It is the beginning of these yet beginning Modern Ages, the ages of a practical learning, and scientific relief to the human estate, which this Pastime marks with its blazoned, illuminated initial. It is the opening of the era in which a common human sense is developed, and directed to the common-weal, which this Pastime celebrates; the opening of the ages in which, ere all is done, the politicians who expect mankind to entrust to them their destinies, will have to find something better than 'glass eyes' to guide them with; in which it will be no longer competent for those to whom mankind entrusts its dearest interests to go on in their old stupid, conceited, heady courses, their old, blind, ignorant courses,—stumbling, and staggering, and groping about, and smelling their way with their own narrow and selfish instincts, when it is the common-weal they have taken on their shoulders;—running foul of the nature of things—quarrelling with eternal necessities, and crying out, when the wreck is made, 'Alack! why does it so?'
This Play, and all these plays, were meant to be pastime for ages in which state reasons must needs be something else than 'the pleasure' of certain individuals, 'whose disposition, all the world well knows, will not be rubbed or stopped;' or 'the quality,' 'fiery' or otherwise, of this or that person, no matter 'how unremoveable and fixed' he may be 'in his own course.'
It was to the 'far off times;' and not to the 'near,' it was to the advanced ages of the Advancement of Learning, that this Play was dedicated by its Author. For it was the spirit of the modern ages that inspired it. It was the new Prometheus who planned it; the more aspiring Titan, who would bring down in his New Organum a new and more radiant gift; it was the Benefactor and Foreseer, who would advance the rude kind to new and more enviable approximations to the celestial summits. He knew there would come a time, in the inevitable advancements of that new era of scientific 'prudence' and forethought which it was given to him to initiate, when all this sober historic exhibition, with its fearful historic earnest, would read, indeed, like some old fable of the rude barbaric past—some Player's play, bent on a feast of horrors—some Poet's impossibility. Andthat—was the Play,—that was the Plot. He knew that there would come a time when all this tragic mirth—sporting with the edged tools of tyranny—playing around the edge of the great axe itself—would be indeed safe play; when his Fool could open his budget, and unroll his bitter jests—crushed together and infolded within themselves so long—and have a world to smile with him, and not the few who could unfold them only. And that—that was 'the humour of it.'
Yes, with all their philosophy, these plays are Plays and Poems still. There's no spoiling the 'tragical mirth' in them. But we are told, on the most excellent contemporaneous authority—on the authority of one who was in the inmost heart of all this Poet's secrets—that 'as we often judge of the greater by the less, so the very pastimes of great men give an honourable idea to the clear-sighted of THE SOURCE FROM WHICH THEY SPRING.'
Good does not necessarily succeed evil; another evil may succeed, and a worse, as it happened with Caesar's killers, who brought the republic to such a pass that they had reason to repent their meddling with it…. It must be examined in what condition THE ASSAILANT is.—Michael de Montaigne.
Citizen. I fear there will a worse one come in his place.Cassius. He were no lion, were not Romans hinds.
Casca. 'Tis Caesar that you mean: Is itnot, Cassius?Cassius. Let it be WHO IT is, for RomansnowHave thewes and limbs like totheirancestors.
We all stand up against thespiritof Caesar.Julius Caesar.
Yes, when that Royal Injunction, which rested alike upon the Play-house, the Press, the Pulpit, andParliamentitself, was still throttling everywhere the free voice of the nation—when a single individual could still assume to himself, or to herself, the exclusive privilege of deliberating on all those questions which men are most concerned in—questions which involve all their welfare, for this life and the life to come, certainly 'the Play, the Play was the thing.' It was a vehicle of expression which offered incalculable facilities for evading these restrictions. It was the only one then invented which offered then any facilities whatever for the discussion of that question in particular—which was already for that age the question. And to the genius of that age, with its newhistorical, experimental, practical, determination—with its transcendant poetic power, nothing could be easier than to get possession of this instrument, and to exhaust its capabilities.
For instance, if a Roman Play were to be brought out at all,—and with that mania for classical subjects which then prevailed, what could be more natural?—how could one object to that which, by the supposition, was involved in it? And what but the most boundless freedoms and audacities, on this very question, could one look for here? What, by the supposition, could it be but one mine of poetic treason? If Brutus and Cassius were to be allowed to come upon the stage, and discuss their views of government, deliberately and confidentially, in the presence of an English audience, certainly no one could ask to hear from their lips the political doctrine then predominant in England. It would have been a flat anachronism, to request them to keep an eye upon the Tower in their remarks, inasmuch as all the world knew that the corner-stone of that ancient and venerable institution had only then just been laid by the same distinguished individual whom these patriots were about to call to an account for his military usurpation of a constitutional government at home.
And yet, one less versed than the author in the mystery of theatrical effects, and their combinations—one who did not know fully what kind of criticism a merePlay, composed by a professional play-wright, in the way of his profession, for the entertainment of the spectators, and for the sake of the pecuniary result, was likely to meet with;—or one who did not know what kind of criticism a work, addressed so strongly to the imagination and the feelings in any form, is likely to meet with, might have fancied beforehand that the author was venturing upon a somewhat delicate experiment, in producing a play like this upon the English stage at such a crisis. One would have said beforehand, that 'there were things in this comedy of Julius Caesar that would never please.' It is difficult, indeed, to understand how such a Play as this could ever have been produced in the presence of either of those two monarchs who occupied the English throne at that crisis in its history, already secretly conscious that its foundations were moving, and ferociously on guard over their prerogative.
And, indeed, unless a little of that same sagacity, which was employed so successfully in reducing the play of Pyramus and Thisbe to the tragical capacities of Duke Theseus' court, had been put in requisition here, instead of that dead historical silence, which the world complains of so much, we might have been treated to some very lively historical details in this case, corresponding to other details which the literary history of the time exhibits, in the case of authors who came out in an evil hour in their own names, with precisely the same doctrines, which are taught here word for word, with impunity; and the question as to whether this Literary Shadow, this Name, this Veiled Prophet in the World of Letters, ever had any flesh and blood belonging to him anywhere, (and from the tenor of his works, one might almost fancy sometimes that that might have been the case), this question would have come down to us experimentally and historically settled. For most unmistakeably, the claws of the young British lion are here, under these old Roman togas; and it became the 'masters' to consider with themselves, for there is, indeed, 'no more fearful wild fowl living' than your lion in such circumstances; and if he should happen to forget his part in any case, and 'roar too loud,' it would to a dead certainty 'hang them all.'
