The Philosophy of the Plays of Shakspere Unfolded

Men. Well said, noble woman; Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that The VIOLENT PIT O' THE TIME, craves it as PHYSIC For the WHOLE STATE, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear.

[It is the diseased common-weal whose case this Doctor is undertaking. That is our subject.]

Cor. What must I do?

Men. Return to the Tribunes.

Cor. Well, What then? what then?

Men. Repent what you have spoke.

Cor. For them? I can not do it to the gods: Must I then do't to them?

Vol. You are too absolute; Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say, HONOR and POLICY [hear] like unsevered friends I' the war do grow together: Grant that, and tell me. In peace, what each of them by the other loses That they combine not there?

Cor. Tush; tush!

Men. A good demand.

Vol. If it be honor, in your wars, to seem The same you are not, (which FOR YOUR BEST ENDS You adopt your policy), how is it less, or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honor, as in war; since that to both It stands in like request?

Cor. Why force you this? [Truly.]

Vol. Because that now, IT LIES ON YOU to speak To the people, not by your own instruction, Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you to, But with such words that are but rated in Your tongue though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance, to your bosom's truth. Now this no more dishonors you at all, Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune, and THE HAZARD of MUCH BLOOD. – [Hear.] I would dissemble with my nature, where My fortune and my friends at stake required I should do so in honor. I am in this; Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles, And you will rather show our general lowts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon them. For the inheritance of their loves, and safe-guard Of what that want might ruin [hear] NOBLE lady!

Come go with us. Speak fair: you may salve so,

[It is the diseased common-weal we talk of still.]

You may salve so,

Not what is dangerous present, but the loss  Of what is past.

[That was this Doctor's method, who was a Doctor of Laws

as well as Medicine, and very skilful in medicines 'palliative'

as well as 'alterative.']

Vol. I pry'thee now, my son,  Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand,  And thus far having stretched it (here be with them),  Thy knee bussing the stones, for in such business  Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant  More learned than the ears– waving thy head,  Which often thus, correcting thy stout heart,  Now humble as the ripest mulberry  That will not hold the handling: or say to them:  Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils,  Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess  Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,  In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame  Thyself forsooth hereafter theirs, so far  As thou hast power and person.Pry'thee nowGo and be ruled: although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius.

[Enter Cominius.]

Com. I have been i' the market-place, and, sir, 'tis fitYou make STRONG PARTY, or defend yourselfBy CALMNESS, or by ABSENCE. ALL's in anger.Men. Only fair speech.I think 'twill serve, if heCan thereto frame his spirit. Vol. He must, and will. Pry'thee now say you will and go about it. Cor. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce? Must I  With my base tongue, give to my noble heart   A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't:  Yet were there but this single plot to lose,  This mould of Marcius, they, to dust should grind it,  And throw it against the wind; – to the market-place;  You have put me now to such a part, which never  I shall discharge to the life.

Com. Come, come, we'll prompt you.

Vol. I pry'thee now, sweet son, as thou hast said, My praises made thee first a soldier [ —Volumnia– ], so To have my praise for this, perform a part Than hast not done before.

Cor. Well, I must do't.  Away my disposition, and possess me  Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turned,  Which quired with my drum into a pipe!  Small as an eunuch's or the virgin voice  That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves  Tent in my cheeks; and school-boy's tears take up  The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongueMake motion through my lips; and my arm'd knees Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his  That hath received an alms. I will not do't,  Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth,  And by my body's action teach my mind  A most inherent baseness. Vol. At thy choice, then;  To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor  Than thou of them. Come all to ruin; let  Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear  Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death  With as big a heart as thou. Do as thou list.  Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me,  But owe thy pride thyself.

Cor. Pray be content. Mother I am going to the market place, Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come back beloved Of all the trades in Rome. – [That he will – ] Look I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return Consul [ – That he will – ] Or never trust to what my tongue can do, I' the way of flattery further.

Vol. Do your will. [Exit.]

Com. Away, the tribunes do attend you: arm yourself  To answer mildly; for they are prepared  With accusations as I hear more strong  Than are upon you yet. Cor. The word is mildly: Pray you let us go,  Let them accuse me by invention, I  Will answer in mine honor.

Men. Ay, but mildly.

Cor. Well, mildly be it then, mildly.

[The Forum. Enter Coriolanus and his party.]

Tribune. Well, here he comes.

Men. Calmly, I do beseech you.

Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece Will bear the knave by the volume.  The honoured gods  Keep Rome in safety, and the CHAIRS of justice  Supplied with WORTHY MEN; plant LOVE among us.  Throng OUR LARGE TEMPLES with the shows of PEACE,  And NOT our STREETS with WAR.

