electoral bodies of the Universities, as at present constituted, are
quite unfit to represent the Universities, to speak in their name or to
express their wishes or feelings. The franchise, at Oxford and
Cambridge, is in the hands of the two largest bodies known to the
University constitution, the Convocation of Oxford, the Senate of
Cambridge. If we look at the University as a commonwealth of the
ancient, the mediæval, or the modern Swiss pattern, the election is in
the hands of the _Ekklêsia_, the _Comitia_ of Tribes, the
_Portmannagemót_, the _Landesgemeinde_, the _Conseil Général_. The
franchise is open to all academic citizens who have reached full
academic growth, to all who have put on the _toga virilis_ as the badge
of having taken a complete degree in any faculty. That is to say, it
belongs to all doctors and masters who have kept their names on the
books. Now, whatever such a body as this may seem in theory, we know
what it is in practice. It is not really an academic body. Those who
really know anything or care anything about University matters are a
small minority. The mass of the University electors are men who are at
once non-resident and who have taken nothing more than that common
degree which the _Spectator_, quite rightly, holds to be of such small
account. They often, we may believe, keep their name on the books simply
in order to vote at the University elections.
But what is the remedy? I cannot think that it is to be found in
confining the election to residents, at Oxford perhaps to members of
Congregation.[1] By such a restriction we should undoubtedly get a
constituency with a much higher average of literary eminence and
intellectual power. We should get a constituency which would far more
truly represent the University as a local body. But surely we cannot
look on the Universities as purely local bodies. It has always been one
of the great characteristics--I venture to think one of the great
beauties--of the English Universities that the connexion of the graduate
with his University does not come to an end when he ceases to reside,
but that the master or doctor keeps all the rights of a master or doctor
wherever he may happen to dwell. The resident body has many merits and
does much good work; but it has its weaknesses. It is in the nature of
things a very changing body; it must change far more from year to year
than any other electoral body. And, though the restriction to residents
would undoubtedly raise the general character of the constituency, it
would get rid of one of its best elements. Surely those who have
distinguished themselves in the University, who have worked well for the
University, who are continuing in some other shape the studies or the
teaching which they have begun in the University, who are in fact
carrying the University into other places, are not to be looked on as
cut off from the University merely because they have ceased locally to
reside in it. Not a few of the best heads and the best professors--I
suspect we might say the best of both classes--are those who have not
always lived in the University, but who have been called back to it
after a period of absence. To the knowledge of local affairs, which
belong to the mere resident, they bring a wider knowledge, a wider
experience, which makes them better judges even of local affairs. And
can men whom the University thus welcomes after absence be deemed
unworthy even to give a vote during the time of absence? One reads a
great deal about the real University being swamped by voters running in
from London clubs, barristers' chambers, country houses, country
parsonages. And no doubt a great many most incompetent voters do come
from all those quarters. But some of the most competent come also. The
restriction to residents would have disfranchised for ever or for a
season most of our greatest scholars, the authors of the greatest works,
for the last forty years. Yet surely sad men are the University in the
highest sense; they are the men best entitled to speak in its name,
whether they are at a given moment locally resident or not. It would
surely not be a gain, it would not increase the literary eminence or
intellectual power of the constituency, to shut out those men, and to
confine everything to a body made up so largely of one element which is
too permanent and another which is too fluctuating, of old heads and of
young tutors. Then too there is a very reasonable presumption in the
human mind, and specially in the English mind, against taking away the
rights of any class of men without some very good reason. And in this
case there are at least as strong arguments against the restriction as
there are for it. I speak only of the simple proposal to confine the
election to residents, in Oxford language to transfer it from
Convocation to Congregation. There are indeed other plans, to let
Convocation elect one member and Congregation the other--something like
the election of the consuls at an early stage of the Roman
commonwealth--or to leave the present members as they are, and to give
the Universities yet more members to be chosen by Congregation. Now I
will not say that these schemes lie without the range of practical
politics, because they show no sign of being ever likely to come within
it. They may safely be referred to Mr. Thomas Hare.
