ >
Cette verite, nous la retrouvons dans La’Fontaine, aussi saisis•sante ^t aussi profonde. Le fabuliste., comme d’auteur de Tartufe,
fait agir et parlersesacteursavecam sentiment si parfait de la reality
qu’on sent a chaque vers qu’ils ne peuvent ni agir ni parier.autrement. Comme Moliere, il est l’irreconciliable ennemi de la vanite*
�AU XVII® SlfiCLE.
43S
de Thypocrisie et de la ruse. Les acteurs sont changes, les caracteres
Testent les memes. La grenouille qui cherche a S’egaler au boeuf,
Tanequi porte des reliques, le mulet qui se vante de sa genealogie,
faites-en des hommes, ils s’appelleront M. de Sottenville et M. Jour
dain. Le renard s’appcllera Tartufe, le loup don Juan. La Fontaine
combat le charlatanisme des -devins et des faiseurs d’boroscopes,
comme Moliere combat le-charlatanisme des empiriques. Il se sertde
la verite et de 1’experience pour-nous donner des lemons, et ees lecons
s’adressent a tous les temps, a tous les ages, a toutes les conditions,
parce quil a complete sa propre sagesse par la sagesse de tous les
siecles. Cepai’en, egaredans lasoctetecroyantedudfe-septieme siecle,
a le sentiment chretien de la justice et du droit, de Legalite des
hommes devant Dieu, au meme degre que Fenelon. L’abus de la
force, 1’oppression des faibles, n’ont jamais trouve un plus eloquent
adversaire. Aussi, quand la Revolution francaise vint reclamer pour
les faibles la meme protection que pour les forts, et suWit&er aux
■caprices du lion la volohte de la Hoi; dle cxhuma les Testes de La
Fontaine pour leur rendre des honne’urs supremes, parce qu’elle
Teconnaissait en lui rn de -ses precurseurs, et dans ces funcrailles
populaires cetait le P&t de terre-qua prenaitsa revanche.
.
■Nous A avons point !a pretention d’avoirepuise le. sujet auquel
nous avons consacre ees pages, -bien indagnes des grands ’hommes
dont nous sommes si justement fiers. Nous avons voulu seulement
appeler l’attention sur un point de noire histoire litteraire «qui n’a
point ete suffisamment remarque, et montrer, eomme notes l’avons
dit plus haut, que si les ecrivains du dix-septieme siecle ont acquis
tant de gloire, ce ri’est pas’seutement parce qu’ils forment une ecole
de style, mais encore une ecole de sagesse et de grandeur.. Ils sont
lous de la meme ‘famiile; la source de I'inspiration est la meme pour
tous, et elle se trouve dansces trdis mots que LaBruyere a rapproches
pour la premiere fois: LE BEAU, LE VRAI, LE BIEN. Le but qu’ils
poursuivent n’est-ce pas, en effet, la recherche de la verite dans l’ordre purement humain , comme dans l’ordre surnaturel, l’etude de
Fhomme et la peinture du -monde,, Teducation de Itesprit et l’educa-tiondu coeur? n’est-ce pas la reforme d’une societe ou vivait encore le
vieil esprit feodal, avec ses privileges, ses exclusions et ses iniquites?
�J36
DE L’lLNITL' LlTTfiRAIRE
n’est-ce pas aussi la reforme de la science? Moliere se raillant des
medecins qui se payent de mots, et leur demandant le savoir et l’ob4
servation au lieu du pedantisme, n’est-il pas philogophe au meme
titre que Descartes combattant les vertus specifiques et les vertus oc-A
cultes? La Bruyere, Fenelon, dans leurs Discours a TAcademie francaise, Moliere dans les Femmes savantes et les Precieuses^ Corneille
dans les Examens de ses tragedies, ne sont-ils pas des critiques, des
maitres de style et de gout au meme titre que Boileau? Les oeuvre&i
de ces grands hommes, si* diverses qu’elles soient, s’eclairent et se
completent l’une par l’autre, et elles offrent entre elles une harmonie si parfaite qu’elles sont desormais inseparables, comme celles
d’un seul et meme auteur. Nous ne pretendons certes pas que les ecrivains du dix-septieme siecle aient marque sans retour l’extreme limite
ou l’esprit humain puisse atteindre, et que 1’art, pour s’elever a la
veritable beaute, soit condamne fatalement a les imiter; loin de la.
Mais si l’imitation est sterile, l’admiration est toujours feconde; et ce
qu il importe de maintenir, c’est qu’ils doivent etre pour tous les ages
un sujet constant d’etude, parce qu’a travers les transformations de la
langue et les changements des moeurs, ils resteront toujours profondement humains, et par cela meme profondement vrais.
Cette unite qui distingue leur talent distingue egalement leurs ca
racteres. Ilsont tous la meme simplicite, le meme desinteressementl
et ils cherchent la perfection pour leurs oeuvres, plutot que la gloire
et le bruit pour leur nom. Ce sont des gens de.bon sens et des
gens de bien, droits, sinceres, vivant de cette vie commune dont les
natures saines et fortes savent seules s’accommoder. Bossuet, qui
regne sur l’Eglise de France, s’isole, au milieu de Versailles, de
toutes les intrigues de la cour, pour lire la Bible, dans les allees soli
taires du pare, en compagnie de La Bruyere et de Fleury. Boileau,
qui regne sur les esprits de son temps, n’a point de plus chere dis
traction que le jeu de quilles, et toute son ambition se borne a vivre
tranquille dans son jardin d’Auteuil. Racine s’amuse a faire des pro
cessions avec ses enfants, et sa femme ne sait pas meme les noms de
ses pieces. Moliere, a bout de forces et deja mourant, reste au theatre,
malgre les prieres de ses amis, pour donner du pain aux acteurs de
sa troupe. Corneille, marguillier de l’eglise Saint-Sauveur de Rouen,
tient pendant trente ans les comptes de sa paroisse avec la regularity
d’un greffier. La Bruyere cache si bien sa vie, qu’elle echappe a
notre curiosite, et qu’aucun detail biographique ne vient se placer
�AU XVIIe SlfiCLE.
137
entre sa naissance et sa mort. Emprisonne par la souffrance dans la
chambre qui le verra mourir, Pascal ne songe pas meme a sauver
d’une destruction presque inevitable les pages illisibles de l’un des
plus grands livres qu’ait traces la main des hommes, et, comme les
saints du moyen age, il meurt sous le cilice, en ne se souvenant que
de Dieu. Tous ces grands hommes, en un mot, restent soumis dans
,leur conduite aux regies souveraines qu’ils ont posees dans leurs
oeuvres. Ils semblent justifier ce mot si vrai de Boileau: La fierte
de l’esprit est le vice des sots, et la fierte du coeur la vertu des honnetes gens. Ils ont le sentiment de leur force, jamais la vanite de leur
talent; on les aime, on les respecte autant qu’on les admire, et c’est
la le secret de cette popularity qui grandit toujours.
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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De l'unite litteraire au XVII siecle
Creator
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Louandre, M. Ch.
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Paris]
Collation: [124]-137 p. ; 26 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Le Megasin de Librairie: literature, histoire, philosophie, voyages, .... Vol. 3.
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Which are Hamlet’s ‘ Dozen
or Sixteen Lines ’ ?
By
W. T. MALLESON, B.A.,
UNIV. COLL., LONDON,
AND
J. R. SEELEY, M.A.,
PROFESSOR OF HISTORY IN THE’ UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, ONE OF THE
VICE-PRESIDENTS OF THE NEW SHAKSPERE SOCIETY.
PAPERS READ BEFORE
THE NEVE SHHKSPERE SOCIETY,
AT ITS
ffilefeenti; JHietinfl,
FRIDAY, DECEMBER n,
I
AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON.
i
874,
�PUBLICATIONS
OF THE
NEW SHAKSPERE SOCIETY.
Series I. Transactions. Part I, containing 4 Papers, and editioflb
of the genuine parts of Timon, and Pericles, by the Rev. F. G-.
Fleay, M.A., with Discussions on the Papers.
Series II. Plays. The First two Quartos of Pomeo and Juliet,
1597 and 1599, in a. simple Reprints; b. Parallel Texts,
arranged so as to show their Differences, and with Collations
of all the Quartos and Folio ; all edited by P. A. Daniel, Esq.
[6. was presented to the Society by UP. IT. Prince Leopold,
one of its Vice-Presidents.^
Series IV.
Shakspere Allusion-Books.
Part I. 1592-8 A.n.
(Greenes Groatesworth of Wit [written in 1592], 1596 ; Henry
Chettle’s 4 Kind-Harts Dreame ’ [written in 1593]; 4 Englaudes
- Mourning Garment ’ [1603] ; A Mourneful Dittie [1603] ;
five sections from Francis Meres’s Palladis Tamia, 1598, &c.
&c.) ; edited by C. Mansfield Ingleby, Esq., LL.D.
Publications of the New Shakspere Society now at Press.
Series I. Transactions. Part II, containing Papers- by J. W.
Hales, Esq., M.A., the Rev. F. G. Fleay, M.A., and Richard
Simpson, Esq., B.A.; with Discussions on the Papers.
Series II. Pomeo and Juliet, c. a Revised Edition of the Quarto
Text of 1599, collated with the other Quartos and the Folio ;
edited by P. A. Daniel, Esq., with Notes and Introduction.
-Uenry V., a. Reprints of the Quarto and Folio; b. Parallel Texts
of the Quarto and Folio ; c. a Revised Edition, with Notes and
Introduction; the whole edited by Dr Brinsley Nicholson.
Series III. Originals and Analogues. Part I. a. The Tragicall
Historye of Romeus and Juliet, written first in Italian by
Bandell, and nowe in Englishe by Ar[thur] Br[ooke], 1562 ;
edited by P. A. Daniel, Esq. b. The goodly hystory of the
true and constant loue between Rhomeo and J ulietta; from
Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, 1567; edited by P. A. Daniel,
Esq.
Series VI. Shakspere’s England. William Harrison’s Pescription
of England, 1577, 1587, edited from its two versions by F. J.
Furnivall, M.A.
Publications Suggested.
Series . II. 1. The Two Noble Kinsmen, to be edited by Harold
Littledale, Esq. 2. Cymbeline, to be edited by W. J. Craig,
Esq., M.A., Trinity College, Dublin.
Parallel Texts of the Imperfect sketches of b. Hamlet and its
�WHICH ARE HAMLET’S
‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
BY W. T. MALLESON, B.A., UNIV. COLL., LONDON,
AND
J. R. SEELEY, M.A., PROFESSOR OF HISTORY IN THE UNIV.
OF CAMBRIDGE.
�466
XII.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
BY W. T. MALLESON, B.A., UNIV. COLL., LONDON,
AND
J. R. SEELEY, M.A., PROFESSOR OF HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OE
CAMBRIDGE.
{Read. at the eleventh Meeting of the Society, Friday, Fee. 11, 1874.)
[In the following discussion, the suggestion that Hamlet’s ‘ dozen or sixteen lines ’
occur in the long speech of the player-king is spoken of as if it were a new one.
It occurred to me independently : and though I could scarcely believe that no one
had thought of it before, yet the editions that happened to be within my reach
knew nothing of it, and I found it to be new to all my Shaksperian friends, I now
find that I was right in thinking that it could not possibly have been reserved
for me to make such a discovery, and that the credit of it belongs to Mr and Mrs
Cowden Clarke, who published it long since in their annotated edition of Shakspere.
I am happy to have learned this in time to save myself from even a momentary
appearance of claiming what does not belong to me. Mr and Mrs Cowden Clarke
have also anticipated some of my arguments, as will be seen by their note, which
I now reprint.—J. R. Seeley, March 10, 1875.
Act III. Sc. ii. Speech of the player-king : * Purpose is but the slave to memory,’
to ‘ their ends none of our own.’
„We have an idea that this is the passage ‘ of some dozen or sixteen lines ’ which
Hamlet has proposed to ‘ set down and insert ’ in the play, asking the player
whether he could ‘ study ’ it for the occasion. The style of the diction is markedly
different from the remainder of the dialogue belonging to this acted play of ‘ The
Murder of Gonzago ’ ; and it is signally like Hamlet’s own argumentative mode.
‘ This world is not for aye,’ the thoughts upon the fluctuations of ‘ love ’ and
‘ fortune,’ and the final reflection upon the contrary current of ‘ our wills and
fates,’ with the overthrow of our ‘devices,’ and the ultimate diversity between
our intentionsand their ‘ends,’ are as if proceeding from the prince himself. His
motive in writing these additional lines for insertion, and getting the player to
deliver them, we take to be a desire that they shall serve to divert attention from
the special passages directed at the king, and to make these latter seem less
pointed. We have fancied that this is Shakespere’s intention, because of the em
phatic variation in the style just here. Observe how very different are the myth
ological allusions to ‘ Phcebus,’ ‘ Neptune,’ ‘ Tellus,’ ‘ Hymen,’ ‘ Hecate,’ and the
stiff sentential inversions of ‘ about the world have times twelve thirties been,’
‘ discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must,’ &c.; and, moreover, observe how
exactly the couplet commencing the player-king’s speech, ‘ I do believe,’ &c., and
the couplet concluding it, * To think thou wilt,’ &c., would follow on conjoinedly,
were the intervening lines (which we suppose intended to be those written by
Hamlet) not inserted.’—From Cassell's Illustrated Shakespere, edited by Charles
and Mary Cowden Clarke, Vol. III. p. 415.]
�XJI. 1.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
467
I. MR MALLES ON'S ARGUMENT.
Ha/mlet. Dost thou hear me, old friend ; can you play the murther of
Gtonzago?
1 Player, Ay, my lord.
Ha/mlet. We’ll have’t to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a
speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down, and insert in’t ?
could you not ?
1 Player. Ay, my lord.—Hamlet, Act II. Sc. ii. (lines 562-9).
A short time ago appeared in the Academy, a statement written
by Mr Purnivall, that Professor Seeley had suggested that the
* dozen or sixteen lines,’ inserted by Hamlet in the sub-play of the
‘ Murder of Gonzago,’ might be found in the following speech of
the Player-King, Act III. Sc. ii. :—
I do believe, you think what now you speak ;
But, what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory ;
Of violent birth, but poor validity :
Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree;
But fall unshaken, when they mellow be.
Most necessary ’tis that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt :
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy;
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament,
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye ; nor ’tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change ;
For ’tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
The great man down, you mark, his favourite flies ;
The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies.
,
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend :
For who not needs shall never lack a friend ;
And who in want a hollow friend doth try
Directly seasons him his enemy.
But, orderly to end where I begun,—
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown :
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own :
So think thou wilt no second husband wed ;
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is de^.
196
199
203
207
211
215
219
223
225
These are very interesting lines, bnt they reflect, as Gervinus
points out, not upon the murdering usurping King, but upon Hamlet
himself; if they are those Hamlet wrote, we find him turning aside
�468
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
XII. 1.
from the immediate purpose of the player’s performance, which was
to ‘ catch the conscience of the King,’ in order to brood over his own
character, and in words of his own to point the moral of the play of
Hamlet:—
But what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory ;
Of violent birth, but poor validity.
And again:—
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown :
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
One must confess, that there would be nothing foreign to Ham
let’s character in thus suddenly putting aside action for disquisition ;
yet when he is eagerly ordering the performance of the Murder of
Gonzago for ‘to-morrow night,’ the earliest possible time, and adds
‘ You could for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines
which I would set down and insert in’t ? ’, it is difficult to believe
that he is only anxiously seeking an opportunity of dissertating upon
man’s feebleness of purpose :—What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending doth the purpose lose.
And on this point we are not left to conjecture only; the
terrible soliloquy beginning, ‘Now I am alone, 0 what a rogue
and peasant slave am I,’ immediately follows his interview with the
players, and shews clearly what was in his mind, when he proposed
his addition to the play.
About my brains 1 I have heard,
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions ;
For murther, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players
Play something like the murther of my father,
Before mine uncle : I’ll observe his looks ;
I’ll tent him to the quick ; if he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the 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),
�XII. 1.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s 1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
469
Abuses me to damn me : I'll have grounds
More relative than this : The play’s the thing,
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
The plot of this play already resembled the black crime that had
been revealed to Hamlet alone, and his hope was that his lines might
drive the dreadful resemblance home to the very heart of the mur
derer, so that the guilty creature sitting at the play might if possible
be driven to proclaim aloud his ‘ malefaction,’ or, if not that, at
least so to lose self command as to betray his guilt to the eyes which
would be ‘rivetted to his face.’
How important, for this end, the speech was, we may learn from
Hamlet’s special instructions to the players for its delivery:—
Speak the speech, I pray you, as Ipronounced it to you, trippingly on the
tongue : but if you mouth it, as many of you players do, I had as lief the
town-crier had spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much—your hand
thus : but use all gently : for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say)
the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may
give it smoothness. 0, it offends me to the soul, to see a robustious periwigpated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the
groundlings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable
dumb shows and noise : I could have such a fellow whipped for o’er-doing
Termagant; it out-herods Herod : pray you, avoid it.
From this, too, we may gather something of the nature of the
lines; there was in them for certain the torrent, tempest, and whirl
wind of passion, a passion which Hamlet was very anxious that no
robustious periwig-pated actor should be allowed to tear to tatters;
and if this be, as I think, beyond a question, let the reader consider
whether in the philosophic lines suggested by Professor Seeley, even
the most 1 robustious ’ fellow could find anything of passion, with
which 1 to split the ears of the groundlings.’
Take now the conversation with Horatio just before the play
commences.
Hamlet says :—
There is a play to-night before the king ;
One scene of it comes near the circumstance
Which I have told thee of my father’s death.
I prithee, when thou seest that act a foot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe mine uncle : if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul
�470
XII. 1.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
As Vulcan’s stithe. Give him heedful note :
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face ;
And, after, we will both our judgments join
To censure of his seeming.
If the remainder of the play of Hamlet had by some calamity
been lost and it stopped here, wrould any one have doubted that this
‘ one speech ’ in this ‘ one scene ’ must have been the speech of
Hamlet’s writing 1
When the time of the representation approaches, Hamlet, in
terrible suppressed excitement, lies down among the audience at
Ophelia’s feet, and seems to relieve the tension of his mind by gross
and bitter jesting. Such words from Hamlet, the prince and scholar
to poor Ophelia, who had 1 sucked the honey of his music vows,’
appear at first almost inexplicable. It is quite insufficient to say that
the license of that age admitted expressions which would be shocking
now ;—No other lover in Shakspere uses such language; Rosalind,
Juliet, Miranda are quite otherwise addressed. Nor can I endure
to find here any support for Goethe’s theory, that the strong defence
of perfect purity was at all wanting to her who had been Hamlet’s
‘ soul’s idol.’ We must remember that at this moment Hamlet’s
heart is full of the infidelity of his mother as well as of the murder
of his father. Even before he had learnt from the Ghost the full
measure of his mother’s guilt, he had said in his anguish at her
marriage within a month—‘ a little month’—after his father’s death,
‘ Frailty thy name is, woman; ’ and when the Ghost has left him he
first apostrophises her, ‘ 0 most pernicious woman,’ and puts the
murderer, ‘ the smiling damned villain,’ in the second place. His
mother has destroyed his faith in every woman, he believes virtue
to be ‘ as wax,’ he separates from Ophelia, and bids her enter a
nunnery; and now, when in spite of himself he feels her attractions
and lies down at her feet, he reminds himself by insults and coarse
jokes of the frailty and corruption of women.
But let us go on to the performance itself; it begins, as did the
old moralities, with a dumb show:—
Enter a King and a Queen, very lovingly ; the Queen embracing him.
She kneels and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and
declines his head upon her neck ; lays him down upon a bank of flowers; she,
�XII.
1. WHICH ARE hamlet’s ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
471
seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes oft his crown,
kisses it, and pours poison in the King’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns ;
finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The poisoner, with some
two or three mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead
body is carried away. The poisoner woos the Queen with gifts ; she seems
loath and unwilling awhile, but, in the end, accepts his love. (Exeunt.)
‘ Anon conies in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, and pours
poison in the King's ears.' Here beyond doubt we have the “ one
scene ” coining near the circumstance of the death of Hamlet’s father
as the Ghost describes it:—
‘ Sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leprous distilment.’
Ill fact the parallel is so exact as to make one suspect that
Hamlet altered the manner of the murder in the old play to make it
tally precisely with the awful secret fact. If not, it is strange that
so odd, if not impossible, a way of committing murder should have
occurred in both the plays.
Here then I believe we should look for Hamlet’s addition, the “ one
speech,” the crisis of his plot, and it is here during the representation
that his excitement becomes painfully intense, and almost uncon
trollable, so that, when Lu cianus the murderer enters, Hamlet at
Ophelia’s feet strangely interrupts, calling aloud :—
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.
Although interruptions of ‘ poor players ’ by gallants of the
Court and great people were in those times common enough, one can
hardly help pausing to commiserate the actor thus unexpectedly
greeted by his patron at the important moment of his first entrance.
Lucianus is the principal character of the piece, the Villain on whose
daring crime and ready smooth-faced plausibility the plot turns, and
is doubtless the part that would have been given to the leading
tragedian, probably to the very actor who had previously so finely
recited JEneas’ description of the rugged Pyrrhus, and of whom
Hamlet, an excellent judge of acting, said that he
�472
XII.
1. WHICH ARE HAMLET’S i DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
That from her working all his visage wanned ;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.
Well, Lucianus, recovering as he best might from the abrupt
announcement of his name and quality, proceeds with the business
of his part, taking off the crown (as above) from the sleeping king,
kissing it, and exerting himself so to force his soul that all his visage
might wear a murderous aspect, when Hamlet, now in the very agony
and fever of his impatience, interrupts him again, with :—
Begin, murderer ; leave thy damnable faces and begin.
The croaking raven
Doth bellow for revenge.
Come ;—
Then Lucianus, thus adjured, with all the self-possession he can
retain, does begin :—
Thought black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing ;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing :
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property,
On wholesome life usurp immediately.
{Pours the poison into the sleeper's ears.)
Hamlet {interrupting again).
He poisons him i’ the garden for his estate. His name’s
Gonzago ; the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian :
You shall see anon, how the murtherer gets the love of
Gonzago’s wife.
Ophelia. The king rises.
Hamlet. What! frighted with false fire !
Queen. How fares my lord ?
Pol. Give o’er the play.
King. Give me some lights—away !
All. Lights, lights, lights !
{Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio
Hamlet. Why let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play ;
For some must watch, while some must sleep;
So runs the world away.
Would not this, Sir, and a forest of feathers (if the rest of my fortunes tuna
Turk with me), with two Provincial roses on my razed Shoes, get me a fellow
ship in the cry of players, Sir ?
Horatio. Half a share.
Hamlet. A whole one,—ay.
�XII. 1.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s i2
DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
473
And then again :—
Hamlet. 0 good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand
pound. Didst perceive ?
Horatio. Very well, my lord.
Hamlet. Upon the talk of the poisoning.
Horatio. I did very well note hiin.
It is of course to the startling dramatic success of his play
altering in piercing the King’s conscience that Hamlet refers when he
jestingly says that it would get him a fellowship in a cry of players.
The playwright who would tinker old plays as well as write new,
was in Shakspere’s time a very valuable member of a company of
players, and certainly the interpolated passage containing 4 the talk
of the poisoning ’ had had a wonderful effect.
I submit then that Hamlet’s addition to the play begins with the
speech of Lucianus. It contained probably more than the half
dozen lines which were all Lucianus was able to deliver before
Hamlet a third time interrupted him, and the King rose frighted
with false fire. After the murder, and before the entrance of the
Player Queen, was Lucianus perhaps to drop some words hinting at
his next aim, the seduction to a sudden second marriage of that
4 seeming virtuous queen 1 ’ Were perhaps fear and horror at finding
himself at last an actual murderer to take possession of his soul ?
Whence are those strange words of Hamlet, 4 The croaking raven
doth bellow for revenge,’ which he seems to utter as a sort of
cue to Lucianus, and yet they are not in Lucianus’ short speech ?
Were they part of Hamlet’s own lines, which were to be subse
quently uttered, but which came whirling first to their author’s
excited brain 1 If so, even if it were certainly so, it would be 4 to
consider too curiously’ to endeavour to reconstruct any of the neverdelivered portion of the speech. But wherever the words come from1
- from Hamlet’s unspoken lines, or, as is more probable, from some
1 Mr F. J. Furnivall thinks these words may be an allusion to the Old
Hamlet noticed in Lodge’s Wits Miserie, 1596, ‘the ghost which cried so
miserably at the theater like an oister wife, “ Hamlet revenge," ’ and says the
player would catch the reference at once. Mr Richard Simpson, on the other
hand, considers the allusion to be to two lines in the old play, The True
Tragedy of Richard III., ‘ The screeking Raven sits croking for Revenge ;
Whole heads of beasts comes bellowing for Revenge.’
2
�474
XII. 1.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S (DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
old play in the Pistol vein, known to the public then, lost now—what Hamlet means by them is plain enough. The Ghost is again
present to his mind. The Spirit whom he has doubted cries out once
more for revenge. In a moment the murderer will be put to the
question, to moral torture, all will be clear, and Hamlet ‘ know his
course.’ At such a crisis the actor’s delay, however artistic, is intol
erable ; he shouts to him to begin, that he may be certain of his
Uncle’s guilt and sweep to his revenge.
Hemember, too, that the Raven is the Danish typical bird, and
therefore no unfit emblem of ‘the majesty of buried Denmark;’—as
fitting at any rate, one might urge, if driven hard, as ‘ True penny,’
‘ Old Mole,’ and ‘Fellow in the Cellarage.’
The plot succeeds, the murderer discloses himself, the ghost is
believed; but Hamlet fails, and in the next scene but one the Ghost
re-appears visibly to his ‘ tardy son ’:—
Do not forget; this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
Lastly, is there in the lines themselves anything to make us say,
‘ Not by Hamlet ?’ The style is certainly stiff, cumbrous, and loaded
with adjectives, but Hamlet would naturally try to imitate the stilted
style of the rest of the play as in its first lines:—
Player King. Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round
Neptune’s salt wash, and Tellus’ orbed ground;
And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen,
About the world have times twelve thirties been ;
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite commutual in most sacred bands.
And one may even add that Hamlet himself in his letter ‘to
the celestial and my souls idol the most beautified Ophelia,’ shows
that he did not use to shrink from a string of adjectives even when
they led him to so ill a phrase as ‘ most beautified.’
Of one thing we may be certain, that the great Master did not
write at random, and that since he lays so much stress upon Ham
let’s inserted lines, refers to them so often, and makes so much of
the plot turn upon them, his own intention in the matter must have
been perfectly clear to himself.
If this be so, they ought with due patience to be discoverable by
�XII. 2.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
475
us. I shall be glad if I am thought to have contributed something to
the true solution of a little problem which if not important is at
least interesting.
W. T. Malleson.
II. PROFESSOR SEELEY’S COMMENTS ON MR MALLESON'S
PAPER, AND ON THE PLA Y.
My dear Furnivall,
You will remember that I did not pronounce any particular
passage in the sub-play to be the ‘ 12 or 16 lines ’ of Hamlet. What I
did was simply to say, in conversation with you, that I thought I knew
which the lines of Hamlet were, and to ask you to try whether you
could not identify them also. You did try, and laid your finger at
once upon the very lines I had in view.1 I mention these facts for
two reasons. First, because I think my identification of secondary
importance, compared to my observation that here is a Shaksperian
problem which has been overlooked,2 that Shakspere evidently
meant us to ask which the ‘ 12 or 16 lines’ were, and that appa
rently no one (except Mr and Mrs C. Clarke) has thought of doing
so. Secondly, the identification gains a good deal of probability
from the fact that two persons—who did not know of Mr and Mrs
C. Clarke’s note—made it without any concert.
I acknowledge a good deal of weight in some of Mr Malleson’s
objections, but I think I can answer them, and they have not shaken
my opinion.
Let me begin by stating the case in favour of the ‘ 12 or 16 lines’
being some of those which make up the long speech of the FlayerKing that begins:—
I do believe you think what now you speak 1
In all such discussions there is great danger of running too much
into mere speculation and conjectural interpretations of character.
1 This was mainly because Professor Seeley had also told me that the lines
contained Hamlet’s explanation of his own character.—F. J. F.
2 Except by Mr and Mrs Cowden Clarke ; see p. 466.
�476
XII. 2.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’’'!
For this reason I think it most important at the outset to consider
what characteristics the inserted speech we are in search of must
necessarily have in order that we may not have recourse to conjecture
at any rate sooner than is necessary.
There are two such characteristics, then.
(1) It must consist of some 12 or 16 lines.
(2) Being an insertion, it must be such a speech as can be removed
without affecting the action of the play.
Now these two characteristics belong to the passage above
referred to, and to that passage alone. The speech of the PlayerKing consists in all of 30 lines. The next longest speech, that
beginning ‘ So many journies may the sun and moon,’ consists of
only twelve.
It is evidently part of the plan that the sub-play
should be written in short speeches, for Hamlet is made to
ridicule the extreme shortness of the prologue, ‘ as brief as woman’s
love ! ’
This single long speech is therefore conspicuously exceptional.
It cannot all be spared—the Player-King must by the necessity of
the position say something to the same effect—and if it could all be
spared it could hardly be the insertion, for it would be too long,
30 lines instead of 12 or 16. But it is quite easy to spare about
that number of lines from the middle of it, and such a retrench
ment would bring the speech to about the average length of the
speeches in the sub-play.
As this passage not only answers the conditions, but is the only
passage which does, it might seem unnecessary to add another word.
But this assumes that Hamlet’s insertion is actually to be found at
full length in the sub-play as it is acted. Now of course it is pos
sible, as the sub-play is interrupted in the acting, that the passage in
question belongs either entirely to the part which was unacted, or
partly so, that is, that the speech which was interrupted by the
rising of the King would, if it had not been so interrupted, have ex
tended to 12 or 16 lines. This latter is Mr Malleson’s theory, and as
I admit it to be not impossible, we must look for additional evidence.
This brings us to the question, whether the passage whose claims
I support answers the other probable conditions as well as I have
�XII. 2.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OH SIXTEEN LINES ’ I
shown that it answers the two necessary conditions.
477
Is it such
aa insertion as Hamlet would be likely to make either from
the object he has in view, or, if we must enter into that, from his
character ?
Now one part of this question, and that the most difficult part,
we can fortunately answer at once. It is admitted by Mr Malleson
that the lines in question are strikingly in the character of Hamlet,
so strikingly that, in fact, he calls them a dissertation on Hamlet’s
character. I do not think they are that ; I think they are a disserta
tion on his mother’s character ; but, then, they are just such a disserta
tion as Hamlet would write, for they explain her weakness by those
general reflections about the changeableness of human purpose, and
the feebleness of human conviction, which are so usual with him. I
think there can be no doubt that if we wished to select from the
sub-play the lines most characteristic of Hamlet we should fix on
these without a moment’s hesitation.
But the speech may answer very well to Hamlet’s general cha
racter, and yet not be such as to serve the particular purpose with
which he inserts a speech.
