Let us see now, then, what it is,—this 'universal insight in the affairs of the world,' this 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gathered from cases of alike nature,' with an observation that includes allnatures,—let us see what this new wisdom of counsel is, when it comes to be applied to this huge growth of the state, this creature of the ages; and in its great crisis of disorder—shaken, convulsed— wrapped in elemental horror, and threatening to dissolve into its primal warring atoms.
'Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.'
'If thoucouldst, Doctor, castThe water of MY LAND,find her disease,And purge it to asoundandpristine health,I would applaud thee to the very echo,That should applaud again.'
'What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,Would scourthese Englishhence? Hear'st thou ofthem?'
'Cousins, I hope the days are near at handThat chambers will be safe.'
Let us see, then, what it is that this man will have, who criticises so severely the learning of other men,—who disposes so scornfully, right and left, of the physic and metaphysic of the schools as he finds them,—who daffs the learning of the world aside, and bids itpass. Let us see what the learning is that is not 'words,' as Hamlet says, complaining of the reading in his book.
This part has been taken out from its dramatic connections, and reserved for a separate exhibition, on account of a certain new and peculiar value it has acquired since it was produced in those connections. Time has changed it 'into something rich and strange,'—Time has framed it, and poured her illustration on it: it is history now. That flaming portent, this aurora that fills the seer's heaven, these fierce angry warriors, that are fighting here upon the clouds, 'in ranks, and squadrons, and right forms of war,' are but the marvels of that science that lays the future open.
'There is a history in all men's lives,Figuring the nature of the times deceased;The which observed, a man may prophesy,With a near aim, of the main chance of thingsAs yet not come to life, which,in their seedsAndweak beginnings, lie intreasured.Such things become the hatch and brood of time.'
'One need not go to heaven to predict imminent changes and revolutions,' says that other philosopher, who scribbles on this same subject about these days in such an entertaining manner, and who brings so many 'buckets' from 'the headspring of sciences,' to water his plants in this field in particular. 'That which most threatens us is a divulsion of the whole mass.'
This part is produced here, then, as a specimen of that kind of prophecy which one does not need to go to heaven for. And the careful reader will observe, that notwithstanding the distinct disavowal of any supernatural gift on the part of this seer, and this frank explanation of the mystery of his Art, the prophecy appears to compare not unfavourably with others which seem to come to us with higher claims. A very useful and very remarkable kind of prophecy indeed, this inductive prophecy appears to be; and the question arises, whethera kind, endowed of God with a faculty of seeing, which commands the future in so inclusive a manner, and with so near and sufficient an aim for the most important practical purposes, ought to be besieging Heaven for a _super_natural gift, and questioning the ancient seers for some vague shadows of the coming event, instead of putting this immediate endowment—this 'godlike' endowment—under culture.
There is another reason for reserving this part. In the heat and turmoil of this great ACT, the Muse of the Inductive Science drops her mask, and she forgets to take it up again. The hand that is put forth to draw 'the next ages' into the scene, when the necessary question of the play requires it, isbare. It is the Man of Learning here everywhere, without any disguise,—the man of the new learning, openly applying his 'universal insight,' and 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gathered by general observation of cases of like nature,' to this great question of 'Policy,' which was then hurrying on, with such portentous movement, to its inevitable practical solution.
He who would see at last for himself, then, the trick of this 'Magician,' when he 'brings the rabble to his place,' the reader who would know at last why it is that these old Roman graves 'have waked their sleepers, oped, and let them forth, by his so potent art'; andwhyit is, that at this great crisis in English history, the noise of the old Roman battle hurtles so fiercely in the English ear, should read now—but read as a work of natural science in politics, from the scientific statesman's hands, deserves to be read—this great revolutionary scene, which the Poet, for reasons of his own, has buried in the heart of this Play, which he has subordinated with his own matchless skill to the general intention of it, but which we, for the sake of pursuing that general intention with the less interruption, now that the storm appears to be 'overblown,' may safely reserve for the conclusion of our reading of this scientific history, and criticism, and rejection of the Military Usurpation of the COMMON-WEAL.
The reading of it is very simple. One has only to observe that the Poet avails himself of thedialoguehere, with even more than his usual freedom, for the purpose of disposing of the bolder passages, in the least objectionable manner,—interrupting the statement in critical points, and emphasizing it, by that interruption, to the careful reader 'of the argument,' but to the spectator, or to one who takes it as adialogue merely, neutralizing it by that dramatic opposition. For the political criticism, which is of the boldest, passes safely enough, by being merelybroken, and put into the mouths of opposing factions, who are just upon the point of coming to blows upon the stage, and cannot, therefore, be suspected of collusion.
For the popular magistracy, as it represents the ignorance, and stupidity, and capricious tyranny of the multitude, and their unfitness for rule, is subjected to the criticism of the true consulship, on the one hand, while the military usurpation of the chair of state, and the law of Conquest, is not less severely criticized by the true Tribune—the Tribune, whose Tribe is the Kind—on the other; and it was not necessary to produce, in anymoreprominent manner, just then, the fact, thatboth these officesandrelationswere combined in that tottering estate of the realm,—that 'old riotous form of military government,' which held then only by the virtual election of the stupidity and ignorance of the people, and which, this Poet and his friends were about to put on its trial, for itsinnovationsin the government, and suppressions of the ancient estates of this realm,—for its suppression of the dignities and privileges of the Nobility, and its suppression of the chartered dignities and rights of the Commons.
Scene.—A Street. Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS with his two military friends, who have shared with him the conduct of the Volscian wars, and have but just returned from their campaign, COMINIUS and TITUS LARTIUS,—and with them the old civilian MENENIUS, who, patrician as he is, on account of hishonesty,—a truly patrician virtue,—is in favour with the people. 'He'san honest one. Would they wereall so.'
