Put these two
together, and tell me what useful part of the constitutional monarchy of
England remains.
together, and tell me what useful part of the constitutional monarchy of
England remains.
Coleridge - Table Talk
Indeed, what
principles of government can _they_ have, who in the space of a month
recanted a life of political opinions, and now dare to threaten this and
that innovation at the huzza of a mob, or in pique at a parliamentary
defeat?
[Footnote 1:
"Whatever may be thought of the settlement that followed the battle of the
Boyne and the extinction of the war in Ireland, yet when this had been made
and submitted to, it would have been the far wiser policy, I doubt not, to
have provided for the safety of the constitution by improving the quality
of the elective franchise, leaving the eligibility open, or like the
former, limited only by considerations of property. Still, however, the
scheme of exclusion and disqualification had its plausible side. The ink
was scarcely dry on the parchment-rolls and proscription-lists of the
Popish parliament. The crimes of the man were generalized into attributes
of his faith; and the Irish catholics collectively were held accomplices in
the perfidy and baseness of the king. Alas! his immediate adherents had
afforded too great colour to the charge. The Irish massacre was in the
mouth of every Protestant, not as an event to be remembered, but as a thing
of recent expectation, fear still blending with the sense of deliverance.
At no time, therefore, could the disqualifying system have been enforced
with so little reclamation of the conquered party, or with so little
outrage on the general feeling of the country. There was no time, when it
was so capable of being indirectly useful as a _sedative_ in order to the
application of the remedies directly indicated, or as a counter-power
reducing to inactivity whatever disturbing forces might have interfered
with their operation. And had this use been made of these exclusive laws,
and had they been enforced as the precursors and negative conditions,--but,
above all, as _bona fide_ accompaniments, of a process of _emancipation_,
properly and worthily so named, the code would at this day have been
remembered in Ireland only as when, recalling a dangerous fever of our
boyhood, we think of the nauseous drugs and drenching-horn, and
congratulate ourselves that our doctors now-a-days know how to manage these
things less coarsely. But this angry code was neglected as an opportunity,
and mistaken for a _substitute_: _et hinc illae* lacrymae! _"--Church and
State, p. 195. ]
* * * * *
I sometimes think it just possible that the Dissenters may once more be
animated by a wiser and nobler spirit, and see their dearest interest in
the church of England as the bulwark and glory of Protestantism, as they
did at the Revolution. But I doubt their being able to resist the low
factious malignity to the church which has characterized them as a body for
so many years.
_February_ 16. 1833.
FAUST. ----MICHAEL SCOTT, GOETHE, SCHILLER, AND WORDSWORTH.
Before I had ever seen any part of Goethe's Faust[1], though, of course,
when I was familiar enough with Marlowe's, I conceived and drew up the plan
of a work, a drama, which was to be, to my mind, what the Faust was to
Goethe's. My Faust was old Michael Scott; a much better and more likely
original than Faust. He appeared in the midst of his college of devoted
disciples, enthusiastic, ebullient, shedding around him bright surmises of
discoveries fully perfected in after-times, and inculcating the study of
nature and its secrets as the pathway to the acquisition of power. He did
not love knowledge for itself--for its own exceeding great reward--but in
order to be powerful. This poison-speck infected his mind from the
beginning. The priests suspect him, circumvent him, accuse him; he is
condemned, and thrown into solitary confinement: this constituted the
_prologus_ of the drama. A pause of four or five years takes place, at the
end of which Michael escapes from prison, a soured, gloomy, miserable man.
He will not, cannot study; of what avail had all his study been to him? His
knowledge, great as it was, had failed to preserve him from the cruel fangs
of the persecutors; he could not command the lightning or the storm to
wreak their furies upon the heads of those whom he hated and contemned, and
yet feared. Away with learning! away with study! to the winds with all
pretences to knowledge! We _know_ nothing; we are fools, wretches, mere
beasts. Anon I began to tempt him. I made him dream, gave him wine, and
passed the most exquisite of women before him, but out of his reach. Is
there, then, no knowledge by which these pleasures can be commanded? _That
way_ lay witchcraft, and accordingly to witchcraft Michael turns with all
his soul. He has many failures and some successes; he learns the chemistry
of exciting drugs and exploding powders, and some of the properties of
transmitted and reflected light: his appetites and his curiosity are both
stimulated, and his old craving for power and mental domination over others
revives. At last Michael tries to raise the Devil, and the Devil comes at
his call. My Devil was to be, like Goethe's, the universal humorist, who
should make all things vain and nothing worth, by a perpetual collation of
the great with the little in the presence of the infinite. I had many a
trick for him to play, some better, I think, than any in the Faust. In the
mean time, Michael is miserable; he has power, but no peace, and he every
day more keenly feels the tyranny of hell surrounding him. In vain he seems
to himself to assert the most absolute empire over the Devil, by imposing
the most extravagant tasks; one thing is as easy as another to the Devil.
"What next, Michael? " is repeated every day with more imperious servility.
Michael groans in spirit; his power is a curse: he commands women and wine!
but the women seem fictitious and devilish, and the wine does not make him
drunk. He now begins to hate the Devil, and tries to cheat him. He studies
again, and explores the darkest depths of sorcery for a receipt to cozen
hell; but all in vain. Sometimes the Devil's finger turns over the page for
him, and points out an experiment, and Michael hears a whisper--"Try
_that_, Michael! " The horror increases; and Michael feels that he is a
slave and a condemned criminal. Lost to hope, he throws himself into every
sensual excess,--in the mid-career of which he sees Agatha, my Margaret,
and immediately endeavours to seduce her. Agatha loves him; and the Devil
facilitates their meetings; but she resists Michael's attempts to ruin her,
and implores him not to act so as to forfeit her esteem. Long struggles of
passion ensue, in the result of which his affections are called forth
against his appetites, and, love-born, the idea of a redemption of the lost
will dawns upon his mind. This is instantaneously perceived by the Devil;
and for the first time the humorist becomes severe and menacing. A fearful
succession of conflicts between Michael and the Devil takes place, in which
Agatha helps and suffers. In the end, after subjecting him to every
imaginable horror and agony, I made him triumphant, and poured peace into
his soul in the conviction of a salvation for sinners through God's grace.
The intended theme of the Faust is the consequences of a misology, or
hatred and depreciation of knowledge caused by an originally intense thirst
for knowledge baffled. But a love of knowledge for itself, and for pure
ends, would never produce such a misology, but only a love of it for base
and unworthy purposes. There is neither causation nor progression in the
Faust; he is a ready-made conjuror from the very beginning; the _incredulus
odi_ is felt from the first line. The sensuality and the thirst after
knowledge are unconnected with each other. Mephistopheles and Margaret are
excellent; but Faust himself is dull and meaningless. The scene in
Auerbach's cellars is one of the best, perhaps the very best; that on the
Brocken is also fine; and all the songs are beautiful. But there is no
whole in the poem; the scenes are mere magic-lantern pictures, and a large
part of the work is to me very flat. The German is very pure and fine.
The young men in Germany and England who admire Lord Byron, prefer Goethe
to Schiller; but you may depend upon it, Goethe does not, nor ever will,
command the common mind of the people of Germany as Schiller does. Schiller
had two legitimate phases in his intellectual character:--the first as
author of the Robbers--a piece which must not be considered with reference
to Shakspeare, but as a work of the mere material sublime, and in that line
it is undoubtedly very powerful indeed. It is quite genuine, and deeply
imbued with Schiller's own soul. After this he outgrew the composition of
such plays as the Robbers, and at once took his true and only rightful
stand in the grand historical drama--the Wallenstein;--not the intense
drama of passion,--he was not master of that--but the diffused drama of
history, in which alone he had ample scope for his varied powers. The
Wallenstein is the greatest of his works; it is not unlike Shakspeare's
historical plays--a species by itself. You may take up any scene, and it
will please you by itself; just as you may in Don Quixote, which you read
_through_ once or twice only, but which you read _in_ repeatedly. After
this point it was, that Goethe and other writers injured by their theories
the steadiness and originality of Schiller's mind; and in every one of his
works after the Wallenstein you may perceive the fluctuations of his taste
and principles of composition. He got a notion of re-introducing the
characterlessness of the Greek tragedy with a chorus, as in the Bride of
Messina, and he was for infusing more lyric verse into it. Schiller
sometimes affected to despise the Robbers and the other works of his first
youth; whereas he ought to have spoken of them as of works not in a right
line, but full of excellence in their way. In his ballads and lighter
lyrics Goethe is most excellent. It is impossible to praise him too highly
in this respect. I like the Wilhelm Meister the best of his prose works.