This is the main point in Mr Malleson’s argument, and it seems
at first sight a strong objection—‘ Hamlet’s object in inserting a speech
is to charge the King with murder, to draw the moral of the play,
and drive it home upon the King’s conscience. The speech in
question, however in other respects it may be suitable to Hamlet’s
character, cannot be the speech inserted by him, because it does
nothing of this kind.’
Now it is evident enough that Hamlet’s object in having the play
acted is to work upon the King’s conscience and bring out his guilt ;
but how does it appear that this is the object with which he inserts
the speech?
Mr Malleson says, ‘ The plot of the play already resembled the
black crime that had been revealed to Hamlet alone, and his hope
was that his lines might drive the resemblance home to the very
heart of the murderer.’ Certainly Hamlet hoped that the play would
have this effect ; but where does Mr Malleson find that he hoped 7zZa
lines would have this effect ?
Mr Malleson puts this as if it were a
�478
XII. 2.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S 1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
matter of course, but if he will reflect I think he will find, that he
has taken it for granted without any reason.
I cannot imagine how it could occur to Hamlet that there was
any occasion for inserting a speech with this object. The play might
surely be trusted to do its own work. The King’s conscience was to
be worked upon by a representation of an action of which not only
the results and motives were similar, but which was in itself actually
identical with that committed by himself.
He had. murdered his
sleeping brother by pouring poison into his ear; he is now to see
poison poured into the ear of a sleeping uncle on the stage. I can
not imagine how any speech could make the application plainer. The
hint was surely broad enough; in fact, it seems a little too broad, for it
is difficult to understand how the King could allow matters to go so
far, and why he did. not break up the play as soon as the dumb show
had informed him what the action was to be.
Has Shakspere, then, said anywhere that the inserted speech had
this object? Mr Malleson quotes one expression, which looks no
doubt a little like it:—
If his occulted guilt
Do not itself discover in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen, &c.
This 1 one speech ’ does no doubt remind us of the f speech that
I would set down and insert in it,’ but after all why should it be this
particular speech more than any other ? I confess I think it can be
shown not to be by the method of ‘reductio ad absurdum.’
For
this 1 one speech ’ in which the King’s guilt discovers itself is the
speech beginning :—
Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing.
Now it is impossible that this speech, at least as it stands, can be
the inserted speech, for it satisfies none of the conditions. It is not
12 or 16 lines, but only six; it is not an inserted speech, but it
belongs essentially to the action, and the play could not exist
without it. Mr Malleson, seeing this, tries to represent these six
lines, not exactly as the inserted speech of Hamlet, but as the
beginning of it, and supposes that the rest would have followed had
�' XII.
2. WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
479
not the King broken up the play. It is impossible to suppose exactly
this, for the six lines in question form only one sentence, and must
therefore belong entirely to the play itself in its original form, unless
we suppose, what I think no one will suppose, that the murder was
to be done in dumb show. We must therefore imagine, not part of
Hamlet’s inserted speech, but the whole of it, to have been broken
off by the King’s rising, and if so it turns out after all that the King’s
guilt is not discovered by Hamlet’s inserted speech, but by lines
coming just before it. This seems to me a conclusive proof that the
‘ one speech ’ in the passage above quoted is not to be identified with
the ‘speech of 12 or 16 lines, which I would set down and insert
in it.’
Thus there remains no reason at all for supposing that the object
of Hamlet’s inserted speech was to work upon the King’s conscience.
Mr Malleson seems to have been led to take it for granted by the
rout Hamlet makes about his anxiety to be quite sure of the King’s
guilt, to be quite sure that the ghost is not a tempter. He pictures
Hamlet as in a state of wild excitement throughout the scene, as
having his thoughts intensely fixed upon this question of the murder,
and therefore he thinks it revoltingly improbable that in this state
of mind Hamlet should write a speech not about the murder at all,
but on his mother’s fickleness. But surely I am not singular in
believing that these professions of Hamlet are not to be taken
seriously. His misgivings that the ghost may be a tempter, that the
King may not be guilty after all, are just like his resolution later in
the play, not to kill the King at a moment when he will be likely to
go to heaven, mere pretences intended to excuse delay and inaction.
He is no doubt interested in watching the effect of his experiment
upon the King’s mind, and very triumphant when it proves success
ful, but I do not believe that his thoughts are absorbed by that sub
ject in the way Mr Malleson supposes. In fact I take a very different
view of the state of his mind.
It seems to me that Shakspere
takes great pains to impress upon us that the uncle’s guilt and the
duty of punishing it are an annoying subject with Hamlet, that
they weigh upon his mind without interesting it, and that his only
desire is to postpone and keep at arm’s length everything connected
�480
XII. 2.
with them.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’ ?
Hamlet complains that he cannot feel proper resent
ment for ‘ a dear father murdered/ that the player is more interested
in an imaginary Hecuba than he in such a dreadful reality, and he
tries to rouse himself into a passion by violent abuse of his uncle.
But you see how artificial the language is, and that his real feeling
for his uncle is only contempt, that he regards him simply as a
vulgar knave, whom there is no satisfaction in thinking about, and
no comfort even in hating.
So far from supposing that the inserted
speech ought by rights to be about this uncle, I should be very
much puzzled to find that Hamlet’s private reflections had been so
much occupied about him, as would be implied in his writing 12 or
16 lines about him, to make clear what was already as clear as the
day, or to 1 bring home,’ as Mr Malleson says, what was brought
home already.
But is there no subject about which Hamlet feels strongly
in which we can believe him to be so much interested as to
write verses on it ?
Certainly there is, and it is precisely the
subject with which the lines I identify with [Hamlet’s inserted
speech deal; namely, the conduct of his mother.
It is this
which really fills his mind, and it is because he is so intensely
pre-occupied with this, that he is so languid about what he feels
ought to engage his attention more. Before even he suspected
his uncle’s guilt, before the appearance of the ghost, he is shown to
us so much depressed as to think of suicide on account of his
mother’s levity; and when he has his mother face to face with him
he shows an energy and vehemence we might have thought foreign
to his character. As Mr Malleson very truly says, it is his mother
who, by putting him out of humour with all women, causes him to
behave so strangely to Ophelia, and the coarseness of his language
to her in this very scene shows that he is brooding on the subject at
this particular moment. It is, then, I maintain, a, priori, most likely,
from what we know of Hamlet’s feelings, that this would be the
subject of his inserted speech.
But we must consider Shakspere’s objects as well as Hamlet’s.
Supposing the speech to be on the subject of the murder, even if it
answered Hamlet’s purpose, it was of no use to the poet. It would
�XII. 2.
WHICH ARE HAMLEt’s ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
481
be merely an additional means, very superfluous as I think, of
exposing the King’s guilt; about Hamlet’s character and views, it
would tell us nothing that we did not know before j it would not
help the poet forward at all in his difficult exposition. Quite other*
wise if the speech dealt with the mother, not with the uncle; then
it has point; then we understand why the poet introduces it.
It is
a broad hint to the reader, and it was important to multiply such
hints as much as possible, that we are not to trust Hamlet’s profes*
sions, that the experiment of the play, with all its parade of in
genuity and the vengeance which is to follow the King’s exposure, is
a mere blind by which he hides both from himself and from Horatio
that he does not intend to act at all, and that he means to go on as
he has begun, brooding interminably upon the frailty of his mother,
the probable frailty of Ophelia, and the worthlessness of all
women.
Notice that when the speech which I call Hamlet’s insertion and
the Player-Queen’s short answer to it have been delivered, Hamlet
turns to his mother and says, ‘Madam, how like you this play?’
This I take to be Sliakspere’s quiet hint to the reader that he is to
mark these speeches especially, and that there is something particular
in them.
To sum up, then, my case is this :—
(1) In the long speech of the Player-King may be found a
passage of ‘ 12 or 16 lines.’
(2) This passage can be omitted without damage to the action.
(3) No other such passage can be found in the sub-play, so that
those who reject this passage are driven to the shift of supposing that
Shakspere after promising us such a passage and leading us to expect
it has not given it.
(4) The passage suits Hamlet’s general character better than any
other in the sub-play. This is admitted by Mr Malleson.
(5) It suits Hamlet’s views and feelings at the moment, which
are occupied only secondarily with his uncle’s guilt, primarily with
his mother’s misconduct.
(6) The insertion of it serves an object of the poet by showing
more clearly the doubleness of Hamlet’s conduct, and that while he
3
�482
XII. 3.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
was forced reluctantly by a sense of duty in one direction, his feel
ings and reflections were flowing irresistibly in another.
Sincerely yours,
J. R. Seeley.
III. 3/22 MALLESONS REJOINDER TO PROF. SEELEY’S
COMMENTS.
My
dear
Furnivall,
Mr Seeley’s reply to my paper is a striking one, but I
cannot give way, so you must allow me a brief reply.
Mr Seeley says that there are two ‘ necessary ’ characteristics for
the speech; it must consist of some 12 or 16 lines; and being an in
sertion it must be such a speech as can be removed without affecting
the action of the play.
I think this is somewhat strained.
Hamlet
never says he has written a passage of so many lines and inserted it.
If he had said so the matter would be simpler. We only know that
he intended to write and insert some lines of the number of which
he was not himself certain, ‘12 or 16.’ When he sat down with
the play before him he may have written 20 or 26, and indeed, if I
accepted the Player-King’s speech as partly Hamlet’s, I should claim
for him all of it, except only the two first and two last lines, which,
omitting the intervening 26, still go fairly together:—
I do believe you think what now you speak
But what we do determine oft we break.
So think thou wilt no second husband wed,
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.
1
2
28
30
And altho’ Mr Seeley says that it is quite easy to spare about 12 or
16 lines from the middle of this speech, he does not tell us, as I
think he should do, which lines he fixes upon, that we might judge
how far they do bear upon the conduct and character of Hamlet’s
mother.
Again, I do not see why the inserted lines must be such as can
be removed without affecting the action of the play; may not
Hamlet have inserted his lines in substitution for others which he
�XII. 3.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s f DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
483
struck out 1 If so Mr Seeley’s argument against ‘ Thoughts black,
hands apt, etc.,’ because necessary to the action of the piece, will fall
to the ground.
But the most important part of Mr Seeley’s paper, to my mind,
is his defence of the passage he has selected on the ground that it
refers to the guilt of Hamlet’s mother, and describes her character.
He believes Hamlet to have been intensely pre-occupied with this
subject, to the exclusion of that duty of revenging his murdered
father, as to which he had sworn that it alone should live within
the book and volume of his brain unmixed with baser matter. Now
let us look at the lines to test this view of them. We may dismiss,
as above, the two first and two last lines on Mr Seeley’s own theory.
The next eight,1 from ‘ Purpose is but the slave to memory,’ describe
feebleness and vacillation of purpose. What men propose to them
selves under the influence of passion they forget when the passion is
over, and do not execute. Where in Hamlet’s mother do we find this
feeble vacillation ? Morally weak she certainly was, but not, I
think, one of the cowards of conscience. Having allowed her love
to he won by her husband’s brother during her husband’s life-time,
she suppresses any outward sign of the agonies of conscience, and
continues quietly with her betrayed but unsuspecting lord until his
sudden death (she is not privy to the murder), and then, within a
month of the funeral, without any vacillation at all, gives her hand
to her paramour. And just as no outward sign of flattering or
remorse on her part awakened suspicion in her first husband, so
now to all appearance she was prepared to lead a serene respectable
dignified life, had it not been for the moodiness and melancholy of
Hamlet. An easily led woman she appears to me, not introspective,
not given to searchings of conscience; the very reverse of her son,
whom the description so well fits.
1 Purpose is but the slave to memory ;
Of violent birth, but poor validity ;
Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree ;
But fall unshaken, when they mellow be.
Most necessary ’tis that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt:
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
�484
XII. 3.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S 1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
The next four1 lines, ‘ The violence of either grief or joy,’ etc.,
describe satirically how easily men pass from joy to grief, or from
grief to joy, on slender accident. They deal, we should remember,
with joy and grief really felt, although shallow, not with feigned
feeling. The application is to the Player-Queen, whose future the
dumb show has sketched for us. It does not at all fit the case of
Hamlet’s mother, whose grief at the death of his father could not, as
Hamlet now well knew, have been violent; she may have followed bis
body like Niobe, all tears, but her sorrow was feigned, her thoughts
upon the new marriage. Had Hamlet wished to launch a dart at her,
he would have satirized the vice of hypocrisy, not the quick change
from violent grief to joy. The 102 succeeding lines, beginning,
This world is not for aye ; nor ’tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change,
deal with changes of love, and the subject at first seems appropriate
to the Queen. But the method of treatment is pointedly not so.
Again, it suits the Player-Queen, not the real queen. The burden is,
that love follows fortune. This hits off the lady, who having loved
and lost one royal husband, is ready at short notice to take another.
It does not touch what -was rankling in Hamlet’s mind—his mother’s
gross infidelity to her lord and king. Her falling off, her declining
from her first gracious husband upon the wretch whose natural gifts
were poor, is altogether a mystery, a terrible story; but at least her
love had neither been lead nor mislead by fortune. The remaining
four lines,
1 The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy ;
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament,
Grief joys, Joy grieves, on slender accident.
2 This world is not for aye ; nor ’tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change,
For ’tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
The great man down, you mark, his favourite flies ;
The poor advanced makes friends of enemies.
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend ;
For who not needs shall never lack a friend ;
And who in want a hollow friend doth try
Directly seasons him his enemy.
�XIX. 8.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
485
But orderly to end where I begun,—
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown ;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own,
femind one of Hamlet himself, as I have said before, but do not
apply to the Queen at all.
I find, then, nothing in all this passage to catch the conscience of
the Queen, nothing with any special reference to her, and accordingly
she is perfectly unmoved by it. When Hamlet, shortly after (but
not immediately after) the Player-King’s speech, asks the question,
which Mr Seeley remarks upon, ‘ Madam, how like you this play 1 ’
the Queen entirely ignores the speech which Mr Seeley believes was
inserted to affect her, but refers to what the Player-Queen has just
pointedly said against second marriages, and with admirable self-pos
session answers simply, 1 Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’
I am persuaded that if Hamlet, as Mr Seeley imagines, wrote his
verses with the Queen in his mind, he would not have made them,
when regarded with reference to her, so pointless and beside the
mark.
The success of these lines at least was not such as to win Hamlet
a fellowship in a cry of players, a point in my first paper which Mr
Seeley lets go by, as he does also the intimation from Hamlet him
self that his lines contained the torrent tempest and whirlwind of
passion.
But it is indeed remarkable how little the Queen is affected by
tire play; she is indeed thrown into a ‘most great affliction of spirit,’
and desires at once to see Hamlet in her closet, but it is entirely upon
her husband’s account; she is troubled because Hamlet has so much
offended him, and is prepared to scold him well, to ‘ tax him home,’
for having done so. Then indeed Hamlet does arouse her conscience,
and turns her eyes into her very soul, effecting at once easily
directly and completely in this scene the very purpose that Mr
Seeley supposes him to have ineffectually attempted just before by
the round-about method of the play.
Mr Seeley, who at the commencement of his paper rather wishes
to put on one side conjectural interpretations of Hamlet’s character,
nevertheless, towards its close, supports his choice of the passage we
�486
XII. 3.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S 1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’1?
are disputing about by the striking theory that the experiment of
the play is a mere blind by which Hamlet hides from himself and
Horatio that he does not intend to act at all, but will go on as he has
begun, 1 brooding interminably upon the frailty of his mother, the
probable frailty of Ophelia, and the worthlessness of all women.’
In these last words a part seems to me substituted for the
whole; deeply as Hamlet felt about his mother and Ophelia, he is
much more than an injured son and a love-sick Romeo, in doubt of
the fidelity of his Juliet, put together. His philosophical, speculative
spirit would have survived both shocks, had not there weighed upon
him that too heavy duty—and yet to his mind that religious duty—
of revenge upon his uncle for the murder of his father.
A horrible
work for his tender, thoughtful, dreaming nature.
He was one troubled with thoughts that lie beyond the reaches of
our souls, so accustomed to detach himself from his surroundings,
that he could be bounded in a nutshell and count himself king of
infinite space. He has an inward life of keen observation and subtle
thought, apart from the life of loves, hates, fears, changes, duties,
which he lives with others. He moves through the play, to my mind,
like a being of a different world, tied indeed to that of his fellows
by many links,—the most delightful of which had become the most
painful,—but sympathizing with and trusting no one but Horatio,
who belonged also to his other world of subtle, wide-reaching
speculation.
Passage after passage—I need not quote—will occur to the student
of Hamlet, in which he pauses even in the most exciting moments
to generalize, to moralize, or even to note an observation. Coleridge
says, 11 Hamlet’s character is the prevalence of the abstracting and
generalizing habit over the practical. He does not want courage,
skill, will, or opportunity; but every incident sets him thinking ;
and it is curious, and at the same time strictly natural, that Hamlet,
who all the play seems reason itself, should be impelled at last by
mere accident to effect his object.” Coleridge adds, “ I have a smack
of Hamlet myself, if I may say so.”
I have but little more to add. Mr Seeley asks me to point out
where I find that Hamlet’s lines were to refer to the King’s guilt. In
�XII. 3.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
487
addition to the reasons already given, I may add this—that it is at
the very moment when he has just commanded the play, in order, as
every one admits, to catch the King, that he also proposes to add his
lines; and why should we cast about for another purpose 1 Mr
Seeley says that the play was already sufficiently pointed.
So be it;
but in Hamlet’s state of excitement there would be nothing unnatural
in his wishing to make assurance doubly sure.
The question whether his father’s murder or his mother’s mis
conduct is uppermost in Hamlet’s mind I need not now enter upon;
as I have endeavoured to show that the lines Mr Seeley contends
for refer as little ter the latter as to the former; but it is going some
what far to say that ‘ before Hamlet even suspected his uncle's guilt,Qi)
before the appearance of the ghost, he is shown to us so much de
pressed as to think of suicide on account of his mother’s levity.’ He
is certainly also shown to us as weighed down by his father’s death,
his grief does not ‘ seem ’, it ‘ is ’; the very form of his father is
vividly present to his mind’s eye when speaking with Horatio,
before he has heard of the apparition of the ‘ Spirit in arms.’ Then
his previously latent suspicions take form at once, he doubts ‘ some
foul play,’ and when the ghost is beginning the fearful revelation,
Hamlet breaks in upon it with—
O my prophetic soul! mine uncle!
There is no doubt, however, that Mr Seeley is right when he says
that his lines suit Hamlet’s character better than any others in the
sub-play. I go further, and say they describe Hamlet’s character.
How, then, do they come there ? Hamlet had no object to attain by
describing himself, but Shakspere had in describing Hamlet, and
throughout the play he seems to seize every occasion to throw a
needed light upon his enigmatical character. If, then, the sub-play
ever really existed independently, 1 extant ’ as Hamlet assures us it
was, and ‘ writ in choice Italian,’ Shakspere may have added this
passage to elucidate the meaning of the larger play ; or if it was all
Shakspere’s, written in imitation of such brief performances, he may
have introduced the lines for the same purpose.
�488
XII. 4.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
However, this difficulty comes not near my conscience, it does
not touch my argument. I have not to defend all or any of the queer
little play, so wordy and yet so brief, with its short speeches and
quick action. I need only say, if any one
——like not the comedy,
Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy.
Yours faithfully,
W. T. Malleson.
IV. PROF. SEELEY’S FINAL REMARKS.
I must add one or two words before the controversy is closed.
First, I hope Shaksperian students will not forget what Mr
Malleson has pointed out in his first paper; namely, that Shakspere
did not mean us to think of Hamlet’s intention to insert a dozen or
sixteen lines as a mere passing fancy, that it is this inserted speech
which Hamlet has in view when he gives his celebrated instruction
to the players, and that therefore, unless’ something strange has
happened to the play, the insertion clearly ought to be discoverable.
Unless, then, we suppose an alteration of the play to have taken
place in which the insertion has disappeared, while all that leads us
to expect the insertion has by some unaccountable negligence been
allowed to stand, we have to choose between my view and Mr
Malleson’s, for I do not think any third can be suggested.
I have urged against Mr Malleson’s view that the speech he
chooses cannot be removed without affecting the action of the play,
and therefore has not the character of an insertion. Mr Malleson
now answers that Hamlet “ may have inserted his lines in substitu
tion for others which he struck out; ” but I submit that this is an
unnatural interpretation of the words, and that, at least, a passage
plainly removable answers Hamlet’s description much better than
one which is not.
It may be urged—Mr Malleson seems half-inclined to urge it—
that I am bound to mark exactly the beginning and end of the
passage which I consider to be the insertion. As I have said, there
�XII. 4.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ Î
489
is no difficulty in omitting a good long passage from the middle of
the player-king’s speech, and this is actually done now at the
Aycewn; for, I take it, the length of that speech will always seem
intolerable to actors who do not’see the importance of it; but I
admit that the omission might be made in two or three different
Wyt, and that I do not profess to know for certain which is the
way. I hardly think that Shakspere knew himself. When he
Wne to compose the speech I imagine he said to himself : ‘ it must
eummence with a general text, which is to be considered as be
longing to the original play, “what we do determine oft we break
then must follow Hamlet’s sermon upon it.’ But, as Shakspere was
in reality author of both text and sermon, he wove them together so
much, that, though I think he left it quite clear that Hamlet’s copy
of verses is here, yet he did not make it possible to say with abso
lute certainty where it begins. I believe that any one who tried
in this way to write a poetical speech with a mock-insertion in it
would be almost sure to make the join not quite distinct enough.
Mr Malleson accuses me of letting go by his observation that
Hamlet declares that the success of his lines might “win him a fellow
ship in a cry of players.” But it is a mere guess of Mr Malleson’s
that Hamlet is speaking of the success of his inserted lines and not
of that of the play in general. If a player were the same thing as a
dramatic writer I should think the guess plausible. A player might,
HO doubt, as in Shakspere’s own case, write verses, but it was not as
a player that he did so. Hamlet considers his success to be that of
a player, not that of a poet. I cannot see, then, that in this passage
there is any reference whatever to the inserted lines. Hamlet boasts
that he has selected a play so happily, and brought it out with such
success, as to show a genius for the business of a manager.
Again, Mr Malleson accuses me of leaving unanswered his obSWvation that, according to the instructions to the players these lines
“ contained the torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of passion,” whereas
the lines I point to are not passionate, but meditative.
I quite admit that Hamlet’s instructions suggest a speech that is
in ftome sense passionate, but any one who reads those instructions
will see that Hamlet is taking the occasion of a particular speech to
�490
XII. 4.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S 1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
give a general lecture on the art of elocution.
He is speaking
generally of the way in which passion should be expressed, and he
says that, even where it is most intense, there should be a temperance
or smoothness in the rendering of it. This remark is evidently sug
gested by a passionate speech, but it may easily be supposed to go
beyond the speech that suggested it, and to contemplate much higher
degrees of passion than are to be found there. But I believe also that
the generalities about feebleness of purpose which strike Mr Malleson
as not passionate, seemed to Hamlet very much so, and that he would
have wished to hear those lines recited with a kind of despairing
melancholy. For Hamlet’s mind runs on generalities of this kind,
and they inspire him with feelings so strong as to approach madness.
It is the Weltschmerz of Werther and Faust.
Again, Mr Malleson urges that if Hamlet’s object was to catch
the conscience of the queen he certainly does not succeed, for the
queen keeps her self-possession perfectly. This shows me that I have
not succeeded in explaining what my view is.
Mr Malleson evi
dently thinks that I wish to maintain that Hamlet’s object in the
play is really to catch the conscience of the queen, and only ostensibly
to catch the conscience of the king. Not at all. I hold that his
object is just what he professes that it is, and that when he triumphs
so loudly and boasts of deserving a fellowship in a cry of players, it
is because he has succeeded in this object, that is, has caught the
conscience of the king. But for this purpose no insertion was
needed ; the play itself did its own work. The notion that the play
required to be altered to make it suit the circumstances more exactly
is not supported by anything in Shakspere. Prosaically, no doubt,
it is true; that is, it is not likely that a play could be found so
minutely corresponding to the facts of the king’s murder; but what
was the use of calling attention to a mere difficulty of detail, which
the reader could safely be left to overcome in his imagination as he
pleased ? My view, then, is that the insertion has a different object,
and is introduced to tell us something about Hamlet that we should
not have known so well otherwise. Is this object, then, to catch the
conscience of the queen? Not exactly; I should not express it so;
I do not imagine that Hamlet was disappointed when he saw that
�XII. 4.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
the queen remained undisturbed. But we have seen
the beginning of the play brooding over his mother’s
quantity of reflection on the subject of inconstancy,
purpose, &c., has been accumulating in his mind. He
491
Hamlet from
conduct. A
feebleness of
is a person of
a literary turn, given to reading, to writing verses, to thinking about
the drama. I imagine, then, that when he has hit upon the happy
compromise between his public duty and his private taste which the
play offers, he thinks with great delight of the opportunity it
affords him of relieving himself of the weight of feeling that has
been oppressing him so long by putting it into verse. He will write
a poem on his mother, and insert it in the play. It may not produce
much effect on her when she hears it; indeed, he probably knows
too well already how unimpressionable she is; but his object will
be gained if he only writes it, for it will be a relief to his feelings.
And if Hamlet’s object will be gained, still more will Shakspere’s.
For he will have at the same time thrown new light on the dreamy,
unpractical character of Hamlet, and made us aware of the private
train of thought which Hamlet is pursuing all the while that he
professes to be intent upon detecting his uncle’s guilt.
But Mr Malleson says the speech I point to is not a description
of Hamlet’s mother, but of himself. He says, “ The eight lines from
‘Purpose is but the slave to memory’ describe feebleness and
vacillation of purpose. What men propose to themselves under the
influence of passion they forget when the passion is over, and do not
execute. Where in Hamlet’s mother do we find this feeble vacil
lation]” We find it surely in the fact that, having loved Hamlet’s
father, she allowed her affections to be drawn away by the con
temptible uncle. Read Hamlet’s first soliloquy. It all turns on
the incredible levity and fickleness of his mother. Mr Malleson’s
point seems to be, that the revelation of the ghost must have changed
his view, for the ghost ‘seems to say that the queen had been un
faithful to her husband in his lifetime, so that Hamlet ought now
to charge her, not with mere vacillation, but with actual sin and
breach of marriage faith. But this does not affect the fact that she
had displayed ‘ feeble vacillation; ’ only it shows that the vacillation
had appeared earlier than Hamlet knew, and had gone further. He
�492
XII. 4.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN TANKS ’ 1
might dwell upon her feebleness or her sin, as either might happen
to strike him most , forcibly, for in her conduct there was both.
But
as a matter of fact he is most struck by her feebleness, and this even
after the ghost’s revelations. We see this from the language he
holds in his interview with his mother.
So little does he say to his
mother about actual sin or breach of faith, that one might read that
whole Scene, as, in fact, I for a long time did, without discovering,
what I now think is clear from the language of the ghost, that she
had done anything worse than take up with a contemptible husband
after having lost a noble one. It is true, Hamlet begins by charging
her with being guilty of a monstrous crime, but when he comes to
say what it is, we find not a word about breach of faith, violation of
the marriage vow; he simply presses upon her the revolting contrast
between her two husbands, and asks how she could have eyes to
tolerate her second after her first. Now, it is evident that from the
purely moral point of view the comparative merits of the two men
do not concern the matter, and yet Hamlet’s language is such as
almost to imply that if they had presented themselves to her in the
reverse order, her conduct would have been as admirable as it was
disgraceful. I point out this to show, that if the speech in the sub
play is on vacillation, and not on adultery or hypocrisy, it suits all
the better with the tenour of Hamlet’s reflections on his mother’s
conduct, for it is on vacillation that he harps, both in his first
soliloquy and also in the interview with his mother after he has
learnt all that the ghost has to tell.
In Mr Malleson’s assertion that the lines describe Hamlet’s own
character, there is no doubt a grain of truth. Hamlet cannot de
scribe a vacillating character without in some degree describing
his own; and it is quite in his vein of moralizing to say, “ We
are all such weaklings and I am one myself! ” But in the
first instance the speech refers to Hamlet’s mother, not to Hamlet
himself, for it refers to a wife tempted to marry again, and Hamlet,
was not such a person.
I think I have now answered all Mr Malleson’s objections. I
only wish to add, that whatever may be the truth about the “ dozen
or sixteen lines,” I am strongly of opinion that critics have not
�XXI.
4. WHICH ARE
hamlet’s
1 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ ?
493
sufficiently understood the true nature of the retarding influence" in
the play of Hamlet. Hamlet is made irresolute, not merely by his
natural character, but by the intense pre-occupation of his mind by
the subject of his mother. He himself excuses his delay by passion—
“ Who lapsed in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of
your dread command.” Critics, it seems to me, have not understood
the full importance of the lines of the Ghost at the beginning of the
play
“ But howsoever thou pursu’st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught.”
The early critics noticed the nobleness of the passage; but to see
the importance of it, we must compare it with what happens at
Hamlet’s interview with his mother. There the Ghost appears again.
What can be the meaning of such a startling incident ?
He says,
“The visitation is but to whet thine almost blunted purpose.” But
the reason evidently is, because Hamlet is • forgetting the former
admonition. His rage against his mother is passing all bounds. And
to make this plainer, Shakspere has carefully contrasted it with his
behaviour towards the uncle. Two scenes are put side by side. In
the first Hamlet overhears his uncle’s soliloquy; in the second he
talks to his mother. In the first his irresolution overpowers him.
He loses his opportunity through a scruple which would be utterly
monstrous if it were not evidently artificial. In the second he rises
to a height of passion which we should not have thought belonged
to his nature, and actually startles the dead king from his grave to
Watch over the wife he still remembers with tenderness.
Between these two appearances of the Ghost, Shakspere’s con
trivance to show us the pre-occupation of Hamlet’s mind with his
mother, is the story of his behavioqr to Ophelia. I agree with Mr
Malleson in the explanation he gives of the coarseness of Hamlet’s
language to her.
But the same explanation applies, not to that
acene only, but to all the scenes between Hamlet and Ophelia.
Hamlet has generalized in his fashion from the conduct of his mother
to that of all women, and so casts Ophelia off. But more is wanted ;
in fact, when we consider how little all this has actually been under
stood, we see that much more was wanted.
�494
XII.
4. WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
The contrivance, then, of “ the dozen or sixteen lines ” was not
superfluous. In the lively satire of the conversation with the
players and in the tumult of the play-scene there was danger
that we should forget what Hamlet’s mind is really brooding
over. This danger could only be avoided by giving additional
importance to that part of the sub-play which concerned the queen.
This is done by the insertion. That that insertion should refer to
the queen, and not the king, seems, I know, to most persons prima
facie improbable, but I believe that if they will begin by weighing
what I have urged as to the real nature of the retarding influence in
this play they will see that the prima facie probability is in favour
of it.