While therefore I see as strongly as any man the evils of election by
Convocation, as Convocation is at present constituted,[2] I cannot think
that restriction to Congregation or to residents in any shape is the
right remedy for the evil. I venture to think that there is a more
excellent way. The remedy that I propose has this advantage, that,
though it would practically lessen the numbers of the constituency, and
would, gradually at least, get rid of its most incompetent elements, it
would not be, in any constitutional sense, a restrictive measure. It
would not deprive any recognized class of men of any right. And it would
have the further advantage that it would be a change which could be made
by the University itself, a change which would not be a mere political
change affecting parliamentary elections only, but a real academical
reform affecting other matters as well, a reform which would be simply
getting rid of a modern abuse and falling back on an older and better
state of things. It is one of three changes which I have looked for all
my life, but towards which, amidst countless academical revolutions, I
have never seen the least step taken. I confess that all three have this
to be said against them, that they would affect college interests and
would give the resident body a good deal of trouble. But this is no
argument against the measures themselves; it only shows that it would be
hard work to get them passed. Of these three the first and least
important is the establishment of an University matriculation
examination. (Things change so fast at Oxford that this may have been
brought in within the last term or two; but, if so, I have not heard of
it.) Secondly, a rational reconstruction of the Schools, so as to have
real schools of history and philology--perhaps better still a school of
history and philology combined--without regard to worn out and
unscientific distinctions of "ancient" and "modern." Thirdly, the change
which alone of the three concerns us now, the establishment of some kind
of standard for the degree of Master of Arts. Through all the changes of
more than thirty years, I have always said, when I have had a chance of
saying anything, Give us neither a resident oligarchy nor a non-resident
mob. Keep Convocation with its ancient powers, but let Convocation be
what it was meant to be. Let the great assembly of masters and doctors
go untouched; but let none be made masters or doctors who do not show
some fitness to bear those titles. Every degree was meant to be a
reality; it was meant, as the word _degree_ implies, to mark some kind
of proficiency; a degree which does not mark some kind of proficiency is
an absurdity in itself. A degree conferred without any regard to the
qualifications of the person receiving it is in fact a fraud; it is
giving a testimonial without regard to the truth of the facts which the
testimonial states. Now this is glaringly the case with the degree of
Master of Arts as at present given. In each faculty there are two
stages: the lower degree of bachelor, the higher degree of master or
doctor. The lower degree is meant to mark a certain measure of
proficiency in the studies of the faculty; the higher degree is meant to
mark a higher measure of proficiency, that measure which qualifies a
man to become, if he thinks good, a teacher in that faculty. The
bachelor's degree is meant to mark that a man has made satisfactory
progress in introductory studies; the master's degree is meant, as its
name implies, to mark that a man is really a master in some subject. The
bachelor's degree in short should be respectable; the master's degree
should be honourable. Nowadays we certainly cannot say that the master's
degree is honourable; it might be almost too much to say that the
bachelor's degree is respectable. I am far from saying that an
University education, even for a mere passman, is worthless; I am far
from thinking so. But the mere pass degree is very far from implying
literary eminence or intellectual power. Eminence indeed is hardly to be
looked for at the age when the bachelor's degree is taken; it is only
one or two men in a generation who can send out "The Holy Roman Empire"
as a prize essay. But the degree does not imply even the promise or
likelihood of eminence or power. The best witness to the degradation of
the simple degree is the elaborate and ever-growing system of
class-lists, designed to mark what the degree itself ought in some
measure to mark. The need of having class-lists is the clearest
confession of the very small value of the simple degree by itself. And,
whatever may be the value of the bachelor's degree, the value of the
master's degree is exactly the same. The master's degree proves no
greater knowledge or skill than the bachelor's degree; it proves only
that its bearer has lived some more years and has paid some more pounds.
It is given, as a matter of course, to every one who has taken the
degree of bachelor--never mind after how many plucks--and has reached
the standing which is required of a master. The bestowing of two degrees
is a mere make-believe; the higher degree proves nothing, beyond mere
lapse of time, which is not equally proved by the lower.
Now this surely ought not to be. That the first degree should be next
door to worthless, and that the second degree should be worth no more
than the first, is surely to make University degrees a mockery, a
delusion, and a snare. Men who do not know how little a degree means are
apt to be deceived, even in practical matters, by its outward show. Men
who see that a degree proves very little, but who do not look much
further, are apt most untruly to undervalue the whole system and studies
of the University. In common consistency, in common fairness, the
degrees should mean what their names imply. The bachelor's degree should
prove something, and the master's degree should prove something more. As
I just said, the bachelor's degree should be respectable and the
master's degree should be honourable. I should even like to see the
bachelor's degree so respectable that we might get rid of the modern
device of class-lists; but that is not our question at present. The
immediate business is to make the master's degree a real thing, an
honest thing, to make it the sign of a higher standard than the
bachelor's degree, whether the bachelor's standard be fixed high or low.
Let there be some kind of standard, some kind of test. Its particular
shape, whether an examination, or a disputation, or the writing of a
thesis, or anything else, need not now be discussed. I ask only that
there should be a test of proficiency of some kind, and that there
should be the widest possible range of subjects in which proficiency may
be tested. Let a man have the degree, if he shows himself capable of
scholarly or scientific treatment of some branch of some subject, but
not otherwise. The bachelor's degree should show a general knowledge of
several subjects, which may serve as a ground-work for the minuter
knowledge of one. The master's degree should show that that minuter
knowledge of some one subject has been gained. The complete degree
should show, if not the actual presence, at least the very certain
promise, of literary eminence or intellectual power. We should thus get,
neither the resident oligarchy nor the non-resident mob; we should have
a body of real masters and doctors worthy of the name. Men who had once
dealt minutely with some subject of their own choice would not be likely
to throw their books aside for the rest of their days, as the man who
has merely got his bachelor's degree by a compulsory smattering often
does. We should get a Convocation or Senate fit, not only to elect
members of Parliament, but to do the other duties which the constitution
of the University lays on its Convocation or Senate. And I cannot help
thinking that, if such a change as this had been adopted at the time of
the first University Commission, it would have been less needful to cut
down the powers of Convocation in the way which, Convocation being left
what it is, certainly was needful.
