One of the great creators of English prose who lived at the same time
as Ralegh and Shakespeare was Richard Hooker, who is generally
known as "the Judicious Hooker."
He was born in Devon, two years after Ralegh, in 1554.
He must very early in life have made his mark as a man of learning and
piety, for when he was only thirty-one he was made Master of the
Temple. The controversies in which he there found himself involved
induced him to retire when he was only thirty-seven into the country,
for the purpose of writing his famous books, _The Laws of Ecclesiastical
Polity_.
It is the first great book on the English Church, and it is full of
magnificent prose. It was divided into eight parts; and in the first one,
before he had got far into it, he penned the exclamatory description of
law which will live as long as the language:--
"Her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world;
all things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as
feeling her care, the greatest as not exempted from her power."
And in the same first part will be found a passage on the Deity which
portrays faithfully for us the humble wisdom of both the man and his
age:--
"Dangerous it were for the feeble brain of man to wade far into
the doings of the Most High; whom although to know be life, and
joy to make mention of His name; yet our soundest knowledge is to
know that we know Him not as indeed He is, neither can know Him;
and our safest eloquence concerning Him is our silence, when we
confess without confession that His glory is inexplicable, His
greatness above our capacity to reach. He is above and we upon
earth; therefore it behoveth our words to be wary and few."
Shakespeare was born ten years later than Hooker, in 1564, and his
share in founding English prose as we know it is, of course, not
comparable with that of Hooker, for of Shakespeare's prose there
remains for us but little. Whenever he rose to eloquence he clothed
himself in verse as with an inevitable attribute, but on the rare
occasions when he condescended to step down from the great line to
"the other harmony of prose" he is as splendid as in all else. In
_Hamlet_ we have this sudden passage:--
"I have of late, (but wherefore I know not), lost all my mirth,
foregone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look
you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof
fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me,
than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
faculty! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action,
how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of
the world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this
quintessence of dust?"
And the most beautiful letter in the world is that written by Antonio to
Bassanio in _The Merchant of Venice_. When it is remembered that it
was out of his friendship for Bassanio that Antonio entered into his
bond with Shylock, the supreme exquisiteness of the few words from
friend to friend render this letter unsurpassable:--
"Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow
cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and
since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are
cleared between you and me if I might see you at my death;
notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter."
Well did Shakespeare know that such a letter must make an instant
appeal to the sweet heart of Portia: "O love!" she cries, "despatch all
business, and be gone!"
All great poets are masters of a splendid prose, and had Shakespeare
written some notable work of prose we may be sure it would even have
surpassed the noble utterances of all his wonderful contemporaries.
It has been said that no language in the world has yet ever lasted in its
integrity for over a thousand years. Perhaps printing may confer a
greater stability on present languages; but whenever English is
displaced, the sun of the most glorious of all days will have set.
Your loving old
G.P.
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