Mr Furnivall:—It seems to me that technically Professor
Seeley’s position is very strong ; but that ‘ on the merits ’ he breaks
down : he has a capital case at Law, but none in Equity. After he
first put the inserted-speech point to me, in the course of a long after
noon’s walk in the country, I was able to pick out the lines in the
Player-King’s, Speech, not because they had much to do with the
Queen or King, but because they describd—as Prof. Seeley told me they
did—the character. of Hamlet. On further consideration, I cannot
resist Mr Malleson’s argument that Hamlet’s inserted speech is the one
speech in which he tells Horatio the King’s occulted guilt is to unken
nel itself. To me, at any rate, fair criticism requires the identification of
the two. But I hold very strongly that Lucianus’s speech, “ Thoughts
black,” &c., is not this speech; and that, in fact, the speech is notin
the printed play. Either the King’s conscience was more quickly
stung than Hamlet anticipated,—that is, than Shakspere meant it to
be before he got to the scene,—and so the written speech was never
needed; or, (as Mr Matthew has suggested) Shakspere contented him
self with showing us (or letting us assume) that Hamlet alterd the
Play, and put his “ dozen or sixteen lines ” into action instead of
words. Hamlet at first resolvd to “ have these players play some
thing like
murder of my father before mine uncle.” Then he
made them play a play exactly like the murder; and took credit to
himself for the whole affair : “ would not this get me a fellowship in
a cry of players 1 ” If he hadn’t modified the play, if it had been all
—like its story—really extant in choice Italian, what credit could
Shakspere have claimd for himself as a play-writer or adapter ?
The inconsistency of Shakspere’s having made Hamlet first talk
so much about inserting one speech, and then having afterwards left
it out, doesn’t trouble me in the least. It’s just what one might fairly
�XII.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES"?
495
expect in til® recast Hamlet, after its really startling inconsistencies
in far more important matters, 1. as to Hamlet’s age, and 2. as t-o
Ophelia’s suicide. We know how early, in olden time, young men of
yank were put to arms ; how early, if they 'went to a University, they
left it, for training in Camp and Court. Hamlet, at a University,
ftouh1 hardly have passt 20; and with this age, the plain mention of
his '“youth of primy nature” (I. iii. 7), and “ nature crescent, . . not
. » alone in thews and bulk” (I. iii. 11-12), “Lord Hamlet . . he is
young” (I. iii. 123-4), &c., by Polonius and Laertes, agrees.
With this, too, agrees the King’s reproach to Hamlet for his
41 intent in going back to school at Wittemberg ; ” and Hamlet’s own
revolt-of-nature at his mother’s quick re-marriage to his uncle. Had
he been much past 21, and had more experience of then women, he’d
have taken his mother’s changeableness more coolly. I look on it as
certain, that when Shakspere began the play he conceivd Hamlet as
quite a young man. But as the play grew, as greater weight of reflec
tion, of insight into character, of knowledge of life, &c., were wanted,
Bhakspere necessarily and naturally made Hamlet a formd man;
and, by the time that he got to the Gravediggers’ scene, told us the
Prince was 30—the right age for him then : but not his age to
Laertes and Polonius when they warnd Ophelia against his blood
that burnd, his youthful fancy for her—1 a toy in blood ’—&c. The
two parts of the play are inconsistent on this main point in Hamlet’s
State. What matter? Who wants ’em made consistent by the
modification of either part ? The ‘ thirty ’ is not in the first Quarto :
yefc^o one wants to go back to that.
2. As Mason notic’t with regard to Ophelia’s death, “ there is not
a single circumstance in the relation [by the Queen] of Ophelia’s
death, that induces us to think she had drowned herself intentionally ”
(Panorum, vii. 460); on the contrary, we are expressly told that the
branch (sliver) broke, and she fell in. Yet directly afterwards (V. i.)
We are told that she sought her death ‘ wilfully ’, “ did with desperate
hand fordo [her] own life ” ; the priest declares her death was doubt
ful, buries her with maimed rites only by the express command of the
King, and says that, but for this command, she’d have been buried in
ground unsanctified (in ‘ the open fieldes ’, Qi). After inconsistencies
like these—and there may be others in the play—what can it matter
whether an actual speech of a dozen or sixteen lines, though often
announct, is really in the play or not? The comparative insignifi
cance of the point is shown by no one having noted it in print before
Mr and Mrs Cowden Clarke.1 But while I say 4 comparative insignificance,’ I only use this phrase to lessen any wonderer’s surprise at my
conclusion that Shakspere should have left the speech out, or turnd his
propos’d insertion into a more important adaptation of the play. I
do not think Prof. Seeley’s bringing the question before us at all
1 Note the funny lucus a non lucendo reason given by these editors for the
insertion of the lines.
�496
XII.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S 4 DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES ’ 1
insignificant: the point is a capital one, just suited for us. I accept it
thankfully as a reproach for having read Hamlet so carelessly be
fore ; and, as formerly,—when Prof. Seeley identified, for the first
time, Chaucer’s Plowman with him of William’s Fmcw,—I gladly
acknowledge the freshness of his view, the keenness and penetration
of his mind, and thank him heartily for raising the question, and Mr
Malleson for showing such good cause against his conclusions.
Mr Eichard Simpson, who could not come to our Meeting, has
sent me the following letter :—
My dear Furnivall,
I think that there is no warrant for assuming that the
lines announced by Hamlet are to be supposed to exist in the sub
play at all. The whole subject of these sub-plays should be
examined into. It is clear that the necessity for abbreviation will
not allow them to contain all the elements of a play, any more than
an historical drama can contain all the events of a reign. And as
the historical drama takes for granted those events which are made
known by previous allusions, so the sub-play generally omits all
those details which have been previously described or alluded to.
Let me refer to two dramas where sub-plays are introduced after
previous preparation. In the Midsummer Night's Dream we have
not only the play as presented before Theseus, but a previous re
hearsal of it in Act iii. sc. 1. * The lines there rehearsed are totally
different from any that come in the play ultimately acted. Again, in
the Histriomastix, the play of the Prodigal Son, acted in the late
portion of the drama, is preceded by the poet’s reading it over to the
actors in an earlier scene. Not a passage in these two presentations
of the same piece agrees. The announcement and expectations raised
by the first recital are not fulfilled in the event.
Again, when a play, imagined to be some thousand lines long, is
compressed into about 70, a speech of a dozen or sixteen lines in it
shrinks, by proportion, into about five words.
Looking both at the practice of the Elizabethan dramatists, and
at the previous likelihoods of the case, I see no reason whatever for
expecting to find that Shakspere would have put into the sub-play
the dozen lines which he makes Hamlet promise. At the end Hamlet
exults over his success as if the whole play had been his own adapt
ation. I don’t believe that the poet ever meant wis to pick out a bit,
and say, This is the plum contributed by Hamlet himself.
E. Simpson.
Dr Brinsley Nicholson : My spoken remarks are here put forth
in somewhat better shape, both because each theorist has since
insisted very strongly on his own peculiar views, and because I did
not ex improviso bring out as I had wished what I take to be the
intent and significance of the advice-to-the-players-speech.
�XII.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
497
Both theories appear to take it for granted that the sub-play is a
real play and not Shakspere’s. The ring-poesie prologue, the short
speeches, the absence of any second plot, and of any but the main
actors of the main plot, the directness with which the plot is opened,
and the occurrence of the chief catastrophe within a few minutes
from the drawing of the curtain, all show that the play is the abridge
ment of an abridgement manufactured for the occasion. That it is
Shakspere’s is also shown by every speech in it, and his art is dis
tinctly manifested in the way in which in so little space he has con
trived in Gonzago’s speech to open out to us Hamlet’s thoughts and
character, and state in brief that moral of the main play which
Hamlet’s character is meant to set forth.
“ Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own ”
£s merely a variant of Hamlet’s own phrase,
“ There’s a divinity that shapes our ends ”,
and both express one of the main ideas of the play. If the sub-play
be stilted and artificial, it is so made on the principle that leads a
painter to paint a picture within a picture rudely and artificially,
namely, that his own presentment may appear more true and life-like.
But, it is said, Hamlet is represented as writing a speech for the
Set purpose of more surely catching the conscience of the king. True,
and sufficient artistic reasons can be given for this. First, if it were
not necessary that Hamlet should rush into action, yet any one in
his position would for naturalness’ sake be represented as trying to
make assurance doubly sure. Secondly, in the feverish activity into
which Hamlet is roused, it is a necessity that he should do somewhat.
Ware he not, this, looked at by his character elsewhere, would have
been a grievous flaw in Shakspere’s delineation of him, and this side
or indirect, and literary and, as it were, meditative action is that most
in keeping. Thirdly, as it tended to destroy the audience ’ belief in
the Hamlet story, that there should be a play so exactly similar in
plot, and manner and place and rewards of poisoning ;—as the Gonzago
play would tend to mar the reality of the Hamlet play, and the Hamlet
play would give rise to the belief that the Gonzago play was evolved
to order—the double result of coincidence was avoided by making
Hamlet appear as an adapter. This, it will be observed, does not trench
fit in any way depend on the question whether any tragedy of ‘The
Murder of Gonzago’ really existed. That there was such a tragedy is
a, perfectly gratuitous assumption; but if there were, then Hamlet’s
expressed intent would bring out more forcibly the difference between
the real tragedy and—not Hamlet’s—but Shakspere’s sub-play adapt
ation. That the audience knew Kyd’s Sdliman and Perseda only
»»akes Hieronimo’s use of the story as a sub-play and bringer about
■of the catastrophe in Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy the more natural.
Again, it will be said, admitting these artistic reasons, there still
»remains the fact that Hamlet is represented as writing. But the artistic
�498
XII.
WHICH ARE HAMLET’S ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
reasons being allowed, what reason is there for Hamlet’s writing
when Shakspere had the whole intent of the sub-play in his mind’s
eye, and the whole making of it in his own hands 1 Admit the play
to be Shakspere’s, and admit the reasons for his manner of introduc
ing the play, and the whole raison d'etre of Hamlet’s intent appears,
and the whole raison di être for there being any such speech disappears.
And here comes in fitly and with force Mr R. Simpson’s acute remark
that the description of these sub-plays never answers to their per
formance. Not a word spoken in the rehearsal scene in Histriomastix is spoken in the acted play, neither is there a word of Bottom
and Co.’s rehearsal spoken in the Pyramus and Thisbe presented be
fore Theseus and his bride.
Lastly, it may be said, that in proof of the existence of a Ham
let speech it is again pointedly referred to in Hamlet’s advice to the
players. This is true, and I am content that the question be decided
by this advice. Where in the sub-play is the clown, so animadverted
on by Hamlet! Or if it be said, this latter part of the advice is a
digression into which, as usual, his subject carries him, I ask
where, after the very first words—“ Speak the speech, I pray you, trip
pingly on the tongue,” where is the town-crier speech, where the
speech requiringu a sawing of the air thus ”—where the very torrent,
tempest, and whirlwind of passion—where the robustious periwigpated fellow tearing his passion to tatters—where the o’erdoing Ter
magant and out - heroding Herod 1
The very speech relied on
declares in its opening words, as well as in its closing ones, that it
cannot refer to any speech in the sub-play.
Why then was it introduced? Not simply to keep up the vrai
semblance of the whole contrivance. This was a secondary aim ; but
its true raison d'être is, that Shakspere had something to say on plays
and play-acting which he would not leave unsaid, and took or made
this opportunity of saying it. Just as Hamlet represents a phase in
Shakspere’s life and character more individually than any other of
his characters, so nowhere—unless where he refers to the luces,—
does he, so to speak, break forth as in Hamlet. Thus we have the
outbreak on the tragedians of the city and cry of children. Lor
myself, I have little doubt that there is a reference or references to
Jonson, to whom in 1601 or -2, he had administered a famous dose.
And none can read the diatribe against clowns in the first Quarto,
without perceiving that Shakspere is speaking with personal anger
and bitterness against some particular actor, Kemp, or some other.
Very possibly also there are in the rest of the advice special hits
which were to his then audience palpable enough. But there is more,
and as I take it, a rising above these squabbles, and whether Shak
spere followed the changing taste of the day, or went against it, or
led it, I hold this speech to be his definite protest against the un
naturalness and stilt and rant of the Tamburlaine style of plays where
Marlow was imitated,—but not his poetry,—and against the artificiality
�XII.
WHICH ARE hamlet’s ‘ DOZEN OR SIXTEEN LINES’?
499
and rant of the actors who played in them. Hamlet is the first of
Shakspere’s greatest dramas, and he then, so to express it, found himself, and this speech is the outcome of some of his maturing thoughts.
In it are the suggesting thoughts that led him to give up the more
poetic and fanciful treatment of his subjects observable in the Mid
summer Night’s Dream, and Romeo and Juliet, and what Mr Hales
well calls the rhetorical style of Henry V. (and Julius Casar), toge
ther with the more heroic-ryme-like verse suited to these styles, in order
to make his mirrors to nature not only more like flesh and blood, but
think and speak more like those on the stage of the world. In one
word, this speech is Shakspere’s own indication of his aims in the
future manipulation of his thoughts and mode of expressing them.1
’ I have since come across the following :—“ The play, acted by the players
before the King, is at first in a bad and antiquated style. I thought it might
be really taken from an old play ; but it is impossible he could have lit upon
a composition which [so ?] suited his purpose ; and in the last speech but one
there is a resemblance to Shakespeare’s fancies, about grief, love, etc., and else
where to his words; and great neatness and care in the composition. It is all
in rhyme. I do not see symptoms of the lines which Hamlet was to insert.”—
C. Bathurst's Remarks on Shakespeare's Versification, 1857, p. 70.
��Quarto 2 (with the Folio and a revised Text), c. Merry Wives
of Windsor, and Folio 1; d. The Contention, and Henry VI,
Part 2, in F 1; The True Tragedy, and Henry VI, Part 3, in
Fl.
Parallel Texts of the following Quarto Plays and their versions
in the First Folio, with collations : Richard III, Q 1; 2 Henry
IV, Q 1; Troilus and Cressida, Q 1; Lear, QI. Of Othello,
four Texts : Q 1, Q 2, F 1, and a revised Text.
Parallel Texts of the two earliest Quartos of Midsummer
Night’s Dream, and The Merchant of Venice.
The First Quartos of Much Ado about Nothing; Loues
Labour’s Lost; Richard II; 1 Henry IV;—from which
the copies in the Folio were printed ;—and Edward III.
Reprints in Quarto of the remaining Folio Plays, with collations.
Series IV.
Shakspere Allusion-Books, Parts II. and III.
Series V. The Contemporary Brama (ed. Richard Simpson. Esq.).
a. The Works of Robert Greene, Thomas Nash (with a selec
tion from Gabriel Harvey’s), Thomas Lodge, and Henry
Chettle.
b. The Arraignment of Paris (Peele’s) ; Arden of Feversham;
George-a-Greene; Locrine; King Edward III (of which
Act ii. is by a different hand, and that, almost certainly
Shakspere’s) ; Mucedorus; Sir John Oldcastle; Thomas
Lord Cromwell; The Merry Devil of Edmonton; The
London Prodigal; The Puritan; A Yorkshire Tragedy;
Faire Em; The Birth of Merlin; The Siege of Antwerp;
The Life and Death of Thomas Stucley; A Warning to
Fair Women.
c. The Martinist and Anti-Martinist Plays of 1589-91; and
the Plays relating to the quarrel between Dekker and
Jonson in 1600.
'
d. Lists of all the Companies of Actors in Shakspebe’s time,
their Directors, Players, Plays, and Poets, &c. &c.
Richard II, and the other Plays in Egerton MS. 1994
(suggested by Mr J. 0. Halliwell).
The Returnefrom Pernassus, 1606, to be edited by the Rev.
A. B. Grosart.
Series VII. Mysteries, fyc. Ancient Mysteries, with, a Morality,
from the Digby MS. 133, re-edited from the unique MS. by
the Rev. W- W. Skeat, M.A.; The Towneley Mysteries, reedited from the unique MS. by the Rev. Richard Morris, LL.D.
Series VIII. Miscellaneous. Autotypes of the parts of the Play
of Sir Thomas More that may possibly be in young Shakspere’s
handwriting, from the Harleian MS. 7368. Thomas Rymer’s
‘Tragedies of the last Age considered and examined’, 1673,
1692 ; and his ‘A short View of Tragedy of the last Age ’, 1693.
�ï
THE
NEW SHAKSPERE SOCIETY.
"Soeietie (saith the text) is the happinesse of life»"—Loues Labour's lost, iv. Î.
Meeting at University College, Gower St, London, W.C., on the 2nd Friday of every
month (except at Easter and during July, August, and September), at 8 p.m. Sub
scription, One Guinea a year, due on 1st January, and payable to the Hon. Sec., A. G.
Snelgrove, Esq., London Hospital, London, E.
PRESIDENT :
[ft -is hoped that one of our chief living Poets will take tAs post.]
VICE-PRESIDENTS :
I
F
j
The Rev. Edwin A. Abbott, D.D.
C. E. Appleton, Esq., D.C.L.
The Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells.
Professor T. Spencer Baynes, LL.D., St An
drew’s.
William Black, Esq.
H. I. H. Prince Louis-Lucien Bonaparte.
Professor F. J. Child, Ph.D., Harvard Coll.,
U.S.A.
Prof. Hiram Corson. Cornell Uni^ Ithaca,
U.S.A.
The Right Hos, Wm. F. Cowper-Temple,
M.P.
The Hon. Mrs Wm. F. Cowper-Temple.
Sir John F. Davis, Bart.
Lord Delamere.
Professor N. Delius, Ph.D., Bonn.
The Right Hon. The Earl of Derby.
The Duke of Devonshire, K.G.
Professor Dowden, LL.D., Trim Coll., Dublin.
The Archbishop of Dubmjt.
<The Countess of Ducie.
The Right Hon. The Earl of Dufferin
and Clandeboye, Governor-General of
Canada.
The Earl of Ellesmere.
Alexander J. Ellis, Esq., F.R.S.
Professor Karl Elze, Pil.D., Dessau.
Horace Howard Furness, Esq., Philadel
phia, U.S.A.
Mrs Horace Howard Furness.
Madame Gervinus, Heidelberg.
Henry Hucks Gibbs, Esq., M.A.
The Earl of Gosford.
Professor G. Guizot, College de France,
Paris.
N. E. S. A. Hamilton, Esq.
Sir T. Duffus Hardy.
Rev. H. N. Hudson, Cambridge, U.S.A.
Professor T. H. Huxley, F.R.S.
R. C. Jebb, Esq., M.A., Public Orator, Cam
bridge.
Lord Leconfield.
F. Leighton, Esq., R.A.
Professor Leo, Ph.D., Berlin.
H. R. H. Prince Leopold.
The Marquis of Lothian.
J. Russell Lowell, Esq., D.C.L., Cambridge,
U.S.A.
Sir John Lubbock, Bart., F.R.S.
The Right Hon. Lord Lyttelton.
George MacDonald, Esq., LL.D.
The Duke of Manchester.
H. Maudsley, Esq., M.D.
Prof. Henry Morley, Univ. Coll., London.
Rev. Richard Morris, LL.D.
Professor Max Müller, Ph.D., Oxford.
Professor C. W. Opzoomer, Ph.D., Utrecht.
Professor C. H. Pearson, M.A., Melbourne.
Sir Henry Rawlinson.
Henry Reeve, Esq., D.C.L.
The Right Hon. Lord Romilly.
Dante G. Rossetti, Esq.
Professor J. Ruskin, M.A., Oxford.
The Ex-Bishop of St David’s.
Alexander Schmidt, Ph.D., Berlin.
Professor J. R. Seeley, M.A., Cambridge.
The Rev. W. W. Skeat, M.A., Cambridge.
William Smith, Esq., D.C.L.
Sir Edward Strachey, Bart.
Tom Taylor, Esq., M.A.
Professor Bernhard Ten Brink, Ph.D.,
Strassburg.
The Right Rev. Bishop Thirlwall.
The Rev. W. H. Thompson, D.D., Master or
Trinity College, Cambridge.
Professor Ulrici, Ph.D., Halle.
R. Grant White, Esq., New York, U.S.A.
COMMITTEE :
F. J. Furnivall, Esq. (M.A.), Director, 3, St George’s Square, Primrose Hill, London, N.W.
J. W. Hales, Esq., M.A.
I Fred. D. Matthew, Esq.
C. Mansfield Ingleby, Esq., LL.D.
Brinsley Nicholson, Esq., M.D.
George H. Kingsley, Esq., M.D.
| Richard Simpson, Esq., B.A.
Treasurer: William Payne, Esq., The Keep, Forest Hill, London, S.E.
Hon. Sec.: Arthur G. Snelgrove, Esq., London Hospital, London, E.
Hankers: The Alliance Bank, Bartholomew Lane, London, E.C.
Publishers: N. Trübner & Co., 57 and 59, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.
Agents for North Germany: Asher & Co., 53, Mohren-Strasse, Berlin.
Agent for South Germany, <£■<•. .■ Karl J. Trübner, 9, Münster Platz, Strassburg.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Which are Hamlet's 'dozen or sixteen lines'?
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Malleson, W.T.
Seeley, J.R.
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An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: [2], [465]-499, [2] p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. List of publications of the New Shakespeare Society listed inside front cover. List of officers and committee members on back page. Papers read before before the New Shakespeare Society at the eleventh meeting, Friday, December 11, 1874 at University College, London. From: New Shakespeare Society. Publications. Series 1: Transactions. Nos. 1-2, xii, 1874. Inscription on inside front cover: 'M.D. Conway with W. Malleson's affectionate regards'. The New Shakespeare Society was founded in autumn 1873 by Frederick James Furnivall. Printed by John Child and Son.
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[New Shakespeare Society]
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[1874]
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G5302
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Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Which are Hamlet's 'dozen or sixteen lines'?), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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English
Conway Tracts
Hamlet
Shakespeare
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Text
LITTfiRATURE anglaise
PAR ALFRED MEZIERES
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
CHAPITRE III.
Jonson et Balzac. — L’usurier et l’avare dans la comedie anglaise. — Plaute, Moliere
et Jonson. —La comedie de caraclere au seizieme siecle. — La Femme silencieuse- —
L’alchimiste dans la vie reelle et sur la scene.
I
Jonson connait a merveille les defauts de son temps et les ridicules
habituels de la nature humaine. Mais ce n’est pas la le spectacle qui
l’attire et qui l’interesse le plus. Il aime les investigations neuves et
curieuses, il se plait a concevoir des caracteres exceptionnels , il des
cend dans les abimes de la conscience, il scrute les sentiments etranges qui se cachent quelquefois au fond du coeur de l’homme, et il
recherche surtout les analyses qui exigent de la penetration et de la
patience. Tandis que quclques-uns de ses contemporains les plus
celebres, Beaumont et Fletcher, par exemple, glissent rapidement a
la surface des choses, sans rien approfondir, il poursuit, avec perse
verance, le developpement de ses idees, il tire des phenomenes
psychologiques qu’il observe toutes les consequences qui en decoulent, et, quoiqu’il choisisse de preference pour objet de ses etudes
des passions extraordinaires, il s’efforce de conserver aux actions
qu’elles produisent l’apparence rigoureuse de la logique.
�78
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEAW^
Comme beaucoup d’esprits vigoureux, il decouvre
de mal
que de bien dans la nature humaine, il croit surtout que la variety
du mal offre a l’ecrivain des sujets de reflexion plus interessants I et
ce sont les symptomes les plus rares de la depravation sociale qui
attirent le plus son attention. Donnez-lui un scelerat: il l’examinera,
avec le coup d’oeil de 1’anatomiste. Si c’est un homme vulgaire J il
l’abandonnera bientot; mais s’il surprend chez lui des signes de force
et d’intelligence, s’il reconnait dans sa conduite l’indice d’une maladie morale peu connue, il le considere avec joie, comme le naturaliste
qui decouvre une espece nouvelle, il le classe dans sa galerie, et il
observe a la loupe tous les traits de son visage. Les monstres ne lui
deplaisent pas; ils sdnt rares et ils sont forts. C’en est assez pour
piquer sa curiosite : non point qu’il se propose de les rehabiliter
comme on l’a fait si souvent de nos jours; il ne les couronne pas de
fleurs, il ne soutient pas le paradoxe moderne de la superiorite du
crime sur la vertu. On ne trouverait pas, dans tout le theatre anglais du
seizieme siecle, une seule theorie de ce genre. Le mal n’y est jamais
ni deguise sous des couleurs brillantes, ni place au-dessus du bien.
Chaque action y est qualifiee, comme elle merite de l’etre, sans aucune predilection, pour le vice. Jonson n’a done point de sympathie
pour le’s mechants et ne cherche pas a les rendre aimables. Mais il
les peint tels qu’il les a vus ou tels qu’il les conceit, avec une
effrayante vyiteMliait le denombrement exact de tous leurs defauts,
il signale les mobiles caches de leurs actes, et il met en relief]
jusqu’aux inoindres details qui composent I’ensemble de leur physionomie. ■
.
Ges peintures minutieuses de la laideur morale qui rappellent
l’exafflitude des peintres Hamands, sont le triomphe du vieux Ben.
C’est la qu’il excelle. Par la patience., par la puissance de 1’observaJ
tion et par la vigueur du pinceau, il s’eleve quelquefois jusqu’au
genie. S’il vivait aujourd’hui, on le classerait infailliblement parmi
les vealist@s;cax; |n’a peur ni des termes techniques, ni des descrip
tions detaillees, ni. des images ernes, ni des tableaux grossiers. On a
compare recemment, et.pour la premiere fois sans doute, notre
romancier Balzac a Shakspeare. La comparaison manque de justesse. Ce sont au contraire deux esprits tres-difierents. Tandis que.
1’un, quoique doue d’un puissant esprit, se traine peniblement dans
les bas-fonds de la societe, l’autre s’eleve sans cesse, sur des ailes de
flamme, vers des regions plus pures. G’est plutot a Jonson que Balzac
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
7!)
ressemble. Tous deux etudient, avec une egale curiosite, les mala
dies morales de Fame, tous deux s’attachent a F observation des caracteres exceptionnels et pervers, tous deux analysent avec patience et
peignent avec energie ce qu’ils ont vu ou ce qu’ils ont concu. Seulement l’un est un poete qui ecrit fortement sa langue; l’autre un prosateur qui £crit difficilement la sienne.
Balzac a retrouve des types que Jonson avait deja crees. Un des
premiers personnagesque nous rencontrions dans la comedie anglaise
semble appartenir au dix-neuvieme siecle. C’est Fhomme a projets,
theprojector, le fondateur de cent compagnies industrielles qui n’ont
jamais existe, mais qui trouvent des actionnaires, l’inventeur de pro
cedes infaillibles pour s’enrichir qui ne font qu’appauvrir les dupes,
le banquier sans capitaux qui specule sur la sottise et sur la credulite
humaine. De nos jours, il cree la societe des bitumes du Maroc oil il
indique les moyens de faire fortune, en elevant des lapins. Au
seizieme siecle, il se nomme Meercraft; il a la pretention de dessecher tous les marais de FAngleterre, il propose de faire des gants
avec des peaux de chiens, il invente un procede economique pour
fabriquer des bouteilles, il fonde une compagnie pour populariser
dans le royaume l’usage de la fourchette, apportee d’Italie, et il com
pose du vin rouge avec des mures sauvages 1. Les speculateurs des
deux epoques peuvent differer dans leurs inventions. Chacun d’eux
suit le gout du temps et offre au public l’appat qui doit le mieux le
seduire. Mais il y a un principe sur lequel ils sont parfaitement d’ac
cord : c’est que les sots doivent seuls faire les frais de leurs entrepriscs. Leur talent consiste a beaucoup promettre et a ne rien tenir,
a recevoir de l’argent et a ne jamais le rendre.
Meercraft, en habile homme, ne demande jamais rien, mais il se
fait offrir des fonds qu’il acceptc et qu’il garde. Ses dupes lc pressent
de vouloir bien leur faire l’honncur de puiser dans leur bourse. G’est
la le comble de Fart. Obtenir de l’argent, c’est habile. Mais se faire
prier pour en prendre, inspirer assez de confiance pour que le client
vous supplie de vous enrichir, a ses depens, c’est un triomphe. Les
Anglais sont passes maitres dans ce genre de tromperie. G’est chez
eux que la mystification industrielle a du etre inventee. Le pu/f, le
canard sont d’origine britannique. Il parait qu’au seizieme siecle le
mouvement des esprits, l’activite du commerce, la curiosite qui se
I. Tfte Devil is an ass.
�80
LES CONTEMPORAIN’S DE SHAKSPEARE.
portait vers les terres lointaines qu’on venait d’explorer excitaient a
Londres le gout des aventures et provoquaient l’habilete des speculateurs, en allumant les convoitises de la foule. Le theatre signale
plusieurs fois ce travers. Les pieces du Mendiant de cour et des
Antipodes sont dirigees contre les chevaliers d’induslrie. Mais le
Meercraft de Jonson en est le type le plus populaire.
Une des passions que Balzac a le mieux rendues, c’est l’amour de
l’or. Jonson avait concu, avant lui, le caractere de Grandet. Il introduit sur la scene anglaise un vieillard sordide , apre au gain, qui
sacrifie tout, honneur, probite, affections de famille, au desir d’augmenter son revenu. Comme Grandet, ce personnage odieux ne se
nourrit que d’une seule pensee; il n’a qu’un but, c’est de s’enrichir
chaque jour davantage. Il n’y a pas une de ses actions qui soit indifferente ou inutile. Lors meme qu’il cause avec ses voisins ou qu’il
s’assied a la table defamille, son idee fixe le poursuit; il remue des
chiffres dans sa tete, il calcule, il suppute les chances de perte et de
profit, les revenus probables d’une affaire. Il additionne, il multiplie,
il divise; il recommence de memoire et sans relache toutes les opera
tions de l’arithmetique. N’attendez de lui ni un bon mouvement, ni
une parole sortie du coeur,ni une resolution genereuse. Il est sec. La
cupidite a etouffe chez lui tous les sentiments.
Il y a, dans la comedie de Jonson, des situations qui font penser a
des scenes analogues ftEugenie Grandet. Pennyboy, l’usurier
anglais, se fache contre un domestique qui a depense six pence et lui
apprend tout ce que cette petite somme pourrait rapporter dans un
temps determine.
I
I
[
J
- PENNYBOY (au portier de sa maison).
Tu sens le vin, coquin, tu es ivre.
LE PORTIER.
Non, monsieur, nous n’avons bu qu’une pinte, un bonnets voUB
turierlet moi.
PENNYBOY.
Qui l’a payee?
LE PORTIER.
C’est moi qui l’ai offerte.
PENNYBOY.
Comment I et tu as depense six pence! un manant depenser six J
pence, six pence I
�81
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SIIAKSPEARE.
LE PORTIER.
Une fois dans l’annee, monsieur.
PENNYBOY.
Quand ce serait en sept ans, valet! Sais-tu ce que tu as fait, quelle
depense de capital tu as faite? Il pourrait plaire au ciel (car tu es un
jeune et vigoureux drole) de te laisser vivre encore soixante-dix ans,
jusqu’a ce que tu en aies quatre-vingt-dix, peut-etre cent. Supposons soixante-dix ans. Combicn de fois sept en soixante-dix? Sept
fois dix, c’est la meme chose que dix fois sept. Fais bien attention a
ce que je vais te demontrer sur mes doigts. Six pence, au bout
de sept ans, interet sur interet, en produisent douze : au bout de
sept nouvelles annees, deux shellings; la troisieme periode de sept
ans, quatre shellings; la quatrieme, huit shellings; la cinquieme,
seize; la sixieme, trente-deux; la septieme fois, trois livres sterling
et quatre shellings; la huitieme, six livres et huit shellings; la neuvieme, douze livres seize shellings; et enfin la dixieme, vingt-cinq
livres douze shellings. Voila ce que tu as perdu, par ta debauche,
dans le cas oil tu vivrais encore soixante-dix ans, en depensant six
pence une fois en sept ans. Gaspiller tout cela en un seul jour!
c’est une sommc incalculable. Hors de ma maison, fleau de pro
digalite 1!