But it was only the faint-hearted tailor who proposed to 'leave out the killing part.' Pyramus sets aside this cowardly proposition. He has named the obstacles to be encountered only for the sake of magnifying the fertility of his invention in overcoming them. He has a device to make all even. 'Write me a prologue,' he says, 'and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with ourswords; and for the more assurance, tell them thatI, Pyramus, am notPyramus, butBottom, the Weaver; that will put them out of fear.' And as to the lion, there must not only be 'another prologue, to tell that he is not a lion,' but 'you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck, and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the samedefect, Ladies, or fair ladies, my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life.'
To such devices, in good earnest, were those compelled to resort who ventured upon the ticklish experiment of presenting heroic entertainments for king's palaces, where 'hanging was the word' in case of a fright; but, with a genius like this behind the scenes, so fertile in invention, so various in gifts, who could aggravate his voice so effectually, giving you one moment the pitch of 'the sucking dove,' or 'roaring you like any nightingale,' and the next, 'the Hercle's vein,'—with a genius who knew how to play, not 'the tyrant's part only,' but 'the lover's, which is more condoling,' and whose suggestion that the audience should look to their eyes in that case, was by no means a superfluous one; with a genius who had all passions at his command, who could drown, at his pleasure, the sharp critic's eye, or blind it with showers of pity, or 'make it water with the merriest tears, that the passion of loud laughter ever shed,' with such resources, prince's edicts could be laughed to scorn. It was vain to forbid such an one, to meddle with anything that was, or had been, or could be.
But does any one say—'To what purpose,' if the end were concealed so effectually? And does any one suppose, because no faintest suspicion of the true purpose of this play, and of all these plays, has from that hour to this, apparently ever crossed the English mind, at home or abroad, though no suspicion of the existence of any purpose in them beyond that of putting the author in easy circumstances, appears as yet to have occurred to any one,—does any one suppose that this play, and all these plays, have on that account, failed of their purpose; and that they have not been all this time, steadily accomplishing it? Who will undertake to estimate, for instance, the philosophical, educational influence of this single Play, on every boy who has spouted extracts from it, from the author's time to ours, from the palaces of England, to the log school-house in the back-woods of America?
But suppose now, instead of being the aimless, spontaneous, miraculous product of a stupid, 'rude mechanical' bent on producing something which should please the eye, and flatter the prejudices of royalty, and perfectly ignorant of the nature of that which he had produced;—suppose that instead of appearing as the work of Starveling, and Snout, and Nick Bottom, the Weaver, or any person of that grade and calibre, that this play had appeared at the time, as the work of an English scholar, as most assuredly it was, profoundly versed in the history of states in general, as well as in the history of the English state in particular, profoundly versed in the history of nature in general, as well as in the history of human nature in particular. Suppose, for instance, it had appeared as the work of an English statesman, already suspected of liberal opinions, but stedfastly bent for some reason or other, on advancement at court, with his eye still intently fixed, however secretly, on those insidious changes that were then in progress in the state, who knew perfectly well what crisis that ship of state was steering for;query, whether some of the passages here quoted would have tended to that 'advancement' he 'lacked.' Suppose that instead of Julius Caesar, 'looking through the lion's neck,' and gracefully rejecting the offered prostrations, it had been the English courtier, condemned to these degrading personal submissions, who 'roared you out,' on his own account, after this fashion. Imagine a good sturdy English audience returning the sentiment, thundering their applause at this and other passages here quoted, in the presence of a Tudor or a Stuart.
One might safely conclude, even if the date had not been otherwise settled, that anything so offensive as this never was produced in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. King James might be flattered into swallowing even such treasonable stuff as this; but in her time, the poor lion was compelled to aggravate his voice after another fashion. Nothing much above the sucking-dove pitch, could be ventured on when her quick ears were present. He 'roared you' indeed, all through her part of the Elizabethan time; but it was like any nightingale. The clash and clang of these Roman Plays were for the less sensitive and more learned Stuart.
Metellus Cimber. Most high, most mighty,And most puissant Caesar;Metellus Cimber throws before thy seatAn humble heart:—[Kneeling.]
Caesar. I must prevent thee, Cimber.These couchings and these lowly courtesies:Mightfire the blood of ordinary men;AND TURN PRE-ORDINANCE, and FIRST DECREE,INTO THE LAW OF CHILDREN.Be not fondTo think that CAESAR bearssuchREBELblood,That will be thawed from thetrue quality,With that which melteth FOOLS. (?) I mean,sweet words,Low, crooked curtsies, andbase spaniel fawning.Thy brotherbydecreeis banished;If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn forhim,I spurn thee like a cur, out of my way.Know CAESAR DOTH NOT WRONG.
To appreciate this, one must recall not merely the humiliating personal prostrations which the ceremonial of the English Court required then, but that base prostration of truth and duty and honour, under the feet of vanity and will and passion, which they symbolized.
Thus farCaesar, but the subject's views on this point, as here set forth, are scarcely less explicit, but then it is aRomansubject who speaks, and the Roman costume and features, look savingly through the lion's neck.
One of the radical technicalities of that new philosophy of the human nature which permeates all this historical exhibition, comes in here, however; and it is one which must be mastered before any of these plays can be really read. The radical point in the new philosophy, as it applies to the human nature in particular, is the pivot on which all turns here,—here as elsewhere in the writings of this school,—the distinction of 'the double self,' the distinction between the particular and private nature, with its unenlightened instincts of passion, humour, will, caprice,—that self which is changeful, at war with itself, self-inconsistent, and, therefore, truly, no SELF,—since the true self is the principle of identity and immutability,—the distinction between that 'private'naturewhen it is developed instinctively as 'selfishness,' and that rational immutable self which is constitutionally present though latent, in all men, and one in them all; that noblespecialhuman form which embraces and reconciles in its intention, the private good with the good of that worthier whole whereof we are individually parts and members; 'this is the distinction on which all turns here.' For this philosophy refuses, on philosophical grounds, to accept this low, instinctive private nature, in any dressing up of accidental power as the god of its idolatry, in place of that 'divine or angelical nature, which is the perfection of the human form,' and the true sovereignty. Obedience to that nature,—'the approach to, or assumption of,' that makes, in this philosophy, the end of the human endeavour, 'and the error and false imitation of that good, is that which is the tempest of the human life.'
But let us hear the passionate Cassius, who is full of individualities himself, and ready to tyrannize with them, but somehow, as it would seem, not fond of submitting to the 'single self' in others.
