The English as well as the Spaniards were possessed of theatres at a time
when the French had no more than moving, itinerant stages. Shakspeare,
who was considered as the Corneille of the first-mentioned nation, was
pretty nearly contemporary with Lopez de Vega, and he created, as it
were, the English theatre. Shakspeare boasted a strong fruitful genius.
He was natural and sublime, but had not so much as a single spark of good
taste, or knew one rule of the drama. I will now hazard a random, but,
at the same time, true reflection, which is, that the great merit of this
dramatic poet has been the ruin of the English stage. There are such
beautiful, such noble, such dreadful scenes in this writer's monstrous
farces, to which the name of tragedy is given, that they have always been
exhibited with great success. Time, which alone gives reputation to
writers, at last makes their very faults venerable. Most of the
whimsical gigantic images of this poet, have, through length of time (it
being a hundred and fifty years since they were first drawn) acquired a
right of passing for sublime. Most of the modern dramatic writers have
copied him; but the touches and descriptions which are applauded in
Shakspeare, are hissed at in these writers; and you will easily believe
that the veneration in which this author is held, increases in proportion
to the contempt which is shown to the moderns. Dramatic writers don't
consider that they should not imitate him; and the ill-success of
Shakspeare's imitators produces no other effect, than to make him be
considered as inimitable. You remember that in the tragedy of _Othello,
Moor of Venice_, a most tender piece, a man strangles his wife on the
stage, and that the poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud
that she dies very unjustly. You know that in _Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark_, two grave-diggers make a grave, and are all the time drinking,
singing ballads, and making humorous reflections (natural indeed enough
to persons of their profession) on the several skulls they throw up with
their spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is, that this
ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the reign of King Charles II.,
which was that of politeness, and the Golden Age of the liberal arts;
Otway, in his _Venice Preserved_, introduces Antonio the senator, and
Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the horrors of the Marquis of
Bedemar's conspiracy. Antonio, the superannuated senator plays, in his
mistress's presence, all the apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee,
who is quite frantic and out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog,
and bites his mistress's legs, who kicks and whips him. However, the
players have struck these buffooneries (which indeed were calculated
merely for the dregs of the people) out of Otway's tragedy; but they have
still left in Shakspeare's _Julius Caesar_ the jokes of the Roman
shoemakers and cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus
and Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those who have hitherto
discoursed with you on the English stage, and especially on the
celebrated Shakspeare, have taken notice only of his errors; and that no
one has translated any of those strong, those forcible passages which
atone for all his faults. But to this I will answer, that nothing is
easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly impertinences which a poet
may have thrown out; but that it is a very difficult task to translate
his fine verses. All your junior academical sophs, who set up for
censors of the eminent writers, compile whole volumes; but methinks two
pages which display some of the beauties of great geniuses, are of
infinitely more value than all the idle rhapsodies of those commentators;
and I will join in opinion with all persons of good taste in declaring,
that greater advantage may be reaped from a dozen verses of Homer of
Virgil, than from all the critiques put together which have been made on
those two great poets.
I have ventured to translate some passages of the most celebrated English
poets, and shall now give you one from Shakspeare. Pardon the blemishes
of the translation for the sake of the original; and remember always that
when you see a version, you see merely a faint print of a beautiful
picture. I have made choice of part of the celebrated soliloquy in
_Hamlet_, which you may remember is as follows:--
"To be, or not to be? that is the question!
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die! to sleep!
No more! and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to! 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die! to sleep!
To sleep; perchance to dream! O, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the poor man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought:
And enterprises of great weight and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action--"