I am by the law of my nature a reasoner. A person who should suppose I
meant by that word, an arguer, [1] would not only not understand me, but
would understand the contrary of my meaning. I can take no interest
whatever in hearing or saying any thing merely as a fact--merely as having
happened. It must refer to something within me before I can regard it with
any curiosity or care. My mind is always energic--I don't mean energetic; I
require in every thing what, for lack of another word, I may call
_propriety_,--that is, a reason why the thing _is_ at all, and why it is
_there_ or _then_ rather than elsewhere or at another time.
[Footnote 1:
In his essay, "_Der einzig mögliche Beweisgrund zu einer Demonstration des
Daseyns Gottes_."--"The only possible argument or ground of proof for a
demonstration of the existence of God." It was published in 1763; the
"Critique" in 1781.--ED.]
_March_ 5. 1834.
SHAKSPEARE'S INTELLECTUAL ACTION.--CRABBE AND
SOUTHEY.--PETER SIMPLE AND TOM CRINGLE'S LOG.
Shakspeare's intellectual action is wholly unlike that of Ben Jonson or
Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter see the totality of a sentence or
passage, and then project it entire. Shakspeare goes on creating, and
evolving B. out of A., and C. out of B., and so on, just as a serpent
moves, which makes a fulcrum of its own body, and seems for ever twisting
and untwisting its own strength.
* * * * *
I think Crabbe and Southey are something alike; but Crabbe's poems are
founded on observation and real life--Southey's on fancy and books. In
facility they are equal, though Crabbe's English is of course not upon a
level with Southey's, which is next door to faultless. But in Crabbe there
is an absolute defect of the high imagination; he gives me little or no
pleasure: yet, no doubt, he has much power of a certain kind, and it is
good to cultivate, even at some pains, a catholic taste in literature. I
read all sorts of books with some pleasure except modern sermons and
treatises on political economy.
* * * * *
I have received a great deal of pleasure from some of the modern novels,
especially Captain Marryat's "Peter Simple." That book is nearer Smollett
than any I remember. And "Tom Cringle's Log" in Blackwood is also most
excellent.
_March_ 15. 1834.
CHAUCER.--SHAKSPEARE.--BEN JONSON.--BEAUMONT
AND FLETCHER.--DANIEL.--MASSINGER.
I take unceasing delight in Chaucer. His manly cheerfulness is especially
delicious to me in my old age.[1] How exquisitely tender he is, and yet how
perfectly free from the least touch of sickly melancholy or morbid
drooping! The sympathy of the poet with the subjects of his poetry is
particularly remarkable in Shakspeare and Chaucer; but what the first
effects by a strong act of imagination and mental metamorphosis, the last
does without any effort, merely by the inborn kindly joyousness of his
nature. How well we seem to know Chaucer! How absolutely nothing do we know
of Shakspeare!
I cannot in the least allow any necessity for Chaucer's poetry, especially
the Canterbury Tales, being considered obsolete. Let a few plain rules be
given for sounding the final _è_ of syllables, and for expressing the
termination of such words as _ocëan_, and _natiön_, &c. as dissyllables,--
or let the syllables to be sounded in such cases be marked by a competent
metrist. This simple expedient would, with a very few trifling exceptions,
where the errors are inveterate, enable any reader to feel the perfect
smoothness and harmony of Chaucer's verse.
[Footnote 1:
Eighteen years before, Mr. Coleridge entertained the same feelings towards
Chaucer:--"Through all the works of Chaucer there reigns a cheerfulness, a
manly hilarity, which makes it almost impossible to doubt a correspondent
habit of feeling in the author himself." _Biog. Lit_., vol. i. p. 32.--ED.]
* * * * *
As to understanding his language, if you read twenty pages with a good
glossary, you surely can find no further difficulty, even as it is; but I
should have no objection to see this done:--Strike out those words which
are now obsolete, and I will venture to say that I will replace every one
of them by words still in use out of Chaucer himself, or Gower his
disciple. I don't want this myself: I rather like to see the significant
terms which Chaucer unsuccessfully offered as candidates for admission into
our language; but surely so very slight a change of the text may well be
pardoned, even by black--_letterati_, for the purpose of restoring so great
a poet to his ancient and most deserved popularity.
* * * * *
Shakspeare is of no age. It is idle to endeavour to support his phrases by
quotations from Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, &c. His language is
entirely his own, and the younger dramatists imitated him. The construction
of Shakspeare's sentences, whether in verse or prose, is the necessary and
homogeneous vehicle of his peculiar manner of thinking. His is not the
style of the age. More particularly, Shakspeare's blank verse is an
absolutely new creation. Read Daniel[1]--the admirable Daniel--in his
"Civil Wars," and "Triumphs of Hymen."