'Well, honouristhe subject of my story.—I can not tell what you, and other men,Think of this life; but for mysingle self,I had as lief not BE, as live to beIn awe of such a thingas I myself.I wasbornfree as Caesar; so were you.We both have fed as well: and we can bothEndure the winter's cold as well as he.'—
And the proof of this personal equality is then given; and it is precisely the one which Lear produces, 'When the wind made me chatter, there I found them,—there I smelt them out.'—
'For once upon a raw and gusty day,The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, etc.* * * * *—Caesar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.—And this manIs now become a god, and Cassius isA wretched creature, andmust bend his body,If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.He had a fever when he was in Spain,And when the fit was on him—I did markHow he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake.'
[This was a pretty fellow to have about a king's privacy taking notes of this sort on his tablets. Among 'those saw and forms and pressures past, which youth and observatior copied there,' all that part reserved forCaesarand his history, appears to have escaped the sponge in some way.
'They told me I was every thing, 'tis a lie! I am notagueproof.'—Lear.
His coward lips did from their colour fly.'And that sameeye whose bend doth awe the world,Did lose his lustre!—Julius Caesar.
'—When I do stare see howthe subjectquakes.—'Lear.]
I did hear him groan:Aye, and that tongue of histhat bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books.Alas! it cried, 'Give me some drink, Titinius,'As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,A man ofsuch a feeble temper shouldSo get the start of the majestic world,And bear the palm alone.
Brutus. Anothergeneral shout!I do believe that these applauses areFor some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar.
Cassius. Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world,Like a Colossus: and we petty menWalk under his huge legs; and peep aboutTo find ourselves DISHONOURABLE GRAVES.Men, atsome time, aremasters of their fates,The fault, dear Brutus, IS NOTin ourSTARS,But in ourselves that we are underlings.BrutusandCaesar: What should be in thatCaesar?* * * * *Now in the names of all the gods at once,Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feedThat he is grown so great? AGE, thou art shamed:Rome, thouhast lost the breed of noble bloods!When went there by an age, since the great flood,But it was famed with more than withOne man?When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,That her wide walls encompass'd butOne man?Now is it Home indeed, and room enough,When there is in it but one only man.[When there is in it (truly) butOne only,—MAN].O! you and I have heard our fathers say,Therewas a Brutus once, that would have brook'dThe eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,As easily asa king.
Brutus. What you have said,I will consider;—what you have to sayI will with patience hear: andfind a timeBothmeet to hear, and answer such high things.Till then, my noble friend, CHEW UPON THIS;—Brutus had rather be avillager,Than toreputehimself a SON of ROME.Under these hard conditions, asthistimeIs like to lay upon us. [Chew upon this].
Cassius. I am glad that my weak wordsHave struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.[Re-enter Caesar and his train.]
Brutus. The games are done, and Caesar is returning.
Cassius. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note to-day.
Brutus. I will do so:—But look you, Cassius,The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow. And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia's cheek is pale; andCiceroLooks with such ferret and such fiery eyes, As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being crossed in conference by some senators.
Cassius. Casca will tell us what the matter is.
Caesar. Antonius.
Antony. Caesar.
Caesar. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look.He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
Antony. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous:He is a noble Roman, and well given.
Caesar. Would he were fatter:—But I fear him not;Yet if my name were liable to fear,I do not know the man I should avoidSo soon as that spare Cassius.He reads much:He is a great observer, and he looksQuite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,As thou dost Antony; he hears no music:Seldom he smiles; and smilesin such a sort,As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spiritThat could be moved to smile at any thing.Such men as he are never at heart's ease,Whiles they behold agreater than themselves;And therefore are they very dangerous,I rather tell theewhat is to be feared,Than whatIfear, FOR ALWAYS I AM CAESAR.Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,And tell metrulywhat thou think'st of him.
[Exeunt Caesar and his train. Casca stays behind.]
Casca. You pulled me by thecloak: would you speak with me?
Brutus. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced to-day, That Caesar looks so sad.
Casca. Why you were with him. Were you not?
Brutus. I should not then ask Casca what hath chanced.
Casca. Why there was a crown offered him: and, being offered, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a shouting.
Brutus. What was the second noise for?
Casca. Why for that too.
Brutus. They shouted thrice. What was the last cry for?
Casca. Why for that too.
Brutus. Was the crown offered him thrice?
Casca. Ay marry was't. And he put it by thrice, every time gentler than the other; and at every putting by, mine honest neighbours shouted.
Cassius.Who offered him the crown?
Casca. Why, Antony.
Brutus. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.
Casca. I can as well behangedas tell the manner of it. It was mere foolery. I did not mark it. I sawMark Antonyoffer him a crown; yet 't was not a crown;—neither 't was one of these coronets;—and, as I told you, he put it by once; but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very both to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement hooted, and clapped their chapped hands, and threw up their sweaty night caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar; for he swooned and fell down at it: and, for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
Cassius. But soft, I pray you: WHAT? DID CAESAR SWOON?
Casca.He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless.
Brutus. 'Tis very like; he hath the falling sickness.
Cassius. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca,we have the falling sickness.
Casca.I know not what you mean by that: but I am sure, Caesar fell down. If thetag-rag peopledid not clap him and hiss him,according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the Players in the theatre, I am no true man.
Brutus. What said he, when he came unto himself.
Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived thecommon herdwas glad when he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut.—An I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word; I would I might go to hell among the rogues: and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it washis infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried, 'Alas, good soul!'—and forgave him with all their hearts: But there's no heed to be taken of them;if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.
Brutus. And after that, he came thus sad away?
Casca. Ay.
Cassius. DidCicero say anything?
Casca. Ay,he spoke Greek.
Cassius. To what effect?
Casca.Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again. But those that understood him, smiled at one another, and shook their heads: but for mine own part, it wasGreek to me. I could tell you more news, too: Marullus and Flavius, forpulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.
Brutus says of Casca, when he is gone, 'He was quick mettlewhen he went to school'; and Cassius replies, 'So he is now—however he puts on thistardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, which gives men stomachto digesthis words with better appetite.' 'And so itis,' Brutus returns;—and so it is, indeed, as any one may perceive, who will take the pains to bestow upon these passages the attention which the author's own criticism bespeaks for them.
To the ear of such an one, the roar of the blank verse of Cassius is still here, subdued, indeed, but continued, through all the humour of this comic prose.
But it is Brutus who must lend to the Poet the sanction of his name and popularity, when he would strike home at last to the heart of his subject. Brutus, however, is not yet fully won: and, in order to secure him, Cassius will this night throw in at his window, 'in several hands—as if they came from several citizens—writings, in which, OBSCURELY, CAESAR'S AMBITION SHALL BE GLANCED AT.' And, 'After this,' he says,—
'Let Caesar seat him sure,For we will shake him, or worse days endure.'