The military element predominates in this group of citizens, and of course, they are talking of the wars,—the foreign wars: but the principle ofinroadandaggressionon the one hand, anddefenceon the other, the arts ofsubjugation, andreconciliation, the arts of WAR and GOVERNMENT in their most general forms are always cleared and identified, and tracked, under the specifications of the scene.
Cor. Tullus Aufidius thenhad madeNEW HEAD.
Lart. He had, my lord, andthatit was, which caused Our swifter COMPOSITION.
Cor. So then, theVolscesstand but as at first,Ready, whentimeshallpromptthem, to makeroadUponusagain.
Com.They[Volsces?]are worn, lord consul, so That we shall hardly inour agesseeTheirbanners wave again.
* * * * *
[Enter Sicinius and Brutus.]
Cor. Behold! these are the tribunes of the people,Thetongueso' thecommon mouth. I do despise them;For they do prank them in authority,Against allnoblesufferance.
Sic. Pass no further.
Cor. Ha! what is that?
Bru. It will be dangerous to Go on: No further.
Cor. What makes this CHANGE?
Men.The matter?
Com. Hath he not passed the NOBLES and the COMMONS?
Bru. Cominius.—No.
Cor. Have I hadchildren's voices? [Yes.]
Sen. Tribunes, give way:—he shall to the market-place.
Bru. The people are incensed against him.
Sic. Stop. Orall will fall in broil.
Cor. Are theseyour herd? Mustthesehave voices that can yield them now, And straight disclaim their tongues?You, being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth?Have you not set them on?
Men. Be calm, be calm.
Cor.It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of thenobility:—Suffer it, and live with such as cannot rule, Norever will beruled.
Bru. Call't not aplot: The people cry you mocked them; and of late, Whencornwas given them gratis, you repined;Scandaled the suppliants for the people; called them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.
Cor. Why, this was known before.
Bru.Not to them all.
Cor.Have you informed them since?
Bru. How!Iinform them?
Cor. You are like to dosuch business.
Bru. Not unlike, Each way to betteryours.
Cor. WhythenshouldIbe consul? By yon clouds, Let me deserve so ill as you, and make meYour fellow tribune.
Sic. You show too much ofthat,For which the people stir: If you will passTo where you are bound, you must inquire your way,—Which you are out of,—with agentlerspirit;Or never be so noble as a consul,Nor yoke with him for tribune.
Men. Let'sbe calm.
Com. The people are abused;—set on—this palteringBecomes not Rome: nor has CoriolanusDeserved this so dishonoured rub, laid falselyI' the plain way of his merit.
Cor. Tell me ofcorn:This was my speech, and I will speak'tagain.
Men. Not now, not now.
First Sen. Not in this heat, sir,now.
Cor. Now, as I live, I will.—My nobler friends I crave their pardons:— For themutable, rank scentedmany, let themRegard me, as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves: I say again, In soothingthem, we nourish 'gainst oursenate, The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have ploughed for, sowed and scattered, By mingling them with us,the honoured number. Who lack notvirtue, no,—norpower, butthatWhich they have given to—BEGGARS.
Men. Well, no more.
First Sen. No more words, we beseech you.
Cor. How, no more: As for my country, I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force,soshall my lungsCoin wordstill their decay against those meazels Which we disdain, should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them.
Bru. You speak o' the people, As if you were a god to punish, notA man of their infirmity.
Sic. 'T were wellWe let the people know't.
Men. What, what? hischoler.
Cor. Choler!Were Ias patientas themidnight sleep,By Jove,'t would bemy mind.
Sic. It is a mind,That shall remain a poison where it is,Not poison any further.
Cor.Shall remain!Hear you this Triton of the minnows?mark youHis absoluteSHALL?
Com.'Twas from the canon,O good, but mostunwise patricians, whyYougrave, butreckless senators, have you thusGiven Hydra here to chooseAN OFFICER,That with hisperemptory shall—being butThe horn and noise o' the monster—wants notspiritTo say, he'll turnyour currentina ditch,And makeyour channel his? If he have power,Thenveil your IGNORANCE:—[that let him have it.]—ifnone, awakeYourdangerousLENITY.
[Mark it well, for it is not, as one may see who looks at it but a little, it is not the lost Roman weal and its danger that fires the passion of this speech. 'Look at this player whether he has not turned his colour, and has tears in his eyes.' 'What'sHecubato him or he toHecuba, that he should weep for her?What would he do, had he the motive and the cue for passion thatIhave.']
—if none, awakeYour dangerouslenity. Ifyou arelearned,Be not ascommon fools; if you arenot—
What do you draw this foolish line for, that separates you from the commons? If you are not, there's no nobility. If you are not, what business have you in these chairs of state?
—if you are not,Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians,Iftheybe senators; andthey are no less,Whenboth your voices blended, the GREATEST TASTEMost palatestheirs.They choosetheir magistrate;And such a one ashe, who puts hisshall,—
[Mark it, hispopular shall].
Hispopular shall, against a graver benchThan ever frown'd in Greece! By Jove himself,It makes theconsuls base: andmy soul aches,To know, when two authorities are up,
[Neither able to rule].
Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter twixt the GAP of BOTH, and take The one by the other.
Com.Well,—on to themarket place.
Cor. Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth Thecorn o' the store-housegratis, as 'twas usedSometime in Greece.
[It is notcorn, but thepropertyof thestate, and its appropriation, we talk of here. Whether theabsolute powerbe in the hands of thepeopleor 'their officer.' There had been a speech made on that subject, which had not met with the approbation of the absolute power then conducting the affairs of this realm; and in its main principle, it is repeated here. 'That was my speech, and I will make it again.' 'Not now, not now. Not in this heat, sir, now.' 'Now, as I live, I will.']
Men. Well, well, no more of that,
Cor. ThoughthereTHE PEOPLE had moreabsolute power, I say theynourished disobedience, fedTheruin of the state.
Bru. Why shall the peoplegiveOne that speaks thus their voice?