Such a change as I propose would doubtless lessen the numbers of the
constituency. Possibly it would not lessen them quite so much as might
seem at first sight. A high standard, but a standard attainable with
effort, would surely make many qualify themselves who at present do not.
Still it would lessen the numbers very considerably, and it would be
meant to do so. Yet it would not be a restrictive measure in the same
sense in which confining the franchise to Congregation would be a
restrictive measure. It would not take away the votes of any class. The
franchise would still be the same, exercised by the same body; only that
body would be purified and brought back to the character which it was
originally meant to bear. The purifying would be gradual. The doctrine
of vested interests, that doctrine so dear to the British mind, would of
course secure every elector in the possession of his vote as long as he
lives and keeps his name on the books. But the ranks of the unqualified
would no longer be yearly reinforced. In course of time we should have
a competent body. And the great advantage of this kind of remedy is that
it is so distinctly an academical remedy. It would not come as a mere
clause in a parliamentary reform bill. It would affect the parliamentary
constituency; but it would affect it only as one thing among others. It
would be a general improvement in the character of the Great Council of
the University, which would make it better qualified to discharge all
its duties, that of choosing members of Parliament among them. In the
purely political look-out, we may believe that one result of the change
would be to make the election of Liberal members for the Universities
much more likely. But neither this nor any other purely political result
would be the sole and direct object of the change. Even if it did not
accomplish this object, it would do good in other ways. If the
Universities, under such a system, still chose Conservative members, we
should have no right to complain. We should feel that we had been fairly
and honourably beaten by adversaries who had a right to speak. It would
be an unpleasant result if the real Universities should be proved to be
inveterately Tory. But it would be a result less provoking than the
present state of things, in which Tory members are chosen for the
Universities by men who have no call to speak in the name of the
Universities at all.
EDWARD A. FREEMAN.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] That is, to all members of Convocation who are either resident or
hold University office. This, besides the Chancellor and a few other
great personages, lets in a few professors and examiners who are
non-resident.
[2] I use Oxford language, as that which I myself best understand; but I
believe that, all that I say applies equally to Cambridge also. For
"Convocation" one must of course, in Cambridge language, read "Senate."
HAMLET: A NEW READING.
There is a sense in which the stage alone can give the full significance
to a dramatic poem, just as a lyric finds its full interpretation in
music; but we prefer that a song of Goethe or Shelley should wait for
its music, and in the meantime suggest its own aërial accompaniment,
rather than be vulgarized in the setting. And even when set for the
voice by a master, although there is a gain in as far as the charm is
brought home to the senses, yet there is a loss in proportion to the
beauty of the song; for if it is delicate the finer spiritual grace
departs, and if it is ardent the passion is liable to scream, and, above
all, there is a vague but appreciable loss of identity; so that on the
whole we please ourselves best with the literary form. There is the same
balance of gain and loss in the relation of the drama to the stage. The
gain is in proportion to the excellence of the acting, and the loss in
proportion to the beauty o£ the play. It is well then that, as the lyric
poem no longer demands the lyre, the poetical drama has become, though
more recently, independent of the stage. Each has its own perspective of
life, its own idea of Nature, its own brilliancy, its own dulness, and
finally its own public; and notwithstanding the objections of some
critics, it will soon be admitted that a work may be strictly and
intrinsically dramatic, and yet only fit for the study--that is, for
ideal representation. For there is a theatre in every imagination, where
we produce the old masterpiece in its simplicity and dignity, and where
the new work appears and is followed in plot and action, and conflict of
feeling, and play of character, and rhythm of part with part, if not
with as keen an excitement, at least with as fair a judgment, as if we
were criticizing the actors, not the piece. And were all theatres
closed, the drama--whether as the free and spontaneous outflow of
observation, fancy, and humour, or as the intense reflection of the
movement of life in its animation of joy and pain--would remain one of
the most natural and captivating forms in which the creative impulse of
the poet can work. When we look at its variety and flexibility of
structure--from the lyrical tragedy of Æschylus to a "Proverbe" of De
Musset; at its diversity of spirit--from the exuberance of a comedy of
Aristophanes and the caprice of an Elizabethan mask to the serenity of
"Comus" and Tasso, and the terror of "Agamemnon" and "Macbeth;" at its
range of expression--from, the full-toned Greek and English Iambic to
the plain but sparkling prose of Molière, and from that again to the
intricate harmonies of Calderon, Goethe, and Shelley; with its use of
all voices, from vociferous mob to melodious daughters of Ocean, and its
command of all colour, from the gloom of Medea to the splendour of
Marlowe's Helen,--it is a small matter to remember the connection of
work or author with the stage--how long they held it, how soon they were
dispossessed, how and at what intervals and with what uncertain footing
they returned. We do not accept them because they were popular in their
day, and we do not reject them because they are not suitable to ours.