But in the interval, that night of wild tragic splendour must come, with its thunder-bolts and showers of fire, and unnatural horror. For these elements have a true part to perform here, as in Lear and other plays; they come in, not merely as subsidiary to the 'artistic effect'—not merely because their wild Titanic play forms an imposing harmonious accompaniment to the play of the human passions and their 'wildness'—but as a grand scientific exhibition of the element which the Poet is pursuing under all its Protean forms—as a most palpable and effective exhibition to the sense of that identical thing against which he has raised his eternal standard of revolt, refusing to own, under any name, its mastery.
But one can hear, in that wild lurid night, in the streets of Rome, amid the cross blue lightnings, what could not have been whispered in the streets of England then, or spoken in the ear in closets.
Cicero. [Encountering Casca in the street, with his sword drawn.]Good-even, Casca; brought you Caesar home?Why are you breathless? and why stare you so?
Casca. Areyounot moved,when all the sway of earthShakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,I have seen tempests, when thescolding windsHave rived theknotty oaks; and I have seenTheambitious ocean swell, and rage and foam,To be exalted with the threatening clouds;But never till to-night, never till now,Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.Either there is acivil strife in heaven;Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,Incenses them to send destruction.
But the night has had other spectacles, it seems, which, to his eye, appeared to have some relation to the coming struggle; in answer to Cicero's 'Why, saw you anything more wonderful?' Thus he describes them.
'A common slave,—you know him, well by sight, Held up hisleft hand, which did flame and burnLike twenty torches join'd. Against the CapitolI met a lion, Who glared upon me, and wentsurly by.'
[And he had seen, 'drawn on a head,']
'A hundred ghastlywomen,Transformed with their fears; who swore they sawMen, all in fire, walk up and down the streets.And, yesterday, thebirdofnightdid sit,Evenat noon-day, upon the market-place,Hooting, and shrieking.'
An ominous circumstance,—that last. A portent sure as fate. When such things begin to appear, 'men need not go to heaven to predict imminent changes.'
Cicero concedes that 'it is indeed a strange disposed time?' and inserts the statement that 'men may construe things aftertheirfashion, clean from the purpose of the things themselves.' But this is too disturbed a sky forhimto walk in, so exit Cicero, and enter one of another kind of mettle, who thinks 'the night a very pleasant one to honest men;' who boasts that he has been walking about the streets 'unbraced, baring his bosom to the thunder stone,' and playing with 'the cross blue lightning;' and when Casca reproves him for this temerity, he replies,
'You are dull, Casca, and thosesparks of lifeThat should be in a Roman, you do want,Or else you use not.'
For as to these extraordinary phenomena in nature, he says, 'If you would consider the true cause
Why all these things change, from theirordinance,Theirnaturesandfore-formed faculties,Tomonstrousquality; why, you shall find,That heaven hathinfusedthem with these spirits,To make them instruments of fear, and warning,UntosomeMONSTROUS STATE.Now couldI, Casca,Name totheea manmost like this dreadful night;That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roarsAs doth the lion in the Capitol:A man no mightier than thyself, orme,In personal action; yetprodigious grown,Andfearful, as thesestrange eruptions are.
Casca. 'TisCaesarthat you mean: Is it not, Cassius?
Cassius. LET IT BE WHO IT is: for RomansnowHavethewesandlimbslike to their ancestors;But, woe the while! our fathers'mindsare dead,And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits;Our yoke and sufferance shows us womanish.
Casca. Indeed, they say, the senators to-morrowMean to establish Caesar as a king.And he shall wear his crown by sea, and land,In every place, save here in Italy.
Cassius. I know where I will wear this dagger then;Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:Nor STONY TOWER, nor walls of beaten brass,Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,Can beretentive to the strength of spirit.If I know this, know all the world besides,That part of tyranny, thatIdo bear,Ican shake off at pleasure.
Casca. So canI;So every bondmanin his own hand bearsThe power to cancel his captivity.
Cassius.Andwhyshould Caesar be a tyrantthen?Poor man! I know,he would not be a wolf,But that he sees the Romans are but sheepHe were no lion, were not Romans hinds.Those that with haste will make a mighty fire,Begin it with weak straws:What trash is Rome,What rubbish, and what offal, when it servesfor the base matter to illuminateSo vile a thing as Caesar? But, O grief!Wherehast thou led me?Iperhaps,speak thisBEFORE A WILLING BONDMAN: But I am arm'dAnd dangers are to me indifferent.
Casca. You speak to Casca; and to such a man, That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my hand:Be factious for redress of all these griefs: AndI will set this foot of mine as far, As who goes farthest.
Cassius. There's a bargain made.
This is sufficiently explicit, an unprejudiced listener would be inclined to say—indeed, it is difficult to conceive how any more positively instructive exhibition of the subject, could well have been made. Certainly no one can deny that this fact of the personal helplessness, the physical weakness of those in whom this arbitrary power over the liberties and lives of others is vested, seems for some reason or other to have taken strong possession of the Poet's imagination. For how else, otherwise should he reproduce it so often, so elaborately under such a variety of forms?—with such a stedfastness and pertinacity of purpose?
The fact that the power which makes these personalities so 'prodigious,' so 'monstrous,' overshadowing the world, 'shaming the Age' with their 'colossal' individualities, no matter what new light, what new gifts of healing for its ills, that age has been endowed with, levelling all to their will, contracting all to the limit of their stinted nature, making of all its glories but 'rubbish, offal to illuminate their vileness,'—the fact that the power which enables creatures like these, to convulse nations with their whims, and deluge them with blood, at their pleasure,—which puts the lives and liberties of the noblest, always most obnoxious to them, under their heel—the fact that this power resides after all,not in these persons themselves,—that they are utterly helpless, pitiful, contemptible, in themselves; but that it exists in the 'thewes and limbs' of those who are content to be absorbed in their personality, who are content to make muscles for them, in those who are content to he mere machines for the 'only one man's' will and passion to operate with,—the fact that this so fearful power lies all in the consent of those who suffer from it, is the fact which this Poet wishes to be permitted to communicate, and which he will communicate in one form or another, to those whom it concerns to know it.
It is a fact, which he is not content merely to state, however, in so many words, and so have done with it. He will impress it on the imagination with all kinds of vivid representation. He will exhaust the splendours of his Art in uttering it. He will leave a statement on this subject, profoundly philosophical, but one that all the world will be able to comprehend eventually, one that the world will never be able to unlearn.