But neither Schiller's nor Goethe's prose style approaches to Lessing's,
whose writings, for _manner_, are absolutely perfect.
Although Wordsworth and Goethe are not much alike, to be sure, upon the
whole; yet they both have this peculiarity of utter non-sympathy with the
subjects of their poetry. They are always, both of them, spectators _ab
extra_,--feeling _for_, but never _with_, their characters. Schiller is a
thousand times more _hearty_ than Goethe.
I was once pressed--many years ago--to translate the Faust; and I so far
entertained the proposal as to read the work through with great attention,
and to revive in my mind my own former plan of Michael Scott. But then I
considered with myself whether the time taken up in executing the
translation might not more worthily be devoted to the composition of a work
which, even if parallel in some points to the Faust, should be truly
original in motive and execution, and therefore more interesting and
valuable than any version which I could make; and, secondly, I debated with
myself whether it became my moral character to render into English--and so
far, certainly, lend my countenance to language--much of which I thought
vulgar, licentious, and blasphemous. I need not tell you that I never put
pen to paper as a translator of Faust.
I have read a good deal of Mr. Hayward's version, and I think it done in a
very manly style; but I do not admit the argument for prose translations. I
would in general rather see verse attempted in so capable a language as
ours. The French cannot help themselves, of course, with such a language as
theirs.
[Footnote 1:
"The poem was first published in 1790, and forms the commencement of the
seventh volume of _Goethe's Schriften, Wien und Leipzig, bey J. Stahel and
G. J. Goschen_, 1790. This edition is now before me. The poem entitled,
_Faust, ein Fragment_ (not _Doktor Faust, ein Trauerspiel_, as Doring
says), and contains no prologue or dedication of any sort. It commences
with the scene in Faust's study, _ante_, p. 17. , and is continued, as now,
down to the passage ending, _ante_, p. 26. line 5. In the original, the
line--
"Und froh ist, wenn er Regenwurmer findet,"
ends the scene.
The next scene is one between Faust and Mephistopheles, and begins thus:--
"Und was der ganzen Menschheit zugetheilt ist,"
_i. e. _ with the passage (_ante_, p. 70. ) beginning, "I will enjoy, in my
own heart's core, all that is parcelled out among mankind," &c. All that
intervenes, in later editions, is wanting. It is thenceforth continued, as
now, to the end of the cathedral scene (_ante_, p. (170)), except that the
whole scene, in which Valentine is killed, is wanting. Thus Margaret's
prayer to the Virgin and the cathedral scene come together, and form the
conclusion of the work. According to During's Verzeichniss, there was no
new edition of Faust until 1807. According to Dr. Sieglitz, the first part
of Faust first appeared, in its present shape, in the collected edition of
Goethe's works, which was published in 1808. --_Hayward's Translation of
Faust_, second edition, note, p. 215. ]
_February_ 17. 1833.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. --BEN JONSON. --MASSINGER.
In the romantic drama Beaumont and Fletcher are almost supreme. Their plays
are in general most truly delightful. I could read the Beggar's Bush from
morning to night. How sylvan and sunshiny it is! The Little French Lawyer
is excellent. Lawrit is conceived and executed from first to last in
genuine comic humour. Monsieur Thomas is also capital. I have no doubt
whatever that the first act and the first scene of the second act of the
Two Noble Kinsmen are Shakspeare's. Beaumont and Fletcher's plots are, to
be sure, wholly inartificial; they only care to pitch a character into a
position to make him or her talk; you must swallow all their gross
improbabilities, and, taking it all for granted, attend only to the
dialogue. How lamentable it is that no gentleman and scholar can he found
to edit these beautiful plays! [1] Did the name of criticism ever descend so
low as in the hands of those two fools and knaves, Seward and Simpson?
There are whole scenes in their edition which I could with certainty put
back into their original verse, and more that could he replaced in their
native prose. Was there ever such an absolute disregard of literary fame as
that displayed by Shakspeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher? [2]
[Footnote 1:
I believe Mr. Dyce could edit Beaumont and Fletcher as well as any man of
the present or last generation; but the truth is, the limited sale of the
late editions of Ben Jonson, Shirley, &c. , has damped the spirit of
enterprise amongst the respectable publishers. Still I marvel that some
cheap reprint of B. and F. is not undertaken. --ED. ]
[Footnote 2:
"The men of the greatest genius, as far as we can judge from their own
works, or from the accounts of their contemporaries, appear to have been of
calm and tranquil temper, in all that related to themselves. In the inward
assurance of permanent fame, they seem to have been either indifferent or
resigned, with regard to immediate reputation. "
* * * * *
"Shakspeare's evenness and sweetness of temper were almost proverbial in
his own age. That this did not arise from ignorance of his own comparative
greatness, we have abundant proof in his sonnets, which could scarcely have
been known to Mr. Pope, when he asserted, that our great bard 'grew
immortal in his own despite. '"--_Biog. Lit. _ vol. i, p. 32. ]
* * * * *
In Ben Jonson you have an intense and burning art. Some of his plots, that
of the Alchemist, for example, are perfect. Ben Jonson and Beaumont and
Fletcher would, if united, have made a great dramatist indeed, and yet not
have come near Shakspeare; but no doubt Ben Jonson was the greatest man
after Shakspeare in that age of dramatic genius.
The styles of Massinger's plays and the Sampson Agonistes are the two
extremes of the arc within which the diction of dramatic poetry may
oscillate. Shakspeare in his great plays is the midpoint. In the Samson
Agonistes, colloquial language is left at the greatest distance, yet
something of it is preserved, to render the dialogue probable: in Massinger
the style is differenced, but differenced in the smallest degree possible,
from animated conversation by the vein of poetry.
There's such a divinity doth hedge our Shakspeare round, that we cannot
even imitate his style. I tried to imitate his manner in the Remorse, and,
when I had done, I found I had been tracking Beaumont and Fletcher, and
Massinger instead. It is really very curious. At first sight, Shakspeare
and his contemporary dramatists seem to write in styles much alike: nothing
so easy as to fall into that of Massinger and the others; whilst no one has
ever yet produced one scene conceived and expressed in the Shakspearian
idiom. I suppose it is because Shakspeare is universal, and, in fact, has
no _manner_; just as you can so much more readily copy a picture than
Nature herself.
_February_ 20. 1833.
HOUSE OF COMMONS APPOINTING THE OFFICERS OF THE ARMY AND NAVY.
I was just now reading Sir John Cam Hobhouse's answer to Mr. Hume, I
believe, upon the point of transferring the patronage of the army and navy
from the Crown to the House of Commons. I think, if I had been in the House
of Commons, I would have said, "that, ten or fifteen years ago, I should
have considered Sir J. C. H. 's speech quite unanswerable,--it being clear
constitutional law that the House of Commons has not, nor ought to have,
any share, directly or indirectly, in the appointment of the officers of
the army or navy. But now that the King had been reduced, by the means and
procurement of the Honourable Baronet and his friends, to a puppet, which,
so far from having any independent will of its own, could not resist a
measure which it hated and condemned, it became a matter of grave
consideration whether it was not necessary to vest the appointment of such
officers in a body like the House of Commons, rather than in a junta of
ministers, who were obliged to make common cause with the mob and
democratic press for the sake of keeping their places. "
_March_ 9. 1833.
PENAL CODE IN IRELAND. --CHURCHMEN.
The penal code in Ireland, in the beginning of the last century, was
justifiable, as a temporary mean of enabling government to take breath and
look about them; and if right measures had been systematically pursued in a
right spirit, there can be no doubt that all, or the greater part, of
Ireland would have become Protestant. Protestantism under the Charter
Schools was greatly on the increase in the early part of that century, and
the complaints of the Romish priests to that effect are on record. But,
unfortunately, the drenching-horn was itself substituted for the medicine.
* * * * *
There seems to me, at present, to be a curse upon the English church, and
upon the governors of all institutions connected with the orderly
advancement of national piety and knowledge; it is the curse of prudence,
as they miscall it--in fact, of fear.
Clergymen are now almost afraid to explain in their pulpits the grounds of
their being Protestants. They are completely cowed by the vulgar harassings
of the press and of our Hectoring sciolists in Parliament. There should be
no _party_ politics in the pulpit to be sure; but every church in England
ought to resound with national politics,--I mean the sacred character of
the national church, and an exposure of the base robbery from the nation
itself--for so indeed it is[1]--about to be committed by these ministers,
in order to have a sop to throw to the Irish agitators, who will, of
course, only cut the deeper, and come the oftener. You cannot buy off a
barbarous invader.