The style and language are just such as any very pure and manly writer of
the present day--Wordsworth, for example--would use; it seems quite modern
in comparison with the style of Shakspeare. Ben Jonson's blank verse is
very masterly and individual, and perhaps Massinger's is even still nobler.
In Beaumont and Fletcher it is constantly slipping into lyricisms.
I believe Shakspeare was not a whit more intelligible in his own day than
he is now to an educated man, except for a few local allusions of no
consequence. As I said, he is of no age--nor, I may add, of any religion,
or party, or profession. The body and substance of his works came out of
the unfathomable depths of his own oceanic mind: his observation and
reading, which was considerable, supplied him with the drapery of his
figures.[2]
[Footnote 1:
"This poet's well-merited epithet is that of the '_well-languaged Daniel_;'
but, likewise, and by the consent of his contemporaries, no less than of
all succeeding critics, the 'prosaic Daniel.' Yet those who thus designate
this wise and amiable writer, from the frequent incorrespondency of his
diction with his metre, in the majority of his compositions, not only deem
them valuable and interesting on other accounts, but willingly admit that
there are to be found throughout his poems, and especially in his
_Epistles_ and in his _Hymen's Triumph_, many and exquisite specimens of
that style, which, as the neutral ground of prose and verse, is common to
both."--_Biog. Lit_., vol. ii. p. 82.]
[Footnote 2:
Mr. Coleridge called Shakspeare "_the myriad-minded man_," [Greek: au_az
muzioyous]--" a phrase," said he, "which I have borrowed from a Greek monk,
who applies it to a patriarch of Constantinople. I might have said, that I
have _reclaimed_, rather than borrowed, it, for it seems to belong to
Shakspeare _de jure singulari, et ex privilegio naturae." See Biog. Lit.,
vol. ii. p. 13.--ED.]
* * * * *
As for editing Beaumont and Fletcher, the task would be one _immensi
laboris_. The confusion is now so great, the errors so enormous, that the
editor must use a boldness quite unallowable in any other case. All I can
say as to Beaumont and Fletcher is, that I can point out well enough where
something has been lost, and that something so and so was probably in the
original; but the law of Shakspeare's thought and verse is such, that I
feel convinced that not only could I detect the spurious, but supply the
genuine, word.
_March_ 20. 1834.
LORD BYRON AND H. WALPOLE'S "MYSTERIOUS MOTHER."--LEWIS'S "JAMAICA
JOURNAL."
Lord Byron, as quoted by Lord Dover[1], says, that the "Mysterious Mother"
raises Horace Walpole above every author living in his, Lord Byron's, time.
Upon which I venture to remark, first, that I do not believe that Lord
Byron spoke sincerely; for I suspect that he made a tacit exception in
favour of himself at least;--secondly, that it is a miserable mode of
comparison which does not rest on difference of kind. It proceeds of envy
and malice and detraction to say that A. is higher than B., unless you show
that they are _in pari materia_;--thirdly, that the "Mysterious Mother" is
the most disgusting, vile, detestable composition that ever came from the
hand of man. No one with a spark of true manliness, of which Horace Walpole
had none, could have written it. As to the blank verse, it is indeed better
than Rowe's and Thomson's, which was execrably bad:--any approach,
therefore, to the manner of the old dramatists was of course an
improvement; but the loosest lines in Shirley are superior to Walpole's
best.
[Footnote 1:
In the memoir prefixed to the correspondence with Sir H. Mann. Lord Byron's
words are:--"He is the _ultimus Romanorum_, the author of the 'Mysterious
Mother,' a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love play. He is
the father of the first romance, and of the last tragedy, in our language;
and surely worthy of a higher place than any living author, be he who he
may."--_Preface to Marino Faliero_. Is not "Romeo and Juliet" a love play?
--But why reason about such insincere, splenetic trash?--ED.]
* * * * *
Lewis's "Jamaica Journal" is delightful; it is almost the only unaffected
book of travels or touring I have read of late years. You have the man
himself, and not an inconsiderable man,--certainly a much finer mind than I
supposed before from the perusal of his romances, &c. It is by far his best
work, and will live and be popular. Those verses on the Hours are very
pretty; but the Isle of Devils is, like his romances,--a fever dream--
horrible, without point or terror.
_April_ 16. 1834.