Comme l’avare de Balzac, l’usurier de la comedie anglaise affecle
une surdite commode qu’il exagere ou qu’ildiminuea volonte. Vienton lui demander de l’argent, il ferme l’oreille a toutes les sollicita
tions, il n’entend pas un scul mot de ce qu’on lui dit, il a l’ouie si
dure qu’on ne peut pas obtenir qu’il reponde. Lui propose-t-on au
contraire un benefice, il ecoute; quoique vous parliez bas, il n’a pas
perdu une syllabe de ce que vous lui disiez. Jonson a rendu tou
tes ces nuances, dans une scene oil un industriel vient, en style
allegorique, demander au vicux Pennyboy la main de sa pupille
Pecunia, c’est-a-dire la clef de sa cassette. Pennyboy qui feint d’etre
mourant, pour mieux tromper ceux qui le visitent, recoit le pretendant, etendu dans son fauteuil sur lequel il fait semblant d’etre cloue.
Un domestique amene Cymbal, le pretendant.
LE DOMESTIQUE.
Voici ce monsieur.
1. The Staple of news.
Tome III. — 9e Livraisou.
i
C
�«2
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEAREi
PENNYBOY.
Je lui demande pardon. Je ne puis me lever, malade comme je
le suis.
CYMBAL.
Point d’excuses! monsieur, menagez votre sante; ne vous genez
pas.
I*.
PENNYBOY.
Ce n’est point deE’orgueil de ma part; c’est de la souffrance,de
la souffrance^Voyons, monsieur. <
CYMBAL.
-
. ‘
J
a
Je suis venu pour vous entretenir.
PENNYBOY.
C’est une souffrance pour moi de parler, une douleur mortelle.
Mais je vous entendrai.
CtMBAL.
Vous avez une dame qui demeure avec vous.
PENNYBo|ff
Hein! J’ail’ouie atissi un peu faible.
f
CYMBAL.
Pecunia.
■ ’
PENNYBOY.
De ce cote, elle est tout a fait insuffisante. Continuez.
CYMBAL^*;
Je voudrais l’attirer plus souvent dans Thumble etablissement
dontje suis possesseur,
PENNYBOY.
Jen’entendsabsolument rien. Parlezplushaut.
CYMBAL jr4
Ou, s’il vous convient de la laisser demeurer avec moi, j’ai moitie
des profits a vous offrir. Nous les partagerons.
PENNYBOY. *
Ah! je vous entends mieux maintenant. -Comment sefont cesprofits? Est-ce un commerce sur ou chanceux? Je ne me soucie pas de
courir apres l’inconnu, de me lancer dans la voie du hasard. J’aime
les chemins directs; je suis un homme exact et droit. Maintenant
tous les trafics periclitent: celui de l’argent a perdu 2 o/o. C’etait un
commerce sur, lorsque le siecle etait econome, lorsque les homines I
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
83
administrant bienleur fortune, veillaient sur les capitaux et bornaient
leurs desirs. Maintenant le desordre public prostitue, dissipe tout en
carrosses, en livrees de gens de pied, en robes de femmes de chambre.
Il faut leur faire des hanches de velours. Que le diable les emporte!
Les moeurs du temps me rendent fou.
(Il prononce ces paroles avec violence et tres-haut.)
CYMBAL.
Vous disiez tout a l’heure que c’etait mortel pour vous de parler.
PENNYBOY.
Oui, mais la colere, une juste colere, comme celle-ci, ranime un
homme qui ne peut supporter de voir la gloutonnerie et l’elegance
des hommes!
(II se leve de son fauteuil.)
Que de feux, que de cuisiniers et de cuisines on pourrait epargner? de combien de velours, de tissus, d’echarpes, de broderies et
de galons on pourrait se passer? Ils convoitent sans cesse des choses
superflues, tandis qu’il y aurait beaucoup plus d’honneur a savoir
se passer du necessaire. Quel besoin a la nature de plats d’argent
ou de vases de nuit d’or? de serviettes parfumees ou d’un nombreux domestique qui la regarde manger? Pauvre et sage, elle n’a
besoin que de manger. La faim n’est pas si ambitieuse. Supposez
que vous soyez l’empereur des plaisirs, le grand dictaleur de la
mode aux yeux de toute l’Europe, que vous etaliez a la vue la
pompe de toutes les cours et de tous les royaumes, pour faire ouvrir
de grands yeux a la foule et vous faire admirer, il n’en faudra pas
moins vous mettre au lit et atteindre le terme que fixe la nature;
alors tout s’evanouit. Votre luxe n’etait que pour la montre, vous
ne le possediez pas. Pendant qu’il se glorifiait lui-meme, il touchait a sa fin.
CYMBAL (4 part).
Cet homme a de vigoureux poumons.
PENNYBOY.
Tout ce superflu semble alors vous appartenir aussi peu que ceux
qui en etaient les spectateurs. Ce qui divertit les homines remplit a
peine l’attente de quelques heures.
CYMBAL (a part).
Il a le monopole du monologue.
,
(Haul-)
Mais, mon cher monsieur, vous parlez toujours.
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARES|
84
PENNYBOY (avec colere).
Et pourquoi pas? Ne suis-je pas sous mon propre toit?
CYMBAL.
Mais je suis venu ici pour causer avec vous.
PENNYBOY.
Et si je ne veux pas, moi, causer avec vous, monsieur. Vous avez
ma reponseA Qui vouS a envoye chelclier?
^YfeBA^J'
Personne.
Mais vous etes venu. Eh bien! alors partez1 comme vous etes venu.
PersonneBflvo^srefient. Voufi voire chemin; vous voyez la porte.
cymba^H
Vous etes un coquin.
pennyboy.
41
En verify j&le croisS monsieu^M
y CYMBAL*. ■ I
Un filou, un usurier. t
U.
PENNYBOY .C
Ce sont.les surnoms qu’on me donne.
CYMBAL.
Un] miserable irmon.
PENNYBOY.
Vous allez faire deborder le vase et tout repandre.
CYMBAL.
Chenille, teigne, grosse sangsue, ver immonde.
PENNYBOY,.
Vous perdez encore une fois votre peine, je suis un vase brise qui
ne garde rien. Adieu, mon^her monsieur. *
Cette scene est excellente. La faiblesse et la surdite qu’affecte
11’usurier, am debut de l’entretien,"font ressortir, d’une maniere
piquante, 1’attention avec laquelle il prete l’oreille, des qu’on lui"
parle de benefices, et la colere ad moyen de laquelle il se debarrasse
du solliciteur, quand il a reconnu qu’il n’y avait aucun profit a
tirer de Ium Un trait comniuii a tbu§ ces hommes avides d’argentj
et Jonson l’a bien saisi, c’est le peu de souci qu’ils ont de leur
reputation et le calmOjavec lequel ils ecoutent les injures qu’on,
leur adresse. Peu leur importe tn effet ce que le monde pense d’eux.
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
85
Les hommes sont leur proie; ils savent bien qu’on ne depouille pas
les victimes sans les faire crier; ils supportent les plaintes, les
reproches, les invectives, commo une des necessites de leur metier;
c’est une consolation qu’ils laissent au public, a la condition de ne
rien rabattre de leurs exigences.
II
Pennyboy est un usurier. L’avare est un type analogue, deja
etudie par la comedie latine; Jonson le reprend, avant Moliere et
apres Plaute, on suivant avec liberte et avec originalite les traces de
l’auteur ancien. Il imite, il traduit meme quelques passages de l'Aitlularia; mais il met en oeuvre des elements nouveaux. C’est a Plaute
qu’il a emprunte le premier monologue de l’avare qui commence
ainsi : « Puisse-je vivre un jour seul avec mon or ! Oh! e’est un
doux compagnon, tendre et fidele. Un homme peut s’y fier, tandis
qu’il est trompe par son pere, par son frere, par ses amis, par sa
femme. 0 tresor merveilleux! ce qui rend tous les hommes trompeurs cst fidele en soi* !» Dans les scenes suivantes, tantot il s’ecarte,
tantot il sc rapproche de son modele. Quelquefois, dans ce qu’il imite
ou dans ce qu’il invente, il devance notre grand comique et provoque
une double comparaison. Son avare est un Francais, du nom de
Jaques1, etabli en Italic. Jaques, autrefois intendant du comte de
2
Chamont, lui a soustrait sa fille, encore enfant, et une somme
d’argent considerable qu’il est venu enfouir dans sa nouvelle resi
dence. Il vit miserablement, il est vetu de hailions; on le croit
reduit a une extreme pauvretc. Mais il possede une cassette remplie
d’or qu’il va contempler plusieurs fois par jour et qui lui tient lieu
de tout autre bonheur. Malgre la misere apparente de l’avare, la
beaute de la jeune Rachel, qu’il a enlevee a son pere et qu’on croit
son enfant, excite l’admiration generale. Plusieurs pretendants aspirent a la main de la jeune fille. Christophero, intendant du comte
Farneze, un grand seigneur du voisinage, la dispute au comte Farneze lui-meme, veuf de sa premiere femme; et, sans le savoir, ils
ont tous deux pour rival, outre un cordonnier, le propre fils de
Farneze.
1. The case is altered.
2. Nous conservons 4 dessein forthographe de Jonson.
�86
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Chacun des candidats presente a son tour sa requete a Jaques
et leurs visiles donnent lieu aux scenes les plus plaisantes. L’avare
ne pent crorre a un amour desinteresse; il ne pense pas qu’on
puisse reChercher Rachel pour elle-meme; il soupconne qu’on en
veut a son argent. Aussi est-il assailli de terreurs comiques, des qu’il
apercoit le visage d’un pretendant. Comme tous ceux qui possedent un tresor, il craint qu’on ne le lui prenne, et, avant d’etre puni
par les*evenements, il l’est deja par ses propres angoisses. Il ne quitte
jamais sa maison, sans prevoir tout ce qui peut arriver de malheureux
en son absence, et sans adresser. a sa fille de minutieuses recomman?dations : « Rachel, lui dit-il, je m’en vais.. Enferme-toi, mais retire
la clef, afin que, si quelqu’un regarde par la serrure, il croie qu’il
n’y a personne a la maison.. Si quelque voleur vieni, il essayera probablement de briser la porte, en croyant qu’ilm y a personne; metsioi alors a parler tres-haut, comme s’il y avait d’autres personnes
avec toi. Enleve le feu, eteins le foyer qu’il ne souffle pas plus qu’un
homme mort! Plus nous epargnons, mon enfant, et plus nous
gagnons.»
Il ne reste pas longtemps hors de chez lui. Sa frayeur le ramene
hientat. Quelle n’est pas sa surprise et son inquietude en voyant
sortir de sa maison un homme qu’il ne connait pas. C’est Angelo
Farneze qui vient de faire ses adieux a Rachel; il voudrait l’arreter,
il court, il s’ecrie: « Diable et enter! quel est cet homme ? Un esprit?
Est-ce celui de ma maison quilahante? Encore a .ma porte! 11 a ete a
ma porte, il est entre, entre dans ma chere porte. Plaise aDieuque
mon or soil en surete! »
Il tremble encore lorsque survient Christephera. Nouvelle terreur
■ qui ne lui permet meme pas d’entendre ce qu’onlui demandel
JAQUES.
Merci de moil en voici un autre;! Rachel! ho! Rachel!
’i
CHRISTO PHERO.
Dieu vous protege, honnete pere’!
JAQUES.
Rachel f par Ie ciel , viens ici ! Rachel ! Rachel!
(Il sort precipitamment.)
CHRI STOPHERO (seul).
Au nom du ciel, qu’a-t-il? C’est etrange. Il aime tellement sa
�87
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
fille, que je gage ma vie qu’il a peur que je n’aie profite de son
absence pour lui faire une cour illegitime.
JAQUES (rentre).
(A part.)
Il est en surete1 il est en surete! 11s ne m’ont pas vole mon or.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Ne soyez pas offense, monsieur.
JAQUES (a part).
Monsieur! mon Dieu! monsieur! monsieur! Il m’appelle mon
sieur.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Mon bon pere, ecoutez-moi.
JAQUES.
Vous etes tout a fait le bienvenu, monsieur. Votre Seigneurie
voudrait-elle s’abaisser jusqu’a me parler?
CHRISTOPHERO.
Ce n’est pas s’abaisser, mon pere. Mon intention est de vous faire
un honneur plus grand que celui de vous parler : c’est de devenir
votre fils.
JAQUES (a part).
Son nez a senti mon or; il l’a flaire. Il connait mon or, il sait
le secret de mon tresor.
(Haut.)
Comment savez-vous, monsieur, comment avez-vous devine?...
CHRISTOPHERO.
Quoi, monsieur? que voulez-vous dire?
JAQUES.
Je prie Votre aimable Seigneurie de vouloir bien me dire com
ment vous savez... je veux dire comment je pourrais faire savoir
a Votre Seigneurie que je n’ai rien a donner a ma pauvre fille.
Je n’ai rien. Le ciel, qui est si bon pour chaque homme, ne Test
guere pour moi.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Je pense, mon bon pere, que vous etes tout bonnement pauvre.
JAQUES (a part).
11 pense cela! ficoutons! Il ne pense que cela? Non, il ne pense
pas ainsi; il sait tout, il connait mon tresor.
(Il sort.)
�88
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
CHRISTOPHERO (seul).
Pauvre homme! il est si rempli de joie d’entendre dire que sa
fille peut etre mariee bien au dela de ses esperances, que, si j’en
crois le simple bon sens, c’est l’incertfiude entre la crainte et l’espoir
qui le met ainsi hors de dui-meme.
J A Q UE S (rentrant, a part).
Cependant tout est en surete a l’interieur. N’y a-t-il pcrsonnd
au dehors? Ne brise-t-on pas mes murs?
CHMWOPH®RO.
Que dites-vous, mon pere? Aurai-je votre fille?
JAQUES. '
(
Je n’ai aucune dot a lui donner^
CHRISTOPHERO.
Je n’en attends aucune, mon pere.
JAQUES.
pW k*en- Alors je prie Votre Seigrieurie de ne me faire aucune
question sur ce qu’elledesire. C’est une trop grande faveur pour moi.
CHI®TOPHERO (a part).
Je vais le laisser se remettre un peu maintenant. Cela lui causerait
trop d’emotion, si je lui parlais encore en ce moment.
(II sort.)
JAQUES (seul).
Ahl U est parti! Je voudrais que tous les autres fussent aussi
partis ou morts, afin de pouvoir vivre seul avec mon or cheri.
LE COMTE FARNEZE (entrant, a part).
Void le pauvre vieillard.
JAQUES (apart).
Bifij mon ame, encore un autre”! VientMfflde ce cdte?
FARNEZE (haut).
Ne soyez pas effraye, vieillard; je viens vous apporter de la joie.
JAQUES. .
A moi, ciel!
(A part.)
L’un vient pour me tenir id a causer, pendant que l’autre me vole.
(Il sort.)
tJftFARNEZE <seul).
Il m’a oublie, a coup sur. Que signifie cela? Il craint mon pouvoir
et que, n’ayant plus de femme, je ne lui enleve sa fille pour la des-
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
89
honorer. Celui qui n’a rien sur la terre qu’une pauvre fille peut
avoir cotte sollicitude anxieuse pour la garder.
JAQUES (rentrant, a part).
Et cependant il est en surete. Ils ne songent pas a employer la
force, mais la flatterie et la ruse. Je verrai bien, a sa premiere ques
tion, s’il me croit riche.
(Haut.)
Qui vois-je devant moi, mon bon seigneur?
FARNEZE.
Leve-toi, bon pere. Je ne t’appelle pas ainsi a cause de ton age,
mais parce que je desire vivement devenir ton fils, en m’unissant,
par un mariage honorable, a ta charmante fille.
JAQUES (a part).
Oh! c’est cela, c’est cela. C’est pour mon or.
Cette preoccupation constante de l’avare, cette idee fixe qui le
poursuit, ce besoin qu’il eprouve a chaquc instant de revoir son or,
et de s’assurer qu’on ne le lui a point enleve, tout cela est peint
avec naturel et dans le ton vrai de la comedie. Moliere a repiis et
embelli la fameuse scene de Plautc oil Euclio arrete un homme qu’il
soupconne de l’avoir vole, et le fouille des pieds a la tete. Jonson
l’avait imitee le premier avec bonheur. Son imitation merite d’etre
citee, meme a cote de celle de Moliere.
Jaques s’etait eloigne un instant de sa maison, lorsqu’il rencontre
Juniper, le cordonnier amoureux de Rachel, qui avait essaye de
penetrer dans la maison, pour voir la jeune fille, et qui, en reconnaissant le pere, se sauve a toutes jambes. Jaques le prend pour un
voleur et le saisit avec violence.
JAQUES.
Rachel! au voleur! au voleur! Arrete, scelerat, esclave!
(Il saisit Juniper au collet.)
Rachel, lache mon chien ! Oui, brigand, tu ne peux pas echapper.
JUNIPER.
Je vous en supplie, monsieur.
JAQUES.
Eh bien! Rachel, quand je to le dis! Cache mon chien, lache-le
done, te dis-je.
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.'
£0
JUNIPER.
Pour l’amour de Dieu, ecoutez-moi, retenez votre dogue.
’
■*
JAQUES.
Alors rends^moi, Tiens\ rends-moi, esclave.
JUNIPER.
's
Quoi?
l
■;
JAQUES.
Oh! tu voudrais que je te Ie disc, tli le voudrais, n’est-ce pas?
Montre-moi tes mains; qu’as-tu dans-tes mains?
JUNTHER.il
Voici mes mains.
• s'
'
JAQUES.
Arrete. Le bout de tes doiglsesbJl sali par la terre? Non; tu les
as essuyes.
JUNIPER.
Essuyes!
.
JAQUES.
Oui, miserable! Tu es un habile coquin . Ote tes souliers; viens,
que je les voied Donne-moi un couteau, Rachel, que j’ouvre les
semelles!
I ^Juhiper veut s’en- alter.)
Doucemenf, monsieur, vousn’etespas encore parti. Secouez vos
jambes, allons, et vos bras, et faitesvite.
(Il le laehe.)
Demon! pourquoi n’es-tupas^ encore partr? Va-t’en, tourment de
mon ame!J Satan, loin d’icil Pourquoi me ragardes-tu? Pourquoi
restes-tu la? Pourquoi jettes-tu sur la terre des1 regards furtifs? Que
vois-tu la, chien, qu’est-ce qui te faitouvrir de grands yeux? Loin
de ma maison! Rachel, lache le dogue.
Jonson a eu Fheureuse pensee de supprimer le trait de mauvais
gout que Plaute a glisse dans son dialogue, lorsqu’il fait dire a Euclio,
apres avoir visite les deux mains de Strobilu&: Ostende etiam tertiam, montre aussi la troisieme. Mais il ne l’a pas remplace, comme
Moliere, par ce mot charmant: « Les aufresT» qui conserve l’intenlion du poete latin, en sauvant le natural.
Parmi les passages de la piece qui appartiennent en propre a
Jonson et dont Fidee premiere ne lui a point ete fournie par son
modele, il taut citer le poetique monologue de l’avare, lorsque,
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
91
rempli d’inquietude pour son or, il le deterre et le change de place
afin de le micux cacher. Il lui parle alors avec une tendresse amoureuse dont l’expression, tres-belle en anglais, s’affaiblit malheureusement dans une traduction : « Reste la, ma chere ame! Dors doucement, mon cher enfant! Je ne t’ai pas acquis tout a fait legitimement,
mais enfin je t’ai acquis, et c’est assez. Que toutes les mains qui
s’approchent de toi tombent en pourriture, excepte les miennes!
Que tous les yeux qui te voient soient brutes, excepte les miens!
Que tous ceux qui pensent a toi sentent le poison dans leurs coeurs
amoureux, excepte moi! Je ne te dirai pas adieu, aimable prince,
grand empercur, sans te regarder a chaque minute; roi des rois,
je ne serai pas impoli a ton egard, et je ne te tournerai pas le dos
en m’eloignant de toi; mais je m’en irai a reculons, le visage tourne
vers toi, en te saluant humblement. Il n’y a personne dans la mai
son, personne ne regarde au-dessus de mon mur. Avoir de l’or et
l’avoir en surete, tout est la 1! »
Jaques eprouve le meme malheur qu’Euclio et qu’Harpagon. On
lui derobe sa cassette et sa fille. Il regrette tant la premiere qu’il n’a
pas le temps de songer a la seconde. Mais, comme il les a volees l’une
et l’autre, il n’a pas meme le droit de se plainare, et son dcsespoir
est moins comique que celui de l’avare de Moliere.
Jonson revient volontier: a ce type de l’avare qui offre un eternel
aliment a la comedie. 11 le reprend encore dans une de ses dernieres
pieces2, ou il lui fait dire neltement, sans ambages et sans circonlocutions : « Mon argent, c’est mon sang, mes parents, mes allies; celui
qui ne l’aime pas est denature. » 11 suppose meme que l’avare raisonne philosophiquemeat sur ses sentiments et fait la theorie de sa
passion. « Nous savons tous, dit le vieux Sir Moth, que Fame de
l’homme est infinie dans ses desirs. Celui qui desire la science la
desire infiniment; celui qui aspire a l’honneur y aspire infiniment;
ce ne serait pas une chose difficile, pour un homme qui aime Fargent, de demontrer ct d’avouer qu’il tend a une richesse infinie-. »
III
Mais la puissance d’observation de Jonson se montre surtout dans
ses trois meilleures comedies, dans la Femme silencieuse, dans 1\4^»
1. The case is altered, act. in.
2. The magnetic Lady.
�92
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE,
chimiste et dans le Renard. La il dc-ssine avec vigueur des caracteres
exceptionnels dont il accuse tous les traits; il met en relief la bizarl
rerie de certaines infirmites morales; il a la penetration du moraliste
et la patience de l’anatomiste arme du scalpel. Il se complait dans
1’inconnu et dans l’extraordinaire. Les hommes qu’il met en scene
appartiennent sans doute a la realite; lui-meme les a peut-etre ren
contres et vus de pres, mais ils ne se confondent pas avec la foule, ils
ne representent pas une classe generale de la sodete; ils vivent dans la
retraite, ou ils nourrissent des vices solitaires et rares, que la curio
site du poete comique decouvre et nous devoile.
Le premier de ces originaux s’appelle Morose, et vient en droite
ligne de 1’antiquite. Jonson l’a pris dans Libanius, pour le transporter
de la dans la Femme silencieuse. C’est un gentilhomme de bonne
maison, qui connait le monde et la cour, mais qui a pris tout a coup
en horreur 1’agitation d’une grande ville, et qui ne veut laisser penetrer jusqu’a lui aucun bruit exterieur. Il a la passion du silence. Les
sourds-muets lui font envie. Les cris d’une femme qui vend dans la
rue du poisson ou des oranges 1’irritent. Il ne souffre dans son voisinage ni armuriers, ni serruriers, ni ouvriers bruyants d’aucune sorte.
Il demeure, avec intention, dans une ruelie si etroite que ni voitures,
ni chaises a porteurs ne peuvent la traverser. Pour echapper a la sonnerie des cloches qui lui dechirent le tympan, il s’enferme dans un
appartement a doubles fenetres et a doubles portes constamment fermees, ou il vit a la clarte d’une lampe. Si, malgre toutes ces precau
tions, il est derange, malheur a ceux qui le derangent! Il a fait crever
un tambour qu’on s’est permis de battre devant sa porte. Il a renvove
un de ses domestiques, parce qu’il a entendu craquer ses souliers
dans l’escalier.
Jonson, qui excelle a mettre avec naturel les ridicules en scene,
nous introduit tout de suite au coeur du sujet, dans la maison de
Morose. Le maniaque donne ses ordres a un laquais et laisse voir du
premier coup son caractere. Toutes les paroles lui sont odieuses,
excepte les siennes. « N’est-il pas possible, dit-il a son serviteur, que
tu me repondes par signes et que je te comprenne? Ne parle pas,
quoique je t’interroge. (Le domestique repond par signes.) As-tu
enleve la sonnette de la porte exterieure qui donne sur la rue? As-tu
rembourre 1’exterieur de la porte, afin que, si les passants frappent
avec leurs dagues ou avec leurs briquets, ils ne puissent faire aucun
bruit? » A ces questions multipliees, le domestique ne doit repondre
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
93
que par des mouvements de jambes ou de bras. Son maitre lui demande l’heure, il l’indique avec ses doigts. Morose voudrait etre
lure: « Ileureux Tures! s’ecrie-t-il; ils sont servis par des muels; a
la guerre, les ordres leur sont donnes sans bruit par des signaux. »
Le comble de la l'clicite, suivant lui, c’est de ne jamais entendre le
son de la voix humaine.
Mais ses reves ne se realisent point, et ce qu’il y a de plus plaisant
dans cette comedie, ce soul les mesaventures qui viennent a chaque
instant troubler son repos. Morose a un neveu, sir Dauphine, pour
lequel il n’eprouve aucune affection, et qu’il ne serait pas faclie de
desheriter en se mariant; il cherche done une femme. Mais pendant
qu il rumine ce projet, un ami de Dauphine, Trucwit, le personnage le plus spirituel de la piece, juge a propos, pour sauver le
neveu, de faire irruption chez l’oncle et de l’epouvanter sur les suites
probables de son mariage. Avcc l’entree en scene de Trucwit, com
mence le supplice de Morose. Pendant que celui-ci s’entoure des pre
cautions les plus raffinees, pour se preserver du bruit exterieur, tout
a coup il entend retentir a ses oreilles le son du cor et ouvrir avec
fracas la porte de sa chambre. C’est Trucwit qui se presente sur le
seuil.
TKUEWIT ou M. DELESPRIT.
Votre nom n’est-il pas Morose?
(A part.)
Muels comme des poissous, tous Pvthagoriciens! C’est etrangc.
(Haut.)
Que dites-vous, monsieur? Rien ! Est-ce qu’Harpocrate est venu ici,
avec son doigt sur sa bouche? Vous voulez vous marier, monsieur,
vous marier! Vos amis s’en etonnent, monsieur, lorsque vous avez si
pres de vous la Tamise pour vous y noyer si gentiment, ou le pout
de Londres, d’oii un beau saut vous precipiterait dans le courant, ou
un dome comme celui de Saint-Paul, ou, si vous aimez mieux rester
pres de la maison et aller plus vite en besogne, vous avez une excellente fenetre qui donne sur la rue et a cette fenetre une espagnolette :
voici, dans ce cas, un baudrier
(11 montre le baudrier auquel son cor est suspendu.)
quo vos amis vous envoient, et ils vous engagent a passer plutot votre
tete dans ce noeud que dans celui du mariage. Ou bien prencz du
sublime et sortez de ce monde, comme un rat : tout, en un mot,
�94
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
plutot que de suivre ce lutin d’Hymenee. Helas! monsieur, pouvezvous penser que vous trouverez une femme pure dans ce temps,1
maintenant qu’il y a tant de masques, de pieces, de preches puritains et d’autres spectacles etranges.a voir chaque jour, en particulier
et en public?
MOROSE (qui a donne pendant tout le temps des signes d’impatience et de colere).
Qu’ai-je fait, monsieur,pour meriter ce teaitement ?
TRUEWIT (continuant, sans paraitre s’apercevoir de l’interruption).
Si elle est riche et que vous .epousiez sadot st mon pas elle-meme,
elle regnera dans vote® maison aussi imperieusement qu’une veuve.
Si elle est noble, tous ses parents vous tyranniseront. Si elle est
leconde^elle sera aussi orgueilleuse'ique Mai et aussi capricieuse
qu’Avril; elle aurases medecinspses sages-femmes, ses nourrices et
ses envies a chaque instant du jour. Si elle est instruite, on n’aura
jamais vu pareil perroquettout votre patrimoine sera insuffisant,
pour les»h6tes qu’elle invitera, afinde l’entendre parler grec et latin.
Si elle est puritaine, il vous faudra feter tous les freres silencieux,
au mojns une fois tous les trois jours, saluer les sceurs, entretenir
ioute la famille et entendre des exercices ide longue haleine, des
chants et des preches : le tout pour plaire a votre femme, zelee
matrone, qui, pour la sainte cause, vous trompera bel et bien?.
Morose voudrait, a chaque instant, interrompre le discours de
Truewit. Lui, qui ne peut supporter le son d’une voix humaine, il
gemit .d’etre oblige'Id’ecouter un^ si longto et si bruyante tirade.
A la fin de la scene,jsjl colere touche a 1’exasp eration. Il soupconne
Truewit d’etre d’agent secret de son neveu, et, plus on s’oppose a son
mariage, plus il est presse de de conclure. Seulemcnt il cherche une
perle difficile a trouver, une femme sileudouse^ill faut que la compagne.de .sa vie partage ses gouts et sache setaire. Il croit avoir
trouve cette nouvelle merveille du monde, par ibentremise du barbier
Cutbeard (Coupe-barbe^, son confident, un des ancetres de Figaro. On
lui amene en effet une jeune fille timide,- d-un exterieur simple et
modeste, a laquelle il fait subir un interrogatoire minutieux, afin de
s’assurer qu’elle possede bien toutes les qualites qu’il desire. Elle se
tient devant lui rougissant etamuette : « Vous pouvez parler, lui dit-il
d’un ton encourageant, quoique ni mon barbier ni mon domestique ne
1. Le discours de Truewit est imitd de la sixitoe satire de JuviSnal.
�«
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
95
le puissent; car, de tous les sons, il n’y a que la douce voix d’une belle
femme qui convienne a la mesure de mes oreilles.» Epicoene (c’est le
nom de la jeune personne) repond avec modestie, en peu de mots et
d’une voix si basse qu’on entend a peine les paroles qui sortent de ses
levres. Morose est oblige de lui faire repeter ses reponses pour les
comprendre, et il s’en felicite; car, lorsqu’il ne voudra pas les
ecouter, il le pourra facilement.
Apres cet aimable interrogatoire, il fait la le?on a sa future; il lui
donne des instructions detaillees sur le genre de vie qu’elle doit mener
et sur les sacrifices qu’il attend d’elle. Il ne pretend point qu’elle soit
etrangere au monde; il serait fache qu’elle ne connut pas les manieres
de la cour. La femme d’un gentilhomme doit etre digne du rang
qu’occupe son mari. Il est meme convenable qu’elle ait de l’esprit.
Mais ces qualites n’ont pas besoin de se montrer; il suffit qu’elles
existent. C’est assez pour la satisfaction de Morose. Il desire que la
compagne de sa vie ensevelisse dans un profond silence les dons bril
lants qu’elle a refus du ciel, la grace, la finesse et 1’elegance. A toutes
ces propositions, Epicoene ne repond que par un consentement
exprime a demi-voix, en phrases courtes et soumises : « Comme il
vous plaira, dit-elle. Je m’en rapporte a vous. » Cette docilite de bon
augure transporte de joie le vieux celibataire, qui hate les preparatifs
de son mariage. 11 est vrai qu’Epictme est pauvre; mais son silence
vaut une fortune. D’ailleurs, comme elle devra tout a son mari, elle
n’en sera que plus aimablc et plus obeissante. Morose envoie chercher
sur-le-champ un pasteur pour celebrer son union, mais un pasteur bien
choisi, expeditif et muet, un ministre qui ne s’avise pas de precher
pour montrer son eloquence, et qui sache marier les gens en silence.