Cor. I'll give myreasons, More worthier thantheir voices. They know the corn Was not our RECOMPENSE; resting well assuredThey ne'er did service for it? . . . Well, what then? How shallthis bosom multiplied, digest; The senate's courtesy? LetdeedsexpressWhat's like to be their words. We did request it, WEareTHE GREATER POLL, and intrue fearThey gave us our demands. Thus we debase The nature of our seats, and make the rabble Call ourcares, fears:which will in timebreak ope The locks o' the senate, andbring in the crows To peck the eagles.
Mem. Come, enough.
Bru. Enough, withover measure.
Cor. No, takemore;What may be sworn by,both divine and human,Seal what I end withal! Thisdoubleworship,—Whereone partdoesdisdain with cause, the otherInsult without all reason; wheregentry, title, wisdom,Cannot conclude, but by the yea and noOfGeneral Ignorance—itmust omitReal necessities, andgive way the whileTo unstable slightness. PURPOSE sobarredit followsNothing is done to purpose: Thereforebeseech you,—
[Therefore beseech you].
You that will be less fearful than discreet;That love thefundamental partofstate,More than you doubt thechangeof't—
There was but one man in England then, able to balance this revolutionary proposition so nicely—so curiously; 'that love thefundamentalpart of state more than you doubt the change of it'; 'You that areless fearfulthandiscreet'—not sofearfulas discreet.
that preferA noble life before a long, and wishTo jump a body with a dangerous physicThat's sureofdeath without it,—at oncepluck outThe multitudinous tongue; let them not lickThe sweet which is their poison;your dishonourMANGLEStrueJUDGMENT, and bereaves THE STATEOf that INTEGRITY which shouldbecome it:Not having the power to do the good it would,For the ill which doth control it.
Bru. He has said enough.
[One would think so].
Sic. He has spoken like a traitor, and shall answerAs traitors do.
Cor. Thou wretch! despite o'erwhelm thee!What should thepeople dowith these bald tribunes?On whom depending, their obedience failsTo the greater bench? In a rebellion,When what's not meet, but what must be waslawThen were they chosen: in a better hour,Let whatis meet, be said it must bemeet,And throw their power i' thedust.
Bru. MANIFEST TREASON.
Sic.This a Consul? No.
Bru. The Aediles! ho! let him be apprehended.
Sic. Go call the people; [Exit Brutus]in whose name, myselfAttachthee[thee] as a traitorous INNOVATOR,A FOE to the PUBLIC WEAL. Obey, I charge thee,And follow to thine answer.
Cor. Hence, old goat!Senators and Patricians. We'll surety him.
Cor. Hence, rotten thing, or I shall shake thy bonesOut of thy garments.
Sic. Help, ye citizens.
[Re-enter Brutus, with the Aediles, and a rabble of citizens.]
Men.On both sides, more respect.
Sic. There's HE that wouldTake from you all your power.
Bru.Seize him, Aediles.
Cit.Down with him. Down with him.
[Several speak.]
Second Sen. Weapons! Weapons! Weapons!
[They all bustle aboutCORIOLANUS.]
Tribunes, patricians:—citizens:—what ho:—Sicinius, Brutus:—Coriolanus:—citizens:—
Cit.Peace!—Peace!—Peace!—stay!—hold!—peace!
Men.What is about to be? I am out of breath:Confusion's near! I cannot speak: you tribunesTo the people.—Coriolanus, patience:—Speak, good Sicinius.
Sic. Hear me, people;—Peace.
Cit. Let's hearourtribune:—Peace,—Speak, speak, speak.
Sic.You are at point to lose your liberties, Marciuswould have all from you; Marcius Whom late you have named for consul.
Men. Fye, fye, fye. That is the way tokindle, not toquench.
Sen. Tounbuildthecity and to lay all flat.
Sic. What is the city, butthe people.
Cit. TRUE,Thepeople arethe city.
Bru. By the consent of ALL, we were establishedThepeople'smagistrates.
Cit. You so remain.
Men. And so are like to do.
Cor. That is the way to lay the city flat,To bring theroofto thefoundation;And bury all which yetdistinctly ranges,In heaps and piles of ruin.
Sic.This deserves death.
Bru. Or let us stand to our authority, Or let us lose it:—
Truly, one hears the Revolutionary voices here. Observing the history which is in all men's lives, 'Figuring the nature of the times deceased, a manmay prophesy,' as it would seem, 'with anear aim,'—quite near—'of themainchance of things, as yet, not come to life, which in their weak beginnings lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood oftime,' this Poet says; but art, it seems, anticipates that process. There appears to be more of the future here, than of the times deceased.
Bru. We do here pronounceUpon thepart of the people, in whose powerWe were elected theirs, Marcius is worthyOfpresent death.
Sic. Therefore, lay hold of him;Bear him to the rook Tarpeian, and from thenceInto destruction cast him.
Bru. Ædiles, seize him.
Cit. Yield, Marcius, yield.
Men. Hear me, one word. Beseech you, tribunes, hear me, but a word.
Ædiles. Peace, peace.
Men. Be that youseem, truly your country's friend,Andtemperatelyproceed to what you wouldThusviolentlyredress.
Bru. Sir, thosecold waysThat seemlike prudent helps, are verypoisonous.Where thedisease is violent.—Lay hands upon him,And bear him to the rock.
Cor. No: I'll die here. [Drawing his sword.]There's some among you have beheld me fighting;Cometry upon yourselves, what you haveseenme.
Men. DOWN with THAT SWORD; tribunes, withdraw awhile.
Bru. Lay hands upon him.
Men. Help, help, MARCIUS, help! You that be NOBLE, help him, young and old.
Cit. DOWN WITH HIM! DOWN WITH HIM!
'In thismutiny, the Tribunes, the Ædiles, and the People, are allBEAT IN,' so the stage direction informs us, which appears a little singular, considering there is butone sworddrawn, and the victorious faction does not appear to have the advantage in numbers. It is, however, only a temporary success, as the victors seem to be aware.