[Footnote 1:
"That the maxims of a pure morality, and those sublime truths of the divine
unity and attributes, which a Plato found it hard to learn, and more
difficult to reveal; that these should have become the almost hereditary
property of childhood and poverty, of the hovel and the workshop; that even
to the unlettered they sound as _common-place_; this is a phenomenon which
must withhold all but minds of the most vulgar cast from undervaluing the
services even of the pulpit and the reading-desk. Yet he who should confine
the efficiency of an established church to these, can hardly be placed in a
much higher rank of intellect. That to every parish throughout the kingdom
there is transplanted a germ of civilization; that in the remotest villages
there is a nucleus, round which the capabilities of the place may
crystallize and brighten; a model sufficiently superior to excite, yet
sufficiently near to encourage and facilitate imitation; _this_
unobtrusive, continuous agency of a Protestant church establishment, _this_
it is, which the patriot and the philanthropist, who would fain unite the
love of peace with the faith in the progressive amelioration of mankind,
cannot estimate at too high a price. 'It cannot be valued with the gold of
Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. No mention shall be made of
coral or of pearls; for the price of wisdom is above rubies. '--The
clergyman is with his parishioners and among them; he is neither in the
cloistered cell, nor in the wilderness, but a neighbour and family man,
whose education and rank admit him to the mansion of the rich landholder,
while his duties make him the frequent visitor of the farm-house and the
cottage. He is, or he may become, connected with the families of his parish
or its vicinity by marriage. And among the instances of the blindness, or
at best of the short-sightedness, which it is the nature of cupidity to
inflict, I know few more striking than the clamours of the farmers against
church property. Whatever was not paid to the clergyman would inevitably at
the next lease be paid to the landholder; while, as the case at present
stands, the revenues of the church are in some sort the reversionary
property of every family that may have a member educated for the church, or
a daughter that may marry a clergyman. Instead of being _foreclosed_ and
immovable, it is, in fact, the only species of landed property that is
essentially moving and circulative. That there exist no inconveniences who
will pretend to assert? --But I have yet to expect the proof, that the
inconveniences are greater in this than in any other species; or that
either the farmers or the clergy would be benefited by forcing the latter
to become either _Trullibers_ or salaried _placemen_. "--_Church and State_,
p. 90. ]
_March_ 12. 1833.
CORONATION OATHS.
Lord Grey has, in Parliament, said two things: first, that the Coronation
Oaths only bind the King in his executive capacity; and, secondly, that
members of the House of Commons are bound to represent by their votes the
wishes and opinions of their constituents, and not their own.
Put these two
together, and tell me what useful part of the constitutional monarchy of
England remains. It is clear that the Coronation Oaths would be no better
than Highgate oaths. For in his executive capacity the King _cannot_ do any
thing, against the doing of which the oaths bind him; it is _only_ in his
legislative character that he possesses a free agency capable of being
bound. The nation meant to bind _that_.
_March_ 14. 1833.
DIVINITY. --PROFESSIONS AND TRADES.
Divinity is essentially the first of the professions, because it is
necessary for all at all times; law and physic are only necessary for some
at some times. I speak of them, of course, not in their abstract existence,
but in their applicability to man.
* * * * *
Every true science bears necessarily within itself the germ of a cognate
profession, and the more you can elevate trades into professions the
better.
_March_ 17. 1833.
MODERN POLITICAL ECONOMY.
What solemn humbug this modern political economy is! What is there true of
the little that is true in their dogmatic books, which is not a simple
deduction from the moral and religious _credenda_ and _agenda_ of any good
man, and with which we were not all previously acquainted, and upon which
every man of common sense instinctively acted? I know none. But what they
truly state, they do not truly understand in its ultimate grounds and
causes; and hence they have sometimes done more mischief by their half-
ignorant and half-sophistical reasonings about, and deductions from, well-
founded positions, than they could have done by the promulgation of
positive error. This particularly applies to their famous ratios of
increase between man and the means of his subsistence. Political economy,
at the highest, can never be a pure science. You may demonstrate that
certain properties inhere in the arch, which yet no bridge-builder _can_
ever reduce into brick and mortar; but an abstract conclusion in a matter
of political economy, the premisses of which neither exist now, nor ever
will exist within the range of the wildest imagination, is not a truth, but
a chimera--a practical falsehood. For there are no theorems in political
economy--but problems only. Certain things being actually so and so; the
question is, _how_ to _do_ so and so with them. Political _philosophy_,
indeed, points to ulterior ends, but even those ends are all practical; and
if you desert the conditions of reality, or of common probability, you may
show forth your eloquence or your fancy, but the utmost you can produce
will be a Utopia or Oceana.
You talk about making this article cheaper by reducing its price in the
market from 8_d_. to 6_d_. But suppose, in so doing, you have rendered your
country weaker against a foreign foe; suppose you have demoralized
thousands of your fellow-countrymen, and have sown discontent between one
class of society and another, your article is tolerably dear, I take it,
after all. Is not its real price enhanced to every Christian and patriot a
hundred-fold?
* * * * *
_All_ is an endless fleeting abstraction; _the whole_ is a reality.
_March_ 31. 1833.
NATIONAL DEBT. --PROPERTY TAX. --DUTY OF LANDHOLDERS.
What evil results now to this country, taken at large, from the actual
existence of the National Debt? I never could get a plain and practical
answer to that question. I do not advert to the past loss of capital,
although it is hard to see how that capital can be said to have been
unproductive, which produces, in the defence of the nation itself, the
conditions of the permanence and productivity of all other capital. As to
taxation to pay the interest, how can the country suffer by a process,
under which the money is never one minute out of the pockets of the people?
You may just as well say that a man is weakened by the circulation of his
blood. There may, certainly, be particular local evils and grievances
resulting from the mode of taxation or collection; but how can that debt be
in any proper sense a burthen to the nation, which the nation owes to
itself, and to no one but itself? It is a juggle to talk of the nation
owing the capital or the interest to the stockholders; it owes to itself
only. Suppose the interest to be owing to the Emperor of Russia, and then
you would feel the difference of a debt in the proper sense. It is really
and truly nothing more in effect than so much moneys or money's worth,
raised annually by the state for the purpose of quickening industry. [1]
I should like to see a well graduated property tax, accompanied by a large
loan.
One common objection to a property tax is, that it tends to diminish the
accumulation of capital. In my judgment, one of the chief sources of the
bad economy of the country now is the enormous aggregation of capitals.
When shall we return to a sound conception of the right to property--
namely, as being official, implying and demanding the performance of
commensurate duties! Nothing but the most horrible perversion of humanity
and moral justice, under the specious name of political economy, could have
blinded men to this truth as to the possession of land,--the law of God
having connected indissolubly the cultivation of every rood of earth with
the maintenance and watchful labour of man. But money, stock, riches by
credit, transferable and convertible at will, are under no such
obligations; and, unhappily, it is from the selfish autocratic possession
of _such_ property, that our landholders have learnt their present theory
of trading with that which was never meant to be an object of commerce.
[Footnote 1:
See the splendid essay in the Friend (vol. ii, p. 47. ) on the vulgar errors
respecting taxes and taxation.
"A great statesman, lately deceased, in one of his anti-ministerial
harangues against some proposed impost, said, 'The nation has been already
bled in every vein, and is faint with loss of blood. ' This blood, however,
was circulating in the mean time through the whole body of the state, and
what was received into one chamber of the heart was instantly sent out
again at the other portal. Had he wanted a metaphor to convey the possible
injuries of taxation, he might have found one less opposite to the fact, in
the known disease of aneurism, or relaxation of the coats of particular
vessels, by a disproportionate accumulation of blood in them, which
sometimes occurs when the circulation has been suddenly and violently
changed, and causes helplessness, or even mortal stagnation, though the
total quantity of blood remains the same in the system at large.
"But a fuller and fairer symbol of taxation, both in its possible good and
evil effects, is to be found in the evaporation of waters from the surface
of the earth. The sun may draw up the moisture from the river, the morass,
and the ocean, to be given back in genial showers to the garden, to the
pasture, and the corn field; but it may, likewise, force away the moisture
from the fields of tillage, to drop it on the stagnant pool, the saturated
swamp, or the unprofitable sand-waste. The gardens in the south of Europe
supply, perhaps, a not less apt illustration of a system of finance
judiciously conducted, where the tanks or reservoirs would represent the
capital of a nation, and the hundred rills, hourly varying their channels
and directions under the gardener's spade, give a pleasing image of the
dispersion of that capital through the whole population by the joint effect
of taxation and trade. For taxation itself is a part of commerce, and the
government maybe fairly considered as a great manufacturing house, carrying
on, in different places, by means of its partners and overseers, the trades
of the shipbuilder, the clothier, the iron-founder," &c. &c. --ED. ]
_April_ 5. 1833.