L’infatigable Figaro lui amene un homme selon son coeur, un honnete
serviteur de Dieu qui, pour gagner son argent, fait semblant d’etre
enrhume et ne prononce pas une seule parole intelligible. Morose est.
si content de lui qu’il le paye genereusement. Mais, dans l’elan de sa
reconnaissance, le ministre oublie son role et se met a parler. Alors le
nouveau marie entre en fureur, veut lui reprendre sa gratification, et
le chasse de sa presence en l’accablant d’injures. Ce trait de moeurs,
si bien amene par le poete, provoque une scene qui continue la serie
des mesaventures de Morose. En entendant chasser l’homme d’eglise, Epicoene, qui jusque-la a garde, avec affectation, un silence
.modeste, laisse eclater son veritable caractere.
�96
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEAREM
EPICCENE.
Fi! monsieur Morose, pouvez-vous user d’une telle violence visa-vis d’un homme d’eglise?
MOROSE.
Comment?
JBPICOEJJ^, .
.
Il ne conviendrait ni a votre gravitemi a ,1’education que vous vous
vantez d’avoir recue a 1a- cour, de faire un tel affront a un porteur
d’eau ou meme a une creature, plus grossiere, encore bien moins a
un homme qui porte cet honnete costume.
MOROSE.
Vous pouvez done parler?
'
jepiccene.
Oui, monsieur.
I
I
-.14 ..WfeO
: , :
rad.4
" E'!
.1*
z>
MOROSE.
Parler haut, j’entends.
r
fWccENE.
Oui, monsieur. Croyez-vous done avoir epouse une statue ou une
simple marionnette, une de ces poupees franchises dont les yeux tourJ
nent avec un fil, ou quelque innoceiite sortie Me l’hopital des fous,
qui se tiendrait, comme cela, les mains croisees et la Louche en
coeu^occupee a vous contempler?
. •
MOROSE.'
awp
0 immodestie Tune femme pour tout de bon!
Morose reste ebahi de cette metamorphose et s’arrache les cheveux
de desespoir. Il voit sa femme,J^i humble tout a l’heure, se trans
former tout a coup en une maitresse de maison defeidee et imperieuse,
donner partour des ordres et faire retentir Tappartement des eclats
bruyants de’sa voW. « Elle me regente deja, s’ecrie-t-il. J’ai epouse
une Penthesdee, une Semiramis, vendu ma liberte a une quenouille. Pour comble de malheur, survient Truewit qui a appris
jle mariage et qui yeut feliciter le nouvel epoux du choix qu’il a fait.
(Ses felicitations ironiques retournent le poignard dans le cceur de
Morose : « J ’admire, lui dit-ilf Votre resolution. Malgre les dangers
que j’enumerais devant vous, comme un oisea'u de nuit, vous avez
voulu poursuivre et rester vous-meme. Cela montre que vous etes un
homme constant dans vos projets et invariable dans vos decisions,
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
97
que des cris de mauvais augure no peuvent ebranler. » L’ironie est
excellente et la situation vraiment comique.
Les malheurs de Morose se succedent sans interruption. Depuis
qu’il est marie, il n’a plus un instant de repos. Tantot ce sont des
precieuses ridicules qui viennent complimenter sa femme, tantot
des courtisans qui penetrent chez lui sous pretexte de le feliciter,
mais pour faire la cour a Epicoene. On finit meme par lui amener des musiciens, pour faire danser la compagnie. « La mer fond
sur moi, s’ecrie-t-il; c’est un nouveau flot, une veritable inondation. Je sens comme un tremblement de terre dans mon for interieur. »
Au milieu de ses lamentations, Truewit le poursuit partout,
comme son mauvais genie, en ayant l’air de compatir a son malheur
pour mieux se moquer de lui. « Patience, lui dit-il, ce n’est qu’un
jour a passer. » On sait que ccttc reflexion a la propriety de mettre
en fureur les gens qui s’impatientcnt. Morose s’emporte contre le
barbier qui lui a procure une femme; Truewit abondc dans son sens,
se fait lecho de sa colere et se facbe encore plus que lui. Dans son
emportement ironique, il finit meme par crier si haut que Morose en
est tout etourdi. « J’aimerais mieux lui pardonner, s’ecrie le malheureux mari a bout de patience, que d’en entendre davantage. »
De quelque cote que le vieillard se tourne, il ne voit que des sujets
de chagrin, et, pour echapper a tout le bruit qui se fait autour de lui,
il en est reduit a s’enveloppcr la tete de bonnets de nuit et a se refugier au sommet de la maison, aussi haut qu’il peut monter. Cette
retraite forcee ne le soulage neanmoinsque pendant quclques heures.
Ce n’est pas la un remede definitif. Tant que sa femme restera aupresde lui, il sera expose aux memes desagrements. Il songe alors, en
dernierc analyse, a invoquer la loi pour se separer d’elle; un divorce
le mettra a l’abri de tous les inconvcnients qui resultent pour lui da
mariage. Il s’adresse pour cela aux juges ordinaires. Mais il n’a pas
prevu le nouveau malheur qui l’attendait. A peine a-t-il mis le pied
dans le tribunal qu’il est etourdi par les cris des avocats, par les
interpellations du president, par le glapissement des huissiers et par
' les discussions tumultueuses qui s’elevent entre les plaideurs. Scs
oreilles sont dechirees par des sons discordants. Il ne peut y resister
et il prend la fuite. En comparaison de ce tapage, sa maison, meme
avec sa femme, lui parait un asile aussi calme, aussi silencieux que
l’heure de minuit. Il ne renonce ccpendant point a son idee; il pourTome III. —9e Livraison.
7
�98
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
suit sa demande en nullite de manage, et il accepte avec empressement la proposition qu’on lui fait d’amener chez lui deux theologiens
qui lui donneront sur le divorce un avis motive.
Cette pretendue consultation n’est qu’une nouvelle mystification
preparee par I’infatigable Truewit. Celui-ci deguise le capitaine
Otter et le Barbier Cutbeard, Pun en pastcur, l’autre en docteur en
droit canon, leur donne a chacun des instructions precises et les pre
sente a Morose comme deux oracles de la science. Leur conference n’a
d’autre but que d’infliger an vieillard un supplice d’un nouveau
genre et de le mettre a la merci de son neveu.
. u... ,
MOROSE.
Sbnt-ce la les deux savants ?
,'G
:: r
TRUEWIT.
Oui, monsieur. Vous plait-il de lbs saluer?
MOROSE.
Les saluer! J’aimerais mieux faire n’importe quoi que de perdte
ainsi mon-temps sans profit. Je.m’etonne que ces formules banales:
« Dieu soit avec vous, » « Vous etcs le bienvenu,)) soient entrees
dans nos moeurs, ou bien encore qu’on dise : « Je suis heureux de
vous voir. » Je ne vois pasTavantage qu’on peut tirer de ces paroles.
Celui dont les affaires sont tristes et penibles se trouve-t-il mieux,
lorsqu’il entend ces salutations ?
TRUEWIT.
Cela est vrai, monsieur. Allons done au fait, monsieur le docteur
et monsieur le ministre, je vous ai suffisamment instruits de l’affaire
pour laquelle vpus etes venus ici et vous n’avez pas besoin, je le sais,
de nouveaux renseignements sur l’etat de la question. Voici le gentilhomme qui attend votre decision et, par consequent, quand il vous
plaira-, commence/.
OTTER.
A vous, docteur.
CUTBEARD.
A vous, mon bon ministre.
OTTER.
Je voudrais entendre le droit canon parler le premier.
CUTBEARD.
Il doit ceder la place a la theologie positive.
•' »
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
99
MOROSE.
Mes chers messieurs, ne me jetez pas dans les details. Que vos
secours m’arrivent rapidement, quels qu’ils soient! Soyez prompts a
m’apporter la paix, si je puis l’esperer. Je n’aime ni vos disputes, ni
vos tumultes judiciaires et, pour que cola ne vous paraisse pas etrange,
je vais vous dire : Mon pere, en m’elevant, avait l’habitude de m’engager a concentrer les forces de mon esprit, a ne pas les laisser se
disperser lachement. Il me recommandait d’examiner les choses qui
etaient necessaires a ma conduite dans la vie et celles qui ne l’etaient
pas, d’embrasser les unes et d’eviter les autres, en un mot, de rechercher le repos et de fuir l'agitation : ce qui est devenu pour moi une
seconde nature. Aussi ne vais-je ni a vos debats publics, ni dans les
lieux oil vous faites du bruit; non que je neglige ce qui se fait pour
la dignite de l’Etat, mais simplement afin d’eviter les clameurs et les
impertinences des orateurs qui ne savent pas garder le silence *.
TRUEWIT.
Bien. Mon bon docteur, voulez-vous rompre la glace? Monsieur
le ministre suivra.
CUTBEARD.
Monsieur, quoique indigne et plus faible que mon confrere, j’aurai
la presomption...
OTTER.
Ce n’est pas une presomption, domine doctor.
MOROSE.
Encore I
CUTBEARD.
Vous demandez pour combien de motifs un homme peut obtenir
divortium legitimum, un divorce legal. D’abord, il faut que je vous
fasse comprendre le sens du mot divorce, a divertendo.
MOROSE.
Pas de discussions sur les mots, bon docteur. A la question et
brievement!
CUTBEARD.
Je reponds alors que la loi canonique n’accorde le divorce que
dans un petit nombre de cas et que le principal cst le cas commun,
le cas d’adultere. Mais il y a duodecim impedimenta, douze empe1. Passage traduit de Libanius.
�100
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
chements, comme nous les appelons, qui tous peuvent, non pas Jmmere contractum, mais irritum reddere matrimonium, comme
nous disons en droit canon, non pas briser le lien, mais le rendre nul.
MOROSE.
Je vous avais compris, mon bon monsieur. Epargnez-moi l’impertinence de la traduction.
OTTER.
Il ne peut pas trop eclaircir ce point, monsieur, avec votre per
mission.
MOROSE.
Encore!
•
’
TRUEWIT.
'
Oh! vous devez, monsieur, accorder cette liberte a des savants.
Voyons vos empechements, docteur.
CUTBEARD.
Le premier est impedimentum moris.
OTTER.
Dont il y a plusieurs especes.
-
CUTBEARD.
Oui, comme, par exemple, error personae,
OTTER.
Si vous vous mariez a une personne, en la prenant pour une
autre.
CUTBEARD.
Puis, error fortunes,
OTTER.
Si c’est une mendiante et que vous la croyiez riche.
CUTBEARD.
Puis, error qualitatis.
OTTER.
Si vous decouvrez qu’elle est opiniatre et entetee, apres avoir cru
qu’elle etait docile.
MOROSE.
Comment ? Est-ce la un empechement legal ?
OTTER.
Oui, ante copulam, mais non pas post copulam, monsieur.
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
<01
CUTBEARD.
Monsieur le ministre a raison. Necpost nuptiarum benedictionem.
Celanepeut cpiirrita reddere sponsalia, qu’annuler les fiancailles.
Apres le mariage, ce n’est plus un obstacle.
TRUEWIT.
Helas! monsieur, quelle chute tout d’un coup dans nos esperances!
CUTBEARD.
Apres cola, vient la conditio : si vous la croyiez libre et qu’elle
soit rcconnue esclave; voila un empechement d’etat et de condition.
OTTER.
Oui. Mais, docteur, ces servitudes sont maintenant sublatce, parmi
nous autres chretiens.
CUTBEARD.
Avec votre permission, monsieur le ministre.
OTTER.
Permcttez, monsieur le doctcur.
MOROSE.
Ah! messieurs, ne vous querellez pas surce sujet. Ce cas ne me
concerne point. Passons au troisieme empechement.
CUTBEARD.
Bien; le troisieme est le votum : si l’un des deux conjoints a fait
voeu de chastete. Mais cette coutume, comme monsieur le ministre
l’a dit de I’autre, a maintenant disparu parmi nous, grace a la disci
pline. Le quatrieme est la cognatio : lorsque les personnes sont
parentes au degre defendu.
OTTER.
Oui. Connaissez-vous les degres dcfcndus, monsieur?
MOROSE.
Non, et je ne m’en inquiete guere. Ils ne me sont d’aucun secours
dans la question, j’en suis sur.
CUTBEARD.
Mais il y a une partie de cet empechement qui peut vous servir:
c’est la cognatio spirituals. Si vous etes son parrain, monsieur,
alors ce mariage est incestueux.
OTTER.
Ce commentaire est absurde et superstitieux, monsieur le docteur.
Je ne puis le supporter. Ne sommes-nous pas tous freres et soeurs
�102
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE,
et bien plus parents, par consequent, que les parrains et les filleuls?
MOROSE.
Malheur a moi! Pour terminer la controverse, je n’ai jamais ete
parrain, je n’ai jamais ete .parrain de-ma vie. Passons a l’empqchement suivant.
CUTBEARD.
Le cinquieme, c’est crimen gaulterii, le cas que nous connaissons J
Le sixieme,*, c’est cultus dispuritas,, difference de religion. L’avezvous examinee, pour savoir de quelle religion elle est?
-MOROSE.
Non. J’aimerais mieux qu’elle ne fut d’aucune que de m’imposer
cet ennui.
OTTER.
.
Mais vous pouvezle faire faire pour vous.
’
;
1
x
MOROSE.
Du tout, monsieur. Passons au reste. Arriverez-vous jamais a la
fin, croyez-vous?
TRUEWIT.
Oui, il en a fait la moitie, monsieur. Voyons le reste. Soyez patient
et attendez, monsieur.
.
‘
CUTBEARD.
Le septieme, 'c’^t l’emp^chemeirt pour cause de
: s’il y a eu
Miitrftiffte etviolence?'- *
MOROSE.
Oh! non, cela est trop volontairede ma part, trop volontaire.^
CUTBEARD.
Le huitieme, c’est l’empechement pour cause ft ordo : si jamais
elle a repu tes ordres-sacres.
OTTERl
Ceci est trop superstitieux.
MOROSE.
Ce n’est pas notte affaire/monsieur le ministre. Je voudrais qu’elle
voulut encore alter dans un convent.
CUTbEArd.
Le neuvieme e^t le ligamensi vouS etiez engage, monsieur, a
quelque autre auparatant.
�103
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
MOROSE.
Je me suis fourre trop tot dans ces chaines.
CUTBEARD.
Le dixieme, c’est lc cas Aepublica honestas, c’est-a-dire inchoata
qucedam affinitas.
OTTER.
Oui, ou affinitas orta ex sponsalibus, et ce n’est qu’un leve impedimentum.
MOROSE.
Dans tout cela je ne sens pas le moindre souffle d’air bienfaisant
pour moi.
CUTBEARD.
Le onzieme, c’est affinitas ex fornicatione.
OTTER.
Qui n’est pas moins vera affinitas que l’autre, monsieur le
docteur.
CUTBEARD.
C’est vrai, quae oritur ex legit imo matrimonio.
OTTER.
Vous avez raison, venerable docteur, et nascitur ex eo quod per
conjugium dual personae efficiuntur una caro.
TRUEWIT.
lie! les voila maintenant qui commencent.
CUTBEARD.
Je vous comprends, monsieur le ministre; itaper fornicationem
deque est verus pater, qui sic generat... .
OTTER.
Et vere filius qui sic generatur.
MOROSE.
•
Que me fait tout cela?
CLERIMONT.
Maintenant cela s’echauffe.
CUTBEARD.
Le douzieme et dernier, c’est si forte nequibis...
OTTER.
Oui, c’est la un zmpezZz’men/wm gravissimum. Celui-la annule et
efface tout. Si vous avez une manifestam frigiditatem, cela va bien,
monsieur.
�■104
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
TRUEWIT.
Eh bien! voila un secours qui vous arrive a la fin, monsieur. Confessez seulement que vous etes impuissant et elle demandera ellememe le divorce, la premiere.
OTTER.
Oui, ou bien s’il y a un cas de morbus perpetuus et insanabilis\
de paralysis, d’elephantiasis ow quelque chose de semblable.
DAUPHINE.
Oh! mais la frigiditas est le meilleur moyen, messieurs.
OTTER.
Vous dites vrai, monsieur, et comme le dit le droit canon, i
docteur...
CUTBEARD.
Je vous comprends, monsieur.
CL^RIMONT.
Avant qu’il ait parle.
OTTER.
De meme qu’un garcon ou’ un enfant qui n’a pas l’age n’est pas
propre au mariage, parce qu’il ne peut reddere debitum, ainsi vous
autres omnipotentes...
TRUEWIT (bas a Otter).
Vous autres impotentes, animal!
OTTER.
Impotentes, je voulais dire, sont minima apti ad contrahenda
jmatrimonium.
TRUEWIT (bas a Otter).
Matrimonium! Tu vas nous donner du latin bien peu matrimo
nial. Matrimonia, et va te faire pendre.
DAUPHINE (bas a Truewit).
1 „
Vous troublez leurs idees, mon cher.
•
CUTBEARD.
Mais il y a un doute a elever sur le cas dont il s’agit, monsieur 9
ministre; post matrimonium, celui qui est frigiditate prc/editus,
me comprenez-vous, monsieur?
OTTER.
Tres-bien, monsieur.
CUTBEARD.
U Celui qui ne peut uti uxore pro uxore peut habere earn pro
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
105
OTTER.
Absurde, absurde, absurde et propos de pur apostat!
CUTBEARD.
Vous me pardonnerez, monsieur le ministre, je puis le prouver.
OTTER.
Vous pouvez prouver le desir que cela soit, monsieur le docteur,
mais rien de plus. Est-ce que le vers de votre propre droit canon ne
dit pas :
Haec socianda vetant connubia, facta retractant.
CUTBEARD.
Je vous l’accorde; mais comment peuvent-ils retractare, monsieur
le ministre?
MOROSE.
Oh! c’est la ce que je craignais!
OTTER.
In (sternum, monsieur.
CUTBEARD.
C’est faux, au point de vue divin, avec votre permission.
OTTER.
Ce qui est faux, au point de vue humain, c’est de parler ainsi.
N’est-il pas prorsus inutilis ad thorum? Peut-il preestere fidem
datum ? Je voudrais bien le savoir.
CUTBEARD.
Oui, s’il peut convalere.
OTTER.
Il ne peut convalere. C’est impossible.
TRUEWIT (a Morose, qui donne des signes d'impatience et de distraction).
Monsieur, faites attention a ce que disent ces savants hommes.
Autrement ils croiraient que vous les negligez.
CUTBEARD.
Ou bien s’il lui arrive de se slmulare lui-meme frigidum, odio
uxoris, ou par quelque motif analogue.
OTTER.
Je dis qu’en ce cas il cst adulter manifestus.
DAUPHINE.
Par ma foi, ils disculent vraiment avec beaucoup de science.
�106
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
OTTER.
Et prostitutor uxoris : cela est positif.
MOROSE (bas a Truewit).
Mon bon monsieur, laissez-moi m’esquiver.
TRUEWIT.
Vous ne voudriez pas me faire cet affront, monsieur.
OTTER,
Et, par consequent, s’il est manifeste frigidus...
CUTBEARD.
Oui, s’il esl manifeste frigidus, je vous accorde.....
OTTER.
Eh bien! c’etait la ma conclusion.
^UTBEARD.
Et la mienne aussi.
TRUEWIT (a Morose).
£coutez la conclusion, monsieur.
OTTER.
,
s.
Alors, frigiditatis causd.....
CUTBEARD.
Oui, causd frigiditatis......
MOROSE.
0 mes oreilles ■!
OTTER.
Elle peut obtenir libellum divortii coritre vous.'
CUTBEARD.
Oui, elle obtiendra certainement libellum divortii.
MOROSE.
£chos, epargnez-moi!
OTTER?
Si vous avouez que cela est-il’
CUTBEARD.
Ce que je ferais, monsieur..."
MOROSE.
Je ferai tout ce qu’on voudra.
OTTER.
Et si vous levez mes scrupules, in faro conscientiw.,,
CUTBEARD.
Si vous etes reellement depourvu...
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
107
MOROSE.
Encore!
OTTER.
Exercendi potestate.
Dans la suite de la scene, Morose apprend que le dernier expedient
qu’on lui propose n’est meme pas bon, car il devait etre employe
avant le mariage. Apres avoir ete assourdi par cette bruyante confe
rence, sans decouvrir un seul moyen de salut, il ne sait plus que
devenir. Quoi qu’il fasse, il est condamne a garder sa femme. C’est
un grand mal et, ce qui est pis encore, un mal qui parait sans rcmede.
C’est a cette extremite que son neveu Dauphine voulait le reduire.
Quand 1’heritier disgracie voit le vieillard bien convaincu de son impuissance et desole de ne pouvoir rompre son mariage, il se presente
comme le Deus ex machina de la tragedie mythologique; il offre un
remede inespere et infaillible, mais a une condition, c’est que Morose
lui assurera la moitie de sa fortune, de son vivant, et le reste apres
sa mort. Puis, quand I’acte de donation a ete signe, il declare qu’Epicoene est un homme.
La mystification de Morose a ete complete. Tous ses soucis lui sont
venus de cette erreur. Voila une lepon qui ne le guerira peut-etre pas
de sa passion pour le silence, mais qui le guerira a coup sur de ses
velleites matrimoniales. La morale de la comedie n’est pas claire,
car elle donne la victoire au trompeur. Mais, si elle n’a voulu que
mettre en relief, d’une facon plaisante, les travcrs d’un caractere
exceptionnel, elle y reussit. Elie nous apprend a quels ridicules et a
quels mecomptes s’expose un homme, meme intelligent, lorsque, avec
une manie aussi bizarre et aussi prononcee que cclle de Morose, il a
la pretention de rentrer par le mariage dans la loi commune et de
suivre le voeu de la nature, tout en conservant des gouts qui le contredisent. Sa conduite ne merite pas un chatiment severe; mais il est
juste qu’elle soit livree a la moquerie, et c’est la seule punition que
Jonson lui inflige. Le fond de cette comedie est essentiellement plaisant; elle est surtout remarquable par l’abondance des situations
comiques et par la verve du dialogue.
I
IV
Jonson s’eleve plus haut dans X Alcliimiste et dans le Renard. La
il aborde des peintures de moeurs plus fortes et des caracteres plus
�408
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE; I
puissants. Il sait encore nous faire rire quelquefois, comme dans la
Femme silencieuse; mais il ajoute a la gaiete 1’expression plus
serieuse de l’indignation et du mepris. L’Alchimiste et le Renardl
n’ont pas des ridicules, comme Morose, mais des vices qui, en e^Kffl
tant notre hilarite aux depens de leurs dupes, provoquent aussi de
notre part une protestation morale contre leur sceleratesse.
Le titre de la comedie de I’Alchimiste paraitrait suranne de :nos
jours. En 1610, en Angleterre, il etait plein d’a-propos. L’alchimie
n’etait point, comme aujourd’hui, demasquee par le ridicule; on y
croyait generalement. Le peuple surtout allait consulter ceux qui en
faisaient profession, et leur attribuait sans hesitation un pouvoir surnaturel. Les classes elevees n’echappaient point a cette superstition.
La loi portait des peines contre les sorciers, et les cruelles condamnations dont ils etaient l’objet revelaient toute la terreur qu’inspiraient
a la sddiete leurs pratiques menteuses. Il 'etait defendu de prononcer
certaines expressions cabalistiques auxquelles on accordait une grande
influence sur les evenements de la vie humaine. Celui qui avait
tourrie soil chapeau trois fois et crie buz, avec l’intention d’oter la
vie a un homme, etait puni de mort, comme s’il eut fait une
tentative reelle d’assassinat. La trente-troisieme annee du regne
d’Henri VIII’ l’exercice de l’alchimie avait ete prohibe et assimile
au crime de haute trahison. Jacques Ier, prince superstitieux, ecrivait
unlivre contre les alchimistes, et, pour corroborer sesarguments, il
faisait bruler tous ceux qui tombaient en son pouvoir.
Cette severite etait un acte de faiblesse qui laissait croire a un dan
ger chimerique. Les sorciers ne meritaient ni les honneurs de l’argumentation ni ceux du martyre; en voulant a tout prix les convaincre
ou les punir, on leur attribuait une importance dont ils n’etaient pas
dignes. C’etait le mepris public et non la dialectique ou la loi qui
devait faire justice de leurs machinations. Jonson, dans sa comedie,
leur porta un coup plus terrible que tous les edits royaux sur la sorcellerie'; il les livra au ridicule.
Il s’adresse a tous les bourgeois de Londres qui ont encore la fai
blesse de consulter les charlatans, qui vont lire leurs destinees devant
le miroir magique, et il les introduit dans le laboratoire de cds alchi
mistes qu’ils croient doues d’un pouvoir surnaturel. La il decrit les
secrets du metier, les procedes dont se servent les habiles pour tromper les simples, les artifices qui font tant de dupes et qui ne reussissent que grace a la credulite publique. La conclusion de sa piece
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
109
est claire : « Voyez et instruisez-vous, dit-il au peuple. Voila les
hommes que vous visitez et dont vous achetez les consultations a
prix d’or. Ils n’ont pas d’autre puissance que celle que votre sottise
leur donne. Ils vivent de vous, et le jour oil vous leur retirerez
votre confiance, leur pretendue science s’evanouira comme un
songe. »
Pour rendre la lefon plus frappante, Jonson peint l’alchimiste
d’apres nature, tel qu’on le pouvait voir encore a Londres au com
mencement du dix-scptieme siecle. D’ordinairece personnage mysterieux n’exerfait pas soul sa profession ; il lui fallait des associes et
des comperes qui l’aidassent a jouer son role. La consultation du
miroir magique, la plus repandue et la plus a la mode alors, exigeait
d’abord la presence d’une femme; car ce n’etait pas l’alchimiste luimeme qui voyait les esprits a travers le cristal. Il se bornait a prononcer les formulcs magiques et a murmurer quelques paroles
inintelligibles. C’est a une vierge pure, qu’on appelait speculatrix,
qu’il etait reserve de regarderle miroir et d’y voir les figures celestes
des anges. Ceux-ci ne se montraient, disait-on, qu’aux jeunes filles
d’une purete au-dessus du soupcon. Outre la femme dont il ne pou
vait se passer, l’alchimiste trainait en general a sa suite un second,
un aide de camp charge d’amorcer les clients et de repandre parmi
les badauds tous les contes qui pouvaient exciter leur curiosite et
leur confiance. La maison d’un alchimiste se composait done d’une
sorte de triumvirat dont chaque membre remplissait des fonctions
distinctes.
A la fin du seizieme siecle, trois imposteurs s’etaient associes ainsi
et avaient parcouru l’Europe, en vivant aux depens des dupes que la
superstition leur amenait. Leurs physionomies etaient tres-connues
du public anglais, et Jonson en reproduit, dans sa piece, les traits
caracteristiques. Dee etait le chef de l’association, l’alchimiste habile
que la foule venait consulter et dont le jargon bizarre, parseme de
mots scientifiques empruntes a la medecine et a la chimic, inspirait
un respect superstitieux aux ames faibles. Il avait pour lieutenant
Kelly, ne a Worcester, aventurier de bas etage, souple et intrigant,
qui recrutait des victimes et les conduisait a son maitre. Tous deux
faisaient jouer le role de la femme clairvoyante a un jeune Polonais,
d’une figure imberbe, qui complctait 1c triumvirat. Jonson met aussi
en scene les trois personnages indispcnsables : Subtle (le Ruse),
dans lequel on reconnaissait facilement Dee; Face (l’Effronte), qui
�HO
LES CONTEMPQRAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
rappelait Kelly, et une femme du nom de Doi, qui offrait une. res-'
semblance frappante avec le Polonais Laski.
Au moment ou la scene s’ouvre, l’alchimiste a etabli son quartier
general dans une maison de Londres, dont le proprietaire est absent
et dont Face est le concierge. Face, deguise en capitaine, pa ourt les
lieux frequentes, les marches, les places publiques, les bas >tes de
l’eglise SaintrPaul, ou se tiennent les badauds; il racowe les
prouesses de son maitre, donne son adressje et lui envoie les dupes
qui doivent etre depouillees avec l’aide de Doi.
L’entree en matiere est vive, naturelle, habile, et nous transporte
tout de suite aucoeur du sujet, La piece commence par une querelle
violente qui s’eleve entre les deux associes; ils ont un demele sur la
pari de profit qui revient a chacun d’eux. C’est toujours l’interet per
sonnel qui divise les coquins. DansTemportement de leur colere, ils
se reprochent leurs bassesses, leurs infamies secretes, les ruses avec
lesquelles ils trompent le public, et ils nous devoilent ainsi les cotes
honteux de leurs caracteres. Avant qu’ils n’agissent, nous savons ce
qu’ils pensent, ce qu’ils ont fait et ce qu’ils sont capables de faire
encore. Subtle: et Face en viendraient aux mains, si Doi ne s’interposait entre eux, ne leur rappelait la bonne harmonie dont ils ont
besoin pour vivre^ et ne finissait, pour les convaincre tout a fait, par
leur montrer ses griffes, en les menagant de les devisager.
Des que la paix est retablie entre les imposteurs, on les voit a
1’oeuvre en face de leurs dupes. C’est la diversite des personnages qui
les consultent et la variete des moyens qu’ils emploient pour les
tromper qui forment le principal interet de la piece. Les niais
viennent en grand nombre, de tous les points de Londres, frapper a
la porte de Talchimiste et lui acheter le secret de faire fortune. Dans
cette foule bigarree, toutes les classes de la societe sont representees.
Voici d’abord la petite bourgeoisie, sous les traits d’un clerc de
procureur nomme Dapper (l’Eveille). Dapper voudrait bien devenir
riche, pour acheter la charge de son maitre et il sollicite une consulta
tion du savant magicien. Subtle se fait prier pour lui repondre; il
objeete que la loi defend l’exercice de I’art diyinatoire, et qu’il court
un grand danger s’il parle. C’est une maniere adroite d’extorquer de
I’argent. a la victime. Celle-ci ne peut trop payer le peril auquel elle
expose l’alchimiste, et elle debourse benevolement tout l’or qu’elle
porte sur elle. Quand. Subtle tient le prix de la consultation, il
decouvre chez son client des signes merveilleux, il reconnait en lui
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Hl
les indices d’une parente etroite avec la Reine des Fees; il lui pro
met meme de lui procurer une entrevue avec cette dame mysterieuse.
Seulement la Reine des Fees ne se montre pas sans difficulte. Il faut,
pour la voir, etre digne de comparaitre en sa presence, et se preparer
a cet honneur par des ceremonies expiatoires. Subtle donne a Dapper
les instructions suivantes : « Tenez-vous pret pour une heure. Jusque-la vous devez observer le jeune. Mettez seulement trois gouttes
de vinaigre dans votre nez, dans votre bouche et une a chaque oreille.
