his fertile resources of illustration. The reiterated exposition by
Shakespeare of the hollowness of kingly ceremony is a notable feature
of his political sentiment The dramatist's independent analysis of the
quiddity of kingship is, indeed, alike in manner and matter, a
startling contribution to sixteenth century speculation. In manner it
is worthy of Shakespeare's genius at its highest. In matter it is for
its day revolutionary rationalism. It defies a popular doctrine, held
almost universally by Shakespeare's contemporary fellow-countrymen,
that royalty is divine and under God's special protection, that the
gorgeous ceremony of the throne reflects a heavenly attribute, and
that the king is the pampered favourite of heaven.
Bacon defined a king with slender qualifications, as "a mortal god on
earth unto whom the living God has lent his own name." Shakespeare was
well acquainted with this accepted doctrine. He often gives dramatic
definition of it. He declines to admit its soundness. Wherever he
quotes it, he adds an ironical comment, which was calculated to
perturb the orthodox royalist. Having argued that the day-labourer or
the shepherd is far happier than a king, he logically refuses to admit
that the monarch is protected by God from any of the ills of
mortality. Richard II. may assert that "the hand of God alone, and no
hand of blood or bone" can rob him of the sacred handle of his
sceptre. But the catastrophe of the play demonstrates that that theft
is entirely within human scope. The king is barbarously murdered. In
_Hamlet_ the graceless usurping uncle declares that "such divinity
doth hedge a king," that treason cannot endanger his life. But the
speaker is run through the body very soon after the brag escapes his
lips.
Shakespeare is no comfortable theorist, no respecter of orthodox
doctrine, no smooth-tongued approver of fashionable dogma. His acute
intellect cuts away all the cobwebs, all the illusions, all the
delusions, of formulæ. His untutored insight goes down to the root of
things; his king is not Philosopher Bacon's "mortal god on earth"; his
king is "but a man as I am," doomed to drag out a large part of his
existence in the galling chains of "tradition, form and ceremonious
duty," of unreality and self-deception.
Shakespeare's intuitive power of seeing things as they are, affects
his attitude to all social conventions. Not merely royal rulers of men
are in a false position, ethically and logically. "Beware of
appearances," is Shakespeare's repeated warning to men and women of
all ranks in the political or social hierarchy. "Put not your trust in
ornament, be it of gold or of silver." In the spheres of law and
religion, the dramatist warns against pretence, against shows of
virtue, honesty, or courage which have no solid backing.
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law what plea so tainted and corrupt
But, being season'd with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion
What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts:
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,
Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk.
(_Merchant of Venice_, III., ii., 74-86.)
Shakespeare was no cynic. He was not unduly distrustful of his
fellow-men. He was not always suspecting them of something
indistinguishable from fraud. When he wrote, "The world is still
deceived with ornament" which "obscures the show of evil," he was
expressing downright hatred--not suspicion--of sham, of quackery, of
cant. His is the message of all commanding intellects which see
through the hearts of men. Shakespeare's message is Carlyle's message
or Ruskin's message anticipated by nearly three centuries, and more
potently and wisely phrased.
IV
At the same time as Shakespeare insists on the highest and truest
standard of public duty, he, with characteristically practical
insight, acknowledges no less emphatically the necessity or duty of
obedience to duly regulated governments. There may appear
inconsistency in first conveying the impression that governments, or
their officers, are usually unworthy of trust, and then in bidding
mankind obey them implicitly. But, although logical connection between
the two propositions be wanting, they are each convincing in their
place. Both are the outcome of a robust common-sense. Order is
essential to a nation's well-being. There must be discipline in
civilised communities. Officers in authority must be obeyed. These are
the axiomatic bases of every social contract, and no question of the
personal fitness of officers of state impugns their stability.
Twice does Shakespeare define in the same terms what he understands by
the principle of all-compelling order, which is inherent in
government. Twice does he elaborate the argument that precise orderly
division of offices, each enjoying full and unquestioned authority, is
essential to the maintenance of a state's equilibrium.