The single individual helplessness of the man whom the multitude, in this case, were ready to arm with unlimited power over their own welfare—that physical weakness, already so strenuously insisted on by Cassius, at last attains its climax in the representation, when, in the midst of his haughtiest display of will and personal authority, stricken by the hands of the men he scorned, by the hand of one 'he had just spurned like a cur out of his path,' he falls at the foot of Pompey's statue—or, rather, 'when at the base of Pompey's statue he lies along'—amid all the noise, and tumult, and rushing action of the scene that follows—through all its protracted arrangements, its speeches, and ceremonials—not unmarked, indeed,—the centre of all eyes,—but, mute, motionless, a thing of pity, 'A PIECE OF BLEEDING EARTH.'
That helpless cry in the Tiber, 'Save me, Cassius, or I sink!'—that feeble cry from the sick man's bed in Spain, 'Give me some drink, Titinius!'—and all that pitiful display of weakness, moral and physical, at the would-be coronation, which Casca's report conveys so unsparingly—the falling down in the street speechless, which Cassius emphasises with his scornful 'What? didCAESAR SWOON?'—all this makes but a part of the exhibition, which the lamentations of Mark Antony complete:—
'O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk tothis little measure?'
This? and 'the eye' of the spectator, more learned than 'his ear,' follows the speaker's eye, and measures it.
'Fare thee well.But yesterday the word of Caesar mightHave stood against the world: now lies hethere.Andnone so poor, to do him reverence.'
The Poet's tone breaks through Mark Antony's; the Poet's finger points, 'now lies he there'—there!
That form which 'lies there,' with its mute eloquence speaking this Poet's word, is what he calls 'a Transient Hieroglyphic,' which makes, he says, 'a deeper impression on minds of a certain order, than the language of arbitrary signs;' and his 'delivery' on the most important questions will be found, upon examination, to derive its principal emphasis from a running text in this hand. 'For, in such business,' he says, 'actionis eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant morelearnedthan the ears.'
Or, as he puts it in another place: 'What is sensible always strikes the memory more strongly, and soonerimpressesitself, than what is intellectual. Thus the memory ofbrutesis excited by sensible, but not by intellectual things. And therefore it is easier to retain the image of asportsman hunting, than of the corresponding notion ofinvention—of an apothecary ranging his boxes, than of the corresponding notion ofdisposition—of an orator making a speech, than of the term Eloquence—ora boy repeating verses, than the termMemory—orof A PLAYER acting his part, than the corresponding notion of—ACTION.'
So, also, 'Tom o' Bedlam' was a better word for 'houseless misery,' than all the king's prayer, good as it was, about 'houseless heads, and unfed sides,' in general, and 'looped, and windowed raggedness.'
'We construct,' says this author, in another place—rejecting the ordinary history as not suitable for scientific purposes, because it is 'varied, and diffusive, and confounds and disturbs the understanding, unless it be fixed and exhibited in due order'—we construct 'tables andcombinationsofinstances, upon such a plan and in such order, that the understanding be enabled to act upon them.'
I'llmeet thee at Phillippi.
In Julius Caesar, the most splendid and magnanimous representative of arbitrary power is selected—'the foremost man of all the world,'—even by the concession of those who condemn him to death; so that here it is the mere abstract question as to the expediency and propriety of permittingany one manto impose his individual will on the nation. Whatever personalities are involved in the questionhere—with Brutus, at least—tend to bias the decision in his favour. For so he tells us, as with agitated step he walks his orchard on that wild night which succeeds his conference with Cassius, revolving his part, and reading, by the light of the exhalations whizzing in the air, the papers that have been found thrown in at his study window.
'It must be by his death: and,for my part,I knowno personal causeto spurn at him,BUT FOR THE GENERAL. He would be crown'd:—Howthat might change his nature, there's the question.It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;And thatcraves wary walking. Crown him? That;—And then,I grant, we put a sting in him,Thatat his willhe may do danger with.The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoinsRemorse from power: And, to speak truth ofCaesar,I have not known whenhis affectionssway'dMore than hisreason. But 't is a common proof,That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,Whereto the climber upward turns his face:But when he once attainsthe utmost round,He then unto the ladder turns his back,Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degreesBy which he did ascend: So Caesar may;Then, lest he may, PREVENT. And, since the quarrel,Will bear no colour for the thing he is,Fashion it thus; thatwhat he is, augmented,Would run tothese, and these extremities:Andthereforethink him as a serpent's egg,Which,hatch'd, would, AS HIS KIND, grow mischievous;AND KILL HIM IN THE SHELL.'
Pretty sentiments these, to set before a king already engaged in so critical a contest with his subjects; pleasant entertainment, one would say, for the representative of a monarchy that had contrived to wake the sleeping Brutus in its dominions,—that was preparing, even then, for its own death-struggle on this very question, whichthisBrutus searches to its core so untenderly.
'Have you heard the argument?' says the 'bloat king' in Hamlet. 'Is there no offence in it?'
Now, let the reader suppose, for one instant, that this work had been produced from the outset openly, for what any reader of common sense will perceive it to be, with all its fire, an elaborate, scholarly composition, the product of the profoundest philosophic invention, the fruit of the ripest scholarship of the age;—let him suppose, for argument's sake, that it had been produced for what it is, the work of a scholar, and a statesman, and a courtier,—a statesman already jealously watched, or already, perhaps, in deadly collision with this very power he is defining here so largely, and tracking to its ultimate scientific comprehensions;—and then let the reader imagine, if he can, Elizabeth or James, but especially Elizabeth, listening entranced to such passages as the one last quoted, with an audience disposed to make points of some of the 'choice Italian' lines in it.
Does not all the world know that scholars, men of reverence, men of world-wide renown, men of every accomplishment, were tortured, and mutilated, and hung, and beheaded, in both these two reigns, for writings wherein Caesar's ambition was infinitely more obscurely hinted at—writings unspeakably less offensive to majesty than this?
But, then, a Play was a Play, and old Romans would be Romans; there was, notoriously, no royal way of managing them; and if kings would have tragical mirth out of them, they must take their treason in good part, and make themselves as merry with it as they could. The poor Poet was, of course, no more responsible for these men than Chaucer was for his pilgrims. He but reported them.
And besides, in that broad, many-sided view of the subject which the author's evolution of it from the root involves,—in that pursuit of tyranny in essence through all its disguises,—other exhibitions of it were involved, which might seem, to the careless eye, purposely designed to counteract the effect of the views above quoted.
