Turning over the pages of Coleridge's "Table Talk" recently, my
attention was arrested oy several passages I had marked, many years ago,
in that suggestive book. Two or three of these, referring to the _style_
of the Bible, resuscitated some reflections I made on the first reading,
and which I now venture to express: with all deference, let me add, to
Coleridge's ethereal genius and magical mastery of words.
"Intense study of the Bible," he says, "will keep any writer from being
_vulgar_, in point of style." Granted; and the sacred scriptures of any
people and any creed would have the some influence. Vulgarity, unless
it is bestial, is monkeyish. Obviously this is a characteristic alien to
religion, which is based on the sense of wonder, and deals chiefly with
the sublime. While the mind is absorbed by the unseen, imagination is
called into play; and imagination is the antithesis of vulgarity. The
unknown is also the terrible, and when the mind is alarmed there is no
room for the _puerilities_ of egotism. Any exaltation of feeling serves
the same purpose. The most vulgar woman, in terror at a danger to her
child, is lifted into the sphere of tragedy, and becomes a subject for
art; nor could the lowest wretch exhibit vulgarity when committing
a murder under the influence of passion. Vulgarity, in short, is
self-consciousness, or at least only compatible with it; and displays
itself in self-assertion at the expense of others, or in disregard or
in defiance of their feelings. Now Monotheism, such as the Bible in its
sublimest parts is pregnant with, naturally banishes this disposition,
just in proportion as it is real. It may tolerate, and even cherish,
many other evils, but not that; for vulgarity, as I understand it,
is absolutely inconsistent with awe. How then do I account for the
vulgarities of the Salvation Army? Simply by the fact that these
people have _no_ awe; they show the absurdities of religion without its
sentiments. They are _townspeople_, used to music-halls, public-houses,
street-fights, and frivolous crowds. Their antics would be impish to
religionists whose awe was nurtured by hills and forests, the rising and
setting sun, and the majesty of night.
Not only do we find the same austere simplicity in the Vedas, the
Kurân, and other sacred scriptures; we find it in most of the old
world literature. The characteristic of modern writings is subtlety and
dexterity; that of the ancient, massiveness and directness; and the
same difference holds good in a comparison of the various stages of our
literature. The simplicity of the Elizabethan lyrics, to say nothing
of Chaucer, is only to be emulated in later ages, whose life is so
much more complex, by a recluse visionary like Blake. Even when Shelley
approaches it, in such songs as that of Beatrice in the last act of
the "The Cenci," we feel that stream of music is crossed and shaken by
subtle under-currents.
What Coleridge claims for the Bible may be claimed for all imaginative
and passionate literature. Æschylus, Lucretius, Dante, Milton; how does
the Bible excel these in that respect? When we come to Shakespeare we
find a sublimity which transcends that of Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Job, with
a pathos, a humor, and a wit, such as no Hebrew writer ever imagined.
And Shakepeare's superb style triumphs easily in all these fields.
Coleridge recommends the Bible as an antidote to vulgarity. I would
recommend Milton as much, Dante more, and Shakespeare beyond all.
"Our version of the Bible," Coleridge elsewhere says, "has preserved
a purity of meaning to many terms of natural objects. Without this
holdfast, our vitiated imaginations would refine away language to mere
abstractions." This is merely saying that our Bible, designed for common
people centuries ago, is a monument of Saxon English. Clearly that is an
accident of our translation, and not an essence of the Bible itself. As
much may be said for all our ancient standards.
Coleridge admits that our New Testament is less elegant and correct than
the Old, and contains "slovenly phrases which would never have come
from Ben Jonson, or any other good prose writer of the day." Yet our New
Testament, according to Mr. Swinburne (and there is no better judge),
is translated from canine Greek into divine English. The truth is, the
_style_ of our Bible is owing to the translators. They lived before
the hurry of our cheap periodical press, when men wrote leisurely
for leisured readers. There was also no great accumulation of native
literature, and scholars studied almost exclusively the masterpieces of
Greece and Rome. Their sense of style was therefore superior. Read
the Dedication to King James in our authorised version, then the
introduction to our revised version, and see what an immense difference
there is between the styles. Or read Paul's noble praise of charity in
the two versions. By substituting _love_ for _charity_, the revisers
have vitiated the sense, and destroyed the balance of the style. Their
mincing monosyllable is too weak to bear the structural weight of the
clauses. A closer analysis shows that they have spoiled the passage
throughout. They had no ear: in other words, no style. The old
translators _had_ ears, and knew other people had. Their work was meant
to be read aloud, and it bears the test. That test is the supreme one,
and goes deeper than hearing. Flaubert, a great master of style, always
read his manuscript aloud; holding that phrases are right when they
correspond to all the necessities of respiration, while ill-written
phrases oppress the chest, disturb the beatings of the heart,
and contravene the conditions of life. Shakespeare bears this
test triumphantly. In his great passages, respiration is easy and
pronunciation simple; the language is a splendid and mellifluous stream.
I venture to say in conclusion: Consult the revised version of the Bible
for meaning, but read the old one for style. It is a treasury of musical
and vigorous Saxon, a well of strong English undefiled; although Hebrew
is a poor language, and the Greek of the New Testament is perhaps the
worst ever written. But do not think, as Macaulay pretended, that the
language of the Bible is sufficient for every purpose. It sustained the
genius of Bunyan, but the mightier genius of Shakespeare had to draw
from other sources to support its flight. Our English Bible contains six
thousand words; Shakespeare's vocabulary contains nine thousand more.