The topic was first treated in the speeches of Henry V.'s
councillors:--
_Exeter._ For government, though high and low and lower,
Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,
Congreeing in a full and natural close,
Like music.
_Cant._ Therefore doth heaven divide
The state of man in divers functions,
Setting endeavour in continual motion;
To which is fixèd, as an aim or butt,
Obedience: for so work the honey-bees,
Creatures that by a rule in nature teach
The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
(_Henry V._, I., ii., 180-9.)
There follows a very suggestive comparison between the commonwealth of
bees and the economy of human society. The well-worn comparison has
been fashioned anew by a writer of genius of our own day, M.
Mæterlinck.
In _Troilus and Cressida_ (I., iii., 85 _seq._) Shakespeare returns to
the discussion, and defines with greater precision "the specialty of
rule." There he approaches nearer than anywhere else in his writings
the sphere of strict philosophic exposition. He argues that:--
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre,
Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
Office, and custom in all line of order.
Human society is bound to follow this celestial example. At all
hazards, one must protect "the unity and married calm of states."
Degree, order, discipline, are the only sure safeguards against brute
force and chaos which civilised institutions exist to hold in check:--
How could communities,
Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogeniture and due of birth,
Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,
But by degree stand in authentic place?
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters
Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this solid globe:
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude son should strike his father dead:
Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong,
Between whose endless jar justice resides,
Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Then every thing includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself.
Deprived of degree, rank, order, society dissolves itself in "chaos."
Near the end of his career, Shakespeare impressively re-stated his
faith in the imperative need of the due recognition of social rank and
grade in civilised communities. In _Cymbeline_ (IV., ii., 246-9) "a
queen's son" meets his death in fight with an inferior, and the
conqueror is inclined to spurn the lifeless corpse. But a wise veteran
solemnly uplifts his voice to forbid the insult. Appeal is made to the
sacred principle of social order, which must be respected even in
death:--
Though mean and mighty, rotting
Together, make one dust; yet reverence,--
That angel of the world,--doth make distinction
Of place 'twixt high and low.
"Reverence, that angel of the world," is the ultimate bond of civil
society, and can never be defied with impunity, it is the saving
sanction of social order.
V
I have quoted some of Shakespeare's avowedly ethical utterances which
bear on conditions of civil society--on morals in their social aspect.
There is no obscurity about their drift. Apart from direct ethical
declaration, it may be that ethical lessons touching political virtue
as well as other specific aspects of morality are deducible from a
study of Shakespeare's plots and characters. Very generous food for
reflection seems to be offered the political philosopher by the plots
and characters of _Julius Cæsar_ and _Coriolanus_. The personality of
Hamlet is instinct with ethical suggestion. The story and personages
of _Measure for Measure_ present the most persistent of moral
problems. But discussion of the ethical import of Shakespeare's
several dramatic portraits or stories is of doubtful utility. There is
a genuine danger of reading into Shakespeare's plots and characters
more direct ethical significance than is really there. Dramatic art
never consciously nor systematically serves obvious purposes of
morality, save to its own detriment.
Nevertheless there is not likely to be much disagreement with the
general assertion that Shakespeare's plots and characters
involuntarily develop under his hand in conformity with the
straightforward requirements of moral law. He upholds the broad canons
of moral truth with consistency, even with severity. There is no
mistaking in his works on which side lies the right. He never renders
vice amiable. His want of delicacy, his challenges of modesty, need
no palliation. It was characteristic of his age to speak more plainly
of many topics about which polite lips are nowadays silent. But
Shakespeare's coarsenesses do no injury to the healthy-minded. They do
not encourage evil propensities. Wickedness is always wickedness in
Shakespeare, and never deludes the spectator by masquerading as
something else. His plays never present problems as to whether vice is
not after all in certain conditions the sister of virtue. Shakespeare
never shows vice in the twilight, nor leaves the spectator or reader
in doubt as to what its features precisely are. Vice injures him who
practises it in the Shakespearean world, and ultimately proves his
ruin. One cannot play with vice with impunity.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.