Trempez dans l’eau le bout de vos doigts et baignez vos yeux, afin
d’aiguiser vos cinq sens; criez hum trois fois et buz autant de fois, et
alors venez. »
La maison de Subtle est disposee comme celle de certains medecins de nos jours. Les clients ne doivent pas se rencontrer, pour ne
pas se faire de confidences et garder, s’ils le veulent, l’incognito. On
passe par une porte pour entrer et par une autre pour sortir. Pen
dant que Dapper s’en va, survient un marchand de tabac, Abel
Drugger (le Droguiste), qui va construire une nouvclle boutique et
qui, pour reussir dans son commerce, voudrait savoir quelle doit en
etre, d’apres les regies de l’alchimie, l’orientation et la distribution
interieure. Face, en sa qualite de capitaine recruteur, amene le naif
negotiant et le presente a Subtle qui, sur-le-champ, par un procede
familier aux imposteurs, lui predit, pour l’amadouer, plus de bonheur qu’il n’en espere. Dans la scene suivante, les deux charlatans
jouent leur role a merveille; l’un fait des predictions et l’autre vante
la science de son complice.
SUBTLE.
C’est un heureux garcon, j’en suis sur.
FACE.
Avez-vous deja pu, monsieur, deviner cela? Vois done, Abel I
SUBTLE.
Et en bonne voie pour devenir riche.
FACE.
Monsieur!
SUBTLE.
Cet etc, il portera le costume des notables de sa corporation ct, au
printemps prochain, le vetement ecarlate de sherif.
FACE.
Quoi! et avcc si peu de barbe au menton!
�112
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
SUBTLE.
Monsieur, vous pouvez penser qu’on lui fournira une recette pour
faire pousser ses cheveux. Mais il faut qu’il soit sage et qu’il surveille
sa jeunesse. La fortune indique pour lui une autre route.
FACE.
En verite, docteur, comment peux-tu connaitre cela si vite? J’en
suis tout emerveille.
'
SUBTLE.
Par une regie de metoposcopie, en vertu de laquelle je travaille; par
> une certaine etoile sur le front que vous ne voyez pas. Votre visage
couleur de chataigne ou d’olive ne trompe point et votre longue
oreille promet. J’ai reconnu cela a certaines taches sur ses dents et
sur l’ongle de son doigt mercuriel! ’
FACE.
Quel est ce doigt?
subtle!^
Son petit doigt. Voyez. Vous* devez 'etre ne un mercredi.
DRUGGER.
Oui, monsieur, c’est vrai. .
SUBTLE.
Le pouce, en chiromancie, nous le consacrons a Venus, l’index a
Jupiter6 le doigt du milieu a Salurne, celui qui porte l’anneau au
Soleil, le petit a Mercure qui etait, monsieur, le maitre de son horos
cope ; car il est ne sous la constellation de la Balance, ce qui annongait qu’il serait marchand et qu’il commercerait avec des balances*
(Il regarde le planadgla boutique que lui presente Drugger.) *
Ceci est 1’ouest et ceci le sud. ■
DRUGGER.
Oui; monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Et ce sont les deux cotes.
DRUGGER.
Oui, monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Faites-moi votre porte ici, au sud; votre cote le plus large a
l’ouest; a l’est, au-dessus de votre boutique, ecrivez les noms de
Mathlai, de Tarmiel et de Baraborat; au nord ceux de Rael, de Velel
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
113
et de Thiel : ce sont la les noms de ces esprits mercuriels quichassent
les mouches des boites d’epicerie.
L’aristocralie envoie aussi ses representants dans le laboratoire de
l’alchimiste. Apres le cl ere et le petit marchand, nous voyons entrer
le chevalier, l’homme de cour, sir Epicure Mammon. Celui-ci ne se
contente pas de consulter Subtle; il a la foi, il fait du proselytisme,
il celebre partout les merveilles de la pierre philosophale, il ne supporte ni l’ombre d’un doute ni l’apparence d’une discussion. Il pul
verise les incredulcs. A ses yeux, contester la puissance de l’alchimie,
c’est nier l’evidence. 11 a la passion de For et cello de la luxure; il est
convaincu qu’il pourra satisfaire l’une et l’autre avec le secours de
Subtle, et il se plonge d’avance par la pensee dans toutes les voluptes
qui l’attendent. Ce personnage n’a pas disparu de la scene du monde;
nous le connaissons, nous l’avons vu de nos jours; il appartient a
notre epoque aussi bien qu’a celle de Jonson. Que de fois ne rencontre-t-on pas des gens de qualite qui rompent des lances en faveur
des sciences occultes, qui plaident avec passion la cause du magnetisme, des tables tournantes, des csprits frappeurs, qui_ s’indignent
du moindre signe d’incredulite, et qui entrevoient dans les pretendues communications qu’ils entretiennent avec le monde surnaturel
une source illimitee de jouissances pour 1’esprit et pour les sens 1
Ecoutons sir Epicure Mammon discuter avec un incredule. Cette
scene ne serait pas deplacee dans la comedie moderne.
MAMMON.
Vous etes incredule, monsieur. Cette nuit je changerai en or tout
le metal que j’ai dans ma maison, et demain matin, de bonne
heure, j’enverraiacheter a tous les plombierseta tous les marchands
d’etain leur plomb et leur etain, et je prendrai tout le cuivre de
Lothbury.
SURLY.
Quoi, pour le changer aussi!
MAMMON.
Oui; et j’acheterai le Devonshire et le pays de Cornouailles et j’en
ferai de veritables Indes. Vous admirez maintenant.
SURLY.
Non, par ma foi.
MAMMON.
Mais, lorsque vous verrez les effets du grand oeuvre dont une partie
Tome III. — 9e Livraison.
�I’ll
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
. projetee sur cent de Mercure, de Venus et de la Lune, les change en
autant de parties du Soleil, en un millier meme et jusqu’a l’infinij
vous me croirez.
SURLY.
Oui, lorsque je les verrai
MAMMON.
Quoi! Pensez-vous que je vous contedes fables? Je vous assure que
celui qui possede une fois la fleur du soleil, le rubis parfait que nous
appelons elixir, non-seulement peut faire cela, mais peut aussi, par
la vertu de cet objet, accdrder des honneurs, de l’amour, du respect,
une longue vie; donner a qui il veut surete, valeur et victoire, En
vingt-huit jours, je transformerai un vieillard de quatre-vingts ans
en enfant.
. SURLY.
Sans aucun doute; il Fest deja.
MAMMON.
Non; je veux dire que je lui rendrai la force de ses jeunes annees,
que je le renouvellerai comme un aigle, que je le mettrai en etat
d’avoir des fils et des filles aussi grands que des geants. C’est ainsi
qu’ont fait autrefois nos philosophies, les anciens patriarches, avant
le deluge. En prenant seulement une fois par semaine, sur la pointe
d’un canit, gros comme un grain de moutarde de cet elixir, ils devenaient aussi vigoureux que Mars et donnaient le jour a de jeunes
Amours. C’est le secret de la natura naturata contre toute espece
d’infection; elle guerit toutes les maladies, de quelque cause qu’elles
viennent; une souffrance d’un mois, en un jour, celles d’une annee
en douze, et les autres, quelque anciennes qu’elles soient, en un
mois, et cela bien mieux que toutes les doses de vos docteurs droguistes. Avec cela, je me fais fort de faire fuir la peste du royaume
en trois mois. Mais vous etes incredule.
'
SURLY.
’
En verite, c’est mon humeur. Je n’aimerais pas a etre attrape.
Votre pierre ne peut pas me transformer.
' - ' -
MAMMON.
Entete! Voulez-vous en eroire Fantiquitei les vieilles annates? Je
vous montrerai un livre ou Moise et sa soeur, ainsi que Salomon, ont
ecrit sur l’art, et un traite de la main d’Adam.
SURLY.
■ Comment?
>
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Ila
MAMMON.
Oui, sur la pierre philosophise, et en haut hollandais.
SURLY.
Est-ce qu’Adam a ecrit on haul hollandais?
MAMMON.
Il l’a fait, monsieur, et c’est ce qui prouve que c’etait la langue
primitive.
SURLY.
Sur quel papier?
MAMMON.
Sur des tablettes de cedre.
SURLY.
Oh! celui-la, a coup sur, doit resister aux vers.
Un des principaux artifices dont se servaient les alchimistes pour
gagner la confiance publique, c’etait l’affectation d’une grande piete.
Ils se vantaient de mener une vie severe, et ils exigeaient de leurs
adeptes une extreme purete de moeurs, sous peine de ne pas
reussir dans leurs consultations. C’etait un appat pour les ames de
votes, et en meme temps une excellente excuse pour expliquer au
besoin l’insucces de leurs operations. Le moindre peche commis par
les personnes presentes pouvait faire echouer tous leurs plans. Les
charlatans d’aujourd’hui exigent de tous ceux qui assistent a leurs
seances qu’ils aient la foi; ceuxdu seizieme siecleexigeaient la vertu.
Aussi le chevalier voluptueux et avide se garde-t-il bien de laisser
percer ses sentiments devant Subtle; il croit a l’austerite de celui-ci,
il le considere comme un saint, et, des qu’il le voit venir, il recommande a son interlocuteur, Surly, de surveiller son langage. « Pas
un mot profane devant lui, dit-il, c’est du poison! — Bonjour,
pere, » ajoute-t-il en s’adressant a l’alchimiste qui entre. Subtle
soutient avec beaucoup de sang-froid, en presence de sa dupe, le role
respectable qu’il s’est attribue. La tirade sentencieuse qu’il prononce
est un chef-d’oeuvre d’hypocrisie :
a Mon fils, je crains que vous ne sovez avide, en vous voyant arriver ainsi, juste au moment fixe, et devancer le jour, des le matin.
Cela semble indiquer les inquietudes d’un appetit charnel et importun. Prenez garde d’eloigner de vous les benedictions du ciel par
une precipitation immoderee. Je serais desole de voir mes travaux,
qui ont maintenant atteint leur perfection, mes travaux, fruits de
�<16
BES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARET^
longues veiiles et d’une grande patience, ne pas prosperer sdT le
terrain oil mon affection et mon zele les ont places. Moi qui
(j’en prends a temoin le ciel et vous-meme, le confident de mes
pensees), moi qui, dans tous mes projets, n’ai pas eu d’autre but
que le bien public, que de pieux offices et que la tendre charite, qui
est maintenant devenue un prodige parmi les hommes. Et si, maintenant, vous, mon fils, vous deviez prevariquer et employer pour vos
plaisirs particuliers une benediction si grande et si orthodoxe, soyez
sur qu’il en resulterait quelque malediction qui frapperait vos desseins artificieux et secrets. »
Il manie a merveille le jargon mystique de sa profession. Il sent
d’ailleurs, dans cette scene, qu’il combat pour un interet serieux et
qu’il a besoin de donner une haute idee de lui-meme. Il parle devant t
un incredule et devant une dupe. S’il faiblissait, il risquerait de
perdrele meilleur de ses clients. Aussi fait-il feu de toutes pieces.
Apres une tirade pretentieuse sur la vertu, il dirige immediatement
contre son adversaire tout l’arsenal de son erudition de contrebande ;
« Il y a d’une part, dit-il, une exhalaison humide que nous appelons fl
materia liquida, ou l’eau onctueuse •; d’autre part, une certaine por
tion de terre epaisse et visqueuse; toutes les deux reunies forment
la matiere elementaire de For; ce n’est pas encore la sa matiere
propre, propria materia; mais elle est commune a tous les metaux
et a toutes les pierres, car, lorsqu’elle est degagee de la partie
humide et qu’elle est plus seche, elle devient pierre; lorsqu’elle
retient au contraire plus d’humidite, elle se change en soufre ou en
vif-argent, d’ou sortent tous les autres metaux. Et cette matiere ele- fl
mentaire ne peut pas tout d’un coup passer d’un extreme a l’autre,
au point de devenir de l’or et de franchir tous les intermediates. La
nature produit d’abord l’imparfait, puis de la elle arrive au parfait. I
C’est Feau aerienne et onctueuse qui forme le mercure, le soufre
vient de la partie grasse et terrestre : l’une, c’est-a-dire la derniere,
; tenant la.place du male, et l’autre de la femelle, dans tous les metaux.
, Il y en a qui les croient hermaphrodites, parce qu’ils sont a la fois
actifs et passifs. Mais ces deux elements pendent le reste ductile,
• malleable, extensible. Ils existent meme dans For, car, au moyen
du feu, nous distinguons ee qui les compose, et nous y trouvons
de For; et nous pouvons produire ainsi chaque espece de metal, I
d’une maniere plus parfaite que la nature ne le fait dans la terre;
d’ailleurs, qui ne voit, par Fexperience de tous les jours, que Fart
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SIIAKSPEARE.
117
peut faire sortir des abeilles, des frelons, des guepes de la carcasse
et des excrements des animaux, voire meme des scorpions, d’une
certaine hcrbe, lorsqu’elle est placee d’une certaine maniere ? et ce
sont cependant la des creatures animees, bien plus parfaites et plus
excellentes que des metaux. »
« Et voila pourquoi votre fille est muette. »
Apres ce discours nebulcux, Subtle triomphe, comme un medecin
de Moliere; il espere avoir terrasse son adversaire sous le poids dp
ses grands mots et de scs arguments inintelligiblcs.
L’austerite dont il fait parade lui servira plus tard a se debarrasser de Mammon, qui devient importun, en demandant sans cesse
a voir le tresor que doit lui procurer la pierre philosophale. Il a soin
de placer sur lc chemin du chevalier la jeune Doi, dont la figure
avenante produit l’impression qu’il avait prevue. A peine Epicure
l’a-t-il aperpue, qu’il essaye de corrompre Face pour obtenir une
entrevue avec elle. Face, dont le role cst trace d’avance, se fait longtemps prier avant de coder; il repond que Doi est la scour de son
maitre, il rappclle la severite des principes de l’alchimiste, et il feint
de redouter sa colere. Mammon ne peut vaincre sa resistance qu’a
force d’argcnt. L’heure si desiree de l’cntrevue qu’on lui menage
avec la jeune fille arrive enfin, le chevalier est au comble de ses
voeux. Mais c’est la que l’attendait Subtle. Pendant que le voluptueux gcntilhomme point sa flamme on traits de feu a celle qu’il
aime, pendant qu’il decouvre on elle toutes les perfections rcunies:
« une levre autrichienne, le nez des Valois et le front des Medicis; »
il oublie les recommandations pressantes de Face, il eleve la voix,
Doi lui repond sur le meme ton et l’alchimiste les surprcnd, comme
s’il avait ete attire par le bruit. Sa colcre delate alors avec une vio
lence calculee. Il leur reproche d’avoir contrarie toutes ses operations
par leur intrigue criminelle; l’oeuvre qu’il avait entreprise exigeait
des coeurs purs; maintenant tout est perdu et le fruit de ses longs
travaux est aneanti, par la fautc d’Epicure. Au meme instant, comme
pour confirmer cette declaration, on entend une detonation epouvantable et Face accourt precipitamment, le visage bouleverse; il.
annonce que les substances reunies dans le laboratoire viennent de
faire explosion, que les cornues, les matieres preparees et les appareils chimiques sontreduits en ccndres. A cotte nouvellc foudroyante,
Subtle feint de s’evanouir, tandis que Mammon s’arrache les cheveux
en voyant toutes ses csperances renversees. L’alchimiste a atteint son
�J18
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SIIAKSPEARE^
but; il voulait se soustraire a Fobligation de faire de For, s’approprier les sommes avancees par Mammon, et se tirer, sans bourse
delier, d’une situation embarrassante. Non-seulement, apres l’accident, il n’a plus rien a donner, mais il a meme le droit de se plaindre;
il peut reclamer une indemnite pour tout le temps qu’on lui a fait
perdre. C’est lui qui fest F offense et c’est a Mammon a lui offrir des
excuses. Il est difficile de trouvfer un moyen plus ingenieux de se
• - defaire d’une dupe qui reclame de Fargent.
i
‘f
Quant au jeune clerc de procureur, comme il insiste pour voir sa
lante, la Reine des Fees, on lui dit qu’elle veut le regarder, sans etre
vue de lui; on lui bande les yeux et on lui ordonne, de la part de son
illustre parente, de depos® toutFargent qu’il a dans ses poches. II
essaye de sauver quelques debris de sa bourse; mais, chaque fois
qu’il cache fin objet, on le* pincejusqu’au sang et on lui fait croire
que ce sont des genies a'iles qui viettnent le punir de sa dissimula
tion, par Fordre de la Reine.
Les ruses ae ralchimiste sunt innombrables. Il trompe chacune
de ses victimes par des moyens differents. Il excelle aussi a prendre
tous les tonis et a jouer millepersonnages divers. Nous l’avons vu
successivemerit hautam avec le clerc, caressant avec le marchand de
tabac, sentencieux, pedant et meme severe avec Epicure Mammon.
Nous allonsle voir eiicore changer de role etparaitre, sous un nouvel
-aspect, 'avcc deux nouvelles dupes. Il s’agit cette fois de deux de ces
puritains hypocrites que Jonson a si souverit livres au ridicule. L’un
cst un diacre fanatique et obstine, l’autre, un pasteur plus delie et
plus fin ; ils arriverit Fun etTautre d’Amsterdam, le repaire de leur
secte, et ils viennent demander compte a 'Subtle d’une somme d’ar
gent qfrtls lui ont envoyee, pour accoiriplir le grand ceuvro. Le
diacre Ananias se prescnte le premier. « M’apportes-tu des fonds?» I
dit Subtle, qui-ne se donne pas la peine de menager un subalterne.
« Des fonds* repond Ananias, la communaute ne veut plus vous on
envoyer, tant qu’elle n’aura pas dbtenu un resultat satisfaisant. Vous
avez deja recu trente livres. »'‘Subtle attendait cette reponse qu’il
avait provoquee avec intention. Elle lui sort de pretexte pour s’eriiporter et pouf mettre ala porte I’opiniMre sectaire, dont il n’eutpu
se debarrasser autrement. Le diacre repousse retourne piteusement
aupres de sdn chef, qui comprend, a Fattitude de Subtle, qu’il faut
plier devant ses exigences et qu’on obtiendra plus de lui par des pro
messes que par des menaces. La secte a le plus grand interot a mena-
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
119
ger un auxiliaire qu’elle croit puissant et qui peut lui fournir des
armes redoutables. Aussi le pasteur Tribulation explique-t-il a son
diacre qu’un premier echec ne doit pas le decourager. « Il faut savoir,
lui dit-il, supporter les injures et employer au besoin des instru
ments indignes. L’interet de la sainte cause excuse tout. La fin
justifie les moyens. » Tribulation se presente done a son tour devant
Subtle, precede d’Ananias, auquel il a fait la lecon, et il repare,
par son adresse, la faute de son lieutenant. Subtle se laisse, en
apparence, toucher par l’humilite aficctee du puritain et il con
sent a ecouter ses propositions. Mais, quand il voit a ses pieds ces
hypocrites raffines dont il penetre les secretes pensees, dont il connait
toutes les manoeuvres et tous les artifices, comme il sait que tous
deux ont besoin de lui et qu’ils n’oseront pas se revolter sous f ou
trage, il cede au plaisir de les accabler de son mepris, de leur mon
trer qu’il a perce a jour leur conduite equivoque et il aiguise contre
eux les traits les plus aceres de la satire. Chaque fois qu’Ananias
ouvre la bouche, il la lui ferme avec colere, et il oblige Tribulation,
qu’il fascine, a ecouter un langage empreint de la plus sanglante
ironie.
SUBTLE.
Miserable Ananias, est-ce toi qui es de retour?
TRIBULATION.
Monsieur, calmez-vous. Il est venu pour s’humilier lui-meme en
esprit et pour implorer votre patience; un exces de zele l’a entraine
hors de la voie qu’il devait suivre.
SUBTLE.
Ah! cela change l’affaire.
TRIBULATION.
Les freres n’ont en verite nullement le projet de vous causer la
moindre peine; mais ils sont disposes a preter volontiers leurs mains
a tous les projets que l’esprit et vous , vous inspirez.
SUBTLE.
De mieux en mieux!
TRIBULATION.
Tout 1’argent qui est necessaire a l’oeuvre sacree vous sera compte.
Les saints jeltent par ma main leur bourse a vos pieds.
�120
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE’
SUBTLE.
Parfait! Vous comprenez maintenant qu’il le faut. Ne vous ai-je
pas encore assez entretenu de notre pierre philosophale et de tout le
bien qu’elle doit faire a votre cause? Ne vous ai-je pas assez montre,
(sans parler des moyens qu’elle vous donne de payer des forces etrangeres et d’entrainer les Hollandais, vos amis, loin des Indes, pour
vous servir avec toute leur flotte) que meme son emploi medicinal
fera de vous une faction et un parti dans le royaume? Supposez que
quelque grand homme d’Etat ait la goutte; vous lui envoyez seuleJ
ment trois gouttes de votre elixir et vous le soulagez sur-le-champ;
c’est un ami que vous vous etes fait. Un autre souffre de paralysie ou
d’hydropisie, il prend de votre matiere incombustible et le voila
rajeuni: c’est encore un ami. Une dame a passe l’age de la jeunesse
du corps, quoiqu’elle ait encore celle de l’esprit; son visage est trop
maltraite pour pouvoir emprunter le secours de la peinture, vous le
restaurez avec de l’huile de talc; des lors vous avez gagne son amitie
et celle de tous ses amis. Un lord a la lepre, un chevalier a des douleurs dans les os, un squire a l’un et l’autre, vous leur rendez lai
sante, avec une simple friction de votre remede; vous augmentez
encore le nombre de vos amis. Vous pourrez etre alors ce que vousj
voudrez et cesser de vous livrer a vos exercices de longue haleine J
d’aspirer vos ha! et vos hum! dans une trompette. Je ne dis pas que^
ceux qui ne sont point favorises dans un etat ne puissent, pour arriver a leur but, faire de 1’oppositiQn et prendre une trompette pour
reunir leur troupeau; car, pour dire la verite, une trompette fait
beaucoup d’effet sur les femmes et sur toutes les creatures flegmatiques : c’est la votre cloche.
x
ANANIAS.
, Les cloches sont profanes; une trompette peut etre religieuse.
SUBTLE.
Pas d’observations de votre part! Car alors adieu ma patience !
Pardieu, j’en finirai. Je ne veux pas etre ainsi torture.
Tribulation.
Je vous en prie, monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Tout sera rompu. Je l’ai dit.
TRIBULATION.
Laissez-moi trouver grace, monsieur, a vos yeux. Notre homme
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
121
est corrige. Son zele ne pcrmettra pas plus que vous l’dsage de la
trompette; maintenant que la pierre philosophale est edifice, nous
n’en aurons plus besoin.
SUBTLE.
Non, vous n’aurez plus besoin non plus de prendre votre masque
sacre, pour obtenir des veuves, qu’elles vous fassent des legs, ou des
femmes zclees, qu’elles volent leurs maris au profit de la cause com
mune. Vous n’aurez plus besoin de faire, pendant la nuit, des repas
abondants, afin de mieux celebrer le jeiine du jour suivant, pendant
que les freres et les scours s’humilient et domptent la rebellion de la
chair. Vous n’etalerez plus, devant vos auditeurs affames, vos scrupules pointilleux; vous ne demanderez plus si un chretien peut chasser
au faucon ou avec des chiens, si les matrones de la sainte assemblee
peuvent laisser leurs cheveux a Fair ou porter des bonnets ou avoir
ce que vous appelcz une idole sur leur linge empese.
ANANIAS.
Mais c’est bien une idole!
TRIBULATION (a Subtle).
Ne faites pas attention a lui.
(A Ananias.)
Je te commando, esprit de zele, mais aussi de discorde, de faire la
paix avec cet homme.
(A Subtle.)
Je vousen prie, monsieur, continucz.
SUBTLE.
Vous n’aurez plus besoin de faire des libelles contre les prelats.
Vous ne serez plus obliges d’attaquer les pieces de theatre, pour plaire
a l’alderman dont vous devorez chaque jour la substance. Vous ne
mentirez plus, avec un zele plein de fureur, jusqu’a ce que vous
soyez enroues. Plus de ces artifices si singuliers! vous ne vous attribuerez pas a vous-memes les noms de Tribulation, de Persecution,
de Contrainte, de Longue patience et d’autres semblables que toute
votre famille ou plutot toute votre tribu affecle de prendre , seule
ment pour 1’effet et pour frapper l’oreille des disciples.
TRIBULATION.
Oui, monsieur, ce sont des moyens que les freres consacres a Dieu
ont inventes, pour propager leur glorieuse cause, moyens remarqua-
�122
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
bles et grace auxquels ils deviennent eux-memes fameux rapidement
et avec profit.
SUBTLE.
Oh! maisla pierre philosophale! Tout est inutile avec elle. Plus
rien a faire. C’est 1’art des anges, le miracle de la nature , le secret
divin qui traverse les nuages de Test a l’ouest, et dont la tradition
vient, non pas des hommes, mais des esprits.
ANANIAS.
-
' ' '
' ■
'
\
Je hais les traditions, je n’y crois pas.
TRIBULATION.
Paix!
ANANIAS.
Tout cela, c’est du papisme! Je ne veux pas me taire, je ne le veux
pas.
TRIBULATION.
Ananias !’
ANANIAS.
Qu’il plaise aux profanes d’affliger les homines consacres a Dieu!
Moi, je ne le puis.
SUBTLE.
Bien, Ananias, tu l’emportes.
Subtle aeu la satisfaction d’humilier a Joisir ces orgueilleux puritains, et, quand il les a cruellement fustiges, il laisse croire qu’il
leur fait une concession, en acceptant leur argent. Le caractere del
l’alchimiste est, comme on le voil, vigoureusement trace et plein de
verve comique. Il appartient a la haute comedie.
La morale voulait cependant que Subtle, tout habile qu’il est, fut
demasque, et Jonson iui reserve au denoumentune juste punition.
Il a recoups pour .cela a une invention tres-simple ; il fait revenir
brusquement de la campagne le proprielaire de la maison dont Face
est le concierge. Face a beau parlem enter a la porle, pour donner a
ses associes le temps de se sauver.et dissimuler leur fuite, leur pre
sence est trahie par la denonciation des voisins et par les cris de Dap-.!
per qu’ils ont laisse, depuis plusieurs heures, les yeux bandes, en
compagnie de la Reine des Fees. Le ruse portier, voyant qu’il ne
peut plus dissimuler, obtient son pardon, au prix d’une confes-
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
123
sion complete, tandis que Doi et Subtle sont honteusement chas
sis, les mains vides et sans avoir pu emporter le prod nit de leurs
vols. La morale est ainsi satisfaite et la punition mesuree a la
faute.
Cette comedie donne le coup de grace a l’alchimie , en la faisant
tomber sous le ridicule. Elle guerit les contemporains de Jonson des
croyances et des terreurs superstitieuses auxquelles ils etaienl encore
en proie. L’imagination populaire qui, depuis le moyen age, avait
grandi le role des alchimistes. se les representa dtsormais sous les
traits de l’imposteur Subtle, de meme qu’apres l’immortel roman
de Cervantes on ne put voir un chevalier sans songer a don Quichotte.
(La suite a la prochaine iivraison.)
�
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Victorian Blogging
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Literature Anglaise. Les contemporarins de Shakspeare
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Mezieres, Alfred
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Place of publication: [Paris]
Collation: [77]-123 p. ; 26 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Le Megasin de Librairie: literature, histoire, philosophie, voyages, .... Vol. 3.
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[s.n.]
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Literature
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Conway Tracts
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Shakespeare
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324
On
the
Origin
of a
[March
Written Greek Literature.
T is difficult for us, who live in a reading age, and have so longbeen familiar with rapid and easy methods of writing and printing,
to realise the idea of a highly civilised community which could not,
or did not, read and write. Nevertheless, there are very good reasons
for believing that such a state of society is not only possible, but that
it actually did exist. ‘ There was,’ says Mr. Grote, 4 in early Greece
a time when no reading class existed.’ Even the more educated, who
could read public records and inscriptions, may have had no practice
at all in writing. We are too apt to determine these questions by a
reference to our own standards. But a few generations ago men got
on pretty well in our own country without steam-engines, railways,
or the penny post, all which we have come to regard as social
necessities. And when anything has become, in the present state of
affairs, a necessity, we are apt to forget the difference of circumstances,
in great measure, perhaps, created by it, under which we have learnt
to view it as such. We can hardly comprehend how, some thirty
years ago, all the despatches and all the passenger traffic between
London and Edinburgh were carried in half-a-dozen coaches aday, going
ten miles an hour. That is because the present enormous traffic itself
has been created by the improved facilities for it. Everybody reads
now because there are penny papers and an abundance of cheap
periodicals; and so again, it is the supply which has given such an
immense impulse to the desire to avail ourselves of it. In other
words, supply and demand always mutually act and react upon each
other.
It is quite conceivable then that even in very civilised and in
tellectual nations painting or sculpture for the eye and oral recitation
for the ear might have sufficed for a long time both for the recording
of facts and for the communicating of ideas. In this sense, a litera
ture (though the term itself would be an anomaly) may have existed
without the use of writing. For instance, the facts of history may
have been handed down by tradition and taught by lectures. Com
positions both in prose and verse could be learnt by heart and recited
without ever having been written down at all. The art of speaking
must have long preceded the art of writing, and it may even have
flourished the more from the absence of the latter. Thus in Homer
we find Nestor and Ulysses famed for their eloquence, though no hint
of writing or of reading is anywhere to be found in the Homeric
poems. It is even probable that the high development of oratory
and of sculpture at Athens in the time of Pericles was mainly due to
the want of a current or circulated literature, which deficiency was
supplied by a corresponding proficiency in the sister arts. Human
I
�i88o]
On a Written Greek Literature.
325
intellect is sure to find its expression in one way if it cannot in
another. In the middle ages, Bible History was taught by stained
glass windows and frescoed walls, just because there were no printed
Bibles or Prayerbooks. And Dr. Maitland in his 4 Dark Ages ’ remarks
on the extraordinary knowledge of Scripture which gives a tone and
a character to all the writings and records of a period when some
would have us believe that the Bible was 4 unknown.’ So with the
early Greeks,—where men could not write or read in private, they
talked and listened in public. The modes of instruction differed
from ours, but the instruction was there, and the result was the same,
—making due allowance for the difference in the aggregate of human
knowledge,-—a general intelligence and a power and habit of thought,
with a feeling for the harmonious and the beautiful, and a sound
judgment in social and political questions. Our ideas of the most
necessary elements of education are combined in the convenient
monosyllables read and wfe; and we joke about ‘the three B’s ’
When we add a small modicum of knowledge in figures. Without
such rudiments, a person now becomes a boor and a churl. But it
was not so always. Perhaps indeed this thought suggests a psycho
logical reason why the general decline of art should be so nearly
coincident throughout Europe with the general use of printing-, or
What is called 4 the revival of letters.’ This was a new method by
which genius found utterance, and it drew men’s attention away from
Other and older methods. There would not have been a Pheidias if
there had been a printing-press in the Athenian Acropolis. There
would have been no Greek Plays if there had been Daily Newspapers
to discuss the current topics of the period. From this habit of
realising descriptions not from written accounts but from painted or
sculptured forms, we often find the Greeks comparing living objects to
Statuary, as when a female form is described by the phrase 4 beautiful
as a statue, 4 looking as though in a picture,’ and a man’s character
as 4 unskilfully painted,’ for 4 unfavourably presented to one’s notice.’