The fact that mere arbitrary will, that the individual humour and bias, is incapable of furnishing aruleofactionanywhere,—the fact that mere will, or blind passion, whether in theOne, or theFew, or theMany, should have no part, above all, in the business of the STATE,—should lend no colour or bias to its administration,—the fact that 'the general good,' 'the common weal,' which is justice, and reason, and humanity,—the 'ONE ONLY MAN,'—should, in some way, under some form or other, get to the head of that andrule, this is all which the Poet will contend for.
But, alas, HOW? The unspeakable difficulties in the way of the solution of this problem,—the difficulties which the radical bias in the individual human nature, even under its noblest forms, creates,—the difficulties which the ignorance, and stupidity, and passion of the multitude created then, and still create, appear here withoutany mitigation. They are studiously brought out in their boldest colours. There's no attempt to shade them down. They make, indeed, the TRAGEDY.
And it is this general impartial treatment of his subjects which makes this author's writings, with all their boldness, generally, so safe; for it seems to leave him without any bias for any person or any party—without anyopinionon any topic; for his truth embraces and resolves all partial views, and is as broad as nature's own.
And how could he better neutralise the effect of these patriotic speeches, and prove his loyalty in the face of them, than to show as he does, most vigorously and effectively, that these patriots themselves, so rebellious to tyranny, so opposed to the one-man power in others, so determined to die, rather than submit to the imposition of the humours of any man, instead of law and justice,—were themselves but men, and were as full of will and humours, and as ready to tyrannise with them, too, upon occasion, as Caesar himself; and were no more fit to be trusted with absolute power than he was, nor, in fact, half so fit.
Caesar does, indeed, send word to the senate—'The cause is inMY WILL,I will not come; (Thatis enough,' he says, 'to satisfy the senate.') And while the conspirators are exchanging glances, and the daggers are stealing from their sheaths, he offers the strength of his decree, the immutability 'of his absolute shall,' to the suppliant for his brother's pardon.
But then Portia gives us to understand, that she, too, has her private troubles;—that even that excellent man, Brutus, is not without his moods in his domestic administrations,—for on one occasion, when he treats her to 'ungentle looks,' and 'stamps his foot,' and angrily gesticulates her out of his presence, she makes good her retreat, thinking 'it was but the effect of humour, which,' she says, 'sometime hath his hour with every man'; and, good and patriotic as Brutus truly is, Cassius perceives, upon experiment, that after allhetoo is but a man, and, with a particular and private nature, as well as a larger one 'which is the worthier,' and not unassailable through that 'single I myself': he, too, may be 'thawed from the true quality with that which melteth fools,'—with words that flatter 'his particular.' In his conference with him, Cassius addresses himself skilfully to this weakness;—he poises the name of Caesar with that of Brutus, and, at the last, he clinches his patriotic appeal, with an appeal to his personal sentiment, of baffled, mortified emulation; for those writings, thrown in at his window, purporting to come from several citizens, 'all tended to the great opinion that Rome held ofhisname;' and, alas! the Poet will not tell us that this did not unconsciously wake, in that pure mind, the feather's-weight that was perhaps needed to turn the scale.
And the very children know, by heart, what a time there was between these two men afterwards, these men that had 'struck the foremost man of all the world,' and had congratulated themselves that it was not murder, and that they were not villains, because it was for justice. Precious disclosures we have in this scene. It is this very Cassius, this patriot, who had as liefnotBE as submit to injustice; who brings his avaricious humour, 'his itching palm,' into the state, and 'sells and marts his offices for gold, to undeservers.' Brutus does indeed come down upon him with a most unlimited burst of patriotic indignation, which looks, at first, like a mere frenzy of honest disgust at wrong in the abstract, in spite of the partiality of friendship; but, when Cassius charges him, afterwards, with exaggerating his friend's infirmities, he says, frankly, 'I did not,till you practised them onME.' And we find, as the dialogue proceeds, that it is indeed a personal matter with him: Cassius has refused him gold to pay his legions with.
And see, now, what kind of taunt it is, that Brutus throws in this same patriot's face after it had been proclaimed, by his order, through the streets of Rome, that Tyranny 'is dead': after Cassius had shouted through his own lungs.
'Some to the common pulpits, and cry out LIBERTY, FREEDOM,ENFRANCHISEMENT.' (Enfranchisement?)
It would have been strange, indeed, if in so general and philosophical a view of the question, that sacred, domestic institution, which, through all this sublime frenzy for equal rights, maintained itself so peacefully under the patriot's roof, had escaped without a touch.
Brutus says:—
'Hear me, for I will speak.Must I give way and room to your rash choler?Shall I be frightedwhen a madman stares?'
'Look when I stare, see how the subject quakes.'
This sounds, already, as if Tyranny were not quite dead.
'Cassius. O ye gods, ye gods, must I endure all this!
Brutus. All this? ay more: Fret till your proud heart break;Go, showYOUR SLAVEShow choleric you are, And bid YOUR BONDMEN tremble. MustIbudge? MustIobserveyou? MustI standandcrouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen Though it do split you.'
So it was a mistake, then, it seems; and, notwithstanding that shout of triumph, and that bloody flourishing of knives, Tyrannywas notdead.
But one cannot help thinking that that shout must have sounded rather strangely in an English theatre just then, and that it was a somewhat delicate experiment to give Brutus his pulpit on the stage, to harangue the people from. But the author knew what he was doing. That cold, stilted harangue, that logical chopping on the side of freedom, was not going to set fire to any one's blood; and was not there Mark Antony that plain, blunt man, coming directly after Brutus,—'with his eyes as red as fire with weeping,' with 'the mantle,' of the military hero, the popular favourite,in his hand, with his glowing oratory, with his sweet words, and his skilful appeal to the passions of the people, under his plain, blunt professions,—to wipe out every trace of Brutus'sreasons, and lead them whither he would; and would not the moral of it all be, that with such A PEOPLE,—with such a power as that, behind the state, there was no use in killing Caesars—that Tyranny could not die.
'I fear there will a worse one come in his place.'