MASSINGER. --SHAKSPEARE. --HIERONIMO.
To please me, a poem must be either music or sense; if it is neither, I
confess I cannot interest myself in it.
* * * * *
The first act of the Virgin Martyr is as fine an act as I remember in any
play. The Very Woman is, I think, one of the most perfect plays we have.
There is some good fun in the first scene between Don John, or Antonio, and
Cuculo, his master[1]; and can any thing exceed the skill and sweetness of
the scene between him and his mistress, in which he relates his story? [2]
The Bondman is also a delightful play. Massinger is always entertaining;
his plays have the interest of novels.
But, like most of his contemporaries, except Shakspeare, Massinger often
deals in exaggerated passion. Malefort senior, in the Unnatural Combat,
however he may have had the moral will to be so wicked, could never have
actually done all that he is represented as guilty of, without losing his
senses. He would have been, in fact, mad. Regan and Goneril are the only
pictures of the unnatural in Shakspeare; the pure unnatural--and you will
observe that Shakspeare has left their hideousness unsoftened or
diversified by a single line of goodness or common human frailty. Whereas
in Edmund, for whom passion, the sense of shame as a bastard, and ambition,
offer some plausible excuses, Shakspeare has placed many redeeming traits.
Edmund is what, under certain circumstances, any man of powerful intellect
might be, if some other qualities and feelings were cut off. Hamlet is,
inclusively, an Edmund, but different from him as a whole, on account of
the controlling agency of other principles which Edmund had not.
It is worth while to remark the use which Shakspeare always makes of his
bold villains as vehicles for expressing opinions and conjectures of a
nature too hazardous for a wise man to put forth directly as his own, or
from any sustained character.
[Footnote 1: Act iii. sc. 2. ]
[Footnote 2: Act iv. sc. 3. :--
"ANT. Not far from where my father lives, a lady,
A neighbour by, bless'd with as great a beauty
As nature durst bestow without undoing,
Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then,
And bless'd the home a thousand times she dwelt in.
This beauty, in the blossom of my youth,
When my first fire knew no adulterate incense,
Nor I no way to flatter, but my fondness;
In all the bravery my friends could show me,
In all the faith my innocence could give me,
In the best language my true tongue could tell me,
And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me,
I sued and served: long did I love this lady,
Long was my travail, long my trade to win her;
With all the duty of my soul, I served her.
ALM. How feelingly he speaks! (_Aside_. ) And she loved you too?
It must be so.
ANT. I would it had, dear lady;
This story had been needless, and this place,
I think, unknown to me.
ALM. Were your bloods equal?
ANT. Yes; and I thought our hearts too.
ALM. Then she must love.
ANT. She did--but never me; she could not love me,
She would not love, she hated; more, she scorn'd me,
And in so poor and base a way abused me,
For all my services, for all my bounties,
So bold neglects flung on me--
ALM. An ill woman!
Belike you found some rival in your love, then?
ANT. How perfectly she points me to my story! (_Aside_. )
Madam, I did; and one whose pride and anger,
Ill manners, and worse mien, she doted on,
Doted to my undoing, and my ruin.
And, but for honour to your sacred beauty,
And reverence to the noble sex, though she fall,
As she must fall that durst be so unnoble,
I should say something unbeseeming me.
What out of love, and worthy love, I gave her,
Shame to her most unworthy mind! to fools,
To girls, and fiddlers, to her boys she flung,
And in disdain of me.
ALM. Pray you take me with you.
Of what complexion was she?
ANT. But that I dare not
Commit so great a sacrilege 'gainst virtue,
She look'd not much unlike--though far, far short,
Something, I see, appears--your pardon, madam--
Her eyes would smile so, but her eyes could cozen;
And so she would look sad; but yours is pity,
A noble chorus to my wretched story;
Hers was disdain and cruelty.
ALM. Pray heaven,
Mine be no worse! he has told me a strange story, (_Aside_. )" &c. --ED. ]
* * * * *
The parts pointed out in Hieronimo as Ben Jonson's bear no traces of his
style; but they are very like Shakspeare's; and it is very remarkable that
every one of them re-appears in full form and development, and tempered
with mature judgment, in some one or other of Shakspeare's great pieces. [1]
[Footnote 1:
By Hieronimo Mr. Coleridge meant The Spanish Tragedy, and not the previous
play, which is usually called The First Part of Jeronimo. The Spanish
Tragedy is, upon the authority of Heywood, attributed to Kyd. It is
supposed that Ben Jonson originally performed the part of Hieronimo, and
hence it has been surmised that certain passages and whole scenes connected
with that character, and not found in some of the editions of the play,
are, in fact, Ben Jonson's own writing. Some of these supposed
interpolations are amongst the best things in the Spanish Tragedy; the
style is singularly unlike Jonson's, whilst there are turns and particular
images which do certainly seem to have been imitated by or from Shakspeare.
Mr. Lamb at one time gave them to Webster. Take this, passage, in the
fourth act:--
"HIERON. What make you with your torches in the dark?
PEDRO. You bid us light them, and attend you here.
HIERON. No! you are deceived; not I; you are deceived.
Was I so mad to bid light torches now?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,
When as the sun-god rides in all his glory;
Light me your torches then.
PEDRO. Then we burn day-light.
HIERON. _Let it be burnt; Night is a murd'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen;
And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness;
And all those stars that gaze upon her face
Are aglets on her sleeve, pins on her train;
And those that should be powerful and divine,
Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. _
PEDRO. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words.
The heavens are gracious, and your miseries and sorrow
Make you speak you know not what
HIERON. _Villain! thou liest, and thou dost nought
But tell me I am mad: thou liest, I am not mad;
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques;
I'll prove it thee; and were I mad, how could I?
Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd!
She should have shone then; search thou the book:
Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace,
That I know--nay, I do know, had the murderer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
Had he been framed of nought but blood and death," &c. _
Again, in the fifth act:--
"HIERON. But are you sure that they are dead?
CASTILE. Ay, slain, too sure.
HIERON. What, and yours too?
VICEROY. Ay, all are dead; not one of them survive.
HIBRON. Nay, then I care not--come, we shall be friends;
Let us lay our heads together.
See, here's a goodly noose will hold them all.
VICEROY. O damned devil! how secure he is!
HIERON. Secure! why dost thou wonder at it?
_I tell thee, Viceroy, this day I've seen Revenge,
d in that sight am grown a prouder monarch
Than ever sate under the crown of Spain.
Had I as many lives at there be stars,_,
_As many heavens to go to as those lives,
I'd give them all, ay, and my soul to boot,
But I would see thee ride in this red pool.
Methinks, since I grew inward with revenge,
I cannot look with scorn enough on death. _
KING. What! dost thou mock us, slave? Bring tortures forth.
HIERON. _Do, do, do; and meantime I'll torture you.
You had a son as I take it, and your son
Should have been married to your daughter: ha! was it not so?
You had a son too, he was my liege's nephew.
He was proud and politic--had he lived,
He might have come to wear the crown of Spain:
I think 't was so--'t was I that killed him;
Look you--this same hand was it that stabb'd
His heart--do you see this hand?
For one Horatio, if you ever knew him--
A youth, one that they hang'd up in his father's garden--
One that did force your valiant son to yield_," &c. --ED. ]
_April_ 7. 1833.
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. --GIFFORD'S MASSINGER. --SHAKSPEARE. --THE OLD DRAMATISTS.
I think I could point out to a half line what is really Shakspeare's in
Love's Labour Lost, and some other of the not entirely genuine plays. What
he wrote in that play is of his earliest manner, having the all-pervading
sweetness which he never lost, and that extreme condensation which makes
the couplets fall into epigrams, as in the Venus and Adonis, and Rape of
Lucrece. [1] In the drama alone, as Shakspeare soon found out, could the
sublime poet and profound philosopher find the conditions of a compromise.
In the Love's Labour Lost there are many faint sketches of some of his
vigorous portraits in after-life--as for example, in particular, of
Benedict and Beatrice. [2]
[Footnote 1:
"In Shakspeare's _Poems_ the creative power and the intellectual energy
wrestle as in a war embrace. Each in its excess of strength seems to
threaten the extinction of the other. At length, in the drama, they were
reconciled, and fought each with its shield before the breast of the other.
Or like two rapid streams, that, at their first meeting within narrow and
rocky banks, mutually strive to repel each other, and intermix reluctantly,
and in tumult; but soon finding a wider channel and more yielding shores,
blend, and dilate, and flow on in one current, and with one voice. "--_Biog.