Men. Go, get you toyour houses, be gone away, All will be nought else.
Second Sen. Get you gone.
Cor.Stand fast, We have as many friends as enemies.
Men. Shall it be put tothat?
Sen.The gods forbid!I pry'thee noble friend, home to thy house;Leave us toCURE THIS CAUSE.
Men.For'tis a soreupon us, You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech you.
Com. Come, Sir, along with us.
Cor. I would they were barbarians (as they are,Though in Romelittered) not Romans, (as they arenot,Thoughcalvedi' the porch o' the Capitol).
Men. Begone; Put notyour worthy rageinto yourtongue;One timewillowe another. [Hear.]
Cor. On fair ground, I could beatfortyof them.
Men. I couldmyselfTake up abraceof the best of them;yea, the two tribunes.
Com. But now 'tisoddsbeyond arithmetic:And MANHOOD is called FOOLERY,when it standsAgainst a falling fabric.—Will you hence,Before the tag return? whose rage doth rendLike interrupted waters, ando'erbearWhat they are used to bear. [Change of 'predominance.']
Men. Pray you, begone:I'lltrywhethermyold wit be in requestWiththose that have but little;thismust bepatchedWith cloth ofany colour.
Com. Nay, come away.
The features of that living impersonation of the heroic faults and virtues which 'the mirror,' that professed to give to 'the very body of the time, its form and pressure,' could not fail to show, are glimmering here constantly in 'this ancient piece,' and often shine out in the more critical passages, with such unmistakeable clearness, as to furnish an effectual diversion for any eye, that should undertake to fathom prematurely the player's intention. For 'the gentleman who wrote the late Shepherd's Calendar' was not the only poet of this time, as it would seem, who found the scope of a double intention, in his poetic representation, not adequate to the comprehension of his design—who laid on another and another still, and found the complexity convenient. 'The sense is the best judge,' this Poet says, in his doctrine of criticism, declining peremptorily to accept of the ancient rules in matters of taste;—a rule in art which requires, of course, a corresponding rule of interpretation. In fact, it is no bad exercise for an ordinary mind, to undertake to track the contriver of these plays, through all the latitudes which his art, as he understands it, gives him. It is as good for that purpose, as a problem in mathematics. But, 'to whom you will not give an hour, you give nothing,' he says, and 'he had as lief not be read at all, as be read by a careless reader.' So he thrusts in his meanings as thick as ever he likes, and those who don't choose to stay and pick them out, are free to lose them. They are not the ones he laid them in for,—that is all. He is not afraid, but that he will have readers enough, ere all is done; and he can afford to wait. There's time enough.
First Pat. This man has marr'd his fortune.
Men. His nature is too noble for the world:Hewould notflatterNeptune forhis trident, Or Jove forhis powertothunder. His heart's his mouth; What his breast forges,thathistonguemust vent; And being angry, does forget thatever He heard the name of death.
[A noise within.]
Here's goodly work!
Second Pat. I would they werea-bed!
Men. I would they were in Tyber!—What, the vengeance, Could henotspeak them fair?
[Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius with the Rabble.]
Sic. WHERE IS THIS VIPER, That woulddepopulatethe city, and BE EVERY MAN HIMSELF?
Men. You worthy tribunes—
Sic.Heshall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands;he hath resisted LAW, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial.
['When could they say till now that talked of Rome thatherwide walls encompassed butone man?' 'What trash is Rome, what rubbish, and what offal, when it serves for the base matter to illuminate so vile a thing as Caesar.']
Than the severity of the PUBLIC POWER,Which he so sets at nought.
First Cit. He shallwellknow The nobletribunesare thepeople's mouths, Andwe their hands.
[Historical _principles throughout, with much of that kind of illustration in which his works are so prolific, an illustration which is not rhetorical, but scientific, based on the COMMON PRINCIPLES IN NATURE, which it is his 'primary' business to ascend to, and which it is his 'second' business to apply to each particular branch of art. 'Neither,' as he tells us plainly, in his Book of Advancement, 'neither are these onlysimilitudesasmen of narrow observationmay conceive them to be, but thesame footsteps of nature, treading or printing upon several subjects or matters,' and the tracking of these historical principles to their ultimate forms, is that which he recommends for thedisclosingofnature andtheabridgingof Art.]
Sic. He's adisease, that must be cut away.
Men. O he's alimb, that has but a disease; Mortal to cut it off; to cure it, easy. What has he done to Rome, that's worthy death?Killing our enemies?The blood he hathlost, (Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath,By many an ounce), he dropped it for his country. And whatis left, to lose it by his country, Were to us all, that do't and suffer it, A brand to the end o' the world.
There's a piece thrust in here. This is the one of whom he says in another scene, 'I cannot speak him home.'
Bru.Merely awry: when he did love his country,It honour'd him.
Men. Theserviceof thefoot, Being oncegangren'd, is not then respectedFor what before it was?
Bru. We'll hear no more:— Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence; Lest his infection, being of catching nature,Spread further.
Men. One word more, one word.Thistiger-footedrage, when it shall findThe harmofunscann'd swiftness, will, too late,Tie leaden pounds to hisHEELS. [Mark it, for it is aprophecy]LestPARTIES (as he isbeloved)break out,And sack greatRomewithRomans.
Bru. If it were so,—
Sic. Whatdo ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience?Our Ædiles smote? Ourselves resisted?—Come:—
Men. Consider this; he has been bred i' the wars, Since he could draw a sword,—
That has been the breeding of states, and nobility, and their rule, hitherto, as this play will show you. Consider whatschoolingthese statesmen have had, before you begin the enterprise of reforming them, and take your measures accordingly. They are not learned men, you see. How should they be? There has been no demand for learning. The law of the sword has prevailed hitherto. When what's not meet but what must be was law, then were they chosen. Proceed by process.
Considerthis; he has been bred i' the WARS Since he could draw a sword, and isill school'dInboulted language—
[That's the trouble; but there's been a little bolting going on in this play.]