Sen. AMEN! AMEN!

Men. A NOBLE wish.

Thus far the Poet: but the mask through which he speaks is wanted for other purposes, for these occasional auto-biographical glimpses are but the side play of the great historical exhibition which is in progress here, and are introduced in entire subordination to its requisitions.

It is, indeed, an old story into which all this Elizabethan history is crowded. That mimic scene in which the great historic instances in the science of human nature and human life were brought out with such scientific accuracy, and with such matchless artistic power and splendour, was, in fact, what the Poet himself, who ought to know, tells us it is; with so much emphasis, – not merely the mirror of nature in general, but the daguerreotype of the then yet living age, the plate which was able to give to the very body of it, its form and pressure. That is what it was. And what is more, it was the only Mirror, the only Spectator, the only Times, in which the times could get reflected and deliberated on then, with any degree of freedom and vivacity. And yet there were minds here in England then, as acute, as reflective, as able to lead the popular mind as those that compose our leaders and reviews today. There was a mind here then, reflecting not 'ages past' only, but one that had taken its knowledge of the past from the present, that found 'in all men's lives,' a history figuring the nature of the times deceased; prophetic also: and this was the mind of the one who writes 'spirits are not finely touched but to fine issues.'

They had to take old stories, – these sly, ambitious aspirants to power, who were not disposed to give up their natural right to dictate, for the lack of an organ, or because they found the proper insignia of their office usurped: it was necessary that they should take old stories, or invent new ones, 'to make those slights upon the banks of Thames, that so did take' not 'Eliza and our James' only, but that people of whom 'Eliza and our James' were only 'the outstretched shadows,' 'the monster,' of whose 'noise' these sovereigns, as the author of this play took it, were 'but the horn.'

They had to take old stories of one kind and another, as they happened to find them, and vamp them up to suit their purposes; stories, old or new, they did not much care which.

Old and memorable ones, so memorable that the world herself with her great faculty of oblivion, could not forget them, but carried them in her mind from age to age, – stories so memorable that all men knew them by heart, – so the author could find one to his purpose, – were best for some things, – for many things; but for others new ones must be invented; and certainly there would be no difficulty as to that, for lack of gifts at least, in the mind whence these old ones were coming out so freshly, in the gloss of their new-coined immortality.

It is, indeed, an old story that we have here, a story of that ancient Rome, whose 'just, free and flourishing state,' the author of this new science of policy confesses himself, – under his universal name, – so childishly enamoured of, that he interests himself in it to a degree of passion, though he 'neither loves it in its birth or its decline,' – [under its kings or its emperors.] – It is a story of Republican Rome, and the difference, the radical difference, between the civil magistracy which represented the Roman people, and that unconstitutional popular power which the popular tyranny creates, is by no means omitted in the exposition. That difference, indeed, is that which makes the representation possible; it is brought out and insisted on, 'they choose their officers;' it is a difference which is made much of, for it contains one of the radical points in the poetic intention.

But without going into the argument, the large and comprehensive argument, of this most rich and grave and splendid composition, crowded from the first line of it to the last, with the results of a political learning which has no match in letters, which had none then, which has none now; no, or the world would be in another case than it is, for it is a political learning which has its roots in the new philosophy, it is grounded in the philosophy of the nature of things, it is radical as the Prima Philosophia, – without attempting to exhaust the meaning of a work embodying through all its unsurpassed vigor and vivacity of poetic representation, the new philosophic statesman's ripest lore, the patient fruits of 'observation strange,' – without going into his argument of the whole, the reader who merely wishes to see for himself, at a glance, in a word, as a matter of curiosity merely; whether the view here given of the political sagacity and prescience of the Elizabethan Man of Letters, is in the least chargeable with exaggeration, has only to look at the context of that revolutionary speech and proposal, that revolutionary burst of eloquence which has been here claimed as a proper historical issue of the age of Elizabeth. He will not have to read very far to satisfy himself as to that. It will be necessary, indeed, for that purpose, that he should have eyes in his head, eyes not purely idiotic, but with the ordinary amount of human speculation in them, and, moreover, it will be necessary that he should use them, – as eyes are ordinarily used in such cases, – nothing more. But unfortunately this is just the kind of scrutiny which nobody has been able to bestow on this work hitherto, on account of those historical obstructions with which, at the time it was written, it was found necessary to guard such discussions, discussions running into such delicate questions in a manner so essentially incomparably free.