They have lost no vivacity or strength or grace by their exclusion from
the stage and their exile to literature--to that permanent theatre for
which the poet, freely using any and every form of dramatic expression,
should now work.
"There is the playhouse now, there you must sit....
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our king."
The relevancy of these remarks, as an introduction to a study of one of
Shakespeare's plays, will presently appear.
I.
Shakespeare, although a master of theatrical effect, is often found
working rather away from it than toward it, and at a meaning and beauty
beyond the limits of stage expression. This is because he is more
dramatist than playwright, and will always produce and complete his work
in its ideal integrity, even if, in so doing, he outruns the sympathy of
his audience. This disposition may be traced not only in the plays it
has banished from the stage, including such a masterpiece as "Antony and
Cleopatra," but in those that are universally popular, such as "The
Merchant of Venice," where the fifth Act, although it closes and
harmonizes the drama as a work of art with perfect grace, is but a tame
conclusion to the theatrical piece; and in the scenes that furnish us
with the delicate and finished study of Antonio, we find the audience
intent on the situation and the poet on the character; for we no more
expect to see the true Antonio on the stage than to see the true
moonlight shimmering on the trees in Belmont Park. But sometimes the
play will transcend the limits of stage expression by being too purely
and perfectly dramatic, as in "Lear." For not only is it, as Lamb points
out,[3] impossible for the actor to give the convulsions of the father's
grief, and yet preserve the dignity of the king, but the sustained
intensity of passion fatigues both voice and ear when they should be
most impressive and impressed. Had Shakespeare written with a view to
stage effect, he would not in the first two acts have stretched the
voice through all the tones and intervals of passion, and then demand
more thrilling intonations and louder outcries to meet and match the
tumult of the storm. This greatest of all tragedies is written beyond
the compass of the human voice, and can only be fully represented on
that ideal stage, where, instead of hoarse lament and husky indignation,
we hear each of us the tones that most impress and affect us, and can
command the true degrees of feeling in their illimitable scale.
But in "Hamlet" the inadequacy of the stage is of another kind. It leads
to a general displacement of motive, and change of focus, the hero's
character being obscured in the attempt to make it effective. And for
this to some extent the stage itself, as a place of popular
entertainment, and not the actor, is at fault. Some such ambiguity as
this seems, indeed, only natural, when we recall the circumstances
attending the composition of the play.
By common consent of the best authorities, "Hamlet" represents the work
of many years. I make no conjectures, but content myself with Mr.
Dowden's statement of the case:--"Over 'Hamlet,' as over 'Romeo and
Juliet,' it is supposed that Shakespeare laboured long and carefully.
Like 'Romeo and Juliet,' the play exists in two forms, and there is
reason to believe that in the earlier form, in each instance, we possess
an imperfect report of Shakespeare's first treatment of his theme,"[4]
We know also that Shakespeare had before him, at least as early as 1589,
an old play in which "a ghost cried dismally like an oyster wife,
'Hamlet! Revenge!'" and Shakespeare worked upon this until from what was
probably a rather sorry melodrama he produced the most intellectual play
that keeps the stage. And the very sensational character of the piece
enabled him to steal into it the results of long and deep meditation
without hazard to its popularity. He seems to have withdrawn Hamlet from
time to time for a special study, and then to have restored and
readjusted the hero to the play, touching and modulating, here and
there, character and incident in harmony with the new expression. In
this way a new direction and significance would be given to the plot,
but in a latent and unobtrusive way, so as not to weaken the popular
interest. This leads to the ambiguity of which I have spoken. The new
thought is often not earnestly but ironically related to the old
material, and the spiritual hero seems almost to stand apart from the
rude framework of the still highly sensational theatrical piece. This
has given rise to a rather favourite saying with the Germans, that
Hamlet is a modern. Hamlet seems to step forth from an antiquated
time,--with its priestly bigotry, its duels for a province, its
heavy-headed revels, its barbarous code of revenge, and its ghostly
visitations to enforce it,--to meet and converse with a riper age. But
this is because Hamlet belongs wholly and intimately to the poet, while
the other characters, though informed with new and original expression,
are left in close relation, to the old plot.