—Meal and bran, togetherHethrows without distinction. Give me leaveI'll go to him, and undertake to bring himWhere he shall answer by alawful form,(In peace) to his utmost peril.
First Sen. Noble tribunes.It is thehumane way: theothercourseWill prove too bloody; and—
[What is very much to be deprecated in such movements].
—the END of it, Unknown to the beginning.
Sic. Noble Menenius; Beyouthen as the People's Officer:Masters,—[and they seem to be that, truly,]—lay downyour weapons.
Bru. Go not home,
Sic. MEET on the MARKET-PLACE,—
[—that is where the 'idols of the market' are—]
We'll attend you there:Where, if you bring not Marcius, we'll proceedIn ourfirst way.
Men. I'll bring him to you.Let me desireyourcompany [To the Senators] Hemustcome,Or what is worse will follow.
Sen. Pray you, let's to him.
Bru. In thispointcharge himhome, that he affectsTYRANNICAL POWER: if he evade us there,Enforce him with his envy tothe people;And that the spoil, got on the Antiates,Wasne'er distributed.—
Enter an Ædile.What, will he come?
Æd. He's coming.
Bru. How accompanied?
Æd.With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him.
Sic. Have you acatalogueOf all the voices that we have procured,Set down byTHE POLL?
Æd.I have; 'tis ready.
Sic. Have you collected them BY TRIBES?
Æd. Ihave.
Sic. Assemble presently the people hither: And when they hearmesay,it shall be soIthe RIGHT and STRENGTH o' the COMMONS, be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I sayfine, cryfine; ifdeath, crydeath; Insisting on the OLD _prerogative, And power i' THE TRUTH, o' THE CAUSE.
[There is a great difference in the delivery of the mathematics, which are the most abstracted of knowledges, and policy, which is the most immersed.—Advancementof LEARNING.]
Æd. I shall inform them.
Bru. And when such time they have begun to cry,Let them not cease, but with a din confusedEnforce the present executionOf what we chance to sentence.
Æd. Very well.
Sic. Make thembe strong, andready for this hint. When we shallhapto give't them.
Bru. Go about it.
[Exit Ædile.]
Put him to choler straight. He hath been usedEver to conquer, and to have his worthOf contradiction. Being once chafed, he cannotBe rein'd again to temperance; then he speaksWhat's in his heart; andthatis there, which looksWith me to break his neck. [Prophecy—inductive.]Well, here he comes.
EnterCORIOLANUS,and his party.
Men. Calmly, I do beseech you.
Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece Will bear the knave by the volume. The honour'd gods KeepRome in safety, and the CHAIRS of JUSTICESuppliedwith WORTHY MEN!plantLOVEamong us. Throng OUR LARGE TEMPLES with theshowsof PEACE, Andnotour STREETS with WAR.
First Sen.Amen, Amen! [Hear, Hear!]
Men. A NOBLEwish.
Re-enter Ædile with Citizens.
Sic. Draw near, ye people.
Cor. First hearmespeak.
Ædile. List to yourtribunes. Audience:Peace, I say.
Both Tri. Well, say,—Peace, ho.
Cor. Shall I be charged no further than this present?Must all determine here?
Sic. I do demand,If you submit you to thepeople'svoices,Allow theirofficers, and are contentTo sufferlawful censure for such faultsAs shall be proved upon you?
Cor. I am content.
Men. Lo, citizens, he says he is content—
Cor. What is the matter,That being pass'd for consul, with full voice,I am so dishonour'd, that the very hourYou take it off again?
Sic.Answer to us.
Cor. Say then,'tis true.I ought so.
Sic. WE CHARGE YOU, that you have contrived to takeFrom Rome, all seasoned office, and to windYourself into a_ POWER TYRANNICAL;For which, you are A TRAITOR to the PEOPLE.
Cor. How!Traitor?
Men. Nay, temperately: Your promise.
Cor. The fires in the lowest hell fold in the people! Call metheir traitor!
Cit. To the rock, to the rock with him.
Sic. Peace.We need not putnew matterto his charge:What you haveseenhim do, and heard him speak,Beatingyourofficers, cursing yourselves,Opposinglawswithstrokes, and here defyingThose whose great power must try him; even THIS,Socriminal, and in such CAPITALkind,Deserves the extremest death….For that he has,As much as in him lies, from time to time,Envied against the people;seeking meansTopluck away their power: as now, at last,Given hostile strokes, and that, not in the presenceOf dreaded justice, but on theministersThat do distribute it; in the name o' the people,And in thepower of us, the tribunes, we,Even fromthis instant, banish him our city,Inperil of precipitationFrom off the rock Tarpeian, never moreTo enterourRome's gates. I' THE PEOPLE'S NAMEI say it shall be so.
Cit.It shall be so, it shall be so: let him away,He's banish'd, and itshall be so.
Com. Hear me, MY MASTERS, and my COMMON FRIENDS.
Sic. HE'S SENTENCED: no more hearing.
Com. Let me speak:—
Bru. THERE'S NO MORE TO BE SAID, BUT HE IS BANISHED,AsENEMYto thePEOPLE, AND HIS COUNTRY: IT SHALL BE SO.
Cit. IT SHALL BE SO, IT SHALL BE SO.
And this is the story that was set before a king! One, too, who was just then bestirring himself to get the life of 'that last king of England who was his ancestor' brought out; a king who was taking so much pains to get his triple wreath of conquest brightened up, and all the lines in it laid out and distinguished—one who was taking so much pains to get the fresh red of that last 'conqueror,' who also 'came in by battle,' cleared up in his coat of arms, in case his double line of white and red from the oldNormanshould not prove sufficient— sufficient to convince the English nation of his divine right, and that of his heirs for ever, to dispose of it and its weal at his and their pleasure, with or without laws, as they should see fit. A pretty scene this to amuse a king with, whose ancestor, the one from whom he directly claimed, had so lately seated himself and his line by battle- -by battle with the English peopleon those very questions; who had 'beaten them in' in their mutinies with his single sword, 'and taken all from them'; who had planted his chair of state on their suppressed liberties, and 'the charters that they bore in the body of the weal'— that chair which was even then beginning to rock a little—while there was that in the mien and bearing of the royal occupant and his heir which might have looked to the prescient mind, if things went on as they were going then, not unlike to break some one's neck.