So also those versed in ancient lore are spoken of as 4 possessing the
forms painted by older hands.’1 The astonishing number of stillextant Greek vases going back many centuries before the Christian
era, and containing a whole mythology in their designs, is sufficient
to prove the proposition, that painting rather than writing was the
vehicle of ideas to the ancient Greeks.
There are, as I hope to show, grounds for believing that although
they early possessed the Semitic alphabet, they made no great use of
it for a long time except for the writing or inscribing names, laws,
treaties, decrees, or other short records public or domestic. All these
uses are widely different from the transcription of current literature,
and great confusion has been made in this respect by those who thinkI
I41/ 774‘ Kur- Hec- 559- Hippol. 451- In the latter passage
is sometimes, but very erroneously, interpreted ‘ writings.’
�326
On the Origin of
[March
the antiquity of writing in itself proves the antiquity of copying
books.
I call attention to a most singular, significant, and important fact,
which, so far as I am aware, has never been noticed. It is this : that
the Greek language, so copious, so expressive, not only has no proper
verbs equivalent to the Roman legere and scribere? but it has no
terms at all for any one of the implements or materials so familiar to
us in connection with writing (pen, ink, paper, book, library, copy,
transcript, &c.) till a comparatively late period of the language. The
only exception is, that one or two words expressing 2tablets,’—
4
3
probably of wood overlaid with wax,—are found in the earlier writers
of the Periclean era. But it is abundantly clear that the use of letters
for literary purposes was regarded as quite subordinate, and solely as
an 4 aid to memory,’ in which sense it is often spoken of. Thus,
Prometheus is said to have communicated to man 4 the putting
together of letters, as a means for making an artificial memory the
recorder of all things;’ and there is a well-known myth in the
4 Phaedrus ’ of Plato, in which the Egyptian god Theuth or Thoth is
said to have given letters 4 to assist memory,’ to which it is objected
by the then King of Egypt, that this new art will make men forget
rather than remember, 4 because, from trusting to external signs, and
from the non-practice of memory, they will cease to recal facts from
their own minds.’3 We have early mention also of inscriptions on
bronze plates;4 but the word for 4 book ’ (which is our word
4 Bible ’) does not occur at all till near the time of Plato, or shortly
before b.c. 400. The first mention of it, I think, is in the 4 Birds ’ of
Aristophanes5 (b.c. 415), and here it only means a collection of
written oracles, which, perhaps, were among the first records that
began to be written down.6 Speaking generally, it is quite extra
ordinary how very scanty are the notices of writing, or of any of its
kindred operations or materials, throughout the earlier Greek Litera
ture. Even in the Dialogues of Plato, though we know written books
were then fully introduced, there is a total silence as to how and on
what they were written.
But here comes the difficulty, from which we must try to find an
escape. There is a Greek Literature, and a very copious one. We
2 The Greek equivalent to legere means ‘to speak,’ ancl that to scribere means
properly ‘to draw’ or ‘paint,’—primarily, as in Homer, ‘to scratch or mark a
surface.’ It came to be used in the sense of ‘writing ’ because it was at first (as we
see in the earliest vases) an adjunct to descriptive painting. The Greeks had two
verbs which indirectly express ‘ reading,’—but they are clumsy shifts, unworthy of
so complete a language, the one meaning recognoscere, the other sibi colligere, ‘ to
have something put before one in a collective form.’ The earliest passage in which
‘ reading a written name ’ occurs, is Pindar, 01. x. 1-3. After the age of Pericles, the
verb ‘ to write ’ was used commonly enough in our literary sense.
»
3 Aesch. Prom. 460. Plat. Phaedr. p. 274, chap. lix.
4 Sophocles, Track,. 683.
5 V. 974. In Herod, i. 123 and iii. 128, Pi&Klov means ‘a small piece of byblus,’
as XPVC,LOV means ‘a gold coin,’ a bit of xpvo-Js.
6 See Soph. Track. 1167.
�1880]
a Written Greek Literature.
327
have the long histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, to say nothing
of Homer and Hesiod and a great number of Greek Plays. It is
evident that these, or most of these (allowing that epic poems may
have been orally handed down) must have been written. How can
we reconcile this fact, which may be regarded as certain, with the
scanty notices of writing itself? This consideration should make us
somewhat timid in pressing ‘ negative evidence ’ too far.
This is, indeed, a most important and difficult inquiry. To
answer it fully and properly would require a long investigation ; but
the results may be stated in brief. We have no proof whatever that
the papyrus, though so early known and used as a writing-material
by the Egyptians, was so employed by the Greeks. There is much
more reason to think that the authors of works laboriously wrote them
on strips of wood (probably on a surface prepared with wax), and
kept from contact, when laid upon each other, by raised margins like
our school-slates. These would be very durable, though not perhaps
very portable ; and yet, they would not of necessity be much larger
or heavier than the ponderous folios which were issued by printers
only two centuries ago.
Such books were not meant in the first instance for transcription.
It may be greatly doubted, for example, if it would have been possible
to procure, for money, a copy of Herodotus or Thucydides in the life
time of the authors. The autograph copies were used only for
4 readings ;’ and when we are told that Herodotus read his History
at the Olympian Games, and that Thucydides, when a boy, heard it,
and burst into tears,7 there is nothing in the anecdotes beyond what
is extremely probable. For these ‘Displays,’ as the Greek rhe
toricians called them, or ‘ Headings ’ and ‘ Recitations ’ (as we call
them after the Roman custom), were the only way by which the
contents of such works could become known, as transcription for
general circulation was evidently impossible, and as there were (so
far as we know) no ‘Readers,’ as-a class, so there could be no
‘Writers’ or transcribers by profession.
I must guard myself here by stating that I am not now making
a rash or dogmatic assertion. I am only expressing the view which
my researches into this question have led me to accept as on the
whole the most probable view. It does not in the least follow that
because the art of writing was known, and because the proper mate
rials for it may have early existed, that therefore they were made
available for the copying of books. What we should call ‘ spouting,'
or the sensational oral delivery of poetry or prose—more often from,
memory than from written copies—was the Greek method of gaining
attention to literary compositions, and so we find the art of the Rhap-
Life of Thucydides by Marcellinus. This is quite compatible with what
Thucydides says of his own history in i. 22, that it was not composed to vie with
others in attracting an audience for the time, or merely to be ‘pleasing to hear' (es
a.Kpiaaiv'), but to keep and lay by as a possession for all time.
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On the Origin of
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sodist flourished even in the times of Plato, Xenophon, and Aristo
phanes. It seems to be commonly assumed, but wholly without proof,
that the earlier Greeks had some writing-material equivalent to our
paper or parchment. It is no use to indulge in mere assertion, and
say that ‘ Papyrus, with the Egyptian trade open now for over a cen
tury and a half, nzusi have been cheap and plentiful in Greece and
Sicily.’8 Why, then, is it never mentioned as a writing-material ?
There is indeed one verse in Aeschylus9 in which he speaks of certain
commands not being ‘ sealed down in folds of byblus,’ after the man
ner of an official missive, but delivered viva voce : but the genuine
ness of the verse cannot, even for metrical reasons, be trusted, and
the context tends to show it is a later interpolation. Anyhow, it is
evident, from the mention of sealing, that letter-writing, and not the
copying of literature, must be alluded to. Still the line is one of the
greatest importance to the determination of this question; for, if
papyrus was used for letter-writing, it could also have been used forcopying books.
Herodotus does indeed tell us10 that the Ionians used prepared
skins for writing on, and this is probably the origin of parchment.I
11
Yet no notice of it anywhere occurs beyond the brief statement he
makes to this effect. There is nowhere the slightest indication that
either papyrus or parchment was ever used for the transcription of
literary works.
What, then, did they use? For, even if Homer and Hesiod and
the rhapsodists who represented them, made no written copies (which,
in itself, they either may or may not have done), it cannot be doubted
that the plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles were written down from the
first; and being so written, they must have been preserved (and all
the more carefully because they were unique autograph copies)
either in temples, or treasuries, or among the State archives, till the
times of the Alexandrine school of learning, when for the first time
the use of papyrus and the practice of transcription became common;
and from them have come down to us the copies we still possess in a
more or less corrupt state of the texts.12
Nothing could be more convenient than light strips or tablets
of wood, called by the Greeks SeXrot and vrlvaKss. Each would
represent a page; and for the purposes of a note-book, or of trans
mission under seal, they could easily have been used like the 'Roman
pugillares. That the surface was covered with a thin layer of wax
is probable from many considerations. In the first place it is a
material very cheap, very plentiful, very easily impressed or obliteI Dr. Hayman in the Journal of Philology, viii. p. 138.
9 Suppl. 947.
10 Book v. 58.
II Corrupted from Pergamena, from its manufacture at Pergamos in Asia Minor.
12 Diogenes Laertius tells us that Xenophon stole and published (as he also
himself continued) the History of Thucydides. This anecdote, if true, shows that
the book had not been published or circulated (Laert. ii- 6, § 13).
�i88o]
a IVntten Greek Literature.
329
rated,13 and very durable. We have a vast number of ancient deeds,
and the waxen seals still appended to them remain in good preserva
tion after the lapse of six or seven centuries. There are incidental
notices of these waxed tablets being used in the Athenian law-courts
for indictments and other purposes. So in the ‘ Clouds ’ there is a
joke about melting the letters of a writ in the sunshine,14 and in the
‘Wasps’ we read of an old juryman having his finger-nail full of
wax from scratching a line on a tablet. It is therefore highly pro
bable that a stiff and not a flexible material was at first used for
writing; in other words, the school-slate preceded the use of the
copy-book ; and the ‘ black board ’ of the lecturer is still a witness
to the ancient custom. It is the origin too of the diptychs and
tnptychs that came into use over the altars of churches, not, at first,
for paintings, but for lists of written names.
The examples of Egypt and Assyria, not to mention some other
countries, as Lycia, Phoenicia, and Etruria, tend to show that the
earliest form of writing was scratching stone or clay,—a process essen
tially different from the use of the pen. The form of the arrow-headed
character is thought to show that clay-cylinders, impressed by an
angulai piece of wood or metal, were used before the inscriptions
were cut in stone, which must have been very early, though not so
early as Egyptian hieroglyphics on granite. Assyrian inscriptions
on slabs considerably exceed 1,000 years b.c. The Greeks too made
inscriptions on stone pillars (crTijXai) as early as Solon or Pisistratus,
peihaps, very short and badly executed, so far as we can now judge
from the ungainly shapes of the letters and the non-division of
words. The early ‘lettering’ of the Greek vases, of about the
same period, belongs to the department of painting rather than of
writing proper; and it hardly extended, for two or three centuries,
beyond single words. As a rule, ancient sites, e.g. those called
Gyclopian, are wholly destitute of inscriptions; we might as well
expect to find letters on a block at Stonehenge as on a polygonal or
Squared stone at Mycenae. Even the scratches on the clay balls
(whorls) found by Schliemann at Hissarlik have no claim at all to be
considered as writing. Nor have any Hebrew inscriptions of any antifl^ty (apart from the Moabitic stone,15 with its Assyrian and Egyptian
affinities of form and material) ever come to light in any of the
explorations at Jerusalem or in Palestine. The sole exception to
the absence of ancient writing other than that on stone, seems to be
certain papyri found m Egyptian tombs, which are said to claim a
Very high antiquity.
mpltlXhe+lTOrd Ted by E™Pides for altering words in a SeAros is ffvyx&v, implying
J® L X
6’
obllterat“S words with the blunt end of a stilus? \>l.
SeeZHerodTifi .23e9ared
Called
°r
(Ju1’ Pollux’ Onom- x‘ 58)-
dass ltnSSta°nPdVery remarkable for the early mention of a
glass lens and its use for drawing the sun rays into a focus.
Questioned Tnd SpV?6 ®Upp°sed,date of this stone’ B-c- 896’ is now seriously
questioned, and the date placed as late as B.c. 260 (Atlienceum, Dec. 6, 1879).
*
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On the Origin of
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But because the Egyptians had the papyrus and wrote upon it, it
must not be assumed, as it too often is, contrary to all evidence, that
the early Greeks used it too, and wrote copies of Homer upon it
even in the time of Solon. ■ A stone-cutter with his chisel is a widely
different person from a student with his pen. It is curious to find
written words described as composed of ‘shapes’ rather than of
letters. Thus, in the ‘Theseus’ of Euripides,16 a countryman
(illiterate, of course) describes the letters composing the name as so
many combinations of lines, circles, and zig-zags, just as if the
letter A were described to us by a country bumpkin as ‘ two sticks
set aslant with a bar across them.’17 There was a legend that
Palamedes ‘ invented writing’ in the time of the Trojan War; and
in allusion to this we have a droll scene in Aristophanes, where
Mnesilochus, a relative of Euripides, while in prison cuts a rude
inscription on pieces of wood, and throws them out to inform his
friends of his trouble.
The custom of sending written messages must have prevailed
early; and we may safely place letter-writing before book-writing.
The scytale was one of the earliest contrivances, and it was a very
ingenious one. Two persons privately kept staves or batons of
precisely the same diameter, so that a strip of bark or skin wrapped
round, and written on lengthwise, would be intelligible only by
precisely the same arrangement of the lines, since the order of the
words would become disjointed on a stick of any other diameter.
There is hardly any allusion to ‘ books ’ earlier than the writings
of Plato. And it is very remarkable that they are spoken of as a
novelty and a development in the ‘ Frogs ’ of Aristophanes (b.c. 404),
where it is said18 ‘that everyone now has a book and learns wisdom
out of it.’
We must next inquire how far the preceding remarks agree with
the opinions ordinarily held by scholars. And this inquiry will
show, I think, how erroneous, or, at least, how baseless, are many of
the current opinions on the subject.
Mr. Grote19 writes as follows : ‘ The interval between Archilochus
and Solon (660-580 b.c.) seems, as has been remarked in my former
volume, to be the period in which writing first came to be applied to
Greek poems,—to the Homeric poems among the number; and
shortly after the end of that period, commences the era of compo
sitions without metre or prose. The philosopher Pherecydes of
gyros, about 550 b.c., is called by some the earliest prose-writer.
But no prose-writer for a considerable time afterwards acquired any
celebrity,—seemingly none earlier than Hecataeus of Miletus, about
510-490 B.c.—prose being a subordinate and ineffective species of
16 Frag. 385, Dind.
17 Athenaeus, who quotes this in Book x., gives other examples of similar
descriptive accounts given by those who could not read.
18 V. 1113.
19 Hist, of Greece, Part ii. chap. xxix. (vol. iv. p. 24).
�i88o]
a Written Greek Literature.
331
composition, not always even perspicuous, and requiring no small
practice before the power was acquired of rendering it interesting.’
He adds (p. 25), ‘The acquisition of prose-writing, commencing as it
does about the age of Peisistratus, is not less remarkable as an
evidence of past, than as a means of future, progress.’
In accordance with the view of an early written literature here
laid down (as if it were a plain and acknowledged matter of fact) we
read, in the Dictionaries of Biography, of Cadmus of Miletus, Charon
of Lampsacus, Pherecydes, Hecataeus, Acusilaus, Hellanicus, all of
whom are stated to have lived earlier than b.c. 500. When howevei, we look into the authorities for these alleged composers of
written prose works, we find only Strabo, Plutarch, Diodorus, Pliny,
and others who lived six centzbries later, appealed to in proof of the
assertion. With the exception of Acusilaus who is once quoted by
Plato, Hellanicus once by Thucydides, and Hecataeus, three or four
times by Herodotus, we find no reason to believe that their written
works, if they then existed, were known to or made use of by the
historians of the very next century. Therefore, if their works really
existed in MS., they were either unknown or inaccessible to the
writers who next succeeded them, or these latter were (which is very
impi obable) so careless that they did not consult works known to
have been written on the very subjects they undertook to record.
We must fall back on the supposition, that if there really were
written copies, either the authors of them had scarcely any literary
reputation,, or they reserved their own properties to be used for
‘ Readings ’ or as repertories from which oral instruction might be
obtained, but not either for lending or for circulation. And such a
view is, without , doubt, in itself neither absurd nor impossible. It
will make the limited existence of written literary works at least
conceivable at that early period.
. But the difficulty does not stop here. We find in the early Greek
writers, e.g. in Herodotus, mention made of three distinct kinds of
literary persons, those ‘ versed in history ’ (called Xoymt),20 ‘ com
posers of stories,’ and ‘writers of stories.’ The last term is the
latest of the three, a fact significant in itself. There must have been
separate professions corresponding to these several terms. The oldest
are the,Adymq whom we find mentioned in Pindar along with the
Baids (aotSot), and several times, e.g. in the opening chapter, by
Herodotus. W^e cannot doubt that they were a class of men who
were authorities in history, such as ‘ history ’ then was, i.e. in the
main mere mythology. Oral anecdotes of marvellous exploits or
adventures, clan-stories of prowess, and all that we express by the
ie esPress^ speaks of the memory of these men,—a fact that alone
proves the absence of teaching from books. They probably consulted such inscrin10ns as existed, and made themselves acquainted with oracles, records of temples
and prytanea (town-halls), and they may have made written notes of them. Granting
even this as possible or probable, we are still far from the era of a Written Litera
ture m circulation.
�332
On the Origin of
[March
terms tales and anecdotes, were called Xoyoz. by the early Greeks.
Such stories were told by Patroclus to amuse the wounded Eurypylus
in his tent, while soothing the pain of his wound.21 And we know
from Aristophanes22 that droll stories of Aesop’s were orally recited at
the dinner-table. Hence he is called by Herodotus, in common
with Hecataeus of Miletus, Xoyo7roibs, 4 a story-maker.’ Dr. Hayman is not justified in saying23 that4prose-writer is undoubtedly
the sense in which Herodotus applies XogoTrohos to Hecataeus.’ We
read in the 4 Phaedrus ’2425
that Lysias was taunted with being a
4 speech-writer,’ Xoyoypac^os, the alleged reason being that 4 the more
influential men in the states feel scruple at writing their essays or
speeches, and so leaving records of themselves in writing, lest pos
terity should stigmatise them as Sophists.'1 This also furnishes us
with a reason for a repeated boast of Socrates, that he should leave
behind him no offspring of his mind, viz. no books or written
treatises. He appears to be satirising a practice which was beginning
to come in vogue.
There is certainly no proof at all that Herodotus refers to
Hecataeus as a writer. It is perfectly possible, and on the whole
highly probable, that the stories, the histories, or the philosophic
teachings of the earlier Greeks were a purely oral literature. They
were put into writing eventually from the dictation of their pupils
and followers; and thus it happens that in after times the zvritings
of Heraclitus, Anaximander, Thales, and the early philosophers gene
rally, as well as those of the historians preceding Herodotus, are
referred to.25 There is not the slightest ground for believing, while
there are many grounds for doubting, that there was any written
Iliad and Odyssey till the age of ‘books,’ which is that of Plato.
Hence, to suppose that such long poems could have come down
to us, by oral recitation alone, from a period five or six centuries
earlier than that, and unmixed with the countless verses which in the
times of the Tragic poets composed the 4 Tale of Troy,’ is nothing
less than a literary delusion, cherished because it is popular, but
opposed to every principle of fair logical inference from facts.
Books were no sooner introduced than they became both popular
and cheap. Treatises on eloquence, as those by Tisias and Corax
mentioned in the Phaedrus,26 the stories of Aesop, and the philosophical
dogmas of Anaxagoras,27 could be bought at Athens in the time of
Plato for a very small sum. But Thucydides, with the exception of a
21 Iliad xxi.
22 Vesp. 1258.
23 P. 138, in Journal of Philoloqv viii.
24 P. 257. C.
25 It is very significant, that Parmenides and Empedocles wrote philosophy in
rerse, which was so much easier to remember than precepts in prose.
26 P. 273. A. A phrase was soon introduced, ‘You are not up in your Aesop,’&c.,
expressed by the word ov ireira.rr]Kas, the original of our term ‘ trite.’
27 Plat. Apol. p. 26. E; Pliaedo, p. 97. C. Eupolis in Meineke’s Fragm. Com.
vol. ii. p. 550.
�1880]
a Written Greek Literature.
333
single reference by name to the 4 Attic History ’ of Hellanicus, and
Herodotus, who quotes only the statements of Hecataeus in three or
four passages (and both writers in evident disparagement of their
authorities), are unable to appeal to any current written literature.
Thucydides is evidently glancing at Hellanicus when he alludes
(i. 21) to ‘writers of stories who compose rather to please the earthan
with a view to truth.’ He does not seem to have known Herodotus
at all; his appeal is only to hearsay and memory. The following
passages in the Introduction to his History are well deserving of
impartial consideration. It will be observed, that in his sketch of
the early history of Greece from the time of the Trojan War, he
adduces no single fact on the authority of any one except 4 Homer,’ and
he nowhere shows the least consciousness that the Persian wars and
passages in the early history of Sparta had been written by Herodotus.
Thus he says (i. 1. § 2), 4 The events before them (viz. before
the Peloponnesian and the Persian wars), and those yet earlier, it was
impossible to make out clearly through the length of time.’ Again
(ch. 9. § 2), 4 Such, according to my research, is the history of early
Greece, though it is difficult to put full trust in it by all the chain
©f evidence I could collect, because men receive from each other hear
say accounts of the past, even when their own country is concerned,
without any more inquiry than if it were not.’
‘Many other matters, even contemporary events, and not begin
ning to be forgotten through time, the other Hellenic peoples have a
wrong notion about ’ (zb. § 4).
4 Still, from the evidences I have mentioned, one would not be far
wrong in accepting as facts what I have mentioned, that is, if he does
not trust the exaggerations of poets nor the attractive rather than
truthful narratives of story-writers,28*which have become little better
than fables through time, but takes my statements as made with
sufficient certainty considering the length of time that has elapsed.’
Thus we see this great writer, impressed with the deficiency of any
authentic history, either obliged or contented to fall back on infer
ences, memory, hearsay.w If he had known of the large amount of
Spartan traditions recorded in the sixth book of Herodotus, he could
hardly have used the language he employs in i. ch. 9, 4 Now those
affirm, who have received the clearest accounts about the Pelopon
nesus by memory from their predecessors,’ &c.
Herodotus himself commences his history with these notable
words. 4 This is the setting forth ’ (literally, 4 a showing to the eye ’)
4 of the history (or research) of Herodotus, in order that events which
have taken place may not vanish from mankind by time,30 and that
28 He undoubtedly means Hellanicus by the indefinite Koyoypdtpoi. He is com
paring his own narrative of facts, as carefully observed and recorded by himself
with the only existing Attic history that was known, by recitations from it, to his
countrymen.
® rcKp-hpia, pivrifMQ, a.KO'f].
* The word he uses was applied to the fading colour of dyes, or of blood.
�334
On the Origin of
[March
deeds great and worthy of admiration may not come to be without
renown,’ i.e. lose their credit, as they would in the course of ages if
they were narrated only to present hearers, and not recorded in
writing. These are precisely the words of an author who is con
gratulating himself on having achieved something more than had yet
been done for the recording of history. The only meaning we can
fairly attach to his phrase, ‘ become evanescent by time,’ is this,—
that he can fix them in writing, and so make them permanent. But
if others had done so, and if Hecataeus ‘ the story-maker’ had left a
written work, to which Herodotus had access, how very much out of
place the declaration on his part would have been. Now, though
Hecataeus is referred to a few times,31 there is nowhere the slightest
reference to any written book of his. On the whole then, it is
probable, or not improbable, that tales told orally (after a fashion
analogous to the rhapsodists) on the authority of Hecataeus and Aesop
and other composers or compilers, were the only prose literature current
in the time of Herodotus. And thus we understand why Thucydides
says more than once that his work was not meant to ‘ tickle the ear.’
There is a passage in Pindar (Olymp. vi. 90) on which, as bearing
on this subject, a discussion was raised by me some years ago. A mes
senger who conveys an ode, with instructions for the performance of
it, is compared to a scytala, or written scroll. Now, if he carried
with him the ode in writing, the comparison is obviously out of
place. But, if he learnt the ode by heart (Pindar retaining the
autograph copy written on wooden tablets), the oral message is very
well compared to a written missive.
Another passage, about which I had some controversy in one of
the leading Reviews, is that in v. 52 of the ‘ Frogs’ of Aristophanes,
Dionysus is there made to say, after an allusion to the sea-fight off
Arginusae, ‘ As I was reading to myself the “ Andromeda ” on the
ship, a sudden desire caused my heart to beat.’ Does this mean, 4 as
he was reading the play of Euripides from a MS. copy ’ (as one might
now read a book or a paper on board a steamer), or ‘ as he was read
ing the name Andromeda ’ painted on the stern or prow (Pollux, i. 86)
of his own or another vessel ?
No doubt, this is rather a nice point. Conceding, as I have
done, that the use of ‘ Books ’ is mentioned as a novelty, in this very
play, my argument is not seriously affected whichever interpretation
we adopt. I think, however, that this carrying about literary MSS.
for casual perusal is so alien to everything we know about the Greek
habits of the period, that the other explanation must be the true
one. The Andromeda was a ship that had distinguished itself in
the sea-fight, and when Dionysus saw the name’ upon it, it reminded
him of the play of Euripides of the same name.
I think I have shown good reasons for holding Mr. Grote’s state
ments to be, at least, unsupported by evidence, when he affirms32 that
31 See, for instance, Book ii. 143, v. 36, vi. 137.
32 Ilist. of Greece, ii. pp. 148-9,
�1880]
a Written Greek Literature.
335
‘ there is ground for assurance that Greek poems first began to be
written before the time of Solon ’ (b.c. 600), and that ‘ the period
which may with the greatest probability be fixed upon as having first
witnessed the formation even of the narrowest reading class in
Greece is from b.c. 660 to b.c. 630.’ He thence jumps to the conclu
sion (which I think contrary to all evidence) that ‘ manuscripts of
the Homeric poems and the other old epics—the Thebais and the
Cypria as well as the Iliad and the Odyssey—began to be compiled
towards the middle of the seventh century b.c., and the opening
of Egypt to Grecian commerce, which took place about the same
period, would furnish increased facilities for obtaining the requisite
papyrus to write upon ’ (p. 150).
Mr. Grote could hardly have been aware of the very significant
fact I have pointed out, viz., the total absence from the Greek
vocabulary of all words and terms connected with pen-and-ink
writing, till a comparatively late period. If he had been aware
of it, he would have stateci with less confidence that the ‘first
positive ground which authorises us to presume the existence of a
manuscript of Homer, is the famous ordinance of Solon with re
gard to the rhapsodes at the Panathenaea.’33 Dr. Hayman, who
adopts Mr. Grote’s conclusions, founds it on the same weak argument,
viz. the requirements of lyric poetry, which (he says) could not have
floated over the precarious stage of their unwritten existence if it had
lasted more than one or two generations.’ But these songs were
used socially, and could be recited or sung or played to music by
memory alone; nor is there the least necessity for inferring that ‘ that
first (or unwritten) stage was a very short one,’ or that ‘ unless fixed
at once by MS. they must have died an early death.’34
A great deal has been said by many learned men on the early use
of writing for the purposes of inscriptions and dedicatory offerings,
but no one as yet has sufficiently discriminated the use of letters for
public or state purposes, and the use of them for book-writing. No
doubt, there are notices of writing in several passages of Herodotus;
but they are all notices of quite a different sort from that of copying
volumes of prose or poetry. There are many, very many, specimens of
early handwriting on extant Greek vases; but they are confined to
single names in explanation of the subjects ; the forms, too, of the
letters are quite unsuited to their use for book-writing, and the
absence of all mention of writing-material (except tablets) is against
Mr. Grote’s theory35 of i both readers and manuscripts having attained
a certain recognised authority before the time of Solon.’
It may be argued, that mere negative evidence is not to be pushed
too far. But then why, if there was a written literature in his time,
33 A x44- His argument is founded on an erroneous interpretation of a phrase
which he thought meant ‘ by prompting from a MS.,’ but which really^means ‘in
successive parts.’
3‘ Journal of Philology, viii. p. 134.
35 Vol. ii. p. 150. It is fair to add that F. A. Wolf (Proleg. ai Hom. ch. xvii.
§ 70) avows the same opinion.
�336
On a Written Greek Literature.
[MarSft
does Thucydides appeal to memon/ and hearsay ? Why is there no
mention of ‘ books ’ up to a certain date, and then a common
mention of them ? I have looked through all the extant Greek plays,
tragedies and comedies, and their numerous extant fragments, with a
special view to this question, which I have had before me for years.
It is not till nearly b.c. 400,—that is, two centuries later than the
date assigned by Mr. Grote,—that I find any mention of books, or
writing-masters {grammatistae), or booksellers.35 And as Thucydides
never once quotes Herodotus, or Plato Thucydides—though he does
once refer (Sympos. p. 178. C.) to Acusilaus—the paucity of written
books (if they existed at all except as the private property of the
authors) must be inferred, and the supposed MSS. of the Iliad and
Odyssey before the age of Solon must be relegated to the category of
the barest possibilities.
The close connection of the word [■hfiXbov or fivftXlov with the
name of the papyrus-plant, byblus, may be thought to prove that its
use as a writing-material must have been early known to the Greeks.
‘Papyrus ’ (says Dr. Hayman, already quoted) ‘must have been cheap
and plentiful in Greece and Sicily.’ Pliny however says that papyrus
was not used (he must mean,by the Greeks) for paper before the time
of Alexander the Great. The use of it in Egypt for hieratic writing
may have been so far a secret, that the method of preparing it re
mained for a long time unknown to the Greeks. At all events, we
cannot show that they ever employed it in early times for any docu
mentary purposes. It may have been too brittle, or suited only to a
very dry climate ; we are on a subject on which we have no evidence
at all, and therefore conjectures in one direction are as permissible as
on the other.37
One point in this controversy is undeniable; that the ZeKtos
(which probably consisted of two or three thin plates of wood) was
used for ordinary written messages or communications long before
‘books,’ properly so called, came into use. Euripides38 calls a
ZsKros i a fir tablet,’ 7rsu/c??, and it probably differed only from the
'lrlva^, tabula, in being smaller and more suited for transmission
when tied up and sealed. There is nothing however in the use of
these implements to suggest to our minds the notion of a reading
nr literary class who had libraries or collections of books at their
■command. I am myself of opinion that nothing deserving the
name of a library was known to the Greeks till the era of the great
Alexandrine School under the Ptolemies, and I have no belief in an
oft-told story, that Peisistratus collected a library for the Athenians.
F. A. Paley.
36 A few faint indications of being taught to read occur a little earlier, as when
the sausage-seller in the Knights of Aristophanes (‘ Cavaliers ’ would be a better
rendering of the title) says he knows his letters very little, and that little very
badly.
37 The word xagrgs, charta, occurs in one passage of Plato Comicus, circ. B.C. 425.
�
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On the Origin of a Written Greek Literature
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1Z3S6
MS 4-1
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
THE
RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS;
BEING A LECTURE DELITEBED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
The 16th of November, 1873.
