comprehensive mind, an intelligence superior to prejudice, and
an undeviating conscientious spirit of rectitude, are among the
necessary endowments of true criticism. But how rare has been this
combination, even in the examples of those who have been admitted
to be the most distinguished critics of their time! Let the whole
history of literature furnish the answer; while we direct the reader
to an amusing commentary upon this general theme, which we find in
the last number of FRAZER'S Magazine, under the title of 'JEFFREY
and GIFFORD _versus_ SHAKSPEARE and MILTON.' 'We have often amused
ourselves,' says the writer, 'by imagining how SHAKSPEARE and MILTON
would have fared at the hands of these illustrious reviewers had
the paramount pair of immortals and the two clever party writers
been contemporaries. Let us follow out this curious speculation.
To make our suppositions quite plain, we will imagine that the
Edinburgh Review existed at the time of SHAKSPEARE; that the disgust
which is expressed for the tribunes, or the opposition, and the
ministerial contempt of the people, shown forth in 'Coriolanus,'
were disagreeable to the Whig party of that day; that SHAKSPEARE'S
high Tory principles; the admiration which he appears to have felt
for kings and princes, and the favor in which he may be fairly
supposed to have stood at court; were unpalatable to the Liberals of
the day. In such case we may be pretty sure he would have been given
over for critical dissection to Mr. JEFFREY, who would probably
have chosen the 'Tempest' as the subject of his subacid jocularity.
Let us now suppose that the Quarterly Review was established at the
Restoration; that MILTON'S 'Paradise Lost' had just been published
by any bookseller but the MURRAY of those days; that MILTON had been
placed, a short time previous (as in fact he was) in the custody
of the sergeant-at-arms; that his pamphlets for the liberty of
the press, and against the prelates, had enraged the opponents of
liberal principles and lovers of high-church politics; and it is
easy to conclude that these persons would have infallibly consigned
him to the secular arm of Mr. GIFFORD. Both of the worthy gentlemen
we have named would, no doubt, have performed their functions to
the entire satisfaction of their respective parties; Mr. JEFFREY
with the lightness and liveliness which distinguish all he writes;
Mr. GIFFORD with his usual strength and acuteness, mingled with
his customary allusions to the personal history of the author
whom he is reviewing. But the malice prepense--the intention to
murder--would be equally apparent in both cases, though each would
have his peculiar method of destroying.' The former editor of the
Quarterly would be, like 'Tristan l'Hermite,' flinging his coarse
and scurrilous jests upon the unfortunate person about whose neck
he was fastening the rope, while his northern rival would rather
resemble those eastern mutes who despatch you, with every appearance
of respect for your person, with a silken cord.
With this preamble, Mr. JEFFREY is introduced to the reader, in a
critique upon 'The Tempest, by WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE: 4to. London:
1612.' After the dissertation upon 'matters and things in general'
with which it is customary to open the labored papers of quarterly
journals, the reviewer reaches at length the work which he is to
criticise, and upon which he pounces 'in manner following, to wit:'
'THE present play forms a sort of connecting link between the
ancient mysteries and the modern drama, and, disregarding
equally with these venerable monstrosities all rules of
probability and taste, merely changes the abstractions into
persons as shadowy, and their miracles into marvels altogether
as amazing and edifying. In other respects, we are rather
inclined to think that Mr. SHAKSPEARE has outdone the native
absurdity of the originals.
'The play opens with a conversation among some sailors in a ship
sinking at sea, which is quite in the taste of these refined
persons; others come in _wet_, which is at least as new on the
stage as a ship foundering; then a confused noise is heard
within:
'We split! we split! farewell my wife and children!
Brother, farewell! we split! we split! we split!'
'The author has here most happily expressed confusion, by not
indicating to whom these separate speeches are to be given.
'The next scene is on an enchanted island, where a young lady
called Miranda is entreating her father, Prospero, to allay the
storm, of which she gives this splendid description:
'The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out.'
Prospero replies:
'Be collected;
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.'
'To this consolatory piece of intelligence Miranda most
singularly answers, 'O wo the day!' and Prospero rejoins, 'No
harm; wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.' From all which it
would appear that Miranda was crying because nobody had been
drowned. Prospero then bids her 'obey, and be attentive.' He
relates that, just twelve years before, he was the Duke of
Milan, but that his brother had usurped his dignity; and that
himself and his daughter, having been put into a 'rotten carcass
of a boat,' arrived safely at the island. But this interesting
story is by no means so briefly told in the play, and is,
moreover, perpetually interrupted in its course, after this
fashion:
'PROSPERO. My brother, and thy uncle, called Antonio;
I pray thee mark me--thy false uncle--
Dost thou attend me?
MIRANDA. Sir, most heedfully.
PROS. Thou attend'st not.
MIR. Good Sir, I do.
PROS. I pray thee mark me, then. Hence, his ambition growing--
Dost thou hear, child?' etc., etc.
But, all this having nothing to do with the storm, Miranda very
properly puts the question:
'And now I pray you. Sir,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm.'
To which Prospero returns the following very clear and
intelligible answer:
'Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bounteous fortune,
Now, my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I know my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence,
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop.'
He seems well convinced, however, of the natural effect of this
kind of poetry, for he adds:
'Here cease more questions.
Thou art inclined to sleep. 'Tis a good heaviness.
And give it way. I know thou canst not choose.'
In which opinion all Mr. SHAKSPEARE'S readers will readily
concur.
We could wish that we had space for the equally interesting and
refreshing satire upon 'a spirit called ARIEL,' the dialogue between
whom and PROSPERO is turned into ridicule. We must pass on, however,
to the assassination of the character of CALIBAN, that wonderful
creation of the great bard. Does the reader remember any thing
more thoroughly 'tortured from its sense' by any ancient or modern
ARISTARCHUS, than the scene in question here:
'WE are now introduced to a new personage called Caliban, the
son of a certain witch, whose services Prospero thus recounteth:
'We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices
That profit us. What, ha! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak!'
'It would seem, however, that _fetching in wood_ was his
principal occupation, for, without asking what his master
wanted, he replies:
'There's wood enough within.
PROS. Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee.'
'Yet it turns out that it is none other than this very business
on which he was to be employed:
'PROS. Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel, and be quick, (thou wert best,' etc.)
'Ferdinand, the son of the king of Naples, who had been just
'cooling the air with sighs' for his father, whom he supposed to
be drowned, now enters, accompanied by Ariel, _invisible_, who
sings a charming song of his own composition, of which we can
only afford to give the conclusion:
'Hark! hark! Bow-wow; the watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark! hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry cock-a-doodle-doo!'
'Ferdinand calls this a 'sweet air!' * * * 'The second act
introduces us to the king of Naples and his lords, who have
escaped from drowning; but his majesty, happening to miss his
son, is very naturally made to express a strong curiosity to
know what kind of fish had eaten him:
'O thou, mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal of thee?'
'After some farther conversation, Mr. S., not knowing what to
do with the personages he has brought on the stage, devises the
notable expedient of making them all fall suddenly asleep:
'GONZ. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy!
ALON. What! all so soon asleep? I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
They are inclined to do so.
SEB. Please you, Sir,
Do not omit the heavy offer of it, etc.
ALON. Thank you. Wondrous heavy.
SEB. What a strange drowsiness oppresses them!
ANT. It is the quality o' the climate.'
'The invention of that author who bethought him of sending his
characters off _kneeling_ was great, but it was nothing to
this. It is evidently a favorite contrivance of the author for
terminating a scene, and is here employed in order to introduce
Caliban at his everlasting work of _fetching in wood_.
'Enter Caliban _with a bundle of wood_. He sees a sailor:
'CAL. Here comes a spirit of his now to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly.'
'Supposing every body to be as fond of wood as Prospero, he adds:
'I'll show thee the best springs, I'll pluck thee berries;
I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.'
'The act ends with this seducing person getting drunk and
singing this delicious lay:
'No more dams I'll make for fish.
Nor fetch firing at requiring.
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish.
Ban, ban, Ca--Caliban,
Has a new master. Get a new man.'
'The third act represents Ferdinand at the eternal employment of
_fetching in wood_. Then follows a love-scene, which we omit.'
How many petty enemies had the 'myriad-minded SHAKSPEARE,' who would
have chuckled over this criticism, had it actually appeared in
his day! What nuts it would have been for that feeble reviler and
feebler rival of his, 'one HILL!' The summing up of the reviewer
is quite in keeping with the fine fancy and striking acumen
displayed in the detail of his criticism. 'The Tempest,' he says,
'shows us how ridiculous are those rules, to which writers have
hitherto subjected themselves, for the purpose, as they fondly
imagined, of giving interest to their dramas. It is to be hoped
that Mr. SHAKSPEARE's example will release them, in future, from
all obligation to pay any regard to probability in their incidents,
or to nature in their characters. It is evidently much more easy
to invent a jargon for witches, demons, and spirits, than to deal
with human passions and human affections; and it is clearly quite
unnecessary to diversify a play with pathetic incidents, when the
sleep which has hitherto been confined to the spectators is here
transferred to the persons of the drama. Writers need no longer
search for lofty subjects, which have been so absurdly deemed
requisite to tragedy, when every one can readily find a storm either
at sea or on shore. Many improvements will no doubt be made upon the
new system, and we may shortly expect to see tragedies upon a fall
of snow or a heavy shower of rain. 'The Tempest' fairly entitles
Mr. SHAKESPEARE to the honors due to a reformer of our poetry, and
if it produces as much profit as some of those plays in which he
has praised princes and traduced the people, we shall be convinced
that there are other persons beside Lapland conjurors who can make a
comfortable living upon contrary winds and wrecked vessels.'
Turn we now to GIFFORD's review of MILTON's 'Paradise Lost,' in
which the cut-and-slash style of that great critic, which was
'nothing if not personal,' is very faithfully portrayed. It opens as
follows:
'A CONSIDERABLE part, of this poem, we understand, was written
in gaol; and, though the knowledge of such a fact is by no means
likely to prejudice us in favor of the author or his work, we
can assure our readers that we have come to the examination of
_Paradise Lost_ without any personal feelings toward Mr. MILTON,
though we believe he is the same person who, after canting
about liberty, sold his flattery to a tyrant and usurper; that
he is the author of various seditious pamphlets, of which we
have never read a line, and of a book on divorce, so infamous
as to have been deemed by the bench of bishops worthy of being
burned by the common hangman. A poem founded on a fact recorded
in Scripture by a person notorious for his hatred to the church
was of itself sufficiently curious to justify us in taking an
early notice of it; but we found it at once so extravagant and
so unreadable, that we should not have troubled the public with
any account of its demerits, had not the author, in a most
affected preface, announced certain new notions about rhyme, and
laid claim to the merit of setting an admirable example to the
writers of all future epics. The subject of Mr. M.'s poem would
appear from the title to be the Fall of Adam; but what will
our readers think when we assure them that almost the whole of
the poem is made up of the disputes, adventures, battles, and
defeats of devils, who make war upon their Creator; a monstrous
fiction, founded upon the apocryphal book of Enoch? There is
only one book out of the twelve (the ninth) in which there is
any thing about the loss of Paradise. Throughout the whole
poem the author seems always glad to quit our first parents
to get back to the devil, who is by far the most brilliant
and interesting character of his pages, and on whose feats,
indeed, he reposes with a delight not unworthy of a Manichee.
All the lofty enterprises of this amiable personage are related
with a feeling of partiality for their hero, which would be
amusing were they not told in a singularly involved, obscure,
and affected diction. Mr. MILTON's idiom is generally Hebrew or
Greek; but, when he condescends to be familiar, the structure of
his sentences is modelled upon the Latin. He never condescends
to use a plain term when there is a scientific one, an English
word when he can find a foreign one, nor an old word when he can
coin a new one. _Dry_ with him is _adust_; _a close vest_ is _a
habit succinct_; _starry_ is _stellar_; _flag_ is _gonfalon_;
_four_ is _quaternion_; _powerful_ is _pleni-potent_; and
_mingled_ is _interfused_. To tell us that war is at hand, he
says that it is in _precinct_; and, to tell us something else,
he makes GOD address this line to the angels, counting, no
doubt, upon their power of divining what is quite unintelligible
to mere mortals:
'Meanwhile, inhabit lax, ye powers of heaven!'
'A learned angel, who gives Adam the history of the creation,
illustrates his meaning by such terms as _quadrate_, _cycle_,
and _epicycle_, _centric_ and _eccentric_, nocturnal and diurnal
_rhomb_, etc.; and the same personage is so unacquainted with
the language of this earth as to form such nouns and adjectives
as _hosting_, _battalions_, _aspect_, _solstitial_, _vacuous_,
_opacous_, etc.
'We have a proper sense of the obligation our language has
to Mr. MILTON for these splendid additions; our only fear is
that it will _sink_ under them. Mr. MILTON was some time at
the University, and there, perhaps, became so enamored of the
ancients. Had his college residence not been so _abruptly_
terminated, perhaps he might have learned that the language of
poetry, in order to be delightful, should be intelligible, and
that HOMER and VIRGIL never attempted to engraft foreign words
upon the languages which were spoken and understood in the age
and country in which their immortal poems were written.'
After a querulous consideration of his preface, and an examination
of what MILTON calls 'English heroic verse without rhyme,' GIFFORD
enters upon the work:
The first book opens with a description of hell, of which the
flames give 'no light, but darkness visible;' and then follows
a dialogue between Satan and Beelzebub, on their fall from
heaven, in the course of which Satan thus speaks:
'Fallen cherub, to be weak is miserable, doing or suffering;
but of this be sure, to do aught good will never be our task,
but ever to do ill our sole delight, as being the contrary to
His high will we resist. If then His Providence out of our
evil seek to bring forth good, our labor must be to prevent
that end, and out of good still to find means of evil, which
ofttimes may succeed, so as, perhaps, shall grieve him.'
'This speech, though printed in the poem as verse, we have
reduced to its proper state of prose for the purpose of
exemplifying Mr. MILTON's notions of musical delight,' his 'apt
numbers,' and 'the sense variously drawn out from one verse into
another.'
'We have next a biographical catalogue of devils, imitated from
HOMER's catalogue of ships. How much finer the imitation is than
the original may be seen from the following specimen:
'Next, Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons,
From Aroer to Nebo, and the wild
Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon
And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond
The flowery dale of Sibma, clad with vines,
And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool.
Peor his other name, when he enticed
Israel in Sittim,' etc.
'Satan now tries to address a speech to his followers, but
is seized with _a fit of crying_, which hinders him from
proceeding. At last, he succeeds in delivering his harangue, in
which he proposes to call an infernal council, and has a palace
built for the speakers, though lie had just finished addressing
his followers to as much purpose in the open space. Mr. MILTON
minutely describes the whole operation of 'scumming the bullion
dross' to adorn the edifice, and kindly informs us that the
pillars were of the Doric order. The higher orders of devils get
into the hall 'in their own dimensions like themselves,' but
the poor devils are obliged to reduce themselves 'to smaller
shapes,' in order to find room. With this clumsy contrivance
the first book closes: and the second contains a report of the
debate.
'War is declared, and the council breaks up. Some of the devils
amuse themselves with _horse-races_, others sing songs, with a
harp accompaniment.
'Satan then goes to find out this world, and, after passing
'many a fiery Alp,' arrives at the gates of hell, where he
encounters Sin and Death, about whom there is a most disgusting
allegory.
'The third book shows us Satan flying between earth and heaven,
and God the Father is represented as pointing him out to His
Son. A long dialogue, in the taste of the dullest Puritanical
eloquence, ensues on the causes and consequences of the fall
of man; towards the end of which Satan, having safely arrived
at the sun, in the disguise of an inferior angel, requests the
Archangel Uriel to direct him to the new-created world. The
archangel, with the utmost politeness, shows him the way to the
earth, just as any mortal might direct another to a new street,
which Satan very properly acknowledges with a low bow. Then
we have a history of Adam and Eve, and their embraces, which
we dare not quote. The happiest circumstance, however, in the
situation of our first parents, appears, in the opinion of Mr.
MILTON, to have been their nakedness; for they
'Eased the putting off
These troublesome disguises which we wear,' etc.
'In the mean time, Uriel, 'the sharpest-sighted spirit of
all in heaven,' is convinced that Satan has deceived him; he
accordingly warns Gabriel, 'chief of the angelic guards,' who
immediately orders half a company to 'draw off',' and search for
the intruder. They find him in the captivating disguise of a
toad at the ear of Eve; but he springs up at their approach, 'as
when the smutty grain, with sudden blaze diffused, inflames the
air;' which means, being interpreted, like a spark of gunpowder.
He is then brought before Gabriel, who calls him a spy, a liar,
a hypocrite, and various other polite names. Satan only replies
by a lofty defiance; but the Deity hangs out a pair of scales:
'In these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight;
The latter quick up-flew, and kicked the beam.'
'And Satan, knowing 'his mounted scale aloft,' flies from
Paradise.
'In the fifth book, Raphael is sent down from heaven to warn
Adam of Satan's devices; he 'with quick fan winnows the buxom
air,' and alights in Eden just at the hour of dinner:
'And Eve within, due at her hour, prepared
For dinner.'
'Adam goes to meet the angel, and
'Awhile discourse they held,
No fear lest dinner cool.'
'Adam having expressed some fears lest his repast should be
'unsavory food to spiritual natures,' the angel assures him that
spirits require food as well as man; that even the sun receives
'From all his alimental recompense
In humid exhalations, and at even
Sups with the ocean.'
'Therefore,' saith he, 'think not I shall be nice. So down they
sat, and to their viands fell.'
'After dinner, Adam requests Raphael to relate the history of
the rebellion in heaven, which he does at no small length, for
the sixth book finds him only at the beginning of the first
battle. He describes the arming of angels on foot, and angels
on horseback, and gives them _swords_ to fight with, though they
could not be wounded. We are told, indeed, that Michael's sword
met Satan's, and, that some of his followers, 'though huge, and
in a rock of diamond armed,' were 'down cloven to the waist;'
but then 'the ethereal substance closed, not long divisible,'
and these worthy personages recover all their infernal powers.
At last the evil spirits invent cannon and gunpowder, for which
they find materials _in heaven_.
'The battle, though waged against the _Almighty_, is represented
as being doubtful for some time; but at last the Son of God
drives the rebels from heaven, and we are told, in mellifluous
verse,
'Eternal wrath
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.'
'The angel here concludes his account of the celestial
rebellion: but Adam's curiosity is not yet satisfied, and
he entreats to be told about the creation of the world. The
angel kindly complies in the seventh book, which is merely an
amplification of the first chapter of Genesis.
* * * * *
'In the tenth book we find Death 'drawing a scent of carnage,'
and 'tasting the savor of death,' though mortality was as yet
unknown; and he and Sin set about building a _chain-bridge_ from
hell to this world, which they at last happily accomplish:
'By wondrous art
Pontifical, with pins of adamant,
And chains, they made all fast,' etc.
'In the meantime the CREATOR
'Bid his angels turn askance
The poles of earth twice ten degrees and more
From the sun's axle; they with labor pushed
Oblique the central globe,' etc.
'an operation which, we think, must have a little deranged the
plan of the bridge which had just been built. Adam and Eve feel
the change of climate, and the scolding dialogue which was begun
in the ninth book is continued here. In the eleventh book the
archangel Michael is sent down to banish Adam and Eve from Eden,
and arrives there clothed 'in a purple vest, as man clad to
meet man,' though man was not yet clad. Adam, at his approach,
'heart-struck with chilling _gripe_ of sorrows stood,' but the
angel, after a few words, carries him up to a mountain, from
which Mr. MILTON says he might have seen all the kingdoms of the
earth but for one trifling reason, viz. that they did not yet
exist:
'Of Cambalu, seat of Cathaian Can,
And Samarchand by Oxus, Temir's throne,
To Paquin of Sinæan kings, and thence
To Agra and Labor of Great Mogul,' etc.
'Astolf sees many kingdoms as he is hurried through the air;
and this is the fiction of Ariosto, which Mr. MILTON here
has borrowed only to spoil. The angel first shows Adam _an
hospital_, the diseases of whose inmates are described in a page
taken from the _Nosology_:
'All feverous kinds,
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs,
Intestine stone and ulcer, cholic pangs,
Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,
Dropsies and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums.'
'After this brilliant and agreeable spectacle, the angel
displays to Adam a kind of panoramic sketch of universal
history, from Cain to the Apostles, to whom Mr. MILTON only
alludes for the sake of showing his malignity to the church in a
passage too long for quotation. The vision which we have noticed
thus briefly extends through the eleventh and twelfth books. At
its close the angel hurries our first parents out of Paradise,
and then leaves them:
'They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.'