'Bid them home,'
says the Tribune, after the military hero is driven out by the uprisen people, with shouting, from the city gates for ever; charged never more to enter them, on peril of precipitation from the Tarpeian Rock.
'Bid them home:Say,their great enemy is gone, and THEYSTANDin their ancient strength.'
But it is in the conquered nation that this scene of the deposing of the military power is completed. Of course one could not tell beforehand what effect that cautious, but on the whole luminous, exhibition of the recent conquest of the English PEOPLE, prepared at the suggestion and under the immediate criticism of royalty, might have with the profoundly loyal English people themselves, in the way of 'striking an awe into them,' and removing any lurking opposition they might have to the exercise of an arbitrary authority in government; but with people of the old Volscian pluck, according to this Poet's account of the matter, an allusion to a similar success on the part of the Conqueror at a critical moment, and when hisspecialqualifications for government happened to be passing under review, was not attended with those happy results which appear to have been expected in the other instance.
'Ifyou have writyour annals true, 't is there, Thatlike anEAGLE in a dove-cote,IFlutter'd your Volsces in Corioli:Alone, I did it.' 'Why—
[The answer is, in this case,]
'Why, noble lords,Will you be put in mindof his blind fortune, Which wasyour shame, by this unholy braggart, 'Foreyour own eyes and ears?
Cons. Let him die for't. [Several speak at once.]
Citizens[Speakingpromiscuously]. Tear him to pieces; do it presently. He killedmy son—my daughter;—he killed my cousin Marcus;—he killedmy father…. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more,his tribe, To usemy lawful sword. Insolent villain! …Traitor!—how now?…. Ay, TRAITOR, Marcius.Marcius? Ay,Marcius, Caius Marcius.Dost thou thinkI'll grace thee with that ROBBERY—thy STOLEN NAME,Coriolanus, in CORIOLI?…. […. Honest, my lord? 'Ay, honest.']
Cons. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him.' 'Would you proceed especially againstCaius Marcius?Against him FIRST.'
Surely, if that 'Heir apparent' to whom theHistoryof HENRY THE SEVENTH was dedicated by the author, with an urgent recommendation of the 'rare accidents' in that reign to the royal notice and consideration; if that prince had but chanced in some thoroughly thoughtful mood to light upon this yet more 'ancient piece,' he might have found here, also, some things worthy of his notice. It cannot be denied, that the poet's mode of handling the same historical question is much more bold and clear than that of the professed philosopher. But probably this Prince was not aware that his father entertained at Whitehall then, not a literary Historian, merely—a Book-maker, able to compose narratives of the past in an orderly chronological prosaic manner, according to the received method—but a Show-man, also, an Historical Show-man, with such new gifts and arts; a true Magician, who had in his closet a mirror which possessed the property of revealing, not the past nor the present only, but the future, 'with a near aim,' an aim sonearthat it might well seem 'magical'; and that a cloud was flaming in it, even then, 'which drizzled blood upon the Capitol.' This Prince of Wales did not know, any more than his father did, that they had in their court then an historical scholar, with such an indomitable passion for the stage, with such a decided turn for acting—one who felt himself divinely prompted to a part in that theatre which is the Globe—one who had laid out all for his share in that. They did not either of them know, fortunately for us, that they had in their royal train such an Historic Sport-Manager, such a Prospero for Masques; that there was a true 'Phil-harmonus' there, with so clear an inspiration of scientific statesmanship. They did not know that they had in that servant of the crown, so supple, so 'patient—patient as the midnight sleep,' patient 'as the ostler that for the poorest piece will bear the knave by the volume'—such a born aspirant for rule; one who had always his eye on the throne, one who had always in mind their usurpation of it. They did not know that they had a Hamlet in their court, who never lost sight of his purpose, or faltered in his execution of it; who had found a scientific ground for his actions, an end for his ends; who only affected incoherence; and that it was he who was intriguing to such purpose with the PLAYERS.
The Elizabethan revolutionist was suppressed: then 'Fame, who is the posthumous sister of rebellion, sprang up.'
'O like a book of sports thou'lt read me o'er,But there's more in me than thou'lt understand.'
'Henceforth guard thee well,For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;Butby the forgethat stithied Mars his helm,I'll kill thee everywhere, yea o'er and o'er.'
'How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter, . . . . . . . . and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things.Till then, my noble friend,chew upon this; Brutus had rather hea villager, Thanto repute himselfa son of Rome, Under these hard conditionsas this timeIs like to lay upon us.
Inasmuch as the demonstration contained in this volume has laboured throughout under this disadvantage, that however welcome that new view of the character and aims of the great English philosopher, which is involved in it, as welcome it must be to all true lovers of learning, it presents itself to the mind of the reader as a view directly opposed, not merely to what may possibly be his own erroneous preconceptions of the case; but to facts which are among the most notable in the history of this country; and not only to facts sustained by unquestionable contemporary authority, and attested by public documents,—facts which history has graven with her pen of iron in the rock for ever, but with other exhibitions of this man's character, not less, but more painful, for which he is himself singly responsible;—not the forced exhibition of a confession wrung from him by authority,—not the craven self-blasting defamation of a glorious name that was not his to blast,—that was the property of men of learning in all coming ages, precious and venerable in their eyes for ever, at the bidding of power,—not that only, but the voluntary exhibition of those qualities with which he stands charged,—which he has gone out of his way to leave to us,—memorials of them which he has collected with his own hands, and sealed up, and sent down to posterity 'this side up,' with the most urgent directions to have them read, and examined, and considered deeply,—that posterity, too, to which he commends, with so much assurance, the care of his honor, the cure of his fame.