By CHARLES J. PLUMPTRE,
Lecturer at King's College, London.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED
by the
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1873.
Price Threepence.
�ADVERTISEMENT.
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
—physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improve
ment and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o'clock precisely.
(Annually— from November to May.)
Twenty-four Lectures (in three series), ending 3rd Mav
1874, will be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture), or for any
eight consecutive lectures, as below :
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s- 6dTo the Sixpenny Seats—2s- being at the rate of Three
pence each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm.
Henry Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent. Hvde
Park, W.
Payment at the door One Penny ;—Sixpence ;_ and
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
�PREFACE.
The Author of this Lecture has to acknowledge
the assistance rendered him in its preparation
from three different sources, viz., the Rev. George
Gilfillan’s Lecture on Shakespeare ; a very inter
esting little work entitled ‘ Bible Truths and
Shakespeare Parallels ’ by James Brown ; and a
most learned critique on ‘Gervinus on Shake
speare’which appeared in the Westminster Review
about ten years ago.
A 2
��THE RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.
----- *----F any Englishman were asked who is the
greatest Poet that ever adorned his country’s
Literature, he would answer, without any hesi
tation, I imagine, ‘Milton’ or ‘Shakespeare.’
Two great minds indeed, enriched with the
highest powers of that creative faculty which is
the very essence of the Poet’s nature ; and which
the word in its original signification literally
means:—but how different in their natures and
attributes I Milton, it seems to me, might fitly
be compared to some grand Alpine mountain
range, rising majestically above the sunny smiling
plains by which it is surrounded. As we strive,
with adventurous spirit, to ascend to its loftiest
heights, we soon leave the green pastures and
the golden cornfields, the village spires and the
peasants’ chalets, with all their sweet human
associations, far, far away beneath us. We pass
through the thick, dark forests of fir and pine,
which belt the mountains’ side. We emerge from
their gloomy shades to find (it may be), as I have
known it in my wanderings but a few weeks ago,
I
�6
The Religion and Morality
the sunlight gone, the blue sky vanished—and,
in their place, clouds, almost as black as midnight,
riven only by the incessant flashes of the lurid
lightning; while above, around, the roar of the
thunder is heard, echoing and re-echoing in the
seemingly fathomless ravines and gorges on every
side. We seek what shelter we may for awhile ;
and then, when the violence of the storm is past,
and the lightning flashes remotely in the distance,
and the sound of heaven’s artillery is heard only
far away, we continue our ascent. Through dense
clouds, through huge shadowy masses of vapour
and mist, that rise slowly and solemnly like vast
spectral forms from the depths below, we make
our way, until at length we seem to have left
this lower world altogether, and emerge on a scene
which leaves on the minds of those who for the
first time behold it an impression that can never
be forgotten. We are no longer in the regions of
Life—on every side are wide plateaus of snow
and ice—we stand upon a mountain crag, ‘and
on the torrent’s brink beneath, behold the tall
pines dwindled as to shrubs in dizziness of dis
tance;’ we hear, from time to time, the ava
lanches below ‘ crash with a frequent conflict ’—
while still, far up the heights, shoot forth those
monarch peaks crowned with their diadems of
eternal snow, now blushing like the rose, as they
are kissed by the first beams of Day—then,
standing pure and dazzling in their snowy whiteness against the deep, dark blue of noon—anon
glowing in lurid light of crimson, gold and ame
thyst, as they are lit up by the fiery radiance of
the setting sun—then slowly, in the approaching
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
p
twilight and darkness, fading 1 like the unsub
stantial fabric of a vision,’ silently and solemnly
away; until, a few hours later, they gleam forth
again, robed in fresh garments of unearthly
beauty, and shining pale and spectral-like in all
the mysterious loveliness of moonlight on the Alps.
Now, such a scene as this, on which my eyes
so lately rested, seems to me no inapt type of the
genius of Milton; and of the visions of grandeur,
wonder, sublimity, and awe through which ‘ he
bodies forth the forms of things unknown.’
Regions peopled by beings of supernatural origin
and dark malignity, whose dwellings are like the
halls of Eblis in Eastern mythology; realms of
celestial happiness tenanted by angels, archangels,
and all the company of heaven, over whom reigns
as sovereign the Eternal Father, and only inferior
to him in the poet’s description, the Eternal Son ;
the formation of the universe out of chaos : the
creation of the human race; the entrance of evil
in the world; all these, surely, are the very
elements of sublimity and awe, and well may
Milton be compared in the loftiness of his range
of thought to the sky-aspiring monarchs of the
mountains. But I venture to think the analogy
holds further yet. The mountain has its attendant
shadow, and the loftier the mountain the further
does its shadow extend. Dare I then say, with
all the admiration I feel for Milton’s genius, with
all the veneration with which I regard the
purity of his motives, and the sterling inde
pendent worth of his character, that I yet think
a shadow has been cast by the very altitude of
all these, over much of the theological thought of
�8
The Religion and Morality
England, and which has only comparatively of
late years begun to fade away before the advancing
light of a cultured reason—surely man’s noblest,
greatest prerogative, which I, for one, believe to
have been given him by his Creator, to be rightly
used, to discover all the wise laws by which
He rules; to see His power and goodness in all
nature ; and to worship him as the All-Father:
and which right man ought not to put aside, to
bow down in slavish submission before any
unreasonable dogma, however venerable for its
antiquity, or sanctioned by an authoritative
name.
I do not think I go too far, when I say, such a
shadow has been cast by the very height of
Milton’s genius over much of our popular
theology. To take one instance only, I would
ask, Is not the embodiment of Satan as the Prin
ciple of evil, in the Serpent form that persuaded
Eve in Paradise, rather an idea we owe to Milton,
than to anything that is to be found in the
Hebrew Scriptures ? I remember well the late
Frederic Denison Maurice in a remarkable sermon
of his that is published, commenting on this nar
rative, asks why we should presume to be wiser
than the record, whatever it may mean, and
add statements for which that record affords in
itself no foundation. But I venture not further
in this direction.
• Let me turn then to that poet, who is so essen
tially the poet, not of an age, but of all Time —
Shakespeare.
If I likened Milton in his sublimity, to the
Alpine mountain, soaring upwards to the sky, I
�9
Of Shakespeare s Works.
would compare Shakespeare to a majestic river,
on whose vine-clad steeps I was lately standing,
in a foreign land. Springing forth at first, from
its remote birthplace in the rocks, a few scarcely
noticeable threads of water, it slowly gathers
strength and size; flowing through tranquil val
leys, and gently laving the grass and flowers
that fringe its banks, it receives tributary streams
on every side, and begins now to broaden and
deepen rapidly, as it passes onward in its course,
associated in every age with momentous events
in the history of the neighbouring nations. As
it gradually pursues its appointed course, this
mighty river, to which I refer, calls up before our
minds, the memory of Roman conquests and de
feats ; of the chivalrous exploits of feudal times;
of the coronations of Emperors, whose bones re
pose by its side ; of the wars and negotiations in
more recent days. Its scenery becomes as varied
as its history—now it flows through wild and
picturesque rocks and lofty mountain crags,
crowned with castles, fortresses, and ruins, with
which a thousand wild and romantic legends are
connected; then through thick forests and fertile
plains; then through wild ravines and gorges,
with vineyards sloping from their summits to the
water’s edge ; then through populous cities,
flourishing towns, and quiet villages; bringing
to them all, on its broad bosom, the riches of
Trade and Commerce, and all the varied products
of its shores : until at last its magnificent course
is run ; and nearly a thousand miles away from
its secluded birthplace, it is absorbed in the allembracing ocean.
B
�IO
The Religion and Morality
Now, I think, to such a river the course of
Shakespeare’s genius may be well compared, and
the influence of his works likened. But com
paratively little felt at first were ‘the earnest
thought and profound conviction, the homely yet
subtle wisdom, the deep, historical interest, the
poetic truth, the sweet lyrical effusion, the soar
ing imagination, and grand prophetic insight.’
But, as the noble river broadens and deepens, so
does the intellect, the genius, the influence of
Shakespeare. As the ages roll on, and one gene
ration succeeds another, still more deeply, still
more widely, is that influence felt; enriching
men’s minds, exalting their souls, humanising
their affections with all its precious stores, its
boundless wealth of Religion and morality.
‘ Next to the Bible ’ (we are told by a brilliant
critic), ‘ next to the Bible, I believe in Shake
speare ! ’ once exclaimed to him, an intelligent
woman; who, like most of us, had felt something
of the catholic wisdom enshrined in the writings
of the world’s greatest Poet: and, echoes a learned
Professor, ‘ his works have often been called a
secular Bible.’ Common sense and erudition thus
agree in recognising the same broad simplicity
and universal natures, in the splendid utterances
of Hebrew and English intelligence, preserved in
these perennially popular books. Both alike deal
with the greatest problems of Life; both open
those questions which knock for answer at every
human heart; both reflect the humanity which
is common to us all; both delineate the features
which mark and distinguish individual men. (a)
(a) Westminster Review, No. 48—New Series.
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
i i
A true and just comment indeed, for it is in the
highest sense of the word, this catholic spirit
which vivifies Shakespeare’s works, that forms
one of their chief and special characteristics.
And now I proceed to the task I have more
particularly undertaken, to gather from the
broad river of Shakespeare’s genius, some of the
precious wealth of Religion and morality with
which his priceless argosies are so richly laden.
And first, as regards Religion. Nothing strikes
me as more beautiful than the religious element
which marks Shakespeare’s writings. Here is
nothing gloomy, nothing narrow, nothing ascetic.
It is not thrust obtrusively upon us ; but it breaks
forth as naturally and spontaneously as the sun
light which irradiates and warms, which cheers
and comforts this lower world. It is this spirit
of love, of trust, and confidence in an all-wise
and all-merciful Creator which is the Religion
that Shakespeare preaches and inculcates. Hear
how he tells us all that ‘ we are in God’s hand,’
that ‘though our thoughts are ours, their ends are
none of our own;’ that ‘ heaven has an end in all
that ‘ God is the wisdom’s champion and defence ;’
and in one of his noblest passages he bursts forth
in the sublime exclamation :—
God shall be my hope,
My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet!
The last finishing touch, which he gives to the
portraiture of one of his finest historical charac
ters is, when he tells us, that ‘ to add greater
honours to his age, than man could give him, he
died, fearing God.’
B 2
�12
The Religion and Morality
Again, how beautifully does the religious spirit
in reference to God’s highest attributes, as we
conceive them, continually break forth in his
pages,—like a fountain in the golden sunshine.
Take, for instance, one of these divine attributes
and that the loveliest—Mercy. Does he not tell
■us that
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless’d ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ;
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown ;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,
When mercy seasons justice.
In another place too, dwelling on the same
theme, how full of pathos is his eloquent
appeal—
How would you be,
If He who is the top of judgment, should
But judge you, as you are ? Oh, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new-made !
Then, too, conspicuous, in innumerable places,
is the sense of Shakespeare’s abiding faith in the
over-ruling Providence of God; as when he says—
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do fail: and that should teach us,
There’s a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Kough-hew them how we will!
i
�Of Shakespeare s Works.
i 3
What a solemn warning, too, does he give us,
in respect to prayer for mere temporal blessings
and advantages, in the words—
We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harm, which the Wise Powers
Deny us for our good ; so we find profit
By losing of our prayers.
But prayer in the highest sense of the com
munion of our souls with God, and trust in his
all-righteous dealings with us, he ever inculcates.
‘ God knows of pure devotion,’ he says, and
counsels us ‘to put our quarrels to the will of
heaven,’ for
God will be avenged for the deed :
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm ;
He needs no indirect or lawless course,
To cut off those who have offended him.
And in holy exultation raises the cry
Now, God be praised ! that to believing souls
Gives light to darkness—comfort to despair.
Repentance, with mere lip services, repentance,
that would only be manifest in words, but not in
deeds, that would strive to obtain pardon for the
«c£, and yet enjoy all its sensual and worldly ad
vantages, meets ever with the sternest and
severest rebuke. Where was a self-tormented—
a justly tortured soul, in its inmost workings,
ever laid more awfully bare and naked before our
eyes, than in the vainly attempted prayer of the
wicked King in Hamlet ?
Oh, my offence is rank—it smells to heaven,
Itjiath the primal, eldest curse upon’t,
�14
The Religion and Morality
A brother’s murder! Pray, I cannot;
Though inclination be as sharp as will :
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound,
1 stand in pause, where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it, white as snow 1 Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence ?
And;what’s in prayer, but this twofold force,
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall;
Or pardon’d, being down. Then 1’11 look up,
My fault is past. But, oh ! what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? ‘ Forgive me, my foul murder,’—
That cannot be, since I am still possest
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain th’ offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above ;
There is no shuffling ; there the action lies
In its true nature ; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even in the teeth and forehead of our faidts,
To give in evidence. What then ? What rests?
Try what repentance can ? W hat can it not ?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent ?
Oh, wretched state 1 oh, bosom, black as death !
Oh, limed soul that struggling to be free,
Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make assay !
Bow, stubborn knees, and heart with strings of steel,
Ke soft as sinews of the new-born babe I
My words fly up I my thoughts remain below !
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go !
If there is any preacher who would deter us
from sin and crime, by the se^-punishment which
they bring, and the tortures which, sooner or
later, they inflict upon the human conscience, it
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
15
is Shakespeare. In this he is not surpassed even
by the greatest of the Greek Dramatists. Truly,
in his scenes, does the man of blood and crime
create, out of his thoughts, his- own Eumenides.
What language can depict more vividly the hor
rors of a self-accusing conscience than passages
such as these ?
I am alone, the villain of the earth,
And feel I am so most !
Oh ! when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal,
Witness against us to damnation.
How oft the sight of meaus to do ill deeds
Makes ill deeds done !
And, again, never surely were so much awe,
dread, and terror at the close of a wicked life,
suggested in three lines, as in those addressed to
the dying Cardinal Beaufort:—
Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss
Hold up thy hand ! make signal of thy hope !
He dies and makes no sign ! Oh, God, forgive him !
Shakespeare, indeed, is ever warning us that
the hour must come to us all, when our vices and
crimes will rise, like spectres before us, in all
their horror, and stand ‘ bare and naked trem
bling at themselves.’ What a sermon is contained
in this brief text!
Death ! thou art he, that will not flatter princes,
That stoops not to authority ; nor gives
A specious name to tyranny ; but shows
Our actions in their own deformed likeness.
I shall offer but one quotation more in regard
�16
The Religion and Morality
to this solemn lesson which Shakespeare is so
continually enforcing in all his greatest dramas
—the sense of our responsibility to God and our
accountability to him, for all the faculties, gifts,
and talents which he has bestowed upon us ; and
that all the riches, honours and dignities of this
world are but the merest vanities—are as nothing
compared to a well-spent life, and a conscience
void of offence to God and man. No solemn
dirge, pealing forth from some great organ and
rolling in waves of harmony down the ‘ dim,
mysterious aisles ’ of some venerable cathedral,
affects me more, whenever I read them, than the
last words which Shakespeare has put into the
lips of Cardinal Wolsey. I know no music
more touching than the flow of their exquisite
and melancholy rhythm:—
Nay, then, farewell !
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting I I shall fall,
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
This the state of man : to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks—good easy man—full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root ;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
(Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders)
These many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world I hate ye !
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
17
I feel my heart new opened. O ! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours !
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls, like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Oh, Cromwell 1 Cromwell !
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !
And now Time warns me that I must leave
this first portion of my subject,—the religion con
tained in Shakespeare’s works, and pass on toconsider the morality with which they are im
bued ; although I know well, that I have but
barely opened this part of the mine of religious
wealth with which his writings teem. Well
indeed may Shakespeare be termed a Lay-Bible,
and it is certain that it is to a diligent study of
the English version of the Bible we are indebted
to him for some of his finest thoughts and
language. In his dramas alone I have myself
counted upwards of eighty distinct allusions or
paraphrases of scriptural characters, incidents, or
language. But before I finally quit this division
of my Lecture, I would notice, that what is so
strikingly characteristic of Shakespeare’s religion
is, that it is so pre-eminently coloured with the
Spirit of that religion which was taught by the
Great Master. It has, indeed, been well said that
the peculiarly Christian spirit, in the highest and
most comprehensive sense of the word, leavening
the whole of Shakespeare’s philosophy, is every
where observable in the fondness with which,
�i8
The Religion and Morality
through the medium of his noble characters, he
produces, in endless change of argument and
imagery, illustrations of that wisdom, which is
‘ first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to
be entreated ’ In his allusions to the Deity, he
delights in all those attributes that more par
ticularly represent Him as the God of Love and
Peace ; and as between man and man, would
rather inculcate the humanising doctrine of
forgiveness, and recommend 1 the quality of
mercy ’ than the rugged justice of 'the eye for
eye and tooth for tooth ’ morality of the Hebrew
Code of Ethics. With what tenderness, and yet
with what power, he advocates in innumerable
passages, those virtues which the Christian spirit
more especially enjoins upon us for our guidance.
See how he holds up to our admiration that
gentleness of soul ‘ that seeketh not her own,’
That hath a tear for pity, and a hand,
Open as day, for melting charity.
The true spirit of forgiveness breathes in the
line ‘ I pardon him as God shall pardon me !’
Does he not tell us that
God’s benison goes with us, and with those
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes ;
that ‘ we are born to do benefits,’ that ‘ kindness
is the cool and temperate wind of Grace ’ ‘ nobler
even than revenge,’ and that to help another in
adversity, we should
Strain a little ;
For ’tis a bond in men.
‘ To revenge/ he says, 'is no valour, but to
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
19
bear,’ and that ‘ rarer action is in virtue, than in
vengeance.' With what gems of epithets does he
adorn the idea of Peace—‘ Peace that draws the
sweet infant breath of gentle sleepbut it is
not the inglorious ‘ peace at any price ’ of the
coward or the slave ; not the peace of inaction or
a shameful yielding up of what we hold to be
good and true, at the command of tyrannical
oppression, for he bids us remember also that
Rightly to be great,
Is greatly to find honour in a straw
When honour’s at the stake.
But the Peace that he would commend to us is
that self denying, self restraining, self victorious
Peace which
Is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party, loser.
Again, of Compassion, he does not merely say
that it hates ‘ the cruelty that loads a falling
manbut he bids us remember, too,
That ’tis not enough to hold the feeble up
But to support him after.
Of Contentment, he speaks in passages more
than I can dare quote ; but it is ever an active,
healthy contentment that he praises. He grandly
exclaims:—
My crown is in my heart, not on my head ;
Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones ;
Nor to be seen ; my crown is called Content ;
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjov.
�20
The Religion and Morality
And he assures us—
’Tis better to be lowly born
And range with virtuous livers, in content,
Than to be perk’d up in a glistening grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
And where can there be found a more beauti
ful picture of a contented mind than in these
exquisite lines : —
Now my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season’s difference ; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites, and blows upon my body
E’en till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
This is no flattery ; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
But it is not merely as a moralist of the higher
grade that Shakespeare shines so conspicuously
—it is not merely as a Preacher of the loftier
virtues that he is so deserving of our admiration.
View him on a lower level. Regard him as the
exponent of sound practical wisdom in common
life—in every-day experience. Where was ever
more sensible advice given in regard to a young
man’s social intercourse with the world than
in these memorable lines, and what pitfalls
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
21
would be avoided, if they were but borne
in mind 1
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d unfledg’d comrade.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear; but few thy voice :
Take each man’s censure ; but reserve thy judgment.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be ;
°
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This, above all—to thine own self be true,
And it must follow—as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
I could go on, far beyond the scope to which I
am limited, in my quotations illustrating the
soundness of Shakespeare’s ethical teaching, and
his enforcement of every form of morality. ’ But
let us see how he deals with vice in every form,
no matter under what mask its visage may be
hidden. Injustice, in its broadest sense, ever
meets with his sternest reprobation. He asks,
with all the fire of enthusiasm:
What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ?
Thrice is he arm’d, that has his quarrel just ;
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Hear, too, how he reprobates that assassin of
the soul whose dagger has so often sought to slay
the good and noble character that has at all risen
above, or placed itself in opposition to, the false
�24
The Religion and Morality
grows with such pernicious root‘Deceitfulness,
which to betray doth wear an angel’s face, to
seize with eagle’s talons;’ ‘ Implacability,’ relent
less ; that is, ‘ beastly, savage, devilish ;’ ‘ Dupli
city,’ 1 that can smile and smile and be a villain
and last ‘ Hypocrisy,’ ‘ with devotion’s visage and
pious action,’ can ‘ sugar o’er the Devil himself.’
Surely (as George Gilfillan says) Shakespeare
was the greatest and most humane of all moral
ists. Seeing more clearly than mere man ever
saw into the evils of human nature and the cor
ruptions of society, into the natural weakness
and the acquired vices of man, he can yet love,
pity, forget his anger, and clothe him in the
mellow light of his genius, like the sun, which
in certain days of peculiar balm and beauty,
seems to shed its beams, like an amnesty, on all
created beings.’
I know full well that in the hour’s limit to
which the lectures given before this Society are
properly confined, I have been enabled only to
bring to the surface comparatively a few of the
precious ores of the religious spirit, the wisdom,
and the morality, which lie in such rich profusion
in the golden mine of Shakespeare’s works. But
I think I have said enough, to justify the claim
of Shakespeare to rank foremost amongst the
world’s greatest, wisest, noblest, Preachers of
Religion and Morality; and in conclusion, I know
of no words that could serve me so eloquently
as a peroration, as those of the writer and critic
whom I last named. ‘If force of genius—sympathy
with every form and feeling of humanity—tlie
heart of a man united to the imagination of
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
25
a Poet, and wielding the Briarean hands of
a Demigod — if the writing of thirty-two
Dramas, which are colouring, to this hour, the
literature of the world—if the diffusion of harm
less happiness in immeasurable quantity—if the
stimulation of innumerable minds—if the promo
tion of the spirit of Charity and universal
brotherhood ; if these constitute, for mortal man,
titles to the name of Benefactor, and to that
praise which ceases not with the sun but ex
pands with immortality ; then the name and
the praise must support the throne which
Shakespeare has established over the minds of
the inhabitants of an earth which may be known
in other parts of the Universe as Shakespeare’s
World.’
��WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Just Published, Price One Shilling.
tfutart of $oicc nnir Ssttcij.
* An Introductory Lecture on Elocution con
sidered in reference to “ Public and Social Life,”
delivered at King’s College, London, at the be
ginning of the Winter Session of the Evening
Classes Department for 1873-4, by Charles
John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public Reading
and Speaking at King’s College, Evening Classes
Department.
London: T. J. Allman, 463 Oxford Street.
------- ♦-------
PRESS NOTICES.
A very interesting discourse.— The Times, October 11.
An excellent address.—Dailt News, October 11.
“ Clergyman’s Sore Throat” would cease to exist, and laryn
geal and bronchial affections generally would be diminished,
if the vocal organs received early and adequate training.—
Lancet, October 18.
�11
Advertisements.
Preparing for Publication a new and greatly enlarged
Edition, cloth 8vo (price Six Shillings), of
JVmtfs {^allege H’tcfiirts dll (tfotufion,
Being the substance of the Introductory Course
of Lectures and Practical Instruction in Publid
Reading and Speaking, annually delivered by
Charles John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public
Reading and Speaking, King’s College, Evening
Classes Department.
Dedicated by permission
to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.
*#* This volume will contain special courses of
Lectures on the various branches of Elocution,
Public Reading, and Speaking, considered in
reference to the various Professions, the art of
Extempore Speaking, the vocation of Lecturing
generally, Social Speech-making, and the causes
and means of removal of the various kinds of
Impediments of Speech.
London: T. J. Allman, 463, Oxford Street.
�Advertisements.
111
PRESS NOTICES OF LAST EDITION.
------- ♦-------
Mr. Plumptre has now for several years fulfilled with signal
ability the duties devolving upon him as the Lecturer on Pub
lic Reading and Speaking at King’s College, London, in the
Evening Classes Department. Happily he has afforded us,
one and all, the opportunity for judging of him, not merely by
hearsay—of estimating him not simply by the range or scope
of his reputation. He has now given to the outer public the
means of weighing in the balance his various capabilities as
an instructor in Elocution. He has, in the shape of a goodly
volume of 200 pages octavo, presented to every one who lists
a series of fourteen of these famous King’s College Lectures of
his on Elocution—fourteen sub-divisions of a most instructive
and comprehensive theme—the substance of the introductory
Course of Lectures and Practical Instruction he has now for
some time past been annually delivering. The book is Dedi
cated, by Permission, to H.R.II. the Prince of Wales. It is
followed by two very remarkable appendices—one of them
singularly instructive, the other very curiously interesting. So
far as any merely printed book on Elocution could accomplish
its object, this one by Mr. Plumptre is entitled to our
highest commendation. The eye, the face, the voice, the ges
ture are of course all wanting, but the argument throughout
is so lucid in itself, while the illustrations of that argument are
so animated and so singularly felicitous, that reading the
work attentively page by page and lecture by lecture, is the
next best thing to seeing and hearing the gifted Professor him
self, when he is, in his own person, exemplifying the manifold
and ever-varying charms of the all-conquering art of the
Rhetorician and Elocutionist.—Sun, March 5, 1870.
This, although not a law book, is a book for lawyers. Prac
tical treatises on various branches of the law may be essential
to store the mind of the advocate with ideas, but unless he
has the power of expressing them in such a way as to com
mand the attention of the court, his learning will prove of but
little avail. To a barrister the brains are of but little use
without the tongue, and even the tongue, however fluent, may
fail to give due expression to the ideas, unless the voice is
properly regulated so as to pronounce with both clearness and
force the words that are uttered, and the gestures of the body
�IV
Advertisements.
enforce what the language has attempted to impress. Many
are the failures of those who would otherwise have been suc
cessful advocates from want of attention to the principles of
elocution. Their matter has been excellent, but their manner
has been so bad as entirely to destroy the effect that their ad
dress must otherwise have produced. We would point to
instances of this kind in Parliament, at the Bar, and in the
Pulpit. To all such persons the work before us will be found
invaluable ; and indeed there are few, if any, whose duties re
quire them to speak in public, who will fail to derive advan
tage from its perusal. The subject is treated in a thoroughly
practical manner, and is fully investigated with care and
judgment. Mr. Plumptre speaks with the authority of a pro
fessor, and he appears to understand his subject entirely, and
in all its different branches. He is quite aware of all the
difficulties to be encountered, and is ready with advice how
to meet them. His work evinces considerable research, ex
tensive classical and general knowledge, and is moreover full
of interesting matter. We commend it heartily alike to
those who aspire to become orators in Parliament, to the
Clergy, and to the Bar.—Quarterly Law Review, May,
1870.
In these days, when Lectures and “ Penny Readings ” are
patronised by the “upper ten thousand,” and Dukes, Mar
quises, Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Baronets, M.P.’s, and
Esquires take part in them, and when at public dinners no
one is supposed to be “ unaccustomed to public speaking,” it
is highly desirable that those who appear on the platform, or
who rise at public banquets, should be able to go through their
parts satisfactorily. To accomplish this there are only two
ways, one, to take lessons in Elocution, the other to read works
published with a view of imparting as much practical instruc
tion as can possibly be imparted by precept, where practice
cannot be attained. Mr C. J. Plumptre, Lecturer at King’s
College, London, has just published a volume upon the Prin
ciples and Practice of Elocution, which will be found to be of
the highest value to every one who is called on, either con
stantly or at intervals, to speak in public. As a teacher, Mr
Plumptre is most skilful: he is a Master of his Art, and those
who cannot avail themselves of his services will do well
to study his treatise, which is lucid, sound, and practical.
The “King’s College Lectures” of Mr Plumptre have been
honoured by the patronage of the Prince of Wales, to whom
the volume is by permission dedicated.—Court Journal,
Dec. 11, 1869.
�Advertisements.
v
Mr Plumptre has, in this volume, reproduced his lectures on
public reading and speaking, which were delivered at King’s
College. We consider that the chief novelty in the hook is
that it contains instruction for public reading as well as
speaking. The science of public reading is very much neglected,
and we are very glad to see that Mr Plumptre favours the
world with a tolerably comprehensive book, which is partly
devoted to this science. We purposely rank Elocution as a
science, as we agree with Mr Plumptre in thinking that it lies
far above a mere art. We believe that if everyone who wishes
to read and speak well were to read and learn by heart
Lecture V., the benefit would be enormous, and the effect
almost immediately appreciable. We find some practical
directions for the management and preservation of the voice,
and although we are not qualified to give an opinion on the
medical part, yet we have the authority of the Lancet for saying
that the suggestions are very practical and the curative mea
sures recommended excellent. We believe that this is by far
the best volume yet published on the subject, and it must
succeed on account of its own worth, as no man who has to
speak or read in public should be without a copy.—Wilts
Advertiser, March 26, 1870.
Mr Plumptre will be known to most of our readers as a very
scientific and successful Teacher of Elocution ; and in this
volume he has put forth the substance of the course of Lectures
that he delivers at King’s College, with such alterations and
additions as may meet the wants of those who are unable to
avail themselves of oral instruction. It is unnecessary to
enlarge upon the advantage of obtaining complete command
of all the powers of the voice, or to point out how very much
a good manner of delivery may promote the success of a
medical practitioner. These considerations are obvious ; and
if they stood alone we should hardly have thought the lectures
within our province as reviewers. We find, however, that Mr
Plumptre enters at length, and with much ability, into the
curative treatment of impediments of speech. We have
perused this portion of the treatise with great care, and have
much pleasure in bearing testimony to its great merit. The
views advanced rest upon sound physiology, and the practice
advocated is in complete accordance with them. Mr Plumptre
states, and our experience enables us to confirm his opinion,
that all cases of stammering and stuttering are curable, if only
the patient will exercise a certain degree of care and perse
verance. It is common for medical practitioners to be consulted
�VI
Advertisements.
about such impediments; and we feel sure that in Mr
Plumptre’s Lectures they will find not only much valuable
practical information, but also a basis of sound principles, upon
which the details of treatment may be founded. We recom
mend thebookverywarmlytoour readers.—Lancet, February
12, 1870.
Professor Plumptre, who is so well known for his elocution
ary powers, has just published a volume of fourteen of his
Lectures on Elocution, delivered some time since at King’s Col
lege, London. The book is a handsome volume of more than
200 pages, and is dedicated to the Prince of Wales. A more
entertaining work it would be difficult to find, and it is one
which we cordially recommend to the student of divinity, the
barrister, the debater ; in a word, to all who desire to cultivate
the faculty of speech, and to be able to express their ideas
with clearness, force, and elegance.—Irish Gazette, March
19, 1870.
This is a book from which we will not quote, but instead
heartily commend, and advise all our readers to purchase and
study it for themselves.—Victoria Magazine, May, 1870.
&c., &c., &c.
C. W. REYNELL, PRINTER, LITTLE PVLTENEY STREET, HAYMARKET, W,
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Pamphlet
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Title
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The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873
Creator
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Plumptre, Charles J.
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 25, vi p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Advertisements for works by Plumptre, lecturer in public reading and speaking at King's College, London, on six pages at the end.
Publisher
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The Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1873
Identifier
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N541
Subject
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Religion
Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Drama
English Literature
NSS
Shakespeare