It is not because Shakespeare is a conscious moralist, that the wheel
comes full circle in his dramatic world. It is because his sense of
art is involuntarily coloured by a profound conviction of the ultimate
justice which governs the operations of human nature and society.
Shakespeare argues, in effect, that a man reaps as he sows. It may be
contended that Nature does not always work in strict accord with this
Shakespearean canon, and that Shakespeare thereby shows himself more
of a deliberate moralist than Nature herself. But the dramatist
idealises or generalises human experience; he does not reproduce it
literally. There is nothing in the Shakespearean canon that runs
directly counter to the idealised or generalised experience of the
outer world. The wicked and the foolish, the intemperate and the
over-passionate, reach in Shakespeare's world that disastrous goal,
which nature at large keeps in reserve for them and only by rare
accident suffers them to evade. The father who brings up his children
badly and yet expects every dutiful consideration from them is only in
rare conditions spared the rude awakening which overwhelms King Lear.
The jealous husband who wrongly suspects his wife of infidelity
commonly suffers the fate either of Othello or of Leontes.
VI
Shakespeare regards it as the noblest ambition in man to master his
own destiny. There are numerous passages in which the dramatist
figures as an absolute and uncompromising champion of the freedom of
the will. "'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus," says one of
his characters, Iago; "Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our
wills are gardeners." Edmond says much the same in _King Lear_ when he
condemns as "the excellent foppery of the world" the ascription to
external influences of all our faults and misfortunes, whereas they
proceed from our wilful, deliberate choice of the worser way.
Repeatedly does Shakespeare assert that we are useful or useless
members of society according as we will it ourselves.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky
Gives us free scope,
says Helena in _All's Well_ (I., i., 231-3).
Men at some time are masters of their fates,
says Cassius in _Julius Cæsar_ (I., ii., 139-41);
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves that we are underlings.
Hereditary predispositions, the accidents of environment, are not
insuperable; they can be neutralised by force of will, by character.
Character is omnipotent.
The self-sufficing, imperturbable will is the ideal possession, beside
which all else in the world is valueless. But the quest of it is
difficult, and success in the pursuit is rare. Mastery of the will is
the result of a rare conjunction--a perfect commingling of blood and
judgment. Without such harmonious union man is "a pipe"--a musical
instrument--"for Fortune's finger to sound what stop she pleases." Man
can only work out his own salvation when he can control his passions
and can take with equal thanks Fortune's buffets or rewards.
The best of men is--
Spare in diet
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger,
Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood.
(_Henry V._, II., ii., 131-3.)
His is
the nature
Whom passion could not shake--whose solid virtue
The shot of accident nor dart of chance
Could neither graze nor pierce.
(_Othello_, IV., i., 176-9.)
Stability of temperament is the finest fruit of the free exercise of
the will; it is the noblest of masculine excellences.
Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core--ay, in my heart of hearts.
(_Hamlet_, III., ii., 76-8.)
In spite of his many beautiful portrayals of the charms and tenderness
and innocence of womanhood, Shakespeare had less hope in the ultimate
capacity of women to control their destiny than in the ultimate
capacity of men. The greatest of his female creations, Lady Macbeth
and Cleopatra, stand in a category of their own. They do not lack high
power of will, even if they are unable so to commingle blood and
judgment as to master fate.
Elsewhere, the dramatist seems to betray private suspicion of the
normal woman's volitional capacity by applying to her heart and mind
the specific epithet "waxen." The feminine temperament takes the
impress of its environment as easily as wax takes the impress of a
seal. In two passages where this simile is employed,[31] the deduction
from it is pressed to the furthest limit, and free-will is denied
women altogether. Feminine susceptibility is pronounced to be
incurable; wavering, impressionable emotion is a main constituent of
woman's being; women are not responsible for the sins they commit nor
the wrongs they endure.