For, in fact, there is no plainer piece of English extant, when one comes to look at it. All that has been claimed in the Historical part of this work, [not published in this volume] may be found here without any research, on the mere surface of the dialogue. Looking at it never so obliquely, with never so small a fraction of an eye, one cannot help seeing it.

The reader who would possess himself of the utmost meaning of these passages, one who would comprehend their farthest reaches, must indeed be content to wait until he can carry with him into all the parts that knowledge of the authors general intention in this work, which only a most thorough and careful study of it will yield.

It is, indeed, a work in which the whole question of government is seized at its source – one in which the whole difficulty of it is grappled with unflinching courage and veracity. It is a work in which that question of classes in the state, which lies on the surface of it, is treated in a general, and not exclusive manner; or, where the treatment is narrowed and pointed, as it is throughout in the running commentary, it is narrowed and pointed to the question of the then yet living age, and to those momentous developments of it which, 'in their weak beginnings,' the philosophic eye had detected, and not to a state of things which had to cease before the first Punic war could be begun.

The question of classes, and their respective claims in governments, is indeed incidentally treated here, but in this author's own distinctive manner, which is one that is sure to take out, always – even in his lightest, most sportive handling – the heart of his subject, so as to leave little else but gleanings to the author who follows in that track hereafter.

For this is one of those unsurpassably daring productions of the Elizabethan Muse, which, after long experiment, encouraged by that protracted immunity from suspicion, and stimulated by the hurrying on of the great crisis, it threw out at last in the face and eyes of tyranny, Things which are but intimated in the earlier plays – political allusions, which are brought out there amid crackling volleys of conceits, under cover of a battery of quips and jests – political doctrines, which lie there wrapped in thickest involutions of philosophic subtleties, are all unlocked and open here on the surface: he that runs may take them if he will.

CHAPTER II

CRITICISM OF THE MARTIAL GOVERNMENT

'Would you proceed especially against Caius MARCIUS?'

'Against him FIRST: He's a very dog to THE COMMONALTY.'

In this exhibition of the social orders to which human society instinctively tends, and that so-called state into which human combinations in barbaric ages rudely settles, the principle of the combination – the principle of gradation, and subjection, and permanence – is called in question, and exposed as a purely instinctive principle, as, in fact, only a principle of revolution disguised; and a higher one, the distinctively human element, the principle of KIND, is now, for the first time, demanded on scientific grounds, as the essential principle of any permanent human combination – as the natural principle, the only one which the science of nature can recognise as a principle of STATE.

It is the PEACE principle which this great scientific war-hater and captain of the ages of peace is in search of, with his new organum; though he is philosopher enough to know that, in diseased states, wars are nature's own rude remedies, her barbarous surgery, for evils yet more unendurable. He has found himself chosen a justice of the peace – the world's peace; and it is the principle of permanence, of law and subjection – in a word, it is the principle of state, as opposed to revolution and dissolution – which he is judging of in behalf of his kind. And he makes a business of it. He goes about in his own fashion. He gets up this great war-piece on purpose to find it.

He has got a state on his stage, which is ceasing to be a state at the moment in which he shows it to us; a state which has the war principle – the principle of conquest within no longer working in it insidiously as government, but developed as war; for it has just overstepped the endurable point in its mastery. It is a revolution that is coming off when the curtain rises. For the government has been gnawing the Roman common-weal at home, with those same teeth it ravened the Volscians with abroad, till it has reached the vitals at last, and the common-weal has betaken itself to the Volscian's weapons: – the people have risen. They are all out when the play begins on an armed hunt for their rat-like, gnawing, corn-consuming rulers. They are determined to 'kill them,' and have 'corn at their own price.' 'If the wars eat us not, they will,' is the word; 'and there's all THE LOVE they bear us.' 'Rome and her rats are at the point of battle,' cries the Poet. The one side shall have bale, is his prophecy. 'Without good nature,' he says elsewhere, using the term good in its scientific sense, 'men are only a NOBLER kind of VERMIN'; and he makes a most unsparing application of this principle in his criticisms. Many a splendid historical figure is made to show its teeth, and rat-like mien and propensities, through all the splendour of its disguises, merely by the application of his simple philosophical tests. For the question, as he puts it, is the question between animal instinct, between mere appetite, and reason; and the question incidentally arises in the course of the exhibition, whether the common-weal, when it comes to anything like common-sense, is going to stand being gnawed in this way, for the benefit of any individual, or clique, or party.