But this is Rome in her decline, that the artist touches here so boldly. But what now, if old Rome herself,—plebeian Rome, in the deadliest onset of her struggle against tyranny, Rome lashed into fury and conscious strength, rising from under the hard heel of her oppressors; what if Rome, in the act of creating her Tribunes; or, if Rome, with her Tribunes at her head, wresting from her oppressors a constitutional establishment of popular rights,—what if this could be exhibited, by permission; what bounds as to the freedom of the discussion would it be possible to establish afterwards? There had been no National Latin Tragedy, Frederic Schlegel suggests,—because no Latin Dramatist could venture to do this very thing; but of course Caesar or Coriolanus on the Tiber was one thing, and Caesar or Coriolanus on the Thames was another; and an English author might be allowed, then, to say of the one, with impunity, what it would certainly have cost him his good right hand, or his ears, or his head, to say of the other,—what it did cost the Founder of this school in philosophy his head, to be suspected of saying of the other.
Nevertheless, the great question between an arbitrary and a constitutional government, the principle of a government which vests the whole power of the state in the uncontrolled will of a single individual member of it; the whole history and philosophy of a military government, from its origin in the heroic ages,—from the crowning of the military hero on the battle field in the moment of victory, to the final consummation of its conquest of the liberty of the subject, could be as clearly set forth under the one form as the other; not without some startling specialities in the filling up, too, with a tone in the details now and then, to say the least, not exclusively antique, for this was a mode of treating classical subjects in that age, too common to attract attention.
And thus, whole plays could be written out and out, on this very subject. Take, for instance, but these two, Coriolanus and Julius Caesar,—plays in which, by a skilful distribution of the argument and the action, with a skilful interchange of parts now and then,—the boldest passages being put alternately into the mouths of the Tribunes and Patricians,—that great question, which was so soon to become the outspoken question of the nation and the age, could already be discussed in all its vexed and complicated relations, in all its aspects and bearings, as deliberately as it could be to-day; exactly as it was, in fact, discussed not long afterwards in swarms of English pamphlets, in harangues from English pulpits, in English parliaments and on English battle-fields,—exactly as it was discussed when that 'lofty Roman scene' came 'to be acted over' here, with the cold-blooded prosaic formalities of an English judicature.
'Well, march we onTo give obedience where 'tis truly owed:Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,Andwith him, pour we in our country's purgeEach drop of us.Or so much as it needsTo dew the sovereign Flower,and drown the weeds'—Macbeth.
'Have you heard the argument?'
'Mildly is the word.''In a better hour,Let whatis meetbe said it must bemeet,And throw their power in the dust.'
It is the Military Chieftain of ancient Rome who pronounces here the words in which the argument of the Elizabethan revolutionist is so tersely comprehended.
It is the representative of an heroic aristocracy, not one of ancient privilege merely, not one armed with parchments only, claiming descent from heroes; but the yet living leaders of the rabble people to military conquest, and the only leaders who are understood to be able to marshal from their ranks an effective force for military defence.
But this is not all. The scope of the poetic design requires here, under the sheath which this dramatic exhibition of an ancient aristocracy offers it, the impersonation of another and more sovereign difference in men; and this poet has ends to serve, to which a mere historical accuracy in the reproduction of this ancient struggle of state-factions, in an extinct European common-wealth, is of little consequence; though he is not wanting in that either, or indifferent to it, when occasion serves.
From thespeechesinserted here and there, we find that this is at the same time an aristocracy of learning which is put upon the stage here, that it is an aristocracy of statesmanship and civil ability, that it is composed of the select men of the state, and not its elect only; that it is the true and natural head of the healthful body politic, and not 'the horn of the monster' only. This is the aristocracy which appears to be in session in the background of this piece at least, and we are not without some occasional glimpses of their proceedings, and this is the element of the poetic combination which comes out in thedialogue, whenever the necessary question of the play requires it.
For it is the collision between the civil interests and the interests which the unlearned heroic ages enthrone, that is coming off here. It is the collision between the government which uneducated masses of men create and confirm, and recreate in any age, and the government which the enlightened man 'in a better hour' demands, which the common sense and sentiment of man, as distinguished from the brute, demands, whether in the one, or the few, or the many.—This is the struggle which is getting into form and order here,—herefirst. These are the parties to it, and in the reign of the last of the Tudors and the first of the Stuarts, they must be content to fight it out on any stage which their time can afford to lease to them for that performance, without being over scrupulous as to the names of the actors, or the historical correctness of the costumes, and other particulars; not minding a little shuffling in the parts, now and then, if it suits their poet's convenience, who has no conscience at all on such points, and who is of the opinion that this is the very stage which an action of such gravity ought to be exhibited on, in the first place; and that a very careful and critical rehearsal of it here, ought to precede the performance elsewhere; though a contrary opinion was not then without its advocates.
It is as the mouth-piece of this intellectual faction in the state, while it is as yet anaristocracy, contending with the physical force of it, struggling for the mastery of it with its numerical majority; it is the Man in the state, the new MAN struggling with the chief which a popular ignorance has endowed with dominion over him; it is the HERO who contends for the majesty of reason and the kingdom of the mind, it is the new speaker, the new, and now at last, commanding speaker for that law, which was old when this myth was named, which was not of yesterday when Antigone quoted it, who speaks now from this Roman's lips, these words of doom,—the reflection on the 'times deceased,' the prophecy of 'things not yet come to life,' the word of new ages.
'In A REBELLION,When what's not MEET, but what must be, was law,THEN WERE THEY CHOSEN: in a better hourLet whatis meetbe said it must bemeet,And throw their power in the dust.'
Notin the old, sombre, Etruscan streets of ancient Rome,notwhere theRomanmarket-place, joined the Capitoline hill and began to ascend it, crossed the road from Palatinus thither, and began to obstruct it, not in the courts and colonnades of the primeval hill of palaces, were the terms of this proposal found. And not from the old logician's chair, was the sweep of their comprehension made; not in any ancient school of rhetoric or logic were they cast and locked in that conjunction. It was another kind of weapon that the oldRomanJove had to take in hand, when amid the din of the Roman forum,heawoke at last from his bronze and marble, to his empirical struggle, his unlearned, experimental struggle with the wolf and her nursling, with his own baptized, red-robed, usurping Mars. It was not with any such subtlety as this, that the struggle of state forces which, under one name or another, sooner or later, in the European states is sure to come, had hitherto been conducted.
And not from the lips of the haughty patrician chief, rising from the dust of ages at the spell of genius, to encounter his old plebeian vanquishers, and fight his long-lost battles o'er again, at a showman's bidding, for a showman's greed—to be stung anew into patrician scorn—to repeat those rattling volleys of the old martial Latin wrath, 'in states unborn' and 'accents then unknown,' for an hour's idle entertainment, for 'a six-pen'orth or shilling's worth' of gaping amusement to a playhouse throng, not—NOT from any such source came that utterance.
It came from the council-table of a sovereignty that was plotting here in secret then the empire that the sun shall not set on; whose beginning only, we have seen. It came from the secret chamber of a new union and society of men,—a union based on a new and, for the first time, scientific acquaintance with the nature that is in men, with the sovereignty that is in all men. It was the Poet of this society who put those words together—the Poet who has heard all itsprosandcons, who reports them all, and gives to them all their exact weight in the new balance of his decisions.
Among other things, it was understood in this association, that the power, which was at that time supreme in England, was in fact, though not in name, apopularpower,—a power, at least, sustained only by the popular will, though men had not, indeed, as yet, begun to perceive that momentous circumstance,—a power which, being 'but the horn and noise o' the monster,' was able to oppose its 'absolute shall' to the embodied wisdom of the state,—not to its ancient immemorial government only, but to 'itscharteredliberties in the body of the weal,' and 'to a graver bench than ever frowned in Greece'; and the Poet has put on his record of debates on those 'questions of gravity,' that were agitating then this secret Chamber of Peers, a distinct demand on the part of this ancient leadership,—the leadership of 'the honoured number,' the honourable and right honourable few, that this mass of ignorance, and stupidity, and blind custom, and incapacity for rule,—this combination of mere instinctive force, which the physical majority in unlearned times constitutes, which supplies, in its want, and ignorance, and passivity, and in its passionate admiration of heroism and love of leadership, the ready material of tyranny, shall be annihilated, and cease to have any leadership or voice in the state; and this demand is put by the Poet into the mouth of one who cannot see from his point of observation—with his ineffable contempt for the people—what the Poet sees from his, that the demand, as he puts it, is simply 'the impossible.' For this is a question in the mixed mathematics, and 'thegreater partcarries it.'
That instinctive, unintelligent force in the state—that blind volcanic force—which foolish states dare to keep pent up within them, is that which the philosopher's eye is intent on also; he, too, has marked this as the primary source of mischief,—he, too, is at war with it,—he, too, would annihilate it; but he has his own mode of warfare for it; he thinks it must be done with Apollo's own darts, if it be done when 'tis done, and not with the military chieftain's weapon.
This work is one in which the question of heroism and nobility is scientifically treated, and in the most rigid manner, 'by line and level,' and through that representative form in which the historical pretence of it is tried,—through that scientific negation, with its merely instinctive, vulgar, unlearned ambition—with its monstrous 'outstretching' on the one hand, and its dwarfish limitations on the other,—through all that finely drawn, historic picture of that which claims the human subjection, the clear scientific lines of the true ideal type are visible,—the outline of the true nobility and government is visible,—towering above that detected insufficiency, into the perfection of thehumanform,—into the heaven of the true divineness,—into the chair of the perpetual dictatorship,—into the consulship whose year revolves not, whose year isthe state.
Neither is this true affirmation here in the form of a scientific abstraction merely. It is not here in the general merely. 'The Instance,' the particular impersonation of nobility and heroism, which this play exhibits, is, indeed, the false heroism and nobility. It is the hitherto uncriticised, and, therefore, uncorrected, popular affirmation on this subject which is embodied here, and this turns out to be, as usual, the clearest scientific negative that could be invented. But in the design, and in all the labour of this piece,—in the steadfast purpose that is always working out that definition, with its so exquisite, but thankless, unowned, unrecognised toil, graving it and pointing it with its pen of diamond in the rock for ever, approving itself 'to the Workmaster' only,—in this incessant design,—in this veiled, mysterious authorship,—an historical approximation to the true type of magnanimity and heroism is always present. But there is more in it than this.
It is the old popular notion of heroism which fills the foreground; but the Elizabethan heroism is always lurking behind it, watching its moment, ready to seize it; and under that cover, it contrives to advance and pronounce many words, which, in its own name and form, it could not then have been so prosperously delivered of. Under the disguise of that historical impersonation—under the mask of that old Roman hero, other, quite other, heroic forms—historic forms—notlessillustrious, not less memorable, from time to time steal in; and ere we know it, the suppressed Elizabethan men are on the stage, and the Theatre is, indeed, the Globe; and it is shaking and flashing with the iron heel and the thunder of their leadership; and the thrones of oppression are downfalling; and the ages that seemed 'far off,' the ages that were nigh, are there—are there as they arehere.
The historical position of the men who could entertain the views which this Play embodies, in the age in which it was written—the whole position of the men in whom this idea of nobility and government was already struggling to become historical—flashes out from that obscure back-ground into the most vivid historical representation, when once the light—'the great light' which 'the times give totrueinterpretations'—has been brought to bear upon it. And it does so happen, thatthatis the light which we are particularly directed to hold up to this particular play, and, what is more, to this particular point in it. 'Soourvirtues,' says the old Volscian captain, Tullus Aufidius, lamenting the limitations of his historical position, and apologizing for the figure he makes in history—
'Soour virtuesLie in the interpretation of THE TIMES.'
['THE TIMES, in many cases, give great light to trueinterpretations,' says the other, speaking of books, and the method of reading them; but this one applies that suggestion particularly tolives.]
'And power, unto itself most commendable,Hath not a tomb so evident as a hairTo extol what it hath done.'
The spirit of the Elizabethan heroism is indeed here, and under the cover of this old Roman story; and under cover of those so marked differences in the positions which suffice to detain the unstudious eye, through the medium of that which is common under those differences, the history of the Elizabethan heroism is here also. The spirit of it is here, not in that subtler nature only—that yet, perhaps, subtler, calmer, stronger nature, in which 'blood and judgment were so well co-mingled'—so well, in such new degree and proportion, that their balance made a new force, a new generative force, in history—not in that one only, the one in whom this new historic form is visible and palpable already, but in the haughtier and more unbending historicattitude, at least, of his great 'co-mate and brother in exile.' It is here in the form of the great military chieftain of that new heroic line, who found himself, with all his strategy, involved in a single-handed contest with the state and its whole physical strength, in his contest with that personal power in whose single arm, in whose miserable finger-joints, the state and all its force then lay. Under that old, threadbare, martial cloak,—under the safe disguise of martial tyranny in 'the few,'—whenever the business of the play requires it, whenever 'his cue comes,'heis there. Under that old, rusty Roman helmet, his smothered speech, his 'speech of fire,' his passionate speech, 'forbid so long,' drops thick and fast, drops unquenched at last, and glows for ever. It is the headless Banquo—'the blood-boltered Banquo'—that stalks through that shadowy background all unharmed;his Fleancelives, and in him 'Nature's copyiseterne.'