Lit. _ vol.
principles of government can _they_ have, who in the space of a month
recanted a life of political opinions, and now dare to threaten this and
that innovation at the huzza of a mob, or in pique at a parliamentary
defeat?
[Footnote 1:
"Whatever may be thought of the settlement that followed the battle of the
Boyne and the extinction of the war in Ireland, yet when this had been made
and submitted to, it would have been the far wiser policy, I doubt not, to
have provided for the safety of the constitution by improving the quality
of the elective franchise, leaving the eligibility open, or like the
former, limited only by considerations of property. Still, however, the
scheme of exclusion and disqualification had its plausible side. The ink
was scarcely dry on the parchment-rolls and proscription-lists of the
Popish parliament. The crimes of the man were generalized into attributes
of his faith; and the Irish catholics collectively were held accomplices in
the perfidy and baseness of the king. Alas! his immediate adherents had
afforded too great colour to the charge. The Irish massacre was in the
mouth of every Protestant, not as an event to be remembered, but as a thing
of recent expectation, fear still blending with the sense of deliverance.
At no time, therefore, could the disqualifying system have been enforced
with so little reclamation of the conquered party, or with so little
outrage on the general feeling of the country. There was no time, when it
was so capable of being indirectly useful as a _sedative_ in order to the
application of the remedies directly indicated, or as a counter-power
reducing to inactivity whatever disturbing forces might have interfered
with their operation. And had this use been made of these exclusive laws,
and had they been enforced as the precursors and negative conditions,--but,
above all, as _bona fide_ accompaniments, of a process of _emancipation_,
properly and worthily so named, the code would at this day have been
remembered in Ireland only as when, recalling a dangerous fever of our
boyhood, we think of the nauseous drugs and drenching-horn, and
congratulate ourselves that our doctors now-a-days know how to manage these
things less coarsely. But this angry code was neglected as an opportunity,
and mistaken for a _substitute_: _et hinc illae* lacrymae! _"--Church and
State, p. 195. ]
* * * * *
I sometimes think it just possible that the Dissenters may once more be
animated by a wiser and nobler spirit, and see their dearest interest in
the church of England as the bulwark and glory of Protestantism, as they
did at the Revolution. But I doubt their being able to resist the low
factious malignity to the church which has characterized them as a body for
so many years.
_February_ 16. 1833.
FAUST. ----MICHAEL SCOTT, GOETHE, SCHILLER, AND WORDSWORTH.
Before I had ever seen any part of Goethe's Faust[1], though, of course,
when I was familiar enough with Marlowe's, I conceived and drew up the plan
of a work, a drama, which was to be, to my mind, what the Faust was to
Goethe's. My Faust was old Michael Scott; a much better and more likely
original than Faust. He appeared in the midst of his college of devoted
disciples, enthusiastic, ebullient, shedding around him bright surmises of
discoveries fully perfected in after-times, and inculcating the study of
nature and its secrets as the pathway to the acquisition of power. He did
not love knowledge for itself--for its own exceeding great reward--but in
order to be powerful. This poison-speck infected his mind from the
beginning. The priests suspect him, circumvent him, accuse him; he is
condemned, and thrown into solitary confinement: this constituted the
_prologus_ of the drama. A pause of four or five years takes place, at the
end of which Michael escapes from prison, a soured, gloomy, miserable man.
He will not, cannot study; of what avail had all his study been to him? His
knowledge, great as it was, had failed to preserve him from the cruel fangs
of the persecutors; he could not command the lightning or the storm to
wreak their furies upon the heads of those whom he hated and contemned, and
yet feared. Away with learning! away with study! to the winds with all
pretences to knowledge! We _know_ nothing; we are fools, wretches, mere
beasts. Anon I began to tempt him. I made him dream, gave him wine, and
passed the most exquisite of women before him, but out of his reach. Is
there, then, no knowledge by which these pleasures can be commanded? _That
way_ lay witchcraft, and accordingly to witchcraft Michael turns with all
his soul. He has many failures and some successes; he learns the chemistry
of exciting drugs and exploding powders, and some of the properties of
transmitted and reflected light: his appetites and his curiosity are both
stimulated, and his old craving for power and mental domination over others
revives. At last Michael tries to raise the Devil, and the Devil comes at
his call. My Devil was to be, like Goethe's, the universal humorist, who
should make all things vain and nothing worth, by a perpetual collation of
the great with the little in the presence of the infinite. I had many a
trick for him to play, some better, I think, than any in the Faust. In the
mean time, Michael is miserable; he has power, but no peace, and he every
day more keenly feels the tyranny of hell surrounding him. In vain he seems
to himself to assert the most absolute empire over the Devil, by imposing
the most extravagant tasks; one thing is as easy as another to the Devil.
"What next, Michael? " is repeated every day with more imperious servility.
Michael groans in spirit; his power is a curse: he commands women and wine!
but the women seem fictitious and devilish, and the wine does not make him
drunk. He now begins to hate the Devil, and tries to cheat him. He studies
again, and explores the darkest depths of sorcery for a receipt to cozen
hell; but all in vain. Sometimes the Devil's finger turns over the page for
him, and points out an experiment, and Michael hears a whisper--"Try
_that_, Michael! " The horror increases; and Michael feels that he is a
slave and a condemned criminal. Lost to hope, he throws himself into every
sensual excess,--in the mid-career of which he sees Agatha, my Margaret,
and immediately endeavours to seduce her. Agatha loves him; and the Devil
facilitates their meetings; but she resists Michael's attempts to ruin her,
and implores him not to act so as to forfeit her esteem. Long struggles of
passion ensue, in the result of which his affections are called forth
against his appetites, and, love-born, the idea of a redemption of the lost
will dawns upon his mind. This is instantaneously perceived by the Devil;
and for the first time the humorist becomes severe and menacing. A fearful
succession of conflicts between Michael and the Devil takes place, in which
Agatha helps and suffers. In the end, after subjecting him to every
imaginable horror and agony, I made him triumphant, and poured peace into
his soul in the conviction of a salvation for sinners through God's grace.
The intended theme of the Faust is the consequences of a misology, or
hatred and depreciation of knowledge caused by an originally intense thirst
for knowledge baffled. But a love of knowledge for itself, and for pure
ends, would never produce such a misology, but only a love of it for base
and unworthy purposes. There is neither causation nor progression in the
Faust; he is a ready-made conjuror from the very beginning; the _incredulus
odi_ is felt from the first line. The sensuality and the thirst after
knowledge are unconnected with each other. Mephistopheles and Margaret are
excellent; but Faust himself is dull and meaningless. The scene in
Auerbach's cellars is one of the best, perhaps the very best; that on the
Brocken is also fine; and all the songs are beautiful. But there is no
whole in the poem; the scenes are mere magic-lantern pictures, and a large
part of the work is to me very flat. The German is very pure and fine.
The young men in Germany and England who admire Lord Byron, prefer Goethe
to Schiller; but you may depend upon it, Goethe does not, nor ever will,
command the common mind of the people of Germany as Schiller does. Schiller
had two legitimate phases in his intellectual character:--the first as
author of the Robbers--a piece which must not be considered with reference
to Shakspeare, but as a work of the mere material sublime, and in that line
it is undoubtedly very powerful indeed. It is quite genuine, and deeply
imbued with Schiller's own soul. After this he outgrew the composition of
such plays as the Robbers, and at once took his true and only rightful
stand in the grand historical drama--the Wallenstein;--not the intense
drama of passion,--he was not master of that--but the diffused drama of
history, in which alone he had ample scope for his varied powers. The
Wallenstein is the greatest of his works; it is not unlike Shakspeare's
historical plays--a species by itself. You may take up any scene, and it
will please you by itself; just as you may in Don Quixote, which you read
_through_ once or twice only, but which you read _in_ repeatedly. After
this point it was, that Goethe and other writers injured by their theories
the steadiness and originality of Schiller's mind; and in every one of his
works after the Wallenstein you may perceive the fluctuations of his taste
and principles of composition. He got a notion of re-introducing the
characterlessness of the Greek tragedy with a chorus, as in the Bride of
Messina, and he was for infusing more lyric verse into it. Schiller
sometimes affected to despise the Robbers and the other works of his first
youth; whereas he ought to have spoken of them as of works not in a right
line, but full of excellence in their way. In his ballads and lighter
lyrics Goethe is most excellent. It is impossible to praise him too highly
in this respect. I like the Wilhelm Meister the best of his prose works.
But neither Schiller's nor Goethe's prose style approaches to Lessing's,
whose writings, for _manner_, are absolutely perfect.