[Footnote 31:
For men have marble, _women waxen minds_,
And therefore are they formed as marble will;
The weak oppressed, the impression of strange kinds
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.
(_Lucrece_, 1240-6.)
How easy it is for the proper-false
In _women's waxen hearts_, to set their forms!
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we;
For, such as we are made of, such we be.
(_Twelfth Night_, II., ii., 31.)]
This is reactionary doctrine, and one of the few points in
Shakespeare's "natural" philosophy which invites dissent. But he makes
generous amends by ascribing to women a plentiful supply of humour. No
writer has proclaimed more effectively his faith in woman's brilliance
of wit nor in her quickness of apprehension.
VII
Despite the solemnity which attaches to Shakespeare's philosophic
reflections, he is at heart an optimist and a humorist. He combines
with his serious thought a thorough joy in life, an irremovable
preference for the bright over the dismal side of things. The creator
of Falstaff and Mercutio, of Beatrice and the Princess in _Love's
Labour's Lost_, could hardly fail to set store by that gaiety of
spirit which is the antidote to unreasoning discontent, and keeps
society in good savour.
Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous,
There shall be no more cakes and ale?
is the voice of Shakespeare as well as of Sir Toby Belch. The
dramatist was at one with Rosalind, his offspring, when she told
Jaques:--
I had rather have a fool to make me merry,
Than experience to make me sad.
The same sanguine optimistic temper constantly strikes a more
impressive note.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out,
is a comprehensive maxim, which sounds as if it came straight from
Shakespeare's lips. This battle-cry of invincible optimism is uttered
in the play by Shakespeare's favourite hero, Henry V. It is hard to
quarrel with the inference that these words convey the ultimate
verdict of the dramatist on human affairs.
VIII
SHAKESPEARE AND PATRIOTISM[32]
[Footnote 32: This paper was first printed in the _Cornhill Magazine_,
May 1901.]
His noble negligences teach
What others' toils despair to reach.
I
Patriotism is a natural instinct closely allied to the domestic
affections. Its normal activity is as essential as theirs to the
health of society. But, in a greater degree than other instincts, the
patriotic impulse works with perilous irregularity unless it be
controlled by the moral sense and the intellect.
Every student of history and politics is aware how readily the
patriotic instinct, if uncontrolled by morality and reason, comes into
conflict with both. Freed of moral restraint it is prone to engender a
peculiarly noxious brand of spurious sentiment--the patriotism of
false pretence. Bombastic masquerade of the genuine impulse is not
uncommon among place-hunters in Parliament and popularity-hunters in
constituencies, and the honest instinct is thereby brought into
disrepute. Dr Johnson was thinking solely of the frauds and moral
degradation which have been sheltered by self-seekers under the name
of patriotism when he none too pleasantly remarked: "Patriotism is the
last refuge of a scoundrel."
The Doctor's epigram hardly deserves its fame. It embodies a
very meagre fraction of the truth. While it ignores the beneficent
effects of the patriotic instinct, it does not exhaust its evil
propensities. It is not only the moral obliquity of place-hunters or
popularity-hunters that can fix on patriotism the stigma of offence.
Its healthy development depends on intellectual as well as on moral
guidance. When the patriotic instinct, however honestly it be
cherished, is freed of intellectual restraint, it works even more
mischief than when it is deliberately counterfeited. Among the
empty-headed it very easily degenerates into an over-assertive, a
swollen selfishness, which ignores or defies the just rights and
feelings of those who do not chance to be their fellow-countrymen. No
one needs to be reminded how much wrong-doing and cruelty have been
encouraged by perfectly honest patriots who lack "intellectual
armour." Dr Johnson knew that the blockhead seeks the shelter of
patriotism with almost worse result to the body politic than the
scoundrel.