The demonstrated fact must stand. The true mind must receive it. Because our criticism or our learning is not equal to the task of reconciling it with that which we know already, or with that which webelieved, and thought weknew, we must not on that account reject it. That is to hurt ourselves. That is to destroy the principle of integrity at its source. We must take our facts and reconcile them, if we can; and let them take care of themselves, if we can not. God is greater than we are, and whatever other sacrifices he may require of us, painful to our human sensibilities, to make way with facts, for the sake of advancing truths, or for any other reason never so plausible, is a thing which he never does, and never did require of any mind. The conclusion that requires facts to be dispensed with, or shorn, on either side to make it tenable, is not going to stand, let it come in what name, or with what authority it will; because the truth of history is, in its least particular, of a universal quality, and is much more potent than anything that the opinion and will of man can oppose to it.
To the mind which is able to receive under all conditions the demonstrated truth, and give to it its full weight,—to the mind to which truth is religion, this book is dedicated. The facts which it contains are able to assert themselves,—will be, at least, hereafter. They will not be dependent ultimately upon the mode of their exhibition here. For they have the large quality, they have the solidity and dimensions of historical truth, and are accessible on more sides than one.
But to those to whom they are already able to commend themselves in the form in which they are here set forth, the author begs leave to say, in conclusion, though it must stand for the present in the form of a simple statement, but a statement which challenges investigation, that so far from coming into any real collision with the evidence which we have on this subject from other sources, those very facts, and those very historical materials on which our views on this subject have been based hitherto, are, that which is wanting to the complete development of the views contained here.
It is the true history of these great events in which the hidden great men of this age played so deep a part; it is the true history of that great crisis in which the life-long plots of these hidden actors began to show themselves on the historic surface in scenic grandeur,—in those large tableaux which history takes and keeps,—which history waits for,—it is the very evidence which has supplied the principal basis of the received views on this subject,—it is the history of the initiation of that great popular movement,—that movement of new ages, with which the chief of popular development, and the leader of these ages, has been hitherto so painfully connected in our impressions; it is that very evidence,—that blasting evidence which the Learning of the Modern Ages has always carried in its stricken heart,—it isthatwhich is wanting here. That also is a part of the story which has begun to be related here.
And those very letters which have furnished 'confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ' of the impressions which the other historical evidence, as it stands at present, inevitably creates,—those very letters which have been collected by the party whose character was concerned in them, and preserved with so much diligence and caution,—which we have been asked with so much emphasis to read and ponder,—which have been recommended to our attention as the very best means, when all is done, of putting ourselves into sympathetic relations with the writer, and attaining at last to a complete understanding of his position, and to a complete acquaintance with his character and aims,—with hisnatural dispositions, as well as his deliberate scientificaims,—these letters, long as we have turned from them,—often as we have turned from them,—chilled, confounded, sick at heart,—unable, in spite of those recommendations, to find in them any gleam of the soul of these proceedings,—these very letters will have to be read, after all, and with that very diligence which the directions enjoin upon us; they will have, when all is done, to take just that place in the development of this plot which the author, who always knows what he is about when he is giving directions, designed them to take. There is one very obvious reason why they should be studied—why they would have to be studied in the end. They have on the face of them a claim to the attention of the learned. There is nothing like them in the history of mankind. For, however mean and disreputable the acts of men may be, when it comes to words,—that medium of understanding and sympathy, in which the identity of the common nature is perpetually declared, even in the most private conferences,—there is usually an attempt to clothe the forlorn and shrinking actuality with the common human dignity, or to make it, at least, passably respectable, if the claim to the heroic is dispensed with,—even in oral speech. But in writing, in letters, destined to never so brief and limited an existence, who puts on paper for the eye of another, for the review of that criticism which in the lowest, basest of mankind, stands in unimpeachable dignity, prepared to detect and pass sentence, and cry out as one aggrieved, on the least failure, or shadow of failure in the best—who puts in writing,—what tenant of Newgate will put on paper, when it comes to that, a deliberate display of meanness,—what convicted felon, but will undertake in that case to give some sort of heroic colour to his proceedings—some air of suffering virtue to his durance?
But a great man, consciously great, who knows that his most trifling letter is liable to publication; a great man, writing on subjects and occasions which insure publicity to his writing; a man of fame, writing letters expressly for publication, and dedicating them to the far-off times; a man of poetic sensibilities, alive to the finest shades of moral differences; one of unparalleled dignity and grandeur of aims—aims pursued from youth to age, without wavering, under the most difficult conditions, pursued to their successful issue; a man whose aim in life it was to advance, and ennoble, and enrich his kind; in whose life-success the race of men are made glad; such a one sending down along with the works, in which the nobility and the deliberate worth and grandeur of his ends are set forth and proved, memorials of himself which exhibit studiously on the surface of them, by universal consent, the most odious character in history; this is the phenomenon which our men of learning have found themselves called upon to encounter here. To separate the man and the philosopher—to fly out upon theman, to throw him overboard with every expression of animosity and disgust, to make him out as bad as possible, to collect diligently every scrap of evidence against him, and set it forth with every conceivable aggravation—this has been the resource of an indignant scholarship in this case, bent on uttering its protest in some form; this has been the defence of learning, cast down from its excellency, and debased in all men's eyes, as it seemed for ever, in the person of its high-priest.