Although Wordsworth and Goethe are not much alike, to be sure, upon the
whole; yet they both have this peculiarity of utter non-sympathy with the
subjects of their poetry. They are always, both of them, spectators _ab
extra_,--feeling _for_, but never _with_, their characters. Schiller is a
thousand times more _hearty_ than Goethe.
I was once pressed--many years ago--to translate the Faust; and I so far
entertained the proposal as to read the work through with great attention,
and to revive in my mind my own former plan of Michael Scott. But then I
considered with myself whether the time taken up in executing the
translation might not more worthily be devoted to the composition of a work
which, even if parallel in some points to the Faust, should be truly
original in motive and execution, and therefore more interesting and
valuable than any version which I could make; and, secondly, I debated with
myself whether it became my moral character to render into English--and so
far, certainly, lend my countenance to language--much of which I thought
vulgar, licentious, and blasphemous. I need not tell you that I never put
pen to paper as a translator of Faust.
I have read a good deal of Mr. Hayward's version, and I think it done in a
very manly style; but I do not admit the argument for prose translations. I
would in general rather see verse attempted in so capable a language as
ours. The French cannot help themselves, of course, with such a language as
theirs.
[Footnote 1:
"The poem was first published in 1790, and forms the commencement of the
seventh volume of _Goethe's Schriften, Wien und Leipzig, bey J. Stahel and
G. J. Goschen_, 1790. This edition is now before me. The poem entitled,
_Faust, ein Fragment_ (not _Doktor Faust, ein Trauerspiel_, as Doring
says), and contains no prologue or dedication of any sort. It commences
with the scene in Faust's study, _ante_, p. 17. , and is continued, as now,
down to the passage ending, _ante_, p. 26. line 5. In the original, the
line--
"Und froh ist, wenn er Regenwurmer findet,"
ends the scene.
The next scene is one between Faust and Mephistopheles, and begins thus:--
"Und was der ganzen Menschheit zugetheilt ist,"
_i. e. _ with the passage (_ante_, p. 70. ) beginning, "I will enjoy, in my
own heart's core, all that is parcelled out among mankind," &c. All that
intervenes, in later editions, is wanting. It is thenceforth continued, as
now, to the end of the cathedral scene (_ante_, p. (170)), except that the
whole scene, in which Valentine is killed, is wanting. Thus Margaret's
prayer to the Virgin and the cathedral scene come together, and form the
conclusion of the work. According to During's Verzeichniss, there was no
new edition of Faust until 1807. According to Dr. Sieglitz, the first part
of Faust first appeared, in its present shape, in the collected edition of
Goethe's works, which was published in 1808. --_Hayward's Translation of
Faust_, second edition, note, p. 215. ]
_February_ 17. 1833.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. --BEN JONSON. --MASSINGER.
In the romantic drama Beaumont and Fletcher are almost supreme. Their plays
are in general most truly delightful. I could read the Beggar's Bush from
morning to night. How sylvan and sunshiny it is! The Little French Lawyer
is excellent. Lawrit is conceived and executed from first to last in
genuine comic humour. Monsieur Thomas is also capital. I have no doubt
whatever that the first act and the first scene of the second act of the
Two Noble Kinsmen are Shakspeare's. Beaumont and Fletcher's plots are, to
be sure, wholly inartificial; they only care to pitch a character into a
position to make him or her talk; you must swallow all their gross
improbabilities, and, taking it all for granted, attend only to the
dialogue. How lamentable it is that no gentleman and scholar can he found
to edit these beautiful plays! [1] Did the name of criticism ever descend so
low as in the hands of those two fools and knaves, Seward and Simpson?
There are whole scenes in their edition which I could with certainty put
back into their original verse, and more that could he replaced in their
native prose. Was there ever such an absolute disregard of literary fame as
that displayed by Shakspeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher? [2]
[Footnote 1:
I believe Mr. Dyce could edit Beaumont and Fletcher as well as any man of
the present or last generation; but the truth is, the limited sale of the
late editions of Ben Jonson, Shirley, &c. , has damped the spirit of
enterprise amongst the respectable publishers. Still I marvel that some
cheap reprint of B. and F. is not undertaken. --ED. ]
[Footnote 2:
"The men of the greatest genius, as far as we can judge from their own
works, or from the accounts of their contemporaries, appear to have been of
calm and tranquil temper, in all that related to themselves. In the inward
assurance of permanent fame, they seem to have been either indifferent or
resigned, with regard to immediate reputation. "
* * * * *
"Shakspeare's evenness and sweetness of temper were almost proverbial in
his own age. That this did not arise from ignorance of his own comparative
greatness, we have abundant proof in his sonnets, which could scarcely have
been known to Mr. Pope, when he asserted, that our great bard 'grew
immortal in his own despite. '"--_Biog. Lit. _ vol. i, p. 32. ]
* * * * *
In Ben Jonson you have an intense and burning art. Some of his plots, that
of the Alchemist, for example, are perfect. Ben Jonson and Beaumont and
Fletcher would, if united, have made a great dramatist indeed, and yet not
have come near Shakspeare; but no doubt Ben Jonson was the greatest man
after Shakspeare in that age of dramatic genius.
The styles of Massinger's plays and the Sampson Agonistes are the two
extremes of the arc within which the diction of dramatic poetry may
oscillate. Shakspeare in his great plays is the midpoint. In the Samson
Agonistes, colloquial language is left at the greatest distance, yet
something of it is preserved, to render the dialogue probable: in Massinger
the style is differenced, but differenced in the smallest degree possible,
from animated conversation by the vein of poetry.
There's such a divinity doth hedge our Shakspeare round, that we cannot
even imitate his style. I tried to imitate his manner in the Remorse, and,
when I had done, I found I had been tracking Beaumont and Fletcher, and
Massinger instead. It is really very curious. At first sight, Shakspeare
and his contemporary dramatists seem to write in styles much alike: nothing
so easy as to fall into that of Massinger and the others; whilst no one has
ever yet produced one scene conceived and expressed in the Shakspearian
idiom. I suppose it is because Shakspeare is universal, and, in fact, has
no _manner_; just as you can so much more readily copy a picture than
Nature herself.
_February_ 20. 1833.
HOUSE OF COMMONS APPOINTING THE OFFICERS OF THE ARMY AND NAVY.
I was just now reading Sir John Cam Hobhouse's answer to Mr. Hume, I
believe, upon the point of transferring the patronage of the army and navy
from the Crown to the House of Commons. I think, if I had been in the House
of Commons, I would have said, "that, ten or fifteen years ago, I should
have considered Sir J. C. H. 's speech quite unanswerable,--it being clear
constitutional law that the House of Commons has not, nor ought to have,
any share, directly or indirectly, in the appointment of the officers of
the army or navy. But now that the King had been reduced, by the means and
procurement of the Honourable Baronet and his friends, to a puppet, which,
so far from having any independent will of its own, could not resist a
measure which it hated and condemned, it became a matter of grave
consideration whether it was not necessary to vest the appointment of such
officers in a body like the House of Commons, rather than in a junta of
ministers, who were obliged to make common cause with the mob and
democratic press for the sake of keeping their places. "
_March_ 9. 1833.
PENAL CODE IN IRELAND. --CHURCHMEN.
The penal code in Ireland, in the beginning of the last century, was
justifiable, as a temporary mean of enabling government to take breath and
look about them; and if right measures had been systematically pursued in a
right spirit, there can be no doubt that all, or the greater part, of
Ireland would have become Protestant. Protestantism under the Charter
Schools was greatly on the increase in the early part of that century, and
the complaints of the Romish priests to that effect are on record. But,
unfortunately, the drenching-horn was itself substituted for the medicine.
* * * * *
There seems to me, at present, to be a curse upon the English church, and
upon the governors of all institutions connected with the orderly
advancement of national piety and knowledge; it is the curse of prudence,
as they miscall it--in fact, of fear.
Clergymen are now almost afraid to explain in their pulpits the grounds of
their being Protestants. They are completely cowed by the vulgar harassings
of the press and of our Hectoring sciolists in Parliament. There should be
no _party_ politics in the pulpit to be sure; but every church in England
ought to resound with national politics,--I mean the sacred character of
the national church, and an exposure of the base robbery from the nation
itself--for so indeed it is[1]--about to be committed by these ministers,
in order to have a sop to throw to the Irish agitators, who will, of
course, only cut the deeper, and come the oftener. You cannot buy off a
barbarous invader.
[Footnote 1:
"That the maxims of a pure morality, and those sublime truths of the divine
unity and attributes, which a Plato found it hard to learn, and more
difficult to reveal; that these should have become the almost hereditary
property of childhood and poverty, of the hovel and the workshop; that even
to the unlettered they sound as _common-place_; this is a phenomenon which
must withhold all but minds of the most vulgar cast from undervaluing the
services even of the pulpit and the reading-desk. Yet he who should confine
the efficiency of an established church to these, can hardly be placed in a
much higher rank of intellect. That to every parish throughout the kingdom
there is transplanted a germ of civilization; that in the remotest villages
there is a nucleus, round which the capabilities of the place may
crystallize and brighten; a model sufficiently superior to excite, yet
sufficiently near to encourage and facilitate imitation; _this_
unobtrusive, continuous agency of a Protestant church establishment, _this_
it is, which the patriot and the philanthropist, who would fain unite the
love of peace with the faith in the progressive amelioration of mankind,
cannot estimate at too high a price. 'It cannot be valued with the gold of
Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. No mention shall be made of
coral or of pearls; for the price of wisdom is above rubies. '--The
clergyman is with his parishioners and among them; he is neither in the
cloistered cell, nor in the wilderness, but a neighbour and family man,
whose education and rank admit him to the mansion of the rich landholder,
while his duties make him the frequent visitor of the farm-house and the
cottage. He is, or he may become, connected with the families of his parish
or its vicinity by marriage. And among the instances of the blindness, or
at best of the short-sightedness, which it is the nature of cupidity to
inflict, I know few more striking than the clamours of the farmers against
church property. Whatever was not paid to the clergyman would inevitably at
the next lease be paid to the landholder; while, as the case at present
stands, the revenues of the church are in some sort the reversionary
property of every family that may have a member educated for the church, or
a daughter that may marry a clergyman. Instead of being _foreclosed_ and
immovable, it is, in fact, the only species of landed property that is
essentially moving and circulative. That there exist no inconveniences who
will pretend to assert? --But I have yet to expect the proof, that the
inconveniences are greater in this than in any other species; or that
either the farmers or the clergy would be benefited by forcing the latter
to become either _Trullibers_ or salaried _placemen_. "--_Church and State_,
p. 90. ]
_March_ 12. 1833.
CORONATION OATHS.
Lord Grey has, in Parliament, said two things: first, that the Coronation
Oaths only bind the King in his executive capacity; and, secondly, that
members of the House of Commons are bound to represent by their votes the
wishes and opinions of their constituents, and not their own.
Put these two
together, and tell me what useful part of the constitutional monarchy of
England remains. It is clear that the Coronation Oaths would be no better
than Highgate oaths. For in his executive capacity the King _cannot_ do any
thing, against the doing of which the oaths bind him; it is _only_ in his
legislative character that he possesses a free agency capable of being
bound. The nation meant to bind _that_.
_March_ 14. 1833.
DIVINITY. --PROFESSIONS AND TRADES.
Divinity is essentially the first of the professions, because it is
necessary for all at all times; law and physic are only necessary for some
at some times. I speak of them, of course, not in their abstract existence,
but in their applicability to man.
* * * * *
Every true science bears necessarily within itself the germ of a cognate
profession, and the more you can elevate trades into professions the
better.
_March_ 17. 1833.
MODERN POLITICAL ECONOMY.
What solemn humbug this modern political economy is! What is there true of
the little that is true in their dogmatic books, which is not a simple
deduction from the moral and religious _credenda_ and _agenda_ of any good
man, and with which we were not all previously acquainted, and upon which
every man of common sense instinctively acted? I know none. But what they
truly state, they do not truly understand in its ultimate grounds and
causes; and hence they have sometimes done more mischief by their half-
ignorant and half-sophistical reasonings about, and deductions from, well-
founded positions, than they could have done by the promulgation of
positive error. This particularly applies to their famous ratios of
increase between man and the means of his subsistence. Political economy,
at the highest, can never be a pure science. You may demonstrate that
certain properties inhere in the arch, which yet no bridge-builder _can_
ever reduce into brick and mortar; but an abstract conclusion in a matter
of political economy, the premisses of which neither exist now, nor ever
will exist within the range of the wildest imagination, is not a truth, but
a chimera--a practical falsehood. For there are no theorems in political
economy--but problems only. Certain things being actually so and so; the
question is, _how_ to _do_ so and so with them. Political _philosophy_,
indeed, points to ulterior ends, but even those ends are all practical; and
if you desert the conditions of reality, or of common probability, you may
show forth your eloquence or your fancy, but the utmost you can produce
will be a Utopia or Oceana.
You talk about making this article cheaper by reducing its price in the
market from 8_d_. to 6_d_. But suppose, in so doing, you have rendered your
country weaker against a foreign foe; suppose you have demoralized
thousands of your fellow-countrymen, and have sown discontent between one
class of society and another, your article is tolerably dear, I take it,
after all. Is not its real price enhanced to every Christian and patriot a
hundred-fold?
* * * * *
_All_ is an endless fleeting abstraction; _the whole_ is a reality.
_March_ 31. 1833.
NATIONAL DEBT. --PROPERTY TAX. --DUTY OF LANDHOLDERS.
What evil results now to this country, taken at large, from the actual
existence of the National Debt? I never could get a plain and practical
answer to that question. I do not advert to the past loss of capital,
although it is hard to see how that capital can be said to have been
unproductive, which produces, in the defence of the nation itself, the
conditions of the permanence and productivity of all other capital. As to
taxation to pay the interest, how can the country suffer by a process,
under which the money is never one minute out of the pockets of the people?
You may just as well say that a man is weakened by the circulation of his
blood. There may, certainly, be particular local evils and grievances
resulting from the mode of taxation or collection; but how can that debt be
in any proper sense a burthen to the nation, which the nation owes to
itself, and to no one but itself? It is a juggle to talk of the nation
owing the capital or the interest to the stockholders; it owes to itself
only. Suppose the interest to be owing to the Emperor of Russia, and then
you would feel the difference of a debt in the proper sense. It is really
and truly nothing more in effect than so much moneys or money's worth,
raised annually by the state for the purpose of quickening industry. [1]
I should like to see a well graduated property tax, accompanied by a large
loan.
One common objection to a property tax is, that it tends to diminish the
accumulation of capital. In my judgment, one of the chief sources of the
bad economy of the country now is the enormous aggregation of capitals.
When shall we return to a sound conception of the right to property--
namely, as being official, implying and demanding the performance of
commensurate duties! Nothing but the most horrible perversion of humanity
and moral justice, under the specious name of political economy, could have
blinded men to this truth as to the possession of land,--the law of God
having connected indissolubly the cultivation of every rood of earth with
the maintenance and watchful labour of man. But money, stock, riches by
credit, transferable and convertible at will, are under no such
obligations; and, unhappily, it is from the selfish autocratic possession
of _such_ property, that our landholders have learnt their present theory
of trading with that which was never meant to be an object of commerce.
[Footnote 1:
See the splendid essay in the Friend (vol. ii, p. 47. ) on the vulgar errors
respecting taxes and taxation.
"A great statesman, lately deceased, in one of his anti-ministerial
harangues against some proposed impost, said, 'The nation has been already
bled in every vein, and is faint with loss of blood. ' This blood, however,
was circulating in the mean time through the whole body of the state, and
what was received into one chamber of the heart was instantly sent out
again at the other portal. Had he wanted a metaphor to convey the possible
injuries of taxation, he might have found one less opposite to the fact, in
the known disease of aneurism, or relaxation of the coats of particular
vessels, by a disproportionate accumulation of blood in them, which
sometimes occurs when the circulation has been suddenly and violently
changed, and causes helplessness, or even mortal stagnation, though the
total quantity of blood remains the same in the system at large.
"But a fuller and fairer symbol of taxation, both in its possible good and
evil effects, is to be found in the evaporation of waters from the surface
of the earth. The sun may draw up the moisture from the river, the morass,
and the ocean, to be given back in genial showers to the garden, to the
pasture, and the corn field; but it may, likewise, force away the moisture
from the fields of tillage, to drop it on the stagnant pool, the saturated
swamp, or the unprofitable sand-waste. The gardens in the south of Europe
supply, perhaps, a not less apt illustration of a system of finance
judiciously conducted, where the tanks or reservoirs would represent the
capital of a nation, and the hundred rills, hourly varying their channels
and directions under the gardener's spade, give a pleasing image of the
dispersion of that capital through the whole population by the joint effect
of taxation and trade. For taxation itself is a part of commerce, and the
government maybe fairly considered as a great manufacturing house, carrying
on, in different places, by means of its partners and overseers, the trades
of the shipbuilder, the clothier, the iron-founder," &c. &c. --ED. ]
_April_ 5. 1833.