On the other hand, morality and reason alike resent the defect of
patriotism as stoutly as its immoral or unintellectual extravagance. A
total lack of the instinct implies an abnormal development of moral
sentiment or intellect which must be left to the tender mercies of the
mental pathologist. The man who is the friend of every country but his
own can only be accounted for scientifically as the victim of an
aberration of mind or heart. Ostentatious disclaimers of the patriotic
sentiment deserve as little sympathy as the false pretenders to an
exaggerated share of it. A great statesman is responsible for an
apophthegm on that aspect of the topic which always deserves to be
quoted in the same breath as Dr Johnson's familiar half-truth. When
Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical leader in the early days of the last
century, avowed scorn for the normal instinct of patriotism, Lord John
Russell, the leader of the Liberal party in the House of Commons,
sagely retorted: "The honourable member talks of the _cant_ of
patriotism; but there is something worse than the _cant_ of
patriotism, and that is the _recant_ of patriotism."[33] Mr Gladstone
declared Lord John's repartee to be the best that he ever heard.
[Footnote 33: The pun on "cant" and "recant" was not original, though
Lord John's application of it was. Its inventor seems to have been
Lady Townshend, the brilliant mother of Charles Townshend, the elder
Pitt's Chancellor of the Exchequer. When she was asked if George
Whitefield, the evangelical preacher, had yet recanted, she replied:
"No, he has only been canting."]
It may be profitable to consider how patriotism, which is singularly
liable to distortion and perversion, presented itself to the mind of
Shakespeare, the clearest-headed student of human thought and
sentiment.
II
In Shakespeare's universal survey of human nature it was impossible
that he should leave patriotism and the patriotic instinct out of
account. It was inevitable that prevalent phases of both should
frequently occupy his attention. In his rôle of dramatist he
naturally dealt with the topic incidentally or disconnectedly rather
than in the way of definite exposition; but in the result, his
treatment will probably be found to be more exhaustive than that of
any other English writer. The Shakespearean drama is peculiarly
fertile in illustration of the virtuous or beneficent working of the
patriotic instinct; but it does not neglect the malevolent or morbid
symptoms incident either to its exorbitant or to its defective growth;
nor is it wanting in suggestions as to how its healthy development may
be best ensured. Part of Shakespeare's message on the subject is so
well known that readers may need an apology for reference to it; but
Shakespeare's declarations have not, as far as I know, been
co-ordinated.[34]
[Footnote 34: In passing cursorily over the whole field I must ask
pardon for dwelling occasionally on ground that is in detached detail
sufficiently well trodden, as well as for neglecting some points which
require more thorough exploration than is practicable within my
present limits.]
Broadly speaking, the Shakespearean drama enforces the principle that
an active instinct of patriotism promotes righteous conduct. This
principle lies at the root of Shakespeare's treatment of history and
political action, both English and Roman. Normal manifestations of the
instinct in Shakespeare's world shed a gracious light on life. But it
is seen to work in many ways. The patriotic instinct gives birth to
various moods. It operates with some appearance of inconsistency. Now
it acts as a spiritual sedative, now as a spiritual stimulant.
Of all Shakespeare's characters, it is Bolingbroke in _Richard II._
who betrays most effectively the tranquillising influence of
patriotism. In him the patriotic instinct inclines to identity with
the simple spirit of domesticity. It is a magnified love for his own
hearthstone--a glorified home-sickness. The very soil of England,
England's ground, excites in Bolingbroke an overmastering sentiment of
devotion. His main happiness in life resides in the thought that
England is his mother and his nurse. The patriotic instinct thus
exerts on a character which is naturally cold and unsympathetic a
softening, soothing, and purifying sway. Despite his forbidding
self-absorption and personal ambition he touches hearts, and rarely
fails to draw tears when he sighs forth the bald lines:--
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman.