is out of the crowd. He is inconceivably wise; the others, conceivably.
A good reader can, in a sort, nestle into Plato's brain, and think
from thence; but not into Shakspeare's. We are still out of doors. For
executive faculty, for creation, Shakspeare is unique. No man can
imagine it better. He was the farthest reach of subtlety compatible
with an individual self,--the subtilest of authors, and only just
within the possibility of authorship. With this wisdom of life, is the
equal endowment of imaginative and of lyric power. He clothed the
creatures of his legend with form and sentiments, as if they were
people who had lived under his roof; and few real men have left such
distinct characters as these fictions. And they spoke in language as
sweet as it was fit. Yet his talents never seduced him into an
ostentation, nor did he harp on one string. An omnipresent humanity
co-ordinates all his faculties. Give a man of talents a story to tell,
and his partiality will presently appear. He has certain observations,
opinions, topics, which have some accidental prominence, and which he
disposes all to exhibit. He crams this part, and starves that other
part, consulting not the fitness of the thing, but his fitness and
strength. But Shakspeare has no peculiarity, no importunate topic; but
all is duly given; no veins, no curiosities: no cow-painter, no
bird-fancier, no mannerist is he: he has no discoverable egotism: the
great he tells greatly; the small subordinately. He is wise without
emphasis or assertion; he is strong, as nature is strong, who lifts
the land into mountain slopes without effort, and by the same rule as
she floats a bubble in the air, and likes as well to do the one as the
other. This makes that equality of power in farce, tragedy, narrative,
and love-songs; a merit so incessant, that each reader is incredulous
of the perception of other readers.
This power of expression, or of transferring the inmost truth of things
into music and verse, makes him the type of the poet, and has added
a new problem to metaphysics. This is that which throws him into natural
history, as a main production of the globe, and as announcing new eras
and ameliorations. Things were mirrored in his poetry without loss or
blur: he could paint the fine with precision, the great with compass;
the tragic and comic indifferently, and without any distortion or
favor. He carried his powerful execution into minute details, to a
hair point; finishes an eyelash or a dimple as firmly as he draws a
mountain; and yet these like nature's, will bear the scrutiny of the
solar microscope.
In short, he is the chief example to prove that more or less of
production, more or fewer pictures, is a thing indifferent. He had the
power to make one picture. Daguerre learned how to let one flower etch
its image on his plate of iodine; and then proceeds at leisure to etch
a million. There are always objects; but there was never representation.
Here is perfect representation, at last; and now let the world of
figures sit for their portraits. No recipe can be given for the making
of a Shakspeare; but the possibility of the translation of things into
song is demonstrated.
His lyric power lies in the genius of the piece. The sonnets, though
their excellence is lost in the splendor of the dramas, are as
inimitable as they: and it is not a merit of lines, but a total merit
of the piece; like the tone of voice of some incomparable person, so
is this a speech of poetic beings, and any clause as unproducible now
as a whole poem.
Though the speeches in the plays, and single lines, have a beauty which
tempts the ear to pause on them for their euphuism, yet the sentence
is so loaded with meaning, and so linked with its foregoers and
followers, that the logician is satisfied. His means are as admirable
as his ends; every subordinate invention, by which he helps himself
to connect some irreconcilable opposites, is a poem too. He is not
reduced to dismount and walk, because his horses are running off with
him in some distant direction: he always rides.
The finest poetry was first experience: but the thought has suffered
a transformation since it was an experience. Cultivated men often
attain a good degree of skill in writing verses; but it is easy to
read, through their poems, their personal history; any one acquainted
with parties can name every figure: this is Andrew, and that is Rachel.
The sense thus remains prosaic. It is a caterpillar with wings, and
not yet a butterfly. In the poet's mind, the fact has gone quite over
into the new element of thought, and has lost all that is exuvial.
This generosity abides with Shakspeare. We say, from the truth and
closeness of his pictures, that he knows the lesson by heart. Yet there
is not a trace of egotism.
One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his
cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his
aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace: he
delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that
sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds
over the universe. Epicurus relates, that poetry hath such charms that
a lover might forsake his mistress to partake of them. And the true
bards have been noted for their firm and cheerful temper. Homer lies
in sunshine; Chaucer is glad and erect; and Saadi says, "It was rumored
abroad that I was penitent; but what had I to do with repentance?" Not
less sovereign and cheerful,--much more sovereign and cheerful is the
tone of Shakspeare. His name suggests joy and emancipation to the heart
of men. If he should appear in any company of human souls, who would
not march in his troop? He touches nothing that does not borrow health
and longevity from his festive style.
And now, how stands the account of man with this bard and benefactor,
when in solitude, shutting our ears to the reverberations of his fame,
we seek to strike the balance? Solitude has austere lessons; it can
teach us to spare both heroes and poets; and it weighs Shakspeare also,
and finds him to share the halfness and imperfections of humanity.
Shakspeare, Homer, Dante, Chaucer, saw the splendor of meaning that
plays over the visible world; knew that a tree had another use than
for apples, and corn another than for meal, and the ball of the earth,
than for tillage and roads: that these things bore a second and finer
harvest to the mind, being emblems of its thoughts, and conveying in
all their natural history a certain mute commentary on human life.
Shakspeare employed them as colors to compose his picture. He rested
in their beauty; and never took the step which seemed inevitable to
such genius, namely, to explore the virtue which resides in these
symbols, and imparts this power,--what is that which they themselves
say? He converted the elements, which waited on his command, into
entertainments. He was master of the revels to mankind. Is it not as
if one should have, through majestic powers of science, the comets
given into his hand, or the planets and their moons, and should draw
them from their orbits to glare with the municipal fireworks on a
holiday night, and advertise in all towns, "very superior pyrotechny
this evening!" Are the agents of nature, and the power to understand
them, worth no more than a street serenade, or the breath of a cigar?
One remembers again the trumpet-text in the Koran--"The heavens and
the earth, and all that is between them, think ye we have created them
in jest?" As long as the question is of talent and mental power, the
world of men has not his equal to show. But when the question is to
life, and its materials, and its auxiliaries, how does he profit me?
What does it signify? It is but a Twelfth Night, or Midsummer-Night's
Dream, or a Winter Evening's Tale: what signifies another picture more
or less? The Egyptian verdict of the Shakspeare Societies comes to
mind, that he was a jovial actor and manager. I cannot marry this fact
to his verse. Other admirable men have led lives in some sort of keeping
with their thought; but this man, in wide contrast. Had he been less,
had he reached only the common measure of great authors, of Bacon,
Milton, Tasso, Cervantes, we might leave the fact in the twilight of
human fate: but, that this man of men, he who gave to the science of
mind a new and larger subject than had ever existed, and planted the
standard of humanity some furlongs forward into Chaos,--that he should
not be wise for himself,--it must even go into the world's history,
that the best poet led an obscure and profane life, using his genius
for the public amusement.
Well, other men, priest and prophet, Israelite, German, and Swede,
beheld the same objects: they also saw through them that which was
contained. And to what purpose? The beauty straightway vanishes; they
read commandments, all-excluding mountainous duty; an obligation, a
sadness, as of piled mountains, fell on them, and life became ghastly,
joyless, a pilgrim's progress, a probation, beleaguered round with
doleful histories of Adam's fall and curse, behind us; with doomsdays
and purgatorial and penal fires before us; and the heart of the seer
and the heart of the listener sank in them. It must be conceded that
these are half-views of half-men. The world still wants its
poet-priest, a reconciler, who shall not trifle with Shakspeare the
player, nor shall grope in graves with Swedenborg the mourner; but who
shall see, speak, and act, with equal inspiration. For knowledge will
brighten the sunshine; right is more beautiful than private affection;
and love is compatible with universal wisdom.
VI. NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD.
Among the eminent persons of the nineteenth century, Bonaparte is far
the best known, and the most powerful; and owes his predominance to
the fidelity with which he expresses the tone of thought and belief,
the aims of the masses of active and cultivated men. It is Swedenborg's
theory, that every organ is made up of homogeneous particles; or, as
it is sometimes expressed, every whole is made of similars; that is,
the lungs are composed of infinitely small lungs; the liver, of
infinitely small livers; the kidney, of little kidneys, etc. Following
this analogy, if any man is found to carry with him the power and
affections of vast numbers, if Napoleon is France, if Napoleon is
Europe, it is because the people whom he sways are little Napoleons.
In our society, there is a standing antagonism between the conservative
and the democratic classes; between those who have made their fortunes,
and the young and the poor who have fortunes to make; between the
interests of dead labor,--that is, the labor of hands long ago still
in the grave, which labor is now entombed in money stocks, or in land
and buildings owned by idle capitalists,--and the interests of living
labor, which seeks to possess itself of land, and buildings, and money
stocks. The first class is timid, selfish, illiberal, hating innovation,
and continually losing numbers by death. The second class is selfish
also, encroaching, bold, self-relying, always outnumbering the other,
and recruiting its numbers every hour by births. It desires to keep
open every avenue to the competition of all, and to multiply
avenues;--the class of business men in America, in England, in France,
and throughout Europe; the class of industry and skill. Napoleon is
its representative. The instinct of active, brave, able men, throughout
the middle class everywhere, has pointed out Napoleon as the incarnate
Democrat. He had their virtues, and their vices; above all, he had
their spirit or aim. That tendency is material, pointing at a sensual
success, and employing the richest and most various means to that end;
conversant with mechanical powers, highly intellectual, widely and
accurately learned and skilful, but subordinating all intellectual and
spiritual forces into means to a material success. To be the rich man
is the end. "God has granted" says the Koran, "to every people a prophet
in its own tongue." Paris, and London, and New York, the spirit of
commerce, of money, and material power, were also to have their prophet;
and Bonaparte was qualified and sent.
Every one of the million readers of anecdotes, or memoirs, or lives
of Napoleon, delights in the page, because he studies in it his own
history. Napoleon is thoroughly modern, and, at the highest point of
his fortunes, has the very spirit of the newspapers. He is no saint,--to
use his own word, "no capuchin," and he is no hero, in the high sense.
The man in the street finds in him the qualities and powers of other
men in the street. He finds him, like himself, by birth a citizen,
who, by very intelligible merits, arrived at such a commanding position,
that he could indulge all those tastes which the common man possesses,
but is obliged to conceal and deny; good society, good books, fast
traveling, dress, dinners, servants without number, personal weight,
the execution of his ideas, the standing in the attitude of a benefactor
to all persons about him, the refined enjoyments of pictures, statues,
music, palaces, and conventional honors,--precisely what is agreeable
to the heart of every man in the nineteenth century,--this powerful
man possessed.
It is true that a man of Napoleon's truth of adaptation to the mind
of the masses around him becomes not merely representative, but actually
a monopolizer and usurper of other minds. Thus Mirabeau plagiarized
every good thought, every good word, that was spoken in France. Dumont
relates that he sat in the gallery of the Convention, and heard Mirabeau
make a speech. It struck Dumont that he could fit it with a peroration,
which he wrote in pencil immediately, and showed to Lord Elgin, who
sat by him. Lord Elgin approved it, and Dumont, in the evening, showed
it to Mirabeau. Mirabeau read it, pronounced it admirable, and declared
he would incorporate it into his harangue, to-morrow, to the Assembly.
"It is impossible," said Dumont, "as, unfortunately, I have shown it
to Lord Elgin." "If you have shown it to Lord Elgin, and to fifty
persons beside, I shall still speak it to-morrow:" and he did speak
it, with much effect, at the next day's session. For Mirabeau, with
his overpowering personality, felt that these things, which his presence
inspired, were as much his own, as if he had said them, and that his
adoption of them gave them their weight. Much more absolute and
centralizing was the successor to Mirabeau's popularity, and to much
more than his predominance in France. Indeed, a man of Napoleon's stamp
almost ceases to have a private speech and opinion. He is so largely
receptive, and is so placed, that he comes to be a bureau for all the
intelligence, wit, and power, of the age and country. He gains the
battle; he makes the code; he makes the system of weights and measures;
he levels the Alps; he builds the road. All distinguished engineers,
savants, statists, report to him; so likewise do all good heads in
every kind; he adopts the best measures, sets his stamp on them, and
not these alone, but on every happy and memorable expression. Every
sentence spoken by Napoleon, and every line of his writing, deserves
reading, as it is the sense of France.
Bonaparte was the idol of common men, because he had in transcendent
degree the qualities and powers of common men. There is a certain
satisfaction in coming down to the lowest ground of politics, for we
get rid of cant and hypocrisy. Bonaparte wrought, in common with that
great class he represented, for power and wealth,--but Bonaparte,
specially, without any scruple as to the means. All the sentiments
which embarrass men's pursuit of these objects, he set aside. The
sentiments were for women and children. Fontanes, in 1804, expressed
Napoleon's own sense, when, in behalf of the Senate, he addressed
him,--"Sire, the desire of perfection is the worst disease that ever
afflicted the human mind." The advocates of liberty, and of progress,
are "ideologists;"--a word of contempt often in his mouth;--"Necker
is an ideologist:" "Lafayette is an ideologist."
An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that, "if you would
succeed, you must not be too good." It is an advantage, within certain
limits, to have renounced the dominion of the sentiments of piety,
gratitude, and generosity; since, what was an impassable bar to us,
and still is to others, becomes a convenient weapon for our purposes;
just as the river which was a formidable barrier, winter transforms
into the smoothest of roads.
Napoleon renounced, once for all, sentiments and affections, and would
help himself with his hands and his head. With him is no miracle, and
no magic. He is a worker in brass, in iron, in wood, in earth, in
roads, in buildings, in money, and in troops, and a very consistent
and wise master-workman. He is never weak and literary, but acts with
the solidity and the precision of natural agents. He has not lost his
native sense and sympathy with things. Men give way before such a man
as before natural events. To be sure, there are men enough who are
immersed in things, as farmers, smiths, sailors, and mechanics
generally; and we know how real and solid such men appear in the
presence of scholars and grammarians; but these men ordinarily lack
the power of arrangement, and are like hands without a head. But
Bonaparte superadded to this mineral and animal force, insight and
generalization, so that men saw in him combined the natural and the
intellectual power, as if the sea and land had taken flesh and begun
to cipher. Therefore the land and sea seem to presuppose him. He came
unto his own, and they received him. This ciphering operative knows
what he is working with, and what is the product. He knew the properties
of gold and iron, of wheels and ships, of troops and diplomatists, and
required that each should do after its kind.
The art of war was the game in which he exerted his arithmetic. It
consisted, according to him, in having always more forces than the
enemy, on the point where the enemy is attacked, or where he attacks:
and his whole talent is strained by endless manoeuvre and evolution,
to march always on the enemy at an angle, and destroy his forces in
detail. It is obvious that a very small force, skilfully and rapidly
manoeuvring, so as always to bring two men against one at the point
of engagement, will be an overmatch for a much larger body of men.
The times, his constitution, and his early circumstances, combined to
develop this pattern democrat. He had the virtues of his class, and
the conditions for their activity. That common sense, which no sooner
respects any end, than it finds the means to effect it; the delight
in the use of means; in the choice, simplification, and combining of
means; the directness and thoroughness of his work; the prudence with
which all was seen, and the energy with which all was done, make him
the natural organ and head of what I may almost call, from its extent,
the modern party.