MASSINGER. --SHAKSPEARE. --HIERONIMO.
To please me, a poem must be either music or sense; if it is neither, I
confess I cannot interest myself in it.
* * * * *
The first act of the Virgin Martyr is as fine an act as I remember in any
play. The Very Woman is, I think, one of the most perfect plays we have.
There is some good fun in the first scene between Don John, or Antonio, and
Cuculo, his master[1]; and can any thing exceed the skill and sweetness of
the scene between him and his mistress, in which he relates his story? [2]
The Bondman is also a delightful play. Massinger is always entertaining;
his plays have the interest of novels.
But, like most of his contemporaries, except Shakspeare, Massinger often
deals in exaggerated passion. Malefort senior, in the Unnatural Combat,
however he may have had the moral will to be so wicked, could never have
actually done all that he is represented as guilty of, without losing his
senses. He would have been, in fact, mad. Regan and Goneril are the only
pictures of the unnatural in Shakspeare; the pure unnatural--and you will
observe that Shakspeare has left their hideousness unsoftened or
diversified by a single line of goodness or common human frailty. Whereas
in Edmund, for whom passion, the sense of shame as a bastard, and ambition,
offer some plausible excuses, Shakspeare has placed many redeeming traits.
Edmund is what, under certain circumstances, any man of powerful intellect
might be, if some other qualities and feelings were cut off. Hamlet is,
inclusively, an Edmund, but different from him as a whole, on account of
the controlling agency of other principles which Edmund had not.
It is worth while to remark the use which Shakspeare always makes of his
bold villains as vehicles for expressing opinions and conjectures of a
nature too hazardous for a wise man to put forth directly as his own, or
from any sustained character.
[Footnote 1: Act iii. sc. 2. ]
[Footnote 2: Act iv. sc. 3. :--
"ANT. Not far from where my father lives, a lady,
A neighbour by, bless'd with as great a beauty
As nature durst bestow without undoing,
Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then,
And bless'd the home a thousand times she dwelt in.
This beauty, in the blossom of my youth,
When my first fire knew no adulterate incense,
Nor I no way to flatter, but my fondness;
In all the bravery my friends could show me,
In all the faith my innocence could give me,
In the best language my true tongue could tell me,
And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me,
I sued and served: long did I love this lady,
Long was my travail, long my trade to win her;
With all the duty of my soul, I served her.
ALM. How feelingly he speaks! (_Aside_. ) And she loved you too?
It must be so.
ANT. I would it had, dear lady;
This story had been needless, and this place,
I think, unknown to me.
ALM. Were your bloods equal?
ANT. Yes; and I thought our hearts too.
ALM. Then she must love.
ANT. She did--but never me; she could not love me,
She would not love, she hated; more, she scorn'd me,
And in so poor and base a way abused me,
For all my services, for all my bounties,
So bold neglects flung on me--
ALM. An ill woman!
Belike you found some rival in your love, then?
ANT. How perfectly she points me to my story! (_Aside_. )
Madam, I did; and one whose pride and anger,
Ill manners, and worse mien, she doted on,
Doted to my undoing, and my ruin.
And, but for honour to your sacred beauty,
And reverence to the noble sex, though she fall,
As she must fall that durst be so unnoble,
I should say something unbeseeming me.
What out of love, and worthy love, I gave her,
Shame to her most unworthy mind! to fools,
To girls, and fiddlers, to her boys she flung,
And in disdain of me.
ALM. Pray you take me with you.
Of what complexion was she?
ANT. But that I dare not
Commit so great a sacrilege 'gainst virtue,
She look'd not much unlike--though far, far short,
Something, I see, appears--your pardon, madam--
Her eyes would smile so, but her eyes could cozen;
And so she would look sad; but yours is pity,
A noble chorus to my wretched story;
Hers was disdain and cruelty.
ALM. Pray heaven,
Mine be no worse! he has told me a strange story, (_Aside_. )" &c. --ED. ]
* * * * *
The parts pointed out in Hieronimo as Ben Jonson's bear no traces of his
style; but they are very like Shakspeare's; and it is very remarkable that
every one of them re-appears in full form and development, and tempered
with mature judgment, in some one or other of Shakspeare's great pieces. [1]
[Footnote 1:
By Hieronimo Mr. Coleridge meant The Spanish Tragedy, and not the previous
play, which is usually called The First Part of Jeronimo. The Spanish
Tragedy is, upon the authority of Heywood, attributed to Kyd. It is
supposed that Ben Jonson originally performed the part of Hieronimo, and
hence it has been surmised that certain passages and whole scenes connected
with that character, and not found in some of the editions of the play,
are, in fact, Ben Jonson's own writing. Some of these supposed
interpolations are amongst the best things in the Spanish Tragedy; the
style is singularly unlike Jonson's, whilst there are turns and particular
images which do certainly seem to have been imitated by or from Shakspeare.
Mr. Lamb at one time gave them to Webster. Take this, passage, in the
fourth act:--
"HIERON. What make you with your torches in the dark?
PEDRO. You bid us light them, and attend you here.
HIERON. No! you are deceived; not I; you are deceived.
Was I so mad to bid light torches now?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,
When as the sun-god rides in all his glory;
Light me your torches then.
PEDRO. Then we burn day-light.
HIERON. _Let it be burnt; Night is a murd'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen;
And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness;
And all those stars that gaze upon her face
Are aglets on her sleeve, pins on her train;
And those that should be powerful and divine,
Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. _
PEDRO. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words.
The heavens are gracious, and your miseries and sorrow
Make you speak you know not what
HIERON. _Villain! thou liest, and thou dost nought
But tell me I am mad: thou liest, I am not mad;
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques;
I'll prove it thee; and were I mad, how could I?
Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd!
She should have shone then; search thou the book:
Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace,
That I know--nay, I do know, had the murderer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
Had he been framed of nought but blood and death," &c. _
Again, in the fifth act:--
"HIERON. But are you sure that they are dead?
CASTILE. Ay, slain, too sure.
HIERON. What, and yours too?
VICEROY. Ay, all are dead; not one of them survive.
HIBRON. Nay, then I care not--come, we shall be friends;
Let us lay our heads together.
See, here's a goodly noose will hold them all.
VICEROY. O damned devil! how secure he is!
HIERON. Secure! why dost thou wonder at it?
_I tell thee, Viceroy, this day I've seen Revenge,
d in that sight am grown a prouder monarch
Than ever sate under the crown of Spain.
Had I as many lives at there be stars,_,
_As many heavens to go to as those lives,
I'd give them all, ay, and my soul to boot,
But I would see thee ride in this red pool.
Methinks, since I grew inward with revenge,
I cannot look with scorn enough on death. _
KING. What! dost thou mock us, slave? Bring tortures forth.
HIERON. _Do, do, do; and meantime I'll torture you.
You had a son as I take it, and your son
Should have been married to your daughter: ha! was it not so?
You had a son too, he was my liege's nephew.
He was proud and politic--had he lived,
He might have come to wear the crown of Spain:
I think 't was so--'t was I that killed him;
Look you--this same hand was it that stabb'd
His heart--do you see this hand?
For one Horatio, if you ever knew him--
A youth, one that they hang'd up in his father's garden--
One that did force your valiant son to yield_," &c. --ED. ]
_April_ 7. 1833.
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. --GIFFORD'S MASSINGER. --SHAKSPEARE. --THE OLD DRAMATISTS.
I think I could point out to a half line what is really Shakspeare's in
Love's Labour Lost, and some other of the not entirely genuine plays. What
he wrote in that play is of his earliest manner, having the all-pervading
sweetness which he never lost, and that extreme condensation which makes
the couplets fall into epigrams, as in the Venus and Adonis, and Rape of
Lucrece. [1] In the drama alone, as Shakspeare soon found out, could the
sublime poet and profound philosopher find the conditions of a compromise.
In the Love's Labour Lost there are many faint sketches of some of his
vigorous portraits in after-life--as for example, in particular, of
Benedict and Beatrice. [2]
[Footnote 1:
"In Shakspeare's _Poems_ the creative power and the intellectual energy
wrestle as in a war embrace. Each in its excess of strength seems to
threaten the extinction of the other. At length, in the drama, they were
reconciled, and fought each with its shield before the breast of the other.
Or like two rapid streams, that, at their first meeting within narrow and
rocky banks, mutually strive to repel each other, and intermix reluctantly,
and in tumult; but soon finding a wider channel and more yielding shores,
blend, and dilate, and flow on in one current, and with one voice. "--_Biog.
Lit. _ vol.