The objection to the work here presented to the public is, that it does not go far enough. From the point of review that the research of which it is the fruit has now attained, this is the criticism to which it appears to be liable. From this point of view, thecomplaintto be made against it is, that at the place where it stops it leaves, for want of that part of the evidence which contains it, the historical grandeur of our great men unrevealed or still obscured. For wehavehad them, in the sober day-light of our occidental learning, in the actualities of history, and not in the mists of a poetic past only—monstrous idealisms, outstretched shadows of man's divinity, demi-gods and heroes, impersonations of ages and peoples, stalking through the twilight of the ante-historic dawn, or in the twilight of a national popular ignorance, embalmed in the traditions of those who are always 'beginners.' We have had them; we need not look to a foreign and younger race for them; we have them, fruit of our own stock; we have had them, not cloaked with falseness, but exposed in the searching noonday glare of our western science. We have had them, we have them still, with all their mortal frailty and littleness and ignorance confessed, with all their 'weaved-up follies ravelled out,' with all the illimitable capacity of affection and passion and will in man, with all his illimitable capacity for folly and wrong-doing, assumed and acknowledged in their own persons, symbolically, vicariously, assumed and confessed. 'I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.' We have them,ourInterpreters,ourPoets,ourReformers, who start from the actualities—from the actualities of nature in general, and of the human nature in particular—who make the most careful study of man as he is, in themselves and in all men, the basis of their innovation, the beginning of their advancement to the ideal or divine. We have them; and they, too, they also come to us, with that old garland of glory on their brows, with that same 'crown' of victory, which the world has given from of old to those who have taken her affairs to be their business.
That the historical evidence which lies on the surface of an age, like that age from which our modern philosophy proceeds, is of a kind to require, for its unravelling, a different species of criticism from that which suffices for the historical evidence which our own times and institutions produce, is a fact which would hardly seem to require any illustration in the present state of our historical knowledge, in the present state of our knowledge in regard to the history of this age in particular; when not the professed scholar only, but every reader, knows what age in the constitutional history of England, at least, that age was; when we have here, not the erudite historian only, with his rich harvests for the scholar, that arecaviareto the multitude, but the Poets of history also, wresting from dull prose and scholasticism its usurped domains, and giving back to the peoples their own, to tell us what age this was. The inner history of this time is indeed still wanting to us; and the reason is, that we have not yet applied to the reading of its principal documents that key of times which our contemporary historians have already put into our hands—that key which, we are told on good authority, is, in certain cases, indispensable to the true interpretation.
That the direct contemporary testimony on which history depends is, in this case, vitiated, tainted at its source, and through all its details—that the documents are all of them, on the face of them, 'suspicious,' and not fit to be received as historical evidence without the severest scrutiny and re-examination—this is the fact which remains to be taken into the account here. For this is a case in which the witnesses come into court, making signs, seeking with mute gesticulation to attract our attention, pointing significantly to the difficulties of the position, asking to be cross-examined, soliciting a second cogitation on what they say, telling us that they mortally hate obscurity, and would avoid it if they could; intimating that if their testimony should be re-examined in a higher court, and when the Star Chamber and the Court of Ecclesiastical Commission are no longer in session, it might perhaps be found to be susceptible of a different reading. This is a case in which the party convicted comes in with his finger on his lips, and an appeal to another tribunal, to anotherage.
We all know what age in the history of the immemorial liberties and dignities of a race—what age in the history of its recovered liberties, rescued from oppression and recognised and confirmed by statute, this was. We know it was an age in which the decisions of the Bench were prescribed to it by a power that had 'the laws of England at its commandment,' that it was an age in which Parliament, and the press, and the pulpit, were gagged, and in which that same justice had charge, diligent charge 'of amusements also, and of those who only played at working.' That this was a time when the Play House itself,—in that same year, too, in which these philosophical plays began first to attract attention, and again and again, was warned off by express ordinances from the whole ground of 'the forbidden questions.' We know that this was an age in which not the books of the learned only were subjected to 'the press and torture which expulsed' from them all those 'particulars that point to action'—action, at least, in which the common-weal of men is most concerned; that it was a time when the private manuscript was subjected to that same censorship and question, and corrected with those same instruments and engines, which made then a regular part of the machinery of the press; when the most secret cabinet of the Statesman and the Man of Letters must be kept in order for that revision, when his most confidential correspondence, his private note-book and diary must be composed under these restrictions; when in the church, not the pulpit only, but the secrets of the study, were explored for proofs of opposition to the power then predominant; when the private desk and drawers of the poor obscure country clergyman were ransacked, and his half-formed studies of sermons, his rude sketches and hypothetical notes of sermons yet to be—which might or might not be—put down for private purposes perhaps, and never intended to be preached—were produced by Government as an excuse for subjecting him to indignities and cruelties to which those practised upon the Duke of Kent and the Duke of Gloster, in the play, formed no parallel.
To the genius of a race in whose mature development speculation and action were for the first time systematically united, in the intensities of that great historical impersonation which signalises its first entrance upon the stage of human affairs, stimulated into preternatural activity by that very opposition which would have shut it out from its legitimate fields, and shut it up within those impossible, insufferable limits that the will of the one man prescribed to it then,—to that many-sided genius, bent on playing well its part even under those conditions, all the more determined on it by that very opposition—kept in mind of its manliness all the time by that all comprehending prohibition on manhood, that took charge of every act—irritated all the time into a protesting human dignity by the perpetual meannesses prescribed to it, instructed in the doctrine of the human nature and its nobility in the school of that sovereignty which was keeping such a costly 'crib' here then; 'Let a beast be lord of beasts,' says Hamlet, 'and your crib shall stand at the king's mess;' 'Would you have me false tomy nature? says another, 'rathersay IplaythemanI am'; to that so conscious man, playing his part under these hard conditions, on a stage so high; knowing all the time what theatre that was he played it in, how 'far' those long-drawn aisles extended; what 'far-off' crowding ages filled them, watching his slightest movements; who knew that he was acting 'even in the eyes of all posterity that wear this world out to the ending doom'; to such a one studying out his part beforehand under such conditions, it was not one disguise only, it was not one secret literary instrumentality only, that sufficed for the plot of it. That toy stage which he seized and converted so effectually to his ends, with all its masks did not suffice for the exigencies of this speaker's speech, 'who came prepared to speak well,' and 'to give to his speech a grace by action.'