Nature must have far the greatest share in every success, and so in
his. Such a man was wanted, and such a man was born; a man of stone
and iron, capable of sitting on horseback sixteen or seventeen hours,
of going many days together without rest or food, except by snatches,
and with the speed and spring of a tiger in action; a man not
embarrassed by any scruples; compact, instant, selfish, prudent, and
of a perception which did not suffer itself to be balked or misled by
any pretences of others, or any superstition, or any heat or haste of
his own. "My hand of iron," he said, "was not at the extremity of my
arm; it was immediately connected with my head." He respected the power
of nature and fortune, and ascribed to it his superiority, instead of
valuing himself, like inferior men, on his opinionativeness and waging
war with nature. His favorite rhetoric lay in allusion to his star:
and he pleased himself, as well as the people, when he styled himself
the "Child of Destiny." "They charge me," he said, "with the commission
of great crimes: men of my stamp do not commit crimes. Nothing has
been more simple than my elevation: 'tis in vain to ascribe it to
intrigue or crime: it was owing to the peculiarity of the times, and
to my reputation of having fought well against the enemies of my
country. I have always marched with the opinion of great masses, and
with events. Of what use, then, would crimes be to me?" Again he said,
speaking of his son, "My son cannot replace me; I could not replace
myself. I am the creature of circumstances." He had a directness of
action never before combined with so much comprehension. He is a
realist, terrific to all talkers, and confused truth-obscuring persons.
He sees where the matter hinges, throws himself on the precise point
of resistance, and slights all other considerations. He is strong in
the right manner, namely, by insight. He never blundered into victory,
but won his battles in his head, before he won them on the field. His
principal means are in himself. He asks counsel of no other. In 1796,
he writes to the Directory: "I have conducted the campaign without
consulting any one. I should have done no good, if I had been under
the necessity of conforming to the notions of another person. I have
gained some advantages over superior forces, and when totally destitute
of everything, because, in the persuasion that your confidence was
reposed in me, my actions were as prompt as my thoughts."
History is full, down to this day, of the imbecility of kings and
governors. They are a class of persons much to be pitied, for they
know not what they should do. The weavers strike for bread; and the
king and his ministers, not knowing what to do, meet them with bayonets.
But Napoleon understood his business. Here was a man who, in each
moment and emergency, knew what to do next. It is an immense comfort
and refreshment to the spirits, not only of kings, but of citizens.
Few men have any next; they live from hand to mouth, without plan, and
are ever at the end of their line, and, after each action, wait for
an impulse from abroad. Napoleon had been the first man of the world
if his ends had been purely public. As he is, he inspires confidence
and vigor by the extraordinary unity of his action. He is firm, sure,
self-denying, self-postponing, sacrificing everything to his
aim,--money, troops, generals, and his own safety also, to his aim;
not misled, like common adventurers, by the splendor of his own means.
"Incidents ought not to govern policy," he said, "but policy,
incidents." "To be hurried away by every event, is to have no political
system at all. His victories were only so many doors, and he never for
a moment lost sight of his way onward, in the dazzle and uproar of the
present circumstance. He knew what to do, and he flew to his mark. He
would shorten a straight line to come at his object. Horrible anecdotes
may, no doubt, be collected from his history, of the price at which
he bought his successes; but he must not therefore be set down as
cruel; but only as one who knew no impediment to his will; not
bloodthirsty, not cruel,--but woe to what thing or person stood in his
way! Not bloodthirsty, but not sparing of blood,--and pitiless. He saw
only the object: the obstacle must give way. "Sire, General Clarke
cannot combine with General Junot, for the dreadful fire of the Austrian
battery."--"Let him carry the battery."--"Sire, every regiment that
approaches the heavy artillery is sacrified: Sire, what orders?"--
"Forward, forward!" Seruzier, a colonel of artillery, gives, in his
"Military Memoirs," the following sketch of a scene after the battle
of Austerlitz.--"At the moment in which the Russian army was making
its retreat, painfully, but in good order, on the ice of the lake, the
Emperor Napoleon came riding at full speed toward the artillery. 'You
are losing time,' he cried; 'fire upon those masses; they must be
engulfed; fire upon the ice!' The order remained unexecuted for ten
minutes. In vain several officers and myself were placed on the slope
of a hill to produce the effect; their balls and mine rolled upon the
ice, without breaking it up. Seeing that, I tried a simple method of
elevating light howitzers. The almost perpendicular fall of the heavy
projectiles produced the desired effect. My method was immediately
followed by the adjoining batteries, and in less than no time we buried
'some' [Footnote: As I quote at second-hand, and cannot procure
Seruzier, I dare not adopt the high figure I find.] thousands of
Russians and Austrians under the waters of the lake."