For the ground on which the classes or estates, and their respective claims to the government, are tried here, is the ground of the common-weal; and the question as to the fitness of any existing class in the state for an exclusive, unlimited control of the welfare of the whole, is more than suggested. That which stops short of the weal of the whole for its end, is that which is under criticism here; and whether it exist in 'the one,' or 'the few,' or 'the many,' – and these are the terms that are employed here, – whether it exist in the civil magistracy, sustained by a popular submission, or in the power of the victorious military chief, at the head of his still extant and resistless armament, it is necessarily rejected as a principle of sovereignty and permanence, in this purely scientific view of the human conditions of it. It is a question which this author handles with a thorough impartiality, in all his political treatises, let them come in what name and form they will, with more or less clearness, indeed, as the circumstances seem to dictate.

But nowhere is the whole history of the military government, collected from the obscurity of the past, and brought out with such inflexible design – with such vividness and strength of historic exhibition, as it is here. It is traced to its beginnings in the distinctions which nature herself creates, – those physical, and moral, and intellectual distinctions, with which she crowns, in her happier moods, the large resplendent brows of her born kings and masters. It is traced from its origin in the crowning of the victorious chief on the field of battle, to the moment in which the sword of military conquest is turned back on the conquerors by the chief into whose hands they gave it; and the sword of conquest abroad becomes, at home, the sword of state.

Nay, this Play goes farther, and embraces the contingency of a foreign rule – one, too, in which the conqueror takes his surname from the conquest; it brings home 'the enemy of the whole state,' as a king, in triumph to the capital, whose streets he has filled with mourning; and though the author does not tell us in this case, at he does in another, that the nation was awed 'with an offertory of standards' in the temple, and that 'orisons and Te Deums were again sung,' – the victor 'not meaning that the people should forget too soon that he came in by battle' – points, not much short of that, in the way of speciality, are not wanting. More than one conqueror, indeed, looks out from this old chieftain's Roman casque. 'There is a little touch of Harry in the scene'; and though the author goes out of his way to tell us that 'he must by no means say his hero is covetous,' it will not be the Elizabethan Philosopher's fault, if we do not know which Harry it is that says —

If you have writ your annals true,'tis there, That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volsces in Corioli: Alone, I did it.

* * * * *

Auf. Read it, noble lords; But tell the traitor, in the highest degree He hath abused your powers.

Cor. Traitor! – How now?

Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius.

Cor. Marcius!

Auf. AY, Marcius, Caius Marcius; Dost thou think I'll grace thee with THAT ROBBERY, thy STOLEN NAME CORIOLANUS in CORIOLI?' – [the conqueror in the conquest.]

Never, indeed, was 'the garland of war,' whether glistening freshly on the hero's brow on the fresh battle-field, or whether glittering, transmuted into civic gold and gems, on the brow of his hereditary successor, subjected to such a searching process before, as that with which the Poet, under cover of an aristocrat's pretensions, and especially under cover of his pretensions to an elective magistracy, can venture to test it.

This hero, who 'speaks of the people as if he were a god to punish, and not a man of their infirmity,' is on trial for that pretension from the first scene of this Play to the last. The author has, indeed, his own views of the fickle, ignorant, foolish multitude, – such views as any one, who had occasion to experiment on it personally, in the age of Elizabeth, would not lack the means of acquiring; and amidst those ebullitions of wrath, which he pours from his haughty hero's lips, one hears at times a tone that sounds a little like some other things from the same source, as if the author had himself, in some way, been brought to look at the subject from a point of observation, not altogether unlike that from which his hero speaks; or as if he might, at least, have known how to sympathise with the haughty and unbending nature, that had been brought into such deadly collision with it. But in the dramatic representation, though it is far from being a flattering one, we listen in vain for any echo of this sentiment. In its rich and kindly humour there is no sneer, no satire. It is the loving eye of nature's own great pupil – it is the kindly human eye, that comes near enough to point those jests, and paint so truly; there is a great human heart here in the scene embracing the lowly. It was the heart that was putting forth then its silent but resistless energies into the ages of the human advancement, to take up the despised and rejected masses of men from their misery, and make of them truly one kind and kindred.

And though he has had, indeed, his own private experiences with the multitude, and the passions are, as he intimates – at least as strong in him as in another, he has his own view, also, of the common pitifulness and weakness of the human conditions; and he has a view which is, in his time, all his own, of the instrumentalities that are needed to reach that level of human nature, and to lift men up from the mire of these conditions, from the wrong and wretchedness into which, in their unaided, unartistic, unlearned struggle with nature, – within and without, —the kind are fallen. And so strong in him is the sense of this pitifulness, that it predominates over the sharpness of his genius, and throws the divinest mists and veils of compassion over the harsh, scientific realities he is